Kingston Bridge

by Ian Todd

  “Whit?” Jean asked.

  “You. We’re no undercover, ye know.”

  “So, why ur we sitting here, hauf way doon Millarbank Street, when we could be up there getting oorsels in the pictures then?”

  “Y’know, this is probably wan ae the few times we’ll ever get tae see aw The Mankys loitering aboot thegither in the wan place…other than in a polis line-up, that is,” she added, smiling.

  “Whit aboot Snappy Johnston’s funeral yesterday?”

  “Okay, probably only wan ae the second times, two days in a row,” Wilma tut-tutted, sounding irritated at Mrs Perfectionist sitting beside her.

  “Which, given the force’s track record up tae noo, won’t be repeated any time soon…unless another wan ae the basturts gets bumped aff.”

  “See, there ye go again. Always the pessimist.”

  “Well, even wae the shitey, underhanded tactics used by The Stalker and that glaikit heavy mob ae his up here in Springburn, he still couldnae nail Gucci and they manky-arsed pals ae his, could he?”

  “Aye, bit gie him his due, it wisnae fur the want ae trying. This time it’ll be different though. The Tally and his boys hiv us tae worry aboot noo.”

  “Really? Oh well, in that case, Ah cannae wait tae see the quivering fear, pouring oot ae they handsome, suave eyes ae his, when him and Graham Portoy dae a disappearing act oot ae the station door, leaving us sitting there oan oor fannies, waiting fur the bluebirds tae fly past,” Jean said, face deadpan, before the two ae them chuckled.

  Wilma wis gonnae come back at her, bit decided no tae, as she sat and watched The Mankys carefully drap the coffin aff their shoulders and slide it intae the back ae the yawning hearse door, as the mourners spilled oot oan tae the pavement behind them, lighting up fags, before milling aboot, talking amongst themsels. It hid been a shite ten days, she reminded hersel. No only hid they lost their main suspect in the murder ae Honest John McCaffrey, bit she wis in danger ae losing her badge o’er Pearl Campbell’s front page article aboot Teddy Bare managing tae wangle a reduced charge o’er the murder ae that wife ae his, that hid appeared oan the front page ae The Glesga Echo oan Christmas Eve.

  “So, ye’re sitting there trying tae tell me that ye didnae speak tae her then?” Chief Superintendent Bob Mackerel hid snarled at her accusingly doon in Central oan Boxing day, while she wis still mourning the loss ae her prime suspect.

  “I did speak tae her, bit Ah said nothing that resembled anything she wrote in that fabricated article,” she’d pled, the umbrage…and the fear ae losing her job, evident in that voice ae hers, as it ricocheted aff the graffiti-covered interview room wall, before coming back and slapping her aboot her painted kisser.

  “Why did you not go through the proper channels?” Cleopatra hid wanted tae know.

  “Because Ah wisnae sure at that time whit she wis efter. Ah also thought that given her age, Ah might be able tae gie her a using.”

  “A using?” Mackerel hid snorted. “That wee bloody hairy clocked where ye wur coming fae at fifty paces!”

  “Ah met her in the King’s Café oan Elmbank Street,” she’d reminded him.

  “Don’t you fucking sit there getting aw catty wae me, Inspector. No wae the shite you’re in,” The Chief hid barked at her, the veins in that neck ae his throbbing like a snake oan heat.

  “Ah never telt her that Ah believed Teddy Bare intentionally wanted tae murder that wife ae his. She made that wan up, so she did,” she’d deliberately whimpered, sounding like a distressed kitten, hoping that Cleopatra wid jump in and save her fae the abuse that hid been getting dished oot in her direction.

  “Even though everywan knows fine well that ye dae believe it wis murder?” the basturt hid come back wae, snarling away at her.

  Silence.

  “Right, Missy, ye’re under investigation, so ye ur. If it comes oot that it wis you that undermined the Procurator Fiscal’s office, they feet ae yours will be pounding the clean pavements ae Newton Mearns, assisting pishy auld wummin tae cross the road at the traffic lights. In the meantime, if Ah hear that ye’ve been talking tae any ae they scummy newspapers fur even wan minute, withoot first gaun through Pitt Street, then ye’re oot oan yer arse, so ye ur. Hiv Ah made masel clear?”

  “Bit…”

  “Hiv Ah made masel clear?” he’d shouted, mair threateningly this time.

  “Aye, sir.”

  She frowned. Somewan wis missing, she telt hersel, silently coonting the heids amongst the smoking, tear-stained made-up faces ae the dolly birds. Gucci, Taylor, McAlpine, McCabe, McCalumn and Epstein. She scanned the crowd, allowing her gaze tae widen oot, searching fur Baby Huey, Gucci’s driver. Wherever Gucci wis, the ugly ogre wis sure tae be close by. Her and Jean hid goat themsels caught up in the building works traffic oan Bilsland Drive oan the way across fae the station in Gairbraid Avenue, so hid missed who’d arrived earlier. The car they’d blagged fae the station didnae hiv a blue light in it, so they’d been stuck. As well as Odd Job, she couldnae see any ae Wan-bob Broon’s heavies either, which further confirmed everywan’s suspicions, that it wis him that hid ordered Paterson and Johnston’s murders. There wur other well-known criminals mingling in there, so where wur Wan-bob’s boys? The talk oan the street and in the murder squad room wis that The Mankys hid made the fatal mistake ae trying tae muscle in oan some ae The Big Man’s territory…or even attempting a take-over? Looking at it rationally, everything pointed in that direction, bit Wilma wisnae that convinced, despite the evidence staring them in the face ootside the church. While she knew appearances could be deceptive, she wid’ve still expected a delegation tae turn up oot ae fake respect, even though everywan knew fine well that the only reason The Mankys hid survived fur as long as they hid wis because ae Pat Molloy, The Big Man and Wan-bob Broon. Wance the burial party disappeared fae the graveside, her and Jean wid go and hiv a wee swatch ae who the flowers that wur being placed intae the back ae the hearse wur fae.

  “Ah wonder whit the hell’s happened tae that Harry Sliver creep and his cameraman fae The Evening Citizen? They’ll miss aw the good shots, so they will,” Jean mused, nodding up towards the mourners. “Nae wonder she’s greeting.”

  “Eh, whit?” Wilma asked, shaking her heid, taken by surprise at the interruption, feeling slightly confused.

  “Her.”

  “Who? Whit wan? Aw the wummin are greeting.”

  “Miss Convenient Fiancé hersel…Jean McGuire.”

  “Convenient fiancé? Ye know, Jean, sometimes ye kin be a wee bit too cynical…and sick,” Wilma replied, turning tae look at her sergeant.

  “Me?” her partner exclaimed in exaggerated denial. “Okay then, try this wan. Grieving girlfriend, works part-time in a garage fur buttons, bit lives in a big swanky pad across in Montague Street in the West End. Did ye no see the set-up when we wur up there oan Christmas Eve? Ah bet aw that fancy furniture wisnae cheap. Mind you, it wis probably aw blagged.”

  “Christ, look at her, she’s in bits, so she is,” Wilma gestured wae a wave ae her haun. “They tears ae hers look real enough tae me, so they dae.”

  “Exactly. That’s ma point. Christ, nae wonder she’s bubbling. Ah’d be tae. She knows fine well there’s gonnae be big changes tae that cushy life ae hers, especially wance she draps the sprog.”

  Silence.

  “Even though Ah agree wae where ye’re coming fae, ye dae hiv tae feel a wee bit sorry fur her. Christ, Ah dread hivving tae pick up the weans fae that ma ae mine’s, hauf deid oan ma feet, trying tae sound chirpy and merry until Ah kin pack them aff tae their bed, before sitting there aw night oan ma lonesome, staring intae space. It’s a killer being oan yer ain at night withoot any adult conversation or company.”

  “Naw, it’s no a killer, Wilma. If you want tae see whit a killer looks like, take yer pick fae they pallbearers up there,” she said, before continuing. “Maybe ye should get yersel stocked up wae a wee batch ae Cadbury’s fudge chocolate bars.”

  “Noo, you ur being
sick.”

  “Ye’ve goat tae admit that even though she’s jist aboot tae drap it, she still looks a million dollars, so she dis. In fact, they aw dae, when ye see them aw thegither in the flesh,” Jean continued, as Baby Huey suddenly appeared through the doors ae the Public Halls next door, tossing whit looked like a broken flash camera o’er the iron railings ae the church.

  “Ah wonder whit that fat basturt’s been up tae?” Wilma murmured.

  “Look, there’s that Sherbet wan, the shoapkeeper…and his wife, whit’s her name?”

  “Maisa.”

  “Aye, Maisa. That’s her. Ah wonder why she’s greeting? Ah widnae hiv thought they wid’ve been in tow wae a crowd like that.”

  “Probably showing respect, seeing as it happened ootside their shoap.”

  “And her, whit’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The Glesga Business Wummin Ae The Year…last year. Talk aboot mutton dressed as lamb?”

  “Whit wan?” Wilma asked, scanning the smokers.

  “The wan that looks like a well-dressed crow wae the caked makeup and miniskirt hauf way up that crinkly auld arse ae hers. Kin ye no see her? She’s comforting that wee smartly dressed, attractive school lassie, staunin beside her.”

  “Business wummin ae the year? Never heard ae her. She looks as if she’s rolling in it, though. Christ, the diamonds oan they black patent heels ae hers ur dazzling me fae here, so they ur.”

  “Right, it looks like everywan’s aboot tae heid across tae the cemetery. Ur we joining the party as well?”

  “Naw. We don’t want them tae suss oot that we’re tailing them,” Wilma replied, drumming her fingers oan the steering wheel, speculating oan how much the clobber oan the rich auld crow and that granddaughter ae hers cost her.

  “So, we ur undercover then?”

  “If you say so, Sherlock,” she replied, smiling, turning the key in the ignition. “Fuck!”

  “Whit?” Jean yelped, startled, quickly looking aboot them in panic, expecting the windaes tae be panned in wae a baseball bat.

  “Her,” Wilma exclaimed, pointing across at the mourners dispersing intae the cars, surprised tae see that wee curly haired journalist wae the red hair fae The Glesga Echo, who’d nearly goat her her jotters, and who’d exposed Harry Tinto and Victor Ruth’s drinking habits a few days earlier, getting intae wan ae the big black lead cars wae the rest ae The Mankys’ girlfriends.

  Chapter Ten

  Senga’s heid wis splitting. She’d jist politely refused the offer ae a couple ae aspirins as she waited fur the kettle tae boil.

  “Ur ye sure ye’re okay?” Pearl asked stiffly, the first time they’d been in each other’s company oan their lonesome in nearly a month.

  Senga knew they hid tae sit doon and talk…and soon, bit noo wisnae the time. No wae whit hid happened tae the boys. She could honestly say that Christmas 1975 and Hogmanay the following week hid been the worst, she…they…the lassies, hid ever experienced. Peter hid arrived hame oan Christmas Eve, jist before ten o’clock. He’d been wanting tae watch Queen, live fae London, oan the telly. Due tae her pregnancy, Jean hid started munching through hauf a dozen Cadbury’s Fudge bars at night, as she sat and watched the TV. She’d been sitting impatiently, waiting fur Peter tae turn up wae them. When he’d arrived wae nae fudge, she’d sent him back oot, doon tae Sherbet’s, oan Great Western Road, tae get her some. Oan the way oot ae the shoap, he’d been battered wae a claw hammer and fatally stabbed. Poor Jean hid been blaming hersel ever since. When the two female murder squad detectives hid eventually turned up at Montague Street tae inform her ae whit hid happened at two o’clock in the morning, four hours efter the attack hid taken place, they’d hid tae call an ambulance as poor Jean hid collapsed at the news. Luckily, the baby hid been okay. Sherbet and Maisa hidnae opened the shoap fur a week. Seemingly, poor Sherbet hid knelt cradling Peter’s heid in his hauns in the rain, as he died in front ae him, oan the pavement. A wee while earlier in the evening, Snappy Johnston hid been blasted in the face wae a double barrelled shotgun, as he wis coming oot ae a closemooth up in Vulcan Street. Due tae the fact that there wisnae any newspapers printed oan Christmas and Boxing Day, there hid only been a passing mention ae it in the papers oan the 27th. Peter’s death hidnae even goatten a mention. It hid obviously been perceived as jist another fatal, pointless gang fight stabbing, that wur ten a penny oan the streets ae Glesga.

  She wis glad ae the break, being through in the kitchen, making the teas and coffees. Wae her being the only nurse in the company, everywan seemed tae take a back seat, looking tae her tae take the lead in the comforting department…apart fae Pearl, that wis. Despite whit hid obviously being gaun oan in the background roond aboot them aw these years, the lassies wur rarely exposed tae violence nooadays. When Joe hid been murdered by Toby Simpson back in 71, they’d aw been a lot younger, plus he hidnae been running aboot wae them at the time, due tae the hiding he’d received at the hauns ae The Simpsons a year earlier. Although still being close tae the boys at the time, there hidnae been the same emotional and romantic ties that there wis noo. Also back then, the lassies knew mair aboot whit wis happening roond aboot them oan a daily basis, as it wisnae that unusual fur wan ae The Mankys tae turn up wae the shirt torn aff their back, drenched in blood…sometimes their ain, bit maistly somewan else’s. Of course, everywan hid justified their indifference at the time, as nothing The Mankys ever did wis their fault. Everywan wis always oot tae get them. That hid been the reason she’d drapped oot…that and the fact that her and Johnboy hid been gaun nowhere fast. Also at the time, working at The Royal as a student nurse hid opened her eyes tae whit the consequences could be ae they bloodstained shirts.

  “Well, if ye need a haun, gie’s a shout,” Pearl said softly, efter an awkward pause, leaving her tae it.

  Pearl hid been brilliant, especially roond in Snappy and Francis’s…why widn’t she be? She’d repeatedly jumped in and steered Francis away fae asking Senga tae go o’er Snappy’s last breath again up at The Royal. Wan ae The Mankys must’ve telt wan ae the lassies whit she’d telt Johnboy. She’d appreciated Pearl taking the initiative, as it hid been obvious that the rest ae them wur interested in hearing a re-run as well.

  “Look, Francis, we kin aw understaun where ye’re coming fae, hen, bit Senga here’s really upset aboot whit happened tae Snappy and Peter as well,” Pearl hid cooed.

  “Oh, right, Ah’m…Ah’m sorry, Senga, hen,” poor Francis hid whimpered, before bursting intae tears again, as Pearl hugged her and everywan else hid sat silently, looking disapprovingly across at Senga, fur no repeating the misty, romantic details ae Snappy Johnston’s last breath.

  Geraldine Baker hid phoned Senga’s ma, an hour efter she’d heided doon tae Johnboy’s flat oan Otago Street, oan Christmas Day. Geraldine hid started oan the day shift in casualty, the morning efter they’d wheeled Snappy in. Despite the time ae year, the place hid been pandemonium. It hid been efter four o’clock in the efternoon by the time she’d been able tae phone her. Senga must’ve mentioned tae Geraldine that she’d be at her ma and da’s fur Christmas Day.

  “Oh, is there anything wrang, Geraldine, hen?” her ma’s voice hid quaked, at first thinking Johnboy hid murdered her wan and only daughter.

  “Naw, naw, Anne. It’s jist tae dae wae the shifts…they’ve changed them oot ae the blue, due tae the fact that it’s like The Last Stand at The Alamo doon here, so it is.”

  “Shift changes? Whit, at hauf four oan Christmas Day?”

  “Ye widnae happen tae hiv Johnboy’s telephone number, wid ye?”

  “Sorry, hen. Ah cannae even remember whit ma ain number is and Ah’ve hid the bloody thing fur months noo.”

  Of course, Geraldine wid’ve hid aw the other lassies’ numbers, bit there wis no way she wid’ve phoned them…no wae something as terrible as this. Efter hinging aboot the door ae Johnboy’s flat, Senga hid eventually decided tae nip alang tae her flat in Barrington Avenue tae get the spare key
he’d gied her. She’d jist opened the bottom door in his closemooth, when a car hid drawn up ootside. Sitting in the front hid been Baby Huey behind the wheel, wae Tony Gucci beside him. In the back hid been Ben McCalumn and Johnboy. Despite no hivving been in Johnboy’s company fur nearly a month, he hidnae even expressed surprise…or shock, tae find her coming oot ae the door at the bottom ae his closemooth.

  “Senga? Ur you working the morra?” he’d asked, sounding casual, despite them no hivving spoken tae each other in yonks.

  “Eh…whit?”

  “Did you no tell me a while ago that ye wur oan the early shift, the morning efter Christmas Day?”

  “Er, aye…” she’d spluttered, totally confused and thrown aff balance, as he turned and popped his heid intae the driver’s windae and said something tae Tony, before the car moved away fae the pavement, heidin up Glesga Street, towards Bank Street, at the tap end.

  “Right then, ur ye coming?” he’d asked, turning the lock oan the ootside door, haudin it open fur her tae pass him.

  Her apprehension hidnae eased aff wance they’d made it up the stairs and intae the flat either. There hid been nae sign ae the strange, silent cat, that she’d being trying, bit failing, tae entice tae come closer tae the letterbox, as she’d knelt freezing oan the landing a few minutes earlier.

  “Ah see ye manged tae get yersel a cat,” she’d come oot wae, finally managing tae find something tae say.

  “Ye heard?”

  “Naw, Ah wis kneeling doon at the letter box, killing time, waiting fur you, trying tae get it tae come and say hello.”

  “Watch this,” he said smiling, whistling, as the cat shot oot ae the bedroom and jumped up oan tae the erm ae the couch, stretching and getting its lug scratched. “He only comes if ye gie him a wee whistle. Amazing, eh?”

  “We need tae talk,” she’d declared.

  “Is that before or efter ye take aff yer jaicket?” he’d hit her wae, throwing her aff balance.