The Hanging Shed Page 9

  ‘Well, explain it to me then. One of you said Donovan confessed before you took him to the coal cellar. The other said it was after. Which was it?’ I challenged.

  They looked down at Silver for guidance. He shrugged. Kerr started up.

  ‘It’s simple, so it is. Donovan confessed, then we took him to the crime scene for corroboration. Is that no right, Davy?’

  Davy White nearly shook his head off agreeing with him. ‘Aye, that’s it. I just got confused with all that bloody woman’s talk. You ken what women are like. Always twisting what you say.’

  ‘Did the court look at your notebooks? You still keep notebooks, don’t you? Showing times and incidents?’

  Again the furtive looks between them, before Silver cut in. ‘Of course the officers kept notes. They referred to them at the trial. But you know how it is, Brodie. Sometimes their scribbles need a bit of interpretation. They’re not all as clever or educated as you.’

  ‘You mean they hadn’t bothered to collude on their notes before the trial? It was such a watertight case, you didn’t think anyone would care?’

  ‘I think we’ve given you enough of our time, Brodie.’

  ‘Were the notebooks submitted as evidence?’

  A cold look came over Silver’s face. ‘There was no need. The court accepted my officers’ statements.’

  ‘The defence didn’t. Can I see the books now?’

  A look of near panic flitted over DC White’s face. Kerr was quicker to fight back. ‘No you fucking can’t, Brodie! Who do you think you are coming in here and questioning us! We should fling you in one of cells for a couple of days. Kick some sense into your thick skull.’

  ‘Glad to see things haven’t changed, Kerr. When in doubt, bang ’em up and gi’e them a good hiding, eh?’

  Silver seemed to be trying to suck off his moustache. ‘Shut up, sergeant,’ he said to Kerr. ‘Time’s up, Brodie.’

  I sat still. ‘I have a couple more questions. If I don’t get answers, we’ll go to the appeal judge and see if he’ll do better.’

  Silver lit another fag even though the last one was still polluting the air. ‘Ask.’

  ‘You found the boy’s body on the Tuesday. Next morning you were round at Donovan’s, mob-handed. A tip-off?’

  Silver looked down at his two fags, chose one and sucked on it. ‘A member of the public, is all I’m prepared to say.’

  ‘Phone call?’

  Silver nodded.

  ‘Did you know this mysterious public-minded citizen? Was he one of your grasses?’

  ‘I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you, Brodie.’

  ‘OK. Where was the boy held before his body was found?’

  Kerr butted in. ‘In Donovan’s flat, of course. He had him hidden.’

  I pounced. ‘In a single-end? It would be like hiding an elephant under your hat. Can I talk to the constable who first searched the flat?’

  Silver raised his hand to head off DS Kerr. ‘PC Robertson. A good man. Based at the Cumberland Street shop. But I hear he’s on leave. Sick leave. Convalescing down south somewhere.’ The forced smile stole back round his mouth.

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘Your next question is your last.’

  I could see he meant it. I decided to ginger things up a bit.

  ‘What will you do if another child goes missing, Silver? How will you explain that to the press? While an innocent man is rotting in prison or dangling from a rope? What then?’

  Frowns rolled down his minions’ faces. Silver didn’t blink but he started turning his fag packet over on the desk. He shook his head. ‘You’ll always get a copycat out there, trying to make his name. You know that, Brodie.’

  My anger boiled up. ‘So you’d find some other innocent fella and hang him! You’d go on hanging them one after the other till eventually it stopped!’

  ‘If need be, Brodie. If need be. And that’s the truth. Now will you be so good as to fuck off. See him out, sergeant.’

  Punching his lights out wasn’t an option. Not yet. The two oafs were smirking again as I walked to the door. But I turned and looked back at Silver. His expression had sagged, become introspective. I hope – but doubted – I’d caused him a sleepless night or two. As the door closed behind me, I heard the distinctive sound of a bottle clinking against a glass. Celebration or steadying of nerves?

  SEVENTEEN

  I looked at my watch. Half past three. I had time for one more visit. Tobago Street runs north to south towards the river. Walking south I crossed Canning Street with its double tram tracks and pressed on into Glasgow Green, scene of many a violent gang battle and less violent romantic encounter. Though I suspect neither activity had featured in the original design by the genteel Victorians.

  I walked past the deserted bandstand and along the Clyde path to the St Andrew’s Suspension Bridge. It connects with the eastern side of the Gorbals. I paused in the middle and lit up. I had two addresses in the Gorbals. One was Hugh’s, the other Fiona’s. I hung over the balustrade and watched the brown water rush underneath. The symbolism didn’t escape me. It was half my lifetime ago that I’d last seen her. What was she like now? Was her hair still as long and black? Had she kept her figure? Was there still an ember? I took a last drag then pinged the end into the river.

  A ten-minute stroll through the regimented grid of run-down Victorian tenements and I was in Florence Street. Hugh’s old close was no different to any other I’d passed. Four storeys high and one entry serving eight flats, or houses, as they called them. Outside, a group of girls in grubby frocks and bare feet were playing peevers. They’d marked out the grid on the broken paving slabs and were using an old boot polish can as their marker. For a while I watched their agile young limbs hopping round the grid. A tableau of normality to draw on, to balance things out. It’s what we fought for wasn’t it? But nobody told us the price. The terror-filled nights. The three-day headaches, vomiting till your body felt like a jellyfish. The flashbacks: the landing craft door crashing down into the water, the heavy calibre shells ricocheting round the open tin coffin making mincemeat of your pals before they’d even got a shot off. The sound of bullets smacking into flesh. Of hard men sobbing with fear as a barrage continued for two days and nights without pause. And now this, now another image to be added to the stinking pile: a small naked body, sheet-white and gashed, abandoned like trash on a midden…

  The entry was dark and fetid, the smell from a choked toilet filling the hall and wending up the tight stone staircase. I climbed up and up, checking the view out of the broken windows to the back green at each full turn of the spiral. I got to the top and stood quietly till my breathing calmed. There were two doors. Number 8, Hugh’s single-end, was straight ahead. Number 7 would be the room and kitchen of the other family, the missing family. Someone was in. I could hear a child screaming in a temper tantrum behind the door of number 7. I stepped towards it and gave it a good bash. The noise stopped and then started again. I heard footsteps and the door opened. A young woman with a hectic face stood there with a tartan shawl wrapped round her, a baby rolled inside it. A snotty lad of four or five keeked out behind her pinny. His face was red with rage and greeting.

  ‘What has he done noo?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know who you think I am, missus, but I’m just here to ask a couple of questions.’

  ‘You the polis?’

  ‘No, I’m…’

  But she was already shutting the door. ‘We don’t want anythin’…’ she was saying. I stuck my foot in the door.

  ‘If you don’t clear off, pal, I’ll scream blue murder and the neighbours will fling you oot, so they will!’

  ‘All I want is to ask you what happened to the other family, the ones before you,’ I called desperately through the closing door.

  Slowly the door began to open again. ‘Why?’

  I looked at her sharp face with its suspicious eyes. Honesty seemed best. And my old accent. ‘Because they’re gonna hang an
auld pal of mine for something he didnae dae.’

  She appraised me up and down and we both looked towards the other door, Hugh’s door.

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Hugh Donovan.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this. We wouldnae have ta’en this hoose if we knew who was next door. Murderin’ sod. You say he didnae do it? How do you ken? Have you got a fag?’

  I gave her one, took one myself and lit us both. We both took a sociable drag and I told her I was working for Advocate Campbell on the appeal. That I thought it was a police set-up under pressure to find the real murderer.

  ‘Ah’m no’ surprised at anythin’ the polis dae. They took ma man in and gave him a gid hiding the other week. He was a bit fu’, right enough, but it was the other fella that started it.’

  I smiled sympathetically. ‘Is there anybody living there now?’ I nodded towards number 8.

  ‘You must be jokin’! The factor says he’ll no’ be able to rent it for at least a year. Who wants to sleep in there wi’ a’ that blood and grief? And ghosts, like enough.’ She shuddered and wrapped her shawl tighter round her. Her son wiped his nose on her pinny and she cuffed him absentmindedly, raising another howl.

  ‘Did you know the family before you?’

  ‘Reid, they were ca’d. But we never met them.’

  The boy chipped in, ‘Yon wee boy came back, mither.’

  She was about to clip him again but stayed her hand. ‘You’re right enough, Jim.’ She turned to me, reluctantly. ‘One of Mrs Reid’s weans came by about twa months ago. They were here for their granny’s funeral over at Townhead. Said his mammy had left some bits of washin’ on the line, they were that much in a hurry to go.’

  ‘Why the hurry, do you know?’

  She looked around her as if the stairs had sprouted ears. ‘Ah heard from the factor that they’d come into a bit of money. Something about an aunt doon the Clyde. Arran way.’

  Arran? Off the west coast of Ayrshire. A perfect place to lose an inconvenient witness. It was a big island, with villages and isolated houses scattered all round its shoreline. Where would you start?

  ‘Do you have an address on Arran?’

  She shook her head. But at the same time, wee Jim tugged at her skirt and looked up at her.

  ‘Whit is it noo, son?’

  ‘The wee boy said he could watch the boats come in every day, so he could. Said it was amazing. So it was. Can we go doon the water at the fair, mither?’

  ‘Maybe. If your faither’s no’ in the jail. And if you stop gien’ me a headache. Ma lugs are fair bleedin’, so they are.’

  I dug in my pocket and found a threepenny bit. I held it out to the boy. ‘Well done, Jim. You’ll make a good detective when you grow up.’

  The boy looked at my hand and then at his mum. She nodded and his hand took the coin like a striking cobra.

  I turned to go. ‘Apart from the factor, has anyone been in the house since Donovan left?’

  She was about to shake her head, but then she said, ‘Just the once. A big fella. About your height, but heftier. I heard him mucking about with the key. I came out just as he opened the door. He said he was checking the place was all locked up and tidy for the factor.’

  ‘A big man, you say? Anything else about him?’

  ‘He had a ’tache, a wee ginger one. But I think it was to hide the lip. A hare lip, ye ken. It looked like he was grinnin’ a’ the time.’

  I could have hugged her but she might have called the neighbours.

  ‘You’ve been a great help, missus. I really appreciate it. I think I’ll take a wee look inside now.’

  ‘How will you get in?’

  ‘Could I borrow a safety pin? And a kirby grip? And it would really help if you had a knitting needle or a crochet hook.’

  Locks had been a fascination for me since my dad found me playing with some old padlocks he kept in his shed at the allotment. She gave me a look which wasn’t all admonishing and went inside. She came back with a selection of possible tools. I strode to the door of number 8. I felt Jim’s eyes on me, bulging with excitement at this cavalier approach to others’ property. There were two locks: a big padlock and a mortise. I chose the crochet hook and slid it into the big padlock. I soon felt it ease and open. I pulled back the hasp. I tried the kirbies then the knitting needle on the mortise and scrubbed at it till I felt the pins lock up in the mechanism. I turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  It was dark and sour inside. Dust covered the bare wood floor and eddied up as I stepped in. I doubted the gas lights would work, so I stepped across to the window and drew back the torn curtain. Behind me the woman and boy stood looking in with fascination at the murderer’s den. Their looks soon turned to disappointment.

  There wasn’t much to see in a room that was barely ten feet by twelve. There was a recessed bed with a curtain over it, a warped Formica table and one wooden chair, a sink and a tiny stove with two rings. There was no sign of who had lived here or what had happened. No splashes of gore. I don’t know what I was expecting.

  I pulled back the curtain concealing the bed in the wall. There was no mattress or bedclothes, just the bare boards. I assumed everything had been carted off by the police for forensics. I gazed round the tiny room and thought about Hugh Donovan spending his last months here. Lonely, sometimes drugged to the eyeballs, and perhaps always wondering if he would have been better off going down in his plane after all. I used to envy Hugh’s life. There were eight of them: four boys, two girls and his parents all on top of each other in a big messy house in the next close. Quarrelling and laughing, fighting and loving, a real family. For an only child like me they made a strong case for a Catholic approach to contraception. When I called in to see if Hugh was coming out to play, I was simply swept up in the family currents; plied with jeelie pieces, regaled by some story about the neighbours, taking sides in an argument about football. I was an honorary Donovan. Apart from the hair of course; eight blue-black heads to one ruddy brown.

  Hugh’s was a noisy carefree upbringing surrounded by love and attention. He was the youngest and – though I’d never have admitted it – the bonniest. The result was that he was both spoiled and ignored in equal measure. He was one of the few pals to keep in touch with me after they all went off to jobs or apprenticeships at fourteen. It made his betrayal all the harder. And, looking round this pitiful silent box, it made this passage of his life so much more wretched. I’m sure one of his brothers or sisters would have taken him in, in England or Canada where they’d gone to roost and establish their own families. But Hugh couldn’t face them, not looking like he did now. His final vanity. He’d walled himself up inside the shattered shell of himself, hanging on for his next fix, until he’d bumped into Fiona again. And Rory. There had been an upswing in Hugh’s life last year, making this hovel bearable, bringing hope. Only for the God he worshipped to dash it from his burnt lips; this isn’t for you Donovan. No wonder he didn’t much care if he lived or died.

  I thought of Fiona living and breathing within five minutes of here. But I’d had enough stumbling down memory lane for one day. I caught the tram on Crown Street, changed at the big interchange at Gorbals Cross and crossed the river past Central Station and all the way north to Cowcaddens. From there it was one tram to Hillhead along the Great Western Road and to Samantha Campbell’s office.

  I sat smoking on the top deck taking in the city. The red sandstone grandeur was tarnished from the noxious outpourings of the heavy industries. Glas gow: the green meadow. There were few enough green meadows left, but in their place was a sense of permanence and certainty. The city fathers back in the nine-teenth century had known where they were going and how to get there. The Second City of the Empire. The trouble was we no longer seemed to have much of an empire. There was even talk of handing over India. It seemed unthinkable. The pennies I just handed over to the conductor still said Ind Imp. And thousands of British lads had fought and died to fling the Japs out of South-East Asia. Queen
Vickie would be rotating in her mausoleum. At least we still had our shipyards; the boom times would surely come again when we’d got over our Bavarian hangover. We had to replace all that tonnage sunk in the Atlantic and the Pacific, or lying at the bottom of the Barents Sea. According to my mother, the Ayrshire pits were working at full blast, and you only had to glance at the trailing clouds of steam from train stations I was passing to know we had the basics right. All we needed was some money to get things going again. That was the rub. We were as broke as tinkers.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was just after six when I walked into Samantha Campbell’s office. The reception area was empty. I called out and Sam answered.

  ‘Come on through, Brodie.’

  I pushed open her door to find a cosy scene: Sam taking tea with Father Cassidy. They were even sharing a plate of digestives. For one daft moment I felt annoyed – no, jealous – at Patrick Cassidy’s intimacy with Samantha. Which was simply ridiculous. The man had stood by Hugh throughout this sorry tale. I resolved to like this man and not let my stupid prejudices about God-botherers blind me to his qualities. He’d been right about the pubs to look in to find Hugh’s drug dealers. In short, he was useful.

  Sam nodded at the tea cosy. ‘There’s a spare cup and the pot’s still warm. I’ve nothing stronger,’ she added with a shade too much spice.

  ‘You have a low view of the drinking habits of newshounds, Miss Campbell. Tea is exactly what I need.’

  ‘You can get another chair from the outer office, or…’ She indicated one of the piles of papers.

  I poured myself a cup and gingerly squatted on a shaky tower of files. ‘Well, isn’t this nice.’

  ‘Father Cassidy was visiting Hugh today. He came by to see how we were getting on.’

  I nodded at him. ‘Good of you to see him, Patrick. How is he?’

  The priest put his cup down on the edge of Sam’s desk. ‘They’ve put him back on his medication. He wasn’t really with us, I’m afraid. I asked the warder about it and he told me that Hugh had been in lot of pain. It was for his own good.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. Just drifting away. A man should be compos mentis if his time is short.’