happened next.’
‘You must say!’
He sighed. ‘Brodie, I am going to make a phone call. Depending on what I hear, I will get back to you in a day or so. See if he agrees to speak. It is the best I can do.’
SIXTEEN
It was New Year’s Eve and the newsroom was winding down. There would be no papers till the 4th because of the way Ne’erday fell on the Wednesday followed by a second bank holiday and a slack Friday.
My first draft of the article spelling out Dragan’s foul background and impersonation of the real Galdakis prompted a meeting in Eddie’s office. Sandy stood gangly in the corner with his arms folded. I sat in front of Eddie’s desk and Eddie glowered at me over the top of his paper piles.
‘Ah mean it’s good stuff, Brodie. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just awfie . . . ?’
‘Awfully what, Eddie?’
‘Dreich. Can we no’ get a bit o’ cheer in? Ah mean it’s Ne’erday the morn. Nothing to look forward to?’
‘I hear Iron Brew’s going back on the shelves.’
‘Ah never missed it. But a’ this stuff about the concentration camps again. There’s enough o’ that on Pathé News , is there no’? When will it a’ stop?’
‘When there’s no more horrors coming out of the woodwork, I suppose. Until then, what should we do about it? Just ignore it? Stick some photos of pretty girls on your front page and hope it all goes away?’
‘It’s no’ such a bad idea at that, Brodie.’ Eddie sought and got an answering chortle from Sandy. ‘But look, oor readers will be getting confused wi’ all these murders. I mean, who’s killing whom? An’ why?’
‘We don’t know everything yet. We’ve got four deaths. Craven, McGill, Ellen Jacobs and Draganski. We know that Dragan killed Paddy Craven. At the time it was a householder protecting himself against a burglar. Then Dragan found out about Craven’s accomplices: McGill the pawnbroker and Ellen Jacobs the jeweller. And he killed them. The police have matched the prints found at both murders with Dragan’s. What we don’t know is why Dragan did it. Or who killed Dragan. We’re pretty sure the link is the ingots made from tooth fillings.’
‘But you’ve nae actual proof? Not even that the gold comes from – well – ye ken – the camps,’ said Sandy.
Eddie sighed. ‘OK, have another go at this. We’ll run it after the holidays. Don’t mention the Nazi stuff. We’re just guessin’ and we don’t want the good burghers of Glesga panicking in the streets.’
Sandy chimed in. ‘Keep it simple. Make it understandable to the average man in the Govan tram. In other words, me.’
I simplified and sanitised the story for the Gazette readership but couldn’t make sense of the reality of it. Sometimes there’s no solution to a problem and you just have to put it aside and let it simmer, wait for something to turn up. Besides, Hogmanay rolled across Scotland like a minor Black Death, leaving bodies strewn in its wake.
Sam and I were in no mood for revels. We repelled all first footers and simply toasted each other in single malt before sliding into bed. Outside, even in smart Parkside, we could hear the shouts and singing from drunks and optimists until the wee hours. We fell asleep clutching each other like castaways, full of foreboding for tomorrow.
The day after Ne’erday, the phone rang in the hall.
‘Brodie? It’s Maurice Silver.’
‘Yes, Rabbi?’
‘Maurice, Maurice. My man is ready to meet you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘He’ll explain when you meet.’
‘He’s going to talk about Dragan and Ellen Jacobs?
‘Let’s say it’s about murder.’
‘OK, murder interests me.’ God help me. ‘Where and when?’
‘Tomorrow. At Brown’s Bar in the Gallowgate. Twelve o’clock.’
It was just before noon on Friday. My tram was ploughing through rain-sodden streets. I sat oozing water on the top deck. I peered through the rivulets on the windscreen at the long stretch of the Gallowgate. Between bomb
‘You must say!’
He sighed. ‘Brodie, I am going to make a phone call. Depending on what I hear, I will get back to you in a day or so. See if he agrees to speak. It is the best I can do.’
SIXTEEN
It was New Year’s Eve and the newsroom was winding down. There would be no papers till the 4th because of the way Ne’erday fell on the Wednesday followed by a second bank holiday and a slack Friday.
My first draft of the article spelling out Dragan’s foul background and impersonation of the real Galdakis prompted a meeting in Eddie’s office. Sandy stood gangly in the corner with his arms folded. I sat in front of Eddie’s desk and Eddie glowered at me over the top of his paper piles.
‘Ah mean it’s good stuff, Brodie. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just awfie . . . ?’
‘Awfully what, Eddie?’
‘Dreich. Can we no’ get a bit o’ cheer in? Ah mean it’s Ne’erday the morn. Nothing to look forward to?’
‘I hear Iron Brew’s going back on the shelves.’
‘Ah never missed it. But a’ this stuff about the concentration camps again. There’s enough o’ that on Pathé News , is there no’? When will it a’ stop?’
‘When there’s no more horrors coming out of the woodwork, I suppose. Until then, what should we do about it? Just ignore it? Stick some photos of pretty girls on your front page and hope it all goes away?’
‘It’s no’ such a bad idea at that, Brodie.’ Eddie sought and got an answering chortle from Sandy. ‘But look, oor readers will be getting confused wi’ all these murders. I mean, who’s killing whom? An’ why?’
‘We don’t know everything yet. We’ve got four deaths. Craven, McGill, Ellen Jacobs and Draganski. We know that Dragan killed Paddy Craven. At the time it was a householder protecting himself against a burglar. Then Dragan found out about Craven’s accomplices: McGill the pawnbroker and Ellen Jacobs the jeweller. And he killed them. The police have matched the prints found at both murders with Dragan’s. What we don’t know is why Dragan did it. Or who killed Dragan. We’re pretty sure the link is the ingots made from tooth fillings.’
‘But you’ve nae actual proof? Not even that the gold comes from – well – ye ken – the camps,’ said Sandy.
Eddie sighed. ‘OK, have another go at this. We’ll run it after the holidays. Don’t mention the Nazi stuff. We’re just guessin’ and we don’t want the good burghers of Glesga panicking in the streets.’
Sandy chimed in. ‘Keep it simple. Make it understandable to the average man in the Govan tram. In other words, me.’
I simplified and sanitised the story for the Gazette readership but couldn’t make sense of the reality of it. Sometimes there’s no solution to a problem and you just have to put it aside and let it simmer, wait for something to turn up. Besides, Hogmanay rolled across Scotland like a minor Black Death, leaving bodies strewn in its wake.
Sam and I were in no mood for revels. We repelled all first footers and simply toasted each other in single malt before sliding into bed. Outside, even in smart Parkside, we could hear the shouts and singing from drunks and optimists until the wee hours. We fell asleep clutching each other like castaways, full of foreboding for tomorrow.
The day after Ne’erday, the phone rang in the hall.
‘Brodie? It’s Maurice Silver.’
‘Yes, Rabbi?’
‘Maurice, Maurice. My man is ready to meet you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘He’ll explain when you meet.’
‘He’s going to talk about Dragan and Ellen Jacobs?
‘Let’s say it’s about murder.’
‘OK, murder interests me.’ God help me. ‘Where and when?’
‘Tomorrow. At Brown’s Bar in the Gallowgate. Twelve o’clock.’
It was just before noon on Friday. My tram was ploughing through rain-sodden streets. I sat oozing water on the top deck. I peered through the rivulets on the windscreen at the long stretch of the Gallowgate. Between bomb
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