by Alan Parks
Murray took his time, brushed a bit of lint off his trousers, moulded the crease on his trilby sitting on his lap before he spoke. ‘Your client is a piece of scum, Mr Lomax.’ He looked round at the paintings on the wall, the deep pile carpet, the Bang & Olufsen stereo system in the corner. ‘All these trappings that he’s no doubt paying through the nose for don’t change a thing. Jake Scobie is still scum. Always has been, always will be. The fact that he pays you means you may have to act like he’s a respectable businessman, but thankfully I don’t. Now where is he?’
McCoy had to hand it to him; Murray was not one to be intimidated by anyone. Not even a big lawyer like Lomax.
Lomax looked indignant, had just opened his mouth to reply, when the buzzer went. ‘Looks like my client is here,’ he said, getting up. He leant into Murray as he passed him on the way to open the door. ‘Keep your grandstanding under your hat if you please, Mr Murray. It’s not only tiresome, it’s pointless and, believe me, I’ve heard it all before.’
‘What’s he doing this for?’ asked McCoy after he’d gone. ‘Normally Scobie wouldn’t talk to us for love nor money, and now he’s volunteering for a little chat? After he’s got his pet hatchet man to kill his future son-in-law? I don’t get it.’
‘Me neither,’ said Murray. ‘Normally takes a week of going back and forward with Lomax until he’ll even admit Scobie is his client, never mind set up a meeting.’
‘Must be your way with words,’ said McCoy.
Murray was about to answer when Scobie and Lomax appeared. Lomax pulled another chair round behind his side of the desk and they sat down.
Scobie was dressed just like Lomax. Suit and a Crombie, shiny shoes, white shirt. On Lomax they looked like the clothes he was born to wear, on Scobie they looked more like a costume, dressing-up clothes. There was one other big difference between the two of them. Lomax, unlike Scobie, didn’t have a dirty big scar running from his ear down across his left cheek and into the side of his mouth. Looked like someone had tried to hack half his face off, which, knowing the people Scobie ran with, they probably had. He was a small man, Scobie, and like all the best hard men, slight too, built like a welterweight.
‘Morning, Jake,’ said Murray.
‘That’s Mr Scobie to you,’ he said, leaning forward.
Lomax held his hand across him, a restraint. ‘As I said, gents, Mr Scobie has volunteered to come here. Some respect is in order.’
Murray grunted.
McCoy knew Scobie and Murray had too much water under the bridge for a civilised chat, so he thought he’d better step in. ‘What was it you wanted to see us about, Mr Scobie?’
Murray didn’t look happy at him saying ‘Mr’. Grunted again.
‘It’s a delicate matter,’ said Lomax, shifting round in his seat towards McCoy, grateful for a more receptive audience. ‘Might be easier if I speak on Jake’s behalf.’
Jake was looking at them with contempt, barely nodded. ‘Fire away,’ said McCoy. ‘We’re all ears.’
Lomax looked relieved, sat back in his chair, settled down to tell the tale. ‘Mr Scobie has some information that may be pertinent to the unfortunate fate of Charlie Jackson. As you may know, Jackson was only months away from becoming Mr Scobie’s son-in-law. Consequently he’s very upset about what’s happened, as, naturally, is his daughter.’ Murray made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Lomax ignored him, kept going. ‘Mr Scobie has an occasional employee, a Mr Connolly—’
‘Occasional employee?’ said Murray. ‘Now you really are taking the piss.’
Lomax, not looking happy at the interruption, sat forward, laced his fingers together. ‘As Mr Scobie’s accountancy records will show, Connolly is indeed an occasional employee.’
‘Employed as what exactly?’ asked McCoy as innocently as he could manage.
‘Ah . . .’ Lomax looked at the notepad in front of him, couldn’t find any inspiration, turned to Scobie. ‘What was his official title again?’
‘Gardener,’ said Scobie, deadpan.
This time Murray laughed out loud; even Lomax had half a smile on his face. ‘We are off the record, gentlemen?’ McCoy nodded, Murray almost did.
‘In a situation this grave I feel the best option is to be as open as possible. I think we all know who Mr Connolly is and what kind of work he does for Mr Scobie, no need to elaborate. Unfortunately Connolly has become a problem. Connolly has always been – how shall we say? – somewhat unstable. Regretfully that instability has become more pronounced of late. It seems he has formed an unnatural interest in Mr Scobie’s daughter, Elaine.’
McCoy raised his eyebrows; things were getting interesting.
Lomax went on. ‘About a year ago he started sending her letters, following her, turning up wherever she was. She became an obsession, an unreciprocated obsession to say the least. Miss Scobie tried to laugh it off at first, but then she became alarmed and then she became seriously frightened. This courtship, for want of a better word, culminated in her coming home one night to find him sitting in the living room of her flat holding a bunch of flowers.’
Lomax glanced at Scobie. Another nod. Carry on.
‘At that point she felt she had to tell her father. After she and her father made it perfectly plain there were no reciprocal feelings, Connolly became convinced that this was simply due to her fiancé, Mr Jackson. That he had somehow turned her against him. In his twisted mind he started to believe that without Charlie Jackson in the picture Miss Scobie would come to her senses and fall for him.’
‘Hence the BYE BYE on his chest,’ said McCoy.
Lomax nodded.
‘Nasty,’ said McCoy. ‘Imagine that. A nutter like Connolly taking a fancy to your daughter.’
Lomax carried on. ‘You may have read recently that Charlie was injured – hamstring trouble. Couldn’t play for a couple of weeks. In reality he’d been attacked by an associate of Connolly. He tried to break his shin with a hammer. Luckily his aim wasn’t too good and he only inflicted a rather nasty flesh wound. The club and ourselves thought it better it didn’t become common knowledge. Shortly after that incident Connolly disappeared, cut off all communication with the Scobie family.’
‘Did you look for him?’ asked McCoy.
Scobie answered before Lomax could stop him. ‘Oh, I looked for the cunt all right, looked everywhere. Nobody hurts my family and gets away with it. When I find him I’m going to splatter the cunt from here to—’
Lomax’s hand went up again. ‘Jake,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’
Scobie didn’t look happy but he sat back, hands gripping the arms of the chair. He reached into his pocket, took out a packet of Regal and lit up.
‘Okay?’ asked Lomax.
Scobie nodded.
Order restored, he went on. ‘It seems that Mr Connolly is a very hard man to find. He has a habit of staying in short-rent flats, hotels, boarding houses, moving around a lot.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps a wise move for a man like that. The Scobies eventually gave up, hoped he had moved on, gone to London, somewhere like that.’
‘Until this morning,’ said McCoy.
‘Until this morning,’ said Lomax.
McCoy sat back on his chair. Time to throw the grenade. ‘That’s a lovely wee story, Mr Lomax. But I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, eh? Maybe Mr Scobie there just wasn’t too keen on his future son-in-law and got Connolly to take care of it. That’s what he usually does for you, isn’t it, Mr Scobie? Takes care of nasty wee problems, makes them go away, weeds in your roses, that sort of thing.’
Lomax’s hand came up again, but Scobie was having none of it this time and pushed it away, stood up before Lomax could stop him.
‘Who the fuck are you, you prick? You calling me a fucking liar?’
McCoy was the picture of innocence. ‘I didn’t say that.’ He turned to Murray. ‘Did I say that?’
Scobie was red-faced, spat through clenched teeth, ‘That boy was like a son to me. Understand that? That going in your fuckin
g head, is it? If I get—’
‘Jake! Please!’
Scobie looked at Lomax, took a second, then nodded and sat down. Suddenly he seemed deflated, confused, almost as if he was going to cry. All of this seemed like it was new to him. Not used to not being the one calling the shots, running the show. Was new for McCoy too. The only emotion he’d ever seen on Scobie’s face before was anger. Never seen him look like he did now, like a man who was hurting.
‘Well, Mr Scobie, I’m sorry to hear of your loss,’ said Murray, standing up. ‘From the look of it, Connolly may well be responsible. However, what the motive was and who was involved remains to be seen.’
Lomax screwed the lid of his pen back on. ‘Be assured, Mr Murray, my client is telling the truth.’
Murray smiled, put his hat back on. ‘Who knows, Mr Lomax? Maybe he is. Always a first time for everything. Isn’t that what they say? We’ll be in touch.’
*
‘You buy all that?’ McCoy asked. They were back on the pavement in Blythswood Square, stamping their feet, waiting for a squad car to turn up.
Murray shrugged, turned his collar up against the wind. ‘Don’t see why not. If Scobie had just wanted rid of that boy he’d have been a lot less obvious about it.’
‘Unless he did something to his daughter, something he wasn’t happy about.’
‘Could be. We’ll get her in, see what she’s got to say for herself.’
‘Can’t see Lomax letting that happen without a fight. Or him being there,’ said McCoy. ‘But I’ll give it a try.’
A patrol car turned into the square, started the one-way circuit.
‘How were the parents?’ asked McCoy.
‘Them? They were great. Only son shot in the fucking face then chopped to fuck? They opened a bloody bottle of champagne. How do you think they were?’
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy, feeling like an idiot.
The car pulled up, uniform got out and came round to open the passenger door. ‘At long bloody last,’ Murray growled at him, turned to McCoy. ‘You call Lomax when we get back, tell him we want Elaine Scobie in the station tomorrow morning. Rattle his cage.’ He went to get in the car, realised McCoy wasn’t following.
‘You not coming back?’
‘I’ll walk. It’s only ten minutes.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Clears the head,’ said McCoy.
Murray shook his and got in the car.
No offence to Murray but McCoy needed a break. Couldn’t face being stuck in the back of a stuffy squad car while Murray ranted and raved about what scum Scobie was and how Lomax should be struck off for defending scum like him. Besides, McCoy liked walking, gave him the chance to think without the noise and distractions of the shop. So he buttoned up his raincoat, started walking down the hill back towards town.
When Scobie had come into the office McCoy had thought he’d be intimidated, impressed maybe. The great Jake Scobie close up. But he wasn’t, far from it. All the things that made up Scobie – the clothes, the scar, the temper – were beginning to feel wrong, dated. Was like Scobie was stranded back in the days when he’d come up through the ranks, still living in the time of the razor kings and honour amongst thieves. Would have been as well wearing spats and talking like George Raft. Scobie in the North, Ronnie Naismith in the Southside, McCready in Govan. Suddenly they seemed old, like kings who could be toppled.
McCoy handed the money over, pocketed the wee red notebook, stepped out of R. S. McColl’s and back onto Sauchiehall Street. New case, new jotter. Force of habit. He peeled the price ticket off the front and put it in his pocket. Realised he didn’t have a pencil, should have bought a new one of those as well. Was a mystery to him where everything he had disappeared to. They all went. Pens, fags, gloves, house keys more than a few times.
He was nearly at Treron’s when he noticed him. Charlie the Pram. McCoy didn’t know his real name but he’d seen him around town for years, wandering around, talking to himself. Just another lost soul amongst the many. Charlie’d found an old Silver Cross pram somewhere – hence the name – and, as always, it was full of wire, ginger bottles, anything he could try and make some money from. Charlie had good days and bad days. Never knew if he’d talk to you or just stare through you.
‘You all right, Charlie?’ asked McCoy.
Charlie turned, nodded. A good day then. He tapped the window of Dunn & Co. ‘I’d a coat like that once. Good tweed coat.’
‘That right? What happened to it?’
‘It’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door,’ he said, as if it was obvious.
McCoy dug in his coat pocket, found a pound note and handed it to him, told him to get a hot breakfast. Charlie took it and slipped it between the folds of the filthy tartan rug he had wrapped around him.
‘Can I tell you something?’ he said.
McCoy nodded, tried to look at his watch without Charlie seeing. Was already slightly regretting stopping.
‘Sure. Fire away.’
‘I had a house once, an old manse, lovely it was. Three boys at school, pretty wife.’ He pinched the skin on his forehead, a habit; it was covered in small cuts and scabs. ‘Was all mine. Until they found out.’ He looked at McCoy, eyes panicked. ‘They found out and they tried to drown me but I got away. That’s what they do if they catch you. They boil you in tanks of dirty water and bleach until the skin peels off you.’ And then he started to cry.
McCoy patted his shoulder. ‘C’mon, Charlie. Not going to happen anytime soon. Get yourself a hot breakfast, eh? Make you feel better.’
Charlie nodded, wiped his nose with his sleeve, went back to staring at the tweed coat, pinching his forehead, blood starting to run into his eyes.
McCoy left him there, kept walking down the hill towards Stewart Street. He did what he could. Gave them some money, listened to their stories, tried to treat them like human beings. Maybe it was a kind of bribe. Guys like Charlie wandered all over the city without anyone noticing them, they saw things. Guys like Charlie had given him information more than once. Information worth a lot more than a couple of bob for a cup of tea. At least that’s what he told people he did it for anyway.
He stopped at the zebra crossing, waited. If Scobie was telling the truth, if he was out to get Connolly, which seemed more likely than not, Connolly was fucked. Either Scobie found him and killed him or the polis found him, put him in jail and Scobie got someone to do the same thing in there. If he was Connolly he’d be gone already, further than London – as far as he could go.
The rain was back on, turning into sleet, grey clouds scudding across the sky. McCoy stood in the doorway of Grandfare for a minute, lit up. The news about Charlie Jackson should be in the paper and on the radio this morning. Mary from the Record wasn’t going to give up easy, not on a story like this. The shot in the eye, shot to the ankle, carving in the chest. Did that mean something, the places he’d aimed for? Or was it just Connolly getting his kicks? And the bloody pictures he’d taken for later? Proof of the job done, maybe, to send to Scobie. He finished his fag, flicked it out into the road, turned his coat collar up and ran through the sleet towards the doors of Central.
FOUR
McCoy tried to walk in without Billy the desk sergeant clocking him. Thought he’d managed it. Billy’s head was down, News of the World spread out in front of him. No chance. Billy had a sixth sense. Looked up, fat face already clouding over.
‘At long bloody last! C’mere, you!’ he said.
McCoy sighed, walked over to the desk. ‘How’s things Billy? No seen you for a—’
‘Fuck up,’ said Billy. ‘Here.’
Handed McCoy a pile of notes all with the same message on them. Call Mary at the Record ASAP.
‘Daft cow’s been phoning all bloody morning, right cheeky article she is too. “Why don’t I know where he is?” Do me a favour, McCoy, and call the daft bint, because if you don’t, next time she calls I’m going to come and get you and drag you here to this bloody p
hone. Got it?’
McCoy nodded, lied. Said he’d call her soon as he could and walked through to the office. Murray was already standing in front of the big blackboard so he slipped in behind his desk like some schoolboy late for class, tried to shrug his wet coat off. Wattie winked at him as he sat down, tapped at his watch. Mouthed ‘you’re late’.
He was. Most of the squad were already there, sitting on the edge of desks, notepads out, serious faces. Murray must have put the fear of God into them already. Room smelt of fags and wet wool coats drying in the heat of the radiators. He sat at his desk, slid the copy of Titbits into the bin, got his wee red jotter out, found a ballpoint pen in one of his drawers. Tried to look like he was all ears.
There was a picture up on the board, blown-up mug shot of Connolly. He looked late thirties, balding, pleasant face. Kind of guy you wouldn’t remember passing in the street, somebody’s neighbour, somebody’s brother-in-law. There was something familiar about it though. McCoy felt like he’d seen him somewhere, couldn’t think where.
Murray took the empty pipe out of his mouth, pointed at the picture. ‘Kevin Connolly. Date of birth eleventh February 1943. Multiple—’
‘Birthday boy,’ said Wattie.
‘What?’ asked Murray, looking exasperated.
‘His date of birth. He’s thirty today.’
‘Finished?’ asked Murray. Few sniggers from round the room. ‘Can I get on with my bloody job now?’
Wattie nodded, looked down at his notepad, back of his neck going red.
Murray carried on. ‘Multiple arrests for assault, one attempted murder charge, one charge of kidnapping, one charge of serious sexual assault. A very dangerous and a very violent man. Hard to estimate how much damage he’s inflicted over the years.’ He shook his head. ‘But, thanks to Jake Scobie and his money, Archie Lomax has managed to get him off with almost all of it.’
