by Alan Parks
POLICE CHIEF RETIREMENT DINNER
McCoy didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking at. Looked over at Cooper.
‘The polis,’ he said. ‘Look at him properly.’
McCoy took another look. Just made it to the kitchen sink before he was sick.
EIGHT
By the time he left Cooper and got back to the flat McCoy was running late, very late. He held up his hands in acknowledgement, said sorry as he came into the flat, already taking his jacket off. Susan looked like thunder. He got his orders. Had to be washed, shaved and into the new suit and tie in ten minutes.
He hurried into the bathroom, took his shirt off and ran the hot tap, got his shaving foam out the wee mirrored cupboard. He pressed the can, squirted the foam onto his hand and spread it round his chin.
Cooper had been quiet, persuasive. None of his usual bluster and threats. He said it was simple. What had been done was done. Nothing could change it. All that was left was revenge. And they were the ones to do it.
He pulled the razor down his face, scraping noise against the bristle, waved the razor in the water in the sink.
He had listened to Cooper, agreed with what he was saying, and then he had said no. He was as surprised as Cooper was. For the first time in his life he had said no to Stevie Cooper. He couldn’t do it. The past was the past. Gone. And he wasn’t going back there, not for anyone. No matter what had happened. No matter how angry Cooper got. No matter how many threats he made.
He rubbed the remains of the shaving foam off his face with a towel. Looked at himself. A thirty-year-old man, a detective, shaving himself at his girlfriend’s flat. Whatever had happened, he had moved on. He had managed to leave it behind and that’s where he needed it to stay.
He dragged a comb through his wet hair, brushed his teeth.
Funny thing was he felt calm, not what he had expected at all. Decision had been made. Case closed.
He walked through to the kitchen and presented himself for inspection. Only one nick on his neck, suited and booted and ready to go. Susan had a dress on, wee flowers all over it, deep neckline, had her hair up, looked a million dollars. She looked McCoy up and down, moved in and straightened his tie. Kissed him.
‘I’ve seen worse,’ she said.
The Malmaison restaurant was hushed, a comfort zone of linen and waiters, silver service and good wine. Room was softly lit with candles on the tables, chandeliers above. Susan took McCoy’s hand and led him towards a table under the minstrels’ gallery. Other diners a mixture of well-dressed couples and groups of rich-looking businessmen. McCoy put a smile on his face as he passed them all, tried to look like he belonged here, like he belonged with Susan.
They sat down. Waiter arrived with menus and a wine list which he opened with a flourish and gave to McCoy. He promptly handed it to Susan. No use pretending, he knew as much about wine as she did about being a polis. They were here for an early Valentine’s dinner. Susan was working Wednesday night so she’d arranged this.
‘Who is that guy anyway?’ asked Susan, reading the menu.
No need to ask who she was talking about.
‘Told you. He was there in the house when Dunlop—’
‘I know that, but why was he there? What’s he to you?’
The waiter appeared and they ordered. Steak for him, venison for her. Bottle of Malbec, whatever that was. Waited until he’d left until he replied.
‘Stevie? He’s an old pal. He’s a good guy underneath it all.’
She looked at him. ‘Didn’t look like it. Looked like a right nasty piece of work. And who was Lurch?’
‘Jumbo. His pal.’
‘What happened to his finger?’ asked Susan, holding up her left hand.
‘Eh?’ asked McCoy.
‘Jumbo. He only had half of one finger.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy. ‘I never noticed.’
The wine arrived. Susan tasted it and deemed it fine. Waiter poured them two glasses and McCoy made a start on it and the wee basket of bread rolls.
‘So how does he make his money, this Stevie?’ asked Susan, watching McCoy shoving most of a roll in his mouth.
McCoy tried to chew it down, replied. ‘Does a bit of this and that. Why? Why are you so interested in Stevie Cooper all of a sudden? Thought we were supposed to be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, not talking about my pal.’
Susan wasn’t going to be derailed easily. ‘Does he deal with prostitutes, run them?’
‘What?’ he asked, looking over at her. He wasn’t the only one; a middle-aged lady in pearls had heard her too. Looked somewhat surprised at the subject of the conversation.
‘Does he?’
‘Well, I suppose so—’
‘Good!’ Susan looked delighted. ‘Exactly the kind of person I need to talk to for my thesis.’ she said. ‘You could arrange it.’
The thought of Susan and Stevie Cooper having a cosy chit-chat about the economics of sexual exploitation was more than he could cope with.
‘Don’t know if Cooper’d want to talk to you about something like that, to be honest,’ he said. ‘He’s not exactly what you’d call chatty.’
‘You can ask him, though?’ she asked.
McCoy nodded. He’d worry about that later. There was something much more important on his mind right now. His steak had just arrived.
He hadn’t been looking forward to the evening much – posh restaurants weren’t his natural habitat – but he enjoyed himself. Ate his steak, drank more than his fair share of red wine and played footsie with Susan under the table. They left about eleven, both pleasantly woozy, got back to the flat and McCoy opened the cigar box, sat on the end of the bed and started to roll a joint.
‘I could get used to places like that,’ he said, pushing his shoes off.
‘That right?’ said Susan.
‘Yep. Need to win the pools, mind you, but that could happen,’ he said. ‘I’m a lucky man.’
‘You’ve won the pools already, you’ve got me,’ she said, getting under the covers.
He was down to his skivvies now. He handed her the joint and she lit it up.
‘Christ, is there any tobacco in this?’ asked Susan as she blew out a cloud of strong-smelling smoke.
‘Not much.’ He grinned, trying to find an ashtray amongst the wee plants and ornaments on Susan’s dressing table.
‘Are you getting in or are you just going to parade around the bedroom in your pants?’
He turned round, waggled his bum at her. ‘I might just do that,’ said McCoy. ‘Why? Is it turning you on?’
Susan looked at him. ‘Exactly how much brandy did you have?’
‘Same as you, three.’
Susan shook her head. ‘I had one.’
‘Ah,’ said McCoy, stepping out his skivvies and getting into bed. ‘That might explain it.’ He snuggled in beside her. ‘Put that joint down.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll bloody burn myself when I jump on you. Give.’
Susan smiled, handed the joint over and McCoy stubbed it out in the ashtray, put it on the bedside table.
‘Now, c’mere.’
They rolled together, embraced. He moved down her body, kissing her, grinned up at her as he gently pushed her thighs apart. Did what she liked as she held onto him, fingers tightening as she got nearer. She was halfway there already when he moved up and in between her legs. They moved together, breathing getting heavier, faster. She had her hands round his waist, whispering in his ear, pulling him closer. ‘Come on, McCoy, come on . . .’
She fell asleep quickly afterwards, like she always did. He lay there smoking a last cigarette, ashtray sitting on his chest, and did what he always did – let the events of the day run through his mind. Wondered how rich you’d have to be to eat at Malmaison every night. Wondered if Susan would forget about having a chat with Stevie Cooper. Wondered why Elaine Scobie was so sure Connolly wouldn’t hurt her.
He was kidding himself, though; ther
e was only one thing he was really thinking of, only one thing he couldn’t get out his mind. The folded newspaper cutting Stevie Cooper had shown him. The policeman smiling out in his dress uniform.
He shut his eyes.
Tried to let the wine and the brandy and the Red Leb do their work.
Tried to sleep.
Didn’t.
12th February 1973
NINE
McCoy put his mug of tea on the pile of Phone Mary at the Record notes on his desk and sat down, yawned. He’d finally got to sleep about the back of three. Felt like an unmade bed. There was a dun-coloured folder sitting in the middle of the desk. McCoy recognised the neat fountain pen capitals. Gilroy the medical examiner had attached a note to the corner: Wasn’t quite sure who to give this to then remembered your sympathy for those fallen on hard times.
McCoy shook his head. Care about one jakie and that’s you, tarred for life. He opened the autopsy report, started reading. So now he knew what the TRAGEDY IN CHURCH on the paper seller’s board was. One Paul Joseph Brady had hung himself in the Hopehill Road Chapel, St Columba’s. As far as McCoy could remember, killing yourself was a mortal sin. Doing it in a chapel just seemed to be taking the piss.
He skimmed through the rest of it. Age approx 30–35. Death by broken neck caused by body weight. Body was undernourished, showed evidence of long-term alcohol abuse. Cirrhotic liver damage, scarring on lungs caused by smoking. Previous evidence of broken arm in childhood. Nothing unexpected, except that by looking at his picture McCoy would have said the man looked nearer fifty. Life on the street takes its toll, right enough.
He closed it over. Hanging yourself wasn’t a crime. Wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with the report. Shove it in his drawer in case anyone ever came looking for it, he supposed. He checked it again, no mention of any next of kin.
He got out his fags, lit one up, inhaled, coughed, inhaled again. Why would you kill yourself in a chapel? For someone like Brady the way out was standard. Fill yourself with paracetamol and cheap vodka and jump off a bridge over the Clyde. He looked at the picture again. Paul Joseph Brady. Had to be a Catholic. Maybe he just wanted to be nearer his God to thee when he checked out.
McCoy sat back in his chair, looked round the office. Usual noise of chatter, people on the phone, a uniform waiting to see somebody, hat on his lap. Thomson wandering round with the Racing Post collecting lines to go to the bookies. Robertson collecting mugs off everyone’s desk, his day to make the teas. Wattie was the exception, working hard, receiver jammed into his neck, list of hotels and B&Bs in front of him. Looking for Connolly.
Wasn’t quite sure why, but one of the questions the psychologist had asked him kept going round and round in his mind. Do you still feel you want to be a detective?
Did he? Truth was he’d never really thought about it, not for years anyway. Joined up straight after he’d left school and just kept his head down and kept working. What else would he be if he wasn’t a polis? That’s what he was, as much part of him now as the colour of his hair or the scar on his eyebrow he’d got from Jamie Gibbs.
He yawned again, took a sip of his tea, gave himself a shake. He opened the red jotter. Wrote
Charlie Jackson
Connolly
‘That it?’
He looked up and Murray was standing over him.
‘We can call off the troops now, McCoy’s on the case.’
‘Very funny,’ said McCoy.
‘Get Watson. We’ve had a tip-off,’ said Murray. ‘Sounds kosher.’
*
The St Enoch’s Hotel was right in the centre of town, a huge Victorian building above St Enoch Station. Up until a few years ago, the station had been the main route south but it was closed now, all the lines moved to Central. They’d cemented over the long platforms and tracks and turned them into a huge car park. The glass-and-iron roof of the station was still there, full of broken panes and nesting pigeons. No more steam trains and Flying Scotsman to shelter, just the parked cars of Glasgow’s shoppers.
The hotel itself was still open. Just. What had once been an ornate red sandstone frontage was now black with soot and neglect, chicken wire wrapped round the more fragile carvings in case they fell off and hit someone. A couple of the upper floors were permanently closed, curtains in all the rooms shut, windows stained with pigeon droppings and grime. The whole building looked like it was hanging on for dear life. Incessant rain wasn’t helping the picture look any prettier. Low grey clouds looked like they were only yards above the building’s spires and towers.
McCoy and Wattie drove the unmarked Cortina up the ramp past the open sign and parked outside the front entrance. McCoy got out, yawned and stretched, still knackered, and walked over to where Murray was standing under the awning. He was looking up at the hotel, empty pipe clamped in his teeth. Took it out, used it to point at the windows on the top floors.
‘Spent the first night of my honeymoon in there. Look at it now, fucking shithole.’
‘Where’d you spend the rest?’ asked McCoy, lighting up.
‘Eh? Oh, Whitley Bay.’
‘That any better?’ asked McCoy.
‘Not much,’ said Murray, looking round. ‘Where’s Watson?’
‘Here, sir,’ said Wattie, locking the car. He wandered over, joined them, looked up. ‘What a dump. Cannae believe it’s still actually open.’
‘Used to be something in its day. I can remember it,’ said McCoy.
‘Certainly was,’ said Murray. ‘Honeymoon suite cost me a bloody fortune.’
‘Connolly’s flat was a waste of time,’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing there. But the flatmate told us Charlie Jackson thought Elaine was seeing someone else.’
‘Did he now,’ said Murray. ‘Connolly, you think?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘He didn’t know. Could be.’ He looked up at the hotel. ‘So what’s the story here?’
‘We got a tip from a bloke that works at the front desk,’ said Murray. ‘One of Billy’s touts. Says he’s sure Connolly’s here. Not using his own name, calling himself Mr McLean, but he fits the description. Been here for a couple of days, he says.’
McCoy was still looking up at the building; clouds of sparrows were whirling round the roof, looking for somewhere to land.
‘He in there just now, is he?’ he asked, turning to Murray.
He nodded. ‘Bloke thinks so. He tends to come and go via different doors, must be about twenty of them in this dump. They should have knocked it down when they closed the bloody station.’
‘Scobie and his cronies can’t have been looking that bloody hard,’ said Wattie. ‘Great big hotel right in the city centre. He’s no exactly keeping a low profile, is he?’
‘Would you stay in here?’ asked McCoy.
‘Nobody would,’ said Murray. ‘Probably why he’s here.’
A single-decker coach drew up at the entrance, Caledonian Tours and a big Lion Rampant painted on the side of it. The driver honked the horn and they moved to the side to let it park.
Murray pointed one way then the next. ‘There’s pairs of uniforms at every exit door and these two clowns’ – he nodded at a pair of big constables – ‘are covering the front. We go up and chap Connolly’s door, see if he’s home.’
McCoy waited for the rest of the plan. Didn’t come. ‘Is that it?’
‘Is that what?’ said Murray.
‘That’s the plan? The bloke’s a bloody nutter! And we’re going to chap his door and see if he wants to come for a wee hurl in a polis car?’
Murray looked unimpressed. ‘He’s a villain like every other, no bloody Superman. Get a grip on yourself, McCoy. Now, c’mon.’
The hotel lobby was vast, an ugly and worn-out combination of pea-green carpet and beige walls. A group of pensioners with wee suitcases were milling around, making their way out towards the coach and the next stop on their tour of Scotland’s most miserable hotels. The restaurant was through glass doors, white cloth-covered tables stretched
for miles, waiting for diners who were never going to appear.
The bar was next door. Tartan carpet and a few Highland landscapes on the walls. Barman wearing tartan waistcoat and an expression that would turn milk. Looked like the kind of place you would go to have a last drink before topping yourself. A fat man with a gold piped uniform sitting at the reception desk looked up and gave them a nod.
‘It’s the second floor,’ said Murray. ‘Two one four.’
They started up the big marble stairway. Wattie looked as nervous as McCoy felt.
‘You sure that’s it, sir? We just chap the door?’ McCoy asked.
‘What else do you suggest?’ said Murray. ‘Machine-gunning the cunt through it?’
‘Fair enough.’ He decided to shut up. Couldn’t help but remember what Charlie Jackson had looked like, eye and the back of his head gone, blood seeping into the puddles around him.
On the second-floor landing, two corridors of yellowing doors stretched off either way. Half the bulbs were missing in the overhead globes, stained carpets, occasional tray of congealing food outside a door. Looked more like a marginally more upmarket Barlinnie than anything else.
‘Wattie, you wait here by the stairs. If he gets past us you stop him,’ said Murray.
Wattie looked more surprised than scared. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, you,’ said Murray. ‘You’re a big bugger. Flatten him.’
Wattie nodded at them, tried to look alert and ready for any eventuality. Some hope.
Room 214 was halfway down the corridor. It was only when they stopped outside the door that McCoy realised he’d been walking on his tiptoes. He looked at Murray, who looked at him and pointed at the door. He sighed, knocked it hard. Here we go.
‘Mr Connolly! Police! Need you to open the door.’
Nothing.
He looked back at Murray, who nodded at the door impatiently. He knocked it again.
‘Mr Connolly. Glasgow Police. Need you to open up now!’
Nothing again.
‘Maybe he’s gone out one of the other doors. Uniforms might have got him already?’ said McCoy hopefully.
‘Pan it in,’ said Murray.
