Bitter Water (9 page)

‘It’s surely no’ that bad, Dunc.’ But I could see it was. ‘Though it’s a shame Sillitoe’s gone.’

‘You’re right there, Brodie. Chief Constable Sir Percy Sillitoe, blessed boss of these streets, was a fixer. We could dae with another like him. We’ve lost ground since he left. It’s just a pity he didnae get rid of that shite Muncie before he went. You did us all a favour there.’

Chief Superintendent George Muncie had been the prime malignancy behind the framing of my pal Hugh. Muncie was currently being held in solitary at Duke Street – for his own safety – while awaiting a trial date. I hoped he was enjoying his new perspective on the application of the law.

‘Did I? I suppose so. He was rotten and he’d infected others on the force. But I wish . . .’

‘That he’d been better? That he’d had a finer set of morals than a rabid dug? Don’t we all. By the way, there was another wee bonus from your work.’

‘Promotions all round?’

‘Aye, but not for me. No, when you put the searchlight on the Slattery gang and they vanished, the drug trade in this fair metropolis halved overnight.’

‘Delighted to hear it, Dunc.’ I bit my tongue to avoid confessing how much of a hand I’d had in the Slatterys’ vanishing act. Or how permanent a disappearance it was. Duncan might – if he was still as bloody-minded and scrupulous as always – have to arrest me.

‘But of course it’s starting up again. Somebody new.’

‘Like targets at a fun fair. Knock ’em down and they pop up again.’

‘Why don’t you come back, Brodie? We could do with you. You were a major in the Seaforths? Good going, pal. You’d come straight in as an inspector.’

I’d thought of it. Especially as I’d nearly frittered away my demob gratuity. But I’d done my bit for king and country. No more uniforms. I wanted a quiet life. So what was I doing here?

‘I was always out of step with the force. You know that. And do you really think they’d welcome me back with open arms after what I’ve put them through?’

‘I suppose not. Anyway, you’re here about possible vigilante attacks?’

‘I’ve got two letters and two attacks. That and pub gossip.’

‘Well, we’ve got a couple of possible cases that might fit. And if we add yours in, it could be something. Saying that, and far be it from me to condone it, but you have to admit it’s quicker than due process.’

‘If you get the right man.’

‘There’s that. But it’s maybe better than no’ getting anybody at all.’

‘It’s that bad, Duncan?’

‘Maybe I’m jaundiced. Maybe it’s the war. Everybody’s tired. Nobody cares.’

‘That’s what these guys said in their letters. You’re not moonlighting, are you?’ I was only half joking.

He sighed. ‘It’s the last scruple I’ve got, Brodie. It’s why I’ve never got past sergeant. That and being a dirty papist.’ He pulled himself upright. ‘Can I see them?’

I handed over the warnings about Docherty and Gibson. He read them twice and whistled.

‘A bampot. A
religious
bampot. I wonder when we’ll get the first body?’

I nodded. ‘That’s what I’m waiting for. It’s funny how moral certainty leads to intolerance.’

‘Then dictatorship.’

‘Hitler.’

‘The Pope.’

We laughed and for the first time I saw something of the old Duncan Todd in front of me.

‘How can I help, Brodie?’

‘I need to build a picture of what’s going on. I need to know who’s getting hurt and where. And how do they choose who gets the hiding?’

‘They could follow our Black Marias on ony Saturday night. Pick out the plums.’

‘And who’s “they”, Dunc? Who’s doing this? You’ve heard they’re wearing balaclavas?’

‘Aye. I heard that from one of the fellas we picked up. Broken kneecaps. A bookie’s runner that didnae run fast enough.’

I decided to be open with Duncan. ‘I might have met the man who started this. The man who wrote the letters. But I don’t have proof.’

‘Do you now? Tell all!’

I told him, and gave him Ishmael’s description. I also mentioned the mutilated fingers.

‘You’re right to keep the finger thing back, Brodie. Could be useful. But you say we might be looking for a red-haired Teuchter? In this city, where half the polis fit that description?’

I sighed. ‘Exactly. It’s why I’ve not written about it yet.’

‘Well, it’s a start, I suppose.’

We finished our pints. I got up to go. ‘By the by, Duncan, there was another bloke I was trying to get hold of. Another of your former pupils.’

He grinned. ‘Let me guess. Another troublemaker like you, Brodie?’

I shrugged in wounded agreement. ‘McRae. Danny McRae. Any word?’

Duncan’s brow furrowed. ‘Last I heard he didnae make it back. Was hijacked by the SOE and got lost in France.’

‘No. He made it back all right. At least as far as London. He was in all the papers down there earlier this year.’

‘Good God! What for?’

‘This and that. Murder and such stuff.’

‘Christ! What happened?’

‘A set-up. His old boss in the SOE did for him. Slaughtered a girl in France and five prostitutes in London and framed Danny for the lot of them. But Danny turned the tables. After nearly killing a corrupt inspector from the Yard.’

‘What
is
it with you pair and senior coppers?’ Duncan shook his head. ‘Did you get in touch?’

I sighed. ‘No. I was, shall we say, otherwise engaged. Me and Johnnie Walker got too close. Let me know if he turns up, will you?

‘Sure thing, Brodie. Re-form the old team, eh?’

TEN

I
left Duncan topped up with another pint and headed on over Victoria Bridge into Laurieston and the Gorbals. I could have reached my destination in a few minutes, but decided to take the long way round to stretch my legs. I passed a phone box and wondered how Sam was bearing up. I hadn’t spoken to her since we’d heard about Johnson’s death. I pushed my pennies in and dialled Sam’s home number, not expecting to get her in on a weekday.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was faint and dull, as though she’d just got up. I pressed button A and the money clattered in.

‘Sam? It’s Brodie. How are you getting on?’

She coughed. ‘Fine, fine. I just haven’t spoken to anyone today. It’s nice to hear from you.’

‘You’re not trying to say you missed me?’

‘Don’t fish, Brodie. What are you up to? Other than spreading morbid tales of blood and anarchy.’

‘You saw my story this week?’

‘You’re like a big trouble magnet, Brodie.’

‘You have it wrong, Sam. I’m only reporting it, not causing it.’

‘Hmmm. I wish I could believe that. Is this a social call or have you another lost soul to save?’

‘You’re a hard woman, Samantha Campbell. I was just phoning to see if you were alive and kicking. The bruises on my ear suggest you’re just fine.’

‘Well, that’s nice of you, Brodie. I’m touched.’

‘There is one thing . . .’

I heard her sigh and pictured her eyebrows going up. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Fancy the pictures?’

There was a long silence. ‘Hello? Sam? You still there?’

‘I was just getting the paper. Tomorrow night? Curzon in Sauchiehall Street? See you at the door at seven o’clock.’

‘That’s just . . . great. What’s on?’

‘The main picture’s
Brief Encounter
.’

The phone went dead.

I slung my jacket over my shoulder, lit a cigarette and tried to saunter down the dusty street like Jimmy Stewart not giving a damn about a broad.

The Gorbals was steaming. The smells from back-street middens funnelled through the closes and merged with aromas of fresh horse pish from the coal and fish carts. Kids were everywhere doing mysterious kids’ things now the schools were out. But among them were the sure signs of deprivation: one with callipers on her legs from polio; several with the rounded skinny legs of rickets; bare feet, ragged shorts and patched dresses. I’d seen weans in better health in the bombed-out cities of the Third Reich. It was hard to see who’d won. But at least these wee ruffians seemed happy. If it weren’t for the likelihood of catching something, you’d hug them all.

As I walked I was reminded again that the Gorbals is a hotchpotch of enclaves. The area is bursting at the seams with refugees from Ireland, the Highlands, Russia, Lithuania, Poland, Italy and Asia. Life must have been pretty tough to seek haven in this cold wet fastness so far to the north of anywhere. It meant that there were pocket nations throughout the district, each with its own language and customs. All they lacked were flags and customs posts. You could hear Irish-Gaelic and Polish, Scots-Yiddish and Gorbals-Italian in a twenty-minute stroll across Hutchesontown.

I’d had enough sightseeing in the heat. I turned round and headed back towards Laurieston and the Jewish quarter – hardly a
schtetl
, but certainly a concentration of things Jewish – centred on their Great Synagogue in South Portland Street. As far as I know, Scotland is the only country in the world not to have expelled or murdered its Jews. Maybe it’s because we share a taste for diasporas. And outlooks. There’s something very Scottish in the Jewish view that good times won’t last and you’d better not get happy thinking they will. Same applies to our self-wounding sense of humour. Not to mention our reputed interest in money. But I’d like to think it’s because we’re also a broadly tolerant mob, accepting of strangers from any quarter: Ireland, the Highlands and, if pushed, England.

I recall back in ’33 signing the petition that resulted in the council boycotting German goods in protest at their anti-Semitism. Much good it did the poor buggers. Of course it’s not all altruistic; I’m convinced there’s a master plan to improve Scottish cooking. It’s hard to imagine life without Italian chippies and ice-cream vans and I have high hopes for curry and noodles. As for the tooth-dissolving treats from Glickman’s in the Gallowgate . . .

The shop was still there, thank God, or whoever was currently looking after this lost tribe of Israel. It wasn’t any god I’d obey. If you asked me, it was time they traded in their Old Testament guy for someone with a little less rancour in his heart for his followers.

The sign still read ‘Isaac Feldmann, Tailor and Fancy Linens’ in English and Yiddish above the shop. Two large windows either side of a central door. The window displays were unchanged in the years I’d been away. Sombre brown curtains starting halfway up and falling to the foot. Above the curtain, in the left window, the torso and head of a male mannequin stared blindly out towards me. On the right, a female gazed coquettishly at the male. It made me smile to see the dummies dressed in the latest style – of the twenties. I liked tradition.

I walked over and pushed through the door. The bell tinkled twice. It was dim and cosy, just as I recalled. Even the dust looked the same depth. Same long counter inset with a long brass ruler. The torso of a dressmaker’s dummy on a base. Shelf upon shelf of bolts of cloth. I waited for the bell to summon assistance, and then I called out: ‘Hello?’

I heard a grumbling in the back and through the faded curtain came a man wearing a tan apron, a corner of which he was using to clean a pair of thick specs. He was more stooped and greyer, but recognisable.

‘Shalom, Isaac. How’s business?’

‘Shalom. Ach, mustn’t grumble. Holding body and soul together but it’s the cost of everything.
Mein Gott
, this government wants its pound of flesh.’ Then he put on his glasses and squinted at me against the light pouring in through the windows from the sun-drenched street. ‘I know that voice. Come here, man. Let me see you.’

I walked forward so the light was on me and let him inspect me.

‘Sergeant Douglas Brodie
? Bist du es? Ist es wirklich wahr? Gott sei Dank!
’ He smiled and stretched his hands out. I took them both. The fingers were long and cool: piano-playing hands, or scissor-wielding.

I’d known Isaac and his growing family since my university days, wandering around Glasgow. He helped me buff up my German, though my language professor was often pained to hear a Munich accent or the odd Yiddish phrase.

I continued in German. ‘It’s really me, Isaac. It seems we’ve both been spared. How is Hannah?’

His face creased and his fingers gripped mine harder. The words choked in his throat. ‘Ach, Douglas, she has passed on without me. Three years ago. TB it was. I kept saying, but she wouldn’t see the hospital. Then it was too late.’ He turned from me and I saw his hands go up to his eyes.

‘Isaac, I’m so sorry. Hannah was a fine woman. She was kind to me.’

Hannah Feldman took in strays. She could see into hearts. She made tea and stuffed her guests with home-made pastries until she’d wrought her soothing magic on the spirit. I’d walk away from the shop, well fed – body and soul – ready to face the madding crowd again. It was hard to accept such solace had been removed from the world.

Isaac turned back to me. ‘It doesn’t get better, Douglas. They say it does. But it doesn’t. A man just has to endure until it’s his time. Then I will join her.’ He nodded his head in certainty.