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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: The Raskine House Trilogy
- Sprache: Englisch
The deaths of a series of young Eastern European women in Glasgow leads to a stately home in the Scottish countryside, and back to the Second World War, where a group of young soldiers made their own, shocking rules… Saltire Prize shortlisted author David F. Ross returns with an extraordinary, dark mystery – first in a new series. `A thoroughly researched and well imagined historical mystery with echoes of David Peace´ Guardian `A novel of real ambition and verve … ranges from wartime Italy to sixties Glasgow to explore the past's dark hold upon the present. Harrowing and compelling in equal measure, this is David F. Ross at the top of his game´ Liam McIlvanney `A masterpiece from one of Glasgow's finest authors … epic in scale but told through the deeply personal accounts of its luckless, damaged characters. Told with a wit as sharp as any razor´ Callum McSorley `David Ross has a seemingly natural gift for pungently memorable phrasing and dialogue that feels you're listening in rather than reading´ Damian Barr __________ Glasgow, 1966: Stevie 'Minto' Milloy, former star footballer-turned-rookie reporter, finds himself trailing the story of a young Eastern European student whose body has been found on remote moorland outside the city. How did she get there from her hostel at the Sovereign Grace Mission, and why does Stevie find obstacles at every turn? Italy, 1943: As the Allies fight Mussolini's troops, a group of young soldiers are separated from their platoon, and Glaswegian Jamesie Campbell, his newfound friend Michael McTavish at his side, finds himself free to make his own rules… Glasgow, 1969: Courtroom sketch artist Donald 'Doodle' Malpas is shocked to discover that his new case involves the murder of a teenage Lithuanian girl he knows from the Sovereign Grace Mission. Why hasn't the girl's death been reported? And why is a young police constable suddenly so keen to join the mission? No one seems willing to join the dots between the two cases, and how they link to Raskine House, the stately home in the Scottish countryside with a dark history and even darker present – the venue for the debauched parties held there by the rich and powerful of the city who call themselves 'The Weekenders'. Painting a picture of a 1960s Glasgow in the throes of a permissive society, pulled apart by religion, corruption, and a murderous Bible John stalking the streets, The Weekenders is a snapshot of an era of turmoil – and a terrifying insight into the mind of a ruthless criminal… __________ `An alchemical epic that flies through decades while managing to remain deeply grounded in real lives and the battle for truth. Bravo!´ Ewan Morrison `This fiction is furious. David F. Ross goes deep and dark, in an attempt to understand the criminal mind … [and] writes with a righteous anger as he examines the evil that men do´ Alistair Braidwood, Scots Whay Hae `Stark, uncompromising and gritty, David F. Ross takes us to a dark place that is no easy weekend away´ Douglas Skelton `David Ross carved out an enduring place for himself among contemporary Scottish novelists´ Herald Scotland `A gripping tale of secrets and excess, and a stylish, mesmerising thriller, boldly delivered in Ross' signature style´ George Paterson Praise for David F. Ross `A dazzling, time-hopping patchwork of pop and politics, sewn together with wit and compassion´ Kirstin Innes
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TEAM ORENDA
i
Glasgow, 1966: Stevie ‘Minto’ Milloy, former star footballer-turned-rookie reporter, finds himself trailing the story of a young Eastern European student whose body has been found on remote moorland outside the city. How did she get there from her hostel at the Sovereign Grace Mission, and why does Stevie find obstacles at every turn?
Italy, 1943: As the Allies fight Mussolini’s troops, a group of young soldiers are separated from their platoon, and Glaswegian Jamesie Campbell, his newfound friend Michael McTavish at his side, finds himself free to make his own rules…
Glasgow, 1969: Courtroom sketch artist Donald ‘Doodle’ Malpas is shocked to discover that his new case involves the murder of a teenage Lithuanian girl he knows from the Sovereign Grace Mission. Why hasn’t the girl’s death been reported? And why is a young police constable suddenly so keen to join the mission?
No one seems willing to join the dots between the two cases, and how they link to Raskine House, the stately home in the Scottish countryside with a dark history and even darker present – the venue for the debauched parties held there by the rich and powerful of the city who call themselves ‘The Weekenders’.
Painting a picture of a 1960s Glasgow in the throes of a permissive society, pulled apart by religion, corruption, and a murderous Bible John stalking the streets, The Weekenders is a snapshot of an era of turmoil – and a terrifying insight into the mind of a ruthless criminal…ii
iii
v
For John Byrne and Paul Auster
vi
Raskine House sits high up on an open moor. Even on clear days, the building can be clouded by a mysterious haar that appears to rise from its grounds rather than drift in from a cold eastern sea. The fog – and the dull, prolonged grinding sounds that often accompany it – has been claimed by witnesses to be evidence of the structure breathing. But it’s just smoke. Smoke wafting here and about. Smoke clinging to the stonework from the numerous fires that have failed to destroy the shell. A smoke concealing dark secrets.
In its three-hundred-year history, Raskine House has been a home, or given shelter, to a tobacco lord, a slave trader, a member of the Russian royal family, a fire-and-brimstone preacher and his followers, a Nazi fugitive, a Hollywood movie star, a porn baron, a recalcitrant rock star, recuperating war veterans, a gaggle of mental patients, and, of course, Big Jamesie Campbell … most famously the cynosure of a sinful socialite set known as ‘the Weekenders’.
This building, and the ancillary structures around it, with their rigidly symmetrical geometry, are a man-made triumph; in them the rugged, natural beauty of God’s creation is tamed. But Raskine House is also a living organism. The sweat of dishonest toil has seeped into its porous fabric. And when least expected, it re-emerges like an airborne toxin, influencing and controlling the behaviour of subsequent generations.
I know this to be true.2
3
‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here’
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest4
Contents
part01
MINTO6
EPISODE ONE:
Long Agos and Worlds Apart (1966)
Stevie ‘Minto’ Milloy starts a new job – Gerry Keegan lays down the law – Stevie shadows Jock Meikle.
11th July
Jock Meikle and Stevie Milloy walk along the Saltmarket, Meikle hirpling, Stevie ambling to equalise his pace.
Meikle’s Ford Anglia is an unpredictable shock. A wing mirror missing. Cardboard decomposing over a rear window. Filthy layers of brown tape holding rusting bodywork together. Unlike the polished appearance of its owner, it looks like its next journey might well be its last.
‘Where are we goin’, Jock?’
‘Cranstonhill.’
‘Somethin’ happenin’?’
‘Must be.’
‘Ye got some contacts in there?’
‘Aye.’
Jock Meikle is an enigma.
Dressed in the all-black. Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven. A woollen scarf wraps his neck. He sleeps with the scarf on, according to Gerry Keegan, the Daily Star’s news editor: ‘Cunt calls it a cravat. Must have the fucken combination tae a bank vault inked oan his neck,’ he says.
Sat amongst the pasty-faced skin-flakers with bulbous, red drinkers’ noses that comprise the Daily Star press office, Meikle’s face is like a sandy-coloured leather satchel. And his glowing white 8teeth look out of place alongside the broken piano keys of his colleagues. He has the lustrous greying hair of Cary Grant, rather than the uncontrolled wispy Bobby Charlton strands of his fellow scribes. Jock Meikle either has continental blood coursing through him, or he spends the Glasgow Fair somewhere more exotic than Rothesay.
Jock Meikle is a man of few spoken words, but is renowned for the verbosity of his written ones. His colleagues’ articles are full of padding and repetition, struggling to hit the count. But a fifteen-hundred-word target piece from Meikle will regularly file at twice that length. His work is widely admired for its uniqueness. And for its humanity. But his bosses at the Star consider him a dinosaur. A nightmare to edit. A pain in the arse.
The newspaper’s owner is driving the publication towards a populist market. Shorter sentences. Shorter words. More pictures, especially of young women. More gossip. Less reliance on substantiation. Meikle is a man out of time. Despite his assured facade, Meikle’s days at the Star are numbered. Meikle is a crime correspondent. He is a functioning alcoholic. These facts are related. Jock Meikle has witnessed evidence of the worst atrocities perpetrated upon one human by another.
Stevie Milloy is the mondain embodiment of young manhood freed from the stuffed-shirt austerity of a post-war childhood. Blonde, shoulder-length hair, swept back. Continental sallow skin. Sandy-coloured suede jacket. A navy turtleneck. Tight white trousers. Tighter than they were when Denice bought them. Black ankle boots. Like Milan’s San Siro was his previous place of employment and not Maryhill.
Stevie is new to the Fourth Estate. He has been hired to write sports reports. Football, mainly. Stevie’s background is expected to gain him access. He was a professional footballer, capped twice for Scotland, then kneecapped once, and permanently, by Geordie McCracken, Scotland’s captain. Even a lexicomane like Meikle couldn’t assemble the words to properly articulate the depth of 9Stevie’s hatred for Geordie McCracken. That pain runs far deeper than the chronic ache from nerve and tissue damage he suffers.
For some reason it has been decided that it’s Meikle’s wing under which Stevie is to be taken. Stevie suspects that he is being groomed to take over from the older man. It has only been a week, but Stevie’s football columns are being noticed upstairs. Gerry Keegan has grudgingly passed on favourable notes from Editorial. Meikle is unimpressed.
The Glasgow weather is predictable. Overcast with rain expected. A typical Scottish summer. They’re only in the car five minutes and the rain starts. Five later and it’s lashing the front windscreen like the hoses from a car wash. Stevie turns the radio’s dial. He leans in. Like a bank robber working a safe combination. He deftly finds Radio Caroline on the medium wave.
‘Aw, here we go!’ he says. Then laughs as Ray Davies describes him as a ‘dedicated follower of fashion’.
‘Christ, turn that racket off,’ snaps Jock. ‘We’re on a job here.’
They drive the rest of the short distance soundtracked only by the incessant percussion of the pelting water.
‘Whit’s on then?’ Stevie asks. He drums fingers to an imaginary tune.
‘Find oot when we get there.’
‘Did ye get a tip?’
‘Aye.’
Jock pulls the car into the kerb at Blythswood Square. It’s still early. The weather has turned again. A rainbow appears through sunshine that makes the wet roads blinding. Only the most determined – or desperate – prostitutes are touting.
‘Aw’right, son,’ says one as they get out of the car. She looks old. Weather-beaten.
‘He’s wi’ me, Mags,’ says Jock.
‘That yer laddie, then?’
‘Naw,’ says Jock.
‘Looks like ye.’ 10
‘Ye jokin’?’ says Stevie.
‘Is he still a virgin?’
‘Fuck knows. Probably, wearin’ that getup.’
Mags and Stevie laugh. Jock retains the stone face.
‘Ah’m Stevie. Ah work wi’ this aul’ duffer. Just started.’
‘Nice tae meet ye, son,’ says Mags. ‘Come back an’ see me, sometime. Withoot him, tho’.’
‘Aye, mibbe,’ says Stevie.
‘Ye can stick yer willy in me for ten bob,’ says Mags. ‘It’s another five shillings if it’s in the bum.’
‘Ah’ll bear that in mind,’ says Stevie.
Mags cackles.
‘C’mon you, we’re late,’ says Jock. ‘Mags, love, keep an eye on the motor for us, will ye?’
Stevie shimmies past pavement puddles like they were static defenders. Meikle straight-lines through them, down towards the cop shop.
‘Ye know aw the hoors about here, or just that yin?’ says Stevie.
‘Best sources in Glesga,’ Jock replies.
‘That right?’
‘Punters urnae very discrete when their knobs are gettin’ sooked. They lassies know how tae listen, know what ah mean?’
‘Aye. Ah suppose.’
It takes ten minutes to walk down Argyle Street, making Stevie wonder why they didn’t park closer to the station. He doesn’t ask though. Meikle probably wouldn’t answer anyway.
Cranstonhill Police Station is, like many of its civic kin, an imposing hulk. Heavy mass. Dirty-brown brick. Coated in industrial smog. Minimum fenestration. Impenetrable. It is a building suggesting that pain will be regularly administered within. That no amount of screaming would alert anyone passing by outside. In the grime of a full-height glass panel at the main entrance, a finger has written slogans no-one bothers to clean:
SODJERS 0 – 1 TOOGLE TONGS, YA BASS!11
BRADY IS INNOCENT
And a game of hangman, completed to reveal:
FUCK /THE/ PIGS
They go in.
The building imposes its weight on those entering, but it’s not a deliberate design concept. Dense concrete and oppressively low ceilings suck the air from the interior.
Nods and winks from the coppers. Jock’s a regular.
‘Just watch. An’ listen. Nae speakin’, right?’ Jock tells Stevie.
‘Righto, bossman,’ he replies.
A young copper breaks formality. He reaches across the front desk to Stevie, nervy, sweaty hand outstretched. ‘Saw yer goal against Wales at Hampden. Whit a shot!’
The face is familiar, but from where? Who knows.
‘Thanks, man,’ says Stevie, shaking the hand. Noticing the funny grip. Another one of the brotherhood.
‘Can ah get yer autograph?’
Stevie senses Jock’s disapproval.
‘Mibbe when we’re done, eh?’ says Stevie.
Jock shakes his head. He is clearly not enjoying this babysitting detail.
The young copper ushers them down painted concrete steps with chipped edges. Into the bowels. A room at the end of a dark, featureless corridor is their destination. Loud chatter draws them towards it.
The noisy room is too small for the day’s purpose. Not for the claustrophobic. Hastily arranged, Stevie thinks. Hard surfaces everywhere. Nothing to absorb the loud, echoing voices.
Glasgow Corporation green paint flakes from the walls. Wires hang down from parts of an exposed ceiling. A foot of thick cigarette smoke tries to escape through the gaps. A wooden ladder is propped against a wall. A heavy radiator lilts off its brackets. All the warmth of a subterranean garage in Iceland.
They find seats in a row in the middle right of the briefing 12room. Metal chairs rattle and squeak around them as more fat arses land on the thin ply.
Two tables at the front. Covered by a white cloth with a circular brown stain. They’re set to look like one long table, but are betrayed by their different heights. Four seats line up behind. Currently unoccupied. On the tables, a jug of water. Four glasses; only two from the same set.
A framed picture of a pretty girl propped up to one side. She is the reason everyone is here. The girl is smiling. Sparkling blue eyes looking through round-rimmed glasses, not directly at the camera but beyond it and to the left. She has an unusual hair colouring; a deep reddish brown, like the leaves that drop in late October.
Stevie is momentarily shaken by the picture because it looks a little like Denice from before they were married. That was a long time ago.
He tunes in to the general hubbub:
‘Get tae fuck! Nicklaus didnae win it … Doug Sanders threw it away.’
‘Wilson’s aff his heid diggin’ a tunnel under the Channel. Fucken World War Three made a lot easier, that’s aw ah can say.’
‘Ye see that dozy bastart fae Tayport, him that’s just went a year withoot eatin’? “Ah’ve forgotten whit food tastes like,” he says. Dinnae be gettin’ ony ideas, ah says tae the wife.’
‘You’se runnin’ wi’ the World Cup oan the front page?’
No-one is talking about the girl in the picture. Whatever this is, it is news to all of them.
Stevie turns. He clocks the pallid faces of the pressmen. The glances at him on their way to becoming stares. Most will know him from a different context. Might assume it is not him. Just someone like him. He has been out of circulation for a while. One of them winks. He thinks he can hear their thoughts:
Whitever happened tae Stevie Milloy?
Whit a player he wis.13
Could trap a baw drapped fae the moon, so he could.
Whit would he be doin’ here?
He feels suddenly awkward. Like his gauche attire disrespects the young girl in the picture frame. He is the Star’s new sports correspondent. He isn’t sure why he is here. Why he has been partnered with the paper’s serious-crime reporter. Stevie wonders if his presence is a punishment for Jock – for something he has done. Other explanations currently evade him.
A door in the corner opens. Quiet descends.
Four men file in. Three in uniform. Two cops; senior ones judging by the peaks and epaulettes. The third is in God’s squad. White dog-collar against mournful black. He holds a large, worn, black leather Bible. Grips it to his chest like it’s armour plating.
The last man; young, sweating, struggling with a battered briefcase full to bursting and probably older than him. A lawyer, Stevie presumes. Fresh from law school, if not still in training.
The four sit in the order they entered. The trainee lawyer drops the briefcase on the table. The picture frame topples over. It falls to the tiled floor and the glass smashes. Another indignity for the young girl.
The lawyer rushes round to the front of the table. Says ‘sorry’ several times, perhaps to the girl. Picks up the frame. Puts it back on the table. The main break cuts through the girl’s face. As he sits, he nudges the table, causing the picture to fall again. Face down.
‘Just leave it, eh?’ says the pastor. Quiet, but annoyed.
The senior copper sitting far right opens proceedings: ‘Good morning, everybody, I’m Acting Chief Superintendent Edward Montrose.’
Formal. Posh. Educated.
‘The body of a young woman was found yesterday evening on remote moorland near Gabroc Hill. The body has been identified as that of Miss Janina Žukauskas. She was nineteen years old and newly resided in the staff quarters at Campbell House, the Sovereign Grace Mission.’ 14
Stevie glances at Jock Meikle. Staring ahead. Listening. Taking notes without looking down.
Stevie opens his notebook, takes out a bookie’s pencil. Makes notes of his own. Underlines some of them. That’s what real reporters would do.
Edward Montrose.
The talking cop clears his throat.
The other one is breathing heavy.
Minister’s head dips.
‘We are unable to divulge the full details of Miss Žukauskas’s death, but we can reveal that she was the victim of an especially brutal attack. Miss Žukauskas was from Kaunas in Lithuania. She had only been in Scotland since the beginning of this month, in our country on a young person’s international care exchange programme.’
The top copper stops for a drink.
Beads of sweat on the forehead of the other one.
He looks familiar.
‘Our inquiries are ongoing, but we are appealing to any member of the public who was in the vicinity of either Springhill Road or Ralston Road, Barrhead, on Thursday the seventh of July, or Friday the eighth of July to come forward. We want to speak to anyone who might have seen Miss Žukauskas get into a car on either of those evenings. The car in question is a brown Vauxhall Viva.’
Stevie side-eyes Meikle’s notebook. He reads:
Murder. Renfrewshire. Why Glasgow City investigation?
Stevie scribbles more notes.
The minister’s fingers touch the photo frame.
It is still face down.
Wee lawyer’s looking at his watch. Wants to be somewhere else.
Brown car!!!
Renfrewshire v Glasgow City.
‘Pastor McTavish is now going to say a few words about Miss Žukauskas. Michael?’ 15
‘Em, yes. Thank you, Edward…’
Flashbulbs.
McTavish makes it more interesting news.
First names.
They know each other.
‘Janina – Miss Žukauskas – was a lovely girl. She was, em, hard workin’. Polite. Always had a smile oan her face. Everybody at the Sovereign Grace is absolutely devastated by her death.’
Death, he said. Not murder.
‘Janina was headin’ into town on Thursday. She was goin’ to … she wis meetin’ a friend. She didn’t come back tae the mission on Thursday night.’
He’s working-class.
He’s trying to sound posh.
The slang’s slipping through.
He cannot stop himself.
‘Someone might’ve seen her – or somebody lookin’ like her – oan Friday, the next night, in the streets that Ed … Chief Superintendent Montrose mentioned.’
‘Right, thank you, Pastor McTavish.’
The top copper stepping in quickly.
Shutting God’s man down.
The pastor takes a big drink.
Looks anxious.
‘Okay, gentlemen. That’s it for this morning. There will be another press briefing when Forensics have digested the post-mortem results.’
Montrose spots a hand up at the back. ‘Yes, Mr…’
‘Dave Porter, Glasgow Herald. Can ah ask if Miss…’ he reads this from his notes. ‘Zook-Kow-Shaw’s relatives have been informed?’
‘Miss Žukauskas was an orphan. She had no known relatives. The Sovereign Grace Mission looks after young people with no families – orphans – as I expect you’re aware.’ 16
‘Boaby Deans, Evenin’ Times – where wis the girl workin’ before she wis seen in Barrhead? Sovereign Grace Mission’s awa’ ower in the East End.’
No response.
Looks around the table.
Straight question, no?
‘Janina was workin’ on the Southside. Doin’ some domestic cleanin’ work,’ says the pastor.
‘Whereabouts?’ asks Deans. Stevie doesn’t think the question is a tough one. But it challenges the panel.
‘Different places,’ says the pastor.
God’s man shuffling in his seat.
‘For example?’
The pastor searches for guidance from his colleagues.
‘Raskine House,’ says the other copper. His face immediately regrets it.
The top copper and the pastor stare.
Something is being hidden here.
‘Yes, thanks, Inspector McCracken. Janina was helping out with some weekend work. Cleaning shifts at Raskine House.’
MCCRACKEN!
No. Surely not, Stevie thinks. Could he be a relative of…?
FUCK.
Stevie notices Meikle sitting forward at this point too. Scribbling furiously on his own notepad. Stevie remains intent on reading the body language at the top table.
‘Okay, that’s enough.’ Montrose stands.
McCracken and McTavish follow him. The lawyer takes a sheaf of paper from the briefcase. It is the girl’s photograph for distribution. The press pack remain seated, however. Only one stands.
‘Scuse’ me! Stevie Milloy, fae the Star…’
Jock Meikle tugs at his trouser leg. ‘Hey, whit did ah tell ye?’ he whispers. 17
All movement in the room stops. Paused for the ex-footballer’s interruption.
‘Seems a bit odd for Cranstonhill tae be the station leading this. Is there no’ one ower in the Southside closer tae the murder scene?’
There’s a dismissive snigger from the top table.
‘Trying to tell us how to do our job, son?’ says Montrose.
‘Me? Naw, not at all.’
‘Cos I was wondering something similar: seems a bit odd for an ex-fitba player to be asking questions at a murder-investigation press briefing.’
Touché.
Stevie ignores the dig. And his colleague’s under-his-breath appeals for him to sit down.
‘How do ye know about the brown Vauxhall?’ Stevie is asking the question of all on the top table. But only looking at Inspector McCracken.
‘Our enquiries are ongoing, son.’
‘But what led them tae such a specific colour ae car?’
Once again, a fair question, and if asked by a seasoned crime reporter, maybe it would have been addressed. But you had to earn the right to ask such questions in these briefings.
‘Ah mean, every motor’s black,’ Stevie continues. ‘Round here, anyway.’
‘Is he with you, Jock?’ asks Montrose. Meaning: Do not bring him back.
Meikle meekly nods. The inevitability of a call made to Eddie Pink. Resigned to the private bollocking that is coming. And raging that an interest he has in aspects of this case won’t now remain surreptitious.
Stevie Milloy stands outside, waiting for Jock Meikle. It has been twenty minutes. He is wishing he hadn’t given up the fags.
‘Mr Milloy?’ A voice over his shoulder. 18
He turns. It’s the young copper who shook his hand earlier.
‘That’s me, aye,’ says Stevie. The Mr is disconcerting. They must be a similar age.
‘Ye probably dinnae remember me,’ the young copper says.
‘Sorry, pal, ah don’t.’
‘My da wis a massive fan. Thistle season-ticket holder.’
‘Aw aye,’ says Stevie. Still none the wiser.
‘Game against Hibs at Firhill … sixty-three. Ye hit a thunderbolt. Just missed the top corner…’
It’s starting to come back.
‘Hit ma da’s wee invalidity motor an’ smashed the windscreen.’
Fuck…
‘Aw, aye … of course. Look, ah’m really sorry about—’
‘Naw, naw. Ah wisnae meanin’…’ The young copper holds out spread hands like a pleading keeper. ‘Ah just wanted tae say thanks, oan behalf ae the family. Ye came ower at full-time an’ gave him yer shirt, remember? He wis so bloody chuffed wi’ it.’
‘Aw, right. Jeez, that wis the least ah could dae. It’s nae problem, mate. Tell yer da ah wis askin’ for him. How is he, any road?’
‘Ach, he passed away last year. Hudnae been well for years. But that day wis one ae the best ae his life, he’d tell everybody.’
‘Christ, man. Ah’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Watchin’ you play gave him real joy, Mr Milloy…’
‘Stevie, please.’
‘We buried him in that shirt. He loved it that much.’
‘Well, ah suppose that makes it worth the week’s wages it cost me for gie’in it away.’
The young copper nods.
‘So, ye stationed here then?’ asks Stevie.
‘Naw. Ah’m ower in A division. Turnbull Street. Just a driver for the top brass th’day, y’know?’
‘Aye. Understood.’
‘Listen, if there’s ever anythin’ ah can dae for ye, just let me know. Speedin’ tickets needin’ ripped up … ah’m yer man.’ 19
Stevie smiles. ‘Ah might haud ye tae that, PC…?’
‘Dryburgh. Dennis Dryburgh. Ma da wis Walter Dryburgh.’
‘Cheers, Dennis.’
‘Aw the best, Stevie.’
The rain starts again; that fine, smirry drizzle that sneaks up on you. Assaults you softly. Before you know it, you are completely soaked. He wanders around the back. Into the sheltered rear lane where the prisoner vans go. He reaches inside his jacket. A wee nip from the hip flask.
A metal door opens across the cobbles. Pastor McTavish comes out. Finger-pointing and aggressive. He is being restrained by a younger man.
Stevie leans back. Out of sight.
The target of the pastor’s anger remains inside. His handler turns.
It’s Geordie McCracken.
The Scotland captain. The leg-breaking, career-ending, filthy wife-shagging cunt. Too much of a coincidence that he’s here when there’s an Inspector McCracken inside.
Stevie slips back up the lane to the front of the station, just as Jock Meikle comes through the front door.
‘Hey, Milloy!’ Jock is furious. ‘Whit did ah fucken tell ye, eh? Keep yer mouth shut if ye’re wi’ me. Don’t ever – ever – let these cunts know whit ye’re thinkin’. Ears. That’s aw ye need in this business. Ye got that, ya bloody amateur?’
‘Whit d’ye know about that Inspector McCracken?’ Stevie glances back down the lane.
‘Are you no’ listenin’ tae me, son? Ah’ve just had ma baws booted ’cos ae you!’
‘That other fella from the Times – Deans, wis it? – he asked a question.’
‘He’s time-served. You’re a fucken novice sports reporter. You dinnae ask a question in a murder briefin’.’
‘Well, naebody else wis askin’ it.’ 20
‘They tell ye whit they want ye tae know. That’s it! You … ah have tae dae the rest. That’s whit fucken journalism is, son.’ Jock’s beetroot face. Exertion and anger combining. ‘An’ even then, oor gaffers only print whatever angle suits them. If they want somethin’ coverin’ up or somebody protected, then that’s what we have tae write,’ he spits. ‘Or else we dinnae fucken write at aw. That’s yer lesson for th’day.’
‘So, whit the fuck wis ah even doin’ there then, eh?’ Stevie’s turn to be annoyed.
‘Fuck’d if ah know,’ says Jock. ‘Nothin’ makes any sense tae me anymore.’
+
Someone in the crowd shouts, ‘Hey, Minto, your wife’s a midden!’ And he hears it.
Forty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-one people inside this stadium. Still, he hears it. It’s all he can hear. Rattling around inside his skull since before the first whistle. Thrown in his direction as he emerged out of the tunnel. The game begins. Soundtracked by that incessant howl and growl of opposing supporters; cresting and dipping, chanting and yelling:
‘We are the people.’
‘You’re gonnae get your fucken head kicked in.’
‘Follow, Follow, we will follow Rangers…’
Yet all he can hear clearly above the sing-song clamour and the hellish hubbub is that one voice:
‘Hey, Minto, your wife’s a filthy midden!’
It has been raining constantly for weeks. The Ibrox pitch is heavy. Caked thick with mud in the penalty boxes. Surface water on the flanks. Not one for the tanner ba’ players like him. This is the natural habitat of industrial centre-backs with a screw loose. They use the conditions as an excuse to launch into brutal tackles.
‘Couldnae stop the slide, ref.’21
Somebody might get a bad yin.
‘Every cunt’s so maukit you can’t tell one team from the other.’
‘Game should’ve been called off.’
‘Pools panel should be sitting.’
Two mediocre teams. Knocking in the goals regularly enough. But conceding more at the other end most weeks. A score-draw prediction most likely. But that’s on paper, and this game’s not being played on paper. It’s being played on a pitch that looks like the aftermath of the Somme.
‘This is fucken ridiculous. Ba’ keeps stickin’ in the mud.’
Torrential rain in the faces.
‘Som’dy’s gonnae get their legs done, ref!’
‘Shut yer yappin’, Milloy, or you’re goin’ in the book!’
That’s not right. The ref can’t be saying that.
‘Ref?’
‘Fuck you, Minto, ya ballet dancin’ cunt, ye!’ Geordie McCracken. Needling him the whole match. Elbows right in the ribs. Rabbit-punching at the corners. Spitting. Pulling hair. This cunt’s the Scotland captain tae. Butter widnae fucken melt, eh?
There it is again. That voice:
‘Hey, Minto, your wife’s a filthy midden!’
His head’s not in the right place. His head takes McCracken’s boot. His head’s swimming. Double vision. Ball’s up the other end. Him and McCracken, together on the halfway line while everyone’s looking back at the Thistle penalty box.
‘Haw, Minto, ah fucked yer dirty wife tae. Passed her roon the whole team. Me an’ the boys. Rode the hoor rotten, so we did.’
Ignore him.
‘Her fanny was like the Clyde tunnel when we’d done wi her.’
Jesus Christ, ref, send this bampot off!
‘She’s a fucken spunk bucket, son.’
Make him stop! This isnae fitba.
The ball’s out of play. He turns. His head clears enough for the punch to connect. Right hook to the jaw. It barely registers. McCracken’s a tree. McCracken laughs it off.22
‘Ref!’ A feeble sound, he’s making. He’s like a clipe, clipin’ to the teacher.
Pointless. Tiny Wharton is one of them. A fucking Mason. Everybody says so. Rangers’ twelfth man.
‘Ref!’
Wharton laughs.
‘Nae baw through the legs th’day, then, ya wee prick?’ says McCracken.
Wharton winks at McCracken.
The ref points at him, and then says, ‘But he’s right, yer wife is a filthy midden!’
‘Fuck sake, gaffer, did you hear that?’
His mud-caked hands are out, pleading. Appealing to the away dug-out. His manager points. Cups hands. Yells back. But he can’t hear. All he can hear is…
Wife.
Filthy.
Midden.
Fanny.
Fucked.
Her.
He doesn’t see the ball. Launched up. Lost in the clouds and the sleet and this never-fucking-ending rain. It drops out of the sky. A sodden leather bomb, twice the weight it should be. It lands at his feet. He kicks out with a right boot. But the ball’s stuck in the mud. His left foot is planted. His good foot.
Minto Milloy could open a tin ae beans with that left foot.
McCracken scythes in.
‘Couldnae stop the slide, ref.’
And then the crack.
That awful hideous sound of bone breaking.
It’s always the crack that wakes him.
The sofa soaked. Forehead sodden. He looks down. Pulls back 23the blanket. Expecting to see it again. The mucky socks rolled down. The boot twisting awkwardly. Facing away at an unfeasible angle. As if it can’t bear to look either.
But he sees what he always sees nowadays. An ugly, ragged, nine-inch scar on a hairless patch of shin where the fractured tibia poked through the skin over a year ago.
+
Ten days earlier 1st July
‘Aw’right, Stevie?’
‘Aye, fine, Alf. Yersel?’
‘Monday mornin’, eh?’ Alf shakes his head like a working man rueing the start of another week at the coalface. But he doesn’t work. The days must all be the same to him.
‘Aye, Alf. Bloody Mondays. Who needs ’em?’
Both men reach down for a milk bottle and the papers. Both grunt their exertion. But one is twenty-five, the other seventy-five.
‘How’s the leg, son?’
‘Aye. Gettin’ better.’
‘Ach, ye’ll be takin’ on the dugs at Shawfield in nae time, lad.’
‘World loves an optimist, mate.’
‘Ye heading out later?’
‘Ah am, Alf.’
‘Mibbe get us some baccy an’ some good butter? Put a coupon on for us?’
‘Aye. Nae bother. I’ll pick up the slip when ah’m leavin’.’
It is the same conversation every weekday. Give or take. But there’s a variation today. Stevie Milloy has a job to go to.
‘Fancy comin’ ower later? The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’s on?’
‘Dunno, Alf. Ah’ll see how ah feel when ah get back.’ Stevie pauses. ‘Fae work, y’know?’ 24
‘Ach, son – ah went an’ forgot. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine, Alf, honestly.’
‘Ye need tae come ower noo, then. Tell me aw aboot yer first day. Ah’ll make ye yer tea.’
Stevie smiles.
‘An’ then we can watch wee Kuryakin fae up the road there, smashin’ they Russians.’
Stevie laughs. Alf’s amazement that a lad from Maryhill appears on his television set once a week, never mind his role in one of the biggest Hollywood films of all time alongside Steve McQueen, James Garner and Richard Attenborough. Alf talks about David McCallum as if he was a favourite nephew. Alf and McCallum’s family lived in the same tenement for the first three years of young David’s life, before his father’s job took them all to London.
‘He belongs tae Glasgow,’ says Alf whenever Stevie takes a playful rise out of the old man.
It’s hard to say no to old Alf. Spam and chips again, no doubt. He’s a one-trick host. But he’ll have beers in, and Stevie doesn’t.
And it’s always good to see David McCallum on screen. Despite the brevity of his tenure, he’s a Glaswegian who escaped. Who made it out.
‘Aye, aw’right, then,’ says Stevie.
‘See ye later, son,’ says Alf. ‘An’ good luck th’day. Cannae wait tae see yer name back in the paper.’
Their doors close simultaneously. Stevie sits to finish his tea and burnt toast. Significance is everywhere: ‘the death in the dream represents the death of a time of your life, of a hope or a dream, or the end of a relationship.’ The first words read from a horoscope on a page in the paper published by his new employer, opened at random.
The record player chips in:
‘He’s a real nowhere man…’
He looks at his wrist. His gold watch – a retiral gift from his teammates, which he has regularly resisted the urge to pawn – has stopped. 25
‘Fuck this,’ he mutters.
He grabs a jacket and leaves.
Nervous initially, Stevie Milloy relaxes a little when he smells the newsroom. He has missed the dressing-room stench of alpha-male body odour. But it’s present here, and it’s comforting to him. He sniffs it all in, the stinking socks and putrid farts. The hair tonic and Brut 55. The cigarette smoke and alcohol stench. And, bizarrely, the Algipan. For the lumbago, most likely.
Introductions over. The odd handshake. Nods from some. A squad of fifteen here. Almost obscured by the fog of fag smoke. Everyone stooped and out of shape, and looking a decade older than they probably are. He sees monochrome tones. Frayed, off-white shirts. Trussed-up ties. Regulation short back and sides. Cheapside Street formality. In comparison he’s a peacock.
For half an hour there is an impromptu press conference with his new teammates:
‘Ye ever kick a baw these days, Stevie?’
‘Wis it sair when the leg went, Stevie?’
‘Did that cunt Geordie McCracken ever say sorry, Stevie?’
‘How much wid ye have been on at Stamford Bridge, Stevie?’
‘Who d’ye think’ll win the World Cup, Stevie?’
‘How the fuck did ye end up here, Minto?’
The last one was a question he has been asking himself since waking up in the Victoria, left leg in plaster from ankle to thigh.
He should have moved to England the previous season. Everybody said so. But he stayed. Because Denice didn’t want to go. London was so far away, she’d said. He stayed at Thistle. Turned down Chelsea. Turned down the chance to play with Ron Harris, John Hollis, Eddie McCreadie. Buying his clothes from King’s Road boutiques. Drinking in Soho pubs alongside The Beatles and The Stones. He decided to wait until Denice was ready. And while he waited, she was warming the bed of two of his international teammates. 26
After the injury, the Chelsea deal was off, naturally. Thistle stood by him. But he knew it was over the minute he looked down at his snapped leg. You don’t come back from a compound fracture like that. A rapid descent. No fans standing him a drink anymore. No handshakes at the players’ entrance. No requests for autographs. Not even the baiting from rival supporters. Just pitied looks and weary shakes of the head. Nowhere to go except the boozer. And the bookies.
Then the money ran out.
Luckily, he pulled out of the tailspin just in time. Took old Alf’s advice and joined a local library. Found the days disappearing. But in a good way. Time spent in the stimulating company of George Orwell. D.H. Lawrence. Barry Hines. Colin MacInnes. Time spent being inspired by words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Chapters. Fiction. Non-fiction. Values. Ideology. Social justice. Reconnecting with an education he had left behind. Spirits lifted instead of lifting spirits.
His was a life of two halves.
The whistle sounds.
The second half begins.
‘Milloy!’ A howitzer voice. A six-letter shell. Cascading off the walls. Even though its owner isn’t in the room. It puts a stop to the questions from the assembled hacks.
Stevie follows the reverberation to its source: a small office off the press room.
‘Jesus Christ, whit the blazes are you wearin’?’ asks Gerry Keegan as Stevie enters. Keegan runs the press room.
‘Casual, boss,’ says Stevie.
They size each other up. Both wondering if the other will be too much trouble for the wages.
Keegan shakes his head. ‘Ye done much writin’ before?’
‘No’ really, Mr Keegan. Notes in the Thistle programmes, that sorta thing. But ah’m a quick learner.’
‘That right?’ 27
‘Ah’ve still got the contacts, an’ obviously ah’ve played the game.’
‘Mibbe so. Playin’ fitba an’ writin’ aboot it, they’re worlds apart.’
‘Did ye see me play, Mr Keegan? Mibbe the Scotland games?’
‘Look, Milloy, ye’re here cos some high heid yin oan the top floor vouched for ye. No’ ma idea, obviously, but ah’m nothin’ if no’ fair-minded.’
‘Ah understand that, Mr Keegan.’
‘That’s ma squad oot there. They might no’ be up for a Nobel Prize for Literature but they put a decent shift in. They know how tae get the job done. Tae cut corners. Tae file copy oan time. Tae work tae The Man’s plan. Ah trust every single yin ae them.’
‘They look like a decent bunch, Mr Keegan.’
‘Trust has tae be earned, Milloy.’
‘Totally agree, Mr Keegan.’
‘Havin’ an ability tae kick a baw willnae make ye a sportswriter.’
‘Aye, ye said.’
‘Aye. Ah did.’
‘Well, proof’s in the puddin’, Mr Keegan.’
‘The proof’s in the eatin’, son. If yer gonnae use expressions, use them right.’
‘Appreciate the tip, Mr Keegan.’
‘Aye. Right. Well. Then.’ Gerry Keegan sits. ‘Noo’ that we’ve got that oot the way, ye’re goin’ tae Ayrshire on Thursday. The Brazilians are there. Get some exclusives. How’s Pele feelin’ about their chances? Who’s starting against Bulgaria. Who’s injured? That sorta thing. Elsie’s got yer pass, an’ ye can take one ae the motors.’
‘Great,’ says Stevie.
‘An’ then, if ye dinnae fuck that up, ye’re shadowin’ Meikle for the rest ae the month. Got it?’
‘Aw’right, Mr Kee—’
‘An’ drap aw that “Mr Keegan” stuff, right? It’s “boss”, or “gaffer”.’ 28
‘Got ye, gaffer!’ says Stevie. ‘Oh an’, gaffer…’
‘Whit?’
‘You can call me “Minto”.’
Gerry Keegan’s hardman exterior crumples. He rubs his chin. He sniggers. ‘Aye. Right.’
Stevie Milloy smiles. He winks at his new manager.
He is back in the first team.
Inside left.
Socks rolled down.
The baw at his feet.
Goal gaping.
+
3rd July
Stevie Milloy has ditched the beatnik look, for now. He’s in a light suit. The only one he has. Tonic. Sleek. Shiny. A white shirt and thin tie. Fitting in rather than standing out. Or trying to. Connery in Goldfinger, rather than Lennon in Help!
He takes the car. It’s nice to be behind the wheel again. He misses driving. He heads to Ayrshire. Rugby Park. It’s a quiet time for the domestic game. The close season. Scottish players are on holiday. Blackpool or Skegness or Butlins down the coast for the part-timers. Only the well-paid players – the ones like Geordie McCracken, the Rangers and Scotland captain who ended Stevie’s playing career – can afford to go abroad.
The Brazil national squad are training at Kilmarnock’s ground. Preparing for the defence of their World Cup in England. Bidding to win the trophy for a third successive time. Nearly seventy-five thousand spectators watched them draw 1 – 1 with Scotland in a friendly at Hampden the previous week.
Stevie watches Garrincha, Silva, Tostao and Jairzinho pass and juggle the ball effortlessly. He watches the lesser-known Manga, 29Rildo and Fidelis defend crosses fired in from left and right by Gerson and Silva, respectively.
The other squad members stand or sit on the pitch. They look bored. Uninterested. As do the onlookers. Cameras click occasionally but just to provide the photographers with their own view-finding practice before the star man shows.
And then suddenly, he does.
Poised. Confident. The balance of Nureyev. Like Cassius Clay entering the ring at Lewiston last year. Or Elvis Presley walking onto the set of Viva Las Vegas. The most famous footballer in the world strolls out from the Rugby Park changing rooms. It’s a walk Stevie Milloy has done countless times himself.
Everyone stops what they are doing. Even his team-mates on the pitch. Time itself seems to pause, acknowledging the presence of genius. He is dressed in a blue tracksuit. BRASIL on his chest. Arced. Three letters either side of the zip. Perfect symmetry. He brushes against Stevie’s shoulder.
‘Desculpe,’ he says. A voice deep and sonorous, despite his small stature.
He wanders over to the left goalmouth. The players surround him.
He lines up a few balls. He fires rapier shots at the goal. Minimum effort. Unerring accuracy. Stevie counts them. Nineteen hit the net before Gilmar even comes close to saving one. When the keeper eventually does, that’s the signal for Pele to stop.
He then juggles the ball. Hundreds of times. Black Puma boots. White flash. Knees. Head. Shoulders. All working in perfect co-ordination. Keeping the ball in the air as if God himself was suspending it from a heavenly wire.
But as the showboating for the cameras continues, Stevie notices something. Distinct factions. Only a former professional would recognise the subtleties. Training in separate groups. Little conversation or eye contact between the squad members. Disgruntled reactions when Vincente Feola, the manager, cajoles 30them, insisting they run across the Ayrshire pitch. Only Pele doesn’t. He doesn’t have to.
Signs of a discontented camp.
Feola has won the World Cup before. He gave the seventeen-year-old Pele his debut. But the manager left the national side five years ago to coach in Argentina. Considered a betrayal back then. His return has been seen as something of a desperate move by the Brazilian FA.
‘Are you more confident now than in Sweden in 1958?’ Stevie asks him once they’re back inside. He waits for the translator. A language so impenetrable, and without pauses, that it sounds like one ridiculously long word. And then a response from the manager that is just as long. A shorter version is the English outcome.
‘No.’
‘Will Pele be fit enough to start against Bulgaria?’
An even longer description, and some shakes of the manager’s head.
‘Yes.’
‘How have you found our Scottish hospitality?’ Stevie consciously pacing the words. Big gaps in between. Overcompensating.
Feola stands before the translation is given.
‘Yes. Very good. Very happy to be here.’
And with that, he leaves. Back to the pitch. There will be no interviews with the players. Although Pele is the only one anybody wants to speak with.
Stevie leaves the ground. The piece forms in his head as he drives back to Glasgow across the moors.
‘Brazil will not win this World Cup’, is his closing sentence.
He files it late that same evening.
Across the hallway from Stevie’s empty flat, Alf eats spam, drinks beer, and watches the famous blonde-haired boy from Maryhill on his own.
+ 31
Eight days later 11th July
‘Uruguay play at a walking pace,’ says Kenneth Wolstenholme, the BBC’s stiff-upper-lipped complainer-in-chief.
‘Jesus, nine-men in defence, these yins!’ says Alf.
‘It’s just a difference in styles, Alf. Uruguay like to play slow. England fast.’
‘It’s borin’ tae watch, son.’
‘Aye. But that’s the modern game. A lot more technical. No’ just kick it an’ run.’
Stevie and his elderly neighbour eat spam and chips. They drink beer. Stevie’s treat. They watch a dour and lifeless 0 – 0 draw kick off the World Cup.
‘Think they’ll win it, Stevie? The whole thing, ah mean?’
Alf’s question goes unanswered. Stevie Milloy is miles away. His mind no longer occupied by the trivialities of football.
If crime reporting is as procedural as Meikle says, what is there to learn about it? Ask the right questions, listen closely to the answers. Observe the body language of all involved. It’s not rocket science.
Stevie examines the notes he took earlier that day at the briefing on the murder. Writes new ones and underlines them all.
The pastor and the copper know each other.
First-name terms.
She was a lovely girl. Hard-working. Polite.
Death.
Not murder.
As if it was accidental.
A brown car.
Stevie is intrigued by Jock Meikle. A man so obviously disenfranchised, despite his obvious talent. Why is he festering at the Star? Where few rate, respect or even like him? Why not move to another newspaper? A broadsheet, perhaps. Somewhere his writing would have the space to breathe. 32
Could Stevie do his job? Fuck, yes.
Jock Meikle is an enigma.
But so is Stevie Milloy.
EPISODE TWO:
She Said, She Said (1966)
Stevie hopes for a reconciliation – Denice Milloy delivers some shocking news – Geordie McCracken crosses Stevie’s path.
26th July
A tune he can’t get out of his head.
Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain,
Now the dark days are done and the bright days are here…
If only.
Stevie is nervous. His palms are moist. He pulls at the top button of his shirt. He loosens his tie. He checks his watch frequently. Tapping its face with an impatient finger. Furtively glancing towards the door. Fidgeting with the salt cellar. A dense cloud of cologne hanging over him. It’s a show for someone important. A woman. And he’s not sure she will turn up.
‘Get ye another tea, love?’ asks the waitress. She’s been watching him.
‘Eh … aye, aw’right.’
This will be his third. The waitress knows. She’s seen enough young men stood up by a female to recognise the signs. She decides: one more cuppa. On the house. And then she’s going to tell him, Look, son, she’s no’ comin’.
But by the time she returns, the young man has been joined at his table. If anything, though, he looks more nervous now. The waitress waits, allowing them time to talk.
‘Ye look…’
‘Nice?’ Denice smiles. 34
‘Well, aye. Different,’ says Stevie.
She does. Something – or someone – has changed her. Her hair’s longer. Darker. Cut straight. Subtle make-up, but heavier on the mascara. She’s wearing a short, pale-blue raincoat. Buckle tied across her middle. The Biba dress or skirt she’s presumably wearing underneath is so mini it can’t be seen. Pale-blue matching shoes with a tiny heel. She is fashionable. Stylish. Like Cathy McGowan or Twiggy. Although that doesn’t mark her out as different. Not nowadays, when it seems that all young women look to Mary Quant for direction. He means different from when she was with him. The gold band missing from her finger the clearest indication.
She leans across to kiss him on the cheek. The whisky whiff hits her.
‘Dutch courage?’ she smiles.
‘Could say, aye,’ he replies.
‘What’ll ye have, hen?’ asks the waitress. She sees his new companion is nervous too.
‘Em … a tea please? No milk.’
‘Right ye are, love.’ The waitress leaves them to whatever it is that is unnerving them.
Stevie flips open the engraved cigarette holder. Offers Denice one.
‘Oh, you’ve still got that,’ she says.
‘Aye.’
‘Thought you’d chucked them?’
‘Aye, ah have,’ he replies, her importuning for him to stop being one good thing that stuck. He lights the one she puts in her mouth. ‘Knew you hadn’t though.’
