Pilgrim Soul (23 page)

I rolled on to my back. ‘I never get the flu.’

‘Stay there and sleep it off.’

‘Is that an invitation?’

‘That sounds like the old Brodie. No time, dear. I’ve got meetings over in Edinburgh. I’m staying there tonight. I need to report back and persuade them to let me stay working in Glasgow. They owe me.’

She left me lying there and a little later I heard the front door open and close. I was drifting in and out of wakefulness now, brain buzzing and flitting. Faces kept crowding in. Laughing faces, sneering and mocking. I recognised some of them as creatures I’d interrogated, but most were unfamiliar. I kept pushing them back until I woke again shouting at them, hurling abuse at them, denying their existence. I was bathed in sweat. Maybe it
was
the flu.

I forced myself upright, and sat on my bed until the room stopped swaying. This wouldn’t do. I had a job to finish. A baton to pass.

Cocooned in gloves, hat, overcoat and scarf I plunged into ankle-deep snow and began trudging down the hill, skidding and hanging on to railings.

Eddie must have been looking out for me. He shot out of his office.

‘Ah thocht you were doon with the flu, Brodie? Your landlady phoned us.’

‘I’m a quick healer, Eddie. What’s the news?’

He followed me right through the newsroom to my desk. I sat down and Eddie loured over the filing cabinet at me.

‘Well, Sandy and me have just aboot managed to cobble thegither the odd crime column in your absence. Maybe without the majestic Brodie flourishes, but no’ bad a’ the same. So, where’s your scoop, Brodie?’

‘What scoop?’

‘Christ, man, you’ve just been out there in Germany at the trials of the century and you ask me what scoop? Were you no’ taking notes or anything?’

I sprang to my feet. ‘
Taking notes?
We were taking notes all right! I’ve got enough filth and tragedy and evil to fill the
Gazette
from front to back for a decade! Is that what you want?’

Eddie staggered back. Behind him, the room had stilled. My face was hot and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I gathered myself and took a deep breath.

‘Eddie, sorry. I’m tired. It was hard work. Look, give me a couple of hours. I’ll knock out something. A day in the life of a prosecutor. I’ll do a court scene. Something that tells the readers what it’s like. OK?’

Eddie was still looking at me as though I was a ghoul with my head under my arm.

‘Aye, right. OK Brodie. You sure you’re feeling OK? Ah mean, take the afternoon off if you’re no’ feeling weel.’

I sat down. ‘I’m fine, Eddie. I’ll get a column together for you. Two hours.’

It took me less, and I produced enough for ten columns. It poured out of me. The packed courtroom of the Curiohaus. General Westropp chairing his military panel. The bank of accused women reduced to cyphers. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. The public gallery packed with middle-class Germans come to gawp at the working-class thugs who’d let the side down. The defence counsel claiming their clients were innocent lambs, forced to obey orders.

I wrote of my own role, standing in the witness box in my smart uniform, swearing the correctness of my written reports. Pointing out the defendants and confirming their identities. I wrote about the spleen and the bile and the empty eyes of the men and women I interrogated.

But I didn’t reveal that some of their number had got away. Or that rat lines ran across the Continent, north and south, easing the passage of war criminals to safe havens. I certainly didn’t disclose that some of these escapees had been given written permits and safe travel documents by a rogue bishop. That one of the escape channels was called the Vatican
Rattenlinie
. That another seemed to end up here, in Glasgow.

I didn’t give Eddie the scoop he wanted. That somewhere in our city, under the virginal snow, was a rats’ nest of sadists and evil-doers.

I handed in my much-too-long draft to Eddie and in return was given three phone message slips. One was from McCulloch’s office. Eddie poked it.

‘That yin’s urgent, Brodie. You can use the conference room to ca’ him back if you like.’

The second was from Isaac, no doubt operating as the conduit for his pals. The third was from a Whitehall area number.

THIRTY-FOUR

Sitting in the conference room and weighing up the respective importance of the three slips, I decided to start gently. I made my first call to Isaac.

‘I’ve been worried, Douglas.’

‘That I’d forgotten you?’

‘That you’d be harmed by this. We asked a lot of you. Too much, my friend.’

His tone was genuine and concerned. For a ridiculous moment my eyes stung.

‘It’s kind of you, Isaac. But I’m back and I’m fine. Can you call Shimon? Arrange to meet later? At your place?’ I thought of Isaac’s snug back room as a little sanctuary. It would be good to have somewhere safe to meet.

I then called London. A woman answered; I asked for the extension provided on the slip of paper and gave my name. A second woman answered, this time with a newsreader voice.

‘Kindly hold on, Colonel Brodie. I’ll put you through.’

Still Colonel? That was nice. But at the same time worrying. There was a pause, a couple of clicks and a ‘You’re through, sir’. Then a man’s voice I recognised from the parade ground of the Glasgow police college, and later, as a detective sergeant, on a private mission that nearly got me killed.

‘Brodie?
Colonel
Brodie, I should say.’ Sir Percy Sillitoe’s even tones were unchanged from a decade ago. Perhaps more BBC. London does that to a man.

‘Yes, sir. You want a briefing?’

‘If you please, Brodie.’

‘May I ask one thing? Am I still in the army? Am I still commissioned?’

‘For the moment anyway. A technicality. It just seemed easier all round. Official secrets and all that. So . . .?’

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t the moment for an argument. I switched into my debriefing mode, learned in the police and reinforced in the army.

‘You got my telex?’

‘A breakthrough, you said. We warned the local bobbies in Leith but it’s a needle in the haystack if we don’t know what they’re looking for.’

‘I know. Worth a try.’

‘But you’ve got names, Brodie! Descriptions. That’s the stuff!’

‘And some photos. We found out that the northern rat line had been used by twenty escapees.’’

‘Christ!’

‘Indeed, sir. We have fourteen names, plus two mystery women. What we don’t know is how many have already passed through en route to South America.’

‘Any guesses?’

‘The rat line got stuck about a year ago. I don’t know why. I think around a dozen had passed through Scotland by then. Since then a further eight were dropped off at Leith and may still be here. We’ve accounted for Draganski. And we know three other caches of ingots were stolen by Paddy Craven before he ran into Dragan’s knife.’

‘So perhaps seven at large. Including the camp commandant Suhren. Highly dangerous, especially if they feel cornered. You have descriptions, you said?’

‘At Cuxhaven they changed hair colour, grew beards and were given top-quality passports. And presumably some gold and silver to speed them on their way. We think Fritz Suhren had hidden some loot and retrieved it when he absconded. He may have been prevailed on to leave some at Cuxhaven to help others behind him.’

‘The schoolmaster got away? The link man at Cuxhaven?’

‘It means the rat line could be reopened somewhere else.’

‘Do we know who’s running the line at your end? In Glasgow? Or Leith?’

‘No. What about your research, sir? The documentation with the Red Cross stamps, signed letters from Bishop Alois Hudal?’

‘It’s a delicate matter, Brodie. We don’t think the Vatican was directly involved in helping Nazis out of Europe. One rogue bishop doesn’t make a conspiracy. The last thing we want is to stir up more anti-Semitic accusations about the Vatican.’

‘Sir, on a different tack, I lost a good man. Lieutenant Will Collins. He was fearless. I shouldn’t have risked him. He earned a medal. A big one. It would be important for his family.’

‘I heard. He will be honoured. You might have earned one yourself. But don’t beat yourself up, man. No one else could have got us this far.’

‘No? Anyway, I’m glad it’s over. I’ll report to the Chief Constable. He’ll take it from here.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course, Malcolm and his boys have their part to play. But they’ll have their work cut out. I want to take up a little more of your time,
Colonel
Brodie.’

I knew it. ‘I’m just a reporter, sir.’

‘You’re a lieutenant colonel.’

‘I can resign my commission.’

‘You could, but I’m sure you won’t. I know you, Douglas Brodie, remember? From the old days? You handled a problem for me in a way that no one else could. You’re not hidebound. I need a different take on this.
Your
take.’

‘I’m not MI5.’

‘Ah, didn’t I mention? I’ve agreed with the Army Department – General Gilmour personally – that you’re seconded to me for this mission.’

I felt the clouds building up again. They can’t do this to me. But of course they can. Even if they can’t make me, can’t force me, they know how to draw me in.

‘Does the Chief Constable know all this, sir?’

‘Malcolm knows. But only him, Brodie. He won’t be telling his officers. It would get . . .’

‘Messy?’

That was putting it mildly. An army officer, seconded to MI5, running a parallel operation to the Glasgow police force. And there was the small matter of my erstwhile Jewish employers. I was no longer on their payroll but I’d promised they would hear from me. I knew some of them were terrified by the thought of the Nazi plague following and enveloping them. Others, like Malachi, probably relished the prospect of honing another pitchfork.

‘Bloody messy. You’re a fine detective, Brodie. And you take risks. That’s what you’re good at. Go and find these bastards.’

My phone conversation with McCulloch was much shorter and to the point.

‘I’ve been waiting, Brodie. Can you come to my office? Soon as you can, please. Have you eaten?’

THIRTY-FIVE

I picked up my neat folder of information on the escapees and told Eddie where I was going. Eddie was glad to get my surly presence out of his newsroom. He and Sandy were hacking away with their blue pencils at my draft. It was now split into four columns to run on subsequent editions. I left them to it.

The snow had stopped and teams of men were shovelling clear the main roads. Some of the trams had snowploughs fitted, and gritters were at work. The carters had covered their horses with blankets and tied sacks round their hooves to give them purchase. The drivers were hauling on their brakes with both hands to stop them becoming sledges on the hills. When the schools broke up at four, the streets and parks would be filled by roaring battalions of kids, in a thousand snowball fights.

I trudged through the snow and the slush with a sense of quiet desperation. I felt, yet again, driven down a path I didn’t want to take. I hated self-pity but here I was wallowing in it. Why me? Percy Sillitoe’s words rang hollow:
That’s what you’re good at
. Maybe once. It didn’t seem like it now. Not feeling like this. They needed a brave man with a cool head. Not a wreck with a mind full of terrors.

I splashed down Turnbull Street, kicked my soaking shoes against the steps of Central Division and went in. It still smelt the same: old polish, old sweat and now damp, the floors wet and slippery from the carried-in snow. Ahead was the big oak counter straddling the entrance hall. But before I got there I was intercepted.

‘Well, the wanderer’s returned.’

‘Hello, Duncan. Watch your footing out there.’

‘It’s in here Ah worry about. You here to see me?’

‘No. Summoned by your boss.’

‘Sangster?’

‘The big boss.’

‘You’re flying high. Is this all about your wee trip to Germany?’

‘Yes.’

‘By the looks of you, it wisnae much of a holiday. You look wabbit.’

I pulled him over to the side. We stood close. ‘Look, Duncan, I can’t talk just now. Can we meet later? Buy you a pint?’

‘The Jewish thing?’ He tapped the folder under my arm.

I nodded. ‘McCall’s, six o’clock?’

We parted and I walked over to the desk sergeant.

‘I’m here to see the Chief Constable.’

‘You would be Mr Brodie, sir? We’re expecting you. The constable here will take you up.

We went into the building and took the wing of the senior officers. The Chief Constable’s secretary was already on her feet. She went to the door behind her, stuck her head in and then ushered me through.

‘Come in, Brodie.’ McCulloch came to me and shook my hand. ‘Let’s sit over here.’ He indicated a good fire with two high-backed chairs parked either side. He called to his secretary: ‘Bring in the sandwiches, please. Then no interruptions, Miss MacDonald. And I mean none.’ He took my elbow and steered me towards the fire. Did I look as though I needed a hand? Between him and Duncan, it seemed like it.

‘It’s bitter out there. And you look like you need a wee half.’

I sank into a chair. Sandwiches were brought and put by my hand. McCulloch himself set a honey-filled cut-glass decanter and two glasses on the table between the chairs. I waited for my whisky as if waiting for breath.

He let me talk with just the occasional sharp question thrown in to show he was listening. He wanted to hear how I’d narrowed down the field and how we’d raided Cuxhaven. He couldn’t get enough of the shoot-out. I couldn’t talk about it without drowning in guilt.

‘Sorry about your man, Brodie. He was a brave customer.’

‘A soldier, Malcolm. A soldier.’

We talked about the rat line and discussed how easily a fishing boat could drop a man off along the shoreline of the Forth. And how simple it would be to lose yourself in the crowd and hubbub of the Gorbals. There was no obvious way of tracking down the Leith contact, though McCulloch had asked his opposite number in Edinburgh to see if anyone had spotted a German fishing boat in the firth.