The Hanging Shed

NINETEEN

We managed to leave some whisky in the bottle, so morning wasn’t too spiked with remorse. I followed Sam into her office to wait for news from our clerical spy across the water. I made use of my time by checking through rail and steamship timetables. Just before noon Samantha came through looking flushed.

‘Looks like we’re on,’ she said. ‘Lamlash. A new family arrived there in January. Mother and four kids. They’re renting a place. The priest there will take you to them. He’s been told to say nothing to them before you arrive. He’s expecting you off the first ferry in the morning.’

I took the slip. ‘Cassidy’s come up trumps. Let’s hope it’s the right family. And that they can be persuaded to talk. And, finally, that they have something to talk about.’

‘We’re desperate, Brodie. This has to be a lead.’

I nodded, wishing I hadn’t forced the optimism to retreat from her eyes.

‘Look, we can speed things up a bit. I can just about catch the last ferry from Ardrossan. I’ll be in Brodick by seven o’clock. I’ll stay overnight and catch the bus round to Lamlash first thing. It’ll gain us half a day.’

She was nodding, ‘Fine, just fine. Here’s some money for expenses.’ She handed me a big white fiver. ‘Go on. I can put it down as trial costs.’

I took it from her reluctantly, but glad enough for the contribution to my dwindling cash supply. In preparation for the possible jaunt, I stuffed a spare pair of socks, pants and a clean collar into the pockets of my coat. My safety razor and a toothbrush were in my jacket pocket.

I stepped out into a cloudy afternoon with a rain-tinged breeze blowing from the west. I thought I could smell the sea salt in the air but it was no doubt just smoke from the shipyards. The tram took me to Central Station and I caught the train to Ardrossan. The Glen Sannox was a turbine steamer, not a magical paddle steamer. But it reminded me of the Duchess of Argyll, that my dad took me on just after the Great War. The Sannox’s twin funnels and sleek prow made me every bit excited as the small boy of twenty five years ago. I half expected to hear my dad shout out to me to hang on to the railing as we eased our way out of the harbour and into the Firth of Clyde between the Ayrshire coast and the long hump of Arran island. This boat was quick too; its turbines sent the water racing away behind us in a long furrow. We were aiming straight across the firth at Brodick, bang in the middle of the east coast of the island.

By now the rain was whipping steadily into our faces from out of the Atlantic and the waves were slapping grey and white along our bows. The boat began plunging into the swell and I decided a cup of tea and a fag was called for to steady the stomach. I sat looking out of the splashed windows. Before the war the Firth of Clyde was thick with steamers, cargo ships and the occasional liner. Schools of grey warships would ply these waters: new ones fresh out of the yards or older ones being patched up and sent back out again to face the wolf packs that infested the waters around our coast and all the way across to America. The ferries themselves were clad in heavy metal and given popguns to defend themselves and sent off to look for submarines. I shuddered to think of dying in the slate-cold sea. Was it worse to be on a surface ship with its bows staved in by a torpedo? Or in a submarine with depth charges booming in the deep and blowing in the plates that kept the sea out? Drowning was one thing, but being trapped inside a metal tomb as it slid to the bottom of the Atlantic, water gushing in through sprung rivets, was my idea of hell.

Nowadays the Clyde is quieter. The ferries that survived their wartime duties – some had Dunkirk battle honours – renewed their daily service to the isles of Cumbrae, Bute and Arran. The wartime frenzy had stilled and it would take time for the world markets to recover and raise demand for peacetime ships again. With the amount of tonnage sunk during the war, the Clyde was expecting a boom period to follow.

For a treat I had a scone and jam and a second cup of tea as I watched the island loom larger through the forward portholes. The boat wasn’t full by any means. Too early for summer trips and too late in the day for business. It suited me fine. I was glad of the brief respite and the chance to sift my thoughts. Once again I’d found an excuse for not visiting Fiona. Was this the same warrior leading his company into battle? Scared of an old flame? Probably.

I touched the healing scab on my forehead from the knife attack. It made me wonder about the thugs who’d attacked me in the bogs at Doyle’s pub. What had they known? And why did they react the way they did? Was it an automatic response to any stranger wandering into their patch and asking tricky questions? A kind of ‘nice to make your acquaintance, stitch that, you bastard’? Maybe. Or were they on the lookout for just such a meddling stranger? I needed to meet their boss, Dermot Slattery, and find out what he knew. If I could find this Reid family and get them to help, I could be back in Glasgow by Saturday afternoon and putting out feelers for a rendezvous with this latter-day razor king tomorrow evening. Time was running out. It was already 5 April and we had to get the appeal in by the fifteenth, ten short days.

We bumped against Brodick pier and I shuffled out with the rest of the handful of passengers on to the wet decking of the jetty. It had stopped raining. There was even a glimpse of late evening sun behind the clouds. A portent of hope? I began walking along the seawall towards the small town itself. In the far corner of the bay, veiled by drifting clouds, I could make out Brodick Castle. I recalled my father pointing it out to me on our one and only day trip here in my other life.

I breathed deep and enjoyed the tang of seaweed and salt water in my nostrils. Maybe I should come back here in the summer, go for long walks by the sea and in the hills. The exercise would be good for my leg. And I’d get some colour in my London cheeks. See if Sam had inherited her dad’s love of hiking. Which was a funny unbidden thought. She was a prim lawyer mostly, but the fish-and-chip supper had shown another side. It would be a challenge to break through the ice more often.

Today the town was quiet. Few of the bed and breakfasts had boards up, saving their energies for the chip-eating, icecream-sucking invasion at the Glasgow Fair. Arran got the classier holidaymakers, unless they were camping or caravanning of course. The neat Victorian houses and hotels that lined the seafront were magnets for the factory supervisors and the insurance company managers and their wives with hearts set on the next promotion and a three-bedroom semi in Helensburgh.

One of the tall houses that looked out across the road to the sea and to the Ayrshire coast beyond had a Vacancy sign swinging nonchalantly in the wind. Take me or leave me, see if I care. I crossed over, went in and secured a bed for the night with sea views and a shared bathroom for the knock down out-of-season price of 5/6d. Though there was no one to share it with, as it turned out. I could have breakfast – limitless cups of tea, square slices of fried sausage and a real egg with as much toast as I could eat – for a further shilling. Perfect. I allayed the suspicion of the large-bosomed landlady at my travelling without a suitcase by patting my coat pockets and explaining I had a short meeting in Lamlash the next morning and then back to Glasgow.

There was a cafe open in the town centre – such as it was: a souvenir shop, a newsagent, a butcher and a fishmonger, each with desolate counters. I thought of taking some Arran rock back to Sam but it looked like it was pre-war stock. For the second night running I had fish and chips, but the company was less distracting. I missed Samantha Campbell’s abrasive tongue and sharp brain, and the no-nonsense way she stuck her hair back behind her small ears. I turned in early, slept well and sought out the Lamlash bus with a stomach filled and warmed by fried sausage topped with buttered toast. The morning was warm and the steam rose from the damp roads as we chugged out of town and up the steep hill. We were heading due south now along the ragged coast to Lamlash.

We ground our way up and over, and practically freewheeled down into the next bay. Through the dense trees that marshalled the road, I caught occasional glimpses of the crescent of Lamlash Bay and the village itself. Offshore was the big lump of rock that was Holy Island. It looked just the sort of out-of-the-way retreat to stymie prying policemen or desperate reporters.

We trundled to a halt one stop away from the centre but near the Catholic church, according to the driver. Though Lamlash Bay had sheltered the northern fleet of the Royal Navy during the war it was smaller than Brodick and less well set up for the holiday trade. Much of the village comprised small fishermen’s houses arranged in a tidy row with trim gardens out front. The Protestant kirk dominated the far end of the town.

I got out and walked along the front. I paused on a bench overlooking the sandy beach, took out a fag and watched the waves lap in. I hadn’t gazed mindlessly at the sea in years. I used to love walking along the dunes at Troon or running through the shallows in my bare feet. A rare calmness settled on me. It wasn’t just the nicotine. I hadn’t realised how weary I was. Weary of the war and its sour aftermath. Weary of London and the faceless anger of the ruined city, rationed in food and hope. I listened to the harsh gulls and wondered if I could find sanctuary here, maybe get a wee boat, catch fish, grow my own vegetables. Drop by the local pub most evenings to catch up on village gossip or attend the occasional ceilidh or darts competition.

I was suddenly aware of a shadow. I turned and saw a man framed against the sun.

‘Would you be Mr Douglas Brodie, by any chance?’ His voice had the hard nasal lilt of Northern Ireland.

I stood up and saw his dog collar. He wore a blue shirt underneath and a black jacket. Thin blond hair was clamped tight to his skull by Brylcreem. He looked too young for the job and vulnerable behind thick specs.

He went on, ‘There aren’t so many visitors here just now and I was watching for the bus. Father Connor O’Brien, Mr Brodie.’ He held out his hand.

‘Just Brodie is fine. Thanks for meeting me,’ I said, stretching out my hand.

‘And I’m Connor. I was told yesterday you’d be in later. But I had another call this morning from Father Cassidy.’

‘We’re in a hurry. You’ll know why?’

He nodded. ‘Shall we sit here? It’s a rare day, so it is.’

We sat and he took a cigarette. He was maybe my age, but already losing his hair quite badly. The hair cream kept the strands carefully in place, maximising their coverage. The glasses made him look even more scholarly but there was a surprising toughness in his voice – and it wasn’t just the hard brogue – that suggested a certain underlying steel.

‘How did you wash up on these shores, Connor?’

‘I grew up in Belfast and wanted a change, somewhere quieter. They sent me here.’ He smiled.

‘Too quiet?’

‘Too small. Funny, with all this space’ – his wave took in the huge sky and the dancing sea – ‘it’s just a wee bit…’

‘… claustrophobic?’

He nodded. I knew what he was saying about the closeness, the nosiness of a small community. I’d seen it in Kilmarnock. It was part of its strength but it was certainly its downside too. Put a hand on a girl’s breast in a darkened close and you could hear the mass intake of breath from scandalised neighbours.

‘And you, Brodie. What’s your excuse for being here?’

He wasn’t asking what my mission was. In the simplest terms he knew that. He was asking a bigger question. I could have side-stepped it, saying I hadn’t the time or pretended I’d misunderstood, but there was something in his manner that I felt I could trust. Like meeting a stranger in a pub and swapping life stories over a few pints, knowing you’d never meet them again. I told him where I was born, pointing out across the water to the mainland and the beaches I’d played on as a wee boy. I told him of my army days, and how, to shore up my dwindling demob pay, I’d started on the journalistic path I should have taken after university, instead of the police. And how my plans had been scuppered when I’d been summoned to help Hugh try to escape his date with the hangman.

He was leaning forward gazing out to sea, elbows on knees, and nodding as I talked. ‘I see, I see…’

‘… so it’s a long shot, but we have to try everything.’ I finished by describing my search for Hugh’s erstwhile neighbours.

‘Well, Brodie, it’s not been easy getting to this point in your life, has it? But at least I can make the next wee step a simple one. The family that we’re talking about call themselves Kennedy. I’ve no way of telling if that’s their real name. But they arrived here about at the start of the year. From Glasgow, clearly, by their accent. Not of my own flock, but as I was saying, this is a small place and new folk stand out. Get themselves talked about in the post office.’

‘A mother and four kids?’

He nodded. ‘Rented a wee house round the back of Lamlash on the Ross Road. Paid the first six months’ rent in advance. That got them talked about, I can tell you. Kept themselves to themselves but the children were enrolled at school and in bible class at the kirk. She says – Mrs Kennedy, that is – that she lost her husband in the war. But of course the local gossips put a different tale on her.’

‘I think you’ll find her real name is Reid. If so, she might know something that will stop a hanging.’