didn’t mean to . . .’
‘You never do, Brodie.’
‘I just miss . . .’ – I fought back the word you – ‘. . . talking to you.’
Her face softened into the gentle shape that I’d once – just once – seen beside me on a pillow. Then it tightened again.
‘You’re drunk. Don’t start.’
I reined in the maudlin outburst before it got me thrown out. I never managed to hit the right tone with women. There was something about what I said or how I said it that made them wary. It had
been a close-run thing with me and Samantha Campbell. Sam of the dirty blonde hair and freckles. My partner in the failed attempt to save Hugh Donovan from a hanging. My brave sidekick as we
tracked down the real culprits: the Slattery gang aided by corrupt police and forsworn priests.
In so many ways, we’d failed to take at the flood this particular tide in the affairs of men – and women. Afterwards I told myself that Sam and I could still take up with each other
romantically and properly. That we could still avoid the shallows and the miseries. But in the immediate aftermath of the murder and the newspaper frenzy, there had been too much between us and yet
not enough. Contact stopped. Friday nights excepted, of course.
‘Was there a particular topic? Or did you just have random blethering in mind?’ she was asking me, not unkindly.
‘Do you read the Gazette ?’
‘When I want the gossip.’ There was mischief in her reddened eyes.
‘I wasn’t fishing . . .’
‘Brodie, of course I read your wee column. I’m really pleased for you.’
I looked at her warily, searching for any hint of irony and finding none. She pushed her hair back behind her ears. I noticed her nails were bitten and ragged, not like the short, neat grooming
when I first met her. I noticed, too, the dark rings under her sharp blue eyes. I’d also spotted a couple of empties under the sink.
‘OK, you’ll maybe have seen my article the other day about the guy—’
‘The tar and feathering! God almighty, that must have hurt.’
‘And the week before that I wrote about a fella who’d had his arms broken in umpteen places by an iron bar?’
She nodded and grimaced. ‘Connected?’
I told her about the knife scars and the letters.
‘Sam, this all started after Alan Johnson’s trial. It spread like chickenpox following his suicide.’
Her hand clasped her mouth. ‘Ishmael!’
‘I’m sure of it.’
We gazed at each other for a bit.
She said, ‘So, Ishmael and a pal?’
‘A lot more than one pal. Unless they’ve got bikes. These boys have been busy. I’ve identified seventeen similar cases. Nineteen including Docherty and Gibson.’
‘If it is him, how does he choose them?’
‘From the courts.’
‘You mean they’re punishing convicted criminals?’
‘I mean they’re punishing folk who weren’t convicted. Acquittals. The ones who should have been. The ones that got off.’
‘Thanks to lawyers like me, you mean!’
‘Sam. Samantha, I didn’t come here to accuse you. Or your fellow advocates. If there’s not enough evidence to convict, then your job is to get your client off.’
She was mollified. ‘You want me to do some checking?’
I smiled and pulled out a scruffy piece of paper with nineteen names on it. She grabbed it. She scanned it quickly then pushed it back. ‘None I recognise.’
There was relief in her voice. She meant none of mine .
She stood up. ‘This needs something stronger. Come on.’ She led the way up the stairs and into the hall, then on up a further flight to the drawing room. She left the room for a bit
then came back with a writing pad under one arm and carrying two crystal tumblers and a bottle of something pale and wonderful. She saw me looking askance.
‘Or have you had enough for one night?’
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s a new day. In fact it’s a Saturday. We’re on holiday.’
She went over to the gramophone. She lifted the lid and selected a record. She
‘You never do, Brodie.’
‘I just miss . . .’ – I fought back the word you – ‘. . . talking to you.’
Her face softened into the gentle shape that I’d once – just once – seen beside me on a pillow. Then it tightened again.
‘You’re drunk. Don’t start.’
I reined in the maudlin outburst before it got me thrown out. I never managed to hit the right tone with women. There was something about what I said or how I said it that made them wary. It had
been a close-run thing with me and Samantha Campbell. Sam of the dirty blonde hair and freckles. My partner in the failed attempt to save Hugh Donovan from a hanging. My brave sidekick as we
tracked down the real culprits: the Slattery gang aided by corrupt police and forsworn priests.
In so many ways, we’d failed to take at the flood this particular tide in the affairs of men – and women. Afterwards I told myself that Sam and I could still take up with each other
romantically and properly. That we could still avoid the shallows and the miseries. But in the immediate aftermath of the murder and the newspaper frenzy, there had been too much between us and yet
not enough. Contact stopped. Friday nights excepted, of course.
‘Was there a particular topic? Or did you just have random blethering in mind?’ she was asking me, not unkindly.
‘Do you read the Gazette ?’
‘When I want the gossip.’ There was mischief in her reddened eyes.
‘I wasn’t fishing . . .’
‘Brodie, of course I read your wee column. I’m really pleased for you.’
I looked at her warily, searching for any hint of irony and finding none. She pushed her hair back behind her ears. I noticed her nails were bitten and ragged, not like the short, neat grooming
when I first met her. I noticed, too, the dark rings under her sharp blue eyes. I’d also spotted a couple of empties under the sink.
‘OK, you’ll maybe have seen my article the other day about the guy—’
‘The tar and feathering! God almighty, that must have hurt.’
‘And the week before that I wrote about a fella who’d had his arms broken in umpteen places by an iron bar?’
She nodded and grimaced. ‘Connected?’
I told her about the knife scars and the letters.
‘Sam, this all started after Alan Johnson’s trial. It spread like chickenpox following his suicide.’
Her hand clasped her mouth. ‘Ishmael!’
‘I’m sure of it.’
We gazed at each other for a bit.
She said, ‘So, Ishmael and a pal?’
‘A lot more than one pal. Unless they’ve got bikes. These boys have been busy. I’ve identified seventeen similar cases. Nineteen including Docherty and Gibson.’
‘If it is him, how does he choose them?’
‘From the courts.’
‘You mean they’re punishing convicted criminals?’
‘I mean they’re punishing folk who weren’t convicted. Acquittals. The ones who should have been. The ones that got off.’
‘Thanks to lawyers like me, you mean!’
‘Sam. Samantha, I didn’t come here to accuse you. Or your fellow advocates. If there’s not enough evidence to convict, then your job is to get your client off.’
She was mollified. ‘You want me to do some checking?’
I smiled and pulled out a scruffy piece of paper with nineteen names on it. She grabbed it. She scanned it quickly then pushed it back. ‘None I recognise.’
There was relief in her voice. She meant none of mine .
She stood up. ‘This needs something stronger. Come on.’ She led the way up the stairs and into the hall, then on up a further flight to the drawing room. She left the room for a bit
then came back with a writing pad under one arm and carrying two crystal tumblers and a bottle of something pale and wonderful. She saw me looking askance.
‘Or have you had enough for one night?’
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s a new day. In fact it’s a Saturday. We’re on holiday.’
She went over to the gramophone. She lifted the lid and selected a record. She
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