Fair Friday

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘If we can’t collar them by tomorrow evening we’ll alert the bank and wait for them there.’

  ‘Do we draw firearms, sir?’ Montgomerie sucked fiercely before speaking.

  ‘Not yet.’ Donoghue took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it on one side while he wrote on his notepad. He tore the page off and handed it to King. ‘I want you to call on this address and speak to a woman called Samantha Simonds. She lived there five years ago, she may well still be there. Talk to her about her flatmate of five years ago, Anne McDonald.’

  ‘Samantha Simonds.’ King looked at the piece of notepaper. ‘That I suppose is the SS in Bill McGarrigle’s abbreviated notes. Do you want me to look for any involvement on Spicer’s part?’

  ‘Good man.’ Donoghue smiled. ‘But be discreet. Ray and I are going to Dunlane. We’ll meet back here at’—he glanced at his watch—‘say six p.m. Montgomerie, you stay out on the street. Don’t report in unless you have an concrete information about the whereabouts of McCusker and his pals.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Wherever do they get their names from, Jug…’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, sir.’

  ‘No, I expect you haven’t. Oh, and Montgomerie…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Try and stay off the booze during working hours. It’ll help your thought process.’

  Sussock declined Donoghue’s invitation to join him at the Burger bar for a snack. He went instead to the small room with tables and chairs and a cooker and fridge which was optimistically referred to as the ‘canteen’, and began to forage for food. Eventually he had three slices of nearly stale bread, a chunk of very stale cheese and a tin of beans, the dust on which indicated that it might have been resting in the corner of the bottom cupboard since the day ‘P’ Division station was built in 1927. He hustled himself beans on toast and grated the cheese over the meal. He cleared his plate ravenously and then set about hunting for the ingredients of a cup of tea. Nobody had left any teabags lying around but someone had been careless enough to leave a jar of instant coffee on top of the refrigerator—good stuff too. Sussock carried the steaming mug of coffee up to the CID rooms and drank it while reading King’s Sunday paper. The meal would see him through until evening because he was nothing if not a survivor. He drained his mug and went down to the car park at the rear of the building to meet Donoghue.

  HM Prison Dunlane began life in the late eighteenth century as the country home of a newly rich Glasgow tobacco merchant. It was built in the low rolling hills of southern Lanarkshire and had passed through a succession of owners before coming into the possession of the Scottish Office. It then became an open prison which, with ingenious use of outhouses, gatehouses and prefabricated ‘temporary’ buildings, housed seventy-three prisoners, staff and the families of staff. Fabian Donoghue turned his Rover through the tall stone gateposts and put the car at the long driveway, three-quarters of an hour after leaving central Glasgow.

  He pulled the car smoothly to a stop outside the main door of the old house. The prison officer on duty at the door inspected their IDs and escorted them to the administration block where they were received by Deputy Governor Brewer.

  ‘I’m sorry to arrive with only a phone call as notice, Mr Brewer.’ Donoghue and Brewer shook hands. Donoghue glanced out of the window on to a lawn at the rear of the building on which a football match was being played, with all players stripped to the waist.

  ‘The Scottish obsession with football is a mystery to me,’ said Brewer. ‘They’ll grab any chance of a game, even on a day like this.’ He shook hands with Sussock.

  ‘Can’t see how they can tell one side from the other.’ Donoghue smiled.

  ‘Please, take a seat gentlemen.’

  Brewer was a young man, hardly in his thirties, he was tall and well built, and seemed to Donoghue to have an odd mixture of military manner and small boy charm. Behind Brewer’s desk, on the bookcase, was a picture of a squad or RAF personnel in dress uniform, drawn up in front of a fighter aircraft. Donoghue surmised that Brewer had recently joined the Prison Service from a commission in the RAF, but never having been in the Armed Services, could tell nothing else. Ray Sussock, though, had done his national service in the RAF just after the last war, he’d seen the world as far as Cornwall and had risen to the rank of corporal in the RAF Regiment. He immediately identified Brewer as a pain in the arse chinless wonder from the catering corps, who, despite the deadly-looking aircraft in the photograph, had probably piloted nothing more than the squadron jeep.

  ‘Coffee, gentlemen?’ asked Brewer.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Donoghue. Sussock grunted.

  Brewer picked up the phone on his desk and requested a pot of coffee. Replacing the receiver, he asked how he could help, addressing only Donoghue.

  ‘It concerns a prisoner known as Jack Gilheaney. also known as “Granite” Gilheaney.‘

  ‘Ah,’ said Brewer.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh yes. Quite well. He’s on my wing and I’m in the process of collating all his reports. He’s applied for parole and his application will be heard at next week’s parole board.’

  ‘Bit early in the piece for parole, isn’t it?’ asked Donoghue.

  ‘Much too early. He’s only just transferred in from Peterhead, less than twelve months ago, and he was very lucky to get an open prison so early in his sentence. He committed a particularly brutal murder, as I imagine you know. However, he’s now entitled to apply and so his appeal will be heard.’

  ‘How do you rate his chances?’

  ‘Nil.’ Brewer stood and took a file out of the cabinet which stood next to his desk. ‘Like I said, it’s too early in the overall sentence of fifteen years and it’s also too early in his stay here. We haven’t really assessed his suitability for a less structured environment, such as ours.’

  ‘How was he transferred from Peterhead?’ asked Sussock.

  Brewer looked at Sussock with a puzzled expression, and then said ‘Oh, I see, why was he transferred? I’m new to Scotland and some of the expressions are still strange, but my wife’s picking it up rapidly. She’s already going for her messages instead of doing the shopping. Well, why was he transferred? He’s been in and out of institutions all his life; he was no discipline problem in Peterhead; he’s getting on—at forty-two he’s a very old lag, most prisoners are in their twenties and thirties—and he was regarded as a burned-up recidivist, that’s how his Senior Hall Officer at Peterhead described him in the transfer report.’ Brewer leafed through the file. ‘Yes, here it is: “Gilheaney is a burned-up recidivist. He has no place in a top security gaol as a category A prisoner,” unquote. So with that and the fact that Peterhead is bursting at the seams, they transferred him here. But we’ve got a lot of work to do with him before he’s ready for parole.’

  ‘What work?’ asked Donoghue.

  There was a tap on the door. A warder entered the office with a tray of coffee and biscuits which he laid on the table. He then left the room quietly.

  ‘Well, he’s very institutionalized. He’s spent most of his life inside: grew up in an orphanage, been inside mental hospitals and prisons, never had a job to speak of, criminal convictions for violent crime of an impetuous nature. His last offence, the murder of that girl, is the only offence which suggested premeditation. He apparently ambushed her near her home; he must have found out her address and planned it very thoroughly. Generally though, his acts of violence seemed to arise out of frustration, so what we are doing here is gradually giving him more freedom so he can develop tolerance and self-discipline.’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘Too early to tell yet, but he’s not given us cause for concern so far.’

  ‘What does he say about the crime, his last?’

  ‘Maintains his innocence, which by the way is another reason why he won’t get parole. Acceptance of guilt is a prerequisite of parole. He still clings to that cock-and-bull story he made up when arreste
d.’

  ‘That he went to meet his solicitor?’ said Sussock.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brewer. ‘Do you know the case?’

  ‘I arrested him.’

  ‘Oh really. Apparently he fought all the way.’ Brewer turned the pages of Gilheaney’s file.

  ‘Yes. Never changed his story despite the reaction it got in the High Court.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Open laughter. It didn’t faze him at all and he repeated it a few months later in the Court of Criminal Appeal in Edinburgh.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Brewer. ‘He’s clung to the same story despite derision from other inmates.’ He leaned forward and began to pour the coffee. ‘But other than that he hasn’t used any direct action to draw attention to his professed innocence. No rooftop demonstrations, no hunger strikes; he’s too tame, too unimaginative. His biggest problem is choosing recreational pursuits instead of being told what to do.’

  ‘How bright is he?’ Donoghue reached for a cup of coffee.

  ‘Well, here’s the psychologist’s report.’ Brewer handed Donoghue a sheet of paper. ‘You’ll see that he seems to be down to earth, he doesn’t have any flights of fancy or any tendency to withdraw into himself. He did well on the dictation test, writing it all down, joining letters and separating words, a few spelling mistakes but that’s nothing to worry about. I think it says there that he can read an article in a tabloid newspaper and show an understanding of it in a brief discussion. He knew the date and the name of the Prime Minister.’

  ‘The psychologist notes no evidence of emotional or psychological disturbance, but below average intelligence.’ Donoghue handed the report to Sussock.

  ‘I think that’s a trifle unfair,’ said Brewer. ‘Do help yourself to biscuits, gentlemen. You see, it doesn’t allow for an acute inferiority complex which doesn’t permit Gilheaney to exercise his full potential. I’ve spoken to him and observed him with other inmates, and occasionally there’s a spark, a sudden release of intellectual energy so to speak, then he gets overawed and retreats back into his usual flat self. It doesn’t surprise me that the psychologist dismisses him like that, I’ve yet to meet a psychologist who possesses a real degree of insight. However, for Gilheaney, it’s too late. He’ll never be able to overcome a lifetime in institutions.’

  ‘What is his history?’

  ‘Brought up in a gigantic children’s home near Aberdeen, army, a bit of an itinerant according to his form. Listen to this. Wolverhampton Magistrates: three months for assault. Newcastle Assize—that dates him—two years for GBH. Then he was detained under the Mental Health Act in a hospital in Greater London. He was there for three years and that, I think, did most of the damage.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Donoghue.

  ‘Well, simply because institutional life in a mental hospital is soporific. They sit in their pyjamas all day drugged up to the eyeballs with only token therapy. The army and prison are institutions, but the regime is vigorous and there’s the guarantee of freedom to cling to, at least for most of them. There’s no such guarantee in mental hospitals; you’re in and drugged up until the administration lets you out.’

  Donoghue nodded.

  ‘Well, after he was discharged from the hospital he worked his way west. Reading Magistrates: one month for drunken behaviour. Swindon Magistrates: one month drunk and disorderly. Cardiff Crown Court—by the time he got to Wales the Assizes had been replaced by the Crown Courts and the one at Cardiff sent him down for a couple of years for assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘Depressing, isn’t it?’ replied Brewer. ‘The gist of the rest is that he makes his way north over a period of four years with only small stretches inside, finally ending up in Glasgow five years ago facing a charge of murder. He was all of thirty-seven at the time.’

  ‘And he’s been here for one year?’

  ‘Almost twelve months, yes. His Senior Hall Officer says that Gilheaney gets on with the other inmates; he’s accepted rather than been part of the in crowd, which is basically the football team.’ Brewer nodded towards the window. ‘The other inmates also give him a certain amount of respect because of his age. The chaplain has hardly seen him, which is unusual because most of the inmates who are coming up for parole tend to be regular attenders at chapel, Bible class and the Alcoholics Anonymous group.’

  ‘But not Gilheaney?’

  ‘No. His supervisor at the workshop says that he’s a steady hand, gets on with his job and doesn’t idle about or talk too much. He works in the tailor’s shop, on the pressing machine. Actually it’s one of our more responsible jobs.’

  ‘A model prisoner.’

  ‘It’s going to be one of the best parole reports in a long time when I’ve assembled it all,’ said Brewer. ‘He won’t get it, though, for the reasons I’ve given; also because prisoners tend not to get parole at their first application as a matter of policy, but mainly he won’t get it because of the police report, from your office no doubt.’

  ‘Who sent it in?’

  Brewer looked at the bottom of the report. ‘It’s signed by a Chief Superintendent Findlater. He says that the crime was a brutal assault, the girl was stabbed a number of times in the chest and she was also strangled. He goes on to say that it was a premeditated attack and the experienced investigating officer described it as one of the worst he’d ever seen.’

  ‘Did you say that, Ray?’ asked Donoghue.

  ‘I can’t honestly remember, sir.’

  ‘Would it be possible to interview Gilheaney?’ Donoghue sipped his coffee.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Brewer, and picked up his phone.

  ‘I don’t think it would be wise for you to be present, Ray,’ Donoghue said, turning to Sussock. ‘I’ll see him alone.’

  Donoghue was startled to see how small Gilheaney was. He stood at the entrance to the agent’s room, holding his hands crossed in front of him, looking blankly at Donoghue, slight and thinly built, probably a few inches over five feet tall.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ said Donoghue, and then added, ‘please’.

  Gilheaney shuffled in and sat on the chair at the other side of the table. The agents’ rooms were housed in what was once the grooms’ quarters above the stables of the old house; they were cramped and dim. The only decoration was a NO SMOKING sign in rigid black letters.

  Donoghue introduced himself. He asked about the food and he and Gilheaney chatted about the conditions in comparison to Peterhead. When he thought Gilheaney was relaxed he said, ‘You’re in here for murder. Will you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘How long had you been in Glasgow before you were arrested?’

  ‘About a month. That’s about how long I can last without causing trouble for somebody.’

  ‘Where were you staying?’

  ‘Guest-house on Great Western Road. I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘You can remember the name of the road,’ said Donoghue.

  ‘It sticks in my mind. It’s a name which sounds like it’s got somewhere to go.’

  ‘So how did you cause trouble?’

  ‘Och, it was nothing. I had a bottle of wine and I was singing in George Square. I wasn’t out to do anybody any harm but I was making a noise right enough.’

  ‘You were arrested?’

  ‘Aye, but I wasn’t kept in. I was charged with Breach of the Peace and summonsed to appear before the Sheriff. I got a week’s notice, like, so I went and saw a solicitor. It was summertime and I don’t like being inside when the weather’s good. I was hoping to get off with a fine. Without a solicitor I thought the Sheriff would jack me back inside so I went to the first solicitor’s I saw.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I don’t remember all the names but the one I saw was called Spicer. He had a funny wee arm.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I saw him and he t
ook all my particulars.’

  ‘You mean your history and details of the charge.’

  ‘Aye, and where I was staying.’

  ‘How long were you with him?’

  ‘Long time.’

  ‘Hour?’

  ‘Two more like. It was one of the best services I’ve ever had. He was really getting to know me. Most of them, they just have you in for ten minutes and they don’t really listen. There was one guy in England, he got my details mixed up with another guy’s, started telling the beaks all about my children. Me, I never even had a girl-friend, except one girl in Catterick but that was a long time ago. She…’

  ‘Let’s stick with Glasgow,’ said Donoghue. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘See, well I gone over this in my head so many times I’m not sure I’m not mixed up.’

  Donoghue grunted involuntarily. He felt Gilheaney’s statement to be disarmingly honest. ‘Tell me what you think happened.’

  ‘Well, Mr Spicer gave me another appointment for a couple of days after I first saw him. He said it was to go over my plea with him and just check on a few details, something like that. He wrote it on a little card and gave it to me. When I went back to keep the appointment his secretary said he was busy and seeing no one. She was rude, really rude, saying bad things to me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Said something about Mr Spicer couldn’t be bothered with filth like me, called me rotten and scum, words like that. I know I done bad things, sir, but a young lassie shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I showed her the card with the date and time on it. It was a bit screwed up having been in my pocket but you could read it all right. Anyway she snatched it and tore it up and told me to get out because I was making the place stink.’ He fell silent.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I started to shout, sir. I know I shouldn’t have done it, I know I should have fallen in with the routine but I didn’t want to go inside in the summertime.’