by Todd, Ian
“Aye, Fitz his been hinging aboot tae see if Wee Eck puts in an appearance.”
“Well, get that arse ae his oot ae Burmulloch and back doon tae Springburn where it’s supposed tae be. When she goes tae the papers pining aboot her innocent son being missing, Ah want us tae be able tae say we know nothing aboot his disappearance.”
“So, ye’re telling me tae back aff? Is that it?”
“Ah’m telling ye tae start clamping doon oan aw they wee Neds who ur running amok every night, terrorising communities and driving everywan nuts wae their fighting, as well as drawing unwelcome attention tae the likes ae me. Christ, Paddy, we’re snowed under doon here, trying tae justify oor very existence tae thick, uneducated chancers in second-haun suits, who ur only interested in retaining the vote in the same communities that ye’re choosing tae ignore.”
“Aye, bit, whit exactly ur ye saying regarding that poor wee nurse, Daddy?”
“Look, Paddy, don’t lay aw that concerned crap aboot the nurse oan tae me. Aye, it’s terrible whit’s happened, bit we aw know why ye’re still poking yer oar in here, don’t we? Whit Ah’m saying is that Wan-bob Broon his awready taken care ae any wee anomalies that might’ve arisen, thanks tae yersel. So, even if ye did manage tae come up wae a few crumbs ae evidence tae substantiate yer repetitive theory oan who killed Tam Simpson, fae where Ah’m sitting, Wan-bob Broon his humped ye, yet again. Ma advice tae you is tae get that arse ae yers back up tae Springburn and stay there and stoap aw this fucking aboot. Ah’ve goat enough oan ma plate doon here withoot you making it worse,” Daddy shouted, spit spraying in aw directions.
“And that’s it, is it?”
“Ah’ve jist telt ye. The trail his gone cauld because ae you and yer sidekick trampling aw o’er any shred ae evidence that we might’ve been able tae pick up oan, if only you’d shared that information wae the rest ae us at the beginning, insteid ae the pair ae youse prancing aboot like the Lone Ranger and Kemo Fucking Sabi. Don’t try and hit me wae yer petty psychological shite aboot the poor wee nurse. Ah’ve cleared up mair murders in this city than ye’ve hid hot dinners. If ma conscience bothers me aboot that poor wee nurse when Ah eventually get tae ma bed the night, it’ll be because Ah’m responsible fur allowing somewan like you tae be still staunin there in a proud uniform that better men than whit’s sitting in front ae me hiv died prematurely fur defending!”
“So, that’s it, is it?” The Stalker asked again, bristling, his heart gaun like the clappers.
“That’s it. Noo, if ye don’t mind, Ah’m busy,” Daddy snarled, flicking the light switch oan his desk tae green.
“So, let me get this straight then. Ye’re telling me tae furget aw aboot that wee lassie…the nurse…is that right?” The Stalker demanded bitterly, staunin up, glaring at the Chief Superintendent.
“Wis there anything else that this haufwit wan and Wee Eck Thomas mentioned in the passing that Ah should know aboot that ye hivnae awready fucked up oan?” Daddy asked, looking up at him, ignoring his question.
“Naw, bit Ah’ve heard that Woodside Accommodation is being taken o’er by the Sing brothers. Noo, who in a month ae Hail Mary’s wid’ve thought Bob Montieth wid’ve sold oot tae that pair ae sharks? It jist disnae add up, so it disnae.”
“Is that right noo? Right, well, let me see whit Ah think ye’ve come up wae here, Paddy,” Daddy said, haudin oot his left haun, fingers splayed, index finger oan his right wan poised at the ready above the index oan his left. “How aboot, a factor, whose business is really owned by well-known gangsters, who sells oot tae his main competition, The Sing Brothers, who everywan knows he disnae like, bit whose business is also owned by the same well-known gangsters, who own Woodside Accommodation. Bob Montieth’s financial records wur aw legitimate, as wis the sale, confirmed by the Inland Revenue investigative boys,” Daddy growled, finishing oan his pinkie. “Whit exactly is it that ye think disnae add up? Anything else ye’ve furgoat tae mention, Sherlock?”
“Daddy, why ur ye such a smug cunt, eh?” The Stalker snarled at him, feeling a strange sense ae déjà vu coming o’er him.
“Paddy, watch that mooth ae yers and draw that neck back in before it gets stretched. And while ye’re at it, ask yersel why aw yer colleagues believe ye’re such a fucking disloyal loser and a pain in the arse who only believes in number wan…yersel?”
Silence.
“Right, anything else ye want tae upset me wae before ye leave…this time?” Daddy asked sarcastically, making a point ae looking at the door behind The Stalker.
“Naw, no really, other than tae say that the Taylor boy wisnae in the bank oan Maryhill Road, which means he didnae blast Liam Thompson and that young pavement pounder that wis wae him.”
“Oh, and who did then?”
“Snappy Johnston.”
“Ach, well, it’s aw the same who done it. They’re aw as guilty as fuck anyway.”
“Good evening. My name is John Turney and these are the news headlines in Scotland tonight.
Benson Flaw, The Glasgow Echo’s expert motoring columnist, believes the classic racing car that has been causing chaos at the weekends, tying up precious police resources, whilst being pursued along Great Western Road at excessive speeds up to and over one hundred and sixty seven miles an hour, apparently to the delight of pedestrians heading home after a night out in the town centre, is a 1936 Alfa Romeo 12C …
Glasgow Royal Infirmary have confirmed that a sixty-seven-year-old pensioner has died, as a result of his injuries, in what police confirmed as a hit-and-run incident by a stolen car on Alexander Parade yesterday…
Undercover-armed police exchanged gunfire with an armed gang who robbed a post office in Dumbarton Road this morning. The gang made off with a four-figure sum of money. Fortunately, no one was hurt and police enquiries are continuing…
Police across Glasgow have denied that they were, at one point, overwhelmed between eight thirty and ten o’clock, last Saturday evening, after fourteen major street gang incidents, some serious, involving hordes of marauding youths, brandishing knives, terrorised local residents as they fought amongst each other in various no-go areas of the city. The MP for Cathcart, Teddy Taylor, has stated that he will be raising his concern in The Commons this week and will be demanding the return of the birch…
A loving husband has been warned to mend his ways after he was fined twenty pounds at The Central District Court after admitting assaulting his common-law wife at their home in Easterhouse…
Glasgow’s Lord Provost has said that the anti-litter initiative launched to great fanfare seven months ago will continue, despite suggestions that the initiative has failed to make an impact on the amount of litter on the streets…
A young woman, believed to be a prostitute, was found strangled and dumped in an industrial refuse bin in a lane adjacent to West Campbell Street in the city centre…”
Chapter Forty Three
Senga hid waited until she’d heard the lock oan the ootside door ae the flat click shut before getting up and running the bath. She’d lain in her bed, listening tae Lizzie pottering aboot in the kitchen, unable tae contain a wee smile at the sound ae her curses, as the smell ae burnt toast wafted through tae Senga, before the sound ae Lizzie’s footsteps, clip-clopping doon the stairs, faded intae the distance. The baith ae them wur noo officially back tae work, and no before time, Senga thought tae hersel, turning aff baith taps. She’d been pleased at how the lassies at her work hid goat oan wae the demonstration doon at the Central District Court. Senga hid worked oan the placards fur aboot a week and regretted hivving missed being part ae the ‘Stoap Violence Against Wummin’ demo that her boss, wan ae the casualty ward sisters, Jill Shand, hid organised. Jill and a haunful ae nurses fae The Royal, The Western and Stobhill wur picketing the Justice ae the Peaces oan the steps ae the District Court, challenging the light sentences being haunded doon tae men charged wae assaulting their wives and girlfriends. There hid been a lot ae debate aboot whether they could wear their uni
forms oan the demo. Senga hid argued at the meetings that it wis important that the public see that it wis nurses that wur demonstrating, as it wid add weight tae the argument, seeing as it wis them that hid tae patch up the victims before they wur sent back hame fur a repeat performance. She lay back, stretching in the bath, letting her skin get used tae the hot, scented, soapy water. It hid been nearly two weeks since Senga and Lizzie’s life hid been turned upside doon. She shut her eyes and allowed her thoughts tae drift back tae the previous day, before she’d started her backshift, when she’d been staunin, hesitating, oan the corner ae the lane that led in tae Simon Epstein’s Carpet Capers Warehoose, roond oan Shamrock Street, jist aff Great Western Road, alang fae the Coocaddens. She’d been surprised at how busy it hid been fur that time ae the morning, mid-week. Aw sorts ae vans, cars and customers hid been streaming in and oot fur the twenty minutes she’d been staunin, loitering aboot, trying tae rationalise in her heid whit the hell she wis daeing there. She remembered biting oan her bottom lip tae try and haud back the tears that hid been threatening tae ruin her make-up again. It hid aw started efter she’d been tae meet Rory’s parents fur the first time doon in Helensburgh. The size ae the detached hoose, wae the Clyde as a backdrop, hid taken her breath away. Even though they’d been allocated separate bedrooms, they’d still managed a bit ae time oan their ain, oot oan the family’s luxury motorboat. Baith her and Lizzie hid been excited aw that week at the prospect ae a proposal. Rory hid been like a cat oan a hot tin roof. Lizzie hid seen him coming oot ae Ratner’s oan Union Street the previous week wae a wee fancy plastic bag swinging fae they fingers ae his. She’d convinced Senga that it hid contained a ring box. Everything hid been fine until the Saturday evening meal. Efter they’d eaten and Josie, their maid, hid cleared the table, Rory hid suddenly stood up and said that he hid an announcement tae make, efter filling everywan’s glasses. Before he’d been able tae say whit the announcement wis, his da hid gone and hid a stroke in front ae them. They’d goat him tae The Victoria Royal Infirmary in Helensburgh, where they’d anxiously hung aboot through the night, before finally being telt that he’d eventually recover, much tae everywan’s relief. Before she’d known whit wis happening, Sunday night hid arrived and it hid been time fur them tae heid back tae Glesga. When Rory, looking shattered, hid bravely asked Senga, wae a knowing twinkle in his eye, if she wanted him tae come up tae the flat at the bottom ae her closemooth in Barrington Drive, she’d put him aff. Although she’d been disappointed at no finding oot whit his announcement wis, she’d been glad that his father wis gonnae pull through. When she’d stepped through the landing door tae their flat, she’d been confronted by a hysterical Lizzie, in a terrible state, howling the place doon.
“Lizzie, Lizzie, whit’s wrang, hen?” she’d demanded tae know as gently as she could, managing tae get a haud ae Lizzie, before steering her through tae the couch in the living room.
“Senga, Oh, Jesus, Jesus,” she’d bawled, twisting a tea towel aroond her fingers and hauns, clearly agitated.
“Whit is it, Lizzie? Tell me whit the matter is?” Senga hid pleaded, shocked, hivving never seen her flat mate in such a state before.
“Oh Christ, Senga, Ah don’t know whit tae dae?” Lizzie hid wailed, falling intae Senga’s erms, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Look, ye need tae tell me whit the matter is. Ah cannae help ye if Ah don’t know whit’s wrang. Please, c’mone, Lizzie, blow yer nose and wipe yer face wae that tea towel ye’re choking the life oot ae. Ah’ll put the kettle oan while ye’re composing yersel,” she’d soothed, extracting hersel and running through tae the kitchen, taking aff her coat and hinging it up oan route.
When Senga’d returned, Lizzie hid been sitting, bent o’er wae her face in the tea towel, sobbing.
“Rrr…Rose Bain…oh ma God, Senga!” she wailed through the towel.
“Rose Bain? Who’s Rose Bain? Lizzie, whit aboot her?”
“She’s deid…died…run o’er…deid.”
“Who is? Rose Bain? Tell me whit’s gaun oan, Lizzie?” Senga hid pleaded, gently extracting Lizzie’s face fae behind the tea towel.
“Look,” Lizzie sobbed, nodding at the newspaper clipping, sitting oan tap ae the coffee table, before picking it up and haunin it tae Senga, a convulsion ae sobs starting up again.
Senga quickly scanned the article. Below the heidline, the photo ae a young nurse, who looked vaguely familiar, in her uniform, looked up at Senga. The article described how Rose Bain, a young staff nurse, aged twenty, hid finished her shift up at Stobhill and hid been killed in a hit-and-run accident while heiding tae the bus stoap oan Balgrayhill Road.
“Oh, Ah’m sorry, Lizzie, wis she in the intensive care ward wae yersel, hen?” Senga hid asked, laying doon the clipping, before taking Lizzie’s hauns in hers.
“Se…Senga…ye jist don’t understaun, Rose Bain is the same lassie that Ah filled in fur when she phoned in sick a while back…the night Ah wis supposed tae be meeting up wae yersel and Rory…sh…she, she wis in the year above us.”
“Ah’m sorry, Lizzie, it’s a terrible thing tae happen tae wan ae us…anywan,” Senga soothed, taking Lizzie in her erms.
“It, it, it wis the same night that Dr Walsh let that inspector in tae see wan ae the patients who wis dying…in fact, the patient died no long efter the visit,” she snuffled, lifting hersel oot ae Senga’s erms, wringing her hauns wae the tea towel.
“Look, Ah know this must be terrible fur ye, Lizzie, bit these things…terrible though they ur at the time…happen. There wis nothing you or anywan else fur that matter, could dae aboot it. Ah’ve been involved in a few hit-and-runs that hiv come in up at The Royal recently”
“Senga, ye don’t understaun whit Ah’m saying, dae ye? Dr Walsh is deid as well…and the farmer bloke…he’s gone, so he is.”
“Ah’m sorry, Lizzie, bit this aw sounds a bit muddled tae me,” Senga hid replied, rubbing her temple wae her fingers. “Whit his the death ae this poor Rose Bain goat tae dae wae the death ae a doctor and some farmer?” Senga hid asked, trying hard no tae sound as confused as she clearly wis.
“Look,” Lizzie hid replied, haunin her two other newspaper clippings, which she’d extracted fae the wee shelf under the coffee table.
Lizzie searched Senga’s face fur some sort ae explanation as Senga read the wee article first. It stated that a Farmer McPherson hid died in a hoose fire at his farm oot near Alexandra. He’d fallen asleep while smoking in bed. This wis a regular occurrence in the toon and Senga hid tae deal wae at least wan, sometimes two, every other weekend, up in casualty. The article said there didnae appear tae be any suspicious circumstances. The other article, cut oot fae The Glesga Echo, hid a photo ae the doctor at the tap. It said that a Doctor Walsh, aged thirty two…the same age as Rory…hid hung himsel. Senga hid heard aboot the suicide at her work. In fact, Rory hid telt her that he knew him quite well, as they used tae go oot socialising thegither. She looked up fae the clipping at Lizzie who wis sitting dabbing her red eyes wae the tea towel, watching her every move.
“Ah still don’t see whit the connection is, Lizzie…Ah…Ah’m sorry.”
Lizzie hid then gone oan tae explain whit she’d heard the night she’d covered Rose Bain’s work shift up in Stobhill. She said she wisnae sure where the inspector wis fae, bit she relayed the conversation she’d heard between him and her patient, an elderly man in his early fifties, who’d been thrown fae a speeding car efter being stabbed multiple times. It hid aw come rushing oot in fits and starts. Lizzie hid hesitated only the wance when, oot ae the blue, Johnboy Taylor’s name hid strayed intae the picture.
“Ur ye sure it wis Johnboy Taylor…ma Johnboy Taylor…that Johnboy Taylor?” Senga hid exclaimed, astonished…shocked…and feeling the blood drain fae her face.
“It wis a fair few weeks ago noo, bit Ah’d swear oan the bible that it wis the same Johnboy Taylor you know that the dying man wis talking aboot…alang wae other people. There wis somewan called Gucci or Geachy ment
ioned. Is that no wan ae the boys that you wur pals wae up in Springburn?”
“Oh, Christ, Lizzie,” Senga hid groaned, suddenly feeling sick tae the pit ae her stomach.
She reached across again and wrapped her erms aroond Lizzie as a cauld chill ran through her body.
The baith ae them hid phoned in sick fur each other the next morning, taking it in turns tae dial the separate hospitals in the phone box doon the street, beside Sherbet and Maisa’s wee corner grocers shoap. That hid been twelve days ago. Senga hid started back at work the day before and Lizzie wis starting back that morning. The only time wan ae them hid left the flat while they’d been aff hid been when Senga hid nipped doon tae George Square and tae Sherbet’s tae get some breid, slices ae chopped pork, milk and eggs. They’d locked the door fae the inside, sleeping in the same bed fur the first three nights, expecting a gang ae masked murderers tae kick the door doon at any moment. Rory hid appeared up at the door three or four times, as they’d sat in the living-room wae the lights oot, listening tae him shout through the letterbox. He’d left a few notes asking her tae contact him before he hid tae heid doon tae Newcastle Royal Infirmary oan a course fur four weeks. It hid taken aboot three days tae extract fae Lizzie everything she knew or could remember fae that night in the emergency family room up in Stobhill. At the time, she hidnae known why, and wis still trying tae work oot the reason in her heid, bit it hid taken aw Senga’s persuasive powers tae stoap Lizzie fae getting in touch wae the polis.
