Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  THIRTEEN

  ‘She chucked a drink over you!’

  ‘Wasn’t the first time and, believe me, she’s chucked a lot worse. We went out for a while, things got messy and she left me for Gibbs. End of. Happy?’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Got to be more to it than that. And what was all that about the sunglasses?’

  ‘Aye well, maybe there is but it’s fuck all to do with you. Okay?’

  McCoy sat down on the bed, rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t have looked at the picture, shouldn’t even have come up here. Was basic stuff, just background, could have sent Thomson. Could even have sent Wattie by himself. But no, couldn’t help himself, wanted to see Gibbs, wanted to see Angela, wanted to pick at it like a scab, make it hurt again, and he’d succeeded.

  They were in Malone’s bedroom, tiny place above the stables in the grounds of the big house. Place smelt stale, unaired. The single bed was unmade, still had the greasy imprint of his head on the pillow. Wattie was looking out the window, martyred.

  ‘Come on,’ said McCoy, opening the door of the wardrobe. ‘Let’s get this done and get the fuck out of here.’ There wasn’t much inside. A pair of jeans, few T-shirts, wash bag, jumper balled up on the bottom. He shut the door and looked round. Could tell this was a waste of time already. There was a calendar on the wall, ‘Views of Bonnie Scotland’, a crucifix hanging from a nail, picture of some sports day at Nazareth House. Malone holding a wee cup, Father McClure in the crowd behind. The dresser was old and scratched, looked like one of those utility ones from after the war. Couple of empty beer bottles on it, tub of Brylcreem, some Old Spice talc.

  ‘Surprised he didn’t do himself in earlier,’ said McCoy. ‘Living in this dump would be enough to send anyone over the edge.’

  McCoy slid the bedside drawer open. Couple of scud mags. Biker Orgy, Cavalcade. Made him wonder how Dirty Ally was getting on. Cooper liked results fast. Maybe he’d go and check on him tonight. There was a book in there as well, old hardback, gold-edged pages like a Bible. He picked it up and looked at the spine.

  ‘The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Not sure, heard the name I think.’ He opened it and flicked through.

  We had resumed Magical work, in a desultory way, on finding that Mathers was attacking us. He succeeded in killing most of the dogs. (At this time I kept a pack of bloodhounds and went man-hunting over the moors.) The servants too were constantly being made ill, one in one way and one in another.

  ‘Bit advanced for young Tommy.’

  He put the book back and closed the drawer, sat down on the bed again and looked round. Why would a boy living in a place like this, a place like anywhere else, suddenly kill some girl and then himself? Had to be a reason, but whatever it was he didn’t think he was going to find it in this room.

  ‘The gun,’ McCoy said. ‘Where did he get the gun?’

  Wattie was flicking through Biker Orgy. ‘Can’t be that hard to get hold of a gun round here, all that hunting, shooting and fishing.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘It was a .45 pistol. He didn’t get that kind of a gun here. Looked like an old war thing, filed-off serial number. A hot job. Where would an ordinary lad like Tommy Malone get a gun like that?’

  Wattie stopped at a page, turned the magazine vertical and peered at it. ‘Maybe he wasn’t so ordinary after all.’ He looked up to find McCoy staring at him.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie looked puzzled. ‘Nothing. Just that maybe he wasn’t so ordinary.’

  ‘That might be the first useful thing you’ve said. Still doesn’t make up for following me around like a bad smell, but it’s a start. Anyway, he could only get a gun like that in town.’

  ‘Who would he ask?’

  ‘Davey Waters.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Been at it for years, smart enough to never get done. Never touches the guns himself, gets wee lads to deliver them. Sits in the Vale all day.’

  Wattie was staring at the page of the magazine, not listening to him.

  ‘What’s up with you, Wattie? They no have scud mags in Greenock? Take it with you if you’re that interested. Tommy Malone doesn’t need it any more.’

  Wattie didn’t say anything, just held out the open magazine. A newspaper picture of a young woman’s face, good-looking, blonde, had been stuck onto the centrefold. It had been pasted onto the body of a woman lying on a couch with her legs open.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Wattie.

  McCoy took it, had a closer look. ‘Sharon Tate, I think.’

  ‘She the one that got murdered by those loonies in America?’

  McCoy nodded, flicked through the magazine and found another picture. This time a picture of Sharon Tate’s face was stuck on a woman tied to a motorbike, nude, rope looking like it hurt, some bloke with a Hells Angels jacket and a big cock looming over her. ‘Not what you’d call your average wank material.’ He shut the magazine, gave it back to Wattie.

  ‘Tommy Malone’s still waters are starting to look pretty bloody deep. C’mon, let’s get out of here.’

  *

  They heard them before they saw them. Barks and whelps ringing round the yard outside the stables. They stopped and watched as six or seven gun dogs of various sizes appeared round the corner. They were panting heavily, tongues lolling out their mouths, steam coming off them in the cold, crisp air. A brown one at the front saw them and barked, others’ heads up in an instant, and they ran towards them. McCoy stepped back, then noticed with relief that their tails were wagging. Couple of seconds later they were surrounded by them, all jumping up, all wanting patting or scratching.

  ‘Thank God they’re friendly,’ said McCoy, trying to avoid being pushed over by a big Great Dane-looking thing with its paws on his chest. A sharp whistle sounded and the dogs froze, turned and moved as one, running back down the gravel path leading towards the house.

  ‘Shite,’ said McCoy under his breath.

  Two men were coming towards them. Black swept-back hair, waxed jackets, broken rifles hanging over their arms. Both walking with the air of self-confidence that only generations of money, privilege and public school can bring. Lord Dunlop was in his mid-fifties, looked ten years younger, neat moustache, military posture, still had the good looks that had made him a society pin-up when he was younger. The son was broader, coarser, not as good-looking. As far as McCoy remembered his mother had been a model, some American heiress that ended up taking an overdose in a shitty hotel in Venice. Strange how two good-looking people can make one that isn’t. The two of them stopped, dogs milling around their legs.

  ‘Mr Gibbs let us in,’ said Wattie, sounding apologetic. ‘Police.’ He started digging in his pocket for his card. Lord Dunlop ignored him, was staring straight at McCoy.

  ‘McCoy. That was your name, wasn’t it? What in god’s name are you doing roaming round my property? I thought you’d been dismissed.’ His voice was cut-glass English, Scottish upbringing hadn’t made a dent.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ said McCoy. ‘Still gainfully employed.’ He looked back at the stable block. ‘Tommy Malone.’

  ‘What of him?’ asked Dunlop.

  ‘What of him? He’s dead. Shot a girl in broad daylight then blew the back of his own head off.’

  No response from either of them.

  ‘We’re just up here doing some background, having a look at his room. You have much to do with him?’

  Dunlop Junior laughed. ‘Hardly.’ Same accent as his father. ‘He was a junior groundskeeper, I believe. Went missing about a week ago, didn’t turn up for work. I only met him once and I’m quite sure my father never did. There’re almost thirty staff on this estate, you know.’

  ‘That right?’ said McCoy conversationally. ‘Well, that’s not that many. Remember him, do you, Lord Dunlop?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Dreadful business, by all accounts, but not s
omething I can help you with. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He held up seven or eight dead birds tied together, heads lolling. Grouse? Partridge? McCoy had no idea.

  ‘How about Lorna Skirving – ever meet her?’

  Lord Dunlop shook his head. ‘Sorry. No idea who that may be.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Dunlop Junior looked up, spaniel still nuzzling in at his hand. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said McCoy. ‘If you don’t know her, you don’t know her.’

  Lord Dunlop started walking, dogs crowded round him. ‘You’ve had your fun, McCoy. Now get going before I have to call one of your superiors. Again.’

  McCoy tugged at an imaginary forelock as he passed. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Good day.’

  *

  ‘He’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?’ said Wattie, opening the car door. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘Who he thinks he is, is Lord Dunlop of Broughton, Chief of Clan Dunlop, Right Honourable Member for West Stirlingshire. It goes on and on. That’s who he thinks he is.’

  ‘What’s the son’s name? Looks just like him.’

  ‘Teddy, I think.’ McCoy settled into the passenger seat, found a tube of Polos someone had left in the glove compartment. He got one out, rubbed the dust off it. ‘If our Tommy Malone wasn’t such an ordinary boy after all—’

  ‘That was my line,’ said Wattie proudly.

  ‘Then maybe Lorna Skirving wasn’t so ordinary either. Maybe she wasn’t just a waitress giving hand jobs for spending money. Maybe she was something more, maybe both of them were.’

  ‘No sure what you mean . . .’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  Wattie turned the engine over. ‘Where we off to?’

  ‘Back to the shop, then off to the Vale.’

  ‘Davey Waters?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘And the hair of the dog that bit my arse last night.’

  FOURTEEN

  Soon as they walked in the shop they could tell something was up. The main office floor was normally frantic, people joking, arguing, shouting into phones. Not today, though. Even Thomson was quiet. Head bent over a new electric typewriter, tongue stuck out in concentration.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked McCoy, sitting down at his desk. ‘Somebody die?’

  Thomson looked up. ‘Not yet, but you better start saying your prayers. Murray’s looking for you and he’s fucking beeling, been shouting the odds all afternoon.’

  Wattie had sat down at his desk in the corner; he’d been shoved over in the space below the noticeboard, lowest of the low. He held up a sheet torn out of a yellow telephone message pad.

  Wattie plonked the note down in front of him. ‘Alasdair Cowie wants you to go and see him. Maybe he wants to go for another curry.’

  McCoy took it and stuffed it in his pocket, straightened his tie, whatever good that was going to do. Was aware everyone on the floor was watching him. ‘Better get this over then, eh?’

  Murray was on the phone, gestured for him to come in and sit down. McCoy listened for a minute or two then tuned out, some rubbish about quota rearrangements. Nothing to do but wait. Murray was leaning back, talking away. He was wearing a thick tweed suit for some reason, shoulders and arms protesting against the seams. Even the chair he was sitting in looked too small for him. His office was neat, same as always, everything in its place, picture of two smiling kids in a frame on the desk. Framed back page of the Scotsman on the wall. ‘HAWICK TAKE TITLE!’ A much younger Murray in rugby kit, covered in mud, holding up a trophy, big grin on his face. Must be nice to have a life that ordered, everything in its right place, kids, wife, job. Click of the receiver being put down brought him back.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  McCoy shrugged. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Murray shook his head, looked more disappointed than angry. ‘Just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You’re supposed to be a senior officer, McCoy. Responsible. What the fuck were you thinking?’

  The penny dropped. ‘Christ, that didn’t take them long, did it, we just left the bloody place.’

  ‘That it? That all you’ve got to say? Think being your usual smart arse is going to get you out of this one, do you? Not a fucking chance, son, not this time.’

  McCoy suddenly realised he’d called this one wrong. He’d only seen Murray really angry a couple of times, didn’t want to see it again, especially if he was at the receiving end. His neck was already starting to go red, big fingers crushed into fists. He leant across the desk, voice quiet, another danger sign.

  ‘Do you think I like having the Chief Super speak to me like I’m some sort of cunt? Do you think I like the fact I didn’t know you were up there so I looked like an incompetent cunt as well? Think that’s all a big laugh? Another chance to shrug your fucking shoulders, is it?’

  McCoy held his hands up, started to apologise. ‘Sir, I’m really sorry, I didn’t know that—’

  ‘You shut your fucking mouth!’ Murray was standing now, leaning over the desk. ‘Don’t you ever do anything that fucking stupid again. You’re a senior officer, not a bloody cadet. I fought for you last time, McCoy, not this time. You hear me? Stay away from the Dunlops, from Broughton House, from anywhere within five fucking miles of them.’

  McCoy nodded, tried to ride out the storm. ‘I only asked him some routine questions, sir, the boy worked there—’

  Murray was up out of his chair and round. McCoy jumped back, thought he was going to hit him. Murray grabbed his lapels, red face pushed into his, veins in his neck sticking out.

  ‘A few questions? Last time you went up there to ask him a few questions you were drunk, accused his son of killing someone—’

  ‘It was just after wee Bobby died, I wasn’t right, I—’

  ‘Do you know what I had to do to get you out of that? Even when you had some sort of excuse? Dunlop, the Super, Personnel. Every one of them wanted you canned. I wish I’d fucking listened to them now.’

  He pushed him away and McCoy’s chair tipped, dumped him on the floor. He stood up, was starting to get annoyed, something he didn’t often do. Tried to keep calm, remember where he was and who he was talking to.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect you put me on this fucking case. What was I supposed to do? Not investigate it?’

  ‘And that’s your excuse, is it? Nothing’s ever your fault, is it, McCoy? No fucking flies on you. Too smart for the likes of us.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Murray had already turned away.

  ‘Just get out my sight, McCoy, go on. Fuck off before I do something I shouldn’t.’

  McCoy came out the office just in time to see everyone look back down at their desks. Was so quiet he could hear the big clock on the far wall ticking. He sat down, tried to slap some of the dust off his trousers. Lit a cigarette; let the general hubbub start up again. Could see Wattie looking over at him anxiously, wondering what was going on. No question, he felt like a total arse. He hadn’t expected Dunlop to do anything, thought he’d be on the back foot with a murderer working for them, so he went up there chucking his weight about, looking for Angela, looking for a scrap with Gibbs. All the time forgetting how fucking bulletproof the rich really were. All it took was one phone call from Lord Dunlop and he was fucked.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Wattie.

  McCoy nodded, picked up a report from the desk and pretended to read it, realised his hand was shaking. Murray’s door opened again and he headed for the big blackboard at the back of the office, pile of papers in his hand. Told everyone to gather round. A scraping of chairs and bums settling onto the edge of desks then a silence. Nobody whispering or making jokes during the briefing today.

  He sat on the edge of the desk, put his papers down; room was silent, everyone waiting for him to go on. ‘Forty-seven hours, gents,’ he said. ‘Forty-seven hours since Lorna Skirving was shot dead in the middle of town. We know who did it: Tommy Malone. Up until then a quiet boy working as a gardener, keeping hims
elf to himself. What we don’t know is why. Why he got on a bus to town and shot the Skirving girl. Why he shot himself. Where he was between the time he left Broughton House and got to the bus station. We don’t know what his relationship to Skirving was and we don’t know why he killed her.’

  He looked round the room at them all. McCoy tried to look concerned, everyone else just looked scared. This wasn’t an ordinary Murray briefing. None of his usual terrible jokes, no reading out of scores from the Police Rugby League that nobody cared about. This was serious.

  ‘I want to know why this happened – why a young girl is dead and why a young man shot himself. We’ve got about three days’ grace before the Super decides to shut us down. Three days for us to find some answers.’ He stood up again, pointed. ‘McCoy, you work from the girl towards him and for fuck sake stop before you get anywhere near the Dunlops, clear?’

  McCoy nodded.

  Thomson put his hand up. ‘Sir?’ Murray nodded at him. ‘This might be a stupid thing to say, but maybe he didn’t kill her.’ A general sniggering, relief of tension. Thomson reddened.

  ‘Shut it,’ barked Murray. ‘On you go.’

  ‘What I mean is maybe he was just killing someone. Someone who turned out to be Lorna Skirving. Just a girl. Maybe there’s no connection after all?’

  Silence, everyone looking at Thomson. Murray ran his hands through what was left of his hair. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Wattie put his hand up and Murray nodded at him.

  ‘He was looking in the crowd, sir, could just have been looking for any girl, but I don’t think so, seemed to know her when he saw her.’

  ‘That right, McCoy?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Think he was looking for Lorna Skirving. Don’t know for sure.’

  Murray didn’t look happy. ‘No way a boy’s just going to go to the bus station and kill someone he doesn’t know. Why would he do that? Has to be a connection.’ He rubbed at the bristle coming through on his chin. ‘Christ, if there’s not then god help us. Wilson? You here?’