Gallowglass (19 page)

THIRTY-NINE

I
stubbed out my cigarette and got up. I’d been right; he was short but about the same width across. The shoulders and biceps were stretching the stitching of his cheap suit. He looked up at me, clearly hoping I’d punch him to show how much pain he could take, before exploding all over me. He nodded towards the far corner. I went ahead of him, praying he didn’t frisk me. I got to the table and looked down on Frankie Elliot. His eyes were ferrets running up and down my face and body, then they stilled and bored into mine. I don’t know if it was anger or madness that fuelled him but I didn’t want to find out.

‘Sit doon,
Chief Inspector
. Looking for some fun? A girl for the night? Free drinks? We’re always happy to look after our pals in blue. Especially if they’re playing away frae hame.’

Rena, smart girl, despite all her terror, had picked up the rank and the location. I sat down opposite him, with my back to Senga. I hope she didn’t think I was being rude.

‘Call me Dave. If I can call you Frankie?’

‘Only ma friends get that honour. Are we gontae be pals – Dave?’

‘Why not?’

He nodded. ‘Depends why yer here. So what’s it to be, Dave? Girls or booze. Or do you want something a wee bit stronger. Hell, maybe boys are your thing? Eh, lads?’ He turned to his Praetorian Guard and got their dutiful laughs.

‘I appreciate your kind offer, Frankie, but not tonight, thanks. I’m here about a murder. I need your help.’

His dark eyes were dancing again. Did it reflect his mental gymnastics or what he was taking? Methadone? Coke?

‘A murder? That’s a weighty deed. Whose? Is this a murder that’s happened or one you’d like to see happen?’ He got his laughs again.

‘Could we maybe have a wee chat, just the two of us?’

He looked at me for a while. ‘You twa, fuck off. Don’t go far though.’

The short heavies grappled with gravity and hauled their bodies upright. Then they meandered off and stood on the far side, arms folded, watching us and waiting for a signal to run back and pulp me. Cop or no cop. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I got up and moved round to sit beside him. The chair was hot. I saw out of the corner of my eye the bodyguards unfold their arms and twitch, like bulldogs. A cop had just taken their seat. Frankie didn’t blink or move back. We were now both looking to the stage. Senga was making love to the front tables.

The front tables were trying to ignore her.

‘She’s not bad,’ I said, tactfully.

‘She’s shite, but she’s cheap and naebody listens. Tell me about murder.’ He turned his head and smiled a dirty smile at me. It seems murder was a subject that took the chill off his stone-cold heart.

‘A man called Gibson. Fraser Gibson.’

Frankie’s smile disappeared. He looked rueful. Guilt? ‘Who?’

‘Your pal, the banker.
Sir
Fraser. The bloke you played golf with. Spliced the mainbrace with.’

‘Oh, him. Single shot to the forehead,’ he said professionally. ‘A .38.’

I nodded. ‘Close up or good shooting. It would have been quick. The bullet spun on entry and mangled up his brains.’

‘Better quick.’

‘You don’t seem very upset at losing a pal.’

He shrugged. ‘I hear they got the guy. The
Gazette
man. Then
he
took a fall.’

‘So he did.’

‘That’s an end to it then.’

‘No, Frankie, just the start. Why was he sending you money?’

The smile returned. ‘Who telt you that?’

‘You’re not denying it.’

‘Ah’m not saying anything, except who telt ye?’

He really wanted to know. I could see him pointing his guard dogs at the ‘someone’ and smiling as they tore him to bits.

I shook my head. ‘It’s all in the books, Frankie. The bank books. The books of account. The Silver Dollar accounts for twenty-three thousand pounds of Fraser Gibson’s spending over the past year. We’re pretty sure it wasn’t interest on your savings account.’

‘You arresting me?’

‘Not if you’re helpful.’

Frankie looked up and about, then snapped his fingers. A waitress appeared by the table and leaned close. Frankie spoke and she left, only to return in a moment with a bottle of Bell’s and two glasses. Frankie poured three fingers in each and pushed one to me.

‘I don’t squeal, copper. Frankie Elliot disnae squeal.’

‘Understood. Code of honour and all that.’

He glanced at me to check if I was taking the piss. I went on. ‘It’s a simple question: why was Gibson paying you so handsomely?’

He grinned, then he called the waitress again and whispered to her. She looked up at me, nodded and disappeared through a side curtain. I waited. Frankie waited. The curtains twitched and a woman came out. A different species to Senga and her ilk. The best thing I’d seen all night since leaving Sam. She was slender, dark-haired and doe-eyed, and way too classy for this sticky-floored joint. She sashayed over to our table, smiled at Frankie, then me, and sat down. Her dress was a dark wrap-round and exposed her smooth throat in a gash of curving white. Her smile rocked me. I hoped she wouldn’t say anything; how could her voice live up to the rest of her?

‘Sindy, this is Mr Bruce. You can ca’ him Dave.’

Sindy stretched out her slim bare arm and I pressed her warm fingers. She used her middle finger to brush the palm of my hand. It sent a shock up my body.

‘That’s Sindy with an “S”. As in
sin
.’

It was a well-honed line but it sounded fresh in my biased ears. Her voice was deeper and more exciting than I could have hoped. East coast perhaps, educated, enticing. Sindy, not Candy. I’m surprised the Gourock yacht club secretary didn’t remember it right. But then his blood only boiled for mermaids.

‘Nice to meet you –
Dave
.’

‘And you, Sindy. Do you sing?’

She flashed a row of small white teeth. ‘Only when I’m happy. Or taking a bath.’

She put the emphasis on
bath
, slowing it down and stretching it out to conjure an image of her naked in a hot tub, glistening with soap and bubbles, hair carelessly pinned up, proffering a sponge and inviting me to scrub her back. Or her front. I turned to Frankie, waiting for an explanation.

‘This is what he was paying for. You can see how a man could run up a bill. A big bill.’

His grin said,
And I ken fine you’d run up some debts too, Mr Chief Inspector
.

He could be right. At that moment, all I wanted to do was spring up, grab Sindy by the hand, run out the door, set her up in a flat in Hyndland, and run her a bath.

‘Your point’s well made, Frankie. I have one last question for you.’

Frankie nodded his head at Sindy. She rose in one lithe motion, smiled at me as though she was genuinely sad to say goodbye, and swayed out between the curtains.

‘Ye can put your e’en back in, Mr Polisman.’

I blinked. ‘Quite a girl.’

‘A wee jewel. Ask it, then I’m going to ask
you
to leave. You’re bad for business.’

I leaned over the table to get his attention. We locked eyes.

‘Gibson was shot in the head after being kidnapped by two men. If this reporter from the
Gazette
was one of them, that leaves at least one other still out there. We also think there was a ransom, a big one. It’s missing. The whole thing doesn’t add up.’

‘What’s your question?’

‘Why did you kill Gibson?’

For one second his intensely focused gaze broke. He blinked in obvious surprise. Then he smiled.

‘Yer aff your fuckin’ heid, Dave. Why the fuck would
I
shoot one of ma best customers?’

I sat back. He was telling the truth.

‘So who did, Frankie? If there were at least two kidnappers, who was the second one?’

‘Ye’ve had your quota o’ questions. Ah’m no a clype. And Ah’m certainly no’ a copper’s nark. Drink up, Chief Inspector, and bugger off.’

I got to my feet, and suddenly two gargoyles were on either
side of me. Both had hands in their tight jacket pockets. Digging for something. Their hands formed fists. Chunky fists. Deformed with knuckledusters.

‘It’s OK, boys, I can find my own way out. By the way, Frankie, after Senga’s performance I think I deserve a refund.’

He looked at me and laughed. ‘The entertainment comes free. Except for Sindy, and a’ ye got from her was a smile. And I paid for yer drink.’ Nevertheless he stood up, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wad. He peeled off a fiver and stuffed it in my top pocket. ‘There. Now you’re on the payroll, like a’ the rest.’ He smirked. ‘See him oot, boys. Watch the stairs, Dave.’

I walked towards the curtains to find them being pulled back by Bert. I stepped through on to the landing above the steep flight. I sensed the twins crowding through the curtain as I reached the top step. There was a sudden rush behind me. I dropped to a crouch just as a weighted fist flew over my head. I reached up, grabbed the wrist and hauled forward. His weight fell across my shoulders – like a live sack of coal – and I kept on pulling through, using his own momentum. He somersaulted over me in a tumble of limbs down into the stairwell.

By the time I let go he was travelling so fast that he did a full 360-degree flip before hitting the stairs halfway down with his feet. It could have been a miraculous recovery, deserving applause, but he was no acrobat. He bounced as though he’d hit a trampoline and went sailing on into a second mid-air tumble. This time he ran out of momentum and landed flat on his back across the bottom steps. He yelped twice, then settled into a steady stream of oh fucks.

I sprang round with my gun in hand. Bert and the fallen man’s twin were gawping past me at their pal lying moaning at the bottom.

‘Back off!’ I shouted.

I pointed the big Webley at them. Gun trumps knuckleduster. Their expressions shifted from wonder to anger. They retreated until they got tangled up in the curtain. I turned and jumped down the stairs, gun still in hand. I was halfway down when the bouncer stumbled in to see what the ruckus was. His small brain struggled to take in the sight of his tough pal, spread-eagled, writhing on his back and holding his dislocated shoulder. The brass knuckles dangled limp from his useless arm.

I took the last couple of stairs and pressed the muzzle of the Webley against the bouncer’s chest. I pushed him back and stepped delicately round his supine colleague. I looked down at him. He gasped out a few words.

‘Ye’ve broke ma fuckin’ back. And ma airm.’

‘You should have used the handrail.’

I stepped out into the cool night air, tucked the gun into my waistband and hauled off into the night.

FORTY

A
s I shadow-slipped through the quiet streets, side-stepping coppers on the beat, I had an overwhelming urge to return to Park Terrace and wake up Sam with at least a kiss. Residue of the feelings stirred up by Sindy? It’s a good job we can’t read minds; especially our own at times. Besides, I didn’t want to expose Sam to more than I had already. Being a fugitive didn’t play well with me, but I had to stick it out.

My mind was racing with what I’d found. I had several of the pieces of the jigsaw in front of me but couldn’t work out how they fitted together or how many bits were missing. I could see people in motion, some doing wicked or stupid deeds. But I had no idea of scale. I didn’t know if I was looking at scenes at a bowling green or an international at Hampden Park.

Frankie Elliot was on the fringe of the picture; he’d played no direct part in Gibson’s abduction and death. I was sure of that. However, £23,000 was a lot of money to pay for sexual favours, even from the lovely Sindy. Were there other girls like Sindy for hire? Twosomes? I might have to start saving. I wonder if Frankie had been putting the screw on Gibson? A little light blackmail with the threat of telling Lady Gibson or going public about his loose morals?

The same might apply for the other corporate recipients of Gibson’s generosity. But unless Gibson had Pan-like stamina, Gulf Stream must have been providing services other than
sexual. If he was in hock to them or being blackmailed in some way, he seemed to be having no problem paying them off. So, who
did
want rid of him? And why? It always came back to Sheila. Lady Gibson. Revenge on a straying husband? The punishment seemed high. Yet who was I to judge how someone responds to scorn and betrayal? The same emotion – revenge – was driving me to take stupid risks. But then I’d been locked up, my name dragged through the mud, my mother and Sam put through fire, and I still might end up on the gallows.

Then there were Duncan’s revelations about some big players in the shadows intent on framing me. If bringing me down was the overall objective, it was a pretty convoluted way of doing it. Why not just have me shot? Or a stiletto in the back in a crowded pub? Why did Gibson have to die?

It was one in the morning. A night tram passed me, rumbling through the city like a ghost train, but otherwise I was alone. I was at the appointed spot by Anderston Quay but there was no sign of my water taxi. Eric was the most reliable of friends and yachtsmen. He knew the estuary flows and currents well enough to be here on time. I sat and smoked, then got up and paced. By two o’clock I was seriously worried, and thinking about joining the vagrants in one of the bombed-out warehouses along the Clyde. I twice had to merge with the misfits under the railway arches to avoid policemen on their beat.

Then, suddenly, my boat came in. Her sleek profile stood out against the night sky, and her lantern blinked a welcome. I jumped on and we were off back downstream.

‘Sorry I’m late, Brodie.’

‘What happened?’

‘We got stopped. River police. They wanted to know what I was doing at this time in the morning. They assumed I was up to no good.’

‘Fair question. And they were right, I suppose. What did you say?’

‘I’d missed the tide and was heading upstream to moor for the night. They searched the boat but there was nothing to find apart from empty bottles.’

‘So there’s no problem?’

‘Weeell, they said they’d seen me plying the river a few times over the past few days. Said they’d had reports that I was offering some sort of unlicensed ferry service. Thing is, Brodie, we’re being watched and I’d hate to be stopped and them to find you below.’

I had a troubled sleep despite rocking in our moorings down by Dumbarton. My brain whirled with images of blowsy tarts and wee hard men coming at me with knives and brass knuckles. I wasn’t sure which repelled me most. I woke exhausted at first light and sat and smoked a fag staring out across the sluggish tide. I was feeling doubly like a hunted man after Eric’s encounter with the river police. Maybe it was time to take his offer of French leave. But I hated the idea of running away.

The bile kept rising in my chest at what had happened to me. I felt like a wee boy, given the tawse for some crime his pal had committed.
It wasn’t fair
. Neither on me nor my friends. They were all putting themselves at risk for me. But unlike that wee boy, I was prepared to make it fair. And I didn’t care who among my enemies got badly hurt as I did so. I did some thinking.

When Eric awoke and joined me, I told him to take a couple of days off to throw the river police off the scent and, more important, see his wife. I was meeting Sam early at Shimon’s and I’d hole up there for a while and hope not to be spotted coming and going. Eric argued, but he saw the point, and in his mind he was already running up Kildonan beach. He sailed me up to Govan and I descended into the subway at Govan Cross, losing myself among the early-morning commuters.

We rattled and roared round to Buchanan Street and I walked down to Candleriggs. I tried not to look shifty, even as I prowled down the back alley and nipped into Shimon’s storeroom. Sam was sipping tea with Shimon himself as though they were at the Willow Tea Rooms. A good china teapot and matching cups and saucers were set out – appropriately – on an old tea chest.

‘No cucumber sandwiches, Shimon?’

‘Come in, Douglas. Sit. Enjoy.’

Sam smiled her brightest and the world felt safer and better for having these two in it.

‘Did you enjoy the nightclub, Douglas?’ Sam asked, all innocence.

‘It was enlightening. But let’s say Marlene Dietrich has nothing to worry about.’

I told them about my wee chat with Frankie Elliot, and how his neds tried to evict me unceremoniously. Sam rubbed her face.

‘You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself like that.’

‘By the way, I didn’t need this, but it gave immoral support.’ I pulled up my sweater and brought out the Webley. ‘I’ll put it over here for safe keeping, if that’s all right by you, Shimon?’ I found a heating pipe high up and secreted it behind it.

‘No problem, Douglas. I’m glad you didn’t have to use it. But you don’t think Elliot killed Gibson?’

‘No motive. In fact a strong financial motive for keeping him alive.’

‘I agree,’ said Sam. ‘Now what?’

‘I can’t get past the idea that Lady Gibson is involved. And who else knew about me? Her chauffeur, Cammie. He even deposited me at the first drop point when I was running around with twenty thousand pounds in my hand. They could be a team. We need to apply some pressure. Get them to reveal their hand.’

‘How?’ asked Sam.

‘It came to me last night, in the Silver Dollar. Are you willing to be bait?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s clear Gibson had a colourful social life. Wine, women and song. He was paying big money for sex. Top quality, mind.’

‘And how would
you
know that?’ she asked.

‘I was showed a taste. Or rather a sight of the standards set by Frankie Elliot. I’d like you to pretend to be a very high-class…’ I struggled for a word that wouldn’t offend her too much. ‘Hooker? Whore? Prostitute?’

‘No, no! I mean, yes. How about courtesan?’ I could see from her crossed arms I needed to stop digging. She waited.

‘Look, Sam, we need to draw out Lady Gibson. I’d like to set up a meeting between you and her. If she accepts the line you take, it means she’s in the know. If she doesn’t… well…’

Sam gave me a long hard look. ‘Where?’

‘Think you could get her to come here? I could listen in.’

‘Exactly what line would you want me to take?’

I stood in the corridor between the storeroom and the salesroom while Sam dialled. As she waited for an answer she gave me a look that would congeal blood. I heard the call go through and a girl’s voice answer. Sam responded in an accent I hadn’t heard before. Her normal voice is soft and genteel; not mincing Bearsden, but clear, educated Scots. In the courtroom she could turn up the power without ever sounding strident. It was a voice that could command, and always worth listening to. This one had more grit and Glasgow in it.

‘Lady Gibson, please.’ Then, ‘Just say an old friend of her husband.’

I edged closer so that I could hear the other side of the conversation. There was a pause, then a familiar voice answered.

‘Yes, hello. To whom am I speaking?’

I gave a thumbs-up to Sam.

‘Hello, Sheila. I wanted to start by saying how sorry I am about your husband.’

‘Thank you, but who is this? Are you a reporter?’

‘No, Sheila. I’m an old friend of Fraser.’

‘I don’t recall giving you permission to use first names. I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Oh,
we
haven’t. But Fraser and I have. He talked a lot about you.’

There was a painful silence and Sam and I held our breath.

‘Look, who is this?’

‘You can call me Mandy. That’s what Fraser called me.’

The implication was as clear as if she’d shouted it out. There was a further silence.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m owed money. From Fraser. For services rendered.’

‘This is an extremely upsetting call. You clearly know my husband is dead. His debts died with him. And anyway why on earth should I believe some faceless –
tart
– and her demand for money.’

‘Because I wasn’t the first
tart
, was I, Sheila? And if I don’t get the money from you, I’ll have to get it from the papers.’

‘Look, I won’t be blackmailed. I’m hanging up.’

‘Suit yourself. But I suggest it’s in your own interest to meet me and have a wee chat. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. Keep it all nice and quiet.’

Again the silence. I was biting my knuckle.

‘When?’

‘Today. Four o’clock.’

‘Where?’ No hesitation.

‘Somewhere public but discreet. Belsinger’s furniture shop in Candleriggs.’

‘The
Jewish
shop?’

‘Do you have a problem with Jews, Sheila?’

The line went dead.

I gazed at Sam in admiration. ‘You soon got into the swing of things,
Mandy
.’

‘She annoyed me.
Tart
indeed.’

‘Well, if nothing else, it proves
Sheila
knows about Fraser’s peccadilloes.’

‘And is prepared to hush them up. Clearly not for the first time.’

‘On which subject, are you going to dress for it?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Slinky dress, high heels…’

‘In your dreams!’

‘Exactly.’

There was a discreet cough behind us. Shimon was waiting.

‘How do you want to play this, Douglas?’ he asked.

‘Let her come in your front door. Sam will be waiting to pounce. Then she’ll bring her through here. I’ll be waiting behind a suitable pile of boxes. Like a French farce.’

‘Huh,’ said Sam. ‘Just keep your trousers on.’