Bitter Water (4 page)

‘You ken oor Jimmie has a certain reputation with the lasses?’

‘Anything that had a skirt?’

‘And watch your sporran if you’re in the Gordon Highlanders. The man was – is – a serial and indiscriminate shagger.’ He made it sound biblical.

‘What does his wife say?’

‘Elsie Sheridan is as loyal as a collie dug. She’s from the Gorbals. Jimmie was her escape route.’

It was coming back to me. Jimmie had the standard credentials for achieving high office and fame in the West of Scotland: a silver tongue, time served in the shipyards as a riveter and shop steward, and the backing of a left-wing ‘workers’ party. The Communists would do if you really wanted to brandish working-class credentials. Sheridan had all that and more; it was generally held that Jimmie had had his conscience and capacity for self-criticism thrown away with the afterbirth.

‘Sheridan runs the Planning and Regeneration Committee. So Morton and him would have been hugger-mugger on the new big contracts. Morton had the money. Sheridan spent it. Oor Jimmie is the man who signs off everything and controls everything to do with what gets knocked doon, what gets built, where it gets built, and who wins the fat contracts to do it.’

‘Corruption in high places?’

‘No’ very high, in fact. I’ve been getting hints for months that something was going on. This could be my finest hour, Brodie. Go oot with a bang, eh?’

The old devil was due for retirement in six months. A final scoop would set the seal on an illustrious career built on the great midden of crime and sleaze. And I would inherit his stained and greasy mantle. A fine prospect.

A flirty lady in high heels, tight skirt and low top showed us along the echoing corridors. She knocked on a door and we heard a ‘come’.

She pushed open the door and said, ‘The two gentlemen from the
Gazette
, Mr Sheridan. Would you be wanting some tea?’

‘Aye, Nancy. With biscuits, eh? I think we can run to biscuits for these illustrious representatives of the Fourth Estate. Show the gentlemen in.’

Nancy pushed the door open and Wullie sidled in. I squeezed past Nancy and was given a big smile as I tried to avoid plunging my head into her proffered, scented bosom. Drawn in like a honey bee.

The man of the people was coming round from behind his huge wooden desk, his hand outstretched.

‘Terrible times we live in, Wullie. Just terrible.’

‘They are indeed, Jimmie.’ They shook hands like blood brothers. ‘This is my number two, Douglas Brodie. He’ll be taking over from me in due course. When I hang up my quill. I wanted him to meet you.’

‘Mr Brodie, it’s a pleasure. Though I could have wished we’d met in better circumstances.’

Apart from the Glasgow brogue, Jimmie Sheridan reminded me instantly of his namesake Cagney. Short but bouncy. The same quiff of hair and sharply drawn eyebrows. Thin lips and strong jaw line. Blue penetrating eyes that sized you up and said,
I’m maybe short but I could still steal your woman and bite your head off . . . don’t cross me, pal
. The double-breasted suit was of far better cloth and cut than my own drab threads. ‘Dapper’ summed him up. ‘Debonair’ even. Close up, I could see the glory was fading, and that the hair was a shade too dark to be Jimmie’s original. Nonetheless, I could see how he’d got into lady trouble so often.

Sheridan retired behind his desk and sat down. We took the seats in front of him. Sheridan suddenly seemed six inches taller. Cushion or high chair? I took out my notebook and pencil and hoped my struggling shorthand would cope.

‘You must have been gie shocked, Jimmie?’ asked Wullie.

‘I tell you this, Ah broke doon. I’m not ashamed to say it. Ah just couldnae stop greeting. Alec and I go way back. Shop stewards thegither at Browns’.’

‘We’ve heard nothing from the polis. Any word from your side about the investigation?’

‘Nothing at a’. A complete shock. Like we’ve been hit by a thunderbolt.’

‘Any ideas on why someone would do such a terrible thing?’

The answer was interrupted by a rattle of china. Nancy waltzed in with a tray bearing a small pile of biscuits, cups and a teapot, all nestling under her bosom to keep the tea warm. She made a fuss of pouring and handing the cups round, making sure we had a glimpse of cleavage and rear in the process. After she left, the conversation stayed stalled until her perfume dispersed and we regained our senses. Wullie was first to recover.

‘I was asking if you had any ideas about
why
?’

Sheridan shook his head. ‘Not a clue.’

‘Anything in his personal life?’

Sheridan sat back and reached for his cigarettes. He visibly bristled. ‘Like whit? Ah mean whit are you saying, Wullie? That he was up to something nefarious like gamblin’ or some-thin’? That’s no’ Alec Morton.’

‘I’m not making accusations, Jimmie. Just looking for a reason here. Somebody had it in for Morton. Unless you think it was mistaken identity? Or a random bout of sadism?’

‘Ah can see that. It’s just that Ah know Alec. He’s as clean as a whistle.’

‘He was chairman of the Finance Committee?’

‘So what?’

‘A lot of big deals going through his committee and yours.’

It was like a switch had been thrown. Sheridan burst into life.

‘This city is in ruins. Folk are living in slums. Working people are living in squalor. It’s not good enough. It is our duty to rebuild. Alec Morton and I saw it as our sacred duty to reclaim Glasgow for its citizens. Let Glasgow flourish!’

He all but climbed on to the desk as his voice and rhetoric went higher.

‘Och, save us your soapbox, Jimmie. But you know as well as me that in the long history of public works in Scotland there are always folk out there with their hands oot. There are brown envelopes being slipped into back pockets. There are chancers who—’

‘What are you saying, McAllister? What are you accusing Alec Morton of doing? The man is barely deid and already you’re tarnishing his name! Muck-raking!’

I decided to halt the righteous rant.

‘Wullie isn’t accusing anyone of anything, Mr Sheridan. This is a terrible crime, and we’re as much in the dark as you are. We’re trying to find a motive, and either Mr Morton was cruelly murdered for personal reasons or for professional reasons. Perhaps he stood in the way of someone? Perhaps his very integrity, his unswerving sense of public duty was the reason he was murdered?’

Wullie was looking at me with raised eyebrows, Sheridan with suspicion. Then he started to nod.

‘Aye, could be, could be. That would fit with Alec Morton. Is that what you’ll write – Brodie, was it?’

‘We’d like to. We just need your help. Let me ask a particular question.’

‘Fire away.’

‘What’s the biggest project currently before your Planning Committee?’

The look of suspicion was back. ‘Ah’m no’ sure where you’re going with this. But everybody kens we’ve got the Bruce plan under review.’

‘I’ve been away, Mr Sheridan. The war and all that. Can you sum it up for me?’

‘In a word,
visionary
! We’re going to turn this city into a working man’s paradise. We’ll clear the tenement slums and build modern apartments. Like the French. They’ll have inside toilets and bathrooms. Every one! There will be areas set aside for industry and business, and great parks for the workers. Regeneration, Brodie! That’s what we’re doing.’

I could see how he could sway the masses. But then so could Adolf.

‘It sounds like a huge job, Mr Sheridan.’

‘It’s Jimmie.’

‘A huge project, Jimmie. What will it cost?’

A crafty look flitted over his face. ‘The budget isnae set yet. But in truth, Brodie, there is no choice. We have to do this. For the people!’

‘Have you signed any of the contracts, yet, Jimmie?’

He drew himself up in his chair. ‘Look, boys, this isnae the time to be talking about paperwork and such stuff. A man died yesterday. A good friend of mine. Ah don’t feel like pursuing this line of questioning just at the moment. I’m sure you’ll understand . . .’

Nancy was summoned and Wullie and I were given the sweetest bum’s rush ever. Out on the pavement we looked at each other.

‘Nice try, Brodie, but he was never going to tell us anything.’

‘So why did we bother?’

‘To let him know we’re here, laddie. And to get a column out of it.’

‘Do you want me to have a go?’

‘No, no. This one’s mine. I just wanted to give you a bit of exposure to our political classes. For future use.’

I glanced at Wullie. He’d said it lightly but I could see he’d smelt something big and wanted it for himself. Hard to blame him. I asked, ‘And this Bruce plan? I’d heard the name. Saw something about it in the papers last year.’

‘Robert Bruce, city engineer and master of works of this fair toon, came out with a plan last year. You’ll have missed it, Brodie, being otherwise tied up gi’ing the Huns a bashing. In his dystopian vision, Bruce proposed to rip the guts out of the city centre and turn it into a wasteland of commerce. He wanted to knock down the likes of the School of Art, the City Chambers – maybe no’ such a bad thing, as long as all the cooncillors are inside – and Central Station. In short, anything with style and grace had to go. And any citizens living in the centre to be cast into the wilderness of Castlemilk. Factories and office blocks to be installed in their place. Altars to Mammon.’

‘I thought it had all been rejected.’

‘It was. But Jimmie Sheridan’s not the sort of man to take no for an answer, not when his livelihood’s at stake. And I don’t mean his council wage. Sheridan is going to push through Bruce’s mad ideas by hook or by crook. Probably the latter.’

FOUR

I
got to the imposing and colonnaded Sheriff Court in Brunswick Street just in time for Johnson’s appearance. I took a pew at the back of the sparse public gallery. Ishmael was in the front row, gripping the wooden barrier. In front, to the right, in two tiered rows, were fifteen honest men and women, plucked from the streets to dispense justice to their fellow man.

The said man was brought in between two wardens. Ishmael sat up and almost rose to his feet. Johnson saw his pal and lifted his shoulders as if to say,
Here I am, what a carry-on.
His shirt was creased and dirty like his trousers. One arm was bandaged and in a sling. His face was stitched down one cheek. He had no belt so the trousers were falling from his bony hips. An air of defeat made his pale face sag. A wretch and a ruffian if ever you saw one. Guilty of something, surely.

Advocate Samantha Campbell was already in place next to the Procurator Fiscal’s man. She stood up, looking distant and untouchable in her robes and wig. She nodded at Johnson, who tried a half-smile. Then the usher was calling order and the Sheriff was entering, in all his majesty. The whole court got to its feet, and the trial began.

The prosecutor had it easy and laid it on thick. Jobless ruffian . . . no fixed abode . . . raiding an honest citizen’s house . . . brave dog killed defending its master . . . could have been its owner. The jury were loving this. It pandered to every one of their darkest prejudices and fears. There was nodding when he talked about sending a message . . . teaching this man a lesson . . . telling others that this is what they’d get. I swear he was looking for applause at the end of his attack.

Johnson made it simple for him. Though Sam had entered a plea of not guilty, Johnson was easily led into confessions, any one of which would get him sent on to the High Court for proper remedy. Mrs Baird, nee McCulloch, played her part as the honest and injured householder. She might as well have worn a veil and dressed in black. She dabbed a pure white hankie at her delicate wee nose to choke back the tears of remembered horror and terror. Mention was made of her relationship with the Chief Constable and a clear and sympathetic tsk tsk scampered round the court.

By the time she’d finished, the judge had already written his verdict and was reaching for the black cap. It was all over bar the jury vote. Then Sam had her go.

‘Mr Johnson? In fact it was Sergeant Alan Johnson of the Black Watch, wasn’t it?’

Johnson’s back straightened. His head came up. ‘It was, ma’am.’

‘You were part of the valiant British Expeditionary Force that was captured in 1940 at Saint-Valery-en-Caux? The rest of the BEF got out at Dunkirk, but you and ten thousand other brave Scottish soldiers were taken into German prisoner-of-war camps for the duration?’

‘Yes, ma’am. It wisnae oor fau’t, ye ken. It was the French. They surrendered.’

I saw a rustle among the jury. Faces took on frowns. Bloody Frogs.

The prosecutor popped up. ‘My lord, I’m sure we don’t need a history lesson?’

Sam countered. ‘This is pertinent, my lord, as to motivation.’

The Sheriff looked sceptical. ‘See that it is, Miss Campbell.’

‘Sergeant Johnson, you were liberated and flown home a year ago. What has happened to you since?’

Johnson looked distressed. ‘Nothin’.’

‘Nothing? Did you try to get a job?’