trying to speak to you. I told her to stay where she was. I thought
she’d be safer in a phone box than going back to her house. I called my man. He rushed round . . .’
‘And was too late. Did your man see anything?’
He shook his head. ‘He just found her.’
‘Then he went after Gal— Draganski.’
The rabbi shrugged. ‘I cannot say what 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
I t 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
she’d be safer in a phone box than going back to her house. I called my man. He rushed round . . .’
‘And was too late. Did your man see anything?’
He shook his head. ‘He just found her.’
‘Then he went after Gal— Draganski.’
The rabbi shrugged. ‘I cannot say what 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
I t 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
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