Kingston Bridge

by Ian Todd

  “This is a nightmare, so it is. Ah’ve no slept in months, so Ah hivnae,” Lizzie agreed, sounding really nervous, as the pair ae them managed tae grab a seat beside each other, efter the occupants heided fur the lavvy.

  Senga looked aboot the room. There wur a few people she recognised fae the previous Friday, like wan ae the matrons fae Stobhill, who’d been oan duty the same night as Lizzie wis, when The Stalker turned up at wan o’clock in the morning tae interrogate the auld gangster, Haufwit Murray. Everywan hid turned up oan the previous Friday, the 13th and hid been sent hame two hours later. Seemingly, Teddy Bare’s murder trial hid only been expected tae last a few days, bit because the prosecutors hid introduced aw the ex-poliswummin as new witnesses, the trial hid lasted straight through tae the Friday. There wis a big fraud trial taking place next door in the north court that hid been gaun oan fur the past month as well, so the building hid been hoaching. Bare’s trial hid been in the South Court, the same court booked fur Rose Bain’s, hence the haud up. She looked aboot The Crown Witness Room. Everywan looked terrified.

  “It’s like a bloody circus oot there. Ah’ve jist clocked Wan-bob Broon and his gangster pal walking in through the front ae the building. The reporters wur aw o’er them. So, whitever’s gaun oan, at least they’ve arrived.”

  8.29 AM

  “Alpha Blue Wan, come in. Over. This is Charlie Ten. Shots fired. Repeat. Shots fired by pillion passenger. Suspect motorbike jist sped past the west exit ae the Clyde Tunnel and turned right intae Marlborough Avenue, heidin towards Crow Road. Pursuit abandoned due tae traffic congestion. Over.”

  “Charlie Ten. Anywan injured? Over?”

  “That’s a negatory, Alpha Blue Wan. Shots appeared tae be aimed in the air as a warning tae us. Over.”

  “The Serious Crime Squad ur trying tae put thegither an armed motorbike patrol unit as we speak. They should be heidin in your direction shortly, Charlie Ten. Over.

  “Whit fur? The basturts will be back in their bed hivving forty winks by that time. Over.”

  8.30 AM

  “Ur you okay?” Tony turned and asked Ben, efter skidding the back wheel tae a halt oan the middle ae the pavement oan Clyde Place, doon beside Windmillcroft Quay.

  “Ma arse is killing me wae you bloody bumping o’er aw the edges ae they pavements, so it is. Whit happened aboot dodging in and oot ae the traffic?”

  “It jist seemed quicker using the pavements,” Tony replied, looking back alang the stream ae slow crawling traffic fae where they’d jist come fae, the sound ae polis sirens wailing in the distance reaching them as Ben jumped aff and started stretching his legs.

  “Ah knew Ah shouldnae hiv eaten that roll and sausage. It wis far too spicy. Ah’m dying ae thirst noo. Ah thought we wur supposed tae be heidin fur the bridge?”

  “We wur, bit Ah changed ma mind. Ah decided tae heid fur London Road insteid.”

  “Whose idea wis it tae go via the bridge?”

  “Simon’s,” Tony lied. “Did ye no see aw the blue flashing lights across at the Charing Cross end ae it?”

  “So?”

  “So, it looked like they wur maybe waiting oan us wae a road block.”

  “We’ve only jist plugged the basturts. The polis urnae that good, unless some talkative basturt’s tipped them aff that we wur planning tae heid their way.”

  “Right, okay, ye’ve convinced me. Ah’ve changed ma mind again.”

  “So, which way noo?”

  “Back tae the bridge.”

  “Fur fuck’s sake, Tony. Ah could’ve been hame and hid a cauld drink tae quench ma thirst wae the time you’re fucking taking. Hurry up. Ma arse is louping here, so it is. The next time we use bikes, it better be wans wae decent seats oan them. It’s like sitting astride a plank ae wood back here,” Ben grumbled, jumping back up oan tap behind Tony, as he took aff back alang the pavement in the direction they’d jist come fae.

  8.33 AM

  “Alpha Blue Wan. This is Charlie Four. Dae ye copy? Over.”

  “Charlie Four. Loud and clear. Over.”

  “A motorbike, wae a pillion oan the back, fitting the description fae that shooting across oan Govan Road earlier, his jist crashed through a temporary barrier aff the Kingston Bridge leading tae Stobcross Street, striking a polis constable. We require an ambulance, although it disnae look too serious. Over.”

  “Is there a pursuit, Charlie Four? Over.”

  “It’s gridlock here, Alpha Blue Wan. Over.”

  “Ah take it that’s a negatory, Charlie Four? Over.”

  “That’s a confirmed negatory, Blue Alpha Wan. Over.”

  “Okay, Charlie Four. Over and Out,” the radio crackled. “Useless cunts!”

  8.35 AM

  “Hellorerr, travellers. It’s Donald Dingle here, Glesga’s only travel journalist who’s only jist daeing his job the best he kin, bringing aw youse people stuck in yer cars up tae date wae the situation across oan the Kingston Bridge. The reason fur the haud-up is that a tanker his overturned and is blocking the carriageway intae the toon fae the west. The polis hiv informed us that the situation is under control and they’re daeing aw they kin tae get things moving. The Fire Brigade hiv said that it’ll be a wee while yet, so hing oan in there. Ah’ve also been tasked tae ask ye aw tae stoap honking yer horns as the delivery room up oan The Rottenrow cannae cope wae aw the premature births, as a result ae aw youse noisy buggers doon there oan Cathedral Street. The contra-flow ae single traffic heiding west across the bridge is still operating, so keep yer windaes shut and follow the single line ae traffic and they’ll get ye tae yer destination before too long. Keep listening in fur further updates. Before Ah haun youse aw back tae the wan and only Jumping Jake Flasher, Ah’ve jist tae remind everywan that aw abusive phone calls intae the station ur recorded fur training purposes, so they ur. Also, jist a wee reminder. The chaos oot there this morning his absolutely nothing tae dae wae me. Ah only report whit Ah’ve been telt…”

  8.40 AM

  “Hellorerr, Charlie Victor. Ur ye receiving? Over.”

  “Aye, Charlie Pepper. Loud and clear. Over”

  “Whit’s happened tae that ambulance ye promised me hauf an hour ago? That partner ae mine, PC Rose, is still sitting oan the pavement up here in West George Street wae a split skull, so he is. Over.”

  “We’ve been trying, Jake, bit they cannae get through. We’ve managed tae contact The St John’s Ambulance people and they’ve sent oot some ae their stretcher bearers tae pick Rodney up. Ah’m surprised they’re no there yet. Mind you, they hid tae take Sergeant Scullion up tae The Royal efter he goat whacked by wan ae they hairy basturts at the corner ae Queen Street and Argyle Street. Ah widnae worry, St John’s know where youse ur and they’re calling oot aw the boys who dae the fitba oan a Saturday. It’s getting them intae the toon centre that’s the problem. Between they anti-men hairys and that tanker oan the bridge, the whole ae the city is at a staunstill noo. Over.”

  “Did ye hear that, Rodney?”

  “Aye. Let’s hiv another fag.”

  8.45 AM

  “Whit the fuck? Kin the basturts no see we’ve goat oor blue light oan?” Sergeant Alan Carmichael cursed, swithering whether tae ignore the inspector who’d jist appeared in front ae them oot oan tae Victoria Road, flagging him doon, jist before the lights at Alison Street.

  “Ye better pull o’er,” his partner, Big Tam Healy, advised. “It might be something tae dae wae that shooting doon oan Govan Road, that wis oan the radio earlier.”

  “Good morning, boys,” Inspector Tavish McSwein sang pleasantly, as Sergeant Healey rolled doon the windae, his face guan white when he recognised who it wis.

  “Er, hello there, Inspector. We wur jist dashing doon intae the Gorbals tae help oot wae the traffic situation the stupid basturts hiv goat themsels tangled up in,” he gulped.

  “Aye, weel, this shouldn’t take more than a minute or two, laddie.”

  “Whit shouldnae?” Sergeant Carmichael asked.

 
; “Well, I’ll tell you once you cut off that engine and get out of the car.”

  “Bit…”

  “The both of you,” McSwein added, looking through the passenger windae at the driver.

  “Is there something the matter like?” Carmichael asked, wance they wur staunin oan the pavement side ae the car, noticing fur the first time the other two skulks, jist exiting the unmarked blue Cortina, as a wee crowd ae wummin, oot shopping, began tae gather, their noses obviously getting the better ae them.

  “I’ll let you do the honours, shall I?” The Inspector politely asked, walking tae the boot ae the car.

  “Bit…”

  “If you don’t mind, Sergeant?” The Inspector said tae Carmichael, staunin aside tae gie him room.

  “Fucking hell!” Big Tam Healy yelped in horror. “Ah swear oan ma wean’s life, Ah know fuck aw aboot that. Dae you, Alan?”

  “Dae Ah fuck! Whit kind ae question is that tae ask me, Tam, fur fuck’s sake?”

  “What do you think, sergeant?” The Inspector asked his sergeant skulk.

  “I’d say there’s perhaps three to four pounds of good Paki-black there, Inspector,” The Skulk replied, as a wee Sikh wummin, bending o’er wae the other shoppers, hivving a wee swatch in the boot, looked at the inspector and nodded her heid in agreement.

  “What? You agree, do you, madam?” The Inspector asked her.

  “I was a policewoman in the drug squad in Amritsar. In my humble opinion, I would say the sergeant is spot on, Inspector.”

  “Right then, laddies, it looks like you both have a bit of explaining to do. Why don’t the both of you get in the back of our car and one of my men will escort the pair of you around to Craigie Street, chust until the traffic in town quietens down, eh?”

  “Bit, that hash his goat fuck aw tae dae wae us…it must be a bloody set-up, so it is,” Sergeant Healy bleated, as wan ae the skulks pushed his partner’s heid doon, as he slid in tae the back seat ae the unmarked Cortina.

  “Yes, that’s what the corrupt officers in the Punjab always claimed…all liars, of course.”

  “Yes, well, ladies, as much as I’d like to stand here having a fine wee chat to you all, I have a special date down at The High Court in the Saltmarket, that I can’t be late for,” McTavish apologised, as aw the auld dears fluttered their eyes at the nice Highland chookter polisman.

  11.30 AM

  Hellorerr, travellers. It’s Donald Dingle here, Glesga’s maist abused travel journalist, bringing everywan mair bad news. The city’s traffic network his totally collapsed and believe it or no, it’s no ma fault. The polis ur trying their best, bit until the Fire Brigade kin get the tanker removed that overturned oan the Kingston Bridge this morning, it disnae look as if things will be getting better any time soon. Ah’ve been asked tae ask ye that if ye come across any ambulances or fire appliances trying tae get through, please assist as best ye kin by letting them past. Hopefully Ah won’t be back wae any mair bad news, so youse kin stoap the abusive phone calls intae the station noo.”

  12.05 PM.

  “All Rise!” The Clerk ae the Court shouted, as Lord Campbell ae Claremyle stepped through the door and took up that perch ae his, up there in the Gods, seemingly ignoring the defendants in the dock fur the time being.

  He quickly glanced across at the jurors, before looking doon at the Crown and Defence benches, noting that there wur three tables insteid ae the usual two. As well as the defendant’s briefs, including Howdy and Barker representing Broon and Hastie, Alan Thomas and John McCrae, the other two QCs, representing McGovern and McPhee, the two polismen, aw sat looking up at him. Oan The Crown table, Maureen Bankheid, The Crown Advocate, sat silently alangside Glenda Metcalfe, who’d done a fine job ae assisting her the week before at the Teddy Bare murder trial. The third table hid the victim’s family QC Daphne Blair-Riley and a young city brief he didnae recognise, Elspeth Jeffries. It wis gonnae be a long three weeks, he thought tae himsel.

  “Would the defendants please rise,” Lord Campbell requested, peering o’er his pince-nez glasses.

  “Are you…” he addressed the defendants, as they aw confirmed their names, ages and employment, before continuing. “You have all been charged in the conspiracy and murder of twenty year old Rosemary Bain, a nurse, formerly residing at 21 Woodville Street, Ibrox, Glasgow, on the evening of Thursday the 6th of June 1974, as she left her place of employment at Stobhill General Hospital, Springburn, Glasgow. How do you plead?” he asked, as aw heids in the courtroom looked and listened tae the defendants each pleading not guilty, before they wur telt tae sit doon.

  “For the record, can it be recorded that the accused have all pled not guilty. Mr Cockerill?” the judge asked the clerk ae the court.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Thank you. Now, Miss Bankhead, without further ado, I’ll hand The Crown’s case over to you to make the opening statement, if I may?”

  “Thank you, milord, ladies and gentleman of the jury,” she said, slowly making her way across tae staun three feet in front ae the jury, aware that everywan’s eyes wur focussed oan her. “Today is the start of what will almost certainly become an onerous and unenviable task for you, the members of the jury. I say onerous and unenviable, because you will see, hear and witness at first hand my learned friends, representing the defendants who are sitting in the dock in front of you. You will hear them describe their clients as honest, respectable businessmen, who regularly donate to local worthy charities, as respectful pillars of the community should. You will also hear of the bravery commendations handed out to the two policemen sitting in the dock, making them out to be a pair of super crusaders who fought for law and order on your behalf. Of course, everything you hear will be fiction, made up by their legal teams. The accused sitting in the dock in front of you today don’t live in the real world, like the rest of us. These people are takers, not givers, despite what their expensive Queen’s Counsels may tell you. These are the people that make Glasgow a rotten place to live in for an awful lot of people. The two genial looking businessmen, who could be mistaken for genial grandfathers, are in fact cold blooded killers, who have ruled the criminal underworld in this fine city with an iron fist for decades. The smartly turned out police officers, having the gall to turn up in the dock wearing their service uniforms today, are nothing but a mirage, to lure you, the jury, into believing that there has been some sort of a mistake, on the part of the honest and decent investigative police officers, who painstakingly tracked them down and brought them to face justice today. The fact that all the defendants have refused to subject themselves to cross examination in the witness box speaks volumes. The onerous and unenviable task that you will be subjected to will be the lies and counter claims from their defence counsels, that this has all been a terrible mistake and that if you, the jury, don’t watch out, there could be a possibility of a miscarriage of justice. The Defence will soon start spinning webs of deceit and accusations of complicity against witnesses who have bravely agreed to give evidence against them. We on this side, The Crown, will strenuously strive to ensure that the reason why you, the jury, are here today, is to ensure justice is served and a poor, innocent young victim can at last rest in peace. The charges levelled against the men in the dock, is that they conspired before murdering Rosemary Bain, a twenty year old nurse, who was brutally run over by a transit van, late at night on the evening of the 6th of June 1974, as she finished her shift. The driver of the vehicle has never been traced. The reason for her death? It was believed, mistakenly as it turned out, by the two businessmen sitting in the dock, that Rose Bain had overheard a conversation between one of the defendants, Patrick McPhee, a serving police inspector and a Mr Sandy ‘Halfwit’ Murray, a dying gangster, in an emergency ward room some months earlier, in the early hours of the morning of Sunday, the 24th of March. You will hear that Inspector McPhee had no right to be in the emergency room that night. The reason he was there was to question Mr Murray, who had been admitted a few hours earlier with
fatal stab wounds after being thrown from a speeding car. It is what Mr Murray disclosed that led to the death of Rose Bain. It was Inspector McPhee that passed on what he had been told by Mr Murray to another two corrupt police officers…Sergeants Priestly and McGovern, who then passed Mr Murray’s disclosures to the two genial looking businessmen sitting in the dock. This is the series of tragic events that led to the brutal snuffing out of a young girl, someone who gave her all, so that others should live. Rosemary Bain was found, broken and fatally injured, on a dark road outside her place of work…a hospital, on that fateful night. Take a hard look at the men sitting in the dock. This is who you, the jury, will confirm are guilty of murdering young Rose Bain. The evidence that will be put before you, from eye witness accounts, some of whom are appearing in this courtroom at great risk to themselves, will convince you, without a shadow of a doubt, that these four men should be locked away for the rest of their lives for the dastardly crime they have committed. Please listen carefully to the evidence I will put before you in the coming days and weeks. Rose Bain and her family deserve justice. You, the members of the jury, will at last bring closure to a family that have waited so long. Thank you.”

  “Mr Barker? I believe you are the opening Queen’s Counsel for the defence of your client, Mr Brown. Please begin,” Lord Campbell requested, nodding at the sharply dressed QC.

  “Thank you, milord. First of aw, I wid jist like tae say how saddened Ah wis fur the way that ma learned friend described not only masel, bit ma three other distinguished Queen’s Counsel colleagues, sitting clearly upset and hurt, at the Defence table o’er there,” Willie Barker said wae a wave ae his manicured haun towards the table he’d jist come fae. “Ah couldnae help bit notice that she left wan ae us respected Queen’s Counsels oot ae her vicious slander, in the shape ae Miss Daphne Blair-Riley, a maist well respected Defence Queen’s Counsel in her ain right, who isnae here the day tae defend any ae the innocent men in the dock. Perhaps that’s the reason why she wisnae included in the unjust comments levelled against me and ma learned colleagues. Miss Bankheid speaks ae justice. An admirable stance fur a Queen’s Advocate tae take…efter aw, is that no whit she’s supposed tae be…a public defender ae right and wrong? Why she wid publicly taint and paint a negative picture ae people like me, somewan who took the same journey in law as hersel, doon the path ae defending those accused ae some ae the maist heinous crimes that wur ever committed, Ah’ll probably never know. Miss Bankheid, The Queen’s Advocate, in case anywan his furgoatten, although Ah’m sure that’s unlikely, gieing her notoriety, successfully defended Harold Blacksmith, who wis found not guilty ae murdering five year auld Alice Stuart, across in Tradeston, seventeen years ago in 1959 when she too wis a Defence Queen’s Counsel. This wis the same Harold Blacksmith, who efter his acquittal, defended by oor successful Queen’s Advocate, went oan tae murder another five year auld lassie, this time, doon in Newcastle two years later. No only that, bit before Blacksmith wis hanged, he admitted that he hid indeed murdered young Alice Stuart. Taking unprofessional pot-shots at colleagues in order tae undermine them in the eyes ae the jury is the same tactic that she took against The Crown during Blacksmith’s trial ae that poor wee lassie. The only difference being she wis arguing fur the defence at that time. It grieves me tae say that if only ma learned friend hid focussed her precious time oan gathering the evidence required fur this trial, in the preparation ae justifying the charges against ma client, she might’ve realised that her time hid run oot. Unfortunately, and it gies me and ma client great sadness tae hiv tae point oot tae her, in the interest’s ae justice, that this trial cannae proceed, milord,” Willie Barker announced loudly tae the whole court, as everywan oan The Crown table, including Lord Campbell up oan that perch ae his, alang wae the clerk ae the court, looked startled. “It disnae gie me, nor ma client, an honest businessman, any pleasure in hivving tae inform this court, milord, that while ma client so desperately wished tae defend his good name and honour, under the wan hundred and twelve day untried prisoner custodial rule, The Crown, under Miss Bankheid’s direction, wur under obligation tae bring ma client before this court two days ago. Seeing as that didnae happen, maist likely oan the basis that ma learned friend wis too busy, focussing her attention oan besmirching me and ma learned colleagues’ reputation, insteid ae applying the letter ae the law in the interests ae ma innocent client and poor Rose Bain, Ah respectfully request that you command The Crown and Miss Bankheid in particular, tae order ma client’s release so he kin go back tae his family and try tae rebuild his life and reputation. Thank you, milord,” Willie Barker said, looking across at Maureen Bankheid, gieing her a wee smirk, before sitting doon.