by Alan Parks
‘Could say that.’ Cooper seemed to have broken his nose again since the last time McCoy had seen him. Looked a right mess. ‘I hear you’re running with the big boys now.’
McCoy nodded. ‘Detective Harry McCoy of the Glasgow Police Force.’
‘Aye well, don’t forget who put you there.’
Cooper eased off the table, re-tucked the towel round his waist and padded over to where his clothes were hanging from a peg on the wall. He fished out his fags; shook the packet and a little wrap fell into his hand. He opened it up and carefully raised it to his nose, making sure it stayed level. He inhaled deeply, grimaced, then held it out to McCoy.
He shook his head. ‘Wee bit early for me. I’ve no even had my breakfast yet. So, what’s up?’
Cooper wiped the powder from his nostrils, rubbed it on his gums. ‘Need you to do me a favour.’
‘Me?’ asked McCoy.
‘Aye, you. Why the fuck not? You’re a polis, aren’t you? Solve crimes, that no the sketch? You know the Ben Duncan?’
McCoy nodded. Was one of Cooper’s pubs up in Lambhill. Funny-looking place. More like a big suburban bungalow plonked down by the road than a normal pub.
‘Got turned over last night. Clowns broke open the filing cabinet, took a couple of hundred quid in an envelope.’
‘No exactly crime of the century.’
‘That’s no what’s bothering me. They took something else as well.’
‘What?’
‘My book.’
McCoy whistled. Losing a tally book wasn’t good. Had the record of who owed what, who was behind on their payments. For a loan shark like Cooper it was the equivalent of the Bible.
‘It’ll be amateurs, daft boys. No pro would do over one of my pubs, wouldnae be that stupid.’ He dipped into the Agnew’s bag sitting in the corner and pulled out a can of McEwan’s. ‘No questions asked. I just want the book back.’
‘Why me? You’ve got loads of people—’
‘Because I say so. That a problem?’ Normally Cooper looked sleepy, even a wee bit dopey. Not now. His faced had changed instantly. McCoy knew not to argue when he was like that. Didn’t take much figuring out. Cooper was chucking his weight about. Even though you think you’re a big boy now, you’re still no as big as me. He didn’t mind really, seemed simple enough to ask around, and Cooper had helped him out a good few times.
‘Okay, just asking, that’s all.’
Cooper grinned at him, happy again. ‘That’s the boy.’ He sat back up on the table and took a long slug of his lager.
McCoy turned to go.
‘Heard you were in the shebeen the other night. Cashing in your chips, eh?’
‘I’m owed, aren’t I?’
Cooper took another slug of beer, swilled it round in his mouth. ‘Christ, that speed’s fucking strong.’ He wiped at his mouth. ‘You watch that wee Janey. She’s mad for the drugs. Dope, acid, any shite she can get.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Means she’s no your girlfriend, McCoy. She sucks men off for a living. She’s a whoor, a druggy wee whoor. I’d steer clear if I was you.’
‘This friendly advice or an order?’
Cooper held his hands out. ‘Up to you, pal, up to you.’
McCoy was just about to ask him what the fuck he meant when they heard banging and shouts coming from outside. The door swung open, blonde girl standing there, breathing heavy, looking panicked.
‘The polis are here. They’ve stoved in the door!’
Cooper looked at him and McCoy shook his head. ‘No way. Nothing to do with me.’
Couple of seconds later Raeburn appeared in the doorway, two other plainers behind him looking over his shoulder. Bernie Raeburn was a detective at Eastern, had been for years. First time they met, McCoy thought he was a prick and Raeburn thought he was a smart arse. Nothing much had changed since. Raeburn wandered into the room, looked the two of them up and down, Cooper in his towel, McCoy in his suit, and smirked.
‘Hand job for your boss, is it, McCoy? Always thought you two were queer for each other.’
McCoy didn’t say anything, seemed easier just to let Raeburn have his fun, and there was nothing a cunt like him could say would wind Cooper up. He was too fly for that, he’d just store it all up, bide his time. The two plainers were chuckling away like good yes-men should.
‘So, if you’ve finished wanking him off, you can beat it before I call Murray. Some of us have got work to do.’
McCoy looked at Cooper and raised his eyebrows. Cooper nodded towards the door.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Raeburn. ‘You got to ask his permission before you can wipe your arse? Go! Vanish! Vamonos! Fuck off!’
McCoy pushed past the plainers, one of them blowing him a kiss, and left them to it. Didn’t know why Raeburn bothered. Cooper’s lawyer would have him out in a couple of hours. And Raeburn was even stupider than he thought if he thought he’d find anything that connected Cooper to the sauna. He’d be just another customer enjoying a medicinal massage for a slipped disc, doctor’s note enclosed, once his lawyer was finished.
The corridor was full of girls in flimsy dressing gowns swearing at the uniforms, calling them everything under the sun. Two naked Indian men were standing in a cabin doorway looking terrified, hands cupped over their privates as a uniform tried to spell their names in his notebook. A uniform went to grab him and he held up his badge. A muttered, ‘Sorry, sir’, and the uniform backed away, looking sheepish. Usual shitshow from Eastern Division. If McCoy knew Cooper, the place would be open for business again by eight o’clock tonight.
Out in the street the receptionist and a couple of the girls were being hustled into the police van while a queue of old biddies waiting at the bus stop enjoyed the show. It wasn’t that far from Tollcross into town and the rain was still off, so McCoy thought he’d walk. The driver and his silver Zephyr were long gone anyway. He’d be late into the shop, Murray’d be looking for him, but he may as well be hung for an inch as a mile and get this tally book stuff of Cooper’s out the road.
Outside the Irn-Bru factory a man was selling the first edition of the Evening Times from an old pram. McCoy bought one, skimmed ‘CITY CENTRE SHOOTING HORROR’ on the front page and looked inside.
They’d managed to make the identikit of the boy look half decent. Actually looked like the person for once. Murray must be desperate, if he’d gone public this quick. Maybe rules get bent when you’ve no leads and you’ve got the Chief Super and the press breathing down your neck. There was a little picture of the crucifix the boy’d been wearing in the corner of the page. Looked the same as every other one he’d ever seen. Still, you never knew, might work. He tucked the paper under his arm and crossed the road to the City Bakeries. Stomach was still rumbling.
NINE
A square battery, some wooden coat hangers, two well-thumbed copies of Parade, a naked Barbie and a shortbread tin with a picture of Ben Lomond on it. All of them arranged on a dirty blue blanket spread out on the wet cobbles.
‘Anything you fancy, son?’
The old man standing on the other side of the blanket looked at him hopefully. McCoy shook his head.
‘Not today, pal.’
The old man nodded, looked resigned, stuck his shaky hands back in his pockets. Another small defeat. One of many by the look of him.
McCoy relented. ‘Tell you what, I’ll take the magazines. How much?’
‘Ten pence for the two. Good stuff in there, son.’
McCoy handed the money over, stuffed the magazines in the pocket of his coat and made his way down the alley. He kept to the centre of the path, avoiding standing on the blankets and sheets laid out either side, each blanket covered in a variety of clothes, old shoes, broken toys, cutlery. Anything the people standing behind them had found to sell.
Paddy’s Market was under the railway arches down by the Clyde. It was the market for people whose kids didn’t have shoes, who tea was bread and jam or a bag of chips if
they were lucky. Glasgow was still full of them, no new high flats and colour TVs on the tick from DER for them. This is where they came every Friday to buy and sell broken biscuits in plastic bags, torn net curtains – anything. Paddy’s was like some warped department store; there was nothing it didn’t have, just nothing you’d want to buy.
McCoy squeezed between a bloke with blood all over his face shouting at nobody and a man with a pram full of stolen firelighters and walked into the railway arches at the back, out of the rain. Back here was where the upmarket stuff got sold; back here people had to pay to pitch their stalls. Stolen tobacco, dead men’s suits reeking of sweat and mothballs, motorcycle parts, fur stoles stiff with age. Quality stuff. The divide was absolute. Under the arches and outside in the rain. Two different worlds.
He ducked in and headed for the cafe at the back. It was hard to see through the gloom. There were no windows back here, just strings of anaemic-looking light bulbs hanging over each of the stalls, shaking on their wires as the trains rumbled overhead. He smelt the cafe before he got there, bacon grease and stewed tea mixing with the general fug of damp and old clothes. He bought a tea, sat down on one of the orange plastic chairs and took out his wee red jotter with a laurel wreath on it. Started a new one for each case, got them out of Woolies specially. He’d stuck the picture from last night’s Evening Times in it. Had drawn a question mark beside it. Next page was headed CONNECTIONS – BOY GIRL. List under it.
Work?
Punter?
Boyfriend?
Hired?
Then he’d written
Howie Nairn. How connected to the girl?
He sighed, shut it, sipped at his rotten tea and tried to think. Found himself listening to the couple at the next table arguing about where they were going to for Christmas dinner next year. Not his mother’s again. Over her dead body seemed to be the gist of it.
‘Mr McCoy.’
He looked up and Ally Jeffries was standing there. Bunnet and filthy car coat in place as usual. Dirty Ally by name and nature.
‘Thought I’d catch you here, Ally. Have a seat.’
He looked pained. ‘I’ve no opened up yet, Mr McCoy, stall’s still sitting there.’
McCoy just pointed at the seat. Ally sighed and sat. McCoy pushed the two copies of Parade across the table to him. ‘Got you a present.’
Ally put a pair of smeary milk-bottle glasses on and started flicking through them. A professional’s eye. Dirty Ally’s stall at the back of the arches sold second-hand porno mags, dirty books, photo sets of middle-aged women lying spreadeagled on flowery bedspreads. No one knew where it was, but he’d a photo lab as well. He’d develop anything. The kind of stuff that you couldn’t give to Boots. Always printed off a few copies for himself as well, sold them on to special customers. That was the price you had to pay. He closed the magazines, took his glasses off.
‘Think I’ve seen these ones before. After a while all gash looks the same to me.’ Didn’t stop him slipping them into his pocket.
‘There’s a fiver in one of them. A favour. Need you to put the word out. Some clown’s broken into the Ben Duncan, stole something from Stevie Cooper. Something he wants back. Long as its back with him in the next couple of days he’s willing to go easy, no questions asked.’
‘That right?’ Ally grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. ‘You and the boy Cooper are getting awfy friendly these days. Thick as thieves, you two.’
McCoy stood up. ‘Just get the word out, Ally. Get the stuff back to me and that’ll be another fiver in a wank mag for your collection. Money for old rope.’ He pointed over to a man in a raincoat and pulled-down trilby standing by Ally’s stall. ‘Better go, Ally. Think you’ve got a customer.’
*
‘Where have you been?’
Wattie had a face on him like a girl who’d been stood up on a Saturday night. Half ashamed and half angry. McCoy ignored him, took off his coat and sat down at his desk, but Wattie wasn’t giving up. ‘You and me are supposed to be doing everything together, that’s what you were told. Where were you this morning then? I’ve been sitting here like a right arse. Everyone looking at me asking where you are.’
‘I miss anything?’ he asked.
Before Wattie could reply the battered wooden doors of the office swung open and Thomson appeared. Face lighting up when he saw McCoy.
‘Well, well, Harry Shagger McCoy, you’re a quiet one, right enough,’ he said, big grin splitting his face. He put his briefcase down on his desk and really got going. Started poking his finger into the hole he’d made with his other hand. ‘You dirty bugger. And that early in the morning as well. Hats off to you.’
‘Very good, Thomson. I was there seeing someone,’ he said patiently.
‘I bet you fucking were. Who was it? That wee blonde with the big—’
‘McCoy! And you too, Watson. Now!’
Murray’s bull-like head had appeared round his office door. ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Wattie. ‘Why do I never know what’s bloody going on?’
They stepped into the office. Murray was holding out a piece of paper with an address on it. ‘We got lucky for once. Someone’s recognised the boy from the paper.’
TEN
‘Tommy Malone. That’s his name. Thomas Gerard Malone.’ The priest crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul.’
‘You sure?’ asked Wattie.
He nodded. ‘Oh, I’m sure all right. I recognised the poor lad straight away.’
‘We’ll need you to do a formal identification.’
‘Least I can do, least I can do.’
And how did you know him, Mr . . .’
‘I’m not a mister, son – I’m a father. Father McClure. I take it you’re not of the Catholic faith?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Church of Scotland.’
McClure nodded, smiled. ‘We can’t all be lucky enough to enjoy the blessings of the one true faith.’ Waited for some laughter that didn’t come. He leant forward, picked his glasses off the desk and peered at a file. ‘He was a resident here, Tommy was. With us for a while. Sixty-nine to seventy-two. Left us last year.’
‘And why was he here? Did he have a record?’
‘Nothing serious. Sure you lads won’t take a drink?’ He nodded over at the trolley by the bookcase. Bottles and decanters, crystal glasses. McCoy wanted a drink, really wanted a drink, but he shook his head. Wattie followed suit.
‘Not for me either, Father. Record? You were saying?’
Undeterred McClure got up from the desk and poured himself one. Half a crystal tumbler of Bell’s. Took a gulp disguised as a sip. ‘As I said, it was nothing serious, stole some cigarettes and a pint of milk from a shop when he was thirteen.’
‘What age is he now?’
He thought for a minute. ‘He’ll be eighteen in a couple of months. Well, he would have been . . .’ He trailed off.
McCoy couldn’t take his eyes off him. Watched his fat fingers drum on the file, the tapping of the well-polished shoe, Brylcreem-slicked hair, a bead of sweat on his forehead as the whisky went down. Reminded him of every other priest he’d known. It was the smell in the building as well, floor polish and incense. Sacred Heart on the wall, Jesus gazing down on them, arms open, blood in each palm.
Soon as he’d found out where they were going it had started. Sick feeling in his stomach, clammy hands. Tried the counting down like he’d been told. Tried to imagine a peaceful scene in his mind. Didn’t work. When Wattie stopped the car next to the chapel, McCoy thought he might just go, walk down onto Paisley Road West and find the nearest pub, leave him to it. Was sick of feeling like this. Didn’t want to go back to the doctor, knew he should.
‘He still at the home?’ asked Wattie.
‘No, no. He left almost a year ago.’
‘Did he have a family?’
‘None that I know of, part of the reason he was sent here. Mother died in childbirth, there was a father but . . .’ He tapped the side of h
is head. ‘Mental problems. Not been here since St Anne’s took him in. It’s a sad story, right enough.’
‘And what was he like, Tommy Malone?’
Wattie had the bit between his teeth, notebook out, list of questions already written down in preparation. McCoy let him get on with it, glad he didn’t have to do the talking. Didn’t think he’d be able to, even if he wanted to. Kept looking at the priest’s hands. The bead of sweat rolling down from his hair.
The priest sat back in his chair with a squeak of leather and rested the crystal glass on his belly. Was used to being listened to, took his time. ‘He wasn’t the brightest lad, but he was a trier. Could be easily led, talked into things by the other boys. Believe me, we have some right menaces in here, some right menaces. Thought if he did what they said, made them laugh or whatnot, they’d all be pals. Not a canny lad, if you know what I mean. That’s why we were happy he got a placement at the estate. Assistant groundsman. Quiet there, no one to lead him astray. He had a room above the stables, was very thankful, happy as a sandboy he was.’
McCoy sat up in his chair. All this Bing Crosby shite had gone on long enough. Had to say something before he was too dizzy, while he could still think.
‘He can’t have been that happy. He shot a nineteen-year-old girl dead, then shot himself.’
The priest’s face changed. ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he said.
‘McCoy.’
‘Irish name, isn’t it? I trust you aren’t one of these Church of Scotland heathens.’ He smiled at Wattie. ‘Present company excepted.’
‘I gave up being a Catholic a long time ago, Mr McClure, so you can skip the “we’re all in this together” shite. Tommy Malone shot a girl, then he shot himself. Why would he do that?’
His kindly manner disappeared. McClure leant forward, eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Don’t know why Tommy would do such a wicked thing, why he would want to bring shame on himself and the good people that looked after him. When I think of all the effort we put into that boy, the care he got from me, from all the nuns here, it makes me heartsick. To think he could have turned away from us, from his caring family here, from the teachings of the Lord.’
