SIX
Over the weekend Sam and I began tidying up the house in advance of the first inspection by our new housekeeper.
‘I’d be ashamed to let Izzie Dunlop see this place. The state of it.’
‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘Just carry the hoover upstairs, Douglas, and don’t be difficult.’
The rest of the time we spent dodging questions about Sam’s impending assignment in Hamburg. I could tell she was both anxious and excited by the challenge. I didn’t want to terrify her by recounting my own experiences. She didn’t want to talk about it in case it turned out as horrible as she expected.
On Monday morning I set out for McGill’s. The pawnbroker is an essential part of Glasgow life. He oils the machine that permits the working man – or more often, the non-working man – to live from one week to the next in the absence of five bob for food or a shilling for the electric. He’s the bridge that connects one slim pay packet with the next, when an unsuccessful flutter on the dogs or a successful session on a Saturday night in the Drouthy Drover has left a mortal dent in the readies.
As often as not it’s the woman that wears out the path between her home and the sign of the three balls. The man has a sure bet or loses his job, and his wife has to do some conjuring to make half a crown stretch two days. No wonder old women used to get branded witches; their financial legerdemain was simply magic. Off she’d trot on a Tuesday with some gewgaw of value only to her heart. For a ten-bob loan she’d exchange the worn gilt wedding ring or the treasured marcasite earrings handed down from her mother. It would put warm oats in a child’s belly and coal in a fire. It would buy a piece of leather to mend a hole in her only shoes, and still let her pay the insurance man threepence a week to make sure she didn’t get buried by the council.
Then the heat was on to make sure her feckless man didn’t drink away the next pay packet or lend it to a pal who had a ‘sure thing’ at Doncaster. It would send her on Friday night, shawl about her head, to the gates of Dixon’s Blazes or John Brown’s, a wee rock splitting the flood of men launched homeward by the whistle, searching her man out among the thousand cloth caps and picking his pocket before the bookie did it for him. The wedding ring would be back on her finger on Monday. Till the next crisis.
McGill’s had a prime corner position on Bath Street. It made no pretence about its purpose. It was, in many ways, a social necessity, a lifeline. I stood across the street peering through the dirty windows at lines of shelves displaying the mementoes of a thousand lives. Some of the treasures would have been there for years, surety on a loan that was never repaid, of a broken life that never quite got mended. Symbols of little failures, burst dreams and ruptured marriages. Eventually, each discarded piece would become the property of McGill’s and be made available for sale. The perfect place to launder stolen property.
I took out the list again and ran my eye down the most distinguishable stolen items. Anything with gold or diamonds would likely stand out among the bric-a-brac of the average pile of Glasgow collateral. Even so, I knew it could be like looking for a teetotaller in a crowd at Hampden. Yet it was all I had.
I crossed over and pushed in the door. Bells tinkled in the back. I looked around. This was no rainbow’s end. The smell of must clogged the nostrils. There was hardly a bare surface in sight. The floors were littered with piles of chairs, nests of table and brass coal scuttles. A man popped out from behind a curtain. It wasn’t Aladdin. For one thing he wore pince-nez, for another he wore a cardigan with leather patches on the elbows. He peered at me. I guess I didn’t look like your average borrower.
‘Are ye after something, mister?’
‘I might be. Can I just look around?’
‘Aye, sure. Help yersel’. But if ye brek onything, it’s yours an’ ye’ll huv to pay for it.’
‘Fair enough.’ I started to walk round the shelves, trying not to kick the lamps and odd golf clubs littering the floor. Most of the stuff was junk, much of it coated in a skin of dust, abandoned long since by the owners. Nothing of real value. Nothing that remotely fitted the description of any of the stolen valuables. There was one glass case, almost opaque with dust and dirt, but it held little of interest. The contents had lain undisturbed since Kilmarnock last won a Scottish Cup Final: ’29, as I recall. I consoled myself by asking why I thought I’d strike lucky first time. The city was full of shops like this, and anyway, the stolen goods would be long gone.
‘Mr McGill?’
‘Aye?’
‘Is this all you have? I was hoping to find a wee bit of jewellery. Something nice, for the wife. It’s her birthday just before Christmas.’
He stared me up and down. I was wearing one of Sam’s father’s old suits, altered to fit by Isaac Feldmann. The cloth was good wool and better made than anything from Burton’s. My broad Ayrshire accent had been softened by my spell among the petite bourgeoisie of Glasgow University and commanding a company of lilting Highlanders. In my bearing there was the legacy of my police training. Obviously.
‘Yer no’ polis, are ye?’
‘Not at all. I’ve been south for a while. Army.’ As if that explained anything. But it seemed to satisfy him.
‘I’ve got some stuff roon the back. Gie’s a minute.’
He went through his curtain and appeared a minute later carrying a large wooden box. He laid it on the counter and made a performance of opening the lid. A piece of dark blue velvet lay over a collection of bumps. He took out the velvet and smoothed it on the counter. My eyes fell on the uncovered contents. The box was lined with ridges in the same blue velvet. Carefully seated on the ridges were glowing items of precious metals and stones: garnets and rubies, silver and gold, marcasite and pearls. And ivory.
I gazed in. ‘That’s more like it.’
‘Aye. This is ma best stuff, so it is.’
‘Had them long?’ I began sifting through the items trying to keep the interest out of my voice.
‘Varies. Some just come in. Others a wee while. Ah only show this to discerning customers.’
I began picking out items and setting them on the velvet cloth. One by one I ticked off mentally the list in my pocket: the ivory wolf with diamond eyes; the ruby ring in its baroque gold setting; the hat pin with the massive amethyst head. The cufflinks of silver and ivory inset with a silver Star of David. The dangling earrings with perfect matching pearls. Old Mrs Bernstein would be pleased.
I was aware that with each item I brought out, the man behind the counter was becoming increasingly still and silent. I looked up at McGill. The pince-nez weren’t the only reason for his eyes being wide. His mouth was gawping. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips.
‘When did you get these, Mr McGill?’
I saw him swallow, twice. ‘Ah’ve hud them a while, so Ah huv.’
‘No you haven’t. When did you get them in? And who brought them?’
‘Look, pal, it’s a’ legit. Ah just bought the lot the other day. Ah can do you a guid price.’
‘Could you? How about a farthing for the lot? And then I can return them to their owners and you can hand yourself in to Albany Street. Ask for Detective Inspector Todd.’
McGill all but collapsed. He reeled back and grabbed the counter.
‘Ah thocht you werenae polis?’
‘I’m not. But I used to be. Now I’m a reporter for the Gazette. Your wee shop could maybe do with some publicity?’
‘Aw no. Gie’s a brek, mister. Ah don’t ask questions when stuff comes here. Ah jist take it on trust. Ah mean it’s no as if the folk coming by have receipts or nothin’, is it?’
‘A name.’
‘What?’
‘Give me a name. Who brought these in? Tell me a name and I will take these, and give you a receipt.’
The glasses were off now. He was rubbing his eyes like a kid. I hoped he wouldn’t greet.
‘Ah cannae, Ah jist cannae. The fella’ll kill me, so he will. He’s a baddie, right enough. Ma life
will no’ be worth a sugar moose.’
I sighed and carefully rolled up the booty in the velvet cloth. It was an expensive tube. ‘Well, I’m taking these back to their owners anyway. I’ll give Inspector Todd a call and he’ll come and get you. Oh, and I’ll make sure I send you a copy of the newspaper tomorrow to Turnbull Street. You’ll love what I say about you.’
I turned and walked towards the door.
‘Wait! Wait a minute! Christ! For Christ’s sake, pal. You’re gonnae get me killed!’
I shrugged.
He lurched forward over the counter. ‘OK. OK! Ah’ll tell ye.’
SEVEN
‘Duncan? It’s Brodie. I’ve got a name for you.’ I was calling from the phone in Sam’s house. She wasn’t home yet.
‘How about Inspector?’
‘The name of the thief. I talked to one of your fences, Sanny Carmichael, who clyped on one of his business rivals: McGill the pawnbroker. I encouraged McGill to whisper in my ear. Oh, and I retrieved some of the stolen goods. Unless you have any objection I’m just going to hand them back to the owners.’
‘Fine by me. Saves paperwork. We never took much interest in their departure in the first place. But we might need the bits and pieces as evidence to lock up the thief. Hang on to them for a couple of days, would you? You say McGill gave you a name? Ah hope you didnae hurt him too much?’
‘Duncan, you know I was never one of the beat them till they confess brigade. I used moral persuasion. That and threatening to unleash you on him. And maybe a wee column about his dodgy emporium in the Gazette.’
‘You might as well have hit him. So, the name?’
‘Craven.’
‘Paddy Craven?’
‘The very man. I never ran across him in my day, but I recall the reputation. McGill says that as well as being a thief he’s a hard man.’
‘That’s Paddy all right. An all-round villain and complete bampot. Only finished a seven-year stretch about six months ago. A wife and three kids who’ve seen little enough of him in the past twenty years. Ah thought he was trying to mend his ways. Got a job, Ah heard.’
‘It wouldn’t be with the gas board, would it?’
‘Could be, now you mention it. Why?’
I told him about some of the burglaries.
‘God help us. That’s the kinda ballsy thing Paddy would get up to.’
‘Do you know where to lift him?’
‘Might as well start at his hoose. Lizzie will be delighted to see me again.’
‘Lizzie, the wife?’
‘Common law. But aye. Shame. Used to be a nice lassie. But concerning Paddy . . . will McGill testify?’
‘He was near greetin’ at the idea that Craven might find out.’
‘Ah’m no’ surprised. Craven disnae gie a toss about who gets hurt. And somebody always gets hurt wi’ Craven around.’
‘Sounds like you’re going to struggle to get cooperation.’
‘Either he helps or he goes inside with Craven.’
‘That should encourage him.’
‘Does that mean you’re off the case? Crime solved? The Glasgow police force is no longer redundant?’
‘Break out the streamers.’
‘Easy money, Brodie. You could be tempted again.’
‘I’m hanging up my badge. And my spurs. Quit while I’m ahead. Pity, the pay’s good.’
Sam and I were sipping celebratory whiskies in the kitchen while she donned an apron and attacked two slivers of rationed chicken. I wielded a knife on the tatties and carrots. A scene of domestic bliss. I smiled. It felt good. I’d succeeded in this new role, I had money in my pocket, and Sam and I had settled into an easier relationship than I’d thought possible a month or two ago. Scratchy friends; sporadic lovers; marriage a distant prospect if at all. Perhaps a bit too random for my tastes, but overall a delicate confection of shared needs and common views – on most things.
Just a pity Hamburg was looming large. The dread of it was mounting in me, almost as if I were going. She’d been sent travel documents and was due to fly out on Thursday, ready for the start of trial a week later on 5 December. She was to be back for Christmas and then go out again until February. We were talking about anything else but her trip.
‘You should have stretched it out a bit, Brodie. Made it look harder.’
‘There’s a bonus coming, so I can’t grumble. And maybe they’ll give me a call if they need help in future. Find the lost ark. That sort of thing.’
‘Did it give you a taste for it?’ she asked casually.
‘For sleuthing? It hardly seemed like a proper job. It all fell in my lap. It’s not usually that simple.’
‘Maybe you’ve got better at it.’
‘Nah. Just a fluke.’
But her question had coincided with my own thoughts. Was it just like old times? No. I had to answer to nobody, except the men who’d employed me. Was that better or worse than acting within a police hierarchy for the general public good? Oftentimes when I had been out playing detective properly, it had seemed like I was battling my bosses more than the criminals. This part-time, private work was free of such restrictions. No politics. No paperwork.
The downside was that I had no formal authority to act. Unlike England, there was no provision in Scots law for carrying out a citizen’s arrest unless it was to help a policeman needing assistance mid-collar. The only authority I had was my personal one. I’d been finding lately that knowing what you’re doing, or where you’re going – or giving the impression of it – carries people along with you. Most folk are a bag of uncertainties. They’re ready to follow someone with an idea; even a bonkers one. Take Adolf.
I had no plans to start a mass movement in the beer halls of Glasgow. My rhetoric would have made no dent on the practised nonchalance of the average bar fly. Is that right, pal? If you say so. Now what about that new centre forward for Motherwell . . .
I was happy to be the founder and only member of my gang. But I was just beginning to understand that fourteen years of higher education, police training and being a commissioned officer in the army had given me a certain weight and authority in my dealings with my fellow man. Especially the bad men, where the moral choices were clear-cut and the consequent actions obvious.
‘I can hear you thinking, Brodie,’ Sam said. She pushed aside a strand of blonde hair with the back of her hand and tumbled my hacked vegetables into the stew pot.
‘I was thinking that it’s not a bad life at times.’ I grinned. She smiled back at me. I walked over and put my arms round her.
‘Get off, you big oaf. I’m cooking.’ But I could tell she didn’t mean it. So I kissed her. Maybe tonight the moon would turn blue again.
The next day, I was well into writing up a version of events surrounding the catching of a thief when I was summoned across the newsroom to take a phone call. It put an end to yesterday’s brief moment in the sun. No wonder we Scots are natural pessimists.
‘Brodie, it’s Duncan.’
‘Perfect timing. I’m just finishing my article. Have you caught Paddy Craven?’
‘Catching’s no exactly the right word. We found Craven.’
My stomach lurched. ‘OK, Duncan, I’m sitting down.’
‘He burgled one house too many this morning.’
‘Fell off his ladder?’
‘Knifed by the man whose house he broke into.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit, indeed.’
‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard.’
‘You might say that. It’s a mess round there.’
‘A fight?’
‘Not exactly. More like an accident wi’ a mincing machine. The owner got a bit carried away. Says he went off to work but returned home because he forgot something. Disturbed Craven in the act. The man says he was terrified. Not as terrified as Paddy Craven must have been when he got a carving knife in his belly.’
‘Carried away?’
‘Six stab wounds, then kicked Pad
dy’s teeth in. Or maybe the other way about.’
‘Good God! Who was this bloke? Sweeney Todd?’
‘One of yer Jewish fraternity. Maybe they’ve stopped turning the other cheek.’
‘Are you charging him?’
‘With what? He finds a burglar in his own hoose and he defends himself.’
‘Six times?’
‘Anyway, that’s the end of that. Rough justice. Rougher for Craven’s wife and weans, even if he was an old rogue.’
‘For the record, who was this knifeman?’
‘Victor Galdakis.’
‘Polish Jew?’
‘Lithuanian, he says. At least Ah think that’s what he said. English bad. Scots even worse. Runs a couple of stalls in Barrowland, he says.’
‘What about our pawnbroker pal, McGill? Are you going to bring him in?’
‘No point. He’s mair use to me where he is. Ah know how to get hold of him. Besides, Ah might need a wee borrow . . .’
I put the phone down and walked back to my desk. I was breathing fast, as though I’d done forty press-ups. My forehead was wet. I opened the window to let chill air in. It was as if Duncan’s news had set something off. Maybe I was getting squeamish in my old age.
I called Shimon Belsinger and arranged to see him and tell him how conclusively the case had been closed. One week, from start to finish, perpetrator found, justice meted out, payment on result.
Late morning we met in a café on the Byres Road. Shimon hunched over a milky tea, listening intently, stroking his great beard.
‘You’ve done well, Brodie. My colleagues will be pleased.’ He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is your fee and your bonus.’ He smiled. ‘You should have taken your time. Earned a bit more.’
‘Miss Campbell made the same point. But that’s how it goes at times.’
‘This man. The Jew who killed the thief. Do you know his name? Is he at Garnethill?’
‘Galdakis, Victor Galdakis. DI Todd says he’s Lithuanian. He has a flat in the Gorbals. So maybe he goes to Isaac’s synagogue.’
‘His business?’
‘Stallholder. That’s all I know.’
‘We should find him. We should thank him.’
Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul Page 4
