Sangster turned to his fresh-faced sergeant, whose forehead was sheened in sweat. ‘Get me something heavy.’
The sergeant flicked his head at his even younger constable. The lad handed his uniform jacket to his sergeant and set off into the piles of rubble. He eventually came back with a silly grin and a torn strip of steel girder.
Sangster sized it up. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Hit it!’
The constable raised the girder in both hands and swung it at the dead man’s thick head. A lump of concrete broke off. Encouraged, the young officer swung again and more cracks appeared.
‘Go canny, now. Don’t smash the face up or we’re back to square one.’
The officer began delicately jabbing at his target using the steel like a spear. Suddenly the bucket-shaped lump broke in two. Too much sand in the mix. The constable used his boot to push aside the two halves of the concrete death mask and revealed the face itself. The tortured skin was bleached and burned by the lime. The nose and cheekbones were blue where the sadists had beaten him before drowning him in cement. His last moments had contorted his face in terror and anguish.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘In the name of the wee man!’
‘You ken who that is?’
I’d been otherwise engaged for the last seven years, so I asked the dumb question. ‘Who?’
Sangster curled his lips. ‘Ah thought you were a reporter? Do you no’ recognise Councillor Alec Morton?’
I stared down at the man. He looked worse with a name. My spirit revolted at this latest addition to my mental gallery of violent deaths. Was there no end to it? Then, behind us, came steps and a familiar cigarette-and booze-roughened rasp.
‘Did I hear you right, Chief Inspector?’ he called out.
I turned to see Wullie McAllister, doyen of crime reporting at the Gazette, strolling towards us. He was able to pose his question despite the fag jammed in the corner of his mouth. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up. His thin scalp shone in the greasy light. The years of mutton pies and booze had not been kind, nor had his choice of profession. He would be lucky to draw his pension for a year beyond retirement. Glasgow statistics were against him, against all of us. Was he my ghost of years to come?
I assumed Wullie’s query was aimed at Sangster. Seems Sangster had taken advantage of the war to get himself promoted.
Sangster turned to me. ‘The organ grinder’s arrived. You don’t have to rack your brains coming up wi’ penetrating questions any more, eh, Brodie?’ The remark garnered some sycophantic chuckles from his cronies.
‘Your sense of humour hasn’t kept up with your promotions, Sangster.’
I had the satisfaction of wiping the grin off his sallow face.
Wullie got between us. ‘I see you two are getting on like a hoose on fire.’ Then he saw what – who – lay at our feet.
‘Alas, pair Alec! I knew him, Brodie: a fellow of infinite jest, who liked his pint. That’s an awfu’ way to go.’
Wullie and I didn’t stay long. No one knew anything. No one had any idea why Morton had been murdered, far less why it had been so brutal. Sangster had run out of sarcasm. We left them to ruminate and walked out into the blinding light.
‘You knew Sangster, then?’ he asked me.
‘I knew of him. Saw him about. But never had the pleasure of working with him.’
‘He’s a hard bastard, but fairly clean. Relatively speaking, of course. Not the sharpest truncheon on the beat. More low cunning than great deductive brain. Watch your back, Brodie.’
Douglas Brodie 03 - Pilgrim Soul Page 34
