Bitter Water (23 page)

The man was awkward, head down, but then he pulled up his mask to reveal the lower half of his face, his nose and mouth.

‘I’m a poof. OK?’ It was brave and defiant, and I believed him instantly.

I turned to Ishmael. ‘I thought your God didn’t like homosexuals?’

‘It’s an abomination. A sin. But if a man’s strong enough he can change. With help. With my help.’ His eyes burned with certainty.

I turned to the man. His face was red, his mouth tight. He nodded. It wasn’t a clincher. And there was no way of proving that one of his men was homosexual. But it was just such a bizarre thing to do that I’d been convinced. It might still not prove their innocence, but it went a long way. I came back to Ishmael. He and I stood facing each other like gunslingers. Around me the four men on his team stood quietly waiting for orders. I hoped he wasn’t going to tell them to break out the iron bars. There was a long pause. I nodded. His eyes flickered at his men. I turned and walked away. No one stopped me. I got to the door and stepped out into drizzle and walked back through the park.

Ishmael left me troubled. There was something different in his look. I couldn’t pin it down. It wasn’t regret, more a wistfulness. As though he wanted to say more, to explain himself. But that’s how the obsessed worked; always trying to convince you, to turn your mind, to make you part of their belief system. And there was the undercurrent: the references to my army career. It seemed to fester with him, as though our paths had crossed and I’d somehow slighted him. Had we met? Had he been in the army and been passed over?

Whatever it was, I didn’t have time or inclination to psychoanalyse him. I was just glad to have had the chance to hit him.

TWENTY-NINE

I
got back to the newsroom and found it in pandemonium. Big Eddie was waiting to pounce. He saw the signs of my brief struggle: tie askew, lump on my forehead, nursing my bruised knuckles.

‘Christ, what happened, Brodie? Did you have a fight? Did you meet him? What did he say? Who is he? Why are they doing it? What’s our story?’

‘Eddie, Eddie, give me a chance to get my coat off. What’s going on?

All around was a hubbub of shouts and girls scurrying about. Eddie grabbed my arm.

‘Keep it on! You need to get back out there. There’ve been two more murders. Homos again. Down at Glasgow Green. In the Winter Gardens. McAllister phoned it in but he’s tied up. But tell me first what happened with you. Did they hit you? What—’

‘OK, OK. Just listen.’ I gave him a speeded-up version of my encounter with the leader of the vigilantes. Eddie’s excitement was making him hop up and down as though he needed the toilet.

‘You were taken to their den and took the lot o’ them on? Single-handed? That’s brilliant, Brodie. We’ll get the polis round and raid them. A good siege and a shoot-out! Oh, I can see it now . . .’

‘You don’t think they’ll still be there, do you?’

His face dropped, but then brightened again. ‘You actually hit the boss? We can use that. Oh, we can use that.’ He did his headline in the air thing: ‘“Fearless
Gazette
reporter battles with murderer”! No! “. . . with gangster leader”! I love it, Brodie. Tell me more!’

‘I’m not sure he did it, Eddie. I don’t think he murdered Connie.’

‘What? Of course he did! You read the note in the poofter’s mouth. He was set up for a killing by these bloody Marshals. It all fits. You don’t really believe that one o’ them is a queer? That’s a try-on. And it proves nothing. Actually, maybe you should stay and write it up. No, no, we need you over at the Green. Oh fuck. It’s all too much.’

‘Eddie, I’ve given you the outline. Why don’t you and Sandy scribble something down and I’ll go off and find out more about these other killings. Then I’ll come back and we’ll piece it together.’

‘Right, right, Brodie. Good thinking. Off you go.’

I got the details from Morag between her pleas to bathe my fevered brow and bandage my hand. I stopped her fussing and ran down the stairs. These new killings made no sense. Either that, or I’d handed back my ability to read character with my major’s crowns. I thought of the expression on the Highlander’s face and couldn’t imagine how he could stand there and lie about Connie and two new murders. On the other hand, maybe I hadn’t met enough maniacs to judge.

It was pouring now and I wished I’d grabbed an umbrella. I pulled my hat down and tugged my mac tighter and splashed through the Trongate, along London Road and into the Green at the McLennan Arch. I could see a black squad car in front of the People’s Palace and a couple of black figures at the rear outside the great glass canopy of the Winter Gardens.

I trudged round to the side door of the conservatory. It was barred by two policeman in dripping waterproofs. Just inside I could see several police huddled together.

‘Hello, Constable, I’m from the
Gazette
. Can I speak to the officer in charge?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. I have strict instructions.’

Just then I saw one of the men inside look up. He saw me. Duncan Todd waved and came to the door.

‘It’s all right, officer. Let him in. You’re drookit, Brodie. Come in before you catch your death. We’ve got enough bodies as it is.’

‘Don’t tell me Sangster’s recognised your talents?’

‘As if. He’s been summoned to the Chief Constable. These vigilantes are beginning to piss everybody off. Right to the top. I was the nearest on duty who knew anything about this . . . this madness.’

I walked into the tropics. Great palm trees reached to the glass roof. Cheese plants and tropical ferns crowded together in green profusion. The air was warm and heavy. It made you want to throw all your clothes off and run down to the nearest jungle pool beach and frolic in the warm water. But six policemen would have disapproved.

‘Over here, Brodie. Another one of yours. Or rather, two.’

I shook my hat and squelched after him. ‘I wish folk would stop referring to them as mine, Duncan.’

‘Yours or no’, brace yersel’.’

The other officers were standing or moving about in a wide circle near a clump of greenery. They were working carefully, trying not to disturb the scene too much, but already the ground was flattened. As I drew near I saw a small pool, about fifteen feet across, but I had no inclination now to jump in. The water was green with algae, punctuated with patches of red scum. Besides, it was already occupied. Two bodies languished by the edge where they’d been dragged. There were footprints round them and the ground was freshly damp. Both sets of eyes were staring up at the tree canopy, seemingly terrified by what they’d seen there. Both were naked, their hands bound in front of them, groping fruitlessly at their crotches. Their mouths were open but stuffed, as though they’d been caught halfway through their tea. Blood oozed from their lips and down their chins.

‘Fuck.’

‘Fuck indeed, Brodie.’

‘This is maybe a stupid question, but how did they die, Duncan?’

‘No’ stupid at a’. We’re not sure if they died from drowning, bleeding to death, choking, or maybe sheer bloody shock. Poor bastards.’

‘I was told they were queers. Is that right? How do we know?’

‘Ah could say something flippant and disgusting like they died as they lived, wi’ their mouths fu’. But . . . Constable!’ A uniformed officer came over. ‘Show Mister Brodie exhibit A.’

The constable dug in his breast pocket and produced an envelope. He carefully opened it and pulled out a half sheet of paper. He handed it to Duncan who handed it to me. It read:

‘Seems like whoever did it took the advice to root them out a wee bit too literally. Any other evidence?’

‘Like alphabets on their foreheads? Fingers missing? And that’s no’ what’s in their gubs. Constable, any sign of other wounds?’

‘No, sir.’

Duncan handed back the piece of paper to his officer and turned back to me.

‘You said “whoever did it”. Interesting choice of words, Brodie. Does that mean you don’t blame the Marshals or you’re just keeping an open mind? Which of course we all are.’

‘I met their leader this morning.’

‘For a wee coffee at Miss Cranston’s? That must have been nice. Walk over here.’

He led me away from the greenery back towards the People’s Palace part of the building. We sat at a table in the echoing café. We broke out the fags. I wished they had a drink licence.

‘Tell me more,’ he asked.

I described the meeting, including hitting Ishmael, including one of the men’s claim to be queer, including my unease about Ishmael’s interest in my war experience.

‘I didnae ken there were that many nancy boys in the world. As far as this guy Ishmael’s concerned, maybe he’s just jealous, Brodie? He’d have found out easy enough from all the stuff in the papers back in April about you and the Slatterys.’

‘You’re right. I’m being paranoiac. The main thing is his claim about not killing Connie, the queer I wrote about yesterday. How it didn’t fit with their nasty habits.’

‘Clipping fingers? Doodling on their brows?’

‘Aye. But that’s no proof the Marshals
didn’t
. But if they didn’t do it, they were probably up to something criminal at the time and could hardly use that as an alibi. And unless I’m going soft, there was no indication in Ishmael’s face that there was more blood on his hands for this pair. But he might be an awfully good liar. Or a psychopath. He’s certainly
no’ a’ there
. Thinks he’s doing God’s work. You know the kind.’

‘Aye. Ah sure do.’ He shook his head. ‘Look, Ah think you’re right not to broadcast the exact details of the Marshals’ brutality. Go on leaving it vague. It might just be useful.’

‘Come in handy, you mean?’

‘I do the jokes, Brodie. But you’d better tell me where you met them this morning. Worth a wee shufti.’

We promised to keep in touch and I set off back to the
Gazette
to distil a column or two of elegant prose from a deepening and widening circle of bloody chaos. As I walked I wondered why I was feeling so down. Then I recognised the emotion: regret. I wanted it to be me leading the investigation back there, not writing about it. Just nostalgia, I suppose. That life was behind me. But through it all, I kept asking myself, if the Marshals didn’t do it, who was killing queers across Glasgow? Why? And who would be next?

THIRTY

E
ddie decided to spread the two news stories across two days’ editions.

‘Nae use squandering all your ammo in one go, Brodie. You should ken that.’ He mimicked holding a machine gun and spraying the newsroom. Nobody ducked.

We ran the double murders first, on Wednesday, under the sombre banner: ‘Death in the Winter Gardens’. At Sandy’s urging I began the story in dramatic style:

‘Are you sure. Sandy? It sounds like an Agatha Christie.’

‘Exactly! Bread and circuses, Brodie. Bread and circuses.’

‘But this time we can’t put all the gruesome details in, surely? There’ll be an outcry.’

‘Never underestimate our readers’ capacity to lap up pain, Brodie. As long as it’s happening to somebody else. But I agree we’d better choose our words carefully. You’ll need to find a gentler way of saying that they’d been found with their cocks in their mouths.’

‘Dismembered appendages?’

‘Aye, that’ll do nicely.’

‘I was joking . . .’

‘Maybe you’re right. Too many syllables. You’ll think of something.’ He turned to leave. I poised my fingers over the keys and made a mental note to bring in my Thesaurus.

Sandy pirouetted back. ‘Oh, Brodie. Just a wee thing. And no’ really important. Do you happen to ken if it was their ane –
appendages
? I mean, no, of course. How would you? Not unless they were different, you ken, colours . . .’

I stared at his retreating back wondering if I’d made another wrong choice of career.

I rolled the foolscap and carbons through the Imperial. Of course by running the two pieces in this order, it meant that I wasn’t yet mentioning my meeting with the Marshals. Which in turn meant not raising any doubt about the Marshals’ guilt, at least of these killings. And there
was
doubt, at least in my own mind. But as Eddie pointed out, that’s not what the public wanted to hear. And why would you believe that madmen would have such a fine and unwavering moral compass as to stop at finger removal? Eddie was also of the opinion that the Marshal who’d confessed to being homosexual was lying.