Bitter Water (30 page)

‘The others were struggling too. No jobs. Just enough money for bread and booze. No homes. When the dole ran out we begged and we squatted. Condemned houses and gutted factories. Do you know how many others are doing the same, Brodie? This land fit for heroes? The trouble is,
we
weren’t heroes. We survived five years in prisoner-of-war camps and now we were falling apart.’

I lit a fag of my own. Drummond was echoing my own months of wallowing in self-pity and whisky in London. But I’d been jolted out of it. Being summoned back to Glasgow in April to focus on saving Hugh from a hanging had given me a purpose. I’d failed, but I found a new goal: hunting down the men who’d wrought his death. The black dog still bit at my heels from time to time, but I had a new job and some hope. I even had Sam in my life. Sort of. Drummond had bugger all. But it was still no excuse for scaring my mother.

‘It’s rough for us all, Drummond. But that doesn’t let us set up our own law-enforcement agency.’

‘You think we’re pathetic, don’t you, Brodie? Don’t you see: Glasgow’s a battlefield! Its very soul is at stake.’

‘Sodom and Gallowgate?’

‘You’re taking the piss! This is no different from fighting the Nazis – right here! On the streets! The enemy all round us. The crooks, the spivs, the thieves, the rapists, the razor gangs . . . and no one doing one damned thing about it except us.’

‘Bollocks, Drummond! You’re not fixing crime. You’re adding to it! You’re ex-polis. Where’s your respect for the law? What makes you think you have the right to impose your will? Quotes from an old Jewish handbook?’

By this time we were both back on our feet, facing each other and jabbing fingers at each other.

‘I’ll tell you!
I’ll tell you!
Five years in a camp does it! Five years of summary justice gives you a proper understanding about how effective it is. And another year of being treated like a leper in my own country, watching gangs roam the street. Women being raped, shops plundered, widows robbed, murderers and pederasts walking the streets with impunity. Drugs being sold on street corners like sweeties. That’s what does it!’

‘And was this a sign from God?’ I needed to watch my sarcasm. It tended to fire folk up.

A sneer shaped his wet mouth. ‘Aye, blaspheme if you want to. But where do you think I got the idea from? The papers were full of it. Full of stories about
you
, Brodie. About how you’d shone a light on the corruption in the legal system. The stink and filth at the heart of our useless police service. How could we stand back and let this tidal wave of filth and depravity drown us all?’

‘They’re not
all
bad. And Barlinnie is full to the brim. You can hardly say people are getting away with – well – murder.’

‘You think not? It’s broken! The wheels have come off. Sin is triumphing, everywhere you look. We learned how you brought down retribution on the murderers and child-abusers in the Slattery clan.’ He paused for effect. ‘You make a good role model, Brodie!’

It was a good shot. It drove straight to the heart of my earlier ambivalence about this whole damned vigilante escapade. I flung my hands up in the air.

‘I never asked anyone to follow me! I was trying to save the life of my friend. You’re just looking for an excuse, Drummond.’

He went still. His voice fell. ‘No. An example.’

THIRTY-NINE

I
stepped back. I looked past his head to the park beyond, to normal folk going about their Sunday, kids running around wild. We all needed someone to look up to, someone to set the pattern. Finally, calmer, I broke the long silence. ‘What are we here for, Drummond? What do you want from us? They have confessionals if you just want it off your chest. A good chapel-going man like you.’

‘I’m not! I’m Free Church of Scotland.’

‘The Wee Frees? No wonder you’re so holy. But what about the quotes from the Apochrypha? They’re not in
your
bible.’

Drummond reached behind and under his jumper. He brought out a thin, battered book. It was clearly a bible. He looked uncomfortable.

‘It was the only one I could get hold of. From a Catholic chaplain. He died on the long march. It served us well.’

I asked again, softly, ‘What do you want?’

‘You to believe we didn’t kill anyone. Murder was never part of our plan.’

‘Not even queers?’ I scoffed.

‘There’s no need for killing. You met one of my men. With God’s will, and the man’s faith, I brought him back into the fold. It’s a choice.’

‘Whether he wants it or not, eh? But you left a good man at death’s door. Davie Allardyce nearly died. He might never recover properly. A family smashed to bits. It was only chance that you’ve avoided a murder charge!’

He nodded. ‘We might have hit him too hard.’ He didn’t seem that contrite.

‘And what about the two women you
tested
for adultery? Who gave you the moral authority? One of them died and the other is on the streets.
Bitter water
indeed!’

‘It is written.’ He waved the bible at me.

‘In blood! Like so much of the
Good
Book. Which reminds me. What did you do with Jenny MacIntosh?’

He seemed to smirk. ‘The abortionist? We prayed with her. We made her join us in prayer and in admitting her sins. She sought pardon from the Lord.’

‘You smug bully, you!’

At that moment I didn’t know whether I hated this man more for the appalling physical damage he’d done to the Dochertys and Allardyces of this world, or for forcing that poor wee woman to go down on her knees and beg for forgiveness from Drummond’s fickle and irascible God.

‘Another sinner brought to the light, eh? Anyway, that’s not the point. You’re on the hook for three murders. How can you prove you didn’t do it? Having a poof on your team won’t cut ice with a jury. You’ll need a good lawyer . . .’

We both turned and looked at Sam, who had been sitting, legs neatly crossed, quietly smoking and watching the two fighting cocks bristle and strut in front of her. She leisurely took a puff and lowered her hand. She blew the smoke out and recrossed her legs. They were nice legs.

‘Let me see if I understand this,
Mister
Drummond? You break into my house, hold me and Brodie hostage at gunpoint, threaten us and generally act like a hoodlum. You nearly kill a good friend of mine. And now you’d like me to defend you against a triple murder charge? Is that a fair summary?’

‘I’m not asking for your help.’ He was every inch the stuck-up Highlander. The sort that would lead his men into battle against English cannon waving his sporran at them.

‘Good. Because you can whistle for it as far as I’m concerned.’

I cut in. ‘What exactly were you expecting, Drummond? That I’d write a column for the
Gazette
that says, I’ve met this man. He’s a Highland chentleman. He gave me his word. He’s no killer. And the polis slap me on the back and say, That’s fine, Brodie. We trust you. Someone else clearly did this, and your noble pal is in the clear. Give him our best wishes and tell him to continue with his vigilante work. In fact, more power to his elbow.’

Drummond faced me, his gaze intense and unwavering. ‘I don’t know why these men were murdered. But it is not our work. I told you before we left certain signs on the guilty. Calling cards, you said. But you’ve never spelled it out in any of your articles.’

‘Because the infirmaries would be full of folk with bandaged fingers and scarred faces. Copycats.’

He exhaled. ‘I know. I was police too. But the whole Glasgow force is hunting us! Meantime, the guilty men are sitting there laughing. It’s time you went public.’

‘And say what? What would convince anyone?’

‘In all your reports, you didn’t mention
why
we took a finger or left a scar. The people we punished are already followers of Satan. Now they can be recognised.’

He opened his bible near the end. I could see jagged scribbles and underlined passages on the pages. He read aloud:

Drummond paused for effect. ‘Tell them we are identifying the wicked. We are enforcing God’s commandments.’

FORTY

W
e watched him march back through the arch and out of the park. He kept a good stiff back, as though he assumed I’d be judging his parade-ground manners.

‘The Bible’s a dangerous book,’ I said.

‘For a lost soul.’

‘Lost marbles.’

‘Is it going to help to quote Revelations at your readers?’

‘It proves nothing. Except that Drummond is off his head. Have you any idea how many interpretations of that passage there are likely to be?’

‘Six hundred and sixty-six?’

‘At least. And when you think about the mutilations to the three homosexuals you can easily make the case that the Marshals were complying with the Good Book. But with more enthusiasm. In their twisted minds, punishments fitting the crime. But you’re the lawyer. What do you think?

‘If these guys are caught, they’re for the high jump. Or rather the long drop.’

We were in no hurry now. We walked away from the arch down to the fountain, then followed the riverside path east until we did a full loop of the Green. We didn’t say much. The sun was hidden by tumbling clouds. The air felt wet and hot like the steam room at the Western Baths Club. We drove back to the house talking about the big ham salad we felt we’d earned. But we soon lost our appetite.

Sitting on the front step surrounded by a confetti of fag ends, was McAllister. He rose as we drew up and got out. ‘I was beginning to think you’d eloped, Brodie.’

‘Without asking your permission, Wullie? Before you say anything else that will get us both into trouble, I’d better make the introductions.’

Hands were duly shaken, and then I said, ‘Are you here to find out how we got on last night among Glasgow high society? There’s not much to tell. The champagne was too dry. The petits fours too petits.’

‘Naw, that’ll keep.’

‘Just a social call, then?’

‘Not very, Brodie. Not very. I assume by your general air of insouciance that you haven’t heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘About Sheridan. Him and his – pardon my French, Miss Campbell – whore.’

My stomach knotted up. ‘Get on with it, Wullie.’

‘Dead. Drowned. They were found this morning.’

Sam spoke up. ‘You’d better come inside.’

We sat round the kitchen table nursing glasses of lemonade while McAllister talked.

‘I got a call from one of my polis contacts this morning. You know the pier at Balloch? Seems an early-morning fisherman found a green Morris Eight lying at the bottom of Loch Lomond. Next to the
Princess May
.’

‘Sheridan’s?’

Aye, and him in it, apparently. And his floozy. They got a police diver to take a look. The pair of them were floating inside the car, last I heard.’

‘Suicide?’

‘At first glance.’

‘Polis saying the publicity drove them to it?’

‘Their first deduction.’

‘Except?’

‘Jimmie Sheridan’s ego. If ever a man could soak up public humiliation and chastisement and make it into badge of honour, it’s Sheridan. This past week he’s been charging about, playing the victim of right-wing forces. Man of the people attacked by his detractors etc., etc.’

‘And his lady friend from Edinburgh doesn’t sound the type to let a bit of mud-slinging get her down,’ Sam said. I raised my eyebrow at this lack of feminine empathy. She raised hers back at me.

Wullie said, ‘It’s all too pat. Sheridan knew too much, and was flaunting it. There will be an autopsy. If there’s foul play it should show up.’

Sam was tapping her table. ‘I’m just curious why he chose Balloch pier to dive off. The Clyde’s closer.’

‘The loch’s quieter? Deeper? Less likely to be found?’

‘I know Balloch well. My folks and I spent summers around there. We were invited to go shooting up by there. On the east bank of the loch.’

‘You mean . . .?’ I invited her.

‘One of the ways of driving to Colin Maxwell’s estate is through Balloch. Or for that matter if you were driving round to Helensburgh. Kenny Rankin’s mansion.’

We sat for a while smoking round the table and mulling the implications before Wullie rose and headed for the door.

‘Well, at least we have Monday’s headlines. I’ll go and see if Eddie’s got it yet.’ He turned to Sam and me. ‘You’ve got the car out. Fancy a wee trip up to Loch Lomond? You could phone in any details.’

‘It’s my day off, Wullie. And it’s not my idea of a Sunday jaunt.’ I looked at Sam. I assumed she’d had enough dealings with personal tragedies for one day. As so often, she surprised me.