by Todd, Ian
“Here ye ur, Miss Marigold,” she chirped, putting doon the fags and Mary’s change oan the edge ae her desk.
“So, whit’s happening oot there in freedom land then, Pearl? Anything exciting gaun oan other than buses, buses and mair buses heiding up Hope Street?”
“Ach, ye’re really funny, so ye ur. Nope, at least nothing that Ah could see through aw they fumes. Ah did bump intae a squad ae polis, aw decked oot in full braid, badges and briefcases though, at the front entrance. They goat oot ae whit looked like a big black funeral car, driven by a chauffeur, so they did. They didnae look too happy either,” Pearl said, heiding back tae her desk in amongst the boxes.
Mary wis straight oan the blower tae Benson and fed back whit Pearl hid telt her.
“Yes, I know,” he said.
“Ye know?”
“Yes, have you read the front page of this morning’s paper?”
“Aye, mair exposure ae polis incompetence and City Corporation corruption, by that filthy wee rat who nicked ma good job. Whit aboot it?”
“I don’t know the full story, but I’ve heard that the assistant chief constable, Jack Tipple, and some of his team are meeting with Lord Frank Owen, the proprietor...”
“Ah know who Lord Owen is.”
“...regarding the gangster story coverage,” Benson said, ignoring the interruption.
“And?”
“And that’s all I know, I’m afraid.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“So, who’s gonnae be in attendance fae The Echo?”
“Well, I would imagine Hamish McGovern, the editor, would be in attendance.”
“Whit aboot Tom Bryce?”
“I don’t know...perhaps.”
“That probably explains why he hisnae returned ma calls.”
“Oh, Mary. What did I tell you? Wait until Monday. If there’s nothing to your story, you’ll end up looking a fool.”
“Ye mean insteid ae being treated like wan?”
“Look, I have to go. Now, Mary...please...I beg you, do not go anywhere near Tom Bryce until you have your facts...and a story...please,” he said and hung up.
Chapter Forty Eight
“Jack?” Lord Frank said, shaking the assistant chief constable’s haun.
“Frank. So good of you to see us at such short notice,” Jack Tipple replied.
“Please, gentlemen, take a seat. I hope you don’t mind, Jack, but I have invited Hamish McGovern, the paper’s editor, Tom Bryce, sub-editor of the crime desk and Hugh McAllen, the paper’s lawyer to join us. And this little luscious lady is called Lucinda and is one of my indispensable PAs, who has kindly come to take notes,” Lord Frank said pleasantly.
“No, no, Frank, better to meet all those concerned together in the one room, rather than have any crossed wires later on. I don’t know if you’ve met my chief superintendents, Bob Mackerel, who heads the city’s murder teams and Sam Bison from serious crime and intelligence?”
“No, but it’s a pleasure. Now then, gentlemen, what would you like to drink? I haven’t much of a choice, I’m afraid, but I do have a nice eighteen-year-old Lagavulin, if that is agreeable?”
“Er, before we start, Frank, I was hoping that this meeting could be viewed as, er, a more informal get-together, er, if you know what I mean?”
“Oh, you mean regarding Lucinda taking notes?”
“Er, yes, quite,” Jack replied, as Lord Frank received a wee discerning nod ae assent fae the company lawyer.
“Oh, right, no, I don’t think that will be an issue. Perhaps the lovely Lucinda can pour us a drink before we begin though, eh?” Lord Frank said, as Lucinda silently stood up and floated across tae the drinks cabinet, wae seven pair ae eyes following the trajectory ae that arse ae hers, decked oot in a wee tight body-hugging slinky wan-piece dress.
Efter the click ae the door wis heard, notifying everywan that Lucinda hid vacated the room and the clinking ae the ice in the glasses hid settled doon, nowan spoke, bit insteid, they aw sat eyeing each other, waiting fur the first wan tae make the first move. Efter a long, agonising hunner and seven seconds hid passed, Lord Frank blinked.
“So, Jack, you wanted a word, I believe?”
“Yes, I did, Frank. I don’t suppose there’s anything to be gained by not getting to the point, so I’ll just start there. I am...we are...concerned by the coverage in the paper with regards to the Tam Simpson murder inquiry.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, in particular, the stories from one of your reporters.”
“And who wid that be, Jack?” Hamish asked, speaking fur the first time.
“I believe we’re talking about the chap Elliot, or The Rat, as he’s known.”
“Ye mean Sammy Elliot, oor chief crime investigative journalist, who’s picked up award efter award for his exposés ae corruption in public life...that rat?” Hamish asked pleasantly, as the two chief superintendents fidgeted in their seats.
“Well, I’m all for supporting fair criticism of any public official or organisation who uses questionable methods, Hamish, but I think we’re all aware of Mr Elliot’s methodology in acquiring his information,” Jack replied stiffly.
“I confess I’m not too sure what it is that you’re implying here, Jack. Perhaps you can be, er, a bit more precise, if you don’t mind?” Lord Frank said, spreading his puffy white hauns to show he wisnae hiding anything up his sleeve.
“It’s a well-known fact that The Ra...er, Mr Elliot is...his...an unhealthy relationship wae well-known gangsters in the city, so he dis,” Sam Bison interjected.
“Ah kin name mair than a dozen senior, middle-ranking polis officers, that regularly hiv a drink wae well-known gangsters in some ae the city’s grubbiest pubs, Sam. Ye’re no suggesting that they’re aw oan the make, ur ye?” Hamish asked.
“Whit Ah’m saying, Hamish, is that The Rat is being used by hoodlums tae discredit the force, thus meddling and interfering wae oor pursuit ae some serious villains.”
“Is Sam speaking for you here, Jack?” Lord Frank asked.
“What Sam is saying is that every time we progress in this sensitive case, up pops your man and takes the wind from our sails. We are then left with fending off the media instead of doing what we are supposed to be doing...catching those responsible for committing some of the wickedest crimes in the city.”
“Tom?” Hamish asked.
“Before we publish a story, we check and recheck the authenticity ae the source. We also go through the legal section tae ensure anything libellous is taken oot,” Tom Bryce said, looking across at Hugh McAllen, the paper’s brief.
“Perhaps you could give us an example, Jack?” Lord Frank asked.
“Bob?” Jack asked the murder supremo.
“Oan the day that Tam Simpson goat shot and killed and his fancy bit oan the side copped her whack as well, the paper went oan the lunchtime news telling everywan that the wummin shot wae Simpson wis none other than a local social worker who happened tae be married tae a prison governor.”
“So?” Hamish asked.
“Hamish, we didnae even know the name ae the wummin, let alone know she wis hitched tae a prison governor, fur Christ’s sake. It wis aw news tae us, so it wis.”
“Aye, bit yer point is, Bob?”
“Ma point is, why did the story break aboot the social worker connection, literally a couple ae hours efter the shooting? Why wis the story no put oot the day before? Whit wis so special aboot that particular day?”
“We went wae the story because the shooting compromised oor investigation...Sammy Elliot’s investigation. We widnae hiv hid a story if we’d left it any longer. Oor competitors wid’ve goat in there first if we hidnae run wae it. And tae be honest, Ah don’t feel that comfortable discussing whit’s been implied here regarding wan ae ma tap journalists,” Tom replied.
“Tom, whit Ah’m alluding tae is that it aw seems too convenient…fae a polis point ae view, that is.”
“Meani
ng?”
“Meaning, it provided a convenient distraction fae whit wis really gaun oan, which wis that wan ae the tap gangsters in the city hid jist been taken oot by wan ae his rivals. While everywan wis gaun oan aboot some cheating hussy and her doontrodden man, we wur shown up tae be like something oot ae a Keystone Kops’ film, so we wur. Despite appealing fur witnesses and expecting help fae the media, the story became a sordid love triangle, no a cold-blooded gangland assassination.”
“Fae whit Ah kin gather, Bob, the disappearance ae the weapon used tae murder Simpson, apparently hivving gone missing in transit, a couple hours efter the crime wis committed, is whit gied the Keystone Kop impression. It wisnae jist The Echo that ran wae that part ae the story,” Hamish slipped in, as the blue uniforms aw winced in unison at the memory.
“I must confess, I’m still not convinced of what the beef is here, Jack. Surely you are not suggesting that what we reported is not in the public interest?” Lord Frank asked.
“Well, take this morning’s headline, Frank. Two days ago, you ran with the Garscube Road story regarding the building used to torture and probably kill victims who crossed those in the underworld. This morning, the paper printed a ghastly piece which totally diverted readers away from the key issue.”
“Which is?”
“That here we have a definite...possible breakthrough, on the murder of Tam Simpson. But instead, we wake up to...well, to be quite honest, a grubby story, full of innuendo, which once again, detracted from the real issue.”
“Jack, I believe it wis yersel who used the media...naw...manipulated the media fur yer ain ends, tae highlight the competence ae yer gallant and brave officers in pursuing the perpetrators ae this ghastly crime. That’s fine…we’re always glad tae lend a haun, bit even you should know that there ur inherent risks in trying tae manipulate the freedom ae the press tae ensure the service looks good in the eyes ae the public,” Hamish responded defensively.
“Where is Elliot getting all this information from?”
“I think it’s called investigative journalism, Jack,” Lord Frank said.
“What? In the two days since the factory was discovered? Oh come on, Frank. Elliot is getting insider information from those we are pursuing...either that or he’s being used,” the assistant chief constable growled in exasperation.
Silence.
“Look, let’s all calm down. Here, give me your glasses, gentlemen...they’re all empty,” Lord Frank said, staunin up. “I’m sorry, Jack, but I still don’t see why we are having this conversation. What is it that you want from me...us...The Glasgow Echo?”
“We want access to Elliot.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Frank asked, stoapping in mid-step before turning and staring at Jack Tipple, as his two editors and lawyer spluttered, astonished by the request.
“We just want to have an informal word with him, Frank...find out if he can assist us by answering a few questions...that’s all,” the chief purred soothingly, as everywan in the room looked across at Hugh McAllen.
“Totally out of the question,” McAllen replied, efter taking his time to respond.
“Why?” three bizzy voices demanded, frustration evident in their voices.
“Because, unless you have more substantial evidence than what you have highlighted here today, to substantiate your allegations that Mr Elliot is and has been deliberately perverting the course of justice, then the answer is no,” the brief said wae finality.
“Bit, we only want tae ask him a few questions. We’re no accusing him ae anything, Hamish,” Sam Bison pleaded.
“Ah’m sorry, Sam. If ye think Mr Elliot his broken the law, then arrest him. If ye don’t hiv any evidence tae substantiate yer allegations, as Hugh his jist pointed oot, then the paper will use everything in its power tae protect the integrity ae its staff and the freedom ae the press,” Hamish warned coldly.
“Now, Lads, let’s keep calm here. Hamish is right. The City of Glasgow Police has never, and will never, interfere with the freedom of information that the communities in this fine city are used to getting, especially from the likes of The Glasgow Echo. What I’m trying to do is see if there is any room for an…understanding between ourselves and our fine friends in the media. After all, we’re all looking for the best outcomes for the people of the city,” Tipple said slyly, as the group fell silent, looking at each other.
“Right, what is it that you are proposing then, Jack?” Lord Frank eventually asked, efter haunin roond the tinkling glasses.
“Perhaps we can accommodate the paper in some way, to show our appreciation, eh? Surely there must be something we can reciprocate with, to show you all that our intentions are honourable?”
Silence.
“We want free, unmolested access tae the social worker,” Hamish said eventually, as aw eyes swivelled roond tae Jack Tipple.
“Bob?”
“Impossible, and anyway, because ae her injuries, she cannae speak...at least no yet, so she cannae.”
“Right, Ah’ll rephrase that. Jist tae show that we kin aw work thegither, tae the benefit ae aw, we’ll allow wan ae yer personnel tae be present tae show that we widnae be putting her under any undue pressure. How dis that sound?” Hamish asked.
Silence.
“The press…aw the press, including this paper, hiv been pillorying her oan a daily basis since the shooting. Christ, according tae The Evening Citizen, she’s the biggest cow that’s walked this earth since Mary Magdalene, so she is. Even if we did agree tae yer request, Ah cannae see her wanting tae talk tae youse...in fact, tae any ae the press. Ah’m no convinced we could deliver,” Bob Mackerel admitted, shaking his heid.
“Well, Ah don’t want tae sound unappreciative, Bob, bit that’s whit we’re efter, if ye want tae talk tae oor man...under the supervision ae Hugh here, of course,” Hamish replied.
Silence.
“Look, why don’t we take time out...sleep on it over the weekend…take a few days, eh? I’m sure once we have a few days to think over our positions, we can come up with a…a solution. We’ll discuss the terms of access to our man at this end, and you can do the same with the woman. How does that sound, Jack?” Lord Frank said.
Wance the bizzies hid gone, Lord Frank looked across at his editor.
“What do you think, Hamish? Will they be able to deliver?”
“Ah’m no sure, Lord Frank.”
“Er, Ah don’t want tae seem like a damp squib here, bit we’re no seriously gonnae let them hiv access tae Sammy Elliot, ur we?” Tom Bryce asked meekly, sweating.
“Hugh?” Lord Frank asked.
“There are ways and means of conducting an interview here in Hope Street, under the strictest possible terms. We could demand a prior look at the questions beforehand and reject anything that we deem prejudicial to Mr Elliot. It would also show that we’re willing to work in partnership with the police. We wouldn’t want to go to war with them and let’s face it, they do enough damage to themselves without our help,” he said, getting smiles aw roond. “They’re still useful to us and we do have a number of well-placed officers within the force on our payroll. In addition, to answer Tom’s question, we would not insist that Mr Elliot speaks with them. I certainly wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. We would insist that we be satisfied that they could deliver the goods up front before we allowed them access to our man.”
“Right, well, gentlemen, thank you for that. Let’s wait and see what Jack Tipple and his two laddies come up with next week, eh?”
Chapter Forty Nine
Pearl pulled the collar ae her jaicket up further tae keep the wind fae blowing doon the back ae her neck as she crossed Keppochhill Road diagonally tae the fire station side, opposite Springburn Public Halls. It wis only when she wis staunin in the middle ae the road, tae let a number 32 past her, that she spotted the squad car, sitting, tucked in at the corner ae Millarbank Street. She couldnae see their faces in the shadow ae the car, bit she knew it wid be that Stalker
wan and wan ae his pervo sidekicks, undressing her wae their eyes. She shivered, as the lit-up windaes ae the bottom deck ae the bus swished past her and stoapped at the bus stoap ten yards further oan. If she’d known they wur sitting there, she wid’ve jist kept walking and crossed the road tae Jonah’s Lounge fae the corner ae Springburn Road. By the time she reached the pavement oan the other side, she could feel the two sets ae eyes following her, unblinking, silent...scary. Despite the cauld and the drizzling wet darkness, she wis glad tae see that there wur still people oot and aboot. Everywan in the Toonheid, where she’d grown up before moving tae Springburn, hid called Sergeant McPhee ‘The Stalker’ because he wis always creeping aboot the closemooths and back-courts ae the tenements at aw hours ae the night, watching whit wis gaun oan. When Pearl wis younger, her ma hid goat arrested, alang wae some ae her pals, fur fighting wae the polis and Sheriff officers at some warrant sale. It must’ve been a Friday, because her maw hid hid tae stay in the cells o’er the weekend. Tae make matters worse, the Monday hid been a holiday and the courts hidnae opened until the Tuesday. A social worker and two bizzies hid come tae the hoose tae take her and her big sister intae care because her da wisnae aboot at the time. Efter chasing them aboot the hoose, The Stalker hid managed tae grab oan tae her, at the same time as her sister hid goat nabbed by the big fat female social worker, who’d looked as if she wis trying tae impersonate a wrestler. Her sister, Karen, who wis four years aulder than Pearl, hid managed tae get a haud ae Pearl’s leg and hid held oan tight, while The Stalker hid tried tae wrench her oot ae her grasp. She could still remember screaming the place doon, absolutely petrified, as The Stalker shouted and cursed at her sister tae let go ae her leg. Every night fur years efter that, she’d waken up through the night screaming the place doon, worrying that The Stalker wis coming tae take her away. It probably didnae help that her ma used tae shout through tae her and her sister when they wur in their beds at night, that if they didnae pipe doon wae their chattering, then she’d gie The Stalker a shout tae come and get them. The threat always worked. She managed a wee fly glance across the road. The two figures wur staring straight at her, unseen eyes under the shadow ae their polis hats. The Stalker probably thought nowan knew whit he wis up tae, bit everywan and their dug knew he wis a creepy peeping Tom, peering intae people’s windaes, hoping tae catch a swatch ae wan ae the wummin undressing. Jist before Christmas, Helen Birnie, wan ae her pals, hid sat in the darkness ae her bedroom, looking oot the windae doon intae the lanes at the back ae her hoose, watching the filthy pig staunin clocking Willie Mason’s eldest lassie, Gwen, gieing hersel a body wash at the sink efter finishing her shift at Burns’s, wan ae the pubs oan Springburn Road. Helen hid telt her that Gwen hid been bare doon tae her waist, and The Stalker hid jist stood there in the darkness, no moving, panting clouds blowing in and oot fae that mooth ae his, hivving a good auld gander at whit wis gaun oan. Even though she’d telt her maw everything...well, almost everything, she’d decided no tae mention the latest peeping escapade oan that occasion, seeing as her maw hid awready been charged wae assaulting The Stalker and that other big sergeant wan they called Bumper at wan ae the warrant sales they attended. This latest info wid’ve been like a red rag tae a bull, so it wid’ve. Pearl didnae really hiv any problems wae the polis in general, bit she knew it wis always wise tae steer well clear ae them. ‘Where wid we be withoot them?’ she’d written in an essay when she wis at primary school. It wis a different story wae that maw ae hers though. Her maw and aw her pals no only hated them, bit took a lot ae pleasure in bating them at every chance they goat. She could still remember the response she’d goat when she wis aboot ten or eleven, when she’d innocently asked her maw why she hated the polis.
