by Ian Todd
‘The party’s o’er, so it is, and we’ve been oot-flanked and betrayed by a bunch ae basturts close tae hame, so we hiv,’ Betty hid come oot wae, as everywan sat in Ann Jackson’s kitchen in silence, wondering whit wid become ae us noo and in the future.
‘Ach, don’t ye worry, girls, Ah’m sure Sharon’ll come up wae something, won’t ye hen?’ Issie hid declared, as everywan turned and looked at me expectantly.
‘Right, girls, Ah’ve been gieing this a wee bit ae thought fur a while noo and here’s whit Ah’ve come up wae. We’re setting oorsels up in the catering business, so we ur. Let’s see how they basturts like that,’ Ah’d announced.
So ye see, Helen. It’s no aw bad. We might be doon, bit we’re no oot yet, eh?” Sharon said smiling, reaching o’er and picking up some mair deid petals fae the bottom ae the gravestane.
Chapter Six
Elvis deliberately sat immobile oan the bench that wis screwed tae the wall, opposite the reception desk, amidst the developing chaos. He’d sat and ignored the obvious snidey jibe emanating fae alang the corridor tae his right, oot ae the mooth ae a fat-arsed, plain-clothed detective, who’d jist passed him a second earlier, dragging some poor soul wae a bloody mooth and a visibly ever-increasing swollen eye, by the hauncuffs intae wan ae the interview rooms.
“Uh-uh-uh, yeah, ooh-yeah-eh, Ah’m aw shook up!” the chortling voice hid rang oot loudly, jist as an attractive blonde-haired WPC, clearly distressed, hauf stumbled past where he wis anchored, sobbing, before slinging the white first aid box that she’d been carrying under her erm up and oan tae the front desk wae a clatter, then disappeared intae the wummin’s toilets.
“Hope she remembers tae wash they hauns ae hers,” he inadvertently muttered, before smiling tae himsel, as a drunken middle-aged wummin took a swing at a tall, lanky PC, who’d been in the process ae rifling through the pockets ae her flower-patterned pinny apron, in search ae some ID.
“Whit hiv Ah telt ye?” Pricilla hid moaned the night before, oan wan ae the rare occasions they’d eaten oot recently. “Furget yer work. Ye’re aff duty, fur God’s sake, Elvis.”
“Aye, well, ye won’t be saying that when ye’re scooting alang that lobby at fifty miles an hour tae the lavvy the morra morning, efter eating aw that shite,” he’d retorted, as the waiter placed a steaming, swirling bowl ae whelks doon in front ae her and he tucked in tae his meal that hid arrived two seconds earlier, masquerading as a two egg, plain omelette.
He’d need tae go caw-canny, he telt himsel again, wincing, as a hatchet-faced sergeant leaned across the desk and floored a lippy postman who wis gieing him a bit ae cheek, by whacking him o’er the heid wae his baton, before proceeding tae read oot the charges against him.
“Donald Bland, aka The Postie, aka Telegram Sam, aka Second Class, ye’ve been charged wae stealing the Queen’s mail, impersonating a postman and mair seriously, blagging poor people’s family allowances and auld age pensioners’ pension books, so ye hiv. Ye hiv the right tae remain silent, bit anything ye dae say may be written doon and held against ye in a court ae law. Hiv ye goat anything ye want tae say tae me before ye’re transferred intae custody fur further examination?” Hatchet Face asked the prisoner pleasantly, peering o’er the desk at the split skull in the middle ae the ever-expanding red puddle oan the flair.
“Oh ma heid,” the prisoner groaned, his legs and hips gieing a good rendition ae Elvis’s hips oan the prison gallery in ‘Jailhoose Rock.’
“Ah’ll take that as a naw then,” The Sarge replied drily, nodding tae the two wee broon-coated assistant turnkeys, who’d been hinging aboot excitedly, waiting tae drag another victim through tae the cells, as the front door ae the station burst open and a wee Ned came flying through it, quickly followed by two uniformed PCs, leathering intae him.
Elvis managed tae drag his eyes away fae the flying interruption being played oot in front ae him tae try and focus oan his ain mission. Inspector Duggie Dougan. The inspector wis a notorious, violent psychopathic shitehoose, known tae be free wae they hauns ae his and could be even worse than The Stalker across in Springburn, who he’d jist left twenty minutes earlier, and that wis saying something. Everywan knew these auld dinosaurs hated civvies wae a vengeance. The Stalker hid been so blatant in his utter disdain towards whit wis sitting opposite him, that Elvis hid actually blushed oan his behauf, so he hid.
“If ye wanted tae dae detective work then why did ye no join the force insteid ae fannying aboot playing at it?” The Stalker hid scowled at him efter he’d mentioned that it wis The Purple Crusader hersel, Cooncillor Barbara Allan, that hid suggested that he go and hiv a meeting wae The Stalker and Duggie Dougan. “And before we start, the answer’s naw, bit we’ll dae everything in oor limited manpower tae assist ye in any way we kin,” The Stalker hid said fur good measure, clearly covering his back.
Oan the way across tae Possil fae Springburn, he’d dissected everything The Stalker hid flung at him. In a place like Glesga, nothing meant everything and everything meant, well, everything. The question he’d been pondering wis how the hell did somewan like The Stalker know that he’d always wanted tae be a polisman? His da hid never hid the heart tae tell him that he wid be too short while he wis growing up, so when he read it oan the application form wance he’d turned twenty-wan, it hid come as a blow. Anyway, at least he hidnae been assaulted. Wan ae the previous sanitary inspectors, before he’d taken o’er responsibility fur the north, hid ended up wae a broken nose efter being accused ae taking the piss oot ae wan ae The Stalker’s pavement pounders who hid quite a pronounced stutter. Unknown tae the assailant, the sanitation officer in question hid an even worse stutter than the PC he wis alleged tae hiv been taking the piss oot ae.
“Well bless ma soul, whit’s wrang wae me…” the drunken wummin sang at him, trying tae shake they hips ae hers, as she wis hauf dragged past him, leering at him, between the two broon coats, in the direction ae the chipped blue door wae the plaque announcing, ‘CELL SUITE’ above it. Cell suite? He wondered whit comedian hid come up way that wan.
“Mr Presley? The Inspector will see ye noo,” another sergeant wae a rusty wire-wool heid ae hair informed him, startling him back tae the living nightmare being played oot in front ae him.
He wisnae too sure whit the joke wis, bit he knew it wis a filthy wan, as the red heided sergeant pumped a clenched fist back and fore at the side ae his face tae his sergeant mate, while his cheek oan the opposite side wobbled wae that tongue ae his stabbing against the inside ae it, behind the retreating back ae the wee blonde WPC, who’d jist exited fae the lavvy wae a new made-up face in place. Whitever it wis, the sergeant behind the desk obviously appreciated the joke, as he burst oot cackling loudly in wan ae the maist disgusting sounding laughs he’d heard in a long while.
“So, Mr Pres…er, Elvis, whit kin Ah dae ye oot ae?” The Inspector asked pleasantly enough, a friendly scowl threatening tae break oot across they jowls ae his.
“Well, there’s two reasons why Ah’m here the day, Inspector. First of aw, it wis a wee courtesy call jist tae introduce masel in the first instance…”
“Aye, Ah’d heard there wis a new Sani Man in charge, oan the go these past few months,” The Inspector acknowledged.
“Sanitation Officer.”
“Eh?”
“Ah’m a sanitation officer. In fact, the senior sanitation officer covering the north ae the city, tae be precise,” Elvis reminded him, flashing that fancy impressive new ID badge ae his in front ae the inspector’s face, instantly regretting the correction, as the cauld, yellow crocodile eyes across the desk fae him instantly clanged shut, intae slits.
“Ur ye, noo…” The Inspector growled, his voice barely audible above the increased intensity ae that breathing ae his.
“Er, aye, Ah wis, er, keen tae try and establish a good professional working relationship between us right fae the start, based oan mutual trust and respect, of course.
“Of course,” The Inspector acknowledged, tipping
his heid, as a big smile broke oot oan the coupon ae the desk sergeant, who wis noo sitting, balancing oan the back legs ae a chair against the wall, across tae Elvis’s right, an eager look ae expectation lighting up they sky blue eyes ae his.
Silence.
“And yer second reason?”
“Second?” Elvis hauf yelped, feeling a wee bit flustered wae the drap in temperature in the room.
“Reason fur taking up ma precious time,” The Croc’s voice rumbled, hivving tae remind him.
“Er, well, aye. Ah wis wondering if Ah could maybe spend a few minutes ae that precious time ae yers discussing the nocturnal activity ae wan Patrick McVeigh, also known as Black Pat tae everywan he’s been allowed tae poison o’er the past twenty or so years that he’s been active in the Possil area,” Elvis gulped, his voice trailing aff, as the inspector’s face started tae contort while the desk sergeant’s grin goat wider. “Of course, if ye’re too busy the noo, Ah kin always come back later, so Ah, er, kin…”
When the apparition sitting across fae him hid first plapped the cheeks ae that arse ae his doon oan tae the chair, the inspector hid, at first, thought that it wis a set-up. Skanky Smith, that desk sergeant ae his, wisnae too bright, bit he wis well-known fur his sense ae humour, considering the curly rusty mop he hid the misfortune tae hiv tae walk aboot wae, perched oan tap ae that napper ae his. However, the inspector knew fine well that whit wis sitting in front ae him wisnae a figment ae his or anywan else’s imagination, nor wis it anything tae dae wae Skanky Smith taking the piss oot ae him. This wis fully-fledged coo-coo noise-up material, let loose by some miserable sick basturt, doon in Central, who must’ve put Jerry Lee, Roy or whitever the fuck he wis called up tae this. Skanky wid’ve known fine well he widnae hiv been in the mood fur jokes, considering the excruciating pain in that haun ae his, which wis louping like a well skelped arse, efter ricocheting it aff ae Four Fingers Ralston, wan ae Black Pat’s enforcer’s foreheid, alang in the cellblock. He looked at Elvis, if that’s who he wis pretending tae be impersonating, sitting across fae him. He couldnae believe whit his eyes wur being assaulted wae. Thick, black shiny hair, slicked back, bit wae the front above the foreheid pushed forward in a swept back, exaggerated bop. Sideburns that wid’ve put Engelbert’s tae shame. Covering that weedy body ae his, a black shirt wae whit looked like clusters ae wee black diamonds oan each button. The collar, loosely held thegither by a shiny leather bootlace tie, clipped tae a skull and crossboned tie-pin, haudin it thegither. The jaicket oan the scrawny shoulders hid a black shiny silk taper aw the way roond the large collar and edges ae it. Wance again, each sleeve hid four wee black diamond clustered buttons at the cuffs. It wis obvious tae the inspector that this wis Roy Orbison’s attempt at toning doon his get-up. Christ, he’d hate tae see him in full regalia. How this haufwit expected anywan in the filthy café kitchens and the back prep rooms ae the butcher’s shoaps, strung across the north ae the city, tae take him seriously, wis beyond a joke. The fact that the stupid basturt obviously believed that Duggie Dougan, him, wan ae the maist respected, and some wid say, feared, polis inspectors in the toon, who’d tamed Possilpark single-handedly, the biggest crime-riddled midden in the north ae the city, wid be the exception tae the rule, hurt his sensitive senses and pride. It hid taken him o’er twenty odd years tae develop that reputation ae his and noo a wee caricature, wae a Glesga accent, trying tae impersonate a son ae Memphis, Tennessee, wis sitting in front ae him, expecting him, Duggie Dougan, a man ae the people, jist tae sit back in his ain station, as if it wis the maist normal thing fur somewan like him tae dae in that busy schedule ae his, tae be lectured by a…a...this nonsense hid gone too far awready.
“Er, if ye don’t mind, kin Ah ask ye tae remove they fancy aviator sunglasses ye’re wearing? It’s jist that, Ah like tae see the whites ae people’s eyes when Ah’m addressing them, Mr Presley.”
“Oh, right, Inspector,” Elvis said, obliging.
“Noo, whit Ah’m aboot tae say, Ah don’t want you tae be gaun away taking this too personally and aw that, son, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Elvis replied gratefully, getting comfy.
“Ah don’t know who the fuck ye think ye ur, strolling intae ma cop-shoap oan a fine sunny morning, wandering aboot the place, clearly aff yer trumpet, looking like Roy Fucking Orbison oan a bad hair day. Noo, Ah’m gonnae gie ye the benefit ae the doubt, alang wae a wee bit ae free advice, so Ah am,” The Inspector roared, gieing Skanky a wee nod tae get up aff ae that lazy arse ae his and across tae open that door. “If ye’re no oot ae ma sight and ma nick within the next twenty-two seconds in they winkle-picker boots ye’ve goat oan yer feet, Ah’m gonnae hiv ye arrested fur breach ae the peace, wasting valuable polis time and badly impersonating a mammy’s-boy, who couldnae string two short notes thegither despite crying in a fucking empty chapel. Hiv Ah made masel clear!”
“Bit…”
“Ur you still here?” The Inspector howled in disbelief, looking up fae his wristwatch, as Elvis The Sani Man leapt oot ae that seat ae his and disappeared past Skanky Smith, alang that corridor towards the reception and the safety ae the street beyond.
“Ah think Elvis his jist left the building,” Skanky observed drily, efter peering oot intae the corridor.
Chapter Seven
“Who have we got here, Mr Dunn?” Sheriff Clifford Burns asked the procurator fiscal, peering o’er the rim ae his glasses between his man and the well-dressed accused in the dock, as Elvis slipped in through the doors and grabbed the only vacant seat oan the pew in the back row ae the packed public benches.
“This, your honour, is one Patrick McVeigh, of three-three-two Saracen Street, Possilpark. McVeigh, I can assure you and everyone else in this courtroom is his birth name, although he has a string of nom de plumes the length of your arm, your honour. McVeigh or Black Pat, as everyone refers to him as, is charged with retailing mouldy and contaminated meat pies around the doors of a substantial number of residential streets in the north of the city…”
“Objection, your honour. My client is charged with selling two pies to one household containing two adults.”
“Accepted. Please stick to the facts, Mr Dunn, and try not to embellish. It’s me you’re in front of and not a jury. Carry On.”
“It was on the nineteenth of June, nineteen hundred and seventy-five, last Thursday, your honour, that Patrick McVeigh, aka Black Pat, The Pie Man, Foosty Pat or Ashet Pat, to name but a few of his nom de plumes, along with others, currently known, but with insufficient evidence for them to accompany the accused in to the dock, sold the said meat pies to innocent householders along Keppochhill Road, Springburn, thus putting their lives in danger. This despicable person, standing in the dock in front of us, is responsible for two innocent people being struck down with gastroenteritis poisoning, and who I may add, four days later, are still suffering as a consequence of consuming the said pies. As a result of the poisoning, health officials had to issue emergency alerts to the population in the north of the city not to consume large mince rounds, indeed any pastry type pies, from vendors selling their wares around the doors of the area. This was as a result of a Mr Andrew Watson, a retired butcher and his good wife, Marjory, falling victims after eating the said pies, your honour. Through diligent investigative work by both the police and sanitation officers, McVeigh was apprehended whilst walking along Saracen Street, with two of the said affected pies in his possession, on Friday afternoon and has spent the weekend in custody, until now.”
“And how does the accused, your client, plead, Mr Crankie?” The Sheriff interjected, peering doon at the defence brief who’d been sitting doodling oan a blue foolscap pad at the defence solicitor’s table in front ae him.
“Not guilty, your honour.”
“Carry on, Mr Dunn.”
“I would like to call the first witness, Mr Andrew Watson, your honour,” the procurator announced, nodding across tae the usher staunin beside the witness door oan the far side ae the courtroom.
&nbs
p; “Kin ye send in Mr Watson!” The usher shouted.
“Watson!” a voice fae beyond the door repeated.
“Watson…is Watson there, Mr Holmes?” Another voice shouted in the distance.
“Watson…” an even fainter voice wis heard shouting, fae whit sounded like miles away in the back ae beyond, as everywan in the public galleries burst oot laughing, under the stern glare ae the Sheriff sitting up oan that perch ae his.
“And you’re, er, Mr Andrew Watson?” The Procurator asked, addressing the pale-faced, wee perspiring witness, as he swiped his brow wae a large spotted hankie.
“Aye.”
“Residing at two nine three Keppochhill Road, Springburn?”
“Eh?”
“Living with your wife, in a tenement, at number two hundred and ninety-three Keppochhill Road, Springburn?”
“Er, that’ll be aboot right.”
“Can you tell the court what happened to you in the early hours of the morning of Friday, the 20th of June, Mr Watson?”
“Eh?”
“Something happened to you…and your good wife…in the early hours of the morning, some hours after you consumed a large mince round pie for your supper.”
“Oh, er, well…”
“Look, don’t be shy or afraid. Everyone in this courtroom today is here to support you and ensure that justice is swiftly served on behalf of you and your good wife,” The Procurator purred encouragingly, trying tae engender a softening and sympathetic tone in tae that normally shrill voice ae his.
“Well, er…”
“On you go, Mr Watson.”
“Right, well…” the witness started, hesitantly at first, coughing as he looked aboot the packed room, gieing his brow a good swipe before biting the bullet. “Me and that wife ae mine, aw ae a sudden, er, shat oorsels…unexpectedly like,” Mr Watson added efter a wee pregnant pause, as everywan in the public galleries burst oot laughing before Sheriff Burns rattled that gavel ae his fur a bit ae silence.
