Free Bitter Water by Gordon Ferris Page A

hiding?’
    ‘They could follow our Black Marias on ony Saturday night. Pick out the plums.’
    ‘And who’s “they”, Dunc? Who’s doing this? You’ve heard they’re wearing balaclavas?’
    ‘Aye. I heard that from one of the fellas we picked up. Broken kneecaps. A bookie’s runner that didnae run fast enough.’
    I decided to be open with Duncan. ‘I might have met the man who started this. The man who wrote the letters. But I don’t have proof.’
    ‘Do you now? Tell all!’
    I told him, and gave him Ishmael’s description. I also mentioned the mutilated fingers.
    ‘You’re right to keep the finger thing back, Brodie. Could be useful. But you say we might be looking for a red-haired Teuchter? In this city, where half the polis fit that description?’
    I sighed. ‘Exactly. It’s why I’ve not written about it yet.’
    ‘Well, it’s a start, I suppose.’
    We finished our pints. I got up to go. ‘By the by, Duncan, there was another bloke I was trying to get hold of. Another of your former pupils.’
    He grinned. ‘Let me guess. Another troublemaker like you, Brodie?’
    I shrugged in wounded agreement. ‘McRae. Danny McRae. Any word?’
    Duncan’s brow furrowed. ‘Last I heard he didnae make it back. Was hijacked by the SOE and got lost in France.’
    ‘No. He made it back all right. At least as far as London. He was in all the papers down there earlier this year.’
    ‘Good God! What for?’
    ‘This and that. Murder and such stuff.’
    ‘Christ! What happened?’
    ‘A set-up. His old boss in the SOE did for him. Slaughtered a girl in France and five prostitutes in London and framed Danny for the lot of them. But Danny turned the tables. After nearly killing a corrupt inspector from the Yard.’
    ‘What is it with you pair and senior coppers?’ Duncan shook his head. ‘Did you get in touch?’
    I sighed. ‘No. I was, shall we say, otherwise engaged. Me and Johnnie Walker got too close. Let me know if he turns up, will you?
    ‘Sure thing, Brodie. Re-form the old team, eh?’

TEN
     
    I left Duncan topped up with another pint and headed on over Victoria Bridge into Laurieston and the Gorbals. I could have reached my destination in a few minutes, but decided to take the long way round to stretch my legs. I passed a phone box and wondered how Sam was bearing up. I hadn’t spoken to her since we’d heard about Johnson’s death. I pushed my pennies in and dialled Sam’s home number, not expecting to get her in on a weekday.
    ‘Hello?’ Her voice was faint and dull, as though she’d just got up. I pressed button A and the money clattered in.
    ‘Sam? It’s Brodie. How are you getting on?’
    She coughed. ‘Fine, fine. I just haven’t spoken to anyone today. It’s nice to hear from you.’
    ‘You’re not trying to say you missed me?’
    ‘Don’t fish, Brodie. What are you up to? Other than spreading morbid tales of blood and anarchy.’
    ‘You saw my story this week?’
    ‘You’re like a big trouble magnet, Brodie.’
    ‘You have it wrong, Sam. I’m only reporting it, not causing it.’
    ‘Hmmm. I wish I could believe that. Is this a social call or have you another lost soul to save?’
    ‘You’re a hard woman, Samantha Campbell. I was just phoning to see if you were alive and kicking. The bruises on my ear suggest you’re just fine.’
    ‘Well, that’s nice of you, Brodie. I’m touched.’
    ‘There is one thing . . .’
    I heard her sigh and pictured her eyebrows going up. ‘Oh aye?’
    ‘Fancy the pictures?’
    There was a long silence. ‘Hello? Sam? You still there?’
    ‘I was just getting the paper. Tomorrow night? Curzon in Sauchiehall Street? See you at the door at seven o’clock.’
    ‘That’s just . . . great. What’s on?’
    ‘The main picture’s Brief Encounter .’
    The phone went dead.
    I slung my jacket over my shoulder, lit a cigarette and tried to saunter down the dusty street like Jimmy Stewart not giving a damn about a broad.
    The Gorbals