One Hundred And Twelve Days

by Ian Todd

  “Dae ye think she’s settled doon a wee bit?”

  “Whit? Efter ye upset her the other morning there?”

  “Aye, that wis some reaction, so it wis. Ah knew she’d probably take it bad, bit Ah never expected her tae bloody well faint oan us efter throwing a wobbly.”

  “So, ye don’t think there wis an element ae faking gaun oan then?”

  “Faking? How dae ye mean?”

  “Well, obviously, she’d be shocked at the news ae her best pal’s sudden death, bit Ah think there wis maybe a bit mair gaun oan in there as well.”

  “Fur instance?”

  “The letters…or statements…fae the ex-polis lassies aboot aw that Irish Brigade crowd and whit they got up tae back in the day.”

  “And ur still at it, if Pricilla Presley’s tae be believed.”

  “Aye, bit where ur the letters noo?”

  “That’s whit we’re here tae find oot,” The Sarge reminded her, looking across at the closemooth again. “This enquiry’s gonnae be messy, so it is. You mark ma words.”

  “Aye, bit she’s hid time tae take it aw in. It wis clearly a shock tae find oot that Lesley Bare wis murdered by that horrible man ae hers.”

  “That’s no whit Ah’m talking aboot. Here we hiv an open and shut case. Wife challenges her husband fur raping an ex-colleague. He clearly denies it. She confronts him by producing Pricilla Presley’s written accusation. Husband then reacts by knocking the hell oot ae her, before punching her that hard, she ends up cracking her skull against the mantelpiece and dies oan route tae hospital.”

  “So?”

  “So, should we no be sitting back across in Craigie Street, writing up the investigation report fur the procurator fiscal then? It’s an open and shut case. There’s motive and plenty ae evidence that he seriously assaulted and murdered his wife, Lesley Bare. Despite claiming her death wis an accident, we’ve goat statements saying that he wis a serial wife-beater.”

  “In other words, we’ve goat the basturt bang tae rights, so we hiv. That’s whit ye’re saying?” Jean asked her.

  “That’s exactly whit Ah’m saying.”

  “So, tell me, why ur we sitting here, ootside Collette James’s closemooth and no across in the station writing the conclusion up…the only conclusion?”

  “Ah don’t know. That’s the problem. Did ye see the look ae horror oan Pricilla Presley’s face when we telt her aboot Lesley Bare?”

  “Understandable, under the circumstances,” The DC agreed.

  “Aye, bit the revelation aboot The Irish Brigade sexually assaulting aw they young WPCs doon through the years? Ye’ve goat tae admit that wis an eye-opener, so it wis.”

  “And will aw come oot in the wash at the trial.”

  “Will it?”

  “Of course it will. Pricilla’s typed statement is at the core ae the motive fur Lesley Bare’s murder.”

  “Aye, bit if that man ae hers pleads guilty oan the opening day ae the trial tae a reduced charge ae manslaughter, then there won’t be a trial, will there?”

  “There’s no way a plea wid be accepted,” Jean exclaimed. “That basturt battered his wife o’er a sustained period. Everywan and their dug knew that. The statements fae the neighbours will be able tae corroborate that. It wis obvious that her life wis in danger and only a matter ae time before he ended up killing her.”

  “Bit, whit if a plea is accepted, Jean? There goes the opportunity tae get justice fur aw they victims.”

  “Victims? Whit victims?”

  “Aw the wummin that suffered at the hauns ae they basturts o’er the years. The poliswummin that wur raped, slapped aboot, abused, before eventually hivving tae resign. Whit aboot them? Unless that comes oot in court, then they’ve nae chance ae getting justice, so they hivnae.”

  “Ah think we’re talking aboot a separate set ae charges and trial here, so Ah dae,” The DC reminded her, looking at her colleague.

  “Oh, come oan, Jean, you know fine well that they’ve nae chance ae being able tae file a report ae systematic sexual assault against a number ae young, vulnerable, WPCs stretching back fifteen years.”

  “Why?”

  “Ur you bloody jesting me or whit?”

  “So, it’s the letters we’re efter then?”

  “Whit else? If we kin link them in wae Pricilla’s statement against Teddy Bare, then there’s bound tae be an investigation and charges, following oan fae his trial,” Wilma said.

  “Daddy Jackson’s been suspended, as his Bobby Mack, Sally Burke and Billy Liar. That only leaves two inspectors still staunin…Mickey Sherlock fae the flying squad and Jings Johnston, oot in Yoker and they’ll be oot oan their arses soon enough, whether we kin tie them in tae the ex-poliswummin or no. Why bother? Ye’ve jist said so yersel. He’ll probably wangle a plea. That new superintendent wan, whit’s her name?”

  “Munro… Murdina Munro.”

  “She’s been brought in tae clear oot the nest here in the north, so she his. Aw they basturts will be gone by the end ae the month. You mark ma words.”

  “Ah’m talking aboot justice here, Jean.”

  “Justice? Aye, Ah kin see where ye’re coming fae, bit you tipping o’er a bucket ae shite oan tae an awready shitey flair, by digging up the past, involving serving polis inspectors, who Superwummin is awready dealing wae? Well, Ah kin awready see a few wee spoilers unravelling as we speak, so Ah kin.”

  “So, whit ur ye saying then?”

  “Whit Ah’m saying is that Ah know where ye’re coming fae, bit you tipping in mair shite tae an awready fill bucket wullnae go doon well in certain quarters.”

  “So, we should furget it…is that whit ye’re saying?”

  “Whit Ah’m saying is, that you’re ma boss and Ah’m here tae dae whit Ah’m telt. If you think there’s mileage in gaun efter The Irish Brigade, even though they’ve brought somewan doon fae The Highlands tae dae jist that, then that’s fine wae me, so it is,” the detective constable replied, smiling.

  “Charlie Blue Two, come in. Over,” the radio crackled, as the baith ae them looked at it.

  “Charlie Blue Two, receiving. Over.”

  “Where ur ye Blue Two? Over.”

  “We’re sitting ootside number forty three Lawrence Street across in Hillheid. Over.”

  “Well, kin ye nip alang tae number seven Hayburn Crescent, in Partick Hill immediately? Streaky John McGinnis his jist been discovered, slumped o’er a desk wae an open cheque book in his haun, wae a bullet in the back ae his heid, up in that big fancy hoose ae his oan the Kirkie Road. The hoose ye’re gaun tae check oot belongs tae John McClure, aka John The Haun. Ye might want tae be careful wae that wife ae his. She’s known fur assaulting the polis when they turn up at her door unannounced, so she is. Over.”

  “Er, bit we’re still south. Over,” The Sarge said intae the mouthpiece, looking at Jean wae a puzzled frown.

  “Naw, ye wur and noo ye’re no. Baith you and Detective Constable Moffat hiv been transferred tae help oot in the north, due tae the lack ae experienced murder squad officers as a result ae the suspension ae Bobby Mack and Sally Burke. Ye’ll be telt who ye’ve tae report tae later. This his come fae Chief Superintendent Mackerel himsel. So, unless ye’ve anything else that ye urnae happy wae, Ah’d make haste forthwith. Over and oot.”

  Chapter Eight

  “This shouldnae take us too long, Collette, hen, and then we kin aw be getting oan wae other mair important things in life, like being oot there in the fresh air catching the real bad guys, eh?” she remembered The Sarge fae the south’s murder squad saying tae her somewhere in the distance, breaking through her confused contemplation at the time, following the nod towards the frosted glass wae the dark fuzzy ootlines ae the vertical steel bars behind it that let in the natural light.

  And tae think the day hid started aff fine and dandy. She thought she could remember excitedly leaping oot ae her bed oan the Saturday morning at the crack ae dawn, gieing Mr Hopkins, her hoose cat, a bit ae a fright in th
e process. She’d supposed it hid been a wee while since he’d seen her so excited aboot anything. Surprisingly, it hidnae even bothered her at that time ae the morning tae be up and skipping aboot, as she’d hummed away tae auld Marge’s record player fae doon below her, as Kris Kristofferson bawled his eyes oot aboot wishing he wis stoned oan a Sunday morning. It hidnae bothered her that she’d hid tae use a good wee bit ae elbow grease tae wipe aff the dried cat shit fae the wall above the sideboard opposite her new, unpainted ootside door. She’d gied the poor wee thing a good scratch behind the ear tae try and make it up tae him. It looked as if he must’ve been lounging oan tap ae the sideboard hivving a wee efternoon snooze, when the gunman hid blasted her ex-lover and nemesis, Duggie Dougan, in the back wae baith barrels ae a sawn-aff shotgun the day before. Although seemingly happily wandering aboot, humming alang tae the music, the doubts aboot the night before hid raised their ugly heid and she’d wondered if she’d been imagining hivving been drapped aff at her closemooth by the big chookter sergeant fae The Highlands. Of course it hid happened, she’d kept telling hersel. She also remembered regretting no taking him up oan his offer tae escort her up the stairs, as her trepidation increased wae each exhaustive step, as she slowly made her way up past the dark landings, scared ae whit she’d find when she reached hers at the tap. Although every effort hid been made tae clean up the bloody mess that wid’ve been splattered across the tap three steps and landing, the grey dusty patches fae where the fingerprint boys hid been and gone, hid still been evident oan her door surroundings. Before fumbling tae get that door ae hers open, she’d drapped her keys, efter she’d come across whit looked like teeth marks oan the red painted door jam, jist tae the right ae her new lock. When she’d arrived at Possilpark Polis Office tae start her shift at six o’clock oan the Saturday morning, her first day as a supposedly fully-fledged promoted sergeant, she’d been waylaid by her new boss, Inspector Garden something McPhail. She knew Garden wisnae her first name, bit fae whit she could remember, it sounded something like that.

  “Well, well, my wee quine, you must be Collette, my newly promoted sergeant. Here, take these. It’ll probably be later in the day before you get to sew them on to your sleeves,” she’d said in welcome, haunin o’er a pair ae new shiny, silver sergeant’s stripes. “But, before you do anything, lass, you’ll have a few people who want a word in your ear first,” The Inspector, sounding too jolly fur that time ae the morning, hid sang, nodding tae the two wummin sitting stiffly opposite the front desk, eyeing her up.

  “Is there somewhere we kin speak tae Collette in private, Inspector?” wan ae them hid asked politely.

  Before the new inspector could reply, Collette hid stupidly intervened, the brand spanking new stripes obviously gaun tae that thick heid ae hers.

  “We kin go in here,” she’d gaily volunteered, the new inspector’s jolliness obviously rubbing aff oan her, as she led them in tae the first interview room in the corridor that led tae the cell suite.

  Despite trying, that first initial introduction in front ae the desk, wis the only thing she could remember hivving taken place, other than wee snatches ae garbled questions being asked ae her. It wis only later that she’d remembered that it wis her that hid invited them alang the corridor tae the interview room tae interrogate her. How daft wis that? She wis sure that it must’ve been aroond aboot that time, that she’d suddenly goat it intae her heid that she hidnae been drapped aff by the big chookter sergeant the night before efter aw. No only that, bit she certainly hidnae been promoted tae sergeant oot ae the blue. Bit, where hid the new stripes come fae, she wondered? And did that mean that there certainly wisnae a superintendent, a female guardian angel, who’d said her name wis Murdina something or other? She couldnae remember the introductions wae the other two. Wan hid definitely been a sergeant…jist like her…naw, no like her. Her promotion, she noo realised, like everything else, hid jist been a figment ae her imagination. It wis then, sitting in interview room number wan, opposite the two wummin polis officers, that she’d suddenly realised, that she wis still part ae the nightmare fae the day before, only noo, things hid somehow moved oan withoot her noticing how that hid happened. Aw the coming and gaun hid jist been a plot tae get her tae let her guard doon, tae fool her intae confessing. It hid become clear that she wis still under arrest…bit fur whit? The other wan sitting there, hid been a detective constable, she thought. Bit efter that? Everything hid become a bit ae a blur. She remembered glancing across at the two ae them, sitting oan the other side ae the bolted-doon steel table fae her. The aulder ae the two, the sergeant, hid said they wur fae the murder squad, based in Craigie Street, across in the South ae the city. Murder? Who’d been murdered? It couldnae hiv been Duggie Dougan, because that hid been a figment ae her imagination as well. Teeth marks oan her door frame? When she’d gone oot first thing in the morning tae hiv a look, the white dusty imprints left by the fingerprint boys fae the day before hid disappeared, if they’d been there in the first place. Also, it hidnae been a lock that she’d goat poor Jean Campbell’s brother, Harper Harris, tae replace before she’d died ae an overdose doon in The Broomielaw, bit the actual door itsel, even though she couldnae remember whit hid been wrang wae the original wan. Oan closer inspection in the morning, there hid been nae teeth marks either, at least, none that she could find. She remembered looking aboot fae her side ae the table in interview room wan. She’d never sat oan that side ae the table before…the accused’s side. Oot ae the five interview rooms in the cell suite corridor, this wis the only wan wae a windae in it. She’d only ever been able tae nab it the wance, in the six months she’d been stationed up in Possil. Some ae the boys in the station wur known tae leave their prisoners lying oot in the yard, cooking in the back ae a Black Maria, in the baking sun, until the room became free. The other four rooms wur smelly, stuffy, graffiti-scored boxes. Some interviews could last five, maybe six hours at a time. She’d soon realised that she’d obviously been transferred up tae Possil fae Central the night before, although she couldnae remember the journey. Surely it widnae hiv been in the back ae a Black Maria? The confusion in that heid ae hers hid continued tae go intae overdrive. Why, she’d wondered, wur a pair ae murder squad detectives fae the south side, wummin at that, introducing themsels tae somewan like her? The last time she’d been across the Clyde hid been the other week there, when she’d arranged tae meet some wee pushy nurse, whose name she couldnae remember noo, tae try and get The Showgirls, Glesga’s answer tae the auld suffragettes, tae try and help her expose serious sexual harassment ae a group ae ex-poliswummin by a bunch ae basturts that went by the name ae The Irish Brigade. Why hid the meeting wae the nurse eventually taken place in The City Café up in Castle Street, opposite The Royal? Castle Street wis nowhere near the south side ae the city. Nowan, as far as she wis aware, hid been murdered in the café when she’d been sitting there. Even if there hid been, it widnae hiv involved the murder squad fae the south ae the city. She shook her heid and peeked oot between the curtains fae her windae doon oan tae the cobbled street. The car wis still sitting there. It wis aw very confusing. The north hid their ain murder squad. She remembered stupidly thinking that the interview room, the wan wae the windae, that she’d been sitting in wae the two detectives oan the Saturday morning, hid been far better than the big, gloomy dark office wae the wooden creaking flairboards under the broon lino up oan the second flair, doon in Central, that they’d hid her sitting in the previous night. And whit hid become ae Chief Inspector Bobby Mack, another ex-lover and confirmed Irish Brigade member and that auld boss ae hers fae the sex squad, Sergeant Sally Burke? She’d picked up through the mists ae her clogged brain that Honest John McCaffrey, The Hoosewife’s Choice, who owned the big fridge and washing machine shoap oan Dumbarton Road, hid goat his brains blown oot while sitting in a parked car across oan Woodside Road, a few hours before she’d been arrested. It wis obviously a high-profile assassination. Bobby wid’ve wanted tae be in oan that, especially seeing as it wis oan his
patch…north ae the river. Wis that the reason why she’d ended up sitting wae two murder squad detectives fae south ae the Clyde up in Possil? Hid they been drafted in tae take o’er her interrogation? And where the hell wis Graham Portoy, supposedly the best criminal lawyer in the toon? It made sense fur Bobby Mack tae be oot and aboot, toying wae and charming the arses aff the journos, trying tae get intae the knickers ae anything wae a pulse under the age ae 25 wae a microphone or notepad and pencil in their haun. How the hell did she know that Honest John hid been wiped oot, she kept asking hersel o’er and o’er, believing if she could remember that, then everything else wid fall intae place. She still hidnae a clue who’d telt her, she muttered tae hersel, taking another quick peek through the curtains. Also, whit the hell hid become ae the strange superintendent...the wan covered in braid wae the white face and blackcurrant lipstick? She could’ve sworn that wis the guardian angel, her guardian angel, who’d arrived oan the scene doon in Central oan the Friday night, like something oot ae a Lone Ranger film and ordered her tae be released. So why hid she been sitting up in the Possil cop-shop in the best interview room in the building, being interviewed by two wummin fae the south’s murder squad?

  “Dae ye mind if Ah hiv a wee puff?” she remembered asking, looking intae the eyes ae the sergeant.

  “Sure,” her partner, The DC, hid replied, wae a wee affirmative nod.

  Silence.

  She’d been dying tae say tae The Sarge that she hidnae seen her lips moving, bit the DC hid sounded pleasant enough.

  “Er, Ah don’t hiv any…Ah don’t normally smoke…unless Ah’m stressed, that is,” she’d admitted.

  Silence.

  “We don’t smoke either…sorry,” DC Moffat, that wis her name, hid replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. “We could maybe get somewan tae nip oot fur a packet, if ye want…if ye’ve goat the money oan ye, that is.”