by Ian Todd
“Well, she definitely lives up in Cadder, so she dis. Worked in traffic oot ae Central back in 1972.”
“Address?”
“Pass, bit…”
“Aye?”
“Ah meant tae mention when ye wur up at ma flat that she’s goat a snapper, so she his.”
“Ye’re no telling me that it’s Willie Burke’s, ur ye?” she’d exclaimed.
“The Show…some people, think that it might be. It’s a toddler, so who knows? It wis never confirmed as far as we…er, Ah wis aware.”
Silence.
“Bit…”
“Sorry, Pearl…must go. An ambulance his jist arrived wae a serious burns victim,” she’d said cheerily, before hinging up.
Surely that couldnae be right. Whit wummin in her right mind wid keep a raping basturt’s wean? Bit then again, Susan McFarlane’s mind probably hidnae been in any fit state, until it wis too late, tae think aboot something like that...at least, that’s the only rationale she’d been able tae come up wae, as she’d been trudging doon the stairs tae Ghost Toon City. Apart fae the odd photo ae The Irish Brigade, receiving commendations fur being brave and the wan ae Collette James that she awready hid a copy ae, agreeing tae be the Godmother tae a set ae triplets, fur some protesting wummin at a warrant sale doon at a closemooth up in Possil, she’d hit a brick wall. And where the hell hid Collette James goat tae? Since the article oan Christmas Eve aboot Teddy Bare trying tae wangle a deal tae get a reduced charge tae murdering his wife, nowan wanted tae speak tae her. She’d phoned personnel in Pitt Street tae enquire as tae when Collette wid be back at work. Efter leaving her name and contact number, the basturts still hidnae goat back tae her.
“That’s because they’re scared ae ye,” The Rat hid informed her. “That expose ae that gangster wan fae Govan and corrupt inspector fae The Flying Squad oan the front page the other day widnae hiv helped. Wance ye start exposing these basturts, ye become like a pariah, so ye dae. Believe you me, Ah know whit Ah’m talking aboot.”
“So, where did the info come fae aboot the stash ae cannabis being in the back ae Tinto’s car, Mr Elliot?” she’d asked. “And the photo ae the pair ae them hivving a drink thegither roond in Sammy Dows?”
“Look. Ah’ve telt ye, it wis an anonymous phone call…a tip aff. It happens aw the time in the toon. You jist thank yer lucky stars that Ah passed the story oan tae you. The big boys up oan the tap flair landing ur getting impatient waiting fur you tae follow up wae mair dirt oan that Teddy Bare wan and the poliswummin rape stories, so they ur. Ye’ve only goat a few mair weeks tae make good or that wee ginger arse ae yers will be oot the door, so it will.”
She shut the big book cover o’er. If Susan McFarlane’s name or photo wis gonnae come up, it wid’ve before noo, she finally convinced hersel. Geraldine hid telt her that she wis supposed tae hiv met WPC Collette James up at the wee bridge in Cadder oan the 24thth October, tae pick up the letters that hid been sent tae Susan McFarlane back in 1972 fae the group ae ex-poliswummin that hid been sexually assaulted by The Irish Brigade, as far back as the early 1960s. By the time Geraldine hid arrived up at the canal bridge, there hid been nae sign ae her. She’d been late due tae the fact that the polis hid stoapped her oan route tae ask if she knew anything aboot burglaries that hid been taking place in Hillheid where she lived. The ex-female cops hid written detailed statements in the letters tae Susan McFarlane disclosing that they’d gone through similar assaults themselves and that she could use their statements in support ae her allegation against the basturts at the time. The problem wis, Susan McFarlane hid drapped the allegation a few weeks efter making them and resigned fae the force. If Pearl could find her, then she’d maybe get the evidence that could confirm that Teddy Bare hid deliberately murdered that poliswummin wife ae his, efter she’d confronted him wae wan ae the statements fae Pricilla Presley, wan ae the original letter writers. She’d managed tae note doon a few ae the ex-poliswummin names that Geraldine thought she could remember being mentioned by Collette, bit fae whit Pricilla Presley hid warned her efter she’d accosted her in the street, aw the ex-WPCs hid hid enough and widnae be prepared tae talk tae a journalist, especially wan fae The Glesga Echo. If she wis lucky enough tae track Susan doon, she could maybe convince her tae appeal tae them tae come forward and speak tae her. The only problem wis, how the hell wis she supposed tae track her doon? There wur jist too many ifs flying aboot. Who did she know that could access The Corporation housing lists, she wondered? Somebody must know. She’d thought aboot asking Tony and Simon up at Tony and Kim Sui’s flat, bit she knew that wid’ve been pushing her luck. Her heid wis nipping. Efter the exhilaration ae getting her first story fur the paper oan the front page, everything hid then jist flat-lined until the drugs in the boot ae The Flying Squad inspector’s car story hid landed oan her desk. The Rat wis pushing her tae come up wae the goods. Her temporary contract wis up at the end ae the month. Despite him gleefully reminding her every five minutes, she knew she’d be oot oan her arse…unless she could crack the bloody story. She looked up and glanced across towards the big doors. Footsteps wur coming. They wur clumping doon the wooden stairs that nowan in the building appeared tae hiv used since the lifts wur installed back in the mid-fifties. She cocked her ears. Each landing hid a door in tae wan ae the departments. Her auld office, that her and Mary Marigold hid shared, alang wae the advertisement typists and the editor ae the Green Fingers Section ae the paper, wis jist above where she wis sitting. She sat and held her breath. Fuck, whoever it wis hidnae stoapped. She heard the footsteps walking alang the mezzanine flair, before descending tae where she wis. She quickly looked aboot the room. There wis nae escape. Apart fae the scabby doos still ogling through the windae at her, she wis oan her lonesome. Could she fight aff The Rat if it wis him coming doon tae murder her, she wondered, feeling her heart racing. How long wid it be until they found her body? Why wis she even thinking like that? Why wid The Rat want tae murder her in the first place? She hidnae done anything wrang…hid she? Shit! The footsteps wur oan their last leg, descending the last flight ae stairs fae the middle landing. She looked aboot in panic. There wis naewhere tae hide. A shimmering, ghostly shape suddenly appeared behind the beaded, glass frosted door and hesitated. The roond ancient wooden knob oan it slowly turned, as the inside ae her mooth suddenly dried up. She stared at the knob, transfixed, haudin her breath. The stupid thing hid stuck, jist as it hid wae her the day before, as the person oan the other side ae the door shook the knob violently, still twisting it back and forward, before the heavy, squeaky Addams Family door, slowly creaked open.
“Pearl? Miss Campbell…ur ye there?” the quaking, trembling voice ae the wee typing pool junior, whose name she couldnae remember, called oot, before visibly relaxing, as the two sets ae eyes connected wae each other at the same time. “Oh, ye’re there. Sorry tae disturb ye. Bit there’s a wummin…”
“A wummin?” Pearly yelped wae relief.
“Er, aye. That’s the third time she’s phoned the day. She says that it’s important that she talks tae ye, so she did.”
“Did she leave a number?” Pearl asked, the frightened tone ae her voice fae a few seconds earlier, being replaced wae a mair confident self-assured wan.
“Er, naw. She says that she’ll phone back in exactly…” The Apprentice said, looking doon at her Timex wristwatch. “In exactly four and a hauf minutes fae noo.”
“Oh, right, Ah’m oan ma way,” Pearl announced, quickly picking up the two big leather-bound books, struggling wae the weight ae them, as she carried them across tae the gaping gap oan the second shelf at the far end ae the room.
She felt her heart quicken, and no wae the exertion ae humphing the big volumes either. This could be her big break. It might be that Glenda Metcalfe, The Mankys’ favourite procurator fiscal, wanting tae meet up, she telt hersel, wiping the dust fae the palms ae her haun.
“Ur ye no scared ae being doon here oan yer ain?” The Apprentice asked, shuddering, looking behind
her tae the dark stairs she’d jist descended doon a minute earlier.
“Me?” Senga scoffed dismissively, smiling, following the wee lassie o’er towards the door, deliberately lifting the back ae her skirt up, gieing the gurgling scabby doos up at the windae a wee flash ae her light blue knicker-covered arse, before pulling the door o’er behind them.
Chapter Twelve
It wis Peggy McAvoy’s distressing yelp that broke the silence amongst them, as the three braids sitting slouched at the table aw jumped in their seats before following her fearful gaze towards the tall manky windaes looming o’er them, as a particularly strong gust ae wind fae the storm getting up ootside, attempted tae snatch wan ae the rotten wooden frames oot fae the space where it hid sat fur the past hunner and twenty years.
“Ah hope that’s no a sign ae things tae come,” Bob Mackerel, heid ae the toons two murder teams croaked, as Peggy, embarrassed by her ootburst, turned her face back fae the rain-lashed windae and tried tae compose hersel, withoot drawing any mair unwanted attention back in her direction.
If any ae them hid been bothered by her wee nervous ootburst, they never acknowledged it. They jist went back tae staring intae space. The three braids, who’d been tripping o’er each other’s words a few seconds earlier, congratulating themsels oan how good they wur, wur noo sitting contemplating whit might hiv been. She looked doon at her notes. She hidnae written anything doon concerning the unexpected revelation that hid jist landed in amongst them, like an unexploded bomb that hid decided it wis the time tae make its presence felt. She looked roond the grim, thoughtful faces, who wur sitting there, deliberately avoiding eye contact wae each other, willing wan ae them tae say something that she could focus oan and note doon in that wee pad ae hers. She kept getting a recurring picture in her heid that she couldnae shift. The picture appeared tae be frozen in time…at least that’s whit it seemed like tae her. She studied it, making sure that she wisnae gieing her wee solitary mind game away, by keeping her expression blank, trying tae figure oot whit the recurring theme appeared tae be, and then it hit her. It wisnae a startling discovery. It hid awready been there fur a while noo, staring at her…and them. It wis the invisible elephant in the room…Superintendent Munro. Withoot her presence, nothing positive seemed tae hiv happened o’er the last two meetings. In fact, fae where she wis sitting, the enquiries in tae the organised gangland murders oot there oan the streets, hid suddenly become even mair complicated than they’d awready been. The three senior officers present jist seemed incapable ae stoapping the runaway train. It appeared tae be wan step forward and five steps back. Superintendent Munro wis still up north. This hid been the second meeting in the past four days that she’d missed…and wis missed. The mere mention ae Cleopatra’s name, usually the catalyst fur the two chief superintendent stags tae start competing wae each other, self-promoting their efforts in glorious technicolour oan how they and their troops oan the ground wur oot there, fighting fire wae fire, wis long gone. The usual testosterone-charged atmosphere in the room seemed tae hiv the explosive power ae a damp squib. She wondered whit the reaction wid be if she wis tae suddenly burst oot giggling wae nervous laughter. She knew fine well that the exploding revelation ae a few minutes earlier wis deadly serious, bit the build up tae it hid been like a comedy ae errors straight oot ae Monty Python. The session hid kicked aff positively. Expectations wur running high. The two braids sitting waiting, twiddling their thumbs, while nervously haudin their breath, waiting fur Mackerel tae dash roond tae Turnbull Street fae the mortuary in the Saltmarket wae the initial findings hid been excruciatingly painful tae watch. Thankfully, they hidnae hid long tae wait.
“There wis only wan body in the coffin…and it certainly wisnae Mr William Tell, Ah kin tell ye that,” Mackerel, oot ae breath, hid announced triumphantly, as John Sinclair, The Acting Assistant Chief Constable fur Strathclyde Polis, punched the air wae his white knuckled fist, mouthing the word ‘Yes!’ before remembering where he wis and quickly getting that excitement ae his back under control.
Tae be fair tae them, nowan in the room could’ve predicted in a million years that the heid ae the two murder squads in the toon, hid jist ripped open another can ae wriggling worms.
“Hiv we a definite ID, Bob?” Sam Bison, Heid Ae Crime and Intelligence hid panted, looking at his colleague, that tongue ae his hinging oot ae his dribbling gub in expectation.
Mackerel, in his eagerness tae indulge the part that he and that team ae his hid played in the breakthrough, despite the intelligence hivving come fae an anonymous phone call, wisnae playing baw though…no yet. It wis clear tae everywan present, that he wanted tae savour the moment.
“Aye, it’s a pity Murdina isnae here the noo tae join the party,” he’d sang smugly, smacking they chops ae his, as if he’d jist cracked the crime ae the century. “The stiff in question wis wearing black slip-oan Joseph Cheaney haunmade shoes and a pair ae heavily blood-stained grey Adam ae London herringbone troosers. Underneath that black leather jerkin jaicket ae his, he wis wearing a white, frilly, Michael Fish shirt…also heavily blood-stained…”
“So, it is that basturt, Shaun Murphy! Bloody brilliant!” The Heid ae Crime and Intelligence hid whooped, reaching across fur his packet ae fags, joining in wae the other two congratulatory smiling faces at the table.
“Well done, Bob,” The Assistant Chief Constable hid purred, the first time Peggy hid seen him smile since The Organised Crime Task Force Group hid been set up by The Scottish Office, at the tail end ae October, the year before.
“And Roseanne Cardone, the forensic pathologist?” The Assistant Chief Constable asked solemnly, straightening up in his chair. “Ah hope ye expressed oor total gratitude fur her sterling service tae the ungrateful citizens ae this undeserving city.”
“Aye, Ah did that and mair, sir,” Mackerel hid beamed. “The basturt hid been stabbed tae death. She said that he widnae hiv stood a chance. It’s aw in the initial report. She reckoned the blade ae the knife wid’ve been at least twelve inches long, wae a serrated edge oan wan side ae it. It wis a frenzied attack. She reckoned the weapon wis some sort ae First World War trench knife. Said she’d come across damage like it before, when she’d been helping oot The War Graves Commission across in Belgium, a few years ago efter they’d unearthed bodies oan a building site that hid apparently been oan the front lines. She said it wis quite a rare weapon. Ye could actually see where it hid smashed through the sternum and ribcage, leaving tracks like a rip saw oan the bones,” he’d said, demonstrating the frenzied plunging that must’ve occurred wae that right fist ae his clenched tight, before passing the red folder across tae the assistant chief constable, smiling triumphantly, jist like Eamon Andrews did when awarding his guest the big red book at the end ae wan they This is Your Life programmes oan the telly.
“Er…hing oan a wee minute, Bob. Did The Stalker’s service notebook no claim the basturt hid been shot?” Bison hid suddenly asked, sounding surprised, looking across at Eamon Andrews, who suddenly looked as if he’d jist shat in they baggy troosers ae his.
“Eh…whit…bit, er…eh?”
She knew that it wis wrang…and unprofessional tae get emotionally involved, bit she couldnae help hersel. She’d come across a fair amount ae downers in the job o’er the years, bit the crushed expressions oan the faces sitting in front ae her, hid taken the biscuit. She’d jist sat, scared tae move, fighting tae keep her face straight withoot bursting oot in hysterical laughter, suppressing the urge tae dash oot ae the room alang the corridor tae the wummin’s toilets before she pished hersel. Ah’ll bet he’s glad that Cleopatra, the strange looking wummin that hid appeared oot ae the shadows and decimated wan ae the maist deadly underworld duos Glesga hid ever spawned, isnae here noo, she’d kept thinking tae hersel. Although it wisnae meant tae be funny and she’d thought she’d seen it aw, this hid been something special.
Silence.
“A…according tae Paddy McPhee’s service notebook, Shaun Murphy wis shot deid by that m
anky fucking wee Ned, Taylor. Kin ye no remember, Bob?” Bison hid croaked, looking and sounding as if somewan hid jist gied him a swift kick in they hee-haws ae his, as the assistant chief constable’s face took oan the look ae a condemned man.
Efter managing a few wee polite dry coughs, tae cover up her unprofessionalism, Peggy hid found it difficult no tae feel a wee bit sorry fur the three ae them. The realisation and implication ae finding oot that the cause ae death ae the notorious missing gangster, who’d gone missing back in January 1973, clearly wisnae whit they’d been expecting. Everything hid jist spiralled doonhill fae there oan in.
“This is a fucking set-up, so it is,” Sam Bison hid sobbed through that snarl ae his, banging his fist oan tap ae the table in frustration.
“Bit, who the…” The Assistant Chief Constable hid jist been coming oot wae, when he wis interrupted.
“Wan-bob Fucking Broon!” The Heid ae Glesga’s two murder teams hid howled, looking at his two colleagues, his facial features taking oan the look ae a crazy mad axeman.
Silence.
“Sixty six year auld coal merchant, William Tell, passed away oan the 18th ae January 1973 efter suffering a massive heart attack,” Mackerel hid reminded them, using baith hauns tae scratch his heid, before gieing his face a wee rub wae the same fingers while he wis at it. “He wis buried wan week later, up in Lambhill cemetery oan Thursday, the 25th January…the day efter Shaun Murphy wis last seen staggering, under the influence ae drink, alang Fountainwell Road, Sighthill, the night before.”
“So, where the fuck is this Willian Tell then?” The Heid ae Crime and Intelligence hid shouted, wanting tae know. “Ur we sure the selfish basturt actually died?”
“And why noo?” The Assistant Chief Constable hid wondered oot loud.
“The Stalker’s bloody notebook, that’s why. It fucking blows everything that that lying basturt, Haufwit Murray, claimed that night up in Stobhill, right oot ae the bloody water, so it dis. According tae that stupid mumbling basturt, it wis Taylor that shot Shaun Murphy. Why the fuck his he turned up noo, full ae bloody stab holes?” Mr Murder hid frustratingly grumbled, sounding as sick as a drunken ghost.
