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?
THIRTY-SIX
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.
I felt conspicuous, like a door-to-door salesman on the prowl, except I’d forgotten my bag of brushes and chammy cloths. I asked my way of a genteel woman outside the row of pretty shops in the main street. She was politeness itself, despite her clear suspicions that I was ‘trade’ at best, and an axe murderer at worst. They could spot strangers here a mile off. Maybe it was the remnants of the scarring along my jaw. Maybe my accent. Her polished vowels made mine sound like a butcher’s mincing machine.
It was a perfect morning in an idyllic setting. Warm sun and fluffy clouds. I was glad I’d left my coat behind. I was tempted to carry my hat, loosen my tie and sling my jacket over my shoulder, but I would have stood out even more amidst the prim privets and laurel bushes.
I followed the twists and turns up the gentle hills until I was walking along a beautiful street, filled with beautiful villas, nestling in their own grounds. Blue hydrangeas burst out of every garden. There was no traffic, in fact no people. It felt like a Sunday. It would always be Sunday here. I was counting out the numbers where I could; often enough the houses simply had names, like Lochinvar or something inappropriately Gaelic. I was keeping to the even side of the street as Slattery castle was an odd number.
Suddenly I could see which it was. About fifty yards ahead. Unlike the other leafy-fronted houses, this one had a high wall with railings and a gate. I did some counting and confirmed it was chateau Slattery. I slowed down, but it wasn’t the sort of street you could dawdle on innocently. Not the sort of place to stand leaning against a lamppost with a fag without someone coming out and demanding to know who you were. That’s if they hadn’t just called the police to arrest you for walking around without a hat.
Suddenly, from ahead, from Slattery’s, came the sound of clanking chains. The big metal gate swung back and a woman came out. She held the chain in her hand, and carefully threaded it through the bars and locked it with a massive padlock. There was another lock built into the gate itself and she put a big key in it and turned. She began to walk towards me. I crossed over.
‘Good morning,’ I said as she came closer. She was about fifty, I’d guess, plainly dressed, not at all like the owner of a big pile like this.
‘Morning,’ she replied warily. I took the chance.
‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Mr Slattery’s place. I was supposed to meet him. He had a job for me.’ I smiled. She looked suspicious. I had really blown it if this was Dermot’s wife.
‘Och, they’re away. You’ve missed them. I suppose he didnae have time to get in touch. Are you on the phone?’
‘No. Gone, you say? That was short notice.’
She softened up. ‘Aye. Packed up and left last night, so they did. Left me a message to clean up the place and lock it up weel. Never a thought about paying me. And no telling how long they’ll be away. See, they’re awfu’ good to work for but at times-’
