Liam McIlvanney - The Quaker

For those who stayed, it was the winter of the Quaker. There was no escape from the blond side-parting and the crooked smile. Like a slew of frozen mirrors, the posters threw back to the city its half-familiar face. Men with short fair hair, men with overlapping teeth, men with the thin slightly sensuous lips of the artist’s impression would find themselves scrutinized in pubs and restaurants, underground carriages. Glancing up from the Evening Times as the bus took a bump they’d catch the fierce, unguarded stares of their fellow citizens. Whispers rasped around them, neighbours monitored their movements. Cards were issued by the Chief Constable to men who matched the wanted man’s description: The holder of this card is certified as not being the Quaker.

Another big storm hit the city on 25 January. Burns Night. The morning after the storm was when number three was found, torn and sprawled in a Scotstoun backcourt, like something ransacked by the wind. Marion Mercer’s unwitting smile joined those of Jacquilyn Keevins and Ann Ogilvie on the splashes of the Record , the Tribune , the Daily Express .

Jacquilyn Keevins. Ann Ogilvie. Marion Mercer.

And then, in the weeks since Marion Mercer, nothing. The murders that had gripped a city stopped. The days ticked past, the weeks turned into months. With the warmer weather it was hard to keep the killings in mind, that wintry horror. The frenzy ebbed. The air began to clear. Suddenly it was six months since the Quaker’s last killing. The prospect that he might strike again was like the memory of last year’s snow: you couldn’t picture it. There were queues once more outside the dance halls. Bouncers rocked on their heels outside the Plaza and the Albert. Women stood in line for the coat-check in the Barrowland and the Majestic. Blue-tuxedo’d band-leaders cracked jokes about the Quaker before leaning in to the mic for the next slow ballad. The university cancelled its night-bus service for female students. The city was moving on, looking out. News items from the wider world – riots in Belfast, the Kennedy bother at Chappaquiddick, One Small Step for Man – displaced the local stories in the Tribune and the Record . A new decade was coming, new money, new buildings going up along the central streets, citadels of glass and steel. Dead, imprisoned for another crime, or living somewhere else, the Quaker was fading from the city’s sense of itself, dwindling to a whisper, a half-forgotten melody.

Only the shirtsleeved men in the Murder Room at the Marine Police Station in Partick kept at their task. In a fourteen-by-ten upstairs room, they stalked the Quaker through box files of witness statements. For months these men had been trying to piece it together, searching for motive and meaning in rubbled backcourts. Three endings. Three bodies. Crumpled and sprawled, dumped like rubbish. I thought it was a mannequin, a tailor’s dummy. It looked like a bundle of rags. An old coat or blanket. No one ever thinks that it’s a body. A woman. Someone with a book half-read, a favourite song, bitter secrets, a patch of eczema behind her ear.

Then the newspapers started to turn. Detectives who had been the subject of reverent profiles – George Cochrane pictured in his mackintosh and trilby, gripping his pipe like a Clydeside Sherlock; Chief Constable Arthur Lennox in his pristine blues, flanked by a portrait of the queen – found themselves discussed with scoffing brusqueness. An element of black humour crept into the coverage. The papers had fun with the notion of CID men brushing up their dance moves as they mingled with the punters at the Barrowland Ballroom. In July, the Tribune ran an old photo of the Quaker Squad detectives at the scene of Jacquilyn Keevins’s murder, walking three-abreast down Carmichael Lane, looking for clues. The picture had a caption: Romeo , Foxtrot, Tango: The Marine Formation Dance Team .

Everyone thinks that I changed my mind and that was what got me killed. Shaking their heads at my folly or at the capriciousness of fate. As though changing your mind was so terrible. As though I should have known better. But I didn’t change my mind. I told Mum and Dad that I was going to the Majestic – they were right about that – but that was never the plan. I was going to the Barrowland all along.

I was going to the Barrowland because I was meeting a man.

The shoes that I’d bought in Frasers the previous Saturday were pinching my toes as I walked down the hill to the bus. I was wearing an emerald green crepe dress I’d just re-hemmed. The dress was sleeveless and my arms felt cool against the satin lining of my coat. I was conscious of my perfume – Rive Gauche – filling the lower deck of the bus and I remember noticing that the conductress had a ladder in her tights, all the way down the inside of her left leg, and thinking that she ought to have a spare pair in her bag.

Why did I lie to my parents? I’m not sure. I think it was to make it more complete. The secret, I mean. The man I was meeting was called William. He was tall, with good hair he was forever running a hand through, and strong slim forearms under folded sleeves. I hadn’t known him long. There was something distant about him, something reserved. I wondered if maybe he’d turn out to be married but I didn’t care. It had been a long time since someone had asked me out. The boy was the problem. Wee Alasdair. Just turned six. It puts them off, a kid does.

I got off the bus at Glasgow Cross and walked up the Gallowgate to the Barrowland and joined the queue under the green-and-red neon. Once I’d checked my coat in the foyer I climbed the stairs to the ballroom. That’s the bit I loved, climbing towards everything, the music suddenly loud and the dancers whirling into view. I hurried the last few steps and the ballroom gulped me in. I felt safe there, secret, in the darkness and the lights.

I bought a bitter lemon at the bar and took a seat at a table so that people knew I was waiting for someone.

I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch. William was already fifteen minutes late. Benny Hamlin and the Hi-Hats played ‘Boom Bang-a-Bang’ and I was cross because I always liked to dance to that. I lit another cigarette, watched the smoke drift up towards the shooting stars on the ceiling.

By half-past nine I knew he wasn’t coming. My bitter lemon was finished and I’d smoked all but two of my cigarettes. I remember how angry I felt, close to tears, not because he’d stood me up but because everything was spoiled, the night and the dress and the music and everything. I was sorting my lipstick and getting ready to leave when a shadow fell on my handbag and stayed there. When I turned and looked up, there he was. The lights from the stage were behind him and I couldn’t really see his face. I’d forgotten how tall he was, how well-spoken.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘May I still join you?’

That’s how he spoke. He offered me a cigarette and lit it with a nice gold lighter but he didn’t take one himself. He didn’t smoke, just carried a pack for occasions like this.

He bought me another bitter lemon and got another pack of Embassy Filter from the vending machine and draped his raincoat over a vacant chair. He had a nice woollen scarf that he folded and placed on the chair beside him. He was really good looking with his sharp jaw and his straight nose and his short fair hair in a neat side shed. He wore a regimental tie and a brown chalkstripe suit. Stylish. I couldn’t stop grinning, leaning in to get my cigarette lit, resting my hand on his hand as he held the flame.