Gallowglass (22 page)

FORTY-FIVE

B
efore I hung up on Duncan I asked him to round up my pals. It was time for a confab. Likely the last one before my resurrection and subsequent incarceration. I needed to pool what we knew and to decide where we went next. A number of threads were becoming visible but all running in different directions and crisscrossing. I needed help disentangling them, finding out where they led.

After Shimon had closed up that evening and wished me a good meeting, the conspirators began convening in the storeroom. As each one arrived through the open back door I welcomed them with a handshake. Except for Sam: she got an embrace and a kiss. Duncan Todd slouched in. A little later I heard crashing and cursing and Wullie appeared in his wheelchair, steered by Stewart.

‘Push him in the Clyde if he’s a nuisance, Stewart.’

‘It was a close-run thing. Wasn’t it, Billie boy?’

‘Ah’m just getting a wee bit frustrated no’ being quite ma’ independent self.’

‘How are the legs coming on, Wullie?’

‘Stronger every day. Ah can get up and walk about a bit. It’s coming back.’

‘That sounds good enough to outflank yon new winger for St Mirren, Wullie,’ said Duncan.

I let them banter for a while and get settled on their crate of choice. Examining them in the faint light from the bulb, I
felt a sudden empathy with Guy Fawkes sitting in the bowels of Parliament with his fellow plotters. I hoped I wouldn’t let these good people down.

‘Thanks for coming, folks. I wanted to give you my news and make sure we were all au fait with what’s going on. You’ve all been busy. Thank you. I’ve also got some hypotheses about who’s behind all this. I’d like to give them an airing to make sure I’m not going mad.’

Nodding agreement all round.

‘First, you’d better know that the police are about to launch a manhunt. For Airchie Higgins and me. Duncan tells me that Scottish Linen is now aware that there was a break-in the other night. The police have taken dabs. Airchie’s and mine are all over the skylight and roof and on a ladder. They might also be scattered around the back office. They’ll take prints from all the staff and separate out the ones that don’t belong.’

‘But you’re deid, Brodie,’ said Wullie.

‘Seems my fingerprints are still on file. It might make them stop and think. Maybe double-check. But when there’s no other likely solution, someone might decide to think the impossible and break out the shovels. Sangster’s convinced I’m some sort of Machiavelli as it is. Houdini isn’t too big a stretch. So, we need to move fast.’

I brought Wullie and Stewart up to date with what Airchie and I had found in our midnight rambles at the bank. Then I told them all of my visit to Maybole and what I’d found out about Clarkson, the new head man at SLB, and the cash transfer three days after Gibson’s death to High Times.

‘We also found out that Clarkson had authorised the emptying of my poor wee bank accounts on the same day. You met the beneficiary, Wullie. The curvaceous Miss Pamela McKenzie.’

Wullie whistled. ‘A femme fatale right enough. But slim pickings, Brodie, or she’d be on a roon-the-world cruise by now.’

‘Peanuts. But they were
my
peanuts. The crucial thing is that the bank provided a false statement to the courts saying I’d been in debt more than three weeks before the actual date they stole my money.’

‘You think Clarkson is the brains?’ asked Duncan.

‘All the signs say so. As Finance Director he’d also have known about Gibson’s pilfering. Higgins says there needed to be someone inside the finance unit helping.’

‘Then why would he arrange this last transfer after his old boss was murdered?’

‘A double-cross? Clarkson behind the murder and then paying off the villains? I’m planning to ask him that tomorrow when MI5 goes in. Harry Templeton has asked me to join him.’

‘But that’s going to blow your cover, Douglas!’ said Sam.

‘Clarkson’s never seen me other than in old photos in the paper. I’ll still be Chief Inspector David Bruce, Edinburgh division.’

‘But you were spotted leaving the bank. The doorman will recognise you,’ she persisted.

‘I was in dungarees and flat cap. I’m going in wearing suit and tie and glasses.’

She wouldn’t let go. ‘The beard stands out. A red flag; says
look at me
.’

‘It might have to come off, then. Will you miss it? I’ll keep the specs, though.’

Wullie leaned forward. ‘Maybe you shouldnae be worried, hen. This could be the end o’ it. If Brodie and the secret service boys are going in the front door to put the cuffs on Clarkson, does that no’ tie it all up?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. Assuming we can get our hands on all the ledgers Airchie and I examined, and Clarkson plays ball, we can demonstrate chicanery at the bank. But unless Clarkson confesses it doesn’t explain Gibson’s killing.’

‘It will be hard for Clarkson to account for authorising the
transfer of ten thousand pounds to Gus Fulton other than pay-off for services rendered,’ said Sam. ‘Getting the top job is certainly motivation.’

‘You met Clarkson, Wullie. Is he capable of it?’

‘No’ at first sight. The words
criminal mastermind
don’t easily fit the picture. When I interviewed him, I thought here’s a man over-promoted if ever there was one. He seemed a timid wee thing who’d just got lucky. Always a number two till the top door suddenly opened and he fell through. But, to massacre a metaphor, still waters run deep in a wee man wi’ a chip on his shoulder.’

‘The other question is how Sheila fits in to all this?’ I asked. ‘Either she’s being threatened with her life – her and her staff – to deny ever meeting me. Or she’s up to her perfumed oxters in a plot to put a noose round my neck.’

Sam responded: ‘Threatened or bought? But by whom? How about Fraser’s gangster pals?

‘Possible. But again I don’t see any motive on the part of the gangsters. You put Sheila through her paces yesterday, Sam. She knew about Fraser’s gambling and womanising. Enough to get rid of him?’

Sam screwed up her mouth. ‘By making an ally of Clarkson? Possibly. An alliance of convenience. She’s not a woman to be crossed. And as Wullie says, who knows what ambition was burning up Clarkson? Maybe Sheila lured Clarkson with the promise of a route to promotion.’

‘And what about Mungo?’ asked Duncan. ‘How does he fit in?’

I shook my head. ‘He sounds like a sad sideshow. In and out of mental homes. A drunk and a depressive. Though it’s not clear why he was moved from his Glasgow asylum to Ailsa. Maybe Sheila just wanted to dump him out of sight now she had the chance.’

Sam said, ‘It’s also not clear why they picked on you, Douglas.’

Duncan intervened. ‘Ah’m following that up, lass. Now we have some sort of link with Gus Fulton we’re checking who Gus is connected to. The tentacles of crime. It sounds like there was a favour called in. You know how many gangsters your man has upset.’

‘OK, so we’re saying that we’ve got a conspiracy. That it might start with Clarkson and could involve the vengeful Sheila. At a stroke she gets rid of her faithless husband and gets a big insurance payout and maybe the ransom money; which gives me another question for Clarkson tomorrow. Twenty grand is more than pocket money. It could tie him and Lady Gibson together. We just have to prove it.’

‘How, Douglas?’ asked Sam.

‘If there is a conspiracy we need to put pressure on the weakest link.’

‘Clarkson?’ said Wullie immediately.

‘Certainly not Sheila,’ said Sam. ‘A tough old boot.’

‘I’ve never met Clarkson but agree about Sheila,’ I said. ‘I was thinking more about Cammie and Uncle Gus. If they provided the muscle for the kidnap either one could have shot Fraser. There was only one shot, one finger on the trigger. One of them should hang. Maybe the other would prefer not to.’

‘King’s evidence?’ said Sam. ‘It could work, Douglas. Let me take a look at precedents. It may not matter who pulled the trigger. They’d both blame each other, blood tie or not. They might both hang. But if you’re looking for a bargaining counter, this could be it.’

‘Do you think there’s room for a real policeman to do his job?’

‘A real policeman? Who did you have in mind, Duncan?’

‘Awfie funny, Brodie. If you’re in at Scottish Linen the morn, and Clarkson sings his song, then we have grounds for arresting Gus Fulton for receiving misappropriated funds and running an illegal gambling den. To wit, a series of bingo
halls. Ah could then have a wee side conversation with him about adding a murder to the charge sheet.’

‘I like the sound of that, Dunc. But what about your boss, Sangster? Can you side-step him?’

‘Wi’ my eyes closed usually. But you’re right, Brodie. We don’t know who’s pulling Sangster’s strings and whether there’s a connection to Gus Fulton for example.’

Wullie squinted through the smoke from the fag jammed in the corner of his mouth.

‘Are you saying that Detective Chief Inspector Walter Sangster is
bent
as well as stupid?’

Wullie’s rasping elongation of the word put bent coppers down there with pederasts and perjurers. Which of course they were. It stung Duncan.

‘Let’s no’ be hasty, Wullie. Ah don’t want to see any lurid headlines before we get some proof one way or the other. A’ we know is that he was celebrating putting our pal here in the slammer, if not in the grave. And Ah’ve heard there’s some big man in the background who wanted to see Brodie swing.’

‘Good job my suicide pre-empted that, Duncan. Right, folks, next steps. I’ll call you first thing, Duncan. You’ll have received confirmation from Harry Templeton about the time and arrangements for raiding the Scottish Linen Bank. Can you ask Harry to phone Airchie Higgins – Harry has his contact details – to meet me on the corner just before the time of the raid? Tell him to tell Airchie to get his suit to the steamie. With him in it. Sam, you’re following up the King’s evidence question. Wullie, could you have a word with your pal Weasel Watkins?’

‘Aye, sure. What do you want him to do?’

‘We’ve got all we can from his road-sweeping outside Sheila’s house. And he’s going to get caught at this rate. Or get in a fight with the council about overtime. What about setting him loose on the Govan streets? To try to track down the kids who provided me with the paper trail to the kidnap
house? They must have been paid. Who gave them the job? Descriptions, car used, anything at all.’

Wullie shook his head. ‘Needles in the haystack. There’s a wheen o’ gangs knocking about Govan.’

‘Brodie?’

‘Yes, Stewart.’

‘You know I’m a teacher. In Govan.’

Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

‘You might know these kids?’

‘I know lots of kids. But more importantly, I know who to ask and where to find them. Let me make enquiries. I’d be glad to help.’

‘I’d really be glad if you did, Stewart. Thank you.’

He beamed. Wullie patted his arm.

One by one they left, leaving Sam for last.

‘It’s quite snug in here, Douglas.’

‘So it is. Have you seen my wee bed? It’s quite snug too.’

‘Show me.’

FORTY-SIX

S
am didn’t stay the night. But she stayed long enough for me to recall the aphrodisiac effect of proximity to danger. Like a wartime love affair. It was as though my brush with the graveyard had given urgency and spice to our relationship.

In the morning I squared up to myself in one of the stored, tall mirrors with a bowl of water and a fresh razor blade. Reluctantly I started hacking away at my beard; I’d grown fond of it. But I left a thick dark-red moustache. Slowly I emerged from my disguise. Thinner and greyer round the gills compared to the rest of my face. I hadn’t realised how much Scottish sun had been filtering through the clouds.

Besides, I was done skulking in the shadows. I was ready to confront my enemies, and see who blinked first. I donned my suit and tie. I flattened my mop of dark hair with Bryl-creem and parted it in the middle. Finally, on went the glasses. Every inch the accountant. Or rent collector.

As agreed with Harry, I called Duncan from the corridor phone in Shimon’s store and got his confirmation they were going in at 9 a.m. Harry sent his compliments; would I care to join him? I would.

I was heading out the storeroom when I had a thought and turned back. I fumbled above one of the most out-of-reach crates and retrieved the Webley. I fingered its cold contours, enjoying the feel of the smooth metal. Engineered precisely
and solely to maim or kill. Then I put it back. I was going to ask questions at a major Scottish bank, not rob it. Or shoot Clarkson, despite what he’d done to me. I wondered at my first reaction. Heightened sense of risk? Threat of attack? In a bank?

I took a deep breath and marched out through the showroom. Shimon glanced round, nodded, and then ignored me. I stepped into the sunshine and walked up to Ingram Street. I could have hopped on a tram which would have taken me up and round to St Vincent Street, but it wouldn’t have taken me all the way. Forbye, I had time and was enjoying the air. I’d been cooped up too long. It was time to come out into the open. I felt invulnerable in my new persona. At the corner of West Nile I walked past two police constables without either batting an eyelid. I was any other businessman strolling through the city centre.

I was within sight of Scottish Linen at five minutes to nine. Skulking by the corner was Archibald Higgins. He was trying to look nonchalant while stepping from foot to foot and peeking round the corner. As I got closer I could see he’d been spring-cleaned.

‘Good morning, Airchie.’

He jumped. ‘Christ, Brodie, it’s you.’

‘New suit, Airchie?’

‘No’ exactly new. I got it at the Barras.’

The turn-ups were longer than normal, but otherwise Mr Burton would have been proud. I looked him up and down. Shoes gleaming, face red raw from a close shave and his hair plastered to his head. Even his specs were nearly transparent.

‘You’ll do. Come on.’

I marched into St Vincent Street, Airchie trotting alongside. Everything seemed normal. A bus was grinding up the hill and a couple of cars heading down. A few pedestrians meandered past. No sign of anything untoward. Then suddenly two identical saloons appeared from the west –

Morris Tens – one behind each other. They drew up outside the bank and four people got out of each. Six men and two women, all in dark two-pieces. One of the men was Harry Templeton. He looked around, saw us crossing the road and smiled. I reached him and we shook hands.

He said, ‘You’re looking well, for a corpse.’

‘I’ll feel even better at my resurrection. This is Archibald Higgins, the man you’ve been sending into danger.’

‘Mr Higgins, you’ve done your country proud. You will be rewarded.’

Airchie glowed and stood an inch taller.

‘Shall we?’ said Harry, pointing up at the bank. ‘And remember, chaps, this is all low key. No fuss. Our masters don’t want this in the papers.’

As he spoke, the big doors at the top of the flight of stairs began swinging open on the dot of nine. Harry led the way, with me alongside. Airchie and the rest of Harry’s team swept up behind us. A bit of me – the soldier – wanted to call out the rhythm and get them in step. As bank raids went this was pretty civilised.

The doorman was the one Airchie and I had brushed past in our dungarees. There was no spark of recognition from him for either of us, just a ‘Good morning, gentlemen, ladies’ as we sailed past. Clerks were already in position behind counters. A manager in tails and bowler was fussing about with his watch fob to makes sure it hung straight. Harry went straight up to him and showed him a pass. The manager’s face blanched.

‘Please ask your staff to stay exactly where they are. And kindly have your doorman close and lock the doors. No customers. You’re closed for the day.’

The manager’s mouth opened and shut. He pulled at his winged collar and looked round at the polished faces of Harry’s MI5 team standing in a ring around him and absorbed their air of intent and professionalism. Even Airchie
looked the part. Sort of. The manager nodded and walked over to the doorman to give him instructions. As the doors swung shut he came back. Harry gave him new orders.

‘What’s your name, please?’

‘Smyth. With a “y”,’ he gulped, face stretched with shock.

‘Well, Mr Smyth with a “y”, please show my team into your back office. Where the ledgers are. Then I’d like you to take me and one of my colleagues to meet Mr Clarkson, your Managing Director. Come on, Smyth. Hurry up. We are on Crown business.’

We were led through the counter and into the short corridor leading to the back room. We emerged into the great room and found it already filled with clerks who’d piled their desks with ledgers and the first paperwork of the day. The odd bit of chatter stilled and died as we poured in and took up position at the front of the hall. Harry stood forward.

‘Good morning, all. My name is Templeton. My colleagues and I are from the Government.’ He held up his identity card and brandished it. ‘There is no need for alarm. My team and I will be spending some time with you today examining the books. We require your assistance to do so. Your help will be appreciated.’ He looked round. ‘And noted.’

He nodded to me. I turned to Airchie.

‘Mr Higgins, you know where everything is filed. Take these agents with you and leave one at each point of interest. Tell them as you do so what to concentrate on.’

He puffed up his chest, and nodded. ‘Yes, sir!’

I signalled to his colleagues to follow him. Harry and I watched as Airchie led a clockwise procession round the tall shelves of ledgers. Once or twice he paused to confirm with a nervous clerk which shelves were which and then dropped a team member at that point.

‘I hope that medal is struck. Higgins has earned it.’

‘We’re going to do better than that. As well as a medal – the Double Entry Cross, do you think? – he’ll have a job. We
have need of reformed crooks like Higgins. He is reformed, isn’t he?’

‘A medal and a job? I think you’ll find you’ve bought undying loyalty.’

While we waited I glanced round the room. On one side was a bank of typists, on general secretarial duties. I wondered. I walked over and flourished my warrant card.

‘Is there a Miss Pamela McKenzie here?’

The women’s eyes flickered and glanced at each other, all trying to avoid focusing on one young woman who was turning pink and had suddenly become fascinated with her typewriter. I walked over. Her mane of hair sat like a black helmet framing her face.

‘Miss McKenzie?’

She looked up at me. Huge blue eyes ringed with mascara and thick lashes. Mask of make-up and vivid lips. I smiled encouragingly at her. She nodded.

‘Please step this way. I just want a word.’

I walked to one side of the room and waited, arms folded. Pamela got up from her desk, pulled down her tight skirt and walked towards me, head high, chest thrust out. Wullie hadn’t exaggerated his use of an hourglass to describe her figure, but I’m sure I was more appreciative. Pamela clicked across the lino and stood in front of me, her lips pressed together, ready for anything. She crossed her arms under her splendid bosoms as if they needed lifting or accentuating. They didn’t.

‘Miss McKenzie, I am led to believe that you wrongfully emptied the bank account of one of the bank’s customers. A certain Douglas Brodie.’

Her mouth opened and shut like a red sea anemone. Her arms dropped. Her eyes darted round the hall, looking for an escape route. She brought her gaze back to mine and lifted her head up.

‘Ah did as Ah was telt, so Ah did.’

‘
Who
told you?’

‘Ma boss.’

‘Who’s your boss?’

‘Well, it came doon from above. From the tap flair.’ She raised her eyes up to the executive levels. ‘Ma boss – Miss Carmichael, over there – said she’d been instructed. And Ah wis just tae follow orders. So Ah did.’

‘Are you aware that the accounts belonged to the man – the reporter – who was accused of the kidnap and murder of Sir Fraser Gibson?’

Pamela’s face lost its hardness. I thought she was going to break down.

‘Ah didnae know at the time. How could I? Am Ah in a lot of trouble?’

Pamela McKenzie probably hadn’t looked innocent since she turned fourteen, but there was an honesty about her face that couldn’t be contrived.

‘That depends, Pamela. What did you do with the money?’

She shook her head. Her hair didn’t move. ‘Nothing. It’s still there. In my account. Ah knew it wis…’ She searched for the right word.

‘Stolen?’

She tossed her head. ‘Well, Ah knew it wisnae mine. So it’s just sitting there, so it is.’

‘Good. Keep it there. We’ll be in touch. Thank you, Miss McKenzie.’

I tried not to watch her swaying back to her seat. I walked back to join Harry. Airchie had just completed the full circuit of the hall and was now solo. The MI5 boys and girls were already pulling down ledgers from the shelves and making themselves at home. Airchie came up to us and barely supressed a salute. His wee face was flushed.

‘Good work, Mr Higgins. Your job now is to supervise the team. Walk round. Keep an eye on them. Give them directions. Answer their questions. They need your guidance. Is that OK?’

‘Aye, it is. Yes, Brodie. Yes, sir.’

He executed a terrible about-turn and started his duties. We turned to the manager. His face was miserable. Harry was smiling.

‘Right, Smyth with a “y”, take us to Mr Clarkson.’

‘I need to call ahead. He won’t know you’re coming.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’