The Man with No Face

by Peter Turnbull

  Montgomerie had said, yes, he knew the sort of thing, and after a glance at the file of Grenn, Ronald, which told a tale of endless convictions for petty theft and motoring offences, and which contained a photograph of a thin-faced, weak-chinned individual with a long crooked nose and wiry black hair. Leaving Glasgow by the A74, he took the A72 to Lanark, to Biggar, to Peebles and eventually to quiet Innerleithen, nestling in the hills, the nearest town to Traquair Brae Open Prison. He enjoyed the drive, he didn’t often get to turn a wheel of this nature at the company’s expense, just he, and he alone, save for Paul Simon or Nancy Griffiths on the hi-fi. And once beyond Lanark he was in strange country, flat, rolling hills, forests, buses of the Lowland Scots Bus Company serving rural routes, a castle by a river of clear water surrounded by Douglas fir, under a wide sky; two horses, one larger than the other, galloping together in a field with a bronzed autumnal backdrop, large houses set back from the road, the occasional other motorist, the wide, quiet central street of Innerleithen where he stopped and asked directions for Traquair Brae at the hotel. He noted the directions given clearly in a distinct Borders accent by a man in a yellow cardigan and a not-to-be-trifled-with manner. The directions took him to a pair of stone gates, a gatehouse and man in a uniform who asked him to enquire at the main house.

  Montgomerie drove up the narrow drive, his progress slowed by frequent speed ramps, and the remoteness of location continually reinforced by the large numbers of rabbits which darted out of the rhododendron bushes across his path. The road went on, Montgomerie found himself mustering faith that the main house would appear. He found himself wishing he had noted the mileage his odometer showed when he stopped at the gatehouse. Then, through a gap in the rhododendrons, at a lower level than the road, he caught a glimpse of a football match, a team in red and a team in blue. Houses appeared, set back from the road, of a bungalow type, nestling in the foliage, leaves on the small front lawn and eventually, the road opened out into a courtyard in front of a large mansion, grey stone, beneath a grey and darkening sky. Self-effacingly, he parked his VW beside a gleaming Mercedes Benz and pondered that salaries in the prison service had clearly improved of late.

  ‘Ronald Grenn.’ The man, Assistant Governor Laing by the nameplate on his desk, leaned back in his leather chair, causing the fabric to squeak. ‘So that was him. I heard the news at lunchtime…well, well, well. The lads will be upset…I presume you’re releasing the name?’

  Montgomerie pursed his lips. ‘I presume so…frankly, I can’t see any reason not to…’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep it to myself just to be on the safe side…but if it’s released the boys will hear it on the evening news.’

  ‘I wasn’t told not to release the name to the cons. In fact, if I’m going to be able to chat to any who knew him, I’ll have to tell them he’s no longer with us.’

  ‘You don’t have to, but if you want cooperation you’d be better doing so, especially here in an open prison.’ Laing’s office was wood panelled, a large window made up of smaller glass panes looked out over the car park, and to the sun sinking beneath a distant skyline, giving the impression that a wood was burning. Laing himself was a young man, about late twenties—ex-services, judging by a photograph of a submarine on the wall behind his desk. And could that, Montgomerie wondered, be an even younger Laing, white peaked cap, bearded, on the conning tower of said submarine? ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘By telling us what you know about Ronald Grenn. We’re a bit short of background at the moment. We know little about him, not enough to explain who—or why—would want to shoot him stone dead, just a day or two after he was released.’

  ‘Ron…Ronnie to his pals…he was just an inoffensive wee guy…tended to be a follower, but he was well suited to the open prison…joined in the haggis hunts we have from time to time…the warders hide haggises in the grounds

  ‘Haggis hunts?’

  ‘They’re popular, as I said, warders hide haggises in the grounds and the inmates root around hunting for them, once found they’re cooked up and scoffed. Have to be quick though, you’ve no idea how quick the foxes are round here. The “hunts” are done at night, you see.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Not all the inmates take part, those who’ve been convicted of white-collar crimes, people with some education, turn up their noses at such antics, dare say I would if I were in here, against my wishes, that is…but many enjoy them. It may seem an emotionally immature pastime for grown men, but remember that these grown men have, for the greater part, the emotional maturity of the average ten-year-old and so haggis hunts have their appeal.’

  ‘I see. And Ronnie enjoyed them?’

  ‘Aye…he was what you’d call a wee softie, not a lot of bottle about Ron Grenn, allowed himself to be led around…being inside didn’t bother him…that’s probably why he enjoyed the haggis hunts. We have guys in here who’ve been in the professions, thrown it all away, embezzled money, for example…men like that go into a deep depression upon conviction, and while they’ve recovered by and large by the time they get here, they still think that such childish games are beneath them. So they lock themselves in their cubicle and listen to classical music on their hi-fi equipment. Others don’t join in the merry-making because they have an all-consuming sense of guilt and don’t believe they should be allowed any form of enjoyment.’

  ‘Ron Grenn was neither.’

  ‘No. He gave us the impression that he was happy to be in prison, many people are. They’ve got their cot and three and that’s all they want. That’s not so common in an open prison where escape is easy…if people can’t cope with the responsibility asked of them in here, all they have to do is walk down the drive and stand on the road. It happens. We go after them and find them just standing there and we’ll say, are you coming back or do you want to be reported as an escapee? Most of those who’ve got that far will ask to be reported and then they’ll run just for the hell of it, just to see how far they can get. People like that are asking to be put back where they’re locked up and escape is difficult, they feel safer, they don’t like being given responsibility, even for themselves. It frightens them.’

  ‘But Ron Grenn cooperated?’

  ‘Fully. He came to us from Peterhead, before that he was in Barlinnie.’ Laing opened a file. ‘He got seven years. He was out in four and a bit…So he was arrested, six months in the Barlinnie prior to trial, sentenced to seven years, spends another six, twelve months in there, transferred to Peterhead to break rocks for a period of…two and a half years and spent the remainder of his sentence with us doing pin drawings and haggis hunting. Not bad really. Half a million quid for being a kept man for four and a half years, half of which is spent in an open prison which has been likened to an extended stay at a health farm…balanced diet, sports equipment, grounds to run in…’

  1 saw a soccer match.’

  ‘Oh, we have tennis courts for the summer…plenty of good reading material in our library…limited access to tobacco and no access to alcohol, people can leave here physically and emotionally refreshed. I can understand the sentence of seven years. It seems lenient, in fact.’

  ‘He never talked about his crime?’

  ‘Not to the staff. He might have spoken to one or two of the inmates…one guy in particular, “Weasel” Iveson, seemed to latch on to Ronnie Grenn. If I know “Weasel” it would have been because he could smell money…I didn’t know if our Ronnie said anything…I may have been a bit dismissive of Ronnie and his enthusiasm for childlike games, because if his sentence tells us one thing, it tells us that he can keep his mouth shut and that he plays his cards close to his chest.’

  ‘Good point.’ Montgomerie nodded.

  ‘But “Weasel” Iveson’s your man if anybody is. You’d like to talk to him?’

  ‘If that’s possible.’

  ‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’ Laing smiled and picked up the phone on his desk and tapped two numbers. When his call was answered Montgomerie he
ard him ask. ‘Yes, AG Laing…can you find, er…I can’t remember…oh yes, Sandy Iveson…a.k.a. “Weasel” and bring him to the agent’s room, please. Thanks.’ He replaced the phone gently, sensitively, almost sliding the handset on to the rest. ‘Left me for a moment.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘His name…so used to referring to him as “Weasel”.’

  ‘But it’s Sandy.’

  ‘Alexander, invariably shortened to “Sandy” in Scotland and “Alex” in England.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh yes. I served in the navy with a guy called Alex, Alex Lutyens. The English have strange ways, believe me. I served in a navy full of them.’

  Montgomerie grinned. He found himself liking Assistant Governor Laing. He asked if Ron Grehn had had any significant visitors during his time at Traquair Brae.

  ‘Hall officer would be the best man to put that question to. All visits are logged, the prisoners have to send visitor’s passes to their relatives and friends and we keep a record of all passes issued…his mother visited once or twice, but she’s elderly as you’d imagine, mind like a tack but her bones were chalk. She was brought by a charity, some people organized themselves into an escort service for elderly people, they’ll take elderly people anywhere within half a day’s drive…that is half a day out, half a day back, for the price of the petrol only and with two weeks’ notice.’

  ‘So as long as the return journey can be completed in one day?’

  ‘Is another, neater way of putting it’—Laing nodded—‘but she was brought by them on two occasions…I imagine that she found the journey tiring and didn’t have a great deal of dosh and so two visits in two years was all that she could manage one way or the other.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yes. I mention it because it didn’t speak of a wide family network. I mean, if he had been blackballed from the family, I’m sure a relative would still drive his mum to visit him.’

  ‘It’s interesting from another point of view as well.’ Montgomerie glanced out of the window at a now scarlet sunset. ‘It means that Ron Grenn didn’t have access to any money while inside, and he wouldn’t be able to get credit from gangland for anything he went down for, otherwise his old mum wouldn’t be in poverty like that…he stole gems worth…half a million…he’d reset the lot by the time he was arrested, which was only a day or two after the raid…he’d left his fingerprints everywhere…that’s what happened…he’d no time to collect hard cash for the gems so he served his time, ate his porridge, went to collect upon discharge and got his head blown off. Simple.’

  ‘So all you have to do is find who he was into for half a million quid? No wonder he got offed. I mean, what would you do if some inoffensive wee guy comes knocking on your door asking for a considerable wedge with no means of enforcing his claim except a threat to go to the polis? He was soft in the head for even trying if you ask me.’

  ‘Aye…he was asking for it right enough.’

  ‘I can’t…’

  There was a tap on Laing’s door.

  ‘Yes?’

  The door opened. A uniformed man in his fifties stood in the doorway. He nodded to Montgomerie and then addressed Laing. ‘That’s Iveson in the agent’s room now, sir.’

  ‘Thanks. Mr Minford

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Could you please cut along to records and bring me the file on Ronald Grenn? He was discharged a couple of days ago. The file won’t have gone off to the Scottish Office yet.’

  ‘Records. File on Ronald Grenn. Right away, sir.’

  ‘We knew each other in the navy.’ Laing nodded at the closing door. ‘Ex-Chief Petty Officer Minford, good man, helped me find my feet. He was the sort of father figure who looms over gawky young officers and says things like, “That is not a good idea—sir”. The British armed services depend on men like Mr Minford. But, as I was saying before he came in, I can’t think off hand of other visitors, but his record will tell us and lo, who should walk in but the stalwart Mr Minford, who obliges us by fetching said record. Something for you to glance at when you’ve had a chat with “Weasel” Iveson. Don’t let him get hold of you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I don’t mean physically, but it might be a good idea to have someone in with you

  ‘He might not talk so easily.’

  ‘I’ll make sure someone’s outside the door. Iveson…I can only warn you about him. He’s dangerous. Manipulative is the wrong word, he’ll try to control you…he can play mind games…’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You might know the type. He’s been eating porridge now for ten years and he’s ruined a lot of people…other prisoners have lost their remission for good behaviour because they found themselves doing what Iveson wanted them to do…and one prison officer with twenty years’ service is now serving time himself…lost everything because he helped Iveson to escape. The story follows Iveson from slammer to slammer…the prison officers never allow themselves to be alone with him because he can control one person if he can, but not two, can’t control two…the story is that the prison officer who helped Iveson escape said, “I went along with him, he controlled me. I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but I went along with it. He controlled me…” or words like that.’

  ‘A dangerous man.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Schedule One offender, specifically sex with a minor, many acts of the same with many minors. We know about his daughters but rumours apparently persist about many other children, of both sexes, whose lives were ruined by him…anyway, he’s in the only place for him.’

  ‘An open prison?’

  ‘He’s nearing his release date…dare say you’ll be notified if he moves to Glasgow but he’s a Dundee man, and I think the Scottish Office will be notifying Tayside Police of a Schedule One offender in their community, especially since in one of his rare unguarded moments he was overheard drooling with anticipation about what he referred to as “Tayside fairies”.’

  Montgomerie grimaced and put his hand to his stomach.

  ‘Gets you like that, doesn’t it? But he’s served his sentence, we can’t keep him in.’

  ‘The Yanks can. Did you know that? So I heard, of the likes of the “Weasel” Iveson. They say all right, you’ve served your sentence but we think you still represent a danger so you won’t get out. Last I heard, the legality of it was being challenged.’

  ‘I should think it is!’

  ‘But I can see the argument for it, and I can see the argument against it.’

  ‘But thankfully this is Scotland. We don’t have that issue to deal with.’

  ‘So, Iveson…all I can say is thanks for the warning.’

  ‘I’ll take you along there. Come and see me when you’re finished.’ The two men stood. ‘I’ll be interested to know how you got on. And Ron Grenn’s file will be here for your perusal by then.’

  Ray Sussock sat in his room. It was, he found, cramped. It had long ago failed to appeal to him because of its cosiness. He had escaped here during the bitter entrenched winter of the Glasgow Knife Murders case, the case in which Elka Willems had been stabbed. Then it had been as a haven, a small room, a single bed, a wardrobe, a small writing table and chair and an armchair. He had a small hi-fi system under the writing table and an old portable black-and-white TV which he kept on top of the hi-fi set. When he wanted to watch TV he would move the upright chair from in front of the writing table and sit looking at the TV, at a wide angle to the screen. His room had a small sash window which looked out into an elevated lawn at the rear of the house. When he had moved into the room, escaping Rutherglen, he had found sanctuary here. But now it was small, so, so, small -a cell, warm and dry but a cell, and now the walls seemed to close in on him. The room itself was in a large house in the West End of the city which had once been a family home of a merchant banker or a shipping magnate or some such, but now was divided up into a warren of bedsitt
ers. Now, in the mid afternoon, midweek, the old house was silent. In the mornings from seven-thirty onwards for an hour there is a rustle and hubbub of noise as people leave for their work. At five p.m. or thereabouts they begin to drift back, some early, just wanting to get home, others later, having had an after-work drink. Then the noise begins. The couple upstairs from Sussock will scream at each other, threatening murder, and one day, Sussock fully anticipated, one will plunge a knife deep into the chest of the other and then collapse over the corpse making distraught protestations of abiding and everlasting love. And the two men who share the room next to Sussock’s room and share the bed in that room which they insist upon pushing up close to the dividing wall will come home. Sussock never knew which he found more insensitive: the grunts of their coupling, whenever, like passionate loveis would, they could couple: before leaving for work, as soon as they got home, each weekend afternoon, or their hi-fi equipment, which would boom, boom, boom, through his wall. Sometimes the two sounds would be mingled, boom, boom, grunt, gasp, grunt, boom, boom. There was the man in the room across the hall, a young man who seemed to change his name with the phases of the moon, a new name is a new identity, a new identity is a new hope. Last time Sussock had met him in the hallway he was sifting through the mail on the table between the door and the mirror, tearfully looking for a letter for ‘Billy’. Sussock had said, ‘Hi, Tom,’ and the young man had said, ‘No, no, it’s Billy…there’s no mail for Billy.’ On occasions the young man would be found sitting on the edge of his bed with his door open, a water pistol in his hand, fighting off sleep, waiting for the Martians that were coming to abduct him. Eventually he would collapse, exhausted, and he would not be seen for some months, though a lady from the Social Work Department ensured that his rent was paid. He would return, calling himself Fred, he was always Fred when he returned, calm, he no longer became tearful when there was no mail for ‘Billy’ or Tom’ or ‘Cy’ or ‘Angus’, and many weeks would elapse before he sat up all night awaiting the Martians, calmer certainly, easier to live with certainly, but away somewhere. Sussock was happier for the young man when he was distressed, not out of malice, but because it was only when he was distressed that he seemed to be alive and thinking and feeling, and part of the world.