The Hanging Shed

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-’

I cut in. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’

‘Back hame. The auld country as they call it.’

‘Ireland?’

‘Aye. I hear it’s awfu’ wet there.’

I watched her plod off and thought that only a West Coast Scot could picture somewhere wetter than here. I looked again at the drawn curtains and big locked gates and cursed myself. It seemed like the rock I’d thrown in the pool had made too big a splash. All the pond life had fled. I turned and ran after the woman.

‘Missus? Oh, missus? Sorry to bother you again. You don’t happen to have an address for Mr Slattery in Ireland? I could send him a wee note.’

She eyed me up and down. ‘You’re no’ the polis, are you?’ She paid particular attention to my scarred face.

‘Do I look like the polis?’

‘Ah’m no’ supposed to do this, but if you just want to write a letter…’ She was digging in her string bag, then in her purse. She brought out a scrap of envelope and unfolded it. ‘Here. Have you got a pencil?’

I jotted down the address and handed the slip back. I hoped I hadn’t stored up trouble for her. But now what? I gazed at the address. Planner Farm, Lisnaskea. It was a place I’d never heard of, presumably a village. But it was in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. Bandit country.