Judith rubbed Angie’s shoulder. “That’s ok, don’t worry about it.”
The young student puffed her cheeks out, trying to repress a smile of relief before continuing.
“The prosecution reckoned that Herman was an obsessive Squeaky Kirk fan who stalked the band. Bob exploited this by using him to procure prostitutes, so as not to run the risk of being seen soliciting himself and ending up on the front page of the Daily Record. On the occasion in question, Herman’s picked up this girl – Carina Curran – and driven her to Bob’s secret shag-pad apartment over in Govan.” To indicate where she meant, Angie nodded towards some dinosaurian looking, black shipyard cranes, beyond the tenement rooftops on the opposite, south side of the River Clyde. “Anyway, Herman’s been waiting in the kitchen there, ready to transport her back to Calton, post coitus, when he hears a loud argument in the bedroom. Carina — a classically trained cellist by the way — was taunting Bob, saying that she knew who he was and that his music was crap. Herman reckons she was going on and on and then, suddenly, she just stopped mid-sentence and there was complete silence. The next thing, Bob emerged and asked him to come to the room, where Carina’s lying in a pool of blood with a bronze paper weight on the floor by her head. Bob was convinced she was dead and begged Herman to dispose of the body, but he refused and left her at the side of Paisley Road instead, after ringing an ambulance.” Judith was shaking her head, lower lip hanging. “Of course, afterwards, Bob’s had no choice but to let Herman hang around with him full time, fearing he’d spill the beans otherwise.”
“What’s Bob had to say?”
Angie screwed her face up in disappointment, “nothing. He said zilch in the police station and, as yet, zilch in court. He’s being represented by a guy called Fergus Baxter, who looks after all the gangsters…but even he couldn’t prevent him being remanded in Barlinnie Prison.”
“So what happened to Herman then?”
“He got remanded in Barlinnie too, but after a week they transferred him to a mental hospital.” Judith closed her eyes and exhaled, as if a safety valve had been activated in her body, releasing some of the pressure induced by such hideous news. “Apparently, he’s an obsessive. Once he gets his mind on something it completely overwhelms his life, until the strain becomes too much and he has to be detained in hospital. Giving evidence, his psychiatrist said he suffers from something akin to Asperger’s syndrome…reckons that Bob and the Squeaky Kirk we’re most probably the only thing in his brain these last few years, outside of normal day to day activities.”
There was a brief silence and Angie looked suddenly distressed, as if the possibility of a miscarriage of justice had finally struck her.
“What did this girl who got beaten look like? Was she pretty?” Judith enquired, hungrily.
Angie shook her head. “She was fat — especially for a junkie. According to Herman’s evidence that’s how Bob likes them. She had massive tits, long, shaggy dark hair, thigh length leather boots and a short black skirt to show her big butt off.”
“She’s the opposite of Ingrid in other words.”
“Ingrid’s a trophy, to be exhibited alongside his flash car and designer clothes. It’s not what she does for him sexually or emotionally that matters, so much as the impression she makes upon his audience. Perhaps Carina’s indicative of the real Bob, trapped somewhere beneath all that received snobbery…a Bob who secretly loves baked beans, even though he’ll only eat caviar in public.”
Judith exhaled again. “How’s Ingrid coping with all of this?”
“According to gossip, she was spending a lot of time with her ex-boyfriend, that taxi driver fellow who turned up at the party.”
“Really?”
“But then the apartment got repossessed. She went back to England and the taxi driver had a breakdown, apparently. Last I heard he was living over in the East End, where he’s being looked after by a brother who’s trying to get off herione.”
Knowing how liberal people could be with the term ‘breakdown’, Judith was anxious to see for herself just how Danny was bearing up.
CHAPTER: 6
The next day, after a busy afternoon of research for her course, Judith found Finley White’s address on the Internet. In the process she happened across a local newspaper’s website, its front page exclaiming:
JUDGE ORDERS RETRIAL – ROCK STAR RELEASED
According to the article, Bob Fitzgerald’s defence had demanded a retrial, not least because the only evidence against him had been from his co-defendant Herman Knapp — a certified madman. The newspaper also suggested that the retrial was just a formality, because, in the absence of compelling new evidence, Bob would almost certainly be acquitted. In the meantime he was free to go, unlike Herman, who remained incarcerated under the Mental Health Act.
That evening, Judith drove across to Alexander Parade, a thoroughfare of fine sandstone tenements, just east of the city centre. Here and there in the darkness, the white light of a booze store or take away broke up the wall of corrugated shutters on the ground floors, but apart from that it was a murky place. She turned into a side street where a dozen teenagers were hanging about on the corner, wearing tracksuits and baseball caps and throwing lighted fireworks at one another. As she passed, one of them doubled up to stare inside the car, trying to ascertain whether its cargo was friend or foe.
The White brothers lived in a quadrangle of three floored, brown brick apartments, huddled between an enclave of industrial units and the M8 motorway, which emitted an incessant hum. As Judith waited for a response from the intercom, she kept glancing anxiously over each shoulder, fearing that the street corner gang may have followed her. She pressed the buzzer five times without any response and was just turning to go when the speaker crackled into life and a husky, unfamiliar male voice asked her identity. Surprisingly, the communal door clicked open without her having to explain anything more than her name, as if the person on the other end were already aware of her existence.
Judith was half-way up the brightly lit stairs when a thin character in a white Lacoste shell suit came to meet her, introducing himself as Finley White. About thirty-five years old, he had medium length greasy hair, a gaunt face and naïve looking, watery eyes. After taking her coat, he led her into the dank apartment, where she sat on a cigarette burned, burgundy coloured couch, next to a copy of that night’s local newspaper.
“So you’re Judith,” he said, as if having finally solved some lifelong puzzle.
“Oh, your brother’s mentioned me then?”
“Oh yes — he’s mentioned nothing else. When I took him in, he just kept muttering, like one of those dying cowboys in the movies: ‘Must say sorry to Judith…Must say sorry to Judith.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
“No. He’s certainly owes me no apologies that I know of.”
“Well, he’s not uttered a single word since…I think it’s his pride.”
“Pride?”
“Yes.” Fin sat down next to Judith, his voice dropping to a gravely whisper. “I think he feels ashamed that he kicked me out the house, especially now he’s relying on me to look after him. It’s like he’s sent himself to Coventry. But it’s me who should feel ashamed and I do. I did nothing to help my ma, just compounded her problems with my antics. Looking after Danny now is my way of making amends. He was there for her and now I’m here for him. Perhaps you might be able to explain this to the bloody fool.”