Gallowglass (20 page)

FORTY-ONE

I
spent the time till the rendezvous going over the papers that Airchie and I had scribbled down from our night at the bank. I made neater versions showing the key flows of cash. Some of the transactions were convoluted, like the circuitous route taken by £10,000 that ended up in the account of High Times. I also flagged up the outstanding questions such as the extent of collusion with Gibson inside the bank. It would have been bizarre for the top man to be popping in and out of his back office dealing directly with chits and ledgers. Indeed the ledgers had showed all the transactions being counter-initialled, often by CC – the Finance Director, Colin Clarkson – and sometimes by others. Were they accomplices or merely dupes, signing papers that they hadn’t read, as Airchie had said?
Heid bummers sign or initial anything put in front o’ them
. I assumed that beneath Clarkson and the other senior managers, the clerks were simply pawns, doing what their bosses told them, making entries in ledgers without seeing the bigger picture or even questioning the instructions.

Like Gibson’s blousy PA, Pamela McKenzie, for example. I kept returning to the scribbles Airchie had made about the pilfering of my own meagre current and savings accounts. Counter-initialled by Clarkson, now the MD. It made my heart thump with anger that with some neat strokes of a
pen, they’d made me a pauper. And made Gibson’s girlfriend richer. A lover’s wee gift or payment for services rendered? It was time I had a word with our Pam.

When I had all the paperwork together I stuffed it in an envelope and asked Shimon to get one of his lads to post it to Harry. He’d get it first thing.

At three thirty, Sam came through to my den. She was wearing a coat and looked both taller and lovelier. Also more indignant, as though she’d already heard my words before I’d formed the thoughts.

‘Don’t you say a damned thing, Douglas Brodie.’

‘I hadn’t opened my mouth,
Mandy
.’ I smiled. ‘Show me.’

‘It’s not a beauty parade.’

‘Call it a kit inspection.’

She pursed her reddened lips and came further into the light. Her normal subtle make-up – a dab here, a dab there – had been… enhanced somehow. Her eyes were a more vivid blue, her cheeks more sharply defined and her sweet mouth more curved.

‘You look fantastic.’

She frowned but I knew she was pleased. She unbelted her coat and opened it. Underneath was a clingy dress of some maroon material. A belt cinched her slim waist and pulled the hem up just above the knee. Her new-found height was due to the perilous heels she wore.

‘Tarty enough?’ she asked, daring me.

‘Skirt could go higher. But you’re
my
kind of tart.’

‘Get your hands off, sailor. And don’t you dare smudge my lipstick.’

‘You never wear that red for me.’

‘I worry about your blood pressure.’

I took my hand from her waist and stood back. I put on my serious face.

‘You look lovely, Samantha. Are you ready for this?’

She took a deep breath. ‘It’s a performance. I do it every day in court.’

At five minutes to four she left me and marched through into the showroom, heels clicking on the wood floor. I took up position behind a double height of crates in a dark corner. We’d cleared away my camp bed and all other signs of anyone living here. There was just one dangling bulb above a small open space bounded by low crates. An arena. A stage.

At a little after four I heard clattering footsteps and a voice raised querulously. A voice last aimed at me, asking me to deliver the ransom money.

‘Where are we going? It’s dark.’

‘It’s quiet. Here. I’ll put the light on. I’ve bribed the owner for an hour’s use of his storeroom.’

‘Is that how you conduct your business? By the hour?’

The heels stopped. I could imagine Sam turning.

She replied coolly, ‘More honest than some arrangements,
Sheila
. No hypocrisy.’ The steps started again and light spilled from the dim bulb. ‘Shall we sit?’

The crates creaked and then I heard a lighter clicking. Soft cigarette fumes drifted up, mixed with perfume. Heady.

‘Can we get to the point,
Mandy
? If that’s your real name?’

‘Fraser liked it. I work for myself. I have a contract – among others – with a company called the Silver Dollar. Ever heard of it?’

‘Not my sort of place, I expect.’

‘Not exactly Whitecraigs Golf Club, if that’s what you mean. Though we get the odd member popping in.’

Sam let the silence build.

‘I see.’

‘I’m sure you do, Sheila.’

‘Stop calling me that!’

‘It’s your name.’

‘It’s not for
you
to use.’

‘I’m damned if I’ll call you
Lady
Gibson. You earned that title the same way I earn a living!’

There was a long pause.

‘Can we get to the point?’

‘Fraser – such a fun chap – I’ll miss him. We all will. Fraser popped in to the Silver Dollar quite often. And I’m afraid he ran up quite a tab.’

‘On you!’

‘Me. Other girls. Drinks. You know how it adds up.’

‘No, I don’t. But you want
me
to pay it off? My husband screws around with some little –
nothing
– and you expect me to pick up the tab? You’re mad!’

‘Oh Sheila, you wouldn’t be here if you
really
thought that, would you?’

Again a pause.

‘Well, it can’t be
much
.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘What did
you
charge, Sheila? Diamonds? A title? It’s just business, dear. I always like to get that side sorted first. Give or take a few quid here and there, call it ten thousand.’

‘Ten thousand pounds! You’re mad! I don’t believe you.’

‘Are you saying I look cheap?’

I had to stick my knuckles in my mouth.

‘No. Yes. That’s not what I meant. Look, I just don’t have that sort of cash. It’s impossible.’

‘Really? I heard there was a big insurance payment. And I’m sure the bank is looking after you.’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Ah, but you see it is. And we don’t want it to become a public business, do we? Fraser was always very concerned about that. Terribly discreet, he was.’

‘Stop talking about him like that!’

‘Well, I feel I know him.
Knew
him. He talked about you, Sheila.’

Sam left a space. Sheila didn’t jump into it but didn’t close it out either. She wanted to know.

‘Yes, he said you had an open marriage.’

‘
What?
’

‘You had your little flings and he had his. Wild nights at the golf club, eh?’

There was a scrape. Sheila was on her feet.

‘How dare you!’

‘I’m not making judgements, dear. Not in my line of business. Just passing on what I was told. Are you saying you weren’t having a little fun on the side? One of Fraser’s pals? That
would
be a waste. Especially if Fraser was getting his.’

‘Oh God. This is such a mess.’ I heard the crate scrape as she took her seat again and the lighter clicked once more. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘What?’

‘Morality. Standards. They’ve all been ditched. Perhaps you never noticed –
in your line
?’

‘Morals are a luxury of the rich, Sheila. They mean nothing to Frankie Elliot.’

‘Who the hell is he?’

‘I thought you might have bumped into him at the golf club? He owns the Silver Dollar. He’s not only got unpaid debts but he’s lost a good client. So have I, but there’s plenty more out there.’

‘So what? I don’t follow.’

‘Well, Frankie knows a bit about the nasty side of things. He knows how these things work.’

‘What things?’

‘Husband being naughty. Becoming a real pain. New man around. The pair of you come up with a dodge to get rid of the nuisance. He reckons you and one of Fraser’s other golf buddies did for poor old Fraser.’

‘That’s preposterous!’

Sam gave a big theatrical sigh. ‘No, it’s not, Sheila. It’s life. Where I live anyway. Join the all-too-human race.’

‘Enough, really, enough. It wasn’t like that. At all.’ She sounded exhausted.

‘Suit yourself. However it was, Frankie wants compensation for future income. That’s how he put it.’

‘You’re utterly without scruples, aren’t you?’

‘Takes one to know one.’

Silence.

‘I can’t pay you ten thousand pounds. I don’t have it.’

‘Don’t say you’ve spent the insurance money?’

‘It hasn’t come through.’

‘What about the ransom money?’

‘
How…?
I mean, what makes you think there was one? It’s not in the papers.’ Her voice was panicky.

‘Just a guess. An experienced guess, shall we say? Seems we were right. So, about this compensation? Or do we just take this to the press?’

‘I don’t have such an amount.’

‘That’s all right. You’re one of us now. Pay on the never-never. A thousand down and the rest later. Nominal interest. What do you say, Sheila?’

FORTY-TWO

I
’ll say this for Sheila Gibson, she was a tough nut. Apart from the odd loss of control she stood up well to Sam’s royal command performance. Sam and I sat for a while after she’d left.

‘You were magnificent.’

‘I was a bitch.’

‘A tart. With a heart. I loved the hire-purchase idea.’

‘She’s actually thinking it over. It’s a pity it was only you listening in. We should have had the Procurator Fiscal, the Chief Constable and Sangster lurking there with you. Or at least a recording device.’

‘She didn’t say enough to hang herself,’ I pointed out.

‘Not quite. But we now know she knew about Fraser’s wild side.’

‘And despite what the police said, there was a ransom,’ I said. ‘But we don’t know who’s got it.’

‘And she has a lover?’

‘Quite possibly. Who arranged to kill Fraser and set me up.’

‘One of Gibson’s Chanty Wrastlers? Roddie Adams? Maybe. But why
you
, Douglas?’

‘Just convenient? They needed someone with a reputation for taking on daft challenges?’

‘They came to the right guy. But Duncan said he’d heard someone was out to get you. Someone senior.’

‘Douglas?’ It was Shimon. ‘Phone for you. It’s Templeton.’

I’d signalled to Harry I would be at the furniture store all day if he had any news. I went out into the corridor and took the phone from Shimon.

‘Brodie, we’ve got a bit more gen for you. About one of the companies mentioned in the SLB ledgers: the so-called High Times, who were getting significant payments from Gibson’s secret accounts. Well, it’s an outfit owned wholly by a Mrs Annie Fulton.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘The wife of Angus Fulton, usually known as Gus.’

‘Gus? I know Gus Fulton. Or did. A bad lad in the thirties. GBH, robbery with plenty of violence. Is he still around? Still being bad?’

‘He’s around. He finished a long spell in Barlinnie about a year ago.’

‘What does he do now? Or rather what does Annie’s company do?’

‘On paper it’s a number of market stalls, but in reality it’s a front for illegal bingo. They use a network of Catholic church halls, changing venues every week. Gus manages it and the market stalls show a sliver of a profit. But of course what’s not on the books is Gus’s earnings from the bingo games and some off-course bookmaking on anything with four legs.’

‘And High Times is suddenly showing a healthy profit. Fraser Gibson’s gambling debts? I can’t see him calling out housey, housey.’

‘I don’t expect the money to show up in the next company accounts.’

‘But it raises a big question. I was just tidying up the paperwork from my night out with wee Airchie. A copy is on its way to you. The ledgers show cash being remitted to High Times over several months. A few hundred here, a few hundred there. Nothing regular. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then there’s a windfall of ten thousand, three days
after
Gibson was murdered.’

‘I know. It says someone in the bank is
still
fiddling. Unless it was part of Fraser’s will. A post-mortem instruction.’

‘Surely now you’ll send in the heavy mob? A bunch of accountants with Tommy guns or something?’

‘I’m working on it. The minister is like a rabbit at a greyhound track. The PM’s on notice too. We have less than a week to go before the balloons go up. The double whammy of sterling convertibility and loan decisions for the Marshall Plan. If we leap in and there’s a big fuss and it spills into the public arena, then at best Britain gets egg on its face.’

‘At worst?’

‘We go into a financial tailspin. You’ve no idea how close we are to bankruptcy, Brodie.’

‘Meanwhile, I’m a ghost in my own town!’

‘I know, I know. Keep moving – and if I can help, just shout.’

‘Here’s how, Harry. The ten grand to High Times didn’t go directly from Gibson’s head office account. You’ll see in my notes that there were several transactions culminating in a banker’s draft made out by an SLB branch.’

‘Which?’

‘Maybole.’

‘Where Fraser’s brother Mungo has an account? Does that mean Mungo’s directly involved? I thought he’s a drunk in Ailsa Asylum.’

‘Drunks sometimes sober up. And it’s a great cover. I need to pay a visit to Maybole, Harry. Chief Inspector David Bruce needs a look at the books. Can you provide me with a search warrant?’

‘Not a real one. That needs to come from a local judge, or sheriff, or whatever it is you call them up there.’

‘It can be as real as my police warrant card.’

‘Fair point. Consider it done. We’ll get it couriered up to you first thing. Where will we find you?’

‘Shimon’s. The boat was searched last night by the river police. I wasn’t on it, thank God. But I thought it best to move my base. On which point, Harry, if I can show that someone in the top echelons of SLB is still remitting cash to High Times, will that get you to send in your troops? Until now we couldn’t prove whether the counter-signature and initialling of Gibson’s instructions that went on were rubber stamps or criminal collusion. This might be a breakthrough. Time’s running out.’

‘For all of us, Brodie. I’m working on it.’

‘Can you please work faster! I can’t afford any more close shaves.’

I needed some expertise alongside me if I were to make sense of the transactions at the Maybole bank. I had Wullie McAllister locate Airchie Higgins with a view to his joining me first thing at Central Station the next morning.

I was sitting on the platform at nine o’clock in suit and specs, equipped with the necessary forged documents. The train for Maybole was due to leave in five minutes and there was no sign of my dodgy bookkeeper. The guard had his whistle in his mouth and the train was belching steam when Higgins trundled up looking hot and sweaty. I shoved him in an empty carriage I’d been keeping an eye on and jumped in beside him as the train edged out.

‘I’m sorry, Brodie. I’m no’ used to an early start.’ He took off his grubby specs and wiped his wet brow with a stained hankie.

‘I can see that. Away to the toilet and put your tie on and wash your face. Have you got a comb? See if you can get the stain off your jacket. We’ve got over an hour to go. It should dry out by then.’

He shambled off to reappear just short of Paisley, looking if not exactly Savile Row at least less like a tramp I’d found in a ditch. I told him what we were looking for at Maybole. His eyes glittered.

‘It’ll be somebody in the finance unit. Yin o’ my former compadres. Gibson will have been looking efter him and feeding him instructions.’

‘Even from the grave, it seems.’

We puffed and whistled our way through Kilwinning and Ayr and I wished I was with Sam sitting on the beach again, counting the waves. We clattered out of Ayr and passed close to the grey buildings of Ailsa Asylum. I wondered at Mungo Gibson’s life, how it must have been bounded by parental rages and drink. Was he born with the taste of it, inherited from his father? Or did he learn by example that the booze rage gave moments of control over his life, made him the big man in a brief reign of terror. Or was it just for the sanctuary of oblivion, which turned to dependence?

There were too many like him in this post-war Scotland. Too many fights on mean streets outside the pub on a Friday night after the pay packet had been hammered. Too many beatings of wife and wean in shell-shocked houses as men struggled with the pitch-black space inside them, hollowed out by the bestiality of war. None of us talked about it, this national disease that struck men down. All of us too ashamed, too afraid of looking weak.

I’d understood that Mungo had never made it into uniform, unfit through drink and the concomitant mental and physical illness. No one wants a shaky finger on the trigger next to you if you’re fighting for your life. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t experienced his own battles. And who was I to say they were less bloody than mine?

‘You a’ right, there, Brodie?’ asked Airchie.

I looked up from my introspection to find we were deep among the green rolling hills of darkest Ayrshire.

‘I’m fine, Airchie. Just enjoying the trip. A train ride’s a rare treat.’

I smiled and for the first time I saw this wee man properly. Outwardly a bit of flotsam tossed around in currents of
his own making. But here he was, by my side, in a madcap enterprise that offered him a few quid and maybe a silly medal. Not silly to him. Airchie’s last chance for redemption? I knew nothing about his earlier life, where he came from, how he went off the rails. Was there a woman in his life? Kids even? Before I could ask him who he was and how he’d got here, we were drawing into Maybole.

‘You ready, Airchie?’

‘Ready as can be. I know my way roon a bank, Brodie. This is my forte.’ He grinned, but I could see it was to bolster his nerve. I’d heard variations on such wisecracks from my platoon as we waited for the barrage to stop and for it to be our turn.

The brakes squealed; the train ground to a halt. I nodded at Private Higgins.

‘Let’s go.’