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Authors: Gordon Ferris
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days.
I drifted through the weekend, trying not to hit the bottle too early. I even went to the pictures on Saturday for diversion.
The Big Sleep
with Bacall and Bogie. It
left me wishing I had some of Marlowe’s luck with women, not to mention solving murders.
Sitting in the dark by myself, I was a wee boy again, in the Plaza or Regal, mouth gawping, staring up at the huge flashing screen on a Saturday morning. The minors’ matinee. For years I
thought it was only for kids of miners like my dad. Each school week dragged by until at last I was running, with threepence hot in my hand, down the Bonnyton Road to the High Street. Jostling with
my pals in the queue. Buying an ice lolly for a penny.
On into my teens, watching grown-up pictures. Transfixed by other lives, other trajectories; the impossible glamour and sophisticated drawl of Clark Gable, Garbo, Joan Crawford. The canyons of
New York, an open-top Chevy Speedster under blue California skies. How did I end up pounding the beat in Glasgow when the Wild West beckoned? My life choices always seemed to be a response rather
than a calculated decision.
Sam phoned me on Sunday evening sounding in better spirits but complaining about the cold. Her hotel was by a frozen lake near the centre of Hamburg.
‘I should have brought my mother’s old fur, Douglas. I’d wear it to bed.’
‘Now there’s an image to leave me with . . .’
On the Monday after the slaughter of Craven and McGill, another random piece of jigsaw landed on the board with a thump. The piece, in the shape of a distraught young woman,
turned up at the newsroom. I could see her talking to one of the secretaries: Morag Duffy. Morag pranced over to my desk. She made sure that her left hand hung over my filing cabinet –
casually. On her ring finger a tiny gem emitted a faint light on a gold band. For a while back in the spring, when Sam and I weren’t talking and I was slumming it in a bedsit, I’d been
winching Morag. She was young and bonny and fun, but I couldn’t shake my interest in someone more challenging. Love makes us idiots.
Morag had sought refuge from my callous spurning of her affections by taking up with a policeman: the brave sergeant who’d comforted her in the newsroom after the assault by the Glasgow
Marshals. She was to become Mrs Murdoch on St Valentine’s Day. I wondered if the blushing bridegroom had had any say in the matter. Morag had her entire life planned out, right down to the
pattern of her net curtains.
‘There’s a woman asking for you. She’s in tears.’ She meant:
You’ve done it again, Brodie, you’ve broken another poor lassie’s heart. But look at
me: I couldnae care less
. The daft thing is that her blatant display got to me. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’d traded in – so to speak – Morag’s curvy enthusiasm for an
uncertain relationship and a pair of adamantine eyes.
‘Who is she, Morag?’
‘She wouldnae gie her name. Said it was
personal
.’ It was amazing how much innuendo Morag could put into one word.
‘Is the wee conference room free? Can you show her in there, please.’
I gave it a minute, got the nod from Morag across the room, and headed for the room. I found a woman sitting at the table clasping and unclasping her hands, as though washing them. She twisted
at a wedding ring. She was small and plain, her brown hair mostly hidden under a green Paisley scarf. Late twenties perhaps. Her face was stricken, her dark eyes rubbed red.
‘Hello, there. I’m Douglas Brodie. You wanted to see me?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. Ah’m . . . ma name is Ellen Jacobs.’
I sat down opposite her. ‘How can I help, Mrs Jacobs?’
She looked at her hand. ‘It’s Miss, actually. Ah’m no’ married. It jist keeps the . . . Look, it’s about this man that was killed.’
‘Which? I’m afraid we’ve had a spate.’
‘Paddy Craven.’
‘You have my fullest attention.’
‘And also this
I drifted through the weekend, trying not to hit the bottle too early. I even went to the pictures on Saturday for diversion.
The Big Sleep
with Bacall and Bogie. It
left me wishing I had some of Marlowe’s luck with women, not to mention solving murders.
Sitting in the dark by myself, I was a wee boy again, in the Plaza or Regal, mouth gawping, staring up at the huge flashing screen on a Saturday morning. The minors’ matinee. For years I
thought it was only for kids of miners like my dad. Each school week dragged by until at last I was running, with threepence hot in my hand, down the Bonnyton Road to the High Street. Jostling with
my pals in the queue. Buying an ice lolly for a penny.
On into my teens, watching grown-up pictures. Transfixed by other lives, other trajectories; the impossible glamour and sophisticated drawl of Clark Gable, Garbo, Joan Crawford. The canyons of
New York, an open-top Chevy Speedster under blue California skies. How did I end up pounding the beat in Glasgow when the Wild West beckoned? My life choices always seemed to be a response rather
than a calculated decision.
Sam phoned me on Sunday evening sounding in better spirits but complaining about the cold. Her hotel was by a frozen lake near the centre of Hamburg.
‘I should have brought my mother’s old fur, Douglas. I’d wear it to bed.’
‘Now there’s an image to leave me with . . .’
On the Monday after the slaughter of Craven and McGill, another random piece of jigsaw landed on the board with a thump. The piece, in the shape of a distraught young woman,
turned up at the newsroom. I could see her talking to one of the secretaries: Morag Duffy. Morag pranced over to my desk. She made sure that her left hand hung over my filing cabinet –
casually. On her ring finger a tiny gem emitted a faint light on a gold band. For a while back in the spring, when Sam and I weren’t talking and I was slumming it in a bedsit, I’d been
winching Morag. She was young and bonny and fun, but I couldn’t shake my interest in someone more challenging. Love makes us idiots.
Morag had sought refuge from my callous spurning of her affections by taking up with a policeman: the brave sergeant who’d comforted her in the newsroom after the assault by the Glasgow
Marshals. She was to become Mrs Murdoch on St Valentine’s Day. I wondered if the blushing bridegroom had had any say in the matter. Morag had her entire life planned out, right down to the
pattern of her net curtains.
‘There’s a woman asking for you. She’s in tears.’ She meant:
You’ve done it again, Brodie, you’ve broken another poor lassie’s heart. But look at
me: I couldnae care less
. The daft thing is that her blatant display got to me. I felt a pang of jealousy. I’d traded in – so to speak – Morag’s curvy enthusiasm for an
uncertain relationship and a pair of adamantine eyes.
‘Who is she, Morag?’
‘She wouldnae gie her name. Said it was
personal
.’ It was amazing how much innuendo Morag could put into one word.
‘Is the wee conference room free? Can you show her in there, please.’
I gave it a minute, got the nod from Morag across the room, and headed for the room. I found a woman sitting at the table clasping and unclasping her hands, as though washing them. She twisted
at a wedding ring. She was small and plain, her brown hair mostly hidden under a green Paisley scarf. Late twenties perhaps. Her face was stricken, her dark eyes rubbed red.
‘Hello, there. I’m Douglas Brodie. You wanted to see me?’
She nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. Ah’m . . . ma name is Ellen Jacobs.’
I sat down opposite her. ‘How can I help, Mrs Jacobs?’
She looked at her hand. ‘It’s Miss, actually. Ah’m no’ married. It jist keeps the . . . Look, it’s about this man that was killed.’
‘Which? I’m afraid we’ve had a spate.’
‘Paddy Craven.’
‘You have my fullest attention.’
‘And also this
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