by Alan Parks
‘What’s the connection exactly?’ asked Wattie, attempting to redeem himself.
McCoy smiled to himself. Wasn’t so long ago Wattie had stayed at the back of the room during briefings, too scared to speak. Now he was leaning on Thomson’s desk, chewing a pencil, making notes and asking questions. Supposed it was progress. Even if he still looked too young to even be in the force, never mind in a briefing like this.
‘Connolly and Scobie have been joined at the hip since Connolly started working for him,’ said Murray. ‘They come from the same street in the Calton. Means a lot to someone like Scobie. Their maws knew each other. People say Scobie’s the brains and Connolly’s the brawn but it’s not as simple as that. Scobie’s more than able to take care of himself so Connolly gets reserved for the really nasty jobs. Nastier the better as far as he’s concerned. Enjoys hurting people. Was convicted of aggravated assault in’ – he checked the file he was holding – ‘October ’71, spent five months in Barlinnie. Other than that, our Mr Connolly has mostly led a charmed life, sorting out Jake Scobie’s problems, making them go away and getting away with it.’
McCoy looked up at the picture again. Must have seen him in the shop or at the courts, something like that. In the picture he looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Nice open features, half a smile on his face. You can’t really be charging me with anything, can you?
Murray continued. ‘For those of you who have been living under a rock and our more junior colleagues’ – Wattie stood up and bowed to general catcalls – ‘Jake Scobie started out as a tally man, collecting debts. Worked his way up – mainly by taking out his employer Robbie Craig with a machete – to be the boss in around ’62. Past few years he’s been trying to clean up his act, investing in property, keeping a good distance from the illegal stuff, just another Glasgow businessman.’ He paused. ‘Except he’s not. He can hide behind Lomax and his charity dinners and his suits from Forsyth’s but be assured he’s still running his rackets. Now, since Mr McCoy has finally managed to come back from his holidays’ – more catcalls – ‘I’ll let him run through the situation with Scobie and Connolly. McCoy?’
McCoy stood up, made his way to the blackboard. Ran them through this morning’s meeting. Told them about Connolly, his falling out with Scobie, his previous attack on Charlie Jackson and his obsession with Elaine Scobie. Sat back down.
Murray took over. ‘Charlie Jackson. Twenty-two years old. Good son, good friend, shining career, about to get married.’ He pointed to the picture of the footballer. ‘Kevin Connolly is our primary suspect. There is only one thing we have to do.’ He paused, looked out at the assembled team. ‘Find him before Scobie does. I am not giving that cunt the satisfaction of getting to Connolly before we do.’ He clapped his hands. ‘So! Previous addresses checked, known associates interviewed, get round the touts, someone must know where he is. I want him found and quick. Understood?’
A few mumbles.
‘I said understood?’
Chorus of ‘yes, sir’.
Murray nodded, satisfied, walked back towards his office shouting ‘McCoy! Watson!’ over his shoulder.
They followed him into the office, sat down. McCoy looked around. Murray’s office hadn’t changed in years, no reason why it would have changed in the past three weeks. Same old pictures of him looking young in a rugby strip, signed rugby ball on his desk. Stink of pipe tobacco and Ralgex. Piles of folders and files covering most of the available space. Murray rifled through the big pile in front of him, found what he was looking for and pushed a bit of paper across the desk.
‘Lomax called. Connolly’s last known address, he got it from Scobie,’ he said.
‘Lomax called?’ asked McCoy. ‘He’s getting very helpful all of a sudden.’
Wattie picked it up, read it. ‘Stronsay Street? Where’s that?’
‘Just off the Royston Road, I think,’ said McCoy.
‘Where’s the Royston Road?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy rolled his eyes. ‘I keep forgetting you’re from Greenock. They got actual streets there or is it just one big shitehole?’
Murray banged his fist on the desk. The two of them shut up, looked at him guiltily.
‘McCoy! You’re supposed to be helping Wattie here do his papers, teaching him how to be a detective, not scoring bloody points. Holiday’s over, McCoy. Start concentrating!’
McCoy muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Right. You two away and have a look at the flat, see what you can see. Hopefully you can pick up an idea of where he’s gone.’
‘Any luck with getting the daughter in for an interview?’ asked McCoy. ‘Lomax stonewalled me.’
Murray’s face darkened.
‘Apparently she is “too distressed to speak to us”. Lomax buying time until he gets her story straight, more like. We’ll try again tomorrow. If it’s the same again I’m going to make him get an official medical certificate for her or I’ll arrest her for perverting the course of justice.’
‘What did he say about bringing her into protective custody?’ asked McCoy.
‘That got nixed too. Apparently the bold Elaine told Lomax that Connolly would never harm her and she was fine where she was,’ said Murray.
‘More fool her,’ said Wattie. ‘Does she know what he did to her boyfriend?’
Murray rummaged through the papers on his desk again, came up with a copy of the Sunday Mail. Picture of Charlie Jackson on the front.
CELTIC PLAYER SLAUGHTERED!
‘Well, if she didn’t, she bloody does now. Her and every other bugger in the city.’
‘Some uniform called in and got their tenner then,’ said McCoy.
‘Aye, and if I find out who it is, his feet won’t touch the fucking ground. At least the carving on his chest still seems secret. Better bloody stay that way. Let me know how you get on at Connolly’s. Oh and . . .’ He looked through the papers on his desk. Again. Found the one he was looking for and handed it over. ‘Charlie Jackson’s flatmate, another football player apparently, plays for Celtic as well—’
‘Nae luck,’ muttered Wattie.
‘You say something, Watson?’ barked Murray.
‘No, sir!’ said Wattie smartly.
‘Go and see this flatmate. See what he knows about Jackson and Connolly, if Jackson ever talked about him. And find out if he saw him after the match. Club are saying Jackson left the ground at half five as per usual. Nothing out the ordinary. Need to track his movements.’
They stood up to go. ‘McCoy, you stay here a minute,’ said Murray.
He sat back down. Murray waited until Wattie shut the door behind him, leant back in his seat.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘I can leave you here on a desk for a while.’
‘I’m fine. I’ve had three weeks pottering around the house, going to the appointments. Any more time off and I’ll be climbing the walls. Need to get working again.’
‘You sure? No shame in—’
‘I’m fine, Murray! Honest.’
Murray held his hands up. ‘Fine! Christ . . . Don’t know what I’m asking this for but how’s your pal, Cooper?’
‘Okay, I think. I heard he got out the hospital,’ said McCoy.
‘You keep away from that thug,’ said Murray. ‘He may have helped you out—’
‘He did more than help out. He was in the bloody hospital for three weeks because he tried to help me out.’
‘Aye well, that was his choice. You keep clear of him. You hear me? I’ve told you once and I’m no telling you again.’
McCoy nodded. Didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘I will.’ He stood up. ‘By the way. Connolly? I’m sure I recognise him from somewhere, sure I’ve seen him before.’
‘He’s been in and out of here and Pitt Street for years. Must have seen him then,’ said Murray.
‘Must have.’
He shut Murray’s office door behind him. Shouted on Wattie to go and get the car. He didn’t know where he’d seen Connolly bu
t one thing he did know. Wasn’t in the shop or Pitt Street.
FIVE
‘The manager of Jackson’s club Glasgow Celtic, Jock Stein, has issued a statement. “On behalf of myself and everyone associated with the club, we wish to express our shock and dismay at the untimely death of Charles Jackson. Not only was he an excellent football player, he was a fine young man and our thoughts are with his family at this time.” Two men were injured in Belfast today as a bomb they were—’
McCoy leant forward and switched off the radio, sat back in his seat, started digging in his pockets for his fags. He pushed the cigarette lighter in. Waited.
‘You ever see him play? Jackson?’ he asked as they slowed down to let a funeral procession pass.
Wattie nodded. ‘Not bad.’
McCoy snorted. ‘Not bad? You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Lighter popped out, McCoy held the hot element up to his cigarette. ‘Best left foot for years and you know it. You Rangers boys just can’t see past the strip, can you?’
Car was getting stuffy with the smoke and the heater blasting out hot stale air. McCoy rolled the window down, felt the rain on his face.
‘Murray wasn’t even sure if you were coming back,’ said Wattie. ‘Said you were rattled by what happened with the Dunlop boy, the whole thing. He was worried, you know.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy flatly.
Last thing he wanted to hear about was Wattie and Murray having cosy wee chats about his state of mind. That’s what happened if you got signed off. Suddenly everyone thinks you’re fair game. Everyone passing judgement on your mental state. And every bugger thinks the same thing. ‘He’s no the same any more.’ Far as he was concerned they could all fuck off, Murray and Wattie included.
Wattie pulled up at the lights. ‘He was just worried. Didn’t want to lose you, that’s all. You’re still the golden boy no matter what happens.’
McCoy pointed to Stronsay Street. ‘Aye well, I’m back, so he can rest easy. Left here.’
End of conversation.
*
Stronsay Street was in a scheme sitting on a hill at the back of Royston. Rows of identical council houses with neat wee gardens in front. Huge towers of the Red Road flats in the background. Wattie was peering through the windscreen counting.
‘Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six.’
‘Twenty-eight,’ said McCoy, pointing up ahead.
Connolly’s flat was the top left of a four-in-a-block. They parked behind a Beetle up on four bricks and got out. The garden in front of the flat below seemed to be some sort of gathering ground for gnomes and little statues of fish and birds. There was a wishing well in the middle of the lawn, plaster Scottie dog and plastic cat beside it. Path was lined with plastic flowers and foil windmills. Even had a sign planted in the lawn.
ENJOY THE GARDEN BUT LOOK DON’T TOUCH!
‘That sign’s enough to make you want to kick one of those gnomes to fuck,’ said McCoy.
Wattie looked up at the windows. White net curtains just like the rest of the flats. ‘What if he’s in there?’
‘He’s not. Half of bloody Glasgow’s looking for him. Last place he’s gonnae be is at home.’
They headed up the path. Eyes of the gnomes upon them.
McCoy was right. Connolly wasn’t there but Scobie’s boys definitely had been. If the broken lock didn’t give you a clue then the floor covered in upturned furniture, ripped clothes and smashed crockery would. They stepped between the debris, made their way down the hall and into the living room.
McCoy righted a slashed armchair and sat down while Wattie wandered around, picking things up at random.
‘I’ll check the bedroom,’ he said.
McCoy nodded, let him go. He sniffed. Was a smell of bleach, looked like a couple of bottles had been emptied over the carpet, stamped through. Pale patches in the brown swirls. Connolly’s scattered belongings seemed mostly to consist of war novels and porn mags. Floor was strewn with them. Nazis and naked women on fur rugs. A message had been left just in case Connolly was stupid enough ever to come back. Red spray paint across the living-room wall.
YOU ARE DED YOU CUNT
‘Don’t suppose being able to spell is a qualification for being one of Scobie’s goons,’ said McCoy.
‘Probably not,’ said Wattie, walking back into the room. He picked up a painting of Ben Nevis and put it back on its nail.
McCoy looked round the living room. ‘Any point in us being here?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie, stepping back to see if the picture was straight. ‘Apart from shutting Murray up. Don’t think there was ever much here in the first place. Not sure he even stayed here. No food in the fridge, no TV, no post. There’s a few clothes in the drawers in the bedroom but that’s about it. They’ve slashed up the mattress and his bedclothes. Doesn’t look like they found anything either.’
He sat down on a wobbly coffee table, picked up a copy of a book called Assignment Gestapo, started flicking through it.
‘Could interview the neighbours, I suppose. See if they saw anything?’ he said.
‘Do you really want to talk to the bastard with the gnomes?’ asked McCoy.
‘Not if I can help it.’
McCoy stood up. ‘Me neither. Right, we’ve seen his flat. Duty done. Let’s go.’
He walked back towards the door and stood on something that made a sharp crack under his shoe. He lifted a torn copy of Men Only up and there was a splintered cassette box under it, yellow BASF cassette in it. He picked it up, looked around. ‘See anything to play this on?’
‘Hang on,’ said Wattie. He pulled the sofa right side up. ‘Bingo’. A wee cassette player was lying there, cover smashed. ‘Let’s see if it works.’
It did.
They watched as the spindles turned and a voice came out the speaker. As if watching it was going to help them understand.
‘August thirteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August fourteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August fifteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August sixteenth, sixteen stone thirteen pounds. August seventeenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. August eighteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pou—’
McCoy leant over and pressed the fast forward button, held it down for a minute or so, let it go.
‘September twelfth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. September thirteenth, sixteen stone fourteen pounds. September fourteenth, sixteen stone fifteen pounds . . .’
Didn’t take long to go through the whole tape. The same thing over and over again, two sides of a C30 cassette. Ended on January 11th.
McCoy leant forward and switched it off.
‘What the fuck is that about?’ asked Wattie.
‘Fuck knows,’ said McCoy, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Maybe he’s in Weight Watchers.’
He looked around for something to use as an ashtray. Suddenly wondered why he was bothering; the place was trashed anyway, wee bit of ash wasn’t going to make any difference. Tapped his ash onto the carpet. ‘All this is just ticking boxes. What we really need to do is just find the bugger before he decides someone else is in the way of his great love affair.’
‘And how are we going to do that?’ asked Wattie.
‘Not by interviewing the bloody flatmate, I’ll tell you that, but if we don’t we’ll never hear the end of it. You ready to enter Paradise?’
Wattie didn’t look happy. ‘Do I have to?’
McCoy ground his cigarette into the carpet, pocketed the cassette.
‘Yep. Do you good to see how the other half lives.’
SIX
‘What’s the flatmate’s story then?’ asked Wattie as they drove up and over Todd Street from Shettleston.
McCoy dug in his pocket, got the note from Murray out. ‘Peter Charles Simpson.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Wattie.
‘Me neither,’ said McCoy. ‘In the squad apparently.’
‘Must be shite then.’
They parked beside the school in London Road
and walked up towards the red-brick stadium.
‘If my dad could see me now,’ muttered Wattie glumly as he walked through the double doors of the offices at the front of the stadium.
‘He’d turn in his grave,’ said McCoy.
‘Naw,’ said Wattie. ‘He’s still alive, he’d give me a punch in the chops.’ A woman behind the reception desk told them Peter would be down in the changing rooms, pointed them to a stairway.
The changing rooms were deserted, their feet loud on the tiled floor as they walked in. A young man was sitting on a bench by an open locker folding up a tracksuit. He looked up.
‘Mr Simpson?’ asked McCoy. ‘Said you’d be down here.’
He nodded, stood up. They introduced themselves, he shook their hands. Simpson was tall, blond, zipped-up tracksuit, sandshoes. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘Just call me Peter. Mr Simpson’s my da’s name.’
McCoy took out his wee red jotter. ‘Fair enough. Maybe we can just start with yesterday. Could you tell us what happened after the game?’
He nodded to a bench and they all sat down. ‘We finished up here about the back of five. Charlie was on the bench and I was just here watching so didn’t take long to get ready. Didn’t have to have showers or a debrief, anything like that.
‘We got home about half five or so. Watched the end of World of Sport. Charlie made some toasted cheese. We ate it, he ironed a shirt, said he had to get ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ asked McCoy.
‘He didn’t say exactly. I just thought he must be meeting Elaine. Usually did on a Saturday night. He got changed, a taxi peeped his horn outside, he shouted cheerio from the hall and that was it.’
‘And that was it?’
Simpson nodded, still looked a bit shell-shocked. ‘That was it until I heard it on the news this morning. Still cannae believe it.’
He shook his head, eyes started to tear up. He rubbed at them.
‘So what’s she like then, this Elaine?’ asked Wattie.
‘Wears the pants, but I think he quite liked that. Told him where to be and when. Even bought his clothes for him. Got him all the trendy gear. Didn’t see so much of him once they started going out.’
