Lawless
Authors: Alexander McGregor
For Gavin
who makes me proud
Every work of fiction depends on facts. Somewhere in the creative process, parts of real people and events inevitably intermingle with imaginary ones. Sometimes the distinctions are obvious. At others, even the person doing the creating isn’t sure where the fine line separating the two has been drawn.
Lawless
journeys at times between fact and fiction and a few of the characters actually exist. Some are half true and others, thankfully, are completely make-believe. In every case, the dialogue is pure fiction.
The book was inspired by certain actual events encountered during research for a previous book,
The Law Killers
, and experiences soon after its publication. In that sense, it is a fictional sequel.
It could never have been written without the help, advice and encouragement of a number of people and I am deeply indebted to them. My particular thanks go to:
Ex-Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Ross and Dr Doug Pearston of the Scottish Police DNA database; the governor and staff of HM Prison Perth, especially Steve Kinmond; Petra McMillan, Paul Gunnion and Gordon Dow, all of whom helped one way or another to put this book on the shelf.
The fine staff at Black & White Publishing always deserve more praise than they receive, so, hopefully, this makes amends – my particular thanks go to the magnificent Patricia Marshall. On this occasion Alison and Campbell have to be singled out for a unique combined contribution to the main character, as well as for their guidance.
Above all, my gratitude goes to my wife Christine for her helpful suggestions, editing skills and understanding. None of the following would have been possible without her.
1
He’d seen his name in print often enough above newspaper stories but it looked different on the spine of a book. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that he and the Campbell McBride described on the jacket were the same person. According to the blurb, he was a distinguished investigative reporter and an authority on crime. Now he’d turned author and, what was even more unlikely, the book had become something of a best-seller. OK, maybe it wasn’t
War and Peace
but thousands had seemed to want to read his account of the catalogue of murders that had taken place in Dundee, the town he used to call home.
During that afternoon of the signing, he had worked his way through an unexpectedly long line of people wanting his name on their copy of
The Law Town Killers
. Some were old acquaintances – even a couple of ex-girlfriends – a few were amateur detectives but most were just curious. Maybe they thought that getting the author’s signature would make the book more collectable.
McBride saw it differently – sign as many as you can and that way they’re less likely to lend the book out to friends who should be buying their own copy. At least that was the theory. But they could be a bit contrary in that city of contradictions.
As the queue gradually evaporated, McBride became aware of a middle-aged man hanging back, waiting to be last. He was small and spruce, his salt-and-pepper beard close trimmed. Not carrying any extra weight. Clothes sensible, matching. Not cheap – maybe expensive. He held the paperback protectively to his chest – not like a reader, more the way a professor would before he delivered a lecture. Perhaps he wanted a long chat about forensics or a complicated dedication. Either way, he was going to take up time.
When there was no one else left, the precise, uncluttered figure approached and his body language definitely wasn’t that of a fan. He was controlled but agitated. There was none of the usual uncertainty of what to say, no half-smile or hesitant attempt at a handshake. Spreading the book open, he held his fingers over the start of one of the chapters.
‘Your book’s shit and this is the biggest pile of it – just like yourself.’ The words were chiselled out but the voice was measured, soft – just loud enough for McBride to take in but not for anyone passing the table. ‘You couldn’t be bothered doing any proper research, could you? Or were you just talked out of it by your pals in the police?’
Before McBride could look up or think of a sensible response, the troubled man had turned away and was walking towards the main door of the store. Ten seconds later, he had vanished into the throng of shoppers that packed Murraygate every Saturday afternoon.
Even if he’d been inclined to, McBride knew there was no point going after him. That part of town was the commercial backbone of the city. The shoppers always came at you like a football crowd and, with seven days to go before Christmas, sanity had deserted them. It was said that, if you stood under H. Samuel’s clock long enough, everyone in Dundee would pass you by. That day, they seemed to be going round twice.
McBride had prepared himself for possible confrontations with the family or friends of some of those he’d written about. It was inevitable, he reckoned, that he’d cause offence somewhere. He’d revived a lot of old memories that some would have struggled to bury and his resurrection of the facts wasn’t going to make him the most popular guy in the country as far as they were concerned. He would have felt the same if he’d been one of them and he’d resolved to be apologetic and sympathetic. He would respond with unaccustomed gentleness. But, when the simmering anger spilled from the man at the end of the queue, there hadn’t been an opportunity for saying even a holding, ‘Sorry you feel that way.’ How could he placate someone who apparently didn’t want to listen?
When he looked at the book still open in front of him, he was surprised to discover that the chapter wasn’t among those he’d mentally noted as the ones most likely to stir up trouble. In fact, if he’d been forced to choose the least offensive, the chapter staring back at him would probably have been it.
It was textbook straightforward – young man strangles girlfriend after argument … abundance of evidence … arrested within hours … jailed for life … end of story. The killing had only made it into the book because the victim had been a policeman’s daughter. If such a thing as an open-and-shut murder existed, the death of Alison Brown and the subsequent despatch to prison of Bryan Gilzean for her slaying constituted it.
So why had the brief episode with the troubled man who had come to Waterstone’s bookstore to make a point left him with such an irrational feeling of unease? He told himself it was because he would have preferred a longer, less considered outburst – something he could have dealt with, apologised for.
The world is full of bampots, he reflected. Forget it. But he knew he wouldn’t.
The Fort bar out in the posh Broughty Ferry suburbs never seemed to change. Same sports trophies in their glass cases out of reach along the back wall of the public bar. Same groups crouched over the domino table. They played for pennies but the concentration matched anything you’d see at the blackjack tables in Monte Carlo.
Next door, in the discreet lounge, the thirty-somethings were starting to negotiate. The people were the clones of the ones who gathered there before McBride had left town twenty years before – only the faces had changed. The conversations had never altered. They tried to sound relaxed, casual, but the small talk was the usual evening mating call. You could tell the ones who weren’t picking it up. They looked hopefully over at the door every time a newcomer came in just in case a better prospect had arrived.
The Fort had always been the best bar in town, even if some of the women could be a bit choosy. At least no one was ever going to bottle you there. John Black saw to that. He was unlikely to be described with any accuracy as ‘genial’ by those who coupled that word with ‘host’ but the outward gruffness concealed an unexpected generosity and he was a soft target for a good cause. The owner of The Fort had also learned the first lesson of being a successful publican – to make every customer feel like you knew them.
‘Saw your picture in
The Courier
,’ he told McBride. ‘Best-seller, eh? Never knew Dundee had spawned such a bunch of murdering bastards.’
McBride had no idea if the short figure behind the bar had the slightest inkling about who he was, beyond what he’d read in that morning’s paper. Did he remember their conversations when McBride had been a young reporter on
The Courier
? Then there was the night John Black had put him into a taxi when, by rights, he should have called the police after the drunken brawl … He’d feel his way.
‘I was going to do a chapter on Dundee United – the day they murdered Dundee 5–0 back in ’64 but there was no real mystery in it. Good side annihilates crap side – what’s new?’
Black took the bait. Football, or more accurately, Dundee FC, obsessed him almost as much as making money. Life lost much of its meaning the day the team was relegated, leaving their hated rivals as the city’s sole representatives in the Premier Division.
‘Lippy asshole,’ he flashed back. His language had all the old finesse. ‘You didn’t learn any manners all that time in London then, you little prick?’
‘So you remember? I was sure the old dementia would have kicked in by now,’ smiled McBride, extending a hand across the counter, which was warmly grasped.
‘Who’s going to forget a celebrity like you? Your name was never out of the papers for long enough. If there was trouble anywhere, you were up to your neck in it – just like years ago ’cept some paper was paying you fancy money to write about it. In the old days, you were the trouble. If it wasn’t the drink, it was putting a leg over the wrong woman. Maybe you still are?’
McBride felt an unexpected flush spread up from his neck. He quickly raised his pint glass and drained the contents, taking longer than necessary in the hope the redness would disappear. When he finally put it back on the counter, he forced a laugh. ‘Straight to the point, eh, John?’ He wondered if it was one of his random jibes or an unusually subtle attempt to ask about his marital status.
‘You find out there’s no future in that carry-on – maybe some of us just take longer to get the message than others. More to the point, when are Dundee going to do the decent thing and sell off Dens Park to United for a training pitch?’ It was an obvious change of subject and he knew the pub owner would pick up on it. That was another talent John Black had acquired in his years behind a bar. He’d learned when topics should be dropped, directions altered – that the customer was always in charge of the conversation.
What was the point in going into it all, anyway?
McBride thought to himself. A crowded Saturday-night lounge bar wasn’t exactly the most tranquil of settings for a cerebral exchange about the state of his marriage, even if it still existed in some recognisable form.
