Kingston Bridge

by Ian Todd

  “Fuck Mrs Tell. Ah’m in charge here and this is a murder investigation, so it is,” The Super growled, sounding irritated. “And another thing, get another tent doon here and a fire brazier fur the boys, so they kin hiv a cup ae tea. Ye cannae expect them tae be staunin oot here in the cauld, freezing their baws aff. They’ll need some protection fae that wind.”

  “Uh, oh, looks like we’ve got unwelcome company, sir,” Inspector Gordania McPhail, Possilpark’s new caped-crusading inspector interrupted him, nodding up the path towards the wrought iron gates.

  “Who the fuck let them in?” The Super scowled, looking aboot at the milling uniforms, no expecting a response fae the pavement pounders who’d been hinging aboot, shivering, thick coiled ropes hinging aff their shoulders.

  “It’s that wee, red curly haired tart fae The Glesga Echo and that Slipper wan, the photographer,” Skanky cursed, tucking a stray tuft ae hair intae the underside ae his chequered hat, jist in case.

  “Right, Ah’m offskie. It looks like there might be a bit ae trouble brewing across in Govan. Gie’s a shout doon at Central when ye’re ready tae shift the coffin doon tae the mortuary in the Saltmarket, Gordania,” The Super reminded her, nodding tae his driver tae get that arse and engine ae his in gear behind the wheel.

  “Sergeant Smith? Arrest those pair of trespassers,” The Inspector shrieked, as she followed The Super across tae his car.

  “Bit…er, they’re the press, so they ur,” Skanky shouted back hesitantly, looking between the approaching hacks and his chookter boss.

  “Ur you fucking deaf or whit, ya haufwit ye!” The Super turned and bawled at him, before softening his voice, murmuring an apology fur his foul language in front ae the polis inspector.

  “Not at all, Chief Superintendent. I’ve heard a lot worse frae the muckle loons up North in old Buckie town,” she sang breathlessly, fluttering they eyelashes ae hers, trying, bit failing miserably, tae sound like Marilyn Monroe aff the beach scene wae Tony Curtis in ‘Some Like It Hot’ that hid been oan the telly a couple ae nights previously.

  “Talking ae which…any word ae that boss ae yers, Superintendent Munro?” he asked, trying tae check oot the contours ae that curved arse ae hers underneath her black uniformed skirt withoot being caught.

  There wis jist something sexy aboot a buxom wummin in uniform, wearing mud covered welly boots in the middle ae a dark, misty, frost covered cemetery, he telt himsel, feeling his dick stiffen ever so slightly, despite the sub-zero temperature.

  “Och, she reckons she’ll be back in a few days once she sorts out the insurance, sir.”

  “Aye well, Gordania, you mind and tell her she’s missed by everywan doon in Central, and it’s no jist by me either,” he lied, softening her up. “Er, Gordania, Ah wis jist wondering, er, if ye wurnae daeing anything the morra night, that is, if ye, er…”

  “Why, I would love to,” The Inspector brayed, getting in there quick, in case he changed his mind, swiftly swiping a lank strand ae hair fae her eyes wae they pudgy hauns ae hers.

  “…Wid like tae go and see The Alexander Brothers who’re playing live at The Pavilion. Ah managed tae blag a couple ae buckshee tickets fae a wee twisted pal ae mine who owes me a few favours.”

  “Oh, that would be fabulous,” she beamed, they eyelashes ae hers gaun like the clappers.

  “Whit, er, ye’ll…” he exclaimed, sounding surprised.

  “Go out on a date with you?”

  “Er, aye, Ah suppose that’s whit it is…a date. Aye,” he announced, sounding pleasantly surprised, looking aboot, deciding no tae hiv another wee swatch ae that plump, Calamity Jane arse ae hers, in case she caught him and ended up gieing him a dizzy.

  Chapter Six

  Superintendent Murdina Munro stoapped tae catch her breath, before she turned and looked back doon the uneven path. Despite the ferocious wind snapping aboot her ears up at the tap ae the hill, reaching underneath the tightly knotted scarf that her great, great grandmother hid goat married in, she took comfort fae her flight fae the devastation below her. The last time she’d made her way up the side ae Fyrish hid been the morning ae her mother’s death. She’d only jist made it through the door ae the farmhoose, when her mother hid coughed, smiled her last smile, and left her sitting there oan her ain, the last ae the Munros ae Ferindonald, oan the northern shore ae the Cromarty Firth in Easter Ross. At the time, it hid felt so surreal, sitting beside the lifeless body in the same bed that ten generations ae Munros hid been born in, as she sat listening tae the ticking seconds ae the loud grandfather clock ootside the bedroom door in the hall, as the dust particles floated across the sunbeam that hid penetrated the slightly ajar curtains. It didnae seem like two and hauf years since she’d stood oan the very spot where she wis noo leaning intae the wind, trying tae keep hersel fae being blown o’er, weeping. It hid been sunny and calm back then. She turned and looked doon at the gutted farmhoose, the wan that hid been rebuilt efter The Skirmish ae Alness during the Jacobite rising ae 1715 by her ancestor Sir Robert Munro, the 6th Baronet ae Foulis, who’d led his forces against the British government troops, commanded by The Earl ae Sutherland. While he’d been away, the McKenzies ae Brahan hid taken advantage and plundered aw the Munro lands. The feud between the neighbouring clans hid lasted fur hundreds ae years efter the Munros hid retaliated by raiding the Mackenzie lands at the Siege ae Brahan. Fae where she wis staunin, she wis able tae get a better sense ae where the mair recent fire hid been deliberately started. The main building wis jist a smouldering black shell, whereas at the back, where her great grandfather hid added a large kitchen extension, or the new kitchen, as everywan still called it o’er a hundred years efter the build, still hid part ae the slated roof, precariously hinging oan fur dear life. She’d only put the hoose and the nine hundred and forty acres oan the market a month earlier. Her land hid been the first tae go oan the open market locally in nearly seventy years. The buyers hid been queuing up tae buy it, some fae as far away as Nova Scotia, she’d been telt. She noo regretted no emptying the building ae its furniture and fittings. Everything connecting her tae her past wis noo in the smouldering ruins at the bottom ae the hill and in Inverness. The furniture, the photographs, the two hundred and fifty year auld spinning wheel…everything. The problem at the time hid been where tae put it? It wid’ve cost her tae remove it fae the perfect position ae where it awready wis, tae store it in some container yard in Inverness. This hid been the second time she’d hid tae come up the A9 fae the dirty city in as many weeks. Jist o’er two weeks earlier, her four-bedroomed toonhoose in Inverness hid burned tae the ground. Again, aw her prized family heirlooms, like her great, great, great grandmother’s jewellery, family birth and death certificates and handmade linen, that hid comforted her and gied her a sense ae place, that she’d removed fae the farmhoose tae take wae her tae Inverness, wis noo gone. An electric fault, the investigators hid claimed, which she’d accepted at the time, withoot question. She’d known the wiring hid required work tae be done oan it, given the amount ae light bulbs she went through. Wan fire wis an electrical fault. Another wan, within the space ae two weeks, in wan ae the remotest parts ae the Highlands, wis retaliation. Sam Bison, the heid ae Crime and Intelligence, hid said that Wan-bob Broon’s reach stretched well beyond the city limits. Of course, it hid been naivety oan her part. Even she hidnae considered that his stretch reached way beyond the smoky, tenement horizon, as far north as it obviously hid. She’d never shied away fae a challenge. She knew she wisnae everybody’s cup ae tea, even up here in the Highlands, bit she’d earned her spurs in a man’s world. She’d initially been proud, when asked if she’d apply her policing skills tae clean up the dirty city ae its corruption, tae bring back the respect that honest serving polis officers yearned fur. She’d been well aware ae the city’s unfortunate reputation ae being the murder capital ae Western Europe, bit even she hidnae been prepared fur the level ae senseless, wanton violence that hid confronted her. She’d initially spent two months under th
e pretence ae scrutinising the force’s investigative and detection methods oan behauf ae a study, supposedly funded by The Scottish Office. Nowan hid suspected a thing, as she feigned interest, studying how the force went aboot dealing wae minor infractions, fae breach ae the peace and hoosebreaking, tae mair serious crimes, such as armed robbery and murder. The murder detection rates in the city hid been exceptional. Hivving said that, the deaths wur mainly at the hauns ae drunken partners and teenage gang members. She grimaced, remembering drifting through the ranks ae the city’s polis divisions, undercover, wearing a horrible blond wig, asking questions, pretending tae study response times, analysing methodology and interviewing chief inspectors, particularly the wans that interested her and her masters in Edinburgh. Whit she’d been confronted wae, fae that first morning, when she’d walked through the red brick archway ae Central, hid been whit could only be described as institutionalised sexism, racism and corruption so blatant, that she’d thought somewan in Edinburgh hid been pulling her leg. It hid been the violence that hid goat tae her that first week though…oan baith sides. She’d never been in Belfast or Londonderry during the worst ae the troubles, bit if she hid, then touring the polis stations and turning up at incidents, wis whit she’d imagined it wid’ve been like. She’d never come across young people, some as young as thirteen and fourteen, carrying knives and being prepared tae use them, irrespective ae the consequences fur them or their victims. The casualty departments ae the main hospitals, particularly oan Friday and Saturday nights, resembled the hospitals that wur furever being beamed oan the news fae war torn places like Vietnam. She shuddered, remembering being taken oan her first visit tae Glesga Royal Infirmary’s Casualty Department, the second week efter her arrival and watching doctors and young nurses running aboot, trying tae catch up wae the next bloodied patient being wheeled in before the ambulances wailed aff intae the night tae collect another victim ae the murderous violence that wis erupting oan the streets ae the city. She remembered wanting tae intervene, bit being held back by Chief Inspector Bobby Mack, the heid ae the north’s murder squad who’d been showing her aroond, as polismen noisily jostled wae young dedicated nurses and doctors, fur the attention ae the semi-conscious victims before they died ae their wounds, attempting tae get a name ae who’d inflicted the maist horrendous injuries she’d ever come across. It hid been some baptism ae fire. It hidnae taken her long tae realise that senior and strategic management wur there only in name, while the operational superintendents and chief inspectors gied the distinct impression that they wur making up the rules as they went along. The District, Sheriff and High Courts continually vomited up the dregs ae society, while the victims and their families participated in the charade because, quite frankly, there hid been nowhere else fur them tae turn tae, tae seek justice fur family members who’d been maimed or murdered. Of course, she’d also come across many dedicated, honest polismen and wummin, people like Wilma Thain, the female sergeant fae the south’s murder squad, working against aw odds and young, eager officers like Collette James, wanting tae change the city because ae some idealistic notion that whit they wur daeing wis a service tae the people. Fur Murdina, an ootsider, looking in, the dedicated polis in the force, oot oan the streets, mirrored the front-line staff in the hospitals, attempting, bit failing miserably, tae haud back the tidal wave ae criminality that came at them oan a daily basis. It really hid been unbelievable. Efter her two month exploration stint, she’d submitted her report ae whit she felt she could contribute and whit resources she believed wid be required. She’d also highlighted the limitations ae whit bringing in an ootsider could hope tae achieve in the two-year time frame that hid originally been mooted. When she’d sat doon tae brief Alan Small, Queen’s Counsel and Heid ae The Crown’s Criminal Division in Edinburgh, he’d smiled sympathetically during her summary, particularly at the staffing list she’d asked fur.

  “I’m sorry, Murdina, but your staffing demands are out of the question. Your two-year secondment must be conducted undercover. The Secretary of State wants the option of pulling back, should the need arise.”

  “Pulling back?”

  “If there appears to be political fallout from your activities. Bison and Mackerel have friends in high places. It won’t be as easy to get rid of them as Jackson, Johnston, Dougan, O’Donnell, Mack, Sherlock and others. Also, we’ve had a number of task-forces and internal investigations in the past, over the years. As soon as we’ve alerted Central, the shutters have come down. They won’t tolerate outside interference…look at the mess they’ve got themselves into over the death of that young nurse and the thug who was sentenced to fourteen years for shooting two unarmed police officers in a bank in November 1972. On the political front, whilst councillors won’t hesitate in demanding scalps, they won’t tolerate outside interference either.”

  “So, what manpower can I expect at my disposal then?” she’d asked.

  “We’ve identified a base for you and your small team.”

  “And?”

  “You can pick six of the Highland’s finest, but of course, the reasons behind their absence and the task asked of them must remain confidential. We’ve also identified forensic support for you. It may take a while to receive results of any evidence put forward for analysis, as one of your superintendent counterparts, William Thompson, of Aberdeen City Police, will be responsible for furnishing your needs on that account.”

  “Yes, sir, I know William. We’ve worked together over the years.”

  Six members of staff? She thought she’d misheard whit he’d said and hid hid tae ask him tae confirm that he’d said six, and no sixty six.

  “To start with. Once you deal with the corruption and One-Bob Brown, we’ll relook at additional secondments. I’ll require regular reports…monthly. William Thompson will provide your team with everything you’ll require in the form of vehicles, equipment and of course, finance…which will be covered from Inverness-shire’s budget,” he’d continued, smiling, smoking incessantly via a wee fancy, silver cigarette holder.

  “What happens if we’re compromised?” she’d asked.

  “I’m under instructions from The Secretary of State for Scotland. You and your team will still be part of the Highland police force.”

  He hidnae mentioned Glenda Metcalfe, the young city procurator fiscal, who’d been tasked wae liaising between Edinburgh and the polis investigations ae the young nurse, Rose Bain and Johnboy Taylor, the youth at the centre ae the shooting ae the polismen in the bank. At the time, baith ae them hid hid effective high profile campaigners behind them, who wur demanding tae hiv their respective polis investigations reopened. During her two-month preliminary investigation intae where she wis supposed tae start, she’d attended an extracurricular presentation fur criminal law students at Glesga University. It hid been a lucky fluke. She’d been hivving an interview wae the then assistant chief constable, Jack Tipple, as part ae her initial, exploratory undercover work. She’d been trying tae get an explanation oot ae him, withoot receiving a flea in her ear, fur the apparent lack ae accountability and direct supervision ae operational commanders oot oan the streets. She’d thought he wis gaun tae hiv a heart attack when she’d raised continuous professional training fur front line staff, which wis noo common in the Met doon in London. The previous night, two pavement pounders hid been stabbed in different parts ae the city and an unarmed detective sergeant hid been shot in the face efter bravely tackling a gunman. Although the three officers hid survived, they’d been lucky tae be alive. He’d started blabbering aboot the political war being fought against the force and the administrative demands being placed oan somewan as important as him.

  “Training? Look, here’s an example,” he’d scowled, tossing across the invitation tae attend a forensic lecture oan new detection techniques in the war against crime in the USA by a Deputy Director ae The Federal Bureau ae Investigations, the American Internal Security Service. “I mean, when would someone like me have the time tae attend something like thi
s?”

  She’d taken a deep breath and suggested that perhaps wan or two ae the chief superintendents or chief inspectors in the toon might benefit fae gaun, particularly fae forensics across in the Gorbals, bit he’d awready moved oan. He hidnae noticed that she’d held oan tae the invitation and hid gone in his place insteid.

  The lecture hid taken place in the early evening and hid been brilliant. It hid been held in wan ae the smaller lecture theatres. She reckoned there hid only been aboot forty law students in attendance. Apart fae James Douglas, The Deputy Director fae the FBI, two other people in the room who’d stood oot that night, hid been a young procurator fiscal, a good few years aulder than the fresh-faced students who wur sitting scribbling away and a smartly dressed young man, sitting wae his erms folded across his chest up at the back. O’er the cup ae tea efterwards, while people hung aboot tae ask questions, she’d found hersel in the tea queue beside the procurator fiscal.

  “Hi, sorry. My name’s Glenda Metcalfe. I’m one of the city’s procurator fiscals…for my sins,” she’d added, before laughing.

  “And I’m Margaret McDonald, a chief inspector, down from the Highlands, researching methodology into police operations here in the city, on behalf of The Scottish Office.”

  It hid only been later, wance her and her ‘Skulks’ hid moved doon tae the ootskirts ae the city tae their vacant country polis hoose, that Alan Small hid mentioned Glenda Metcalfe, as being the person responsible fur instigating her undercover operation in the first place. She’d hung aboot till the last student hid disappeared and asked James Douglas if he’d eaten. Tae her surprise, he’d agreed tae go fur a bite tae eat wae her. They’d ended up hivving a bar meal in a crowded, smoky pub oan Byres Road. He’d shrewdly asked her whit she wis up tae. She’d sat speaking, withoot being interrupted, fur nearly an hour. The only interruption he’d made, hid been when he’d laughed as she telt him how many staff and resources she wis being allocated.