Bitter Water (25 page)

‘Are we right-wing? I thought we were the people’s voice.’

‘We’re whichever wing our upset accuser isnae.’

‘So, will you run it?’

‘It’s short of what I wanted, Brodie. I was hoping for a foot-high pile of signed documents and independent testimonials that would stand in a court of law. I’ve got some paperwork but not solid enough. This new-found wealth angle could be a dead end. There’s the risk it might get everybody het up, but the wheeler-dealers would just close ranks. Pu’ up the drawbridge. These boys are no’ stupid. They know how to perform dirty work. Any paper trail would soon be up in smoke. And every stinking pound note that bought Sheridan will have been laundered through umpteen holding companies in Scotland and abroad. Keep mind, the likes of Fowler made his money in the Bahamas. They know how to make money disappear over there. If so, end of career-capping story for yours truly.’

‘But?’

‘But, fuck it. I’ve had enough sitting around wi’ my thumb up ma erse, waiting for a breakthrough. I’ve been close enough lately but, well, let’s say it didn’t work out. It’s time to assemble the hot lead, and ink up the rollers. To publish, and get right royally screwed. But at least we’ll get a reaction.’

THIRTY-TWO

W
ullie’s forecast was spot on. Eddie ran with the story on Thursday under the provocative:

Wullie’s report was brilliantly shaped and worded to appeal to every base instinct of Glasgow gossips. In other words, some 90 per cent of the citizenry. He gave Elsie the wounded-wife treatment, dabbing her eyes as she told her tale of betrayal and hurt. She appeared to have had a quick dose of elocution lessons too:

She was then quoted as saying:

According to Wullie, she broke down in sobs at this stage, but then pulled herself together to deliver the
coo de grass
.

The wickedly provocative piece was supported by an editorial of more sober style, but still posing the questions about Jimmie Sheridan’s morals and newly improved finances. The word
alleged
featured throughout but it was well understood that it was one of those words that were invisible to the readership at large; unless of course you were the allegee’s lawyer.

They had to do another print run to meet demand. I heard the big lorries pounding out of the basement late morning. All round the city, the newsboys were engaged in a city-wide opera, chanting: ‘
Councillor’s love nest! Read all about it! Love rat under suspicion!
’

I went home at six and found my mother sitting on the stairs waiting for me like a child.

‘Douglas, this will never do.’

I panicked. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, what have I done?’

‘It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve overstayed my welcome here. My hoose will be thick in stoor. All the sheets I put out to dry will have been taken in by Maggie Cuthbertson and will be murder to iron. And I’ve been eating this poor lassie out of house and home.’

I didn’t point out that a sparrow could out-eat her any day of the week. ‘Have you fallen out with Samantha?’

A voice called from down in the kitchen. ‘Not a bit, Brodie. Your mum just wants home. I’ve tried to talk her out of it.’

My mum stood up. ‘I’m ashamed of mysel’. It’s just been that lovely being here. In all of this.’ She waved her hand round the roomy hall with the sweep of stairs up and down. It could have swallowed her house ten times over. ‘We all need a purpose. And mine is to mind my own hoose. You must take me back in the morning, Douglas.’

It was her usual telepathy at work. She’d pre-empted my suggestion about returning to Bonnyton.

‘Now I’m going to pack. We can get going first thing.’ She turned and walked up the stair to her room, leaving me staring down at Sam framed in the kitchen door. Sam smiled and shrugged.

I could have argued with Mum about the packing. That it would take no time at all to get ready in the morning; there was no train to catch; and it wasn’t such a lot to pack. But it was her way; just as she always made up my dad’s lunch for him the night before his early shift, and laid out his clothes. But, she would argue, she was going home with more than she came, her shabby message bag augmented by an old but good holdall filled with cast-offs from Sam and Sam’s own mother. Doubtless – knowing Sam – there would be bacon slices wrapped up to replace Mum’s meagre contribution. I think Sam was going to miss having her around.

My mum went off to bed so as to be up early. Sam and I sat sipping a nightcap and chortling over the day’s
Gazette
columns.

‘I love the bit about a “man of integrity” and the juxtaposition with Elsie’s wistful comment about wanting to enjoy his sudden good fortune. Perfect!’

‘Wullie’s cheek was gowping with his tongue stuck in it all day.’

‘But you said Elsie mentioned names? Jimmie’s paymasters?’

‘Doubtless. But we can’t say them out loud. Not without a law suit.’

‘You’d better tell me,’ she said with something that looked like foreboding.

‘Kenneth Rankin, Tom Fowler and Colin Maxwell.’

She took off her glasses and began cleaning them.

‘You know them, Sam?’

‘Of course. If you move in certain circles, like my parents did, you know them all. But in particular I know Kenny Rankin and Colin Maxwell and his son Charlie. Though I’m not surprised at Tommy Fowler being in there with them. A thieves’ kitchen right enough. Corporate thieves, but thieves all right. It’s a thin line between entrepreneur and shyster.’

‘What do you know of them?’

‘Hang on.’ We were sitting comfortably in the drawing room, either side of the big oak fireplace. The grate was dark and still, waiting for the autumn evenings to cool. She got up and walked over to the mantelpiece. A number of cards were stuck either side of a loud gold and black clock. Invitation cards. She picked up a handful and started shuffling them. She discarded most in the fireplace for kindling. She kept one and put the others back.

‘My social life has stalled lately, Brodie, but I’m not forgotten. Not quite. I still get invitations. Take a look.’ She gave me a stamped and addressed RSVP envelope and a white card edged with gold and engraved with fine lettering. The card said:

Of course I sometimes forgot that Sam and her parents had moved in such rarefied circles. It seems she still did. And why not? Daughter of a prominent Procurator Fiscal, and high-profile advocate in her own right, Samatha Campbell, LL B Hons, would be on everyone’s list for major events. She was reading my mind.

‘It’s a wee social group in Glasgow. I went to school with Moira Rankin, Sir Kenny’s second wife. Moira finally snared money. And a title. I didn’t talk to her for ages after Kenny divorced his first wife for her.
O tempora! O mores!
We’re pals again, sort of. She was one of the first to visit me after all the hoo-hah in the papers about Hugh and the Slattery boys. Probably just nosy. Anyway, we rebuilt bridges. I don’t know Tommy Fowler so well. He’s usually away sunning himself in the Caribbean. Still plays at running a plantation, I hear. But I know the Maxwells. We used to go shooting on Colin Maxwell’s estate. I’m surprised old Colin’s still in the game. I’d heard he was in decline since his wife Clarinda passed away. If there is a Maxwell involved it’s more likely to be Charlie.’ There was an edge to her words.

‘You don’t like Charlie?’

‘A pompous ass. And one I’ve suffered most of my life.’ She looked as if she was about to say more but held her tongue. She took back the invitation. ‘I’ve been a recluse lately. But it’s not too late to start moving in the right circles again. What do you think, Brodie?’

‘What will you do? Just go up to Rankin and ask him if he’s a corrupt businessman who’s been buying off councillors?’

‘Not me, Brodie.
Us
.’

THIRTY-THREE

S
am ignored my look of panic and went on, ‘But I suggest you find a subtler way of asking him. Or possibly
them
. The chances are that all the great and good – and not so good – will be there. Including Maxwell senior and junior, and Fowler. It’s how they operate. All stroking each other and outdoing each other in public declarations of citizenship.’

‘But I’m not invited.’ I was aghast at the idea. I’d done enough socialising among such groupings in my university days.

‘I’m inviting you. They’re not going to bar you if I’m on your arm. I’ve got time to RSVP saying I’ll be escorted by Major Douglas Brodie, late of the Seaforth Highlanders. ’

‘It says Evening Dress.’ My dread was growing.

‘Regimental mess kit?’

‘We didn’t have much use for number 10s in Normandy. And I sold my subaltern mess kit years ago. Not that it would fit me.’

‘Shame. I bet you looked great in a kilt.’

‘I’ll have you know I did. And you should have seen these twinkling feet.’ I smiled at the memory of a mess night in a freezing cold castle in Kent in the winter before D-Day. The officers of the 2
^nd
and 4
^th
Battalions of the Seaforths, in full Highland dress, dancing over swords to the sound of five regimental pipers. The whisky helped.

‘You’ll at least have decorations? I assume they gave you a couple. You were in long enough. You haven’t sold them?’

‘Things aren’t that bad.’ Though it had been close.

‘Fine. Are those suits ready from your tailor pal? I’ve got one more up the stairs. Dad’s dinner jacket will look terrific, Brodie.’

‘It’s a week on Saturday, Sam!’ I pointed at the card.

‘I thought your man needed the business? He’ll have your new suit ready in a trice.’

Next morning I borrowed the car and piled Mum’s bags in the back along with the dinner suit. I turned away as Sam and Mum embraced and said goodbye on the steps. I blinked back an unaccountable set of emotions and didn’t speak until we were over the Jamaica Bridge.

‘A nice lassie, Douglas.’

‘She’s kind.’

‘She likes you.’

‘Does she?’

‘You can be as dense as your faither.’

‘I know, Mum.’

I got her in and set her bags down. Neither of us commented on how small and dark it was compared to what she’d left. Besides, it was her home. She was glad to be back. Neighbours were already queuing up for tea and debriefing. I left her to it, promising to bring Sam to see her again.

I drove back to the Gorbals. The bell tinkled in Isaac’s shop as I pushed in. He emerged, stooped, from the back room.

‘Douglas, you are just in time. Everything is done.’ He went into the back again and returned, laden. He put the clothes down on the counter. ‘Let me tell you, this is good cloth. They will last you for years. I’ve had them steamed and pressed. You will cut a dash.’

‘That’s wonderful, Isaac, but I have another favour.’ I laid out the shiny black suit.

Isaac smoothed out the double breasted jacket, then the trousers with their smart piping. ‘Lovely, lovely. The seat is a little shiny but I can bring up the cloth. You are moving up in the world, Douglas?’