by Ian Todd
“Bloody greedy basturts,” Mr Murder hid cursed in the dark.
“Who?” The Sarge hid asked.
“They bloody power workers. Aw commie basturts, every last wan ae them,” he’d replied, jist as the clackity-clack heels ae a broon-coated turnkey arrived oan the scene fae alang the corridor, panting as he popped that wee bald heid ae his roond the door, a torch waving aboot in his haun.
“Ah’ve goat youse a desk and some chairs up oan the second flair, Chief,” he’d announced through that cleft pallet ae his, the glow aff ae the torch turning his face intae a grotesque, luminous, Halloween cake.
“Any news?” The Chief Inspector hid demanded, flustered, making it obvious fur aw tae see that he wis clearly dreading the reply.
“It’s jist been announced that Daddy Jackson his been suspended,” The Turnkey hid replied tersely, clearly still in a state ae shock himsel.
“Fucking hell!” The Sarge hid exploded.
“Anything else?” Bobby Mack hid squeaked.
“Aye, bit it isnae related tae the events up at The High Court in Edinburgh. Honest John McCaffrey, the washing machine guy wae the big shoap oot oan Dumbarton Road, goat his heid blown aff across in Woodside Road, this morning…”
“Fur fuck sake!” Mr Murder hid exclaimed. “Why the hell wur we no telt?”
“Aye, some gangster Ned drove up oan a motorbike in broad daylight and parked up behind that fancy Roller ae his,” The Turnkey hid drawled, ignoring the question, savouring the moment. “Seemingly, the pillion oan the back goat aff and casually strolled up tae the driver’s side and let the fat, sweaty basturt hiv it at point blank range, so he did. They said that the two front seats and dashboard wur awash wae blood, bits ae brain and a strong stench ae shite, so they wur.”
Collette turned and looked across at the windaes. It wis starting tae get dark ootside noo, bit at least the leccy hid come oan as a beam a light hit the ceiling above the open stairs in the flair that the turnkey hid disappeared doon. The Sarge hid leaned forward and blown oot the candle at the same time as she switched oan the flaked auld desk lamp. The scene in Central noo, surrounding her, reminded her ae wan ae they auld American detective polis series that she’d overdosed oan as a wee wean. Dixon ae Dock Green and Z Cars wur never a patch oan the American wans. ‘Dragnet’ hid been her favourite. She tried tae remember the sombre warning fae the TV presenter, at the beginning ae each and every programme, jist efter she’d switch oan the telly and scurry back across the lino-covered flair oan tae her da’s knee, in preparation ae putting oan their best frowning glares, before reciting alang wae the American voice aff ae the telly…and then it came tae her. ’The story ye’re aboot tae see is true; the names hiv been changed tae protect the innocent.’ That’s whit it hid been. The American wans wur always far superior because ye wur mair likely tae catch her favourite scene, in black and white of course, ae a dimly lit interrogation room, wae a solitary lamp sitting oan tap ae the desk between the interrogator and the huckled, miserable looking hauncuffed prisoner. Before long, efter the good-guy-bad-guy routine clearly wisnae working, the angry, frustrated interrogator, usually the wan in charge, staunin there in his shirtsleeves and braces, always lost his rag and ended up ranting like a banshee.
“Here it comes,” she’d always squeal tae her da wae glee, jist before the LAPD lieutenant angrily snatched up the lamp, twisting the heid ae it roond tae shine intae the face ae the baddie sporting the seven o’clock shadow oan his jowls, as his junior buddy jumped forward and pulled him away fae the sneering prisoner.
She’d loved watching that scene fae between they wee fingers ae hers, sitting oan her da’s lap, the lights oot, their shadows fae the shifting scenes oan the screen ae the black and white telly dancing back and forth across the ceiling and loud flower-patterned living room wallpaper surrounding them.
“Right, let’s start again,” The Chief Inspector announced, coughing, hivving a wee swatch at the face ae his fancy Rolex, before lighting up a tipped fag.
“Kin Ah hiv wan ae them?” she asked.
“Help yersel,” he replied fae within the blue cloud, looking across at her, sounding surprised, before tossing o’er the fag packet and box ae Swan Vestas tae her side ae the desk.
She hesitated before picking up the packet. It wis the Swan Vestas. That’s whit that basturt ae a pal ae his used aw the time. None ae they shite Bluebells fur the likes ae him, he’d growled at her wance, efter reminding her tae pick up a box ae matches fur him oan the way up tae the station back when she wis allowed tae phone in tae say she’d be a wee bit late tae start her shift. She’d also wondered at the time whit hid become ae her da’s gold Dunhill lighter that she’d stupidly gied him as a birthday present efter convincing hersel that she wis in love. Due tae the madness that wis Possilpark Polis Station, she’d soon forgotten aw aboot it, until it hid been blatantly flaunted under that nose ae hers in his office by some wee newly arrived flavour-ae-the-month floozy.
“When did ye start smoking then?” The Sarge asked her, sounding surprised, a few wee concertina folds rippling up that caked foreheid ae hers.
Ah, of course. Collette remembered making a big song and dance aboot hivving tae be sitting in the passenger seat ae the undercover squad car wae The Sarge, who’d been sitting puffing away aw night, wan fag efter the other sticking oot ae that face ae hers, when they’d been sitting up in Blythswood Square, opposite wan ae the dark cobbled lanes, hoping that the rain wid go aff before they hid tae get oot and nab some well-heeled accountant hivving a knee trembler, efter hivving watched him haggle o’er the price fur five minutes wae a well-known local streetwalker.
“Me? Start smoking?” she replied, conscious that she must’ve looked startled at hearing another female voice in the big empty office space, as she struck the match against the sandpaper side ae the box. “Ach, jist since meeting up wae you doon here again,” she replied, in-between puffing like a wummin possessed, trying tae light the damn thing like a true professional, before violently swishing the lighted match furiously and tossing it, still smouldering, in tae the roond Bon-Bon sweetie tin that the desk’s daytime resident hid adopted as an ashtray.
“Sorry fur the interruption, Chief, bit Ah’ve jist been telt tae tell youse that Graham Portoy will be a while yet,” Halloween Cake Face panted breathlessly, his face popping up through the flair, across the semi-darkness ae the room. “Seemingly, he wis physically evicted efter causing a scene in the casualty department, up at The Royal. He’s demanding tae know the identity ae some young jailbird that’s jist been wheeled in under escort fae doon in Dumfries. He claims that the patient might be wan ae his clients, bit the hospital authorities are denying him access. Ah’ve jist heard Billy Liar telling Mickey Sherlock fae Serious Crime & Intelligence that Portoy’s trying tae get Sheriff Burns tae order the hospital authorities tae release the name ae the patient, bit they cannae find him efter he wis clocked being picked up by a taxi behind the courthoose oan Ingram Street at hauf past five, while trying tae avoid the protesters roond the front. Portoy his telt the evening news that if the patient is wan ae his clients, then he wants instant access tae him. Fae whit Ah kin gather, nowan’s sure who the prisoner is. There’s a rumour that it might be the Taylor boy, the wan who shot Big Liam Thompson in that bank job up in Maryhill Road and who The High Court in Edinburgh ordered tae be let loose this morning. They reckon Portoy will be a good while yet, as apparently, it’s like a bloody circus roond in Lanarkshire Hoose, due tae Taylor’s campaign crowd refusing tae leave the building efter The Home & Health Department, who ur in charge ae prisons, hiv refused tae disclose why Taylor wisnae immediately released efter the court order earlier.”
“Thanks, Mike,” The Sarge acknowledged, smirking at the disappointed expression that hid suddenly appeared across the prisoner’s coupon opposite her.
“So, any mair pronouncements fae the Gods up oan the tap flair then?” The Chief wanted tae know wae a wee nod ae that Kirk Douglas dimpled chin ae his
towards the ceiling.
“The heid procurator fiscal, David Broderick, his announced his retirement. Glenda Metcalfe, the wee nippy procurator fiscal wae the pert tits, his also jist been informed that she’s been promoted tae heid up the procurator fiscal’s services in the district courts across the city. Claims she’s chuffed as punch wae the promotion, so she is,” Halloween Cake Face scoffed, dismissively. “The Evening Citizen is first oot ae the trap and is demanding heids, so it is. Ah think there’s a lot mair shite tae hit the fan before the night is oot.”
Silence.
None ae the three ae them, sitting huddled in the shadows roond the table, acknowledged that parting prediction, as Luminous Face disappeared doon through the flair. They aw seemed lost in their ain thoughts. The nervousness ae the chief inspector wis mair pronounced noo as well. In fact, Collette detected a wee tremor in they hauns ae his that hidnae been there before. How could he live his life like this, she wondered. She wished she knew whit the hell wis gaun oan. Why wis she being interviewed by the likes ae Bobby Mack and Sally Burke fae the murder squad? Why wur they no oot there trying tae track doon Honest John McCaffrey’s assassins? Something didnae make sense, bit she jist wisnae sure whit it wis.
“Right. Oh, aye. Where wis Ah noo? Collette James, currently residing oan the tap flair landing ae number forty three Lawrence Street, Hillheid,” The Chief Inspector read aff ae the newly discovered sheet, even though he knew exactly where she lived. “Born oan the twenty-second ae February, nineteen hunner and fifty-wan, up in The Rottenrow, which made ye twenty-four oan yer last birthday,” he intoned, face deep in her personnel file. “And up until the day, at approximately three thirty five this efternoon, efter arriving back at Lawrence Street, hivving left yer flat at approximately eleven o’clock this morning, ye wur a serving poliswummin based up in Possil, and hid been, since…since March ae this year,” he informed her, looking up, obviously tae catch her reaction tae the ‘and hid been’ bit ae his statement. Getting nae immediate response, he carried oan. “Before that, ye’d been based doon in Central under Sergeant Burke here, since joining The City ae Glesga Polis, noo Strathclyde, back in June ae seventy-two. Wid that be right?” he asked her.
Collette wanted tae lean across the table and gie him a right good slap across that kisser ae his, bit of course, she didnae. Whit wid be the point? And anyway, she didnae want tae gie oot the wrang signals tae this pair, no under the circumstances she noo found hersel in. Things wur difficult enough as it wis, withoot her adding tae them. She wondered if The Sarge, sitting there staring at her intently, hid ever worried that somewan like her wid’ve been likely tae hiv come back tae haunt her efter she’d left Central. Stupid question. Of course she must’ve wondered. The Sarge hid always made it her business tae keep tabs oan whit became ae her ‘Street Tartlets,’ as she affectionately called them. Collette’s recent erratic behaviour and the gossip this past wee while wid’ve alerted somewan as sleekit as Sergeant Sally Burke.
“Ah’ll always be here fur youse, day or night, so Ah will,” she’d coo tae them in tears, when any ae them moved oan tae other duties or stations, especially the wans that she’d obviously hid a haun in progressing.
Of course, that’s no whit hid happened in her situation. Aye, she’d broken the rules, bit she hidnae committed a crime…at least, no in the eyes ae the law. It wis only oan reflection, sitting there, that she noo realised that it must’ve been obvious tae everywan, except her, that The Sarge couldnae wait tae get shot ae her. Why the hell hid she and that other shift sergeant pal ae hers fae the Sex Squad never contacted her tae offer the same sound advice or a shoulder tae cry oan, that they regularly did wae the other lassies, she wondered bitterly. Hid Sergeant Burke no complimented her and boasted tae aw the other inspectors, efter taking her roond the stations, introducing her tae them, highlighting the fact that she’d been the maist successful Street Tartlet between the two teams during the whole ae 1973? Of course, she now knew that the reason fur the visits wis either fur everywan tae recognise her and tae watch oot fur her if they wur ever oot and aboot, picking up a streetwalker behind their wives’ and girlfriends’ backs, or parading her in front ae the inspectors tae let them see the fresh meat that wis waiting oan any ae them tae come forward. Nowan ootside the force wae any sense wid’ve been surprised tae discover that there hid been, and still wis, wee illicit affairs gaun oan between the inspectors doon in Central and the freshly cropped, newly recruited WPCs, arriving oan the first Monday ae each month tae be telt where they wur tae take up their duties. If anywan wis wanting tae track doon an elusive inspector, there wis a fair chance that ye’d find yer man doon at the swearing-in ceremony at Central oan that particular Monday. Whit the great unwashed members ae the public widnae hiv been aware ae wis whit wis gaun oan in the central, west and north divisions…naw, she’d need tae rephrase that…probably aw the divisions across the city, fur aw she knew. She could tell the chief inspector wis sitting there, angry as hell wae her, before she admitted tae hersel that this wis probably the understatement ae the year. He wis absolutely bloody seething wae her. She could tell. She’d been there. She knew the signs…aye, aw the signs. She could also tell that he wis worried. Worried that their sordid wee secret wid surface and contaminate the water and dae his career prospects some damage. God, how bloody stupid could ye be? It wid be mair than his career prospects that he’d need tae be worried aboot. The stupid prick wis aboot tae be swamped like a hauf-droont rat. The baith ae them wur, bit tae look at the pair ae them, it wid be hard tae recognise anything other than silent determination tae get their man, or in this case, their wummin. She couldnae believe how much she noo hated the basturts. And tae think she hid been…wis…wan ae them. She suddenly hid a wee vision ae a group ae inspectors, The Sarge in the middle ae them, aw huddled in a room somewhere, probably doon here in Central, no far fae where they wur noo sitting, attempting tae get their shit thegither, exploring how tae limit any damage that might come their way fae the fallout. Fuck them, she thought, trying tae feel brave as the doubts started tae creep intae her brain, asking hersel if it hid been a good idea efter aw tae pursue them. They’d denied that she wis being arrested…helping them wae their enquiries they’d said. Oh, mother ae God, her brain screamed, as she fought hard no tae succumb tae the feeling ae faint that hid washed o’er her like an ice cauld wave. Whit hid she ever done that hid been so bad? Why her? Aw she’d ever wanted wis tae be loved.
“As Ah’ve awready telt ye…Chief, Ah think it wid be better if Ah waited until ma brief arrived before saying anything,” she replied stiffly, choosing her words carefully, feeling annoyed at hersel fur allowing a wee feart tremor tae escape fae the back ae that throat ae hers.
“Ah’m only asking ye tae confirm yer bloody date ae birth, Collette, fur Christ’s sake. Okay, how aboot this wan then? Why in heaven’s name wid a serving, junior polis officer, a WPC at that, require the services ae a high profile criminal brief like Graham Portoy, eh?” The Chief Inspector scowled, exaggerating his irritation, his eyebrows reaching fur the tip ae that widow’s peak ae his.
Silence.
“And whit’s wae you and that weirdo wan, Elvis The Sani-Man?” The Sarge followed through wae, either no being able tae contain that warped curiosity ae hers or else deliberately trying tae increase the tension awready hinging in the air.
“Eh?”
“Elvis…wid that be a professional relationship then?” she drawled sarcastically.
“Ye don’t seriously think that me and him ur hivving a…”
“Why no?” The Sarge interjected, sneering, shrugging they padded shoulders ae hers, making it clear that Collette’s reputation since being hastily shifted oot ae Central hid followed her up tae Possil and back again.
“Ma job…as Ah understood it, hid been tae liaise…”
“Liaise? Ha!” The Sarge scoffed dismissively, exaggerating the dirty sounding laugh, glancing sideways at her boss tae see if it wis jist her that hid heard right, as The Chief
Inspector smiled, crossing they legs ae his, lighting up another tipped fag.
“Aye, liaise,” she retorted, feeling her face flush, her fear turning tae anger fur the first time since she’d been hauncuffed at the corner ae Byres Road and Lawrence Street and escorted doon tae Central earlier.
