The Silver Arrow (24 page)

Chapter Thirty Two

  The Stalker wis eye-balling the stacked piles ae paperwork that wur taking up every inch ae his desk, contemplating which wan tae start oan.  He’d been putting aff addressing the bureaucratic mountain until the demands fae Central hid become a shriek.

  “Eeeny-meeny-miny-mo,” he murmured, shifting his hopping, pointed, nicotine stained finger fae pile tae pile before he wis interrupted by Happy Harry’s baw-heid appearing roond his office door.

  “Yer appointment his arrived, Paddy.”

It wisnae the information being proffered that caused him tae stall oan his chosen choice, bit the tone ae it.

  “Aye?” he asked, looking up, instantly furgetting whit pile he’d settled oan.

  “Well, Swansea’s arrived, bit ye better jist come and see who he’s goat in tow wae him,” Happy Harry replied, disappearing oot ae sight.

  “You, ya basturt!  Right, arrest that shitehoose, pronto, Sergeant,” The Stalker snarled, as Bumper and Happy Harry grappled Simon Epstein tae the flair efter he started tae resist arrest.

  “Inspector, Inspector…he’s with me.  Call them off, for God’s sake!” Swansea shouted, grabbing wan ae Simon’s free erms, trying tae pull him oot fae under the two sergeants.

  “That basturt is under suspicion ae breaking and entering, so he is.  Where’s ma fucking Jap book, ya thieving cunt, ye!” The Stalker shouted, jumping in tae the affray tae subdue the accused.

  “We’re here on official business, Inspector McPhee,” Swansea pleaded, letting go ae the erm that hid ended up twisted up Simon’s back, as he wis clearly making matters worse fur his co-precognition partner, who also hid The Stalker’s erm clamped roond his neck and throat like a vice.

  It hid aw happened so fast that Swansea hidnae hid time tae react by shielding Simon fae the mob ae bizzies who’d appeared fae somewhere alang the corridor and wur noo in the process ae huckling him alang the same corridor past the front desk towards the door wae the chipped ‘CELLS’ sign hinging above it.  It soon became clear that he couldnae dae anything tae reverse the situation as it noo currently stood.  He bent doon and picked up his bowler hat, disgusted tae see that a size twelve hid caved it in.  The folder that Simon hid been carrying hid drapped during the scuffle and wis laying open.  He saw whit appeared tae be a Stobhill Hospital staff work sheet.  The name oan the tap ae it said Senga Jackson.  He quickly flipped the folder shut before picking it up.  A few seconds later, Paddy McPhee appeared looking dishevelled, wae scratches doon the side ae his neck.

  “That’ll be assault and resisting arrest tae go wae the breaking and entering,” he said offhandedly tae Swansea, marching past him towards his office, before turning, “Well, ur ye coming or whit?”

  Swansea hesitated, still shaken by the furore ae a few minutes earlier, before following the back ae the inspector intae his office.

  “I must protest at this unwarranted, unprovoked attack on my colleague, Inspector,” Swansea stammered, using his fist tae punch his hat back intae shape.

  “Kin ye believe the cheek ae that basturt swanning in here as if he owned the place?” The Stalker said oot loud in wonder tae himsel, ignoring Swansea.

  “Mr Epstein is here on official business.  I demand that he be released this instance, Inspector McPhee,” Swansea spluttered, replacing the dented bowler back oan his napper before plapping his arse doon oan the seat in front ae the desk.

  “Right, sorry aboot that.  Ah believe ye wanted a word wae me, Swansea?” The Stalker asked pleasantly, hivving goat his composure back.

  “Inspector, Mr Epstein is here on official business.  He’s a legally appointed precognition officer, employed by Mr Graham Portoy to assist in gathering witness statements.  I must insist that he be released into my custody forthwith.”

  “Employed?  Simon Epstein?  Ur ye bloody hivving me oan or whit?” The Stalker scoffed, laughing dismissively, mair as a statement than a question.

  “If you had happened to clarify his position before manhandling him in that brutal fashion, you would have been able to ascertain that Mr Epstein has identification on his person that would satisfy you that he’s here on legitimate business.”

  “Look, let’s get wan thing straight here.  You and that dumb boss ae yers may be taken in by that murdering shitehoose through there, bit Ah’m certainly no,” The Stalker growled, pointing his thumb o’er his shoulder in the direction ae the cells oan the other side ae the wall.”

  “I must prote…”

  “That dirty shitehoose broke in here the other day there…intae ma office, wid ye believe…and blagged polis property belonging tae me and the force.  That’s breaking and entry, so it is.  Ye don’t think somewan like me is gonnae let that wan go withoot a response, dae ye?” The Stalker demanded tae know, his voice reaching shrill level.

  “If you have evidence that Simon Epstein committed a crime, then there are clear statute arrest and investigative procedures, Inspector.”

  “Look, before we start, Swansea, let’s get something straight.  Don’t come up tae ma patch and start tae patronise me by trying tae tell me ma job, eh?  Ah know mair aboot that muff-diver through there, than ye’ll ever know.  If you and that wee pansy poof ae a boss ae yers want tae be taken in by him, then that’s your problem.  Jist don’t expect the rest ae us tae follow suit.  We don’t get paid tae protect the likes ae him at the expense ae everywan else.  Noo, as ye kin see, Ah’m busy, so whit the fuck ur ye efter?” The Stalker snarled, pointing tae the mass ae stacked ae papers oan his desk.

  Swansea looked at the inspector.  This wis the first time that he’d been this close tae The Stalker.  Take the braided uniform away and he wid look jist like any another middle-aged angry man.  The tactics ae McPhee and his henchmen wur well documented, particularly amongst young males who wur processed through the busiest court system in Europe.  Swansea hid lost coont ae the number ae young males and their families that he’d interviewed, who’d turned up in court fae custody wae stitches in their heids and their shirts and jaickets covered in dried, congealed blood.  Despite strenuous appeals tae the bench, practically every charge ae polis brutality wis routinely dismissed oot-ae-haun by the Sheriff or the Justice ae The Peace oan the day.  Oan the rare occasion when an assault hid been investigated, usually by the polis fae the neighbouring division, the case wis thrown oot and dismissed.  He wondered whit tae dae next.  He could’ve sworn that Simon hid telt him that the pocket notebook hid been returned.  The Stalker clearly didnae gie the impression that he wis in possession ae it efter demanding his book back.  The obvious course ae action wis tae staun up and make a hasty retreat.  If Simon still hid the notebook, then the case wis blown tae bits and they’d never get tae submit it as part ae the evidence.  The whole appeal wis riding oan getting access tae it.  At that exact moment in time, Graham Portoy wis lodging a submission in The Sheriff Court tae gain access tae the service notebook.  Whit should he dae?  Graham wid hiv Simon oot within a couple ae hours, backed up wae a complaint ae polis brutality tae follow, bit the thought ae leaving Simon at the mercy ae The Stalker and his henchmen, even fur a couple ae hours, sent shivers up Swansea’s spine.  It widnae be the first time that a prisoner who’d walked intae the building he wis noo sitting in, wis carried oot in a grey, paint flaked, undertaker’s tin coffin a couple ae hours later.  He looked intae the inspector’s eyes.  He hid a smirk oan his face that telt Swansea that he wis awready reading the turmoil swirling aroond in the Welshman’s heid.  The ruddy-faced expression oan the face sitting opposite him wae the greying sideburns, didnae at first reflect cruelty.  It wis only when ye looked deep intae the almost pitch-black angry eyes that a totally different picture emerged aw thegither.  It wis strange.  Swansea could see that the inspector wis clearly enjoying and relishing the eftermath ae the affray that hid jist taken place.  The eyes wur still shining like wet diamonds, soaked up wae excitement and anticipation, urging defiance in the precognition officer’s stance, so he could get another opportunity tae vent his anger oan somewan.  It wis as if there wis some sort ae pent-up sexual frustration at play.  Efter the meeting wae Graham the day before, when Swansea hid reported back Simon Epstein’s ultimatum aboot accelerating Johnboy Taylor’s appeal, Graham’s response hid surprised him.  Insteid ae rejecting the instruction oot ae haun, Graham hid asked him tae repeat everything that hid been said between them, occasionally stoapping him mid-sentence tae ask fur clarification oan a particular point here or there.

  “And you’re convinced Simon hasn’t taken possession of the service notebook, Swansea?”

  “So he claims, Graham.  I’ve no reason to doubt him,” he’d confirmed.

  “As long as you’re clear that your role is to support Simon Epstein when you meet with Inspector McPhee, then I don’t have a problem.  The main thing is that you…we…cannot be party to anything illegal, including false claims that Senga Jackson was the nurse on duty that night,” he’d emphasised.  “If Simon wants to mislead McPhee, then that’s his prerogative.  As long as you neither confirm nor deny his claim through your role as a silent observer at the meeting, then I can’t see how we could be implicated.”

  “Should I take notes?” he’d asked.

  “Not unless McPhee is being co-operative and allows access to the notebook, which is highly unlikely.  I should be in front of the sheriff by that time.”

And then it hit him.  The look ae anticipation, the combative glow behind the shining eyes ae Graham Portoy wur mirrored in the eyes ae The Inspector sitting opposite him.  Take the cruelty oot ae the eyes ae The Stalker, and they wur wan and the same as Swansea’s boss’s hid been.  It wis as if the baith ae them wur moulded fae either side ae the same vessel, baith relishing the up-and-coming fight, a battle between two halves wae only wan left staunin.  He wis perplexed.  This wis the showdoon between his boss and the inspector sitting opposite him that hid been building up fur years.  It aw made sense noo.  In aw the times o’er the years, when they’d sat discussing their ups and doons in their dealings wae the erms ae the law, Paddy McPhee’s name always, withoot fail, surfaced.  Swansea felt the sweat break oot oan his brow.  Whit should he dae next?  In aw the time that he, or Graham Portoy, fur that matter, hid hid dealings wae The Mankys, they’d always been upfront and almost honest tae a fault.  Why wid Simon Epstein noo lie aboot no hivving taken possession ae the inspector’s notebook?  It jist didnae make sense.  He coonted tae five slowly before opening the folder Simon hid left lying oan the flair in front ae the desk oot in reception.  Withoot asking, he pushed a couple ae bundles ae stacked paper tae the wan side oan the desk tae make room fur it, flicking through it as if looking fur something.  He came tae the page that hid Senga Jackson’s work timetable and peered at it closely.  He hid tae admit that he wis impressed.  At first glance, even wae closer scrutiny, he widnae hiv picked up that whit he wis looking at wis a forgery.  As well as the Stobhill General Hospital letterheid, address and telephone details, the page hid a grid oan it, highlighting dates, days, times and shifts.  Where a pen hid tae be used in the boxes rather than type, different coloured ink as well as fountain and ballpoint pens hid been used.  The sheet covered a month.  Two ae the weeks wur marked doon as nightshifts.  Oan the right haun column, a signature hid been signed individually in each box aw the way fae the tap ae the page tae the bottom.  The signature wis signed by either a Marion Blakely or a Jackie McKean, ward sister-in-charge ae that particular shift.  He lay the folder doon oan the desk, open and face-up, before proceeding tae look fur his glasses in the inside ae his jaicket pocket.  He caught The Stalker furtively looking at the timesheet.

  “Right, where was I, Inspector?  Oh yes, here we go,” he said, putting oan his glasses and picking up the folder before continuing.  “I’m investigating the possibility that Mr Portoy’s client, Mr John Taylor, is innocent of The Clydeside Bank robbery on Maryhill Road that took place on the 9
th
of November 1972, which resulted in two police officers being shot and Mr Taylor subsequently being sentenced to fourteen years in a young offenders institution,” he said, looking up fae the folder at the astonished looking polis inspector sitting opposite him.

  “Right, jist haud oan there wan minute.  Ur ye taking the pish oot ae me or whit?” The Stalker growled.

  “Now, why would I be…er…taking the pish, as you so eloquently put it, Inspector?”

  “Johnboy Taylor and the rest ae his muckers…aw murdering shitehoose scum, bar none…including the wan ye arrived here the day wae, shot two brave serving polis officers in the line ae duty.  A jury ae good men and true found the basturt guilty as sin, so they did, and if Ah hid ma way, Taylor and that mute pal ae his wid’ve been strung up by their scrawny necks,” The Stalker snarled, a pulsating vein appearing oan the right haun side ae his temple.

  “Yes, quite, but that was before new evidence has emerged that contradicts that judgement.  In fact, Inspector, not only do we believe that the new evidence will find Mr Taylor innocent of all charges, but in all probability, will implicate current serving police officers in a conspiracy of lies and cover-up that has allowed Mr Taylor to be denied his freedom, despite his innocence,” Swansea replied, haudin his breath, waiting fur the blast.

  He hidnae long tae wait.  Swansea wisnae too sure whether he should call fur assistance or no.  The inspector’s face suddenly turned a deep purple before the blood drained fae it jist as quickly, like a bottle ae sour milk wae a hole in the arse ae it, turning tae a deathly green shade ae death.