admit they’re wrong. Some of them are surely taking back-handers to turn a blind eye to drug-dealing in the city. But it doesn’t explain their sheer monumental cussedness over the murders of Father Cassidy and Mrs Reid. Nor why they should be so ready to see Hugh Donovan swing for a murder he didn’t commit.’
I drew a sixth circle. I put a question mark in the centre.
‘This is for you to fill in. Someone in the judiciary picked you. We need to know who and why.’
She nodded. She leaned over the table and pointed at the pad, at the two circles embracing Mrs Reid and the Slatterys.
‘We’re pretty sure they killed her. We’re also pretty sure it was to stop her testifying about what she heard and who she heard the night before Hugh’s arrest. But what’s the link between these two?’ She pointed at the Slatterys and Father Cassidy. ‘Why would they kill him?’
‘He must have been a risk to them. If Cassidy was the mystery man that brought Hugh home that night, he probably knew something about the real murderer. Presumably one of the Slattery clan. Did the good Father Cassidy learn something in the confessional? Or was he actively involved with these thieves and murderers? What possible service could a Catholic priest be giving to a bunch of gangsters? And if so, why would they want to kill him now?’
‘Do you really think he told them about your Arran trip?’
‘Who else? No one else knew. One day he arranges for me to be tossed off a boat, the next he’s found hanging naked in his own chapel. What happened? I’m certain it wasn’t suicide. Was he going to turn King’s evidence against the Slatterys? And if so, why? A pointing finger from the Virgin Mary or a sudden glimpse of the fires of hell?’
‘But how did he get involved in this mess?’
‘If we knew that…’
‘How are we going to find out?’
‘I wish I knew.’
THIRTY-THREE
Sometimes you need a bit of luck. Mostly it appears out of the blue, looking like a ten-bob note when what you needed was a fiver. But sometimes luck flings itself at you like a long-lost love. Propitiously, it came the next day, May Day, summer’s harbinger, in the form of an early-morning knock on the door. Sam and I were up and about, having risen from our chaste beds. I wondered if she’d lain awake waiting for footsteps on the landing as long as I had?
Sam took the door. I heard a man’s voice and Sam ushering someone into the library. She called out to me to join her. I came in from the kitchen. Sam was standing with her arms folded. A man stood fidgeting in front of her, turning his hat round and round in his hands. You would never normally confuse him with Lady Luck. Anger swept through me.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! What have you come to arrest us for this time? Or are you just here to gloat!’
Detective Constable Davy White had the decency to flush, whether from anger or embarrassment or a mixture. Either way, I savoured his discomfiture.
‘If you must know, Brodie, I’m here to help.’
‘A bit bloody late for that, White! How could you possibly help?’
‘It’s this Donovan business. And Mrs Reid.’
‘And Father Cassidy? And the missing Reid weans? It’s a stinking business, White!’
He was nodding and fingering his too-tight collar. ‘Ah ken, Ah ken. It’s why I’m here. I cannae thole it any longer, neither I can.’ His face screwed up. For a horrible minute I thought the wretch was going to break down and cry in front of us.
‘I’ll make tea,’ said Sam.
‘I think you should be here for this,’ I said.
‘Well, talk about football or something till I get back. What do you think of that new winger for Rangers, Detective White? I think he’s got the speed but his passing is rubbish.’
She walked out leaving us in wondering silence. We sat, him on the edge of an armchair, me sunk back on the couch, studying my man. Sam returned wheeling a trolley like an office tea-girl. She did the honours and we turned expectantly to DS White, who seemed to be having trouble keeping his brew in his cup.
‘OK, White, the floor’s yours. This had better be good!’
The man was visibly sweating now and pulling at his tie. Finally he undid it. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘You can turn cartwheels for all I care, Detective. Just tell us why you’re here,’ said Sam with heat.
White lit up. ‘This hanging business. I cannae sleep. It wasnae what I joined for.’
I was getting exasperated. ‘Spit it out, man.’
‘Ah don’t think Donovan did it.’
Sam and I looked at each other. ‘Neither do we. But it’s a bit bloody late for you lot to come to that conclusion!’
‘Ah ken, Ah ken. Look, there’s something you should see.’
‘Show us.’
White stood up and fumbled in his crumpled inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a small black notebook, familiar in shape and colour. I used to have one myself.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s marked at the place.’
I was on my feet facing him now. I knew what this was. I guessed what he was telling us. Hugh’s ruined face swam into my mind, his eyes beseeching as they pulled the hood down over his scarred head. If only this little book had surfaced a month ago. I wondered whether, in the circumstances, if I strangled this so called detective the courts would let me off.
‘What does it show, White?’ I asked quietly. I made no move to reach for it.
His eyes spoke before he did. ‘That Donovan confessed after we took him to the coal cellar.’ He held the notebook out to me. I stepped forward, took it with my left hand and brought my right round and up in one movement that Les himself would have applauded back in his sparring ring in the Old Kent Road. My fist took White on the point of the jaw. It lifted his head up and back. It may even have lifted his whole flabby body up off the floor. He went back in an arc and crashed to the wood floor in a flailing pile of arms and smashed teacups. He lay still for a long second or two and then started groaning.
‘Sorry about the china, Sam.’ I rubbed my knuckles.
‘You don’t think I gave him the best?’ said Sam, picking up his smouldering fag and stubbing it in the ashtray. ‘Shall we see?’ She held out her hand. I passed her the notebook. The elastic band round its middle had been set at a point well into the notebook. She opened it at the place and read quickly through the next few pages. She looked up, her face drawn and resigned. She turned and marched over to the supine detective. ‘You bastard!’ Then, very thoughtfully and with great precision, she kicked him in the side. White yelped and rolled away. Sam spun on her heel and waved the notebook at me. ‘This could have saved him, Brodie! Or at least thrown enough doubt on the facts as to give me a real crack at the appeal. I could have saved Hugh!’ She swivelled again as if to go back and kick him again.
‘Sam! Don’t. Leave some for me. What’s it telling?’
She turned back, her face mottled with fury. ‘It shows this pair lied in court! Perjured themselves! Hugh didn’t tell them where to find the body. He hadn’t confessed before he was taken to the coal cellar. He gave no information about the body, the number of stab wounds, even that the boy was naked. It says here: “Tuesday, 3 December 1945. Report of boy’s body found in coal cellar behind Carol Street tenements.’
‘That’s just two streets away from Hugh’s place in Florence Street,’ I said.
She went on: ‘Tuesday 3 December 1945. Time: 15.35 hours. Accused taken to crime scene. Accused wept at sight of body. Accused said, “No, no, no,” several times. Covered his face with hands. DS Kerr and I took him back to the station where he was questioned again about his knowledge of the crime scene. He refused to talk. He lay on floor. Accused left in his cell. ‘Wednesday, 4 December 1945. DS Kerr and myself returned to the cell. Found
