Murder in the Merchant City

by Angus McAllister

  Annette sighed. ‘I spent Wednesday evening at the police station. Since then, the press have been hounding me and I left my phone off the hook.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t tell them. Do you think I want my name in the papers?’

  ‘You’ve managed to avoid it just the same. It’s all right for you.’ She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Jack tried to comfort her, but she pulled away from him. She recovered quickly, seeming determined not to show her weakness. ‘And Edna’s fired me.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘What do you think? She thinks I told the cops and went to the papers. I denied it, of course, but she wouldn’t believe me. I was the one who wanted her to go to the police in the first place.’

  ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’

  ‘What good would that do? It would just confirm that I was involved.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘And because Edna threw me out early, they had enough time to get my face on the evening news. Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  ‘How did they know your name?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe Edna told them, maybe they checked my car registration. The damage is done.’

  They sat in silence for a while. ‘What are you going to do?’ Jack asked eventually.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to think about it. I won’t get a job – any kind of job – until this blows over. If it ever does.’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘I’ve got some money put by. I can hold out for a little while.

  Meanwhile I’ve got to face the neighbours and my family. And God knows what they’ll put my kids through at school.’

  She broke down again. Jack watched her, feeling useless. After a while she recovered a little. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He hesitated. ‘I was thinking . . . It might be for the best. I mean, you could . . .’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘What?’

  She seemed to sense what he was going to say, daring him to go ahead. Jack was wishing he’d kept quiet. ‘Why don’t you . . . I mean . . . Have you ever thought of doing anything else?’

  ‘Get a respectable job, you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But that’s what you thought.’

  ‘Well . . . you can’t do that work for ever.’

  ‘That’s right. Whores are like footballers, they’ve got an early sell-by date. I didn’t think I’d reached mine just yet.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Just that maybe you should get out before . . .’

  ‘Before what? Before I’m only fit for a job in the Boiler House?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Never mind. And meanwhile I suppose you’ll keep me and my kids on your barman’s wages, in the style to which we’re accustomed. But your offer’s got a time limit, in case the goods get too damaged.’

  Jack said nothing. Every time he opened his mouth he seemed to make matters worse. At the moment she seemed to need a punch bag rather than a confidant; that was probably the only reason she had turned up. Maybe he deserved it.

  ‘I wondered when this subject would crop up. Well, let me tell you this, Jack Morrison. I’m not ashamed of what I do. And you don’t have the right to lecture me. You don’t know me well enough. And considering where we met . . .’ She finished her drink and started to put her coat on. ‘I think it’s time I went. I only came to see what you had to say for yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Stay and have another drink.’ He grabbed hold of her arm, but she pulled it free.

  ‘I don’t drink and drive. I’m a respectable, law-abiding citizen.’ She suppressed a sob, and blew her nose. Her appearance had deteriorated further. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red. She looked angry and miserable, but evidently there was nothing he could do to help. ‘I don’t want to see you again. Not right now, anyway.’ She got up and walked quickly out of the bar.

  Jack sat on for a moment, then went up to the counter and bought a drink. He stood at the bar until he had finished it. Then he bought another.

  Annette left the pub and walked along Sauchiehall Street, past the McLellan Galleries and the Glasgow Film Theatre, where she and Jack had intended to spend the evening. Her car was in a multistorey park above a shopping centre, the next block along.

  She brought out her dark glasses, then put them away again as she saw that no one was giving her a second glance. It had been the same in the pub. Most people wouldn’t have seen the news bulletin, and those who had were unlikely to remember her after only one glimpse. Apart from those who already knew her. They were the main problem.

  Had she been too hard on Jack? She still couldn’t think straight about that. She only knew that her life was in pieces, and that he had started off the process. At first she’d been driven by the need to confront him, then by an even more compelling desire to escape from him and from that bar. She’d felt closed in, unable to breathe.

  The evening was cool and dry, and there was an hour or more of daylight left. Annette slowed her pace and enjoyed the fresh air. Her tension began to ease a little. She carried on past the car park, having decided to walk for a little longer before driving home. She’d paid Linda for the whole evening, an arrangement made earlier in the week when she’d still expected a cinema date.

  She hadn’t yet experienced the full consequences of the publicity: Linda didn’t seem to have seen the news, and she hadn’t met Norah yet. The evening at the police station had been enough of an ordeal, mainly because of the attitude shown by her interrogators. It hadn’t helped that she’d failed to come forward on her own. She’d tried to make up for it by answering all their questions honestly, but it wasn’t enough. Beneath the superficial courtesy she could sense their contempt. She was only a whore. What was her word worth? She hadn’t given a damn about helping to catch a murderer, about saving lives, only about safeguarding her sleazy living. That, at any rate, was the way the police seemed to see it.

  Was that the way Jack saw it? Or was she only projecting on to him her own self-image, which the events of the last few days had shattered?

  She left Sauchiehall Street, skirted the side of the shopping centre, and crossed Bath Street. Now she had reached the crest of a hill. A long straight road, flanked by office buildings old and new, stretched down before her almost to the River Clyde, invisible at the bottom of the urban valley. In the distance, she could see the tops of buildings on the south side of the river. She continued downhill for several blocks, then turned right into Waterloo Street, intending to complete a wide circle back up to Sauchiehall Street.

  At once she realised that she had inadvertently wandered into the red light district. Women were spaced out at intervals, singly or in pairs, in shop doorways and at street corners, waiting for business. Annette quickened her pace. This was an unwelcome reminder of her predicament.

  ‘Hello, Annette.’

  She stopped and turned to face the girl who had addressed her. ‘Sylvia!’

  ‘You workin’ this area?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’ She at once regretted the haste of her reply and joined Sylvia in her shop doorway. ‘It’s good to see you. How are you doing?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve been better.’

  On closer examination, Annette could see that this was an understatement. Always thin by nature, Sylvia now looked almost anorexic. The evening wasn’t particularly cold, but she was shivering under her flimsy coat. Her face was pallid, her hair untidy and she wore dark glasses. There had been a marked deterioration in a very short time. Had she acquired her boyfriend’s habit?

  ‘You fancy a cup of tea somewhere?’ Annette asked. She wanted to talk to Sylvia, but didn’t want to hang about at her stance. If a photo of that were to get in the papers . . .

  ‘Aye, all right,’ said Sylvia. ‘There’s a wee place round the corner.’

  This proved to be a pub on Argyle Street, a few hundred yards further downhill
. On the way, Annette noticed that Sylvia was walking a little stiffly, as though in some pain, but she said nothing. They passed from the city’s commercial area, with its gleaming glass-and-steel office blocks, into a neighbourhood where gap sites and semi-derelict remnants of old Glasgow had only partly been replaced by new development. They went into a dingy corner pub where the likes of them would not attract attention. Annette bought a double vodka for Sylvia and a soft drink for herself, and they sat down at a corner table. For the first time Sylvia took off her dark glasses.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Annette. ‘What happened to you?’

  Sylvia had two black eyes and, now that Annette examined her more closely, several other partially healed bruises that she’d attempted to conceal with make-up. ‘I got a doin’ last weekend. This is ma first night back.’

  ‘That bastard! I don’t know why you still . . .’

  ‘It wasnae Charlie. He’s a bastard right enough, but he’s no’ violent.’

  ‘A punter?’

  ‘Aye. One you know an’ all.’

  ‘A Merchant City punter?’ Sylvia nodded. ‘Don’t tell me. Fair-haired, early thirties, business type. Calls himself Martin.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sylvia. ‘That sounds like him. Him and another guy had a fight over that stuck-up cow, Miranda. You were there.’

  ‘That’s him all right. What the hell were you thinking about?’ Then Annette realised that Sylvia had been sacked before the attack on Justine, and wouldn’t have been aware of the danger. She told Sylvia the story. ‘Sounds as if he got a taste for it.’

  ‘The bastard. How is the lassie?’

  Annette was ashamed to realise that she didn’t know. ‘She hasn’t been back. I took her to the hospital for a check-up.’

  ‘You’re a gem, Annette.’ Sylvia looked as if she was about to cry. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Annette, quickly changing the subject. ‘Have you heard about the carry-on at work?’

  It turned out that Sylvia had seen neither the newspaper story nor the TV reports. Annette told her all about it. It was good to have someone to confide in, someone already in on her secret.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Sylvia eventually. ‘Somebody bumpin’ aff the punters? Pity they didnae get that cunt fae the other night.’

  ‘That would’ve been a public service. But how about this? The last guy to get done in was the one he had the fight with. You know, over Miranda.’

  ‘This is gettin’ really weird.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘An’ that bitch Edna gave you the push? I cannae believe it. You were her best girl.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘You were always the best-hearted, an’ that’s the truth. Never mind, Annette, you’ll get another job nae bother. You’re no’ like me. This is all I’m fit for.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Annette, trying to sound convincing. ‘Anyway, I’ll maybe be able to pick something up when it’s all blown over. You want another drink?’

  ‘I wouldnae mind, but I’d better get back. I might get some business once it’s dark enough.’

  There was still some daylight left as they made their way back to Waterloo Street. Sylvia clung to her tightly as they hugged goodbye, even though it was clear that her injuries still hurt. ‘It was good tae see you, Annette.’

  ‘You too, Sylvia. Take care.’

  But as she walked quickly up the street, Annette realised that the appeal was likely to be in vain. Meeting Sylvia had put some things into perspective. If her life had reached a crossroads, she was now clear about the direction she didn’t want it to take.

  At the next junction she decided it was time to cut back up to Sauchiehall Street and return to her car. As she stood waiting to cross the road, a car drew up and stopped beside her.

  Annette was going to walk on, then, on an impulse, bent down to face the driver as he lowered the window. She treated him to one of her best professional smiles.

  ‘Are you looking for business?’ the driver asked.

  Annette opened her handbag and briefly flashed her driver’s licence. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Police business. Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?’

  The driver crashed into gear and stamped on the accelerator. Annette made a show of staring after him, as if she were memorising the registration number.

  She crossed the road and carried on up the hill, already beginning to feel better. She hoped she hadn’t lost Sylvia a customer.

  She didn’t see Norah until Sunday. Before that, Annette got the impression that Norah was avoiding her. In the case of neighbours who lived independent lives, who didn’t seek out each others’ company, it was of course possible to go for days, or even weeks, without even a chance meeting. But not with Norah.

  And so when the whole of Saturday and half of Sunday went by without a sighting of her neighbour, Annette drew the appropriate conclusion. By that time the press attention had waned and her phone was back on the hook. She had reckoned that it was better to endure a few calls than risk a physical invasion of her home. So far she had been spared a personal visit by a representative of the tabloids, but she didn’t fool herself that she was in the clear just yet.

  At twelve thirty on Sunday she saw Norah’s husband George leave for the pub. If he followed his usual timetable, he’d be back some time after three o’clock, looking for his Sunday dinner. Normally, Norah would have been in Annette’s house or vice versa by one o’clock, but by ten past there was still no sign of her neighbour. Realising that she would have to take the initiative, Annette went out and knocked on Norah’s back door.

  There was a delay before Norah appeared, and at first it looked as if she wasn’t going to answer at all. Then, just as Annette was about to knock again, the door opened about a foot and Norah peered out cautiously.

  ‘Hi,’ said Annette, trying to sound normal. ‘Where have you been hiding?’

  Norah said nothing. Annette fancied that she was holding the inside door handle with both hands, ready to slam it in her neighbour’s face if she took a step further forward.

  ‘I saw George go off,’ Annette said. ‘Want to come in for a cuppa? The kids are out playing.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Norah. ‘I’ve got the dinner to make.’

  ‘Come on. Are you going to avoid me until one of us moves out of the neighbourhood? George doesn’t need to know.’

  As if she didn’t know what else to do, Norah came out and followed Annette into her house. She sat silently in the living room while Annette made tea in the kitchen. She still said nothing when Annette returned to the living room.

  Annette first of all looked out of the front window to check on Andrew and Lisa. They were still in the grassy area opposite the house, playing with their friends. So far there was no evidence that anything had been said to them about their mother; that was what she feared most.

  She sat down opposite Norah. ‘I take it you’ve seen the news?’

  Norah nodded. She seemed about to speak, then stopped herself. Then she said, ‘How could you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry if it was a shock. I’ve had a few of them myself recently.’

  ‘So it’s true. You really work in . . . in that place.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘But it’s . . . From what they were sayin’ aboot it . . . It sounds as if . . .’

  ‘It’s a brothel.’

  Norah seemed to be finding it difficult to speak in her usual plain manner. ‘That means . . .’ She took a sip of her tea and almost choked on it. ‘What you do . . . You’re . . .’

  ‘A prostitute.’

  Norah shook her head and fell silent again. She had been hoping, Annette sensed, that a mistake had been made, that she would be given some alternative, more palatable explanation. And she would probably have accepted one, however improbable, even an endorsement of Edna’s brazen statements to the press. But now the truth was out.

  Af
ter a while, Norah said, ‘You told me you were a nurse.’

  ‘I am. I gave it up.’

  ‘So there’s no need . . . If you wanted, you could . . .’

  ‘Get a job as a nurse? Right at this moment I doubt it. But you’re right, if I’d wanted I could have kept on working in a real hospital. Or maybe in a shop, or behind a bar. Working twice the hours for half the money. By the time I’d paid the mortgage and the extra childminding costs, there might have been enough left to feed my children on pie and chips.’

  ‘Other people manage.’

  ‘I don’t want to just manage.’

  ‘What about their father?’

  ‘I’ve never had a penny from him. He can’t even keep himself. Unlike him, I don’t want to live off the taxpayer. I prefer honest work.’

  The last statement was enough to take the wind out of Norah for the time being.

  Eventually she said, ‘I feel I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘I’m still the same person.’

  ‘What would your parents have thought? What about your children?’

  ‘My parents are dead. They won’t think anything. And it’s because of my kids that I do it.’

  ‘And what about that young man you brought back last Saturday? He seemed really nice. Does he . . . ?’

  ‘Jack?’ A couple of days earlier, when she’d been really angry at Jack, she might have told Norah where they’d met. Now she didn’t want to. ‘He knows what I do.’

  Norah shook her head again. Obviously, she now felt that there were two people she’d badly misjudged.

  ‘Look,’ said Annette. ‘We’re from different generations. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m not ashamed of what I do.’ This was becoming something of a refrain. ‘If I’ve told lies, it’s because other people don’t see it the way I do. It was the only way I could have any kind of normal life. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed in me. I wish this had never happened. But I hope we can still be friends, or good neighbours at the very least.’

  Norah was still unconvinced, but she did stay for a second cup of tea. Annette couldn’t blame Norah for her reaction. In part, she now realised, it was due to the unrealistically high regard in which her neighbour had held her. Annette felt that in the last few days her life had suddenly disintegrated, but in Norah’s eyes her fall had been even greater. Their relationship might recover, but it would never be the same.