Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris Read Free Book Online

authority to act. Unlike England, there was no provision in Scots law for carrying out a citizen’s arrest unless it was to help a policeman needing assistance mid-collar. The only authority I had was my personal one. I’d been finding lately that knowing what you’re doing, or where you’re going – or giving the impression of it – carries people along with you. Most folk are a bag of uncertainties. They’re ready to follow someone with an idea; even a bonkers one. Take Adolf.
    I had no plans to start a mass movement in the beer halls of Glasgow. My rhetoric would have made no dent on the practised nonchalance of the average bar fly. Is that right, pal? If you say so. Now what about that new centre forward for Motherwell . . .
    I was happy to be the founder and only member of my gang. But I was just beginning to understand that fourteen years of higher education, police training and being a commissioned officer in the army had given me a certain weight and authority in my dealings with my fellow man. Especially the bad men, where the moral choices were clear-cut and the consequent actions obvious.
    ‘I can hear you thinking, Brodie,’ Sam said. She pushed aside a strand of blonde hair with the back of her hand and tumbled my hacked vegetables into the stew pot.
    ‘I was thinking that it’s not a bad life at times.’ I grinned. She smiled back at me. I walked over and put my arms round her.
    ‘Get off, you big oaf. I’m cooking.’ But I could tell she didn’t mean it. So I kissed her. Maybe tonight the moon would turn blue again.
    The next day, I was well into writing up a version of events surrounding the catching of a thief when I was summoned across the newsroom to take a phone call. It put an end to yesterday’s brief moment in the sun. No wonder we Scots are natural pessimists.
    ‘Brodie, it’s Duncan.’
    ‘Perfect timing. I’m just finishing my article. Have you caught Paddy Craven?’
    ‘Catching’s no exactly the right word. We found Craven.’
    My stomach lurched. ‘OK, Duncan, I’m sitting down.’
    ‘He burgled one house too many this morning.’
    ‘Fell off his ladder?’
    ‘Knifed by the man whose house he broke into.’
    ‘Shit.’
    ‘Shit, indeed.’
    ‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard.’
    ‘You might say that. It’s a mess round there.’
    ‘A fight?’
    ‘Not exactly. More like an accident wi’ a mincing machine. The owner got a bit carried away. Says he went off to work but returned home because he forgot something. Disturbed Craven in the act. The man says he was terrified. Not as terrified as Paddy Craven must have been when he got a carving knife in his belly.’
    ‘Carried away?’
    ‘Six stab wounds, then kicked Paddy’s teeth in. Or maybe the other way about.’
    ‘Good God! Who was this bloke? Sweeney Todd?’
    ‘One of yer Jewish fraternity. Maybe they’ve stopped turning the other cheek.’
    ‘Are you charging him?’
    ‘With what? He finds a burglar in his own hoose and he defends himself.’
    ‘Six times?’
    ‘Anyway, that’s the end of that. Rough justice. Rougher for Craven’s wife and weans, even if he was an old rogue.’
    ‘For the record, who was this knifeman?’
    ‘Victor Galdakis.’
    ‘Polish Jew?’
    ‘Lithuanian, he says. At least Ah think that’s what he said. English bad. Scots even worse. Runs a couple of stalls in Barrowland, he says.’
    ‘What about our pawnbroker pal, McGill? Are you going to bring him in?’
    ‘No point. He’s mair use to me where he is. Ah know how to get hold of him. Besides, Ah might need a wee borrow . . .’
    I put the phone down and walked back to my desk. I was breathing fast, as though I’d done forty press-ups. My forehead was wet. I opened the window to let chill air in. It was as if Duncan’s news had set something off. Maybe I was getting squeamish in my old age.
    I called Shimon Belsinger and arranged to see him and tell him how conclusively the case had been closed. One week, from