Bitter Water (34 page)

The porter glanced at me queerly as though he wasn’t sure I was joking. ‘I suppose you’ve heard that quite a lot, sir?’

‘Once or twice.’

Sam raised her eyes.

The summer season was over and we were able to take a suite at half price. It had a small lounge that looked down and across the loch, and an adjoining bedroom and bathroom. We went Dutch; essential, considering my finances. Good sightlines down the road south. Partial views round to the north. I walked over to the window and gazed out. It was too early in the year to have the full autumn colours, but the long hot summer had taken its toll and some of the trees were already edging to russet. The great sweeping bank of Ben Lomond was patched with purple. The haze rose from the loch and blurred the trees on the far bank.

The porter stowed our bags and gun cases and left us alone.

‘You do know we’re probably closer to Maxwell and his crew than we were in Glasgow?’ I nodded through the glass down the loch towards its eastern bank and the hills that rolled up and away from us.

She stood beside me with her arms folded, looking out. ‘We’ve got big Ben between us, but as the crow flies, yes. Or the boat sails. But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s the last thing they’ll be expecting.’

‘Can I just say this, Sam? You seem very unfazed.’

‘You’d prefer to see me teary and quivering? A poor wee damsel in distress? Ready to be saved by her big hulking hero? Or simply drunk?’

I was glad she was smiling as she said it. I laughed. ‘It’s just a surprise. I saw your reaction to Curly and Fitz, the chloroform kids. As things get worse, you seem to be getting calmer.’

Her face went serious. ‘I’m drawing on my reserves of fatalism, Brodie.’

I thought about what had happened to her. Her parents were drowned in this very loch just over a decade ago at the hands of the Slattery gang. Her fiancé David went down with his destroyer on the Murmansk run in ’42. Then came her recent abduction and abuse by the same men who were probably out there trying to find us and finish the job. You had choices: you raged against life’s calamities until you went mad; you gave up and turned into a jellyfish; or you rolled with the blows and tried to carry on.

‘That doesn’t mean I don’t want to live,’ she said, reading my thoughts.

‘Good. Then it’s not too late to keep on driving north.’

‘We’ve been through that. Besides, Sir Kenny Rankin and his wife, Moira, live just down the road. In case we fancied calling in on them.’

‘For a blether about Glasgow regeneration?’

‘That sort of thing.’

It made sense. Rather than tackle the Maxwells head on, we could probe the flanks. If Rankin was in cahoots with Maxwell, we might learn something.

‘Don’t we need an invitation?’

‘Moira made it clear her door is always open to me. Let’s go chap on it.’

‘How near are they?’

‘Helensburgh. If we take the back road along Loch Long, it’s about twenty miles south of here.’

I nodded. ‘That’s tomorrow’s job.’ I looked at my watch. We’d made good time. it was just after eleven. ‘I badly need to call in to the paper. Talk to McAllister. He needs a warning. I won’t say where I am, but I want to make sure he knows what I found out from Jamie Frew. I can dictate a column about the chloroform connection to Morag. I’ll also tell her to hold any messages.’

‘Morag?’

‘Just one of the girls.’ Had my voice changed?

‘
Your
girls?’

‘
The
girls.’

‘She sounds helpful.’

FORTY-SIX

I
sat at the small table in the lounge area of the room and scratched out the story that had been rumbling through my head since meeting Frew the night before. It was a delicate balance between fact and supposition. But the bones of it were clear enough: six people, counting Morton, had now died and their deaths were linked. The first murder in the Monkey Club tied in with the second pair in that all three were homosexuals. And they’d had accusatory notes stuffed in their dead mouths. In addition the second pair had been chloroformed. So had Sheridan and his girlfriend. And poor Morton was likely a harbinger for Sheridan’s demise.

The brutality of their deaths and the drugging of their victims bore the hallmarks of Curly and Fitz. Both were now working for Maxwell. What I couldn’t do was find a motive that connected them all. For the moment, therefore, I couldn’t link Maxwell with any of it. Eddie would self-combust at the thought of accusing Sir Colin of skulduggery without photographic proof, a signed confession and an eye-witness statement from the Pope. I’d talk to McAllister and ask for his help on checking out the background of the three dead lads.

I went down to the hallway and found the phone booth. I piled some change on top and dialled the
Gazette
. I pushed the money in and pressed A when I heard one of the secretary’s voices.

‘It’s Brodie. Is that Elaine? Can I speak to Wullie McAllister, please.’

‘Hello, Mr Brodie. He’s not in yet, but Mr Paton wants a word. He said it was urgent.’

I sighed. ‘Elaine, it’s always urgent with Eddie. Sure, put me through.’

She giggled. ‘Hold on please.’

There was a pause, a ring and then a blast: ‘Where the effin’ hell are you, Brodie? The world’s in flames here! I need you right here, right now!’

‘And good morning to you too, Eddie. I’d be there like a shot, but there’s a very real chance of getting a chloroform pad in my face followed by a knife in the back. Maxwell’s goons are on the rampage and the likelihood is we’re next.’

‘Whit? Who’s
we
? And what the hell do you mean Maxwell’s goons? We’ll need proof a mile high if you’re making accusations like that!’

‘One thing at a time, Eddie. The
we
is Samantha Campbell and me. And maybe McAllister as well. We’re at risk. I was attacked in the swimming pool this morning. I’m phoning in the story. But I’m not mentioning Maxwell. Not yet.’

‘Why didn’t you say so! In the mean effin’ time, what am I supposed to do with shouty phone calls from these buggers the Marshals? Not to mention visitations by your pal Sangster?’

‘No pal of mine. Look, let’s start with your news. What exactly are the Marshals shouting about this time?’

‘Your effin’ Tuesday article, of course. They were phoning all yesterday and again this morning!’

I had a moment’s guilt at ducking their calls. ‘Why? I was kind. I said the murders didn’t look like the work of the Marshals. It didn’t have their calling card. What more do they want?’

‘Ah suppose it’s not so much what you wrote as what the polis said about it.’

‘Eddie, we’re going round in circles here. Just tell me what happened this morning.’

‘It was on the wireless, for God’s sake. Did you no’ listen? The Chief Constable of Glasgow – the top man, Brodie! – has personally come out and said he was going after the Marshals no matter what – and I quote –
some clever dick local news reporter cares to write
– end of quote. He means you, Brodie. And that means
me
! He went on about returning the streets to the people, upholding the law and a’ that bullshit.’

‘So why did the Marshals call you?’

‘They want
you
. They want to speak to you as soon as you care to drop by, Brodie.’

‘What do I do, then? Did they suggest a meeting?’

‘They gave a nummer. A Glasgow nummer. But it’s only to be used until twelve noon, the day. Then it’ll change.’

‘Have you tried it?’

‘No fear!’

‘Tell me.’ I pulled my notepad to me and scribbled the four digits after the Glasgow code.

‘What about Sangster? What did he want?’

‘Your hide, Brodie. Tanned and nailed to his wall. Let me see . . . for having secret assignations with known criminals and murderers. For conspiracy to disrupt a police investigation. For conspiring with police medical practitioners to reveal secret information. And on and on and on.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That the press was independent and free and we were not prepared to reveal our sources. Besides, I had no idea where the fuck you were. Did you, by the by, happen to ascertain anything useful from your medical pal?’

I sighed. ‘That’s why we’re lying low. That’s the story I’m going to dictate to one of the girls if you’d just let me. I’m saying that the three murders of the homosexuals are linked to Sheridan and his lady friend’s death.’

‘Good God! That’s terrific! What’s the connection?’

‘Chloroform. They were all found with high levels of chloroform in their bodies. Sorry, to be precise: the first murder – Connie? – his post-mortem was carried out by somebody else. Jamie’s checking, but we can’t actually say it was connected with the others. The link there is the homosexual one.’

‘But we can run with it?’

‘I’m counting on it. Maybe even an evening special? We still don’t know why, though we can guess it’s something to do with the Glasgow redevelopment project. We’re also pretty certain it involves the remnants of the Slattery gang who work for Maxwell. But if Maxwell is involved, we don’t have proof. So I’m leaving him and the old Slattery boys out of it for the moment. But the key point is, Eddie, they are ready to get rid of anyone standing in their way. You have to warn Wullie. Is he in yet?’

‘No yet. You ken what he’s like.’

‘Can you get in touch with him? Has he got a phone at home?’

‘He stays with his brother, Stewart, out by Govan. I’ll get one o’ the lassies to get a telegram round to him. Ask him to gi’e us a phone. In the meantime, where are you?’

‘Need to know, Eddie. Best not to tell you. I’ll phone in from time to time. But now, hand me back to Morag or one of the girls and you’ll have a draft column in half an hour. Then I’ll call this number you gave me.’

‘Where are you?’ Morag hissed. She had her mouth pressed against the phone and was shouting quietly at me.

‘I’m lying low for a wee while.’

‘Alone?’

‘No.’

‘With that woman, I suppose?’

‘Morag, I don’t have time for this. I need you to take some dictation. There’s a story we need to get out.’

The line went quiet for a bit then a frosty, precise voice responded, ‘OK,
Mister
Brodie, I’m ready . . .’

I rubbed my ear after we’d hung up. I’d put things right with Morag when we got back. I dialled the number Eddie gave me. It rang for a while, then: ‘Packhorse Inn. We’re no’ open yet.’

‘I want Drummond.’

There was silence, then a distant muttered argument, then: ‘Where are you, Brodie?’

‘Why does everyone ask that? Having an early pint or two, Drummond? Dutch courage for the next punishment rendezvous?’

‘Shut up, Brodie. We’re using these premises as a temporary base. Did you hear the wireless this morning?’

‘No, but I gather my golden words didn’t impress the Chief Constable. I tried, Drummond.’

‘Not hard enough, it seems!’

‘Cops are simple-minded creatures. Once they get an idea into their heads, it’s hard to dislodge.’

‘You
know
something, Brodie, don’t you? You know who’s doing this. It’s something to do with Sheridan’s death, isn’t it?

‘I don’t know how you make that leap, Drummond. But whatever I have is pure supposition. We don’t have the proof.’

‘Then what the hell do
we
do?’

‘Why the hell should
I
care? You made your bed of thistles. You maun lie in it.’

His voice went quieter, more tense. ‘Brodie, this isn’t for me. I don’t care what happens to me. It’s my men. You’ll understand that. You have to help us.’

‘I really don’t. And in truth, even if I did, I wouldn’t know how.’

‘Brodie, look, we’re moving on from here now, so don’t try any tricks. I’ll leave another number tomorrow morning at the
Gazette
. Just call me. OK?’ He didn’t, couldn’t say please, but it was as near to begging as I think Drummond ever got.

‘I’ll see.’

FORTY-SEVEN

S
am and I took a stroll through the grounds of the hotel and down along the shoreline. We kept in costume, partly to convince the hotel we were dilettante upper class out for a few days’ shooting, partly because it felt comfortable and right among the turning trees and wild scenery. Full tweeds and, over our shoulders, the Dixons, broken open. Our gamekeepers’ pockets bulging with cartridges.

The last time I’d used these beautiful weapons had been for real, against the Slatterys. This was the chance to enjoy them, savour their weight and perfect balance, bring them up and across to track a flushed pigeon. We took down a couple before deciding that, rather than massacre all the feathered wildlife, we’d get the hotel to set up their clay shoot. We strolled back. A young boy from the kitchen leaped at the chance with glee, and hunkered down behind a dip between the hotel and the shoreline.