The Silver Arrow (34 page)

Chapter Forty Three

  It hid been lashing doon aw day and intae the early evening, so the dark, wet streets roond Blythswood Square wur nice and quiet.  He looked at the dashboard.  The clock said hauf seven.  Still too early fur the drinkers tae be oot and aboot and aw the office lassies and wummin wid be at hame, settling doon tae watch Coronation Street wae a packet a crisps oan their laps and a tipped fag sticking oot ae their faces.  It wis perfect.  He’d spotted a couple ae the lassies loitering aboot at the entrance tae some ae the lanes when he came up West Campbell Street, bit they looked like droont rats.  There hid been wan possibility at Bath Lane, bit the big black eye she’d been sporting hid put him aff.  It wis only when he’d drawn up and she’d put her face doon tae talk tae him through the windae that he’d clocked it.  Pity, he thought, as he turned left intae Blythswood Street, slowing doon, clocking wan staunin beside West George Lane.  Too auld and ugly, he muttered tae himsel, speeding up before turning right oan tae St Vincent Street.  That wis the problem.  They wur either too auld, or the young wans looked like they’d been in a brawl wae Mick McManus’s better hauf.  He’d heard that the auld wans who’d been aroond fur years took exception tae the young tarts arriving and taking up residence oan the good spots which inevitably led tae trouble.  He indicated tae turn right intae Pitt Street, taking advantage ae waiting tae turn tae hiv a good squint aboot tae make sure there wisnae any polis oan the go.  Wae his job, he hid tae be careful.  He’d jist turned when he spotted her staunin at the entrance ae West George Lane at the other end fae where the ugly auld hag wis staunin.  He drew up tae the pavement, keeping the engine running, jist in case it wis a set-up.  She looked new and quite tasty tae boot.

  “Are you looking for business, darling?” he asked, hivving a good look aboot tae make sure there wis nae polis lurking in the shadows.

  “Aye, whit wur ye efter, Sweetie?”

  “It depends on what’s on offer,” he replied, smiling, as she came across and rested her elbows oan the windae sill ae the car door.

  “Nice car,” she purred.  “Don’t Ah know ye?”

  “Some people say I have a wanted poster face,” he replied chortling, glad, bit disappointed at the same time, that she hidnae instantly recognised him.

  “Well, handsome, jist fur you, seeing as ye look neat and tidy and Ah’m trying tae build up ma customer base, ye kin hiv a wank fur a fiver, a suck fur a tenner and a shag fur fifteen pounds,” she purred, staunin up and bunching her hair behind the back ae her neck, before wrapping an elastic band roond it tae keep it in place, her cream coloured rain coat opening slightly tae gie him a swatch ae whit awaited him underneath.

  “You’re a bit pricey,” he breathed heavily, licking they lips ae his.

  “Well, whit dae ye expect fur quality?  There’s an auld hag staunin doon at the other end ae the lane there.  Why don’t ye go and speak tae her, eh?  Ah’m sure she’ll gie ye a good discount,” she retorted, quickly buttoning up her coat and turning tae take up her position at the entrance tae the lane.

  “Wait!” he quietly yelped.  “Fur Christ sake, lass…there’s no need to be so nippy.  I have to try.”

  “So, whit’s it tae be then?”

  “How much for a suck and a full dip?”

  “Fur you sweetie?  Twenty quid.”

  “Is that without a Johnny Bag?”

  “It’ll be thirty withoot,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye, making it clear that there wid be nae negotiating.

  “Er, alright, thirty it is, but I hope you’re clean.  Jump in,” he invited, turning roond and leaning o’er tae the passenger side seat tae unlock the door.  “Well, are you coming?” he shouted at her, furgetting where he wis and noticing that she wis still staunin oan the pavement.

  “Ah never said anything aboot gaun intae any car,” she protested.

  “Then how are you supposed to earn your money?”

  “Ah’m sorry, mister, bit Ah don’t know ye.  Ah only go intae cars if Ah feel comfortable wae the driver.”

  “Do I strike you as being dangerous?” he demanded tae know, irritated and feeling his hard-on subsiding.

  “Look, if ma pal wis here, maybe, bit she couldnae get a babysitter.  Maybe the morra night, eh?” she apologised, walking away.

  “Look, wait…er, what’s your hurry?  Where were you thinking of, er, doing it?” he asked, trying no tae sound as if he wis pleading, as she stood silently watching him fur a few seconds, before nodding intae the lane.

  “What, in there?”

  “The fire exits at the back ae the offices ur dotted aw doon the lane.  We kin staun in the doorway ae wan ae them, oot ae the cauld wind,” she replied, looking up at the black sky.  “Nowan will see us fae the street.  Ur ye coming or no?” she demanded, brazenly smiling at the male occupant ae a car that hid jist slowly driven past.

  “Er, yes, okay.  I’ll just go and park somewhere a bit less exposed.  I won’t be a tick…just don’t go with anyone else until I get back,” he warned her, sliding the wheels away fae the entrance tae the lane.

  “Some guys find this mair exciting…y’know…the danger and aw that,” she said wae a wave ae her haun a few minutes later, as he followed her in tae the dark cobbled lane.

  They arrived at a back door that hid a ‘Keep Clear’ sign screwed tae it, still visible in the dark, as he stood in, oot ae the drizzling rain, that hid jist started again, unbuttoning his belt buckle and flies.

  “Er, hiv ye no furgoat something, Sweetie?” she asked him.

“What?  Oh, right,” he cursed in irritation, dick protruding oot ae they flies ae his.

  His felt a cauld blast aboot that arse ae his, as his troosers and Y-fronts slipped doon his legs tae aroond his ankles, as he coonted oot a wad ae notes fae his wallet, before replacing it in his inside jaicket pocket.

  “Don’t worry, it’s all there,” he challenged her, reminding himsel tae gie the cheeky tart a body-swerve in the future, as she slowly coonted the notes. 

  “Oaky, that’s fine.  Better tae be safe than sorry, eh?” she said, clearly satisfied, getting doon oan her knees, as he leaned back against the ‘Keep Clear’ sign, shutting they eyes ae his in expectation.

  She wis starting tae really piss him aff noo.  Whit the fuck wis keeping her, he’d jist asked himsel, when a beam ae light zapped through they clamped shut eyelids ae his and jist aboot blinded him.

  “Hello John, jist finished at the studios, hiv we?  Long-time no see,” The Stalker said pleasantly, as Bumper grabbed the newsreader by the throat and pulled him forward, oot oan tae the wet cobbles, jist as a Black Maria polis van turned intae the lane at the bottom and picked up the auld hag he’d ignored earlier.

  “Inspector!  What the…Mr McPhee…I was only doing some research for my work…” he gurgled, as Bumper increased the pressure oan his throat while waiting fur the dipped heidlights crawling up the lane towards them.

  “Er, we don’t want him deid, Bumper,” The Stalker reminded him, as the sergeant slackened his grip and John Turney erupted in a fit ae coughing, gurgling and wheezing, while trying, bit failing, tae reach his troosers and drawers, which wur entangled roond his ankles.

  “Is that him?” Bob Hope asked excitedly, slipping oot ae the driver’s door, hivving never met a real TV star, efter being based up in Springburn maist ae his polis career.

  “Ur ye aw right, Cynthia?” Sergeant Sally Burke asked her young WPC colleague, as she exited the passenger side ae the van.

  “Aye, Ah’m fine.  Fur a second there Ah thought they basturts wur gonnae leave me tae it,” she replied, smiling, as she punched The Stalker oan the erm.

  “So, Paddy, whit noo?” Sergeant Burke asked him.

  “Ah owe ye wan, Sally.  You as well, Cynthia…thanks,” The Stalker said gratefully.

  “Nae problem, Paddy.  Ah’m sure ye wid’ve done the same fur us.  Right, Cynthia, get that young floozy fanny ae yers back up tae the corner ae the lane so we kin catch some real punters tae get us back tae the station fur a wee hot cup ae tea.”

  “Oh, Ah better gie him his money back,” Cynthia remembered, haunin o’er the wad ae notes.

  “Not at all, Cynthia, hen…you and wee Sally here should use it tae buy yersels something nice oan Mr Turney’s behauf.  Ah’m sure he won’t mind, seeing as he’s done enough tae disturb ye in the middle ae yer work the night,” The Stalker cackled, as Bumper and Bob Hope dragged the protesting newsreader roond tae the back ae the Black Maria and bundled him in, minus they Y-Fronts and Sta-press troosers ae his, which wur lying wae wan leg inside oot, soaking in a puddle oan the cobblestanes, in front ae the back office door.

  “
Good evening.  My name is John Turney and these are the news headlines in Scotland tonight.

  More details are emerging about the contents of the police inspector’s pocket service notebook, at the centre of a bitter dispute between Glenda Metcalfe, Glasgow Sheriff Court’s procurator fiscal and well-known Glasgow criminal lawyer, Graham Portoy.  The evening news can exclusively reveal that Mr Portoy is attempting to undermine the Crown case against a convicted thug who was unanimously convicted by a jury of attempting to murder two serving police officers whilst on duty, during a bank raid in Maryhill on the 9
th
of November 1972.  The thug at the centre of the dispute, who has a string of convictions stretching back to when he was ten-years-old, is serving one of the longest prison sentences ever handed down by a High Court judge, after discharging a loaded shotgun in a bank robbery, in an attempt to murder a brave sergeant and a young police constable.  Mr Portoy has caused outrage amongst serving police officers in the city, as well as with the victims’ families for appearing before Sheriff Clifford Burns recently to demand access to a twice decorated and long-serving police inspector’s operational pocket notebook.  It’s believed that Mr Portoy is attempting to use the contents of the inspector’s notebook to seek a review of the evidence that led to the conviction of his convicted, violent client.  We can also reveal that the youth, who cannot be named at this stage for legal reasons, is implicated in a host of other crimes, including the murder of one of the city’s top gangsters. Viewers may be interested to learn that the success or failure of Mr Portoy’s challenge against The Crown depends on him gaining access to the contents of this small notebook.  We can also reveal that in his fight for so-called justice for the thug at the centre of the legal wrangle, arguments were held behind closed doors in Sheriff Clifford Burns private chamber, after bitter and often personal attacks were levelled at the city’s pretty procurator fiscal, Glenda Metcalfe.  Seemingly, Sheriff Burns had to repeatedly intervene, threatening Mr Portoy with contempt of court, before warning him to act in a more professional manner towards colleagues in the legal profession.  According to legal experts, access to a policeman’s service notebook is unheard of in Scottish criminal cases due to the content and style of their use.

‘These notebooks are not verbatim journals’ Professor Hugh Michaels, a world-renowned legal don at Glasgow University said earlier.  ‘They are mostly used to record times and places and perhaps a few other details, hastily added when circumstances may not be conducive for a police officer to take substantive statements in a less threatening environment.  Their use, to my knowledge, has never been utilised by Crown or Defence teams, as dedicated court affidavits.  Serving police officers have tended to use them as reminders, when giving evidence later in courts, months, and sometimes years later, when culprits are called to court.  I certainly wouldn’t rely on the snatched contents in a major criminal case.”  

  Miss Metcalfe and Mr Portoy both refused to comment this afternoon…

  Eden MacKay’s, the Glasgow Shipbuilding firm on the Clyde, is quiet tonight after the workforce started industrial action over disputed overtime pay claims…

  Drivers and bus conductors will be back on the midnight buses here in the city at the weekends after unions, management and the police agreed on a way forward to protect bus crews whilst on duty in George Square…

  A man has been jailed for three months at Glasgow Sheriff Court today after being found guilty of subjecting his wife to a humiliating and degrading assault over a period of a month.  Mathew Kirkston tied his wife up and left her in a cellar without water or access to toilet facilities whilst he went out to work.  Mrs Kirkston was found after neighbours heard her shouts and called the police…” 

Chapter Forty Four

  “Before you start, I swear to God I had nothing to do with it.  I was just as surprised as you were with John Turney’s disclosures on the news,” Glenda Metcalfe claimed, making sure she goat in there first, as she sat doon at the table and unwrapped her breid roll in Lanarkshire Hoose, doon in Ingram Street.

  “You’ve got a bloody cheek.  What happened to all those principles you used to pontificate about?”

  “Look, it was nothing to do with the procurator fiscal’s office.  We were as surprised…and angry, as you were about the leak,” she sniffed.

  “Look, people are watching,” he reminded her, nodding tae the other tables, as he bit intae his cheese sandwich.

  “So what?  I’ve nothing to hide.  I’m just a procurator fiscal, joining one of the defence briefs here in The Sheriff Court at lunchtime.  There’s nothing unusual about that…at least there wasn’t yesterday,” she reminded him, taking a bite ae her beef and mustard roll.

  “You know this has the potential to destroy your career, don’t you?”

  “Well, you’ve certainly tried in the past, Graham, and I’m sure you will in the future, so I wouldn’t get too concerned about poor me.  I’m a big girl, remember?” she scowled dismissively.

  “Oh well, if you can’t see the writing on the wall, then hell mend you.”

  “Look, I’ve just said we had nothing to do with it.  Why can’t you accept my word and leave it at that?  We can’t control the police in this city any more than you can.  That last case was a fluke, by the way,” she said, referring tae the youth who’d walked oot ae the building wae a twenty pound fine insteid ae a custodial sentence efter Graham persuaded the sheriff tae find him not guilty oan the two maist serious ae the three charges fur breach ae the peace, assaulting a polisman and carrying an offensive weapon.

  “Glenda, even a blind man could see that PC Plod planted the blade on him.  The only reason he found him guilty on the breach charge was because he felt sorry for you,” Graham said disinterestedly, looking aboot fur an empty chair at another table.

  “Look, I accept that it looks bad, given that the notebook is in the custody of the court, but it’s Daddy Jackson that you want to take your anger out on, not me.”

  “Glenda, I’m not angry about the leak.  Given the contents of the notebook, selectively leaking parts of it to undermine my client’s character won’t hold up.  Everyone knows fine well that he’s not whiter than white, which is more than can be said for The Stalker.  Unless you can prove that Shaun Murphy is dead, with evidence, such as a body to back up the assertion that Johnboy Taylor was involved, then all you’re doing is writing tomorrow’s headlines for the worst of the hacks.  I’m just surprised that you feel the need.  You must be worried,” he growled at her, suddenly staunin up withoot even saying cheerio, as he clocked Swansea across at the door, scanning the room, looking fur him.

“Oh well, that went better than expected,” she murmured tae hersel.

  The disclosure ae some ae the contents ae the notebook oan the news three nights earlier hid been like a forest wildfire running oot ae control.  Sheriff Burns
hid called in Jack Tipple, The Assistant Chief Constable and David Broderick, her boss, and threatened tae jail the pair ae them fur contempt ae court.  The speculation aboot the contents ae the notebook hid been heidline news in The Glesga Echo, The Evening Citizen and The Evening Times fur the past two days.  It hid been a total PR disaster.  The Assistant Chief Constable hid offered tae suspend Daddy Jackson and Paddy McPhee, bit her boss hid managed tae cool the sheriff and Jack Tipple doon.  He’d argued that, that wid compromise the integrity ae the case and feed intae the defence’s justifiable complaint ae undermining by The Crown. He also said that it wid gie the impression that this Paddy McPhee…The Stalker…hid something tae hide. Her boss, David Broderick, hid also pleaded wae the sheriff tae throw oot the request by Graham Portoy fur access tae the inspector’s notebook before everything goat oot ae haun and the integrity ae the justice system in the city goat battered senseless by the media.  Sheriff Burns hid refused tae budge.  He’d then gone oan tae warn that any mair nonsense, like unauthorised leaking ae court documents by the authorities, and he’d haun everything across tae the Defence.  She thought back tae the meeting wae the top brass.  The shock challenge tae The Braided Bunch fae Alan Small, the heid ae The Crown’s Criminal Division in Edinburgh hid been like a bomb gaun aff in the room.  Nowan hid spoken fur a full two minutes efter he’d laid it oan the line tae them.  The Braided Bunch hid aw sat as if he’d leaned across and slapped them aw individually withoot them seeing him coming.  Glenda’s boss hid telt her efter the meeting that Edinburgh hid goat whit they were efter.  Concern hid been getting expressed fur quite a while aboot whit hid been happening within the criminal enforcement scene in Glesga, bit it hid been difficult fur the politicos in Edinburgh tae tackle it, heid oan.  Her boss hid telt her that Edinburgh hid anticipated that The Braided Bunch wid staun by wan ae their ain, despite the clear danger tae the whole polis infrastructure in the city.  He’d also hinted, withoot gaun intae too much detail, that there hid been a few plots being explored that their masters in Edinburgh hid been hatching tae gie them the excuse tae act.  This young bank robber’s situation jist happened tae come alang at the right time and they’d jumped at it.  Whether they won or lost the Taylor case, the day’s wur clearly numbered fur a whole section ae the polis management in the city.  In the meantime, her boss wis tae review the whole sordid history ae the contents ae the notebook, gaun back as far as the Thomas Simpson murder that hid taken place oan Hogmanay in 1971, where him and the social worker he wis hivving an affair wae, who happened tae be a prison governor’s wife, wur shot as they entered their love-nest up in Possilpark. The review wid also take in the disappearance ae his brother, Toby, and two other well-known city gangsters.  It wis expected tae take up tae a year tae complete.  The reason fur her being present at the meeting wis fur her tae get a haundle oan whit the prosecutors fae Edinburgh wur up against and no, as she’d suspected, fur her tae be used as a patsy tae upset The Braided Bunch by leading them up the garden path.  Efter the New Year, she wis tae be the liaison oan the ground between the Procurator Fiscal’s Office and Chief Superintendents Bob Mackerel, heid ae the city’s Murder Squads and Sam Bison, heid ae the Serious Crime and Intelligence Division.  Alan Small hid left nowan in any doubt as tae the seriousness ae the situation and everywan knew their jobs wur oan the line.  He wid be getting weekly and monthly updates oan the progress ae the review and any sign that anywan wis being obstructive wid put everywan’s jobs in jeopardy.  He also advised everywan that it wid be in their best interests tae keep the review confidential.  Tae ensure that she’d get a clear run at her new responsibility, she wis being pulled fae the daily combat ae the mad-hoose that wis The Sheriff Court and assigned tae work directly under David Broderick.  Another wee bonus wis that she’d requested the temporary transfer ae Peggy McAvoy, Daddy Jackson’s secretary, as her legal administrator fae Central.  Although her request hid been initially rejected, Jack Tipple hid approved the move efter he and David Broderick hid left Lanarkshire Hoose efter their meeting wae Clifford Burns.  Peggy wid be delighted.  She’d worked in Central since the early sixties as a teenager and couldnae staun the place or the majority ae the sexist pigs who worked in it.  Although entirely illegal and withoot recognition by the church they baith attended, Glenda hid been at Peggy’s civil wedding tae her long-term partner, Diane Harrison, a serving poliswummin, who’d been based oot in Castlemilk fur the past five years, earlier in the summer.  Glenda sighed, as she swallowed the last bit ae her beef sandwich.  Her heid hid been spinning fur days noo.  She suspected that that wis why she’d lost five oot ae the last seven court cases she’d been prosecuting.  Ae the five minuses, four hid been tae Graham Portoy.  She looked up tae the sound ae chair legs scraping across the flair, away fae the tables.  The green light above the door wis flashing, telling everywan that it wis time tae get back tae the bear pit.  Graham Portoy wis still huddled in the corner wae his Welsh rarebit, Swansea.  She might’ve been getting hammered fae him o’er the past few days and the first trial ae the efternoon session wis gonnae be tricky in that she wis skating oan thin ice wae the prosecuting argument she wis putting up, bit wan thing wis fur certain, she’d be daeing aw she could tae make sure the Taylor case wisnae gonnae end up as a notch beside hers, oan Graham Portoy’s bedpost.  It wis the first time in a long time that she actually felt excited aboot her future and she couldnae wait tae get started efter the New Year. Oan the way alang tae the courtroom, she bumped intae Peggy McAvoy.

  “Thanks fur helping me escape Glenda, hen,” Peggy panted.  “This his been the best day ae ma miserable ten-year career so far, bar none, so it his,” she said, backed up by a big happy smile.