February's Son

by Alan Parks

  He ordered an extra pint at the bar and stood there drinking it, trying to make it last as long as possible. Didn’t feel up to Susan and Claire; wasn’t really their fault, just didn’t feel up to talking to anyone. He was wound so tight he knew Claire would say something that would set him off, they’d have a fight and he’d spend the next day apologising to Susan.

  He tried to take his mind off Uncle Kenny and think about what he was paid to think about. Connolly. If he’d killed Elaine’s boyfriend, got rid of the reason that was stopping them being together and killed Jake for turfing him out into the wilderness, then maybe that was that. The end of it.

  He could see the reflection of Susan and Claire in the mirror above the gantry. Laughing, enjoying themselves. What he should be doing.

  Maybe Connolly’d done what he needed to do. Mission over. Somehow he didn’t think so. Connolly had burned too many bridges to settle back into normal life. Something big was going to have to happen to finish this, and he had the horrible feeling that whatever that was it was going to involve Elaine.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  He turned and Susan was standing beside him. ‘What’s up? Could tell something was wrong the minute you came in.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘The West of Scotland Man speaks. Nothing’s ever wrong, at least nothing you can’t drink your way out of.’

  He smiled despite himself. ‘Where’s Claire?’

  ‘Toilets. Not your favourite, is she?’

  ‘Do you blame me? She called me a pig last time I saw her. Seems I’m single-handedly responsible for most of the world’s ills. “A capitalist lackey enforcing a corrupt system”, no less.’

  She kissed him. ‘Well, that’s true but you’re my capitalist lackey. That’s what matters.’

  She picked up the drinks. ‘Go home, Harry. I’ll be back soon. There’s a quarter of Red Leb in the cigar box. Sean came round this afternoon. I’ll drink this, get rid of Claire, be back as soon as I can. Go on.’

  He nodded, kissed her and left the pub.

  *

  He lay there as she got ready in the bathroom, could hear her brushing her teeth. He was sleepy, pleasantly stoned. He’d been asleep on the couch when Susan had got back, half-smoked joint between his fingers, run-off track of side two of Sticky Fingers going round and round. Last thing he remembered was singing along to ‘Midnight Mile’.

  Uncle Kenny and Strathblane seemed a long way away now. Susan was going to appear in a minute, sit at the edge of the bed, put her glass of water down, set the alarm for uni the next day, just like she always did. He listened to her singing softy as she went to the kitchen to get her glass of water. Shut his eyes for a minute . . .

  I dry-swallow another black bomber. Don’t want to eat. Need the speed to curb my appetite, keep me awake. I’m sure I am retaining bad energy, that the food I’m eating is collecting round my body, rotting, trying to poison me. I haven’t been able to keep track properly since St Enoch’s Hotel.

  Elaine is in for the night, asleep. No bath tonight, straight to bed. No puff of black hair for me to look at. Pity. So here I am doing what I need to do. Plan. Things are going to change soon and I need to be ready for that. Be precise in deed and thought.

  The cars in Dumbarton Road seem very loud as they pass. I think my senses are becoming more acute. Sometimes too acute. The noise is starting to hurt. Headache starting. The taste in my mouth is too strong, can’t get rid of it no matter what I do. I can feel the cotton of its shirt on my back, the tiny fibres, the feel of the leather shoes on my feet.

  Not long now.

  I can see the shadows of people who aren’t there. Smell them.

  Soon I will be able to see in the dark.

  Things are working out.

  15th February 1973

  NINETEEN

  Billy on the desk was stuck on some phonecall, looked fed up, page of scribbles on the pad in front of him. McCoy waved, hurried past before he could signal him to wait. The office was quiet, only one there so far was Thomson. He was sitting at his desk, cup of tea and a Grattan’s catalogue spread out in front of him, chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen.

  ‘What you got that for?’ asked McCoy, putting a steaming paper bag with a bacon roll in it down on his desk.

  Thomson looked up. ‘Need a new coat. No bloody money, so need to buy it on the never-never.’ He tapped the catalogue with the pen. ‘Diane in Records gave me this, said she’d order it for me.’

  ‘Did she now? Very cosy. Lending you her catalogue? She’ll be moving in next,’ said McCoy, sipping his take-out tea. Rotten.

  ‘So, do you actually want something, Detective McCoy, or are you just here to be a pain in my arsehole?’

  ‘Mandrax,’ said McCoy. ‘Where would I get it?’

  Thomson sat back and grinned. ‘Easy. Just need to go and see the Wizard.’

  ‘What?’ asked McCoy, opening the bag and trying to avoid grease getting everywhere.

  ‘The Wizard. Lives in Carntyne.’

  ‘As opposed to Oz?’

  ‘Did you get me a roll?’

  They both turned and Wattie was standing there. Large as life and twice as ugly.

  ‘Nope,’ said McCoy, biting into his.

  ‘All right, Johnny Weissmuller? How’s the head?’ asked Thomson.

  ‘All right. Couple of stitches and a few aspirin and I was fine,’ said Wattie.

  Thomson shook his head. ‘Thought you were bloody dead for a while. Stupid bugger that you are.’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ said McCoy, ‘I hoped and prayed. I could have got a new partner, someone half decent for a change.’ He finished his roll, threw the paper in the bin. ‘But looks like I’m stuck with you. You can make up for it, though. Away and get a pool car and meet me out front.’

  ‘Where we going?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘To follow the yellow brick road,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie was driving, singing along to Elton John on the radio, admiring his stitches in the rear-view mirror. McCoy happy to sit in a half-doze, heater blowing hot air as they drove along Duke Street. Weather was still grim. Wet and freezing, slush piled up on the pavements, horrible black-grey colour. He could probably do with a new coat as well, the one he’d on was more cigarette burns than anything else. Maybe he’d have a wee look at that catalogue too.

  His doze didn’t last that long.

  ‘What is Mandrax anyway?’

  ‘Eh?’ said McCoy.

  ‘Mandrax, what is it?’

  ‘Jesus, sometimes I forget you’re from Greenock.’ He yawned, got his cigarettes out his pocket. ‘Mandies. Used to be really popular. Tranquillisers. Knock you loopy, especially if you drink with them. No idea what planet you’re on.’

  ‘And that’s how Connolly got hold of Jackson and Jake Scobie?’

  Horn peeped behind him, lights had changed. Wattie held up his hand and moved off.

  ‘Think so. They both had a lot of it in their bloodstream.’ McCoy lit up, waved the match out, rolled the window down a crack, chucked it out. ‘Can’t see Scobie or Charlie Jackson taking them for kicks.’

  ‘So how did he get them to take them?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Fuck knows. Held a knife to them? Maybe gave them a drink with them already in.’

  They turned into Conniston Street then into Dalmahoy Street. Stopped at number 19.

  ‘C’mon, Dorothy,’ said McCoy, getting out the car. ‘The Wizard awaits.’

  Wattie just shook his head. No idea what McCoy was on about half the time.

  The Wizard answered the door looking half asleep. He was a small guy, long hair, beard down his chest, long fingernails painted black, T-shirt with a map of Middle-earth on it, skinny legs emerging from a pair of baggy black underpants.

  ‘Can you come back later, boys?’ he said. ‘Just got up, need to sort things out before I set up shop.’

  ‘No,’ said McCoy and barged past him into the flat.

  A door of
f the hall opened and a sleepy-eyed girl, looked about sixteen, appeared. She’d a Keep on Truckin’ T-shirt on and nothing else.

  ‘Best go back to bed, hen,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Are you the fuzz?’ she asked, sounding quite excited at the prospect.

  ‘Give us a break,’ said Wattie. ‘This is Carntyne, no bloody California. Now beat it!’

  She closed the door behind her, looking disappointed they weren’t going to arrest her.

  The living room was dim, smelt of incense and dope. Black walls, curtains pulled over, candles burning everywhere. McCoy pulled the curtains open, let in the flat light of a February morning.

  The Wizard looked visibly pained. ‘Come on, man,’ he said, blinking at the light. ‘Stay mellow.’

  ‘Mellow, my arse,’ said McCoy and held out his ID card.

  ‘Shite,’ said the Wizard, suddenly sounding more like a Carntyne dealer than a spaced-out hippie. He sat down on the couch.

  Wattie dug in his pocket, brought out a picture of Connolly, knelt down in front of him and held it out for the Wizard to look at. ‘He been here?’

  The Wizard looked at it. Pretended not to know who it was.

  McCoy sighed. ‘I’m only going to ask you this once. Was he here or not?’

  The Wizard shook his head. ‘Look, man, I don’t know who he is. You can’t just come in here and—’

  McCoy nodded to Wattie. Wattie moved his heavy shoe onto the Wizard’s bare foot.

  ‘Christ, man! I don’t—’

  Protest wasn’t worth it. Neither of them was interested. McCoy nodded again and Wattie shifted his weight.

  The Wizard groaned, face screwed up. Wattie pressed down harder and he screamed. McCoy was pretty certain he heard a crack.

  Wattie gave him one more stamp for luck and stepped away. The Wizard dropped to the floor, moaning and crying.

  McCoy crouched down beside him. ‘You think that was sore, Mr Wizard? If you don’t tell me what I want to know I’ll let Wattie here get creative. Unlike me he loves the sight of blood. Kinky that way.’

  The Wizard sat up on the dirty carpet holding his foot, one of the toes pointing in a funny direction. McCoy held out his hand to help him up and he flinched. Stood up by himself, hobbled back to the couch.

  ‘The cat was here a week ago. Bought twenty, came back the other night, bought another twenty.’

  ‘He a regular customer?’ asked McCoy, noticing to his horror that the Wizard’s long toenails were painted black too.

  The Wizard nodded. ‘Every couple of weeks.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The Wizard shrugged. ‘No idea, man. I’m not the kind of business that takes names and addresses.’ Wattie moved towards him and he flinched again. ‘I don’t know! Honest!’

  ‘He say anything?’ asked McCoy.

  He shook his head. ‘A load of shite. If you ask me the cat was loaded on speed. Telling me how things were going to be different for him soon. Better. Said he was going to be with his lady soon. He’s been watching her and—’

  ‘Watching her?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Seemed very pleased with himself. Told me how beautiful she was. Said she had to know he was watching her, she was acting so sexy, riling him up.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Wattie.

  ‘He’s a strange cat,’ said the Wizard. ‘Got to be an Aquarius.’

  McCoy rolled his eyes. ‘He comes back, you phone me at Central. Detective McCoy. Phone me while he’s still here. Keep him here. Got it?’

  The Wizard nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said McCoy. ‘And I’ll take twenty to go.’

  They walked back to the car, McCoy putting the wee plastic bag with the pills in his coat.

  ‘You’re becoming a right bastard, Wattie. I think you broke his foot.’

  ‘Learnt it from the master, didn’t I? What did you get them for?’ asked Wattie. ‘They Mandies?’

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘You’re going to drug someone?’ he suggested.

  McCoy laughed. ‘Aye. Me. Haven’t had any Mandies for years.’

  TWENTY

  Elaine Scobie had a flat in Princes Terrace. After some pressure from Murray, Lomax had reluctantly given them the address. As the crow flies it wasn’t that far from McCoy’s flat in Gardner Street but it was miles away in terms of cost and status. Princes Terrace was a prime piece of Hyndland after all. Quiet roads and huge red sandstone flats, well-maintained communal gardens and old money.

  McCoy and Wattie were waiting outside number 5 when the patrol car with Murray in the back drew up. He got out, smoothed down his car coat and what was left of his hair, and walked over.

  ‘This better be worth my bloody while,’ he growled.

  ‘Nice to see you too, sir,’ said McCoy. He pointed up at the windows of Elaine’s flat. ‘Connolly’s drug dealer, the Wizard—’

  ‘The what? What kind of name is that? Jesus Christ.’ Murray shook his head. ‘Bloody drug dealers should be locked up, not giving you bloody—’

  ‘Told us Connolly told him he was “watching his lady”,’ said McCoy, trying to stop the rant before Murray got started. ‘The only places Elaine’s regularly at are her shop and here. Doubt he would want to hang about Union Street, too easy to notice staring in the window, so I think he’s watching her here in her flat. Told the Wiz – the dealer – she was acting all sexy for him.’

  ‘What?’ said Murray.

  ‘Think he probably means he could see her when she was getting changed for bed or something like that. Chances are he’s deluded enough to think she’s taking her clothes off just to give him a show.’

  McCoy turned round, looked out over the big gardens in front of Elaine’s flat. ‘Unless he’s living up a tree he couldn’t see in the front windows. Has to be looking in the back, which means—’

  Wattie held up an A to Z. ‘He must be watching the back of the flat from somewhere in Crown Gardens.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘So all we need to do is check all the flats in Crown Gardens that overlook number 5 and hopefully we’ll find him.’

  Murray looked up at the windows of Elaine’s flat. ‘Christ, let’s hope it’s that easy.’

  They walked round the back of the flats into Crown Gardens and had a look around. Was quiet. Not many cars in the streets, just a man walking a wee Scottie dog and a fish van discreetly peeping his horn to let everyone know he had arrived.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind living round here,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Aye, and I wouldn’t mind a night with Sandie Shaw but that’s not gonnae happen either,’ said McCoy.

  He pointed up at number 19. ‘Got to be the best bet. Directly behind Elaine’s flat, no trees in the way.’

  Murray nodded. ‘Let’s try it.’

  There were three bells, McCoy pushed the bottom one. SNEDDON. A woman’s voice answered. He told her it was the police and she buzzed them in.

  She met them in the hall, her front door half open revealing a riot of plants and antimacassared furniture, small black cat mewing and wrapping itself round her legs. She was a tiny woman, wearing some sort of kimono thing, halo of wispy red hair and make-up that looked like she’d applied it with a trowel. She asked for each of their identity cards, examined them thoroughly. Identified Murray as the boss and addressed herself to him.

  ‘My name is Veronica Sneddon. How can I help?’ she asked, staring at Murray’s hat long enough for him to get the message.

  He took it off. Smiled. ‘Just making some enquiries, Miss Sneddon,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Mrs,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow of thirty-one years. El Alamein.’

  Murray nodded. ‘Sorry to hear that. We were wondering if you’ve noticed anything unusual lately, any comings and goings?’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ asked Murray.

  ‘There’s me in here, Mrs Campbell on the first floor and Mr Mitchell on the second. Mrs Campbell is in Australia, visiting her daughter I
believe. As for Mr Mitchell, goodness knows.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘I’ve had to take in his milk and his papers, must have gone away on holiday and forgotten to cancel them. Very annoying and a complete waste if you ask me—’

  Wattie was already talking into his radio, calling for backup.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Turned out Mr Mitchell hadn’t gone away on holiday. He was at home. Dead. Lying in his bath, Gaffa tape round his mouth, ankles and wrists.

  McCoy looked down at him. He looked about thirty-five. Shirt, tie, suit trousers, grey socks. Just like any other guy who worked in an office. His hair was brown, just over his collar. Eyes were blue, staring up at the ceiling. He felt Murray behind him.

  ‘His office say he hasn’t been in for three days. Thought he had the flu. Tried calling a few times but they didn’t get an answer. By the look of it he lived alone. He’s the only name on the letters on the hall floor.’

  He moved round McCoy and peered into the bath.

  ‘No messages written in his skin, no torture, none of the usual cuts and bruises before the main event. Are we even sure it was him?’ asked Murray.

  McCoy nodded. ‘It’s him all right.’ He pointed. ‘Windows look right into Elaine’s flat.’ He sat down on the edge of the bath. ‘Don’t think this guy was of any real importance to Connolly. That’s why there’s none of the usual stuff. Wasn’t personal. Probably didn’t even know him. He just happened to be unlucky enough to own the flat that looked into Elaine’s bedroom.’

  ‘So he ended up murdered in his own bloody bathroom,’ said Murray.

  McCoy nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Poor bugger,’ said Murray. ‘Poor unlucky bugger.’

  Half an hour later, they were sitting at Alan Mitchell’s dining-room table, trying to stay out the way of the SOC boys and the ambulance men and Andy the photographer. Wattie, as instructed by Murray, was ‘taking charge of the fucking scene for bloody once’.

  Mitchell’s flat was bright, big windows looking over the snowy gardens, white painted walls. Big picture of Buster Keaton above the fireplace, big one of Geronimo on the opposite wall. The furniture looked like it had come straight out a magazine, modern and stylish. Smoked-glass coffee table with a pile of some old magazine called Town on it, long low purple sofa covered in a tigerskin throw and a colour TV in a cabinet. No evidence of anyone else staying there, hardly any evidence of Mitchell himself.