Gordon Ferris - The Hanging Shed

‘Front page, Brodie. Front page. Another pint?’ He eyed his empty glass thirstily. ‘It’s on expenses.’

By the time the story hit the evening edition, Muncie was already facing the press and announcing the suspension of the entire team involved in the Donovan case. Sam and I sat opposite each other in the kitchen. She was pointing at the lurid headlines

‘Is your speciality kicking over hornets’ nests, Brodie?’

‘I’d rather smoke them out.’

‘So this was you in subtle mode? “Corrupt police get innocent man hanged.”’

‘It proves Advocate Samantha Campbell was on the right lines.’

‘But too late. I should have pressed Muncie harder about the notebook in court.’

‘It would have conveniently disappeared, Sam. I’m amazed White hung on to it.’

‘Insurance?’

‘You think he was smart enough to see it like that?’

‘Conscience then?’

‘Habit, more like. It’s drummed into us at police college. Write it up or forget it.

We both fell silent.

‘Well, it’s done. Now what?’ she asked.

‘Now we wait. And keep our heads down. There’s going to be a lot of flak over the next few days. You’re seeing your legal colleague tomorrow?’

‘Dinner with Judge Thompson. An old lech but talkative. Should I go ahead?’

‘More than ever. As well as finding out who suggested you for the defence role, I want you to ask him some questions about your father’s time in office.’

‘My father? Why?’

‘It sounds like he was a scourge of the Slatterys. I’d like to know whatever you can find out about those cases and how they got off.’

She looked quizzical but didn’t argue. Just as well. I had no real line of inquiry. It was just about stirring up the mud and seeing what crept out.

What crept out next night was a lizard. Sam got home well after ten o’clock, slightly the worse for a skinful of red wine or maybe it was the brandy chasers. With her blond hair released from her Kirby grips, full make-up and a flushed, flirty expression on her face, Samantha Campbell was the saucy alter ego of the hard-faced professional I’d first met. She looked ten years younger with a grin on her face. I nearly took her in my arms but it would have been cheating.

‘C’n you believe he tried to put his hand up my skirt?’

‘During the dinner?’

‘No, silly. When we were coming out of the hotel. He grabbed me and told me he’d always fancied me. Old goat!’

‘What did you do?’

‘I wish I’d kneed him in the balls!’

‘But?’

‘I giggled. And slapped him playfully. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? We little women? It’s all we’re good for, isn’t it?’

‘Sam, if you’re looking for a fight over the rights of women, you’re picking the wrong time and the wrong bloke. I met women agents who’d landed in France before D Day with as much guts as a highland regiment. I’m on your side.’

‘’S just as well, Mr Douglas Brodie.’

‘ I’ll make tea.’

An hour later, after she’d thrown up and was sitting ashen-faced across from me, nursing a foaming Alka-Seltzer, we got down to business.

‘It was Lord Justice Craig Allardyce himself, it appears. He put my name forward. Told everyone – except me – it was a wee favour for my dad, helping his lassie up the ladder.’

‘Kind of him.’

‘No it bloody wasn’t! If my father had known who’d done this he’d be back to haunt him. Dad hated Allardyce. Said he was a wee shit, if I recall right. Trouble was they had to work together. Allardyce was number two to my dad, Deputy Procurator Fiscal.’

‘And he became a judge?’

‘Later. The wee shit got my dad’s job.’

We sat quietly with the thoughts between us.

‘Anything about the Slatterys? Did your old lech know much about the cases brought to court under your father?’

She nodded. ‘They were big deals at the time. Late twenties, early thirties. Just before your time. A lot of press coverage, especially when they walked free wearing big smiles and proclaiming their innocence.’

‘Was it both brothers?’

‘Judge Letch said it was usually Gerrit in the dock or some of his henchmen; wild men they’d bring over from Belfast or the backwoods of Ulster.’

‘With Dermot pulling the strings?’

‘Apparently. Dermot likes a low profile.’

‘What were the charges?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary except once: nineteen thirty-two.’

‘And?’

‘Gun-running. Suspected membership of the IRA. Shipping arms to the Republic.’

I sighed. ‘Perfect. Gangsters and revolutionaries. Killers with a cause.’

It suddenly added up. Why else would they go to such lengths to silence witnesses and bury evidence? It could certainly account for the involvement of an Irish Catholic priest like Cassidy. But why murder him? And how had Hugh got ensnared? And why now? Caught once but not jailed, the Slatterys went quiet for over a decade. Did it mean they were active again? That there was some big event in the offing? Had Cassidy tried to stop them? Finally, and not the least of these stomach-churning questions, what, in the name of all that’s merciful, had all this to do with the abuse and murder of an innocent wee boy?

Sam crept off to bed and I sat and wondered why McAllister hadn’t mentioned this little peccadillo of the Slatterys. I slept on it and phoned him in the morning.

‘Cracking headlines, Brodie! I owe you one.’

‘Good. So tell me why you didn’t mention the IRA connection with the Slatterys?’

‘An old chestnut. It was never proven. Every Irishman who kicked with his left foot was thought to be plotting the next Easter Rebellion. But they never made the charges stick.’

‘Didn’t they have evidence to start off with? I mean there must have been something to put them in the frame?’

‘Aye, you’re right. I think they found guns. But we’re talking back in the early thirties. When the polis were responsible for more frame-ups than Rembrandt. Maybe before your time, Brodie. But things haven’t changed much as far as I can see.’

‘Why do you think I left?’ I asked dryly.

‘Just wondering, Brodie. Just wondering whose side you were on. If you were on nobody’s payroll except the Crown’s you were the exception, laddie.’

I thought for a minute. ‘I think you’ll find there’s another breaking story, McAllister.’

‘I’m all ears.’

I could picture him wiping his grubby hands and digging out his pad.

‘It’s about the four missing Reid weans…’

I put the phone down. Even the hardened old crime reporter had been shocked. Not shocked enough to stop him heading off to interview Chief Superintendent George Muncie though.

By the time an ashen-faced Samantha Campbell was ready to face her first cup of tea I was shaved, washed, fed and ready for the off.

‘Brodie, if you think this is an IRA thing, shouldn’t you…? I mean, isn’t it getting just a bit too risky?’

She was right, of course, but that wasn’t enough to dull the glowing coals of anger that seemed to live in my guts these days.

‘I’m just going to look around.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Bearsden. Stroll those leafy lanes and admire the big houses. See if there’s one I fancy.’

‘Will you take the gun?’

‘For Bearsden?’

She looked at me. ‘You’re daft. Be careful.’

I had their address but I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I found the house. I just needed to be moving, doing something. I took trams and buses out to the north-west of Glasgow, only about four miles, but it felt like forty. Bearsden is a place apart. A separate community out in the countryside, and settled by folk with loads of money and a preference for big sandstone villas. Sam’s house was pretty fabulous by my standards but it was terraced. Many of the big villas in Bearsden were detached with gardens front and back, and approached down quiet, tree-lined streets.