Bitter Water (31 page)

‘Why not, Brodie? We’ve just enough petrol. And I’ve been saving coupons for a refill in the week. It will be nice to get out of town.’

I always forget how close Glasgow is to the real Scotland. Or do I mean the tourist, romantic Scotland? The Scotland that even the most urban of Lowlanders conjures when asked what’s Scotland like. The bits with shaved mountains, cowed glens and long troughs of water. In no time, following the Great Western Road – and averting your eyes from the blitz rubble of Clydebank – you’re out along the shimmering Clyde and the ragged lumps of rounded rock at Dumbarton. You catch glimpses of the Firth widening out like spilled mercury, and the rumps of the hills and islands beyond. Past Dumbarton, north five miles, through Alexandria and you’re on the south end of Loch Lomond. To the north, slicing off the peaks of the great mountains, the skies were a sullen black mass.

We edged into Balloch and along the high street, such as it is. There’s little enough of a town. Its focal point is the pier jutting into the loch and the railway station next to it, debouching day trippers who fancied a steam around the water. It was a busy, happy Sunday. Kids clutching sticks of rock, men in shirtsleeves and women in light frocks. Hanging on to the remnants of summer. They knew the weather couldn’t last as we slid into autumn.

We parked on the street and walked towards the pier alongside the rail tracks. There was a crowd gathered just short of the start of the wooden jetty. The
Princess May
was stationary alongside. Sheridan had messed up a lot of folks’ day out.

Sam said, ‘We’ll never get near.’

‘Let’s see who’s in charge. This is beyond the local bobby.’ We pushed our way through the crowd until we found ourselves out in the open with the pier clear in front of us. Two coppers stood in our way, holding the gawpers back. Beyond them was a huddled group of uniforms and plain clothes. Sangster was standing next to a tarpaulin-covered mound. A man was piling up diving gear on a wheelbarrow. Another was kneeling by the mound with a probably superfluous stethoscope dangling from his neck.

‘Sergeant? My name is Brodie. I’m from the
Gazette
. This is Advocate Campbell. She represents Mr Sheridan.’

The sergeant immediately looked worried. ‘How did you know it’s—?’ He pulled himself up. ‘Sorry, sir, ma’am, I have strict instructions . . .’

‘I know, I know, Sergeant, from Chief Inspector Sangster there. Would you be so kind as to ask your constable to let the chief inspector know we’re here and that we may have information that would help.’

The sergeant looked doubtful but he complied. We watched the constable go up to the group and talk to Sangster. It was as though he’d been stabbed. His head shot up and he stared our way. I could see his brain whirring from here. Eventually he said something to the officer who marched back.

‘He says, and I quote, sir,
Brodie and the lady can come over, but it had better be bloody good
. Sir.’

FORTY-ONE

S
am and I started walking up the pier. She hissed. ‘How could you say I represent Sheridan? And what exactly are you going to tell him that will help?’

‘I don’t know yet, Sam. Better think fast. And anyway, who’s going to argue that you represent Sheridan?’

‘You’re a menace, Brodie.’

‘You love it, Sam.’

And she did. Some people rise to challenges and are rubbish when life is placid. Just as bicycles are only really steady when they’re going like the clappers. When folk like Sam have time to dwell on trivial matters they magnify them into full-blown disasters. They’re too hard on themselves, unsparing in their self-criticism. Sam’s bar was set too high for her comfort. But it made her a good woman to have on your flank. Sam’s eyes were bright and her shoulders back as we walked purposefully towards Sangster.

‘Are you some kind of understudy for the grim reaper, Brodie? Where there’s death, there you are?’ He nodded to Sam. ‘Miss Campbell, I didn’t know you were Jimmie Sheridan’s brief.’ There was a sceptical tone in his voice.

‘I won’t comment on that until we find out what’s going on. Client privilege, Chief Inspector. As you can tell by the very fact we’re here, we know something about this case. Isn’t that right, Brodie?’ She smiled at me, challenging me.

‘First things first, Sangster. What’s the initial theory of cause of death?’

‘Apart from drowning, you mean?’ For a moment he studied us and I thought he was going to call our bluff, but then he turned back to the kneeling figure. ‘Doctor, how are you doing? First findings?’

The doctor looked up. I’d known him before the war. ‘Jamie Frew, isn’t it? Hello, Doctor, I’m . . .’

‘I ken you, Brodie. I thought you’d gone to war and never came back?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Jamie. Here I am.’

‘You were always one for finding trouble, Brodie.’ Sam nudged me. I ignored her. ‘Maybe we could have a wee dram sometime to celebrate your homecoming?’

‘I’d enjoy that, Jamie.’

‘Could I interrupt this wee social hour and ask you to stick to the job in hand?’ said Sangster.

Frew peeled back the corner of the tarpaulin. He stood up and we all looked down on the shocked grey faces of Sheridan and his lover. Water pooled around their heads. The skin of his face lay loose and flabby as though it was coming off in the water. His blue eyes were wide and staring. He couldn’t believe where he’d ended up. The woman’s face was older and far more lined than the recent press photos of a laughing good-time girl. Her make-up was smeared and washed away. Grey roots showed in her slicked blonde hair. An old mermaid who’d lost the gift.

‘Weeell, at first sight, it’s a simple straightforward drowning, a terrible accident. A wrong turn? Brakes failed? They’ve been in the water for at least eight hours, maybe twelve. So sometime last night I’d say.’

‘At first sight, Jamie? What about a second?’

Jamie’s eyes wandered away. ‘I don’t want to say anything until we’ve carried out the post-mortem.’

‘But?’

He turned to look at me. ‘But when I probed their mouths and massaged the chests, as well as water coming up, there was a distinct sweet smell.’

‘Spit it out, man,’ said Sangster.

‘I’d know it anywhere. Any doctor would. It’s chloroform.’

I grabbed Sam as I felt her sway beside me. Even tough ladies have their limits.

Sangster whipped round. ‘You know something?’

‘We’ve got some experience of this modus operandi, Sangster. In fact Miss Campbell here has first-hand knowledge. You’ll recall that back in April, she was abducted. The man who did it used a chloroform pad.’

Sam cleared her throat. ‘It was Gerrit Slattery, Chief Inspector. He used it several times on me over the few days he . . . held me.’

‘But they’re gone! The Slatterys are gone,’ said Sangster, staring at me. Was that accusation in his eyes? Or paranoia in mine?

I said, ‘Not all of them. Two of their tough guys showed up last night in chauffeur’s uniform. Curly and Fitz.’

‘Oh aye. Chauffeurs to who?’

‘Whom. They were driving Colin Maxwell and his son, Charlie.’

‘Sir Colin Maxwell? That’s no’ possible. A man like that involved with the Slattery scum?’ He shook his head. ‘No way. He’s a patron to this city. Charity work in the Gorbals.’

‘Oh, no doubt he’s an angel. But if so, he consorts with the devil.’

‘Wait, wait. I just don’t get it. Why would Sir Colin be involved in something like this?’

I was thinking fast. Of our two suspects in the area – Rankin and Maxwell – only Maxwell had the vile entourage equipped to dole out death by chloroform. But if I started accusing Maxwell now, where would it get me? Where was the proof that this pillar of society would do anything, including murder, to win the huge contracts for rebuilding Glasgow? Where was the link between these poor drowned creatures and
Sir
Colin Maxwell? The man was in the top rank of Scottish society. Knighted for his efforts in industry. Fêted for his charitable work. Even I struggled to think of him involved in anything as shoddy. But his son, Charlie . . . now that was something,
someone
else. If I was any judge.

‘All I’m saying is that there are some links that you might want to bear in mind, Sangster.’ I counted them off on my fingers. ‘This is the second councillor who’s come to an unhappy end. Morton was the Finance Chairman. And now we’ve lost Jimmie Sheridan, chairman of Planning. Between them the councillors with key responsibility for Glasgow regeneration. Jimmie suddenly comes into the money and is seen hobnobbing with some big-name developers including Messrs Rankin and Maxwell. Now he’s lying at our feet, drowned in very suspicious circumstances. If he’s been chloroformed, then dumped in his car and pushed off the pier, we know at least a couple of lads who are handy with the technique. They work for Maxwell, senior or junior.’

‘And he lives just over there.’ Sam pointed across the bodies, over the loch at the low hills on the east side of the water. Sangster and Jamie Frew turned to look, and then turned back to me.

‘But no actual proof of anything, Brodie. Is that right?’

‘No proof. But you might just pay Maxwell a visit and see if Sheridan had popped in for tea and scones yesterday before taking a dip in Loch Lomond.’

We drove home, the summer’s day darkened by the approaching storm and by what we’d seen and what we thought. Sam was silent beside me gazing out of the window. In twenty-four hours she’d run into her tormentors of the spring and found them working for an old family friend. Now we’d learned that the same pair were up to their old nasty tricks with knockout pads. But this time with deliberate, deadly effect. We’d begun the day with an encounter with the boss of the Marshals and found him a deranged preacher with vengeance in his heart. I was just surprised Sam wasn’t punching the dashboard or howling with anguish. It’s what I felt like doing.

‘You OK, Sam?’

She turned her head. ‘No. But what am I supposed to do? Have a fit?’

‘It would be understandable.’

‘It wouldn’t help.’

‘You might feel better?’

‘The only thing that would make me feel better is to see Curly and Fitz standing on the gallows with ropes round their neck and me with the lever in my hand.’

She said it with such cold certainty that I could find nothing to say for a long mile. ‘Let’s see what we can do, then. OK?’

‘OK.’

When we got back to her house she disappeared to her bedroom. I was sure she had a bottle up there. But how could I stop her? How else could she handle all this? I felt useless, helpless.

I phoned in to the Sunday news desk and briefed Wullie.

‘Can we mention the chloroform thing, Brodie?’

‘It’s not proven yet. I don’t want Jamie Frew to get into trouble. He’s a good man and I want to keep pals with him. Let’s just lead with the drowning and talk about mysterious or suspicious circumstances.’

‘Right. We’ll get another crack at it with the autopsy.’

‘One more thing, Wullie. What about Elsie? Has anyone told her? She might hate his guts but she’s still his wife. Or rather widow.’

‘I’ll give her a wee phone right now. It’ll help add colour.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I ken, I ken. See you the morn.’

FORTY-TWO

I
woke to the sound of drumming. Rain was pounding the streets and the air was wet and cool. I listened to it in the dark for a long time. My watch said three. It felt like the end of things.

I woke again in the dark. It was 6 a.m. I was alone. Sam hadn’t sneaked into my bed for comfort. There would be no unguarded smiles over breakfast. Hardly surprising after the weekend’s revelations that her abductors were on the loose and back at their old ways. It should have been a good reason for her seeking warmth and protection in the night. But, then, that was clearly a simple man’s view. She preferred solitude and had slid back into her carapace. Or, more prosaically, into a bottle. And I was worried sick for her. Since I’d moved back in, our drinking had moderated. A bit. Suddenly, she’d been thrown back down the greasy slope. I was a poor friend.

I got up and washed and dressed and slipped out of the house. The faint light of dawn smeared the sky. The rain had stopped. The skies were clearing. There was still hope.

I walked through the wet streets and down to the club, savouring the freshness. I’d been speaking to Robert Campbell the Bathsmaster and he’d agreed to let me in for a swim as early as I liked.
A friend of Miss Campbell and a war hero
. . .

The water was icy. Just what I needed. I ploughed up and down until my body was tingling. By seven thirty I was strolling with damp hair and clear head towards the
Gazette
. It was now broad day and I was just in time to sidestep the first of the great lorries roaring out the bowels of the building with their piles of morning papers. I grabbed a free copy from the pile they leave in the entrance hall and studied the headlines above side-by-side photos of a smiling Jimmie Sheridan and the woman. No more smiles from him or her. Both looked ten years younger than the melting faces I’d seen at the pier. The article was good, simple prose, setting out the dark story and hinting at foul deeds and conspiracies without actually saying anything that could be construed as libellous. It took great skill from Wullie’s pen and Sandy’s blue pencil to tread the fine line between lurid speculation and hand-wringing tragedy. Gossip and pathos. The journalist’s nectar and ambrosia.