never causing rammies in the street. No banners or marching bands for them. Staunch Catholics but never to be seen throwing cobbles at Orange parades or taking hatchets to the Derry Boys. I’m trying to understand how they got going, how they became… untouchable.’
His lined cheeks creased in memory. ‘One of my first stories for the Gazette. Back in… twenty-four, it would be. I’d only just joined the Gazette from the Record.’
His eyes glowed with the memory. It was touching to think he’d kept the tie as a memento.
‘Aye, they hit the scene like a hurricane. Gerrit in his twenties and his big brother Dermot early thirties, I’d say. Fresh off the boat and straight into one of the biggest rammies the Gorbals had seen. They took on one of the razor kings. It was a turf fight. They got the Catholics out behind them and just slaughtered the razor king’s gang. And I mean slaughtered. Glasgow Infirmary was like a butcher’s shop. They never looked back.’
‘What was their trade?’
‘The usual. Bookmaking, drugs, protection rackets, the odd bank, even, as they got more confident. They branched out into street girls, even had a few flats. They installed the lassies there and charged the punters at the close entry. It was quite the wee empire.’ He sounded impressed.
‘Was?’
‘Still is, but it’s changed. As they got more well off they decided to pull back from the mucky stuff. Bought a big house out in Bearsden, installed their mother from the old country and started wearing better suits. But they were still running the drugs racket for half of Glasgow. And from what I hear, they went up market with the birds for hire. Top-quality totty, apparently,’ he said wistfully.
‘I know they were picked up a few times but we never managed to make it stick. How come, do you reckon?’
‘Oh, they were in court more often than a judge. Particularly Gerrit; he was a total bampot. Big brother Dermot was always bailing him out, literally. Old Campbell, the Procurator Fiscal, never gave up. But they always had the best lawyer. Kept getting them off even when it seemed impossible. There were stories that they’d nobbled some heid yins. Never proven, mind.’
‘Did you say Campbell?’
‘The very man. Hard as nails. At times it seemed personal, you know, between him and the Slatterys. Then things calmed down and the war started. And here we are, business as usual for the Slatterys, but all the time trying to change their image. Get respectable. Now what about this story of yours?’ He licked his lips.
I tucked away the connection between old Campbell and the Slatterys and told McAllister how Hugh Donovan had been set up by the police. He jotted notes down in what seemed to be personalised shorthand, only occasionally interrupting to ask questions.
‘So, Advocate Campbell? The daughter of old Campbell. How wheels turn, eh?’
And: ‘If Donovan didnae do it, who did? Is this you blaming the Slatterys? Do you have any proof?’
I decided to hold on to the little I knew. I painted a picture of a policeman overcome with remorse after they’d concocted a confession and saw to the hanging of an innocent man. I didn’t tell him about the links with Father Cassidy’s murder or Mrs Reid, far less the four dead weans, a story that would break in the coming days, once Silver and co. had worked out what to say. I wanted one main story released at a time, otherwise it was all going to become indigestible. I also wanted the Slatterys to feel the heat without panicking them into more wild deeds or simply vanishing.
‘There’s no solid proof yet, and I’d avoid any speculation if I were you. I think you have enough to make a story with what I’ve given you?’
‘Front page, Brodie. Front page. Another pint?’ He eyed his empty glass thirstily. ‘It’s on expenses.’
THIRTY-FIVE
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
