Pilgrim Soul (37 page)

Sam heard McCulloch out and, before I could make the same point, said: ‘Malcolm, I think you’ll accept that Douglas and Danny have a cast-iron alibi for their whereabouts yesterday morning at the time of the kidnap.’

McCulloch was hating this. He knew he was on a hiding to nothing.

‘Miss Campbell, of course I accept your argument. But I had no choice this morning. This came down from the Home Secretary’s office, via MI6 and the Scottish Secretary. In person. I have to play along. Follow orders.’

‘You sound as hidebound as Osborne! But he’s got an excuse. He’s a US Marine.’

McCulloch swelled. ‘You do realise this is a major international incident? And that it’s surely stretching coincidence to have Major Salinger threatened one day by Brodie and McRae, and being abducted the next. At the very least there’s a connection!’

I cut in. ‘Malcolm, while the Neanderthals are upstairs kicking up dust, can I just confirm you’re aware that Major Salinger is the local controller of the Scottish rat line? He’s the one you and I have been after for weeks now.’

‘I was told you’d say that, Brodie. The Secretary of State was told you don’t have proof.’

‘Has he spoken to Sillitoe? Have you?’ Then I remembered I hadn’t called Sillitoe. Blast. Did he know?

McCulloch shook his head. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve not had much time between getting shouted at by two government ministers and having the US Marine Corps banging on
my
front door at four in the morning.’

‘You want proof? I’d start with a word – a quiet word – with Donald Campbell. Aye, him, the Archbishop of Glasgow.’

McCulloch wiped the deepening lines on his brow.

‘Then call Sillitoe and say MI6, his sister service, is keeping information from him about the CIA. The Americans are running operations in Scotland to give their pet Nazis a second life in South America.’

Just then, Sangster and the Marines arrived.

McCulloch asked, ‘Well, Lieutenant, did you find anyone?’

‘No sign, sir. But I found these.’ He reached forward and put my service revolver and Sam’s father’s Webley on the table. He reached behind and was handed the two beautiful Dickson shotguns. He looked like a bulldog who was expecting a pat on the head for fetching some sticks.

‘That’s my service revolver, Lieutenant. The one that fits this empty holster. That belongs to the British Army. I’ll take it now.’

‘And those are my father’s guns,’ said Sam. ‘If you’ve broken into my gun cupboard to get them, I will bring charges against the US Army of breaking and entering, and theft. Now put them down!’

‘I can’t do that, ma’am. I had orders to secure all weapons.’

‘To steal? I think not. Put them down,’ she said in that quiet, steely courtroom manner that cut the legs off hostile witnesses.

I backed her. ‘Lieutenant, you’re off your base under civilian orders. That means the Chief Constable here. You’ve searched the house, found nothing, so you can now report back to your senior officers you’ve successfully completed your mission. Put the shotguns and my handgun on the table and leave.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, do it,’ ordered McCulloch.

In the grey light of a soggy dawn we waved the whole pack of them off and retired to the kitchen. I undid my tunic. Tea was made and poured. It was barely seven o’clock but it felt like midday.

‘Poor bloody Salinger,’ said Danny. There wasn’t much sympathy in his voice.

‘Think it’s Irgun again?’ I asked.

‘Racing cert, don’t you think?’

‘How the hell would they know?’ I asked. ‘I mean, how would they know it was Salinger, and how would they know where he was?’

‘I’m betting Langefeld told Malachi and the two Irgun guys more than Mal told us,’ said Danny.

‘Could be. But even if they had a name, how would they know he’d gone to London?’

‘Maybe they hung about Prestwick? Maybe they were watching the US embassy in London once they had a name? These guys are good. The King David bombing was well planned.’

‘I might give Duncan a call. Find out where they’re keeping Malachi. Suggest they have a word with him about Langefeld. About what they forced from him.’

‘Oh, bugger!’ said Sam. ‘Douglas, didn’t I tell you? Malachi’s got his first hearing on Monday.’

‘Do you think we should go?’

‘I’ve no choice.’

‘Why?’

‘He asked me if I’d represent him.’

‘You can’t! You’re – I don’t know – involved.’ I struggled to get my head round the mess.’

‘No, I’m not. You are. I’m going to have to call you – and Danny – as a witness.’

‘This is madness, Sam. I’m going back to bed. It’s clear I’m in the middle of nightmare. Maybe if I lie down I’ll wake up and this morning will all have been a terrible dream. Ouch! What did you pinch me for?’

‘You’re awake.’

FIFTY-EIGHT

It seemed all the more important that I spoke to Duncan Todd. He wasn’t surprised to hear from me. I got him at his home late morning. I was happy to interrupt his day off.

‘I shouldnae even be speaking to you,’ he said.

‘You knew we were going to be raided this morning by your boss and his boss and half the US Marine Corps?’

‘Ah heard about it half an hour ago. The station called me. You boys sure know how to cause a fuss.’

‘
Us?
We were just following leads, Duncan. And as you’ll recall, you and
his grace
gave us one of our strongest ones. So don’t play the bloody innocent with me, old pal.’

‘Fair enough, Brodie. But it’s no’ roses around the station either. They say Sangster is having his tenth fit of the day. Ah don’t think he likes an early rise.’

‘Neither do I! McCulloch must have known it was a wild-goose chase, Duncan. We were four hundred miles away from Salinger when they took him.’

‘Right enough, Brodie. But it’s hard to think when you’ve got half the government shouting doon the phone at you in the middle o’ the night. And you can see there might be a connection between you and the galloping major.’

The weekend drifted by in a haze of fruitless conjecture and sleep catch-up. I planned to get down to the court early on Monday, wondering what charges would be brought against Malachi Herzog. Abducting a Nazi? Torturing a Nazi? Murdering a Nazi? And did it matter if he was a Nazi or not? Was it still a crime regardless of the moral depravity of the kidnapped, tortured and murdered? Of course. But . . .

On Monday morning I called into the newsroom to let Eddie know what was happening and to suggest he hold the front page for Tuesday. I made it round to the Sheriff Court at nine thirty. Sam had gone on ahead of me. The hearing would be at ten. I was loitering with a fag in my mouth outside the courtroom when I heard the police wagon arrive. Soon a pair of policemen marched Malachi along the corridor towards me. Mal was handcuffed and the police were either side of him, holding his upper arm.

Suddenly the structured scene dissolved. At first I wasn’t sure what was happening. Two figures crashed out of the toilets. They wore flat caps and scarves round their mouths. Each was swinging a pickaxe handle. Simultaneously a second pair of masked men dashed in from the corridor behind Malachi. The two police stood no chance. They barely had time to shield their heads with their arms before they were clubbed down without mercy by the first two at the scene. I spun my fag away and started running towards them, wishing I had a gun. The two others had grabbed Malachi and were dragging him backwards on his heels like a bag of coal. Mal saw me running towards him and shouted, ‘Help, Brodie! Help!’

The two who’d felled the police turned to face me and began to raise their weapons. I hit the one on the left in a tackle that would have stirred the crowd at Murrayfield. We went down in a welter of flailing arms, legs and club. Then the second pickaxe handle entered the fray. It took me across the shoulder and side of my head. I fell off the man I’d pinned down and rolled as far and fast as my dazed head would let me. I was lucky. Man number two didn’t follow through with the brain strike. He would have killed me.

As I struggled to my hands and knees I was dimly aware of the pair of them running away. Other voices were now taking up the cry. I was helped to my feet by a policeman.

‘Where did they go? Did you see?’ I shouted at him.

‘Down there, sir.’ He pointed to a corridor off left.

I felt at my head. My hand came away bloody.

‘Come on, Constable.’ I lurched off in the direction he’d pointed. He grabbed me back.

‘Sir, sir! They could be armed. Leave this to the police.’

‘Well, get after them, man!’

‘There’s four of them. I need reinforcements. They could be armed!’

‘For fuck’s sake, Officer, don’t be such a jessie!’ I wrenched my arm free and staggered off round the corner after them. The corridor stretched a hundred yards. There was no sign of anyone. Then, about three-quarters of the way along, a door burst open and the four men broke out. They looked towards me and then ran in the opposite direction. I must have looked tough.

The constable caught up with me. ‘That’s the back way out, sir!’

Shit. They’d got away. But they hadn’t got Malachi. I ran down the corridor and skidded to a halt at the door of the Gents’ toilet. It was still swinging on its hinges.

I pushed at it and went in. I could at least soak my head in cold water. But I lost interest in that when I saw Mal. His tongue was sticking out, as though he was saying
boo
. But his one good eye was bulging. And his toes were two feet off the ground. A rope went up and over a pipe near the ceiling. One end was tethered to a handrail by the urinals. The other was round Mal’s neck. By the time we’d got him down it was way too late. They’d broken his neck with the first yank on the rope.

I stuck my head in the basin and let the blood flow down the drain. Someone handed me a towel. I looked up into the mirror. Sam stared back at me.

‘The Nazi brigade or the Jewish terrorist boys?’

‘Hell, Sam, pick a card. It could be the CIA, MI6 or the Norman Conks for all I know. But at least you’ve got the rest of the day off.’

I got a lift to the infirmary from one of Duncan’s men in a squad car. They put half a dozen stiches in my scalp, scalded me with iodine, gave me a handful of aspirin and pushed me out. I went back to the newsroom with a very different story to tell. I didn’t know where to start with the Salinger piece so I didn’t. It was still too hot a potato. But I had an eye-witness scoop at this morning’s debacle in the Sheriff Court.

I tugged the draft column out of my typewriter just as Elaine came to my desk. Elaine had taken over secretarial duties for me. Morag no longer felt it necessary to brandish her engagement ring at me now she’d converted intent into substance. In fairness she’d been gushingly grateful at getting my congratulatory telegram. All the way from Hamburg.

‘You’ve got a woman on the line. Says it’s your
landlady
.’ She made it sound like a clandestine call from my secret lover demanding an afternoon assignation. Which would be nice. Unlikely, but nice.

I handed her my draft column and picked up the phone. ‘Samantha?’

‘Meet me at Kelvingrove Art Gallery.’

‘Now?’

‘Right now, Douglas. I’ve got news.’

I splashed through the slush until I could get to the tramline. I took the top deck and sat gazing out of the window at the melting city around me. Rivers coursed down the streets. Mini-icebergs blocked the gutters. The blackened ramparts lining the pavements were dissolving.

Were these our worldly sins flushing down the streets? Was that our conscience thawing? Our remorse awakening? Was there a huge tidal wave of guilt and contrition about to break over Blythswood Hill and carry us all into the Clyde and then out to sea, to cleanse our sins and renew the cycle?

Or was it just concussion?

I got off at the gallery and walked up the steps into the great gaudy hall. Sam was sitting on a bench waiting for me. She saw me coming and gave a little smile, but it was halfhearted and tentative. I guessed that she had nothing to smile about. That she’d carried out the mission I’d given her and the news was bad. I sat beside her and took her right hand and squeezed it. Her left held a piece of paper.

‘You had the day off, Sam. You should have put your feet up.’

‘Your mistrust was well founded, Douglas.’

‘You found her house?’

She shook her head. ‘I found
a
house. It’s not the one Danny knows.’

‘The tenements in Anderston?’

‘That’s the address he gave the taxi driver the other night.’

‘But?’

‘Before we called the taxi, she phoned her aunt’s neighbour to pass on the message not to worry. I noted the number. It wasn’t deliberate. Numbers just stick with me. I called it this morning and spoke to a woman. Said I had the number but had forgotten the address. She said a man had called with the same problem. Anyway it’s not in Anderston; it’s further over, in Finnieston. I went round there. Quite a smart building. Three floors, each with two flats. The neighbour with the phone was very helpful. She pointed upstairs to where the aunt lives. But she said no one had been home for days.’

‘No one? Neither her nor her niece?’

‘Just said there was only one woman living there, though she was rarely there. Her niece sometimes rang to speak to her. Sometimes the niece stayed the night.’

‘Did the neighbour describe this
aunt
?’

‘An English lady, she thought. Neat. Middle-aged. Very polite.’ Sam shook her head. ‘I knocked on the door and waited a while. Nothing. So I went round to the house Danny knows in Anderston. Rougher place. I just started knocking on doors. I got two neighbours at home. Old gossips.’

‘Lovely. I like gossips.’

‘They confirmed a girl used the flat. The description fits. They knew her as Miss Goldstein. A nurse, they said, though they’d not seen the uniform. She lived alone, but was often not there. They speculated that she was some sort of fancy woman. That a man rented the place and it was for romantic dalliances.’

‘Any sign of this man?’

Sam smiled ruefully. ‘A couple of times. They described seeing a red-haired man with a big scar on his head. But they were disappointed to report he never stayed the night.’