The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

‘Is your speciality kicking over hornets’ nests, Brodie?’

  ‘I’d rather smoke them out.’

  ‘So this was you in subtle mode? “Corrupt police get innocent man hanged.”’

  ‘It proves Advocate Samantha Campbell was on the right lines.’

  ‘But too late. I should have pressed Muncie harder about the notebook in court.’

  ‘It would have conveniently disappeared, Sam. I’m amazed White hung on to it.’

  ‘Insurance?’

  ‘You think he was smart enough to see it like that?’

  ‘Conscience then?’

  ‘Habit, more like. It’s drummed into us at police college. Write it up or forget it.

  We both fell silent.

  ‘Well, it’s done. Now what?’ she asked.

  ‘Now we wait. And keep our heads down. There’s going to be a lot of flak over the next few days. You’re seeing your legal colleague tomorrow?’

  ‘Dinner with Judge Thompson. An old lech but talkative. Should I go ahead?’

  ‘More than ever. As well as finding out who suggested you for the defence role, I want you to ask him some questions about your father’s time in office.’

  ‘My father? Why?’

  ‘It sounds like he was a scourge of the Slatterys. I’d like to know whatever you can find out about those cases and how they got off.’

  She looked quizzical but didn’t argue. Just as well. I had no real line of inquiry. It was just about stirring up the mud and seeing what crept out.

  What crept out next night was a lizard. Sam got home well after ten o’clock, slightly the worse for a skinful of red wine or maybe it was the brandy chasers. With her blond hair released from her Kirby grips, full make-up and a flushed, flirty expression on her face, Samantha Campbell was the saucy alter ego of the hard-faced professional I’d first met. She looked ten years younger with a grin on her face. I nearly took her in my arms but it would have been cheating.

  ‘C’n you believe he tried to put his hand up my skirt?’

  ‘During the dinner?’

  ‘No, silly. When we were coming out of the hotel. He grabbed me and told me he’d always fancied me. Old goat!’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I wish I’d kneed him in the balls!’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I giggled. And slapped him playfully. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? We little women? It’s all we’re good for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sam, if you’re looking for a fight over the rights of women, you’re picking the wrong time and the wrong bloke. I met women agents who’d landed in France before D Day with as much guts as a highland regiment. I’m on your side.’

  ‘’S just as well, Mr Douglas Brodie.’

  ‘ I’ll make tea.’

  An hour later, after she’d thrown up and was sitting ashen-faced across from me, nursing a foaming Alka-Seltzer, we got down to business.

  ‘It was Lord Justice Craig Allardyce himself, it appears. He put my name forward. Told everyone – except me – it was a wee favour for my dad, helping his lassie up the ladder.’

  ‘Kind of him.’

  ‘No it bloody wasn’t! If my father had known who’d done this he’d be back to haunt him. Dad hated Allardyce. Said he was a wee shit, if I recall right. Trouble was they had to work together. Allardyce was number two to my dad, Deputy Procurator Fiscal.’

  ‘And he became a judge?’

  ‘Later. The wee shit got my dad’s job.’

  We sat quietly with the thoughts between us.

  ‘Anything about the Slatterys? Did your old lech know much about the cases brought to court under your father?’

  She nodded. ‘They were big deals at the time. Late twenties, early thirties. Just before your time. A lot of press coverage, especially when they walked free wearing big smiles and proclaiming their innocence.’

  ‘Was it both brothers?’

  ‘Judge Letch said it was usually Gerrit in the dock or some of his henchmen; wild men they’d bring over from Belfast or the backwoods of Ulster.’

  ‘With Dermot pulling the strings?’

  ‘Apparently. Dermot likes a low profile.’

  ‘What were the charges?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary except once: nineteen thirty-two.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Gun-running. Suspected membership of the IRA. Shipping arms to the Republic.’

  I sighed. ‘Perfect. Gangsters and revolutionaries. Killers with a cause.’

  It suddenly added up. Why else would they go to such lengths to silence witnesses and bury evidence? It could certainly account for the involvement of an Irish Catholic priest like Cassidy. But why murder him? And how had Hugh got ensnared? And why now? Caught once but not jailed, the Slatterys went quiet for over a decade. Did it mean they were active again? That there was some big event in the offing? Had Cassidy tried to stop them? Finally, and not the least of these stomach-churning questions, what, in the name of all that’s merciful, had all this to do with the abuse and murder of an innocent wee boy?

  THIRTY-SIX

  Sam crept off to bed and I sat and wondered why McAllister hadn’t mentioned this little peccadillo of the Slatterys. I slept on it and phoned him in the morning.

  ‘Cracking headlines, Brodie! I owe you one.’

  ‘Good. So tell me why you didn’t mention the IRA connection with the Slatterys?’

  ‘An old chestnut. It was never proven. Every Irishman who kicked with his left foot was thought to be plotting the next Easter Rebellion. But they never made the charges stick.’

  ‘Didn’t they have evidence to start off with? I mean there must have been something to put them in the frame?’

  ‘Aye, you’re right. I think they found guns. But we’re talking back in the early thirties. When the polis were responsible for more frame-ups than Rembrandt. Maybe before your time, Brodie. But things haven’t changed much as far as I can see.’

  ‘Why do you think I left?’ I asked dryly.

  ‘Just wondering, Brodie. Just wondering whose side you were on. If you were on nobody’s payroll except the Crown’s you were the exception, laddie.’

  I thought for a minute. ‘I think you’ll find there’s another breaking story, McAllister.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  I could picture him wiping his grubby hands and digging out his pad.

  ‘It’s about the four missing Reid weans…’

  I put the phone down. Even the hardened old crime reporter had been shocked. Not shocked enough to stop him heading off to interview Chief Superintendent George Muncie though.

  By the time an ashen-faced Samantha Campbell was ready to face her first cup of tea I was shaved, washed, fed and ready for the off.

  ‘Brodie, if you think this is an IRA thing, shouldn’t you…? I mean, isn’t it getting just a bit too risky?’

  She was right, of course, but that wasn’t enough to dull the glowing coals of anger that seemed to live in my guts these days.

  ‘I’m just going to look around.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Bearsden. Stroll those leafy lanes and admire the big houses. See if there’s one I fancy.’

  ‘Will you take the gun?’

  ‘For Bearsden?’

  She looked at me. ‘You’re daft. Be careful.’

  I had their address but I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I found the house. I just needed to be moving, doing something. I took trams and buses out to the north-west of Glasgow, only about four miles, but it felt like forty. Bearsden is a place apart. A separate community out in the countryside, and settled by folk with loads of money and a preference for big sandstone villas. Sam’s house was pretty fabulous by my standards but it was terraced. Many of the big villas in Bearsden were detached with gardens front and back, and approached down quiet, tree-lined streets.

  I felt conspicuous, like a door-to-door salesman on the prowl, except I’d forgotten my bag of brushes and chammy cloths. I asked my way of
a genteel woman outside the row of pretty shops in the main street. She was politeness itself, despite her clear suspicions that I was ‘trade’ at best, and an axe murderer at worst. They could spot strangers here a mile off. Maybe it was the remnants of the scarring along my jaw. Maybe my accent. Her polished vowels made mine sound like a butcher’s mincing machine.

  It was a perfect morning in an idyllic setting. Warm sun and fluffy clouds. I was glad I’d left my coat behind. I was tempted to carry my hat, loosen my tie and sling my jacket over my shoulder, but I would have stood out even more amidst the prim privets and laurel bushes.

  I followed the twists and turns up the gentle hills until I was walking along a beautiful street, filled with beautiful villas, nestling in their own grounds. Blue hydrangeas burst out of every garden. There was no traffic, in fact no people. It felt like a Sunday. It would always be Sunday here. I was counting out the numbers where I could; often enough the houses simply had names, like Lochinvar or something inappropriately Gaelic. I was keeping to the even side of the street as Slattery castle was an odd number.

  Suddenly I could see which it was. About fifty yards ahead. Unlike the other leafy-fronted houses, this one had a high wall with railings and a gate. I did some counting and confirmed it was chateau Slattery. I slowed down, but it wasn’t the sort of street you could dawdle on innocently. Not the sort of place to stand leaning against a lamppost with a fag without someone coming out and demanding to know who you were. That’s if they hadn’t just called the police to arrest you for walking around without a hat.

  Suddenly, from ahead, from Slattery’s, came the sound of clanking chains. The big metal gate swung back and a woman came out. She held the chain in her hand, and carefully threaded it through the bars and locked it with a massive padlock. There was another lock built into the gate itself and she put a big key in it and turned. She began to walk towards me. I crossed over.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said as she came closer. She was about fifty, I’d guess, plainly dressed, not at all like the owner of a big pile like this.

  ‘Morning,’ she replied warily. I took the chance.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Mr Slattery’s place. I was supposed to meet him. He had a job for me.’ I smiled. She looked suspicious. I had really blown it if this was Dermot’s wife.

  ‘Och, they’re away. You’ve missed them. I suppose he didnae have time to get in touch. Are you on the phone?’

  ‘No. Gone, you say? That was short notice.’

  She softened up. ‘Aye. Packed up and left last night, so they did. Left me a message to clean up the place and lock it up weel. Never a thought about paying me. And no telling how long they’ll be away. See, they’re awfu’ good to work for but at times-’

  I cut in. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

  ‘Back hame. The auld country as they call it.’

  ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Aye. I hear it’s awfu’ wet there.’

  I watched her plod off and thought that only a West Coast Scot could picture somewhere wetter than here. I looked again at the drawn curtains and big locked gates and cursed myself. It seemed like the rock I’d thrown in the pool had made too big a splash. All the pond life had fled. I turned and ran after the woman.

  ‘Missus? Oh, missus? Sorry to bother you again. You don’t happen to have an address for Mr Slattery in Ireland? I could send him a wee note.’

  She eyed me up and down. ‘You’re no’ the polis, are you?’ She paid particular attention to my scarred face.

  ‘Do I look like the polis?’

  ‘Ah’m no’ supposed to do this, but if you just want to write a letter…’ She was digging in her string bag, then in her purse. She brought out a scrap of envelope and unfolded it. ‘Here. Have you got a pencil?’

  I jotted down the address and handed the slip back. I hoped I hadn’t stored up trouble for her. But now what? I gazed at the address. Planner Farm, Lisnaskea. It was a place I’d never heard of, presumably a village. But it was in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. Bandit country.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I got myself back to central Glasgow and went to the library. I trawled through some gazetteers till I found some references to Lisnaskea. It claimed to be one of the major villages near Enniskillen in Fermanagh. Which put it in the middle of nowhere. It was the former family seat of the Maguire kings, the ruling family in the area for generations, until good king James VI of Scotland and I of England decided to supplant the local Catholic top dogs with loyal Scottish Protestants. The Plantation.

  Locally, this was badly received, and to this day, the population in this wildest and most westerly of the six counties of Ulster was still mainly pissed-off Catholics, and therefore a stronghold of nationalism and the Irish Republican Army. A Scottish Protestant strolling into such a village intent on making a citizen’s arrest of one of their distinguished old boys – as I assumed would be the case with the well-off Slatterys – would find it easier to stick his head into a bear’s cave, bang on a drum and ask how the hibernation was going.

  Even I knew when I was beaten. The British Army were given a hard enough time of it over the last three hundred years. Why would one man fare any better?

  *

  When I got back to the house there was no sign of Sam. She’d left a note in her elegant copperplate on the kitchen table: Brodie, Had a phone call from Craig Allardyce. Lord Chief Justice himself! Said he wanted to chat about my career! Can you believe it? Judge Lech must have put in a word. What’s to lose? I can ask him face to face about the Donovan case and why he picked me. Meeting him at 11 for coffee at the Royal Crown. I can be a sleuth too! Sam

  Good for you, Sam. Things were really beginning to happen, it seemed. I picked up the Gazette and read McAllister’s latest piece of invective against the police. He’d be piling on the sorrows in tomorrow’s edition by breaking the news about the Reid kids.

  It made me think about Arran again and Father Connor O’Brien. He’d been conspicuous by his silence. Though Arran was an island they still got daily papers and news of his old pal Father Cassidy’s demise must have got through to him. Surely the news of Mrs Reid would have set tongues wagging and heads shaking in sympathy in that little community of Lamlash?

  But O’Brien hadn’t tried to call me. I wondered why. Given how recently we’d met and our reason for meeting, it would have been perfectly natural for him to have phoned me as the bodies piled up to find out what the hell was happening. But nothing. Suspicious bloke that I am, I also wondered how much of a coincidence it was that after my visit to O’Brien’s island, I’d nearly met a watery end. At the time I’d dismissed his involvement out of hand. Now I wasn’t so sure. His silence was compounding my everyday religious paranoia. I picked up Sam’s phone and asked the operator to connect me. It rang for a while, then: ‘Father O’Brien. How can I help?’

  ‘Hello, Connor. This is Douglas Brodie. You remember?’

  There was a silence, then, ‘Of course, Brodie. How are you?’

  ‘Surprisingly well, actually. Unlike your colleague. I’m sorry, Connor.’

  Silence again. ‘Brodie, I won’t lie to you. I was shocked to my bones. I owe a great deal to Father Cassidy. He was my study guide when I was taking orders at Trinity.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, Connor. Neither of you mentioned it before.’

  ‘It never came up. But it’s of no importance.’

  It was if you were paranoiac like me, but I let it pass.

  ‘The official view is that it was suicide. Does that square with your knowledge of him?’

  ‘I have prayed night and day for understanding. It’s not what I would have expected of the man.’

  ‘You know it was me that found him?’

  ‘I saw your name in the papers.’

  ‘And you know how I found him?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather you spared me the details.’

  ‘Well, Connor, I don’t think I can spare you from kno
wing that in my opinion, my professional opinion, Father Cassidy was murdered.’

  ‘But the police…?’ There was just about the right level of shock in his voice.

  ‘The police are covering it up. It’s linked to the Hugh Donovan case. If you’ve been getting the papers over the past few days, or listened to the wireless, you’ll know they framed Hugh for the murder of the boy. And in case you haven’t heard about Mrs Reid – you knew her as Kennedy – she was found dead in a library in Glasgow.’

  ‘Merciful Father.’

  ‘God’s mercy seems to be a bit strained these days. Just three days ago her four wee weans were washed up on Largs beach.’

  ‘Dear God in heaven…’

  I felt as if I was punching this man with every new bloody fact. And if he’d been within striking distance, I might well have bent his dog-collar. This priest knew something and was holding back. I was certain of it.

  ‘My God, my God…’

  I waited for him to finish the quote: ‘… why hast thou forsaken me?’ But all I heard was something like a sob, then silence for several seconds.

  ‘Father O’Brien, why would someone want to murder Patrick Cassidy?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ The anguish sounded real enough.

  ‘I think you know something. Is there a link between Cassidy and the Slattery gang here in Glasgow?’

  There was a sigh. This felt like a confessional but with roles reversed. But there would be no absolution from me if this priest had bloody hands.

  ‘Belfast. A long time ago. The Slattery boys were placed with the Church.’

  ‘Placed?’

  ‘They were sent to the Nazareth House in Belfast. As children.’

  ‘And Cassidy was there?’

  ‘He was the visiting priest at the time. Their paths will have crossed.’

  ‘Will have? You’re not sure?’

  ‘Right enough, they did cross. Francis told me they were… shall we say, troubled children?’

  ‘Troubled in what way?’

  ‘I understand that their father sent them there. After his wife died. That’s all I know.’

  ‘I’m assuming Father Cassidy came to Glasgow first. Was he upset when the Slatterys showed up?’