Pilgrim Soul (8 page)

‘Hello, there. I’m Douglas Brodie. You wanted to see me?’

She nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. Ah’m . . . ma name is Ellen Jacobs.’

I sat down opposite her. ‘How can I help, Mrs Jacobs?’

She looked at her hand. ‘It’s Miss, actually. Ah’m no’ married. It jist keeps the . . . Look, it’s about this man that was killed.’

‘Which? I’m afraid we’ve had a spate.’

‘Paddy Craven.’

‘You have my fullest attention.’

‘And also this pawnbroker.’

‘McGill?’

‘Aye, him. Look, the thing is, Mr Brodie . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Ah’m a jeweller. Ah work from home. Ah do work for the other jewellers with shops. Paddy Craven came to oor house with some stuff a wee while ago. It wisnae the first time.’

‘Stuff?’

She looked on the point of tears again. ‘Ah didnae ask Paddy too many questions. Ah need the work. He’d bring in some old jewellery. Used stuff. Ah would put them in new settings or at least clean them up, mend them if needed.’

‘I see. Shouldn’t you be saying this to the police? I know a copper who’d be glad to hear it all. A decent man.’

That set her off properly. It took a while with hankie and sniffs to get back to the story.

‘Maybe, but first Ah hud to see you. Ah’ve read about you. Ah always read your wee column.’

‘Thank you. Now what is it you’re telling me?’

‘In case it isnae obvious, Ah’m Jewish.’

It was, but from where? Her accent was local but there was something else in it. Was she here because of guilt? She’d read about the thefts and had realised she was party to these crimes against her own people?

She reached into her bag and came out with a piece of cloth. She set it down on the table and opened it carefully, uncovering two lozenges of glittering yellow metal. Each was about an inch and a half long and an inch wide, with the thickness of a florin. The edges were rounded and they were without markings. She picked one up and placed it in my hand. It was heavier than it looked. I rubbed my thumb over it, enjoying the smooth weight. I wanted it.

‘Gold?’

She nodded.

‘Paddy?’

She nodded again.

‘Why are there no assay marks?’

She picked up the second small ingot and rolled it between her fingers. Gingerly.

‘Ah suppose it was stolen, Mr Brodie. The thing is, when Ah was using it, you know, melting it to make rings or to hold jewels, Ah tested it. There’s still some traces of amalgam.’

‘From old jewellery?’

‘Gold fillings.’

She must have seen my cogs weren’t meshing. She waved it at me.

‘Teeth, Mr Brodie. From the camps.’

I dropped mine.

ELEVEN

She burst into tears properly this time. I was my usual hapless self in front of tearful women. I proffered my hankie and called out to one of the secretaries to bring us some tea. By the time it arrived Ellen Jacobs had pulled herself together somewhat. Though the secretary gave me a funny look. Morag would have primed her.

I tried. ‘They could come from anywhere.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s what Paddy said. Ah didn’t know what to do. How to stop.’

‘He could have stolen them from a dentist or . . . a mortician?’

She raised her eyebrows at me, as though I was being stupid or slow instead of self-deluding.

‘No’ like this. You need a furnace. And they’re unmarked. Ah
know
where they come from. You wrote about the thefts among ma . . . among the Jews. And the papers are full o’ the other stories. Out there in Germany. At the trials. It’s all coming out. And here Ah am, wi’ this!’

‘How many did he steal?’

She played with one. ‘About eight.’

‘And he stole them from a Jew, here in Glasgow? That doesn’t make sense, unless the Jew was in a concentration camp and managed to steal the ingots in the first place.’

‘That’s what Ah think.’

‘Do you know who Paddy stole them from? Do you know the address?’

‘He never told me anything.’

‘Wait here a minute, please.’

I left her alone and found Alan Clarkson, the head of administration. I asked him to retrieve my package from the office safe. I then went back to the conference room. A short while after, Alan came in bearing a cloth. I gently unwrapped the velvet package and laid out the jewellery collection on the table in front of Ellen Jacobs.

‘Do you recognise any of these?’

Her long slim fingers reached out and with sure movements, like a bird pecking at seeds, picked out four items and laid them to one side. Three pairs of gold earrings and one ring, each clean and glittering on the dark velvet. Some had small pearls set in them. The ring held a turquoise. They were striking pieces, modern and stylish.

‘These are mine,’ she said, unable to contain a certain pride in her voice.

‘They’re lovely.’

‘Not now,’ she said and raised her anguished eyes to mine.

‘Did you take them to McGill’s?’

‘No. Paddy did a’ that side of things. Ah made the jewellery and put an estimate on them. Then he took them round to McGill’s. Depending what happened Ah was to get twenty per cent. But as you can see, they didnae sell well.’

‘And now he’s dead. And so is McGill. You never met him? The pawnbroker?’

‘Once, when he was trying to price some of the bits and pieces too low. He was jist trying it on, so he was.’

‘Who do you think killed the pawnbroker?’

‘Ah don’t know.’

‘Did Paddy have a pal? An accomplice? Someone wanting to get even?’

‘Ah jist don’t know. He could have. But Ah never met anyone except Paddy.’

‘One last question, Ellen. Did you make keys for Paddy? From a mould?’

Her already flushed face went scarlet and the tears oozed again. She nodded.

I had no choice. I called Duncan Todd. He came straight round. He went through the same questions I did, but this time Ellen Jacobs was less given to weeping. Maybe Duncan had a gentler way with him. Maybe she’d unburdened everything with me.

Duncan was pursuing a point. ‘Are you sure Craven didnae give you any clues about where he got this?’ He pointed at the yellow ingots.

‘He never telt me names. Or addresses.’

‘How did he choose his targets?’

‘He kept his eye out. Always looking for folk wi’ money. Businessmen, stallholders, that kind of thing. He had a job as a gasman. Did you know that?’

‘Yes. And he went after Jews in particular?’

‘Aye. He said Jews had all the money.’

‘Did he know you were a Jew?’ Duncan asked.

‘Ah suppose so.’

‘Did you no’ mind?’

She flushed. ‘Not until this!’ She pointed at the gold.

I picked up on this. ‘How did you get into this, Ellen? You don’t seem like a crooked jeweller.’

She winced at the adjective. ‘Ah live in the Gorbals. Do you think Ah choose to?’

‘You go to Isaac Feldmann’s synagogue?’

She nodded. ‘Not since this. But Ah know Isaac.’

I kept pressing. ‘What about family?’

‘Ma mother lives wi’ me. Just the two of us. We got out in ’35 when they took away our rights bit by bit. Made us wear a yellow star in the street. Ah was just a wee girl. Ma father stayed on to try to keep the business going. He was a pharmacist. He said even the Nazis needed pills. Maybe more than anyone. He never got out.’

Her anger wiped the guilt from her face. She had more reasons than most for trying to climb out of the slums, make a life for herself. One of the new Scots. A descant to an old tune.

‘Where from?’

‘Berlin.’

‘Sie sprechen gutes Englisch. Obwohl mit einem Gorbals Akzent! Wo haben Sie es gelernt?’

‘An der Schule. Und hier. Offensichtlich. Und Sie? Ihr Deutsch ist gut.
’

‘Aw right, you pair, that’ll dae. Speak Scots.’

I shrugged. ‘University, then the army. I was based in Lüneburg for a few months after the armistice. I got to know whom we’d been fighting. And why.’

‘Lüneburg? The Belsen trials?’

I nodded, surprised she knew the connection. She held my eyes for a beat and then turned to Duncan. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

‘Ah’m thinking aboot it. You are an accomplice. Hell, you cut keys for him! Any reason why Ah shouldnae?’

She looked down. ‘Nane at a’. But can Ah speak to ma mum? She disnae speak English very well. She’ll be that worried.’

Duncan and I looked at each other. He shook his head.

‘Just leave your address. When Ah need to find you, Ah’ll come and get you.’

She looked surprised. I stared at Duncan. Getting soft in his old age? Or didn’t fancy the paperwork? Another question occurred to me.

‘Why did you come and tell us all this, Ellen?’

She stared, big-eyed, at me, then at Duncan. ‘Because this is wrong.’ She poked at the golden tablet. ‘Dead wrong. And Ah’m feart. Feart Ah’ll be next.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’

‘Cos they’re annoyed? Or they think Ah’ve still got some gold? Who knows? But it’s a’ too close for ma liking.’

‘Have you told anyone else about this, Ellen?’

She reached out and picked up the ring she’d made. She rolled it through her fingers.

‘Ah told ma rabbi. Maurice Silver. Yesterday. He telt me to speak to you.’

TWELVE

There was no doubt Isobel Dunlop knew how to punish dirt. Every surface was scoured. If I took a long enough lie-in I’m sure I would have been ironed and starched where I lay. We didn’t talk much. I called her Mrs Dunlop. She called me Mr Brodie. She came in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and did three hours each time. Hitherto I’d sent my shirts off to the cleaners, but now, without any overt transaction that I was aware of, that duty had been taken over by Isobel. The costs seemed to balance out. And it was nice to be relieved of porridge-pot cleaning duties. However, in a stupid, guilty, little-boy way, I was glad Sam wasn’t around so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed at Izzie finding two dents on my pillow.

On 4 December, the day before the start of the trials, Sam fought her way through the international call system.

‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’

‘You’ve just been slow to recognise my talents.’

‘I’ve been ploughing through these dossiers on the defendants. I keep finding reports by a certain Major Brodie. Any relation?’

‘My alter ego.’ I’d been waiting for this. I’d recognised the names of some of the Nazis on trial in Hamburg. I had been their first-line interrogator in the summer and autumn of 1945.

‘Iain says they’re models of clarity.’

‘I’m amazed you’re amazed, Sam.’

‘Big head.’

‘Good luck tomorrow.’

‘It’s terrifying. But we’re well prepared. My brain is gowping with details. Horrible details.’

So was mine. I kept trying to switch away from the subject but it was like sticking your fingers in your ear and going
la la la
to block out a brass band in your bedroom.

The first snow of the year hit us on 6 December, a day after the start of the trials. It proved a false harbinger. By mid-month the weather softened again and we were all beginning to think we’d get away with a mild one. I was roundly thanked by the Garnethill elders for catching the thief and for the return of at least some of the valuables. I held on to the few items hand-crafted by Ellen Jacobs. It didn’t feel like the end of this tale.

My life fell into a routine through December, with Isobel’s visits punctuating the passing of time. Sam phoned every so often, on each occasion sounding wearier as though she was adding a brick a day to the hod she carried. In my mind I was pacing through the trial with her, wishing I were there to help, but guiltily glad I wasn’t. I missed her. Missed the smell of her neck and hair. One time she called, a little accusatory:

‘You never mentioned you were at Lüneburg,’ said Sam. ‘For the Belsen trials.’

‘It never came up. And it wasn’t something to chat about over the porridge. It was all part of my post-war secondment.’

‘But I thought you were only involved in the interrogations.’

‘One thing led to another, Sam. It was quicksand.’

‘So you know exactly what I’m doing out here?’

‘I know, Sam. I know.’

And in my dreams each night I was reliving it, so that each morning was like crawling from my grave.

Ellen Jacobs phoned every few days to see if there was any news. About anything. She was still fearful, and she and her mother had gone to stay with a cousin for a couple of weeks, over in Govan. But with each passing day and no visit from any of Craven’s pals or enemies she was getting less anxious. She planned to move back home for Christmas. Duncan and Sangster had got nowhere with the McGill murder. The prints didn’t match any on file, and no one had seen anything. Temporary blindness was a contagious disease in Glasgow.

Eddie Paton was back working part time while his head healed. It was a slow business. He was a sliver of his old self. You could see where his wife had taken in the tartan waistcoat and the trousers without cutting off the material, just in case he became Big Eddie again. On present progress it seemed unlikely. He was smoking more than ever, and his left eyelid had a tendency to twitch when he got excited.

And whether my writing had improved or Eddie was less engaged, he rarely put a blue pencil near any of my drafts. Some mornings he’d barely emerge from his fug-filled office. I could see him toying with drafts and old stories, but often just staring into space. I was tempted to go in, grab him by the lapels and shake him. Tell him to snap out of it. But I’d seen other men with the same introspective look. It was probably how others saw me at times. You just had to get over it.

The news about my predecessor Wullie McAllister was worse. His brother Stewart and I visited him at the convalescent home out by Erskine. I’d borrowed Sam’s car and picked Stewart up. Afterwards we sat by the Clyde in the car, windows rolled down, watching the ships go by. More refugees bound for the promised land.

‘He’s not going to get any better, is he?’ Stewart asked.

I shook my head in denial. ‘He’s got more colour to him.’

‘But he doesn’t even recognise me.’