Gallowglass (11 page)

TWENTY-TWO

A
uniformed doorman met Wullie and wheeled him to the executive lift and then up to the top floor, the senior management floor, marked by thick carpets and hushed conversations. Along the corridor lined by oil paintings of past head men and into the outer office of the Managing Director. An obligatory wait until the great man deigned to buzz his secretary, then into the imposing inner sanctum: wood panelling, high ceilings and silken Persian carpet.

Colin Clarkson came out from behind his massive oak desk to shake Wullie’s hand. It was as though the room and furniture had been built for a grown-up and this wisp of a man was there under false pretences. But to counter that illusion, Clarkson sported the full dress uniform of a senior banker: tails and stiff collar, striped trousers, gold watch chain straddling his waistcoat pockets. Only the bowler was lacking. A quick glance showed it perched on a coat-stand by the door.

Tea was brought and they settled down round a low table, Wullie in his wheelchair, Clarkson in a throne-like chair on the other side. Wullie detected someone who could hardly believe his luck but was trying hard to seem suitably grief-stricken for his old boss. He suspected that the moment Clarkson had heard about the murder he’d sneaked in, fingered the furniture, admired the view and tried out the big leather swivel chair for size. Maybe punched the air a few times. Now it was his, all his.

‘You must have been gie upset, Mr Clarkson, to hear about the kidnapping, not to mention the murder?’

‘Upset doesn’t go near it. We were traumatised, Mr McAllister. Traumatised.’ He rolled the word around his mouth as though he’d used it frequently lately and loved the taste of it. ‘The head of our bank, abducted from his own home? Then murdered in cold blood? What’s the world coming to?’

He wrung his small hands as though it was cold in his barn of an office. The rest of him was in proportion: neat, slight build, owl eyes behind thick glasses. More accountant than top manager; but of course he’d come up through the post of finance director.

‘What indeed? It’s as well you were able to step quickly into his shoes.’

Clarkson looked grave. ‘I was his second in command, so I was able to pick up the reins. The bank had to move on. For our customers’ sakes.’

‘Tell me about Sir Fraser. Tell me about the
man
. My paper wants to do a piece on him. Something beyond the obituaries.’

Clarkson looked worried. ‘I trust this won’t be some sort of hatchet job, Mr McAllister? Given that it was one of your paper’s reporters that is alleged to have been behind the murder?’

‘I’m glad you said “alleged”. The
Gazette
always stands behind its employees. In the same way that we stand for unbiased and accurate reporting.’

Clarkson inclined his head.

‘What we’re looking for is the human angle. Our readers want to know more about this self-made man. How it was possible to come from such humble origins to lead this great bank. Like you yourself, Mr Clarkson. And in due course, I might add, we’d like to return and do a feature on you, if that’s appropriate?’

Clarkson preened and smoothed his waistcoat. ‘I suppose you could say we’re cut from the same cloth, Sir Fraser and I.’

Clarkson was already dreaming of kneeling at the feet of his monarch, head bowed, awaiting the tap on each shoulder from the King’s sword.

‘Is that him over there?’ Wullie pointed to an oil painting on the far wall. It looked like a colour version of the newspaper archive photo.

‘It is indeed. A great man.’ Clarkson shook his head in sorrow.

The painting was a head-and-shoulder study. It showed a heavy-jawed man with blazing eyes, a stubborn nose and chin, and a thin line for a mouth. The hair was a slicked dark brown, and the shoulders meaty and powerful. Like a second row forward gone to seed but still hoping for a last call-up to the Scottish team.

‘I wouldnae want to get on his wrong side, eh?’ Wullie all but winked at Clarkson. The little man thought for a second and then nodded. The
Gazette
wanted the human angle; this was part of it.

‘You could say that. Knew his own mind. Spoke out.’

Wullie took a chance. ‘I heard he had a temper.’

Clarkson stole a glance round the room, as though Gibson might be listening.

‘Some days it was like walking on eggshells.’

‘What set him off?’

‘Oh, it depended.’

‘On?’

‘Off the record, it could be anything. A typo in a letter, someone late for a meeting, cold tea, poor annual results. Anything.’

‘Would it be fair to conclude, Mr Clarkson, that he was a bit of a bully?’

‘Gosh, I wouldn’t go that far.’
Too
human. Clarkson moved to his seat edge and his hands became increasingly jumpy.

‘How far
would
you go?’ Wullie put down his pencil and pad. ‘Let’s keep this off the record. I just want to get the sense
of the man. What he was like. We can agree what we’ll put in the paper later.’

Clarkson thought for a second, glanced at the closed notepad on the table and nodded.

‘Aye. Right. We all walked in fear of him. Especially if he was in a mood. And lately he was often in a mood. He was a big man and liked to use the fact. He’d get up close to you so that he was looking down on you. Then he’d start quietly and work up the volume until he was shouting at the top of your head. We used to say that someone had been Gibsoned.’ The small man shivered, obviously remembering his own roastings.

‘You said he was in a mood lately. Why, do you know? Worries about the bank? Home life? Golf handicap?’

That got a smile from Clarkson.

‘Any of the above. He likes the racing too. I mean
liked
. Always had a bet going about something. Didn’t like losing.’

McAllister nodded and left it a beat.

‘How did he leave the bank? Are the accounts in good shape? Any problems?’

The sudden switch threw Clarkson for a second. His guard came up. He started prattling.

‘The bank is in very good shape. No problems whatsoever. All good…’

TWENTY-THREE

W
ullie finished his graphic account and waved his empty glass at me. I refilled it.

‘You did well, Wullie. You haven’t lost your touch. Gibson sounds like a bully under pressure and losing control. I wonder who was applying it?’

‘Well, I got a bit of a clue from the next wee chat wi’ his former PA, Miss Pamela McKenzie.’ Wullie preceded his account by drawing an hourglass shape in the air with both hands. This would be interesting.

‘Miss McKenzie was no longer personal assistant to the Chief. Clarkson had kept his own girl. It took a while to track Pamela down. For a while there, when we couldnae find her, I wondered if she’d been obliged to commit corporate suttee. Finally they located her and brought her into one of their wee interview rooms. She made quite an entrance. A real looker. Mair Mae West than Loretta Young. And of course, no’ really my taste.’ We grinned at each other; then I sat back and let his account draw me in…

She’d come in, flags waving, full of the poise that came from the steady barrage of admiring glances and wolf whistles that had followed her since she was sweet sixteen. But with a few sympathetic words from Wullie, her heavily made-up face crumpled and her large eyes filled.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your boss, Miss McKenzie. It must have been devastating.’

‘That’s the word. That’s exactly the word,
devastating
so it was.’

Her voice was street Glasgow with applied polish. Instantly classifiable as someone on the rise, and therefore scorned and disowned by the sneery folk either side of the class divide.

‘What are you doing now, Pamela? May I call you Pamela?’

‘Pamela is fine. Ah’m back in the pool, so Ah am. It’s a comedown, Ah tell you.’

‘How long did you work for Sir Fraser?’

Her face screwed up again. ‘Nigh on five years.’

‘How did you get on with him? You must have been quite close?’

She completely lost it. Her chest heaved and rippled with sobs, and tears flooded her make-up. Her West End accent slid off with her mascara.

‘Ah’m sorry. Ah cannae take it in. That he’s gone.’

‘It shows remarkable devotion, Pamela. Especially as I’d heard he could be quite hard to work for. Very demanding.’

‘Oh, he was. Wi’ everybody except me.’ She smiled bravely at the thought. ‘He could be a real tyrant but he was different wi’ me.’

‘Pamela, I hope you don’t mind my asking this. And it’s completely off the record. But just how close were you and Sir Fraser? I just have a sense about these things. Were you and Fraser more than just boss and
personal assistant
?’

Her crying stopped. She reached into her purse and pulled out a hankie. She dried her face, applied some lipstick, dabbed some powder on her cheeks and sat up straight. Had Wullie badly offended her?

‘Ah’m not ashamed, neither Ah am. He was gontae leave that bitch o’ a wife. We were planning to run away thegither. So, there! Print that in your paper!’

‘No, no. It’s off the record, this bit. And we’d all get into that much bother if I did, it wouldnae be worth it. When was this supposed to happen? Had you made plans?’

‘Soon. We were just waiting for the right time. Fraser had some stuff to deal with. Then we were for off. Maybe to France. Or even America.’ Her voice caressed the new world. Her eyes glowed, then switched off and filled, at the realisation the dreams were over.

‘You said his wife was a bitch. In what way? Did you know her?’

‘Well, for one thing, she wisnae fulfilling her conjoogial duties.’

‘No sex?’

‘If you must put it that way. No’ for years.’

‘For another thing?’

‘She could spend money like watter. Jewels and claithes. Fancy hoose.’

‘That’s not a crime.’

‘Naw, but it was draining Fraser. He couldnae keep up.’

‘Was he in debt?’

Pamela sniffed. ‘Ah’ve said enough. It was jist a’ pressure. He used to say Ah wisnae his secretary, Ah was his
sanctuary
.’ The word triggered tears. Wullie handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her face.

‘I can understand that, Pamela. Was this pressure getting to him lately? I heard he was in a bit of a mood this past wee while.’

‘Who telt ye that? Ah wouldnae say a
mood
exactly. But he was a wee bit mair touchy than usual. But that’s because me and him were jist wanting to get away.
Be
thegither. You know?’

Then she broke down completely and Wullie’s hankie was lost for good.

*

‘Wullie, Torquemada would hire you like a shot. It would save all that nonsense with thumbscrews and the rack. This throws new light on the case.’

Wullie pushed his glass over for a refill. I’d need to do a run ashore to restock if we were going to be a mobile hostelry.

‘It disnae explain why he was kidnapped and murdered,’ he said.

‘Unless his wife found out about the lovely Pamela and engineered his demise?’

‘It’s a helluva roon’ aboot way of dealing with a love rival. Cheaper and simpler to hire one o’ the Glasgow gangs to gie him a good hiding or finish him off.’

‘But this way they had a scapegoat. Me.’

‘What if you’d said no, Brodie? What if you’d called the polis?’

‘I keep wondering that. Maybe they chose a reporter because they were certain I’d not want to spoil a story by bringing in the cops too soon.’

‘Could be. Maybe they knew of your propensity for diving in? It’s no’ much of a secret.’

‘Thanks, Wullie. I thought my personal esteem was at its lowest. You’ve just taken it down a notch.’

‘On the other hand, you tend to dive in for the best o’ reasons. It’s why I didnae believe for a second you were up for kidnapping.’

‘I’m touched. I mean it. There were times back in my cell when I was beginning to doubt it myself.’

‘You’re past that?’

‘The only uncertainty I have is what happened between walking into Marr Street and waking up with a split skull. The rest I’m clear on. The tapestry of charges against me is so much string and chewing gum. Liars and eejits working hand in glove. A conspiracy of ravens.’

Wullie nodded in agreement. ‘Anyway, I’m enjoying this wee jaunt by moonlight. Are we off to Rothesay?’

‘We’re taking you and Stewart back to Anderston Quay.’

‘Could you drop us off on the other side? At Govan? Anywhere near Summertown Road and we’re home and dry.’

‘I know just the place, Wullie.’

Eric brought the
Lorne
round and we motored back upstream. We moored at Highland Lane by the steps of the Kelvinhaugh Ferry. Eric and Stewart carried his majesty McAllister up to the landing on his portable throne and then Stewart wheeled him off into the night, Wullie softly and ironically warbling: ‘“Give me the moonlight, give me the girl…”’

Then we moved off again downstream to find a quiet mooring. I had a lot to digest and needed to plan how to marshal my thin forces.

TWENTY-FOUR

I
n the morning, we fired up the diesel and began motoring up towards the centre of town. We took the
Lorne
as far upstream as our masts permitted: just past Anderston Quay where we’d picked up Wullie and before the three arches of the King George V Bridge. Eric barely skimmed the passenger dock between the towering estuary ferries and passenger ships blocked from travelling further upstream. I was poised on deck so that as the
Lorne
glanced off the fenders, I was stepping off and vanishing into the crowds. With a two-week growth and a flat cap pulled well down, I was unrecognisable. And I was dead, wasn’t I?

It was noon, and I strode up Oswald Street and into Kirkham’s Bar. I’d made the arrangement with Harry by phone the night before and hoped it would come off. I was looking for a man reading a copy of today’s London
Times
, a feat only achievable if he’d picked it up at Euston before catching the early morning train.

Kirkham’s was a sliver of a pub crushed between office blocks. It made for a select and a limited number of lunchtime drinkers. My man – or rather one of Harry’s – was at the bar conspicuous by his choice of reading and by his trilby among flat caps. I squeezed next to him and ordered a pint.

‘Anything worth reading?’ I asked over the top of his paper. He lowered it.

‘Depends what you’re interested in.’

‘I have broad tastes.’

He folded it and pushed it over to me. ‘Then you should enjoy this. I’ve done with it.’

I thanked him, he supped the last mouthful of beer and left, and I began to read the still-folded paper. I had a cigarette, finished my pint and went to the toilet. I took out the slim packet tucked into the paper and slipped it into my trouser pocket. I stuck the paper under my arm and walked out of the pub, heading towards the river. I strolled along the Broomielaw to Anderston Quay where the
Lorne
was tied up just along from the Clyde Street Ferry. I glanced around me, and then climbed down the ladder on to the deck of the ketch and into the cabin.

I opened the packet Harry had sent, very special delivery. It contained a pair of specs with plain glass and a warrant card in the name of Chief Inspector David Bruce, CID, Edinburgh. The card held a black and white photo of me but cleverly touched up. They’d used a print from my army days, presumably on file in MI5, and forged beard and glasses. It was like looking at my short-sighted brother who played accordion in a folk band. It would be tricky if anyone asked why Edinburgh was exporting its detectives to other regions, especially if they queried it with the Edinburgh police. A huge gamble but what was the choice?

It gave me more than a moment’s pause, not so much at the transformation, but at the fact I was now – at least on paper – back in police harness again. The irony of rejecting Chief Constable Malcolm McCulloch’s offer of such an appointment while I was ‘alive’ made me smile. In a rueful sort of way.

I scrubbed up in the cabin’s washroom and donned the good navy suit, the white shirt and tie I’d brought with me. I creamed and flattened my hair, bushed my beard, gave my shoes a polish with a rag and put on the specs. I inspected myself in the small mirror against the photo in the warrant card. Close enough. I’d been worried about the beard for a
police officer, but the collar, suit and tie and accountant’s glasses made the look respectable. An ex-Navy man perhaps? Back to his old pre-war job but still bearing the hairy legacy of his years before the mast? Had I acquired enough of the gait in two days afloat? It would have to do. It wasn’t as if anyone knew me where I was heading.

I climbed back up on to the dock and walked smartly away. I glanced back to see the
Lorne
swing out into the current for Eric to take her downstream and beyond the gaze of onlookers. He’d be back for me at dark. Provided I hadn’t been caught.

The trains run every half an hour from Central Station to Neilston, and stop at Whitecraigs. One was just leaving. Twenty minutes later I was stepping down from the carriage on to the bucolic platform of a quiet Renfrewshire station in summer. Bees droned, birds warbled, the green hedges crowded in, and at any moment the railway children would dash on to the Victorian platform to welcome home their errant father.

A short walk along the somnolent Ayr Road and I was gazing down a tree-lined driveway at the long, comfortable shape of Whitecraigs Golf Club, like a very large bungalow, white-painted and solid. A gentleman’s club. Amidst rolling lawns and under a cloud-speckled blue sky like this, I had a sudden urge to slip into plus fours and take a three club to an innocent wee ball.

I walked down the raked gravel and up the steps into the clubhouse. A few members in smart Pringle were about, with that serious mien of men about to go over the top or into the bunker.

‘Excuse me,’ I asked one man, ‘I’m looking for the club secretary.’

He sized me for membership material and wasn’t convinced, but he nevertheless pointed the way down the corridor lined with photos of former captains and famous
victories. They even had the odd woman in the frame: scone-and sandwich-makers no doubt. I came to a door open on to a small but comfortable office. A man sat behind the desk. Bald, showing the skin on his head and hands mottled with sunspots; that’s golf for you. He was on the phone, but indicated I should come in and take a seat. I did. He put the phone down.

‘Good afternoon. I’m James Harding, club secretary. What can I do for you?’

‘David Bruce. Detective Chief Inspector. Edinburgh division.’ I leaned over and showed him my warrant card. He inspected it and handed it back. It worked.

‘You don’t see many police with whiskers these days,’ he said.

‘Skin problem.’

‘You’re well out of your area, Chief Inspector. What can I do for you?’

‘As I’m sure you know, Edinburgh is our main financial centre. So we’ve centralised all police work dealing with banks and investment companies and insurers.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘I’m involved with some delicate investigations. It concerns one of your club members. Or should I say former club members.’

He leaned back. ‘I assume you’re talking about Sir Fraser Gibson?’

‘Correct.’

‘Nasty business that. Poor Sheila.’

‘You know Lady Gibson?’

He nodded. ‘She’s been here often. Functions, dinner, etc. Used to help out with our medal days. Lovely girl. Very popular.’ Said wistfully as though Lady Gibson would be sorely missed by some of the local Lotharios. ‘Must be going through a terrible time. But I assume the Glasgow police are dealing with the murder side. Which means you’re…?’

I nodded. ‘Scottish Linen is one of our major banks.’

‘Are you saying there was something funny going on?’

‘Mr Harding, can I be direct with you? This is all highly sensitive.’

‘Of course, Chief Inspector. The club sec. job at Whitecraigs requires the utmost sensitivity. Our members are mostly pretty senior chaps. Captains of industry, top professionals, you know the kind of thing.’

‘I do, Mr Harding. It must require a great deal of tact. I can imagine there might be the occasional incident, the odd chap getting out of line – we’ve all been to Burns Suppers eh? Whisky flowing like water? The guard slips. Things get said. Someone’s wife goes off with another chap? That sort of thing? Good breeding doesn’t always mean good behaviour.’

Harding looked at me, not sure how far he should confirm that this select little enclave might be a hotbed of alcoholism, temper tantrums and infidelity. Monthly dinner dances that led to surprising foursomes. He stood up and walked to the door and closed it. He came back and sat down.

‘I’m not going to tell tales out of school, Chief Inspector, but you wouldn’t believe some of things that happen round here.’

‘I think I might. But can I bring us on to Sir Fraser?’ Harding was agog. He could almost taste the scandal. It was what stirred his blood. I needed to head him off.

‘Please do.’

‘I want to assure you of two things. First, that whatever you tell me will be in strict confidence. Second, this is not about the Scottish Linen Bank per se. We’re
not
investigating the bank. It’s purely about Sir Fraser. I want to emphasise this.’ I laid it on thick. The last thing Harry would want is for rumours to start over a glass or three in the club bar…
Had a senior policeman in the office today. Mustn’t say too much, but if I were you, old boy, I’d find another home for the savings, be on the safe side. For God’s sake, don’t say where you got this
.

‘Lord, no.’

‘I understand Sir Fraser wasn’t a man to cross?’

‘A bit of a powder keg, actually.’

‘Just lately or that’s how he was?’

‘This past year he’s been a bit touchier.’

‘How so?’

‘Example, about a month back he accused one of our chaps of cheating. Said he’d not counted a stroke on the twelfth. Long hole and loads of rough, so you’re always lucky to get par.’

‘Normal enough?’

‘It wasn’t the first time. It was getting to the point he couldn’t get anyone to play him.’

‘Just over a game?’

‘More to it. Chaps round here like a flutter. Sir Fraser was a big betting man. Seems he was pushing chaps to double or quit. Meantime his own game was all to pot.’

‘Not enough practice?’

Harding lowered his voice. ‘Bit too much of the Black Label. I’ve had to pour him into his car some nights.’

‘I thought he had a chauffeur?’

‘Sometimes. But sometimes he just drove himself. Insisted. Not much anyone could do. Wrote it off about six months back. Put it in a ditch.’

‘Who were his pals? Anyone special?’

‘He ran with a small group. Lawyers, businessmen. Called themselves the
Chanty Wrastlers
. Used to meet before sun-up on the first tee on a Sunday morning.’

‘Lively blokes?’

‘Boisterous, I’d say. Liked a good drink. Liked a party.’

‘Gamblers? I mean as well as betting on the holes?’

‘Matter of fact, yes. They were always betting on something. Horses, football results. Always had a card game going in the locker room.’

‘I thought gambling wasn’t allowed on the premises?’

‘Oh, no money changed hands. All done on bits of paper. Reckoning done elsewhere. But look, Chief Inspector, where’s all this going? I mean, what’s the connection?’

It was a good question and one I hadn’t fully thought through. But the signs were writ large: an affair, gambling, booze. Any one of them could garner ill will from some quarter. But if you had all three, a full house, you were guaranteed trouble. Whether it amounted to kidnapping and murder was what I was trying to find out.

‘Sir Fraser was kidnapped and murdered and my unit wants to know if there was anything related to the workings of the bank that we should know about.’

‘You’re not saying Gibson had his hands in the till, are you?’ Damn, another juicy comment to be dropped into a bar conversation, preceded by:
Of course I don’t believe it myself…

‘Not at all. It’s all standard procedure. Call it extreme due diligence. We like to rule out any such activity no matter how unlikely. So we’re working our way through the books of the bank. Just to make absolutely sure. And I’m checking the character side of the matter, looking for motivation.’

‘Like gambling debts?’

‘You’d make a good detective, Mr Harding. Yes, that sort of thing. But as I said, this is all belt and braces. We have no proof of any wrongdoing. We have a duty to the public to make sure our banks are properly controlled and funded.’

‘Glad to hear it, Chief Inspector.’

‘Good. Now if would you be kind enough to give me the names and any contact details for these so called Chanty Wrastlers…’