The Silver Arrow (25 page)

  “Inspector, are you alright?  Do you wish me to call for assistance?”

  “Listen, ya dirty, scummy, Welsh basturt, ye.  Ye hiv the cheek tae come in here…tae ma polis station…upsetting ma regime and then hiv the bloody cheek tae sit there and tell me that whore’s son, Johnboy Taylor, is innocent ae aw charges and that he wis set up?  Hiv ye any idea…fur jist wan minute…whit they poor officers and their families hiv gone through, eh?” The Stalker bawled at the tap ae his voice towards the Welshman, covering Swansea’s dark bushy eyebrows in spit.

  “I know that what I’ve just disclosed must have come as quite a shock, Inspector, but surely, as a serving police inspector yourself, you would be concerned if an innocent man…a teenager…was languishing in prison whilst the guilty was wandering around, Scot free?” Swansea retorted.

  “Whether it wis this crime or another, Taylor and aw his manky pals hiv wreaked havoc back in the Toonheid and then up here in Springburn since they wur wee snappers in shitey nappies.  Whether he’s innocent or no, as you claim, is irrelevant.  The crimes committed by him and they scummy pals ae his wid’ve sent better men than they ever could strive tae be tae the gallows fur less, when the judiciary wisnae run by long-haired commies wae the arses ripped oot ae their troosers, pretending tae be liberals.  So, please don’t sit there telling me Johnboy Taylor is innocent, Mr Welsh Rare-Bit.  Ah won’t hiv ma intelligence insulted in ma ain polis station, especially no by somewan who isnae even a fucking lawyer,” The Stalker sputtered, haudin oan tae the side ae his desk wae baith hauns, gasping fur breath.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Inspector.”

  “And anyway, whit’s this goat tae dae wae me, eh?  Should ye no be talking tae some ae the Maryhill boys?  The bank wis oan their turf, so it wis.”

  “Yes, well, no doubt we’ll get around to that, but in the meantime, I was wondering if you could clarify a few details for me?”

  “Details?  Whit details?  Like whit?”  The Stalker hauf shouted in exasperation, erms ootstretched in crucifix fashion.

  “Well, I understand that you interviewed and took a statement from a Mr Sandy Murray, who informed you that our client, Mr Taylor, was innocent of the said crime,” Swansea replied, looking up fae his file ae paper and looking The Stalker in the eye.

  “Murray?  Sandy Murray?  Noo, who the fuck is he when he’s at hame then?”

  “I believe you visited fifty-two-year-old Mr Sandy Murray, who also goes by the nom de plume of Halfwit, in Stobhill Hospital on the evening of Saturday, the 23
rd
of March, of this year.  Would that be correct, Inspector?”

  Silence.

  “We also understand that it was an unofficial visit…at least, unofficial if one was to go by the official visiting hours, which suggests that you were visiting Mr Murray as part of an official police investigation…in the middle of the night.  Would that also be correct?”

  “Ah hivnae a bloody clue whit ye’re oan aboot, Sunny-Jim.”

  “Yes, well, according to one of our witnesses, a young nurse, who was on duty that night, you sat and interviewed Mr Murray shortly before he died and you also took a written statement from him.  I was wondering…in light of me sharing our information with you, as well as Mr Portoy’s intention to pursue the matter through the courts…if you would save everyone a bit of time and bother by reciprocating and allowing us to have a copy of Mr Murray’s statement.  It would be much appreciated,” Swansea asked pleasantly, this time growing alarmed, as the inspector erupted in a fit ae coughing and spluttering.  

Chapter Thirty Three

  “At last,” Sheriff Clifford Burns exclaimed.  “Can I presume that we have arrived at the crux of the matter, Miss Metcalfe?  Can you please tell me what the procurator fiscal’s response, on behalf of The Crown is, regarding this unusual request?” Sheriff Clifford Burns asked the procurator fiscal, resignation in his voice.

  Whit should’ve been a straightforward ‘aye’ or ‘naw’ tae start wae, before swiftly moving oan tae the next case, hid become a right Battle Royale…or a right pain in the proverbial arse.   It hid crossed his mind tae object tae Glenda Metcalfe conducting the case oan behauf ae The Crown before the case wis heard, bit aw the other procurator fiscals wur in the middle ae hearings and due tae the recent statement at the Bar Association’s Awards by Graham Portoy, which the sheriff hid attended, heidlines ae judicial cave-in soon put paid tae that.  Insteid, he’d hid tae sit and witness these two prevaricate oan the flimsiest objections fur the past hour.

  “As you have quite rightly pointed out, your honour, this is a most unusual request indeed.  My learned colleague has stated that he is in the process…the process, mind you, of submitting an application to the Appeals Court in Edinburgh for permission to lodge an appeal against the conviction of his client.  That client, convicted and sentenced, along with two others, for shooting two brave police officers in the line of duty at The Clydeside Bank on Maryhill Road oan the 9
th
of November 1972 is rightfully in custody where he belongs.
 
May I point out that his client was subsequently refused leave to appeal by three imminent law lords…such was the evidence of guilt put forward before Lord Campbell of Claremyle and the jury at the original trial at the High Court in Glasgow back in May 1973.  It would appear that not only is Mr Portoy grasping at straws to instigate a review, but he’s asking this court to collude in this fanciful exercise at the tax payers’ expense.  Having spoken with senior police officers earlier, they are appalled at the cavalier manner in which my learned friend is conducting himself under the questionable auspices of seeking a so-called review, not only at the expense of the public purse, but of the victims and their families who are still traumatised, even after all this time, by their unfortunate experience.  For Mr Portoy to come to this courtroom on the flimsiest of so-called new evidence is nothing short of criminal…in my opinion, your honour.”

  “Mr Portoy?” the sheriff sighed in resignation, getting mair depressed by the minute.

  Graham Portoy took his time and sat, gieing those in the public galleries the impression that he wis deep in Transcendental Meditation.  In actual fact, he wis remembering back tae the first time he’d hid a run-in wae Glenda Metcalfe.  That wis before she’d decided tae take up elocution lessons tae get rid ae that accent that wid’ve made a resident ae Blackhill sound as if they’d been educated at Allen Glen’s.  He hid tae admit, she’d done well fur hersel, if working fur a weekly pay packet fae the state wis aw ye wanted oot ae life.  He’d jist qualified and hid jist started oot oan his probationary year.  Between her and auld GP Donnelly, the Justice ae The Peace that ran The Central District Court like something oot ae Stalin’s Kremlin at the time, they’d kicked that arse ae his aw o’er the courtroom.  He smiled thinking back oan it…although that widnae be the last time that she’d score a similar victory o’er him, those times wur few and far between these days.  At the time, his father hid been deid fur three years, hivving been fished oot ae the Clyde under suspicious circumstances.  It should’ve been his proudest moment, in memory ae his father, being called tae the bar, seeing as his first case hid been a straightforward wan.  A young boy hid been caught stealing, or breaking intae a shoap and given his track record, even though he’d only jist turned thirteen at the time, Glenda Metcalfe hid demanded and wis duly rewarded, wae the boy being sent tae an approved school.  An unreported event that happened oan an almost daily basis throughoot the district courts in the city, he remembered heiding hame that day wae his tail between his legs and the sound ae Glenda Metcalfe’s shrill laughter ringing in his ears.  That wisnae whit hid upset him though.  It hid been the fact that he’d turned up practically late fur the start ae the hearing, totally unprepared and JP hid turned oan him when he found oot who his father hid been.  Graham hid always believed that his family connection wae his father, hid denied the boy oan trial fur his freedom that day, a fair crack ae the whip.  Despite losing his freedom, the boy hid never furgoatten him and whenever him and his friends goat arrested, they always refused tae accept a court-appointed brief other than himsel, even at the expense ae being remanded in custody when Graham wisnae available.  That young boy hid been Johnboy Taylor.  Who wid’ve thought that the wee red heided urchin wid’ve hid such an effect oan his professional career?

  “Er, whenever you’re ready, Mr Portoy, your response some time today would be more than gratefully received,” the sheriff intoned sarcastically.

  “Miss Metcalfe’s quite right, your honour, I am building evidence to support an appeal to prove my client is innocent.  And yes, that evidence isn’t complete, hence the request for access to the police inspector’s working journal or pocket service notebook, as Miss Metcalfe referred to it.  Based on the witness statement in front of you, your honour, it is entirely right for me to have access to verify the claims of the witness.  To deny that access, would be to collude in the travesty of justice perpetrated by the likes of the procurator fiscal and current serving officers within the police force, here in Glasgow.”

  “I totally object to that hideous remark and to what Mr Portoy is insinuating, your honour,” the procurator fiscal shrieked, gaun in the huff efter the sheriff held up the palm ae his haun fur her tae get back in her box.

  “And while I’m at it, your honour, I would like to make it known that between the procurator fiscal and myself, only one of us is being paid from the public purse today,” the brief said, slipping in a wee dig, while the sheriff wis otherwise engaged, enjoying the flash ae hatred that swept o’er the procurator’s face.

  “Right, that’s it.  Mr Portoy?  Miss Metcalfe?  I would like a word with the both of you, in private, please,” the sheriff informed them tersely, getting up aff ae his arse before heiding fur the door ae the chamber at the side ae his bench. 

  “Sheriff?” they baith chimed thegither through in his chambers.

  “As much as I appreciate the welcome distraction of having to listen to the both of you squabbling like a pair of newlyweds on honeymoon, I will not allow the court to be used as a boxing match.  Now, unless you are both willing to conduct yourselves in a manner befitting of the gowns you’re wearing, I’ll have no choice but to listen to the arguments here in the chamber.  Now, which is it to be?”

  “Your honour, he’s clearly clutching at straws.  There’s no way in a month of Sunday’s that the Police, nor The Crown Office, will accede to Mr Portoy’s request.  If Mr Portoy has evidence of any substance he wouldn’t be here today making a mockery of the legal system.”

  “Is that right?  It looks like you’ve been wasting your time turning up today, your honour, seeing as Miss Metcalfe clearly has no intention of obeying the instructions of the court,” Graham Portoy retorted.

  “Oh God,” the sheriff groaned tae himsel.

  “Mr Portoy only applied to the court yesterday for a hearing today, your honour.  We haven’t had time to even read the reason behind his application, never mind be able to consider his request.  Why did he not come to me in the first place with his request instead of taking up precious court time in what is the busiest criminal court in Western Europe?” she demanded.

  “We have.  We spoke to Inspector McPhee today,” The Brief stated tae the sheriff.

  “And?” the sheriff asked.

  “He refused to engage meaningfully.”

  “When?  When did you speak to Inspector McPhee?” the procurator fiscal demanded, shocked, rustling through her papers tae try and find any reference tae it, as the sheriff leaned back oan his desk wae his erms folded, a bemused expression oan that face ae his.

  “Your honour, I have reason to believe that the inspector’s notebook is in grave danger of conveniently going walkabout, and if that happens, my client will have to spend years in prison, despite his innocence.  There is ample evidence over the years to back those concerns,” he pleaded wae the sheriff.

  “Right, that’s it.  I’ve had enough of this.  We’re now going back into the courtroom.  I’ve made up my mind.  The procurator fiscal is correct in one sense at least, there are other more important things about here that requires my urgent attention.  Now then…a cautionary word of warning to the both of you.  When I announce my decision, woe betide the first one to dare raise an objection.  Have I made myself clear?” he glowered, moving towards the inner chamber door, turning back tae face them jist before he turned the haundle.  “Isn’t it about time the both of you buried the hatchet and got hitched, giving everyone about here a bit of peace and quiet?”

  Graham refused tae be intimidated by the daggers being shot oot ae Glenda Metcalfe’s eyes towards him fae the prosecutor’s table.  He hid nothing tae be ashamed ae.  It wisnae him that hid lowered his principles, by hivving the cheek tae apply fur a job wae Graham Portoy Solicitors Ltd, efter years ae dishing oot abuse tae the very man that wid’ve ultimately been her boss and eventual partner.

  Glenda couldnae believe that she’d ever ended up hivving sex wae the wee poisonous prick.  Whit hid goat intae her…apart fae him?  Granted she’d been pished…it hid been Christmas, she’d been lonely…and desperate.  My God, she must’ve been doon in the dumps that night tae hiv allowed that tae happen.  She’d been offered the job, and hid accepted it, and the baith ae them hid went fur a celebratory drink.  She couldnae remember how they’d goat back tae her flat across in The West End.  Aw she could remember wis his laughter, as she’d drunkenly attempted tae whisk her knickers aff ae the radiators before he clocked them…and before she’d known whit wis happening, they wur humping fur Scotland oan the untreated sheepskin rug that her brother hid taken back fae Algiers, in front ae her gas fire.  How wis she supposed tae hiv known that she’d get an allergic reaction fae the wool in her vagina?  She’d phoned him three days efter their wee love tryst, calling him fur everything under the sun, threatening tae blacken his name aw o’er the city.  His pleading that it couldnae hiv come fae him as he hid been wearing a Johnny bag…implying that she wis some sort ae hairy who slept aroond…hid been the straw that broke the camel’s back.  She’d telt him tae stick his job up his arse and the rest wis history.  She’d never admitted tae anywan that they’d ever been thegither.   Efter the humiliation ae hivving tae streak oot ae the back ae a taxi like an Olympic roadrunner, making towards the door ae the clinic up in Black Street, wearing dark glasses and a heidscarf, it hid been too late.  The fact that she hidnae contracted a venereal disease efter aw, hid made her humiliation aw the worse.

  “Now then,” Sheriff Burns declared, peering o’er his hauf-rimmed glasses sternly at the pair ae legal eagles, staunin wae misguided hope in their eyes in front ae him.  “Having listened to the arguments, both here and in private, it gives me cause to wonder how the both of you managed to get through law school, never mind actually managing to earn a living, practicing law.  However, despite the witnessing of unseemly behaviour in front of our peers in the public benches and our friends in the press box, I have somehow, miraculously, managed to weave my way between the personal insults and duly considered the request for access to the un-named police inspector’s service notebook…” the sheriff said, glaring across at the press box, daring them tae even think ae publishing The Stalker’s name.  “…and have concluded, that Mr Portoy’s request should be denied.”

  Graham Portoy’s chin drapped in disappointment and a big grin appeared oan Glenda Metcalfe’s coupon, as her two assistants patted her oan the back.

  “Miss Metcalfe’s argument that the procurator fiscal and therefore, The Crown, has not had sufficient time to consider a response to the application, warrants due consideration.  In light of that, my decision is that both sides come back to this court in three months’ time and put forward their case, once they have had time to consider their respective arguments.  In the meantime, I am ordering the chief constable to hand over custody of the said inspector’s service notebook into the custody of the court, until such times as the case is heard again, or a higher court overturns my decision here today.  That will be all,” the sheriff declared thankfully, as Glenda Metcalfe slumped back in her chair and the usually, calm and collected Graham Portoy punched the air wae a clenched fist.