by Ian Todd
“Thank ye tae everywan…well, maist ae youse, fur turning up oan this cauld, blustery January night,” Mrs Purple Drawers said in welcome, scowling at her up oan the back row, before continuing. “Tonight, we’re gonnae gie everywan a wee update oan where we ur in the campaign. Youse aw know me and maist ae the dedicated organisers up here oan the platform,” she said wae a wave ae her haun towards the auld nun in the white habit, sitting there twiddling the rosaries wrapped roond her waist, between Geraldine Baker and Elspeth Jeffries, who’d been asked tae fill in fur Senga, who wis away up tae the highlands fur a job interview.
Elspeth wisnae a nurse, bit wis the campaign group’s legal adviser. She also happened tae be Simon Epstein’s latest bedpost notch. Two ae the others, whose names she didnae know, she’d recognised fae the ANC session. That left Gondola Hepburn, another brief, specialising in battered wummin cases. She’d interviewed Gondola fur her Christmas Eve article, the wan that hid set the arses oan fire doon in the prosecution service’s HQ. If she wis honest wae hersel, she couldnae blame Glenda Metcalfe fur slinging her a deafy efter that wan. Aw the cooncillors in the toon hid furgoatten aboot their freebie turkey dinner that day and hid called fur Jackson’s new boss’s heid tae be served up oan the plates at the Annual Cooncillors’ Christmas Lunch insteid, roond there in The Kremlin oan George Square. She wondered if she’d been pushing her luck efter being evicted fae The Rat’s office and heidin up the road fur a wee kip and a bath, before heidin back oot in search ae Susan McFarlane. She’d phoned Geraldine at hame.
“Hello?”
“Aye, Geraldine, it’s me, Pearl.”
Silence.
“Ur ye there, Geraldine? Hello?”
“Aye, Ah’m still here. Whit dae ye want?” she’d replied, an icy tone in that voice ae hers.
“Oh, er, Ah wis wanting tae know whit time the meeting wis the night.”
“Meeting…whit meeting?”
“The nurse’s wan doon in The Sally Army Hall oan Stirling Road.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Pearl, please tell me that ye’re at it.”
“At whit?”
“Efter that dreadful article ye wrote, the wan oan the front page ae the paper this morning? You’ve goat a bloody cheek, so ye hiv.”
“Bit Ah kin explain…”
“And that shite aboot the case hitting the skids and poor Rose, a victim ae a hit-and-run as well…”
“Geraldine, let me explain,” she’d tried tae say, bit the phone hid been hung up oan her.
“Right, as everywan knows. The brutes that ordered the murder ae oor sister, Rose Bain, ur up at The High Court oan Friday the 13th ae February. We aw know fine well that there’s skulduggery gaun oan behind the scenes, as the front page ae this morning’s Glesga Echo blatantly pointed oot that very fact. Noo, we’re no gonnae be sitting back, allowing this tae happen under oor very noses, allowing oor victory tae be snapped back fae the jaws ae justice by faceless men in pinstriped suits and wee lackeys hivving their strings pulled and sent oot tae spread confusion amongst the proletariat,” The Queen Ae Aw Things Purple thundered, as Pearl felt her face flush, squirming in her seat. “Us sisters, in this historic battlefield city, where wummin hiv fought like tigresses fur generations tae uncouple the shackles ae their oppressors, won’t allow hokery-pokery tae undermine the fight fur freedom, liberty and justice fur poor Rose Bain and that distressed family ae hers.”
It wis the thunderous clapping that made Pearl jump in her seat, and brought her back tae the embarrassing nightmare that she’d voluntarily walked intae, as she scanned the faces roond aboot her, looking fur signs ae who The Purple Dove could be. The lighted fag end fae the car park, the night before, hid said that Pearl wid find who she wis looking fur, in amongst the upturned faces ae the wummin sitting oan either side and in front ae her.
“Noo then, sisters, young Elspeth here his managed tae get us the services ae a worthy Queen’s Counsel, who’s prepared tae fight oan behauf ae poor wee Rose and her family. We didnae invite her alang the night because ae the costs, bit take it fae me, she’s the best. Her name’s Daphne Blair-Riley. Daphne worked oan the Ruth Ellis case doon in England, as a young brief, back in the mid-fifties. Knows the inside ae The High Court like the back ae her haun, so she dis. She’s no cheap, bit then again, none ae them ur. The main thing is, we need tae increase the fundraising between noo and the second week ae February, tae ensure another miscarriage ae justice by men in smoke-filled rooms isnae allowed tae happen.
Pearl sat and listened, fighting tae stoap hersel fae drapping aff tae sleep, as Gondola Hepburn ootlined the committee’s strategy oan why Rose Bain and her family’s interests wid be better represented at the trial if they hid their ain independent legal counsel team. She’d been sure she’d heard the name Ruth Ellis being mentioned, before it hit her. Wan ae the papers a while back hid been daeing a feature oan miscarriages ae justice. Ruth Ellis hid shot a married lover ae hers in a fit ae jealous rage, efter he’d been messing her aboot something terrible. Her defence team claimed she’d been mentally unstable at the time ae the shooting. Despite pleas fur mercy fae the great and the good, they’d hung her in Holloway Prison, back in 1955. Pearl wondered how many ae the wummin in the room, who’d aw gasped in delight at getting the services ae Daphnie Blair-Riley, hid ever heard ae Ruth Ellis. Efter nodding aff fur the second time, it wis the clapping and the scraping ae the chairs oan the wooden flair that woke her. She stood up and lit up a fag, wondering whit she should dae next, as the inspired wummin streamed past her tae get oot there and plan their next fundraising event. There wis nae singing ae ‘We Shall Overcome’ this time, bit jist a determined look in the sea ae faces streaming past her, tae get oot there tae dae whit needed tae be done. It wis obvious that the majority ae the wummin present hidnae recognised who’d been sitting in their midst. That morning’s front page heidline hid been raised, alang wae a chorus ae indignant curses, bit nowan at the tap table hid pointed sleeping beauty oot, up there oan the back row. It hid been Geraldine that hid taken the initiative.
“Rested noo, Pearl?’ she’d asked sarcastically, appearing in front ae her.
“Oh, er, Geraldine. Listen, aboot that article…”
“Ye’re wanted. Noo’s yer chance tae dae whit’s right. Follow me,” she’d commanded, walking towards the chipped and bashed panelled door at the side ae the stage, before turning back tae her. “Well, ur ye coming or whit?”
Chapter Twenty One
“Er, is it awright if Ah smoke?” Pearl asked nervously, efter the only other empty seat at the table wis pointed oot tae her.
“Disgusting habit,” Mrs Purple tutted, as wan ae the wummin stood up and returned fae the sink wae a jam jar lid and the sound ae chairs being stacked through in the hall reached them.
There wur five ae them, which included The Cooncillor, Geraldine and the auld nun. She wis jist wondering who wis gonnae start aff the introductions, when The Cooncillor kicked aff.
“Oor Geraldine here claims that you wurnae the author ae that scurrilous article in the world’s worse newspaper this morning. Wid that be right?”
“Aye.”
“So, if it wisnae you, who wis it then?”
“Ma boss…Sammy Elliot,” she replied,
“The Rat? Noo, why dis that no come as a surprise, eh?” the skinny, lanky wan snorted.
“So, why wis your name associated tae it and no his?”
“Because the paper only found oot the identity ae who wis in the exhumed coffin late yesterday efternoon. Ah’d been up at Lambhill earlier in the week wae Slipper, the paper’s photographer, efter a tip-aff came in saying the polis wur gonnae be up there digging. Ma boss couldnae find me, so put the article oot under ma name. He telt me that it hid tae go oot before the competition beat The Glesga Echo tae it,” she replied, as the wummin aw shifted in their seats. “Ah wis away following up another story.”
“Teddy Bare?” the nun asked.
“
Aye.”
“So, where ur ye wae that wan then?” Mrs Lanky asked.
Silence.
Pearl wanted tae kick hersel. She now knew who The Purple Dove wis. How hid she missed that wan? She wis sitting there covered in bloody purple, fur Christ’s sake. She also realised that she wis sitting in the midst ae The Showgirls, or at least, some ae them. She felt a thrill go through her body, as she smothered her realisation by stubbing her fag oot in the lid and lighting up another wan under the disapproving eyes ae Her Purple Majesty hersel. She looked across at Geraldine. The anger hid gone fae her eyes, or wis that jist her imagination? Nowan spoke. Insteid, they jist sat there, warily eyeing her up. She decided tae keep her trap shut tae see which way the wind wis blowing, even though she wanted tae get in there and hit them wae aw sorts ae questions.
“Look, Pearl, dear, if we’re going to assist you, we need to know that we’re talking to a friend,” The Nun eventually said gently, a wee smile appearing at the corners ae her mooth.
She’s Irish.
“Young Geraldine here has vouched for you. There’s nothing to be afraid of…at least, not from anyone sitting here, around this table.”
“Bit, of course, wan favour deserves another,” The Purple Dove reminded her.
Trust Purple Arse.
“Ah’m jist new intae the job, bit obviously, anything Ah kin dae tae help youse oot, Ah will,” she said, glancing across at Geraldine.
“So, who’s behind Sammy ‘The Rat’ Elliot wae aw these exclusives, Pearl?” The Purple Dove asked.
“Eh? Oh, er, Ah’m no sure…whit dae ye mean like?” she asked, frowning, no too sure whit she wis being asked. “Aw Ah know is that he heided aff roond tae The Horseshoe Bar tae meet somewan yesterday efternoon. The first Ah knew aboot this morning’s heidline wis when Ah came across a copy ae the paper in the early hours ae this morning oan ma way up the road. By that time, the papers wur awready being delivered tae aw the wee newsagents, wae ma name under the heidline. Where he goat the info is anywan’s guess. Maist journalists in the toon hiv their ain sources, which they tend tae keep tae themsels. That’s how it works. It wis the same wae that Inspector Tinto fae The Flying Squad and the gangster fae across in Govan. Ah turned up tae ma work wan morning and there wis a photo oan ma desk ae the pair ae them hivving a pint in Sammy Dow’s, doon in Mitchell Street. Five minutes later, The Rat called me in tae his office and informed me that the pair ae them hid jist been busted hauf an hour earlier, efter a load ae hash wis found in the boot ae the inspector’s car.”
“And ye’ve no idea where he wis getting the information fae?”
“No.”
“Back to the murder of Lesley Bare, Pearl,” The Nun said. “Why are you pursuing that particular story?”
“Because it’s come tae light that The Irish Brigade hiv been wangling tae make sure he goes up oan a reduced charge, behind the scenes.”
“Says who?”
“Ah’ve uncovered clear evidence ae tampering.”
“No, that’s not what I asked, Pearl, dear. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re right, but what I want to know is, who originally claimed that Inspector Bare’s colleagues were interfering,” The Nun asked.
“Er, ma boss, Sammy The Rat.”
Silence.
“Ah know whit youse ur thinking, bit it’s his job tae dispense who gets whit tae cover. There’s very little actual investigative journalism happening due tae the costs involved. There’s a lot ae stories come in tae the Crime Desk oan a daily basis. There’s a wee apprentice, who phones roond the polis stations each night, if they hivnae awready been in touch wae us wae a list ae whit’s been happening in their area that day. The majority ae the articles fae the Crime Desk that end up in the paper come fae that source. Maist ae it, ye’ll no be surprised tae hear, is rarely verified before it goes oot. It’s like feeding a machine wae tight deadlines attached. Whit readers get fed oan a daily basis could hiv originated fae anonymous phone calls, somewan sitting roond in The Sheriff or The High Court when it’s sitting or lifted aff the pages ae the competitors. Very few stories hiv a dedicated journalist following up oan it. There used tae be a Pat Roller column back in the sixties, highlighting the activities ae aw the wee neds running aboot, chibbing the fuc…er, hell oot ae each other. That wid be a classic example. Maist people thought Pat Roller wis a journalist, bit wis in fact, a breakdoon ae the word patroller. The column might be gone, bit the process ae distilling the stories doon hisnae. The Rat decides whit’s newsworthy and whose name the story goes oot under. That also applies tae so-called exclusives. Youse won’t be surprised tae know that there’s very few actual exclusives. It’s no jist me he gies the nod tae.”
“So, why no report oan something like the Rose Bain story? Surely there’s enough intrigue in there tae warrant an in-depth investigation?” Geraldine asked, speaking fur the first time since she’d sat doon.
“Ah’m no sure. Ah’d applied fur a job tae aw the papers in the toon withoot success efter Ah moved back doon here fae the Highlands. A week efter being telt The Echo wisnae taking people oan, The Rat phoned me up, asking if Ah’d be interested in a short-term contract…till the end ae January. Efter being interviewed, Ah wis specifically telt tae focus oan the Teddy and Lesley Bare case.
Silence.
“Why until the end ae January?” The Nun wondered.
“Well, Broon and Hastie’s trial starts in early February,” Queen Purple interrupted before she could answer. “The time frame ties in.”
“Pearl, does The Rat ever mention One-Bob Brown or Charlie Hastie?” The Nun continued.
“No that Ah kin remember, if Ah’m honest wae ye. Ah don’t think ma boss likes me.”
“So, why did he employ somewan like you in the first place then?” The Purple Dove asked, as Pearl felt her hackles go up. “Whit Ah mean is, fur somewan who disnae like ye, ye’ve been getting some amazing exclusives in the past wee while. Whit’s the other journos oan The Crime Desk saying aboot that?”
“Ah think they hate me even mair than he dis, if Ah’m honest wae ye,” she confessed, lighting up another fag and extracting a few sympathetic smiles fur that reply. “Ah suspect it’s the red hair. Maist people tend tae hate us, especially if, like me, ye’ve goat the freckles tae go wae it.”
“Pearl, hen, don’t take this the wrang way, bit we believe that ye’re getting a using…that ye’re part ae something bigger…darker…that’s being played oot here,” Mrs Purple said.
“Like whit?”
“Wan-bob Broon and that ugly wee henchman ae his ur spinning a web,” Mrs Purple Drawers said, mair gently this time, clearly realising the effect she’d jist hid efter driving a horse and cart through Pearl’s journalistic aspirations. “We know fine well that that’s whit he’s up tae and Ah suspect the polis dae as well. The problem is in joining aw the dots thegither.”
“Bit, Ah’m no working oan anything related tae the Rose Bain case…even though Ah’d like tae be,” she quickly added. “Ah’ve been asked tae focus oan The Irish Brigade, who’ve been attempting tae influence the charge Teddy Bare should be gaun up oan.”
“Dis it no strike ye as a wee bit strange that The Glesga Echo, and The Rat in particular, ur showing an interest in whit happened tae aw they poor poliswummin that wur sexually exploited o’er the years? Why noo? Where his The Glesga Echo been aw this time, when the allegations hiv been swimming aroond fur years?”
“There’s a ban oan us reporting certain kind ae stories, at least there wis, until recently.”
“Aye, well, we’re well aware ae the so-called gentlemen’s agreement, Pearl, hen, bit let’s look at whit’s been happening recently. The crowd that ur currently lying oan remand up in Barlinnie hiv been charged wae the murder ae Rose Bain. The polismen hiv been charged wae conspiracy tae murder, fur passing oan who wis in the emergency room the night that auld gangster, Haufwit Murray, spilled the beans. Broon and Hastie ur charged wae carrying oot the dastardly deed ae getting rid ae poor
wee Rose. We know fur a fact that wan ae the sergeants, Priestly, hid turned Queen’s Evidence against the others. The fact that he wis murdered no long efter he wis remanded wae the rest ae them, clearly confirms that. Before you came along, Wan-bob Broon and Charlie Hastie’s name wur never aff the front page ae aw the newspapers. Your article oan Christmas Eve, aboot The Irish Brigade undermining the due process, blew Rose Bain’s case aff ae aw the front pages. Priestly, the sergeant that turned Queen’s Evidence? The Glesga Echo reported that he wis murdered up in the hospital wing…well away fae where they’re keeping Broon and Hastie locked up. The front page heidline, written by your boss, pointed the finger at prison staff being the culprits. While that might be true enough, it never even mentioned the likelihood or possibility ae Wan-bob Broon or his co-accused being in there. Dis that no strike ye as being odd, given that Sergeant Priestly wis tae be the key witness against him and that partner ae his?”
“Bit…”
“Aye, bit hing oan, hen. There’s mair,” Her Purple Majesty continued, haudin up the palm ae her haun. “We know fur a fact that there wisnae any tampering by the polis, wae the initial investigation or the subsequent review ae that investigation in relation tae Rose Bain’s murder. We also know, oan good authority, that The Stalker didnae pass the information oan tae the two Possilpark sergeants, McGovern and Priestly, aboot whit that auld gangster blurted oot that night up in Stobhill. The reason we know this? Because the person who did his signed a statement tae say that it wis him, when he wis hivving an efter work pint wae them up in the polis social club in Bishopbriggs. The Stalker…Paddy McPhee, might be a horrible, nasty man, bit he certainly wisnae responsible fur the death ae Rose Bain. We know fur a fact that Paddy McPhee wis relieved tae find oot that Rose Bain hidnae been oan duty that night up in Stobhill and that the nurse that hid been, wis none other than Senga Jackson’s flatmate, Lizzie Mathieson. He wis so relieved that he stupidly couldnae see the connection and hid concluded that Rose Bain’s death hid, efter aw, been jist another tragic hit-and-run crime, carried oot by some wee underage local car thief. Unknown tae anywan, until Lizzie Mathieson came along, wis the fact that the doctor oan duty that night and some auld farmer fae oot in Dunbartonshire, who Haufwit Murray hid mentioned that night as well, also died in suspicious circumstances aroond aboot the time ae Rose Bain. Despite the accusation that the contents ae The Stalker’s notebook is totally unreliable, as stated in your boss’s article oan the front page ae The Echo this morning, there’s a lot in there that is indeed factual.”
