Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  Man at the back of the room stood up. Marcus Wilson, old hand, only a couple of years from retirement. ‘You, and only you, deal with the boy’s background and his time at the Dunlops. I don’t have to tell you this, but tread bloody lightly. Whether we like it or not, the Dunlops have some very important friends. Someone here has already fucked them off, make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Wilson nodded. ‘Sir.’

  ‘And you.’ He nodded at McKee. ‘Touts, grasses, someone must know something about this.’ He stood up to go. Stopped. ‘The boyfriend. What was his name?’ He was looking at McCoy.

  ‘Nairn’s boyfriend, you mean? Bobby.’

  Murray nodded. ‘What did he have to say for himself?’

  He was about to say he thought Murray was sending a woman to interview him but he didn’t. ‘Haven’t spoken to him, sir.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to him?’ McCoy shook his head. ‘Playing a blinder today, McCoy, playing a blinder right enough.’ He pointed at Wattie. ‘You speak to this Bobby as well. Let’s just hope Mr McCoy hasn’t forgotten to interview any other important witnesses, eh?’

  A few smiles, teacher’s pet getting a doing. Murray stood up. ‘What are you all still doing here? Move!’

  FIFTEEN

  Che Guevara with his beret. Angela Davis with her Afro. ‘Bringing the Boys Home’ written over a picture of a coffin draped in the American flag. Cowie’s office had certainly changed since the last time McCoy had been here. Posters covered one half of the office now. Still had that stupid goldfish swimming round in its murky water though. Been there for years, had to be the world’s oldest goldfish by now. Cowie’d bagsied the old horse tackle room at the back of the station, moved in a couple of years ago and refused to leave. Place was becoming more and more like a junkshop every day. He’d bought an old desk, faded rug. Every so often Murray’d come in and scream at him to get rid of all the junk. He’d nod and say ‘Yes, sir’ and never shift a thing.

  McCoy didn’t sit down, kept by the door, held up the yellow page from the message pad. ‘What d’you need me for, Cowie? I’ve just had a kicking from Murray, need to get going.’ He took another look round, empty space on the wall. He nodded over. ‘What happened to your Pirelli calendar, by the way?’

  Cowie smiled. Girl sitting at the other desk didn’t. Combat jacket peppered in wee badges, long blonde hair, nice figure. Desk in front of her was covered in books and folders, overspill on the floor beside her.

  ‘Contrary to appearances, McCoy isn’t quite the arsehole he seems,’ said Cowie. ‘That comes with the job. Much as it pains me to say it, he’s quite a nice guy underneath it all.’ He wagged his finger between them. ‘Susan Thomas, meet Harry McCoy.’

  ‘Like looking at girly calendars, do you, Mr McCoy?’ She was English, sounded faintly London.

  He went to nod, then shook his head.

  She smiled. ‘Oh well, at least you tried.’

  ‘Susan’s doing a PhD up at the university,’ said Cowie, picking a pile of papers off an old chair and nodding for McCoy to sit down. ‘Researching deviant sexual behaviour and its commercial exploitation. Under the counter Super 8s, fetish magazines, specialised prostitution, things like that. Helping me out with this liaison group for a few months. What’s your thesis title again, Susan?’

  ‘Deviant Sexuality as New Commodity – Exploitation, Capitalism, Fetishisation and the Rise of the Disembodied Self.’

  ‘Kinky,’ said McCoy. ‘I’ll have to read that when you’ve finished. Funny subject for a woman, mind you.’

  Susan held her hands out. ‘What can I tell you? Needlework class was full up.’

  ‘You walked into that one,’ said Cowie.

  ‘The case you’re working on . . . Lorna Skirving?’ Susan asked. ‘Alasdair explained that her body bore traces of S&M activity – activity she may have been paid to perform?’

  McCoy nodded again. Wasn’t sure what S&M stood for exactly, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. ‘Might have been, but was all amateur stuff, according to her flatmate. Blowjobs for out-of-town businessmen, that sort of thing. You said all that whipping stuff went through Madame Polo’s up in Park Circus.’

  ‘Susan’s got another theory, think you should hear it,’ said Cowie.

  ‘It used to,’ she said. ‘One of the subjects I’ve been interviewing for my dissertation is a lawyer who lives in Edinburgh, comes through here every couple of weeks on business. While he’s here he likes to “indulge” himself, as he calls it.’ She took a slightly battered roll-up out a metal tobacco tin and lit up. ‘Have you heard of a woman called or calling herself Baby Strange?’

  ‘Baby Strange? You having me on?’

  ‘It’s not her birth name obviously, that’s the name she goes by. I’ve heard her mentioned a few times in my interviews but nobody seems to know much about her. Very hard to track down, I’ve been trying for a month or so.’

  ‘Who is she, then?’

  ‘Difficult to say, seems to be formulating a new mode of practice . . .’

  ‘Eh?’ said McCoy.

  ‘Go slowly,’ said Cowie. ‘He’s not as bright as he likes to think. That right, Einstein?’

  ‘Shut it, Cowie. Mode of . . .’

  ‘Basically she seems to be reordering the notion of pimp or madam. No fixed premises, no fixed stable of girls working for her. She operates in the margins, outside of the usual commercial structures surrounding prostitution. She’s more of a fixer or a connector. Specialises in the more extreme stuff – younger people, drugs, made-to-order pornography, that sort of thing. Seems the sexual revolution, for all the good it’s done, had a downside too. It’s left people jaded, looking for something different, and that is what she is able to supply.’

  ‘A sort of new Madame Polo?’ asked Cowie.

  She shook her head, tucked some strands of hair behind her ear. ‘No, completely different, to be honest. I’ve interviewed Madame Polo. She looks like Margaret Calvert, talks like a schoolteacher. She’s there for the rich businessmen and judges wanting their arses caned by nanny and a small sherry in the drawing room afterwards. That’s why she’s in Park Circus, makes them feel at home. Baby Strange is different.’

  ‘How different?’

  ‘I’m only working on gossip and what I can pick up here and there. Seems she can arrange just about anything. Girls, boys, orgies, voyeurism. You name it.’

  ‘You think Lorna Skirving was working for her?’

  She shrugged. ‘No idea. But it might explain her injuries.’

  ‘You got an address?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I wish I had. I’d love to interview her. If she’s doing what I hear she’s doing, then it’s an economic reinvention of the conventional model, very valuable for my thesis.’

  ‘But . . .’ said Cowie.

  She smiled, took his cue. ‘But I’m meeting another interview subject tomorrow . . . if she turns up, that is. Be the third time of trying. She may well know her, or at least know someone who does.’

  Cowie clapped his hands, rubbed them together, interview clearly over. ‘Sorry, McCoy, need to get on, you can thank Susan for helping solve your case later, we’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon.’ He stood up, held the door open. ‘Jackie and I are taking Susan for a curry tomorrow; she has still to experience the wonder that is the Shish Mahal. Fancy joining us? Got to promise not to talk shop though or Jackie will empty a dish of pakora sauce over me. No kidding.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock?’

  McCoy stood up, smiled at Susan. ‘Thanks for that. I’ll see you tomorrow then?’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ she said, pushing her hair back again. She smiled. ‘Maybe you can bring the nice guy underneath this time.’

  SIXTEEN

  Wattie was struggling to keep up, half walking, half running, following McCoy up Buchanan Street. It had just been turned into a pedestrian precinct, as the signs everywhere were proud to tell you. What that meant was
they’d paved over a decent, busy street, sat some benches on it and scattered round a few tubs of dying shrubs.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘He’ll kill you. He’ll find out and he’ll kill you.’

  McCoy kept walking, trying to get there before he was completely frozen by the snow that had started up again. Wattie caught up with him, grabbed his arm, pulled him round.

  ‘Murray tells you to stick with the girl, to leave everything else alone, and first thing you’re going to do is march into the Vale and ask Davey Waters if he sold Tommy Malone a gun. He’ll go nuts.’

  The two of them stood there in the gently falling snow, staring at each other. McCoy pushed his wet hair back from his eyes. ‘He’s not going to find out because I’m not going to tell him and neither are you. So either you stop moaning or you can fuck off. Up to you.’

  The Vale was opposite Queen Street Station, that’s why Davey Waters liked it. Not too many nosey regulars. Most of the clientele were either about to catch a train or had just come off one. Crowd changed all the time. The big illuminated sign above the double glass doors of the pub promised a lot more than it delivered. Inside was long room with toilets at the back, couple of one-armed bandits blinking mournfully and a TV above the bar with an out of order sign taped onto the screen. McCoy took his coat off, shook the snow off it and looked round. The usual. Couple of old jakeys nursing half pints, group of pinstriped businessmen waiting for the train back to Edinburgh, and Davey Waters sitting on the padded bench at the back.

  ‘That him?’ asked Wattie.

  McCoy nodded. ‘Get us a pint, eh?’ He wandered over to Waters, pulled out a wee stool with a ripped vinyl cushion and sat down. ‘Evening, Davey.’

  Davey grunted a hello, sipped his pint and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the broken TV. He was fifty odd, in a nondescript suit. Heavily oiled quiff was all that was left from his days as a Teddy boy. McCoy got out his wee red jotter and opened it up at the picture of Tommy Malone he’d cut out the paper, held it up in Davey’s line of vision.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your viewing pleasure, Davey, but I need you to take a look at this.’

  Davey grunted again, took the jotter and peered at the picture. ‘Nope,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘Nope, I’m not telling you or nope, I’ve never seen him before?’

  Wattie appeared with two pints and sat down.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said Waters, looking him up and down.

  ‘This is Wattie. May look like he’s just left school but he’s a right hard cunt, Davey, station’s new heavy. No qualms, this one, bust you as soon as he’d look at you. Wattie, this is Davey Waters. If you need a hot job in our fair city, he’s your man.’ The door banged open and three red-faced men in tweeds came in; Inverness train must have arrived. ‘Been selling many jobs lately, Davey? Sell any to the lad in the picture?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, that’s great, Davey. You’ve put my mind at rest because if you had you would be in a whole world of shite. This lad shot a girl a couple of hundred yards up the road, sure you heard about it, and Big Boss Murray isn’t happy about it, not happy at all. Wants it wrapped up quick. So he’s got everyone out trying to find who sold him the gun and when he finds out . . .’ McCoy shook his head. ‘Not going to be pretty. First of all he’s going to get Wattie here to knock seven shades of shite out of him and then he’s going to make sure he goes to Barlinnie for a very long time. Getting the picture, Davey? It all becoming clear? Selling him that gun was a big mistake, a very big mistake.’

  Davey was starting to look worried. ‘I didnae sell that boy any gun. That’s the truth. End of story.’

  McCoy sat back, took a swig of his pint, didn’t think he was lying. Unfortunately. Another fucking dead end.

  Davey stood up. ‘That it?’

  McCoy couldn’t think of any reason why not. ‘Tell you what, Davey. I’ll tell Murray I don’t think you got him the gun and you tell me where else he could have got it from.’

  Davey shook his head. Professional pride showing. ‘Nowhere in Glasgow. I can tell you that for nothing.’ He nodded over at the pinstriped suits. ‘There’s your problem. No seen those adverts with Jimmy Savile? “This is the age of the train”. Plenty guns in Edinburgh, Newcastle, Manchester. Take your pick. All yours for the price of a cheap day return. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business to run.’ He walked out, letting the door swing behind him.

  McCoy watched him go. ‘That’s us told then.’

  ‘Right hard cunt?’ said Wattie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know whether I’m flattered or insulted.’

  ‘Aye well, just think yourself lucky you didn’t have to prove it. Waters would have knocked your teeth out in seconds flat.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘You go back to the shop. Need to find some connection with Tommy Malone and Lorna Skirving. Check his records with the social. Maybe she was in care at some point and they met up. See if he was in any mixed homes. Think there’s one in Dundee, couple in Edinburgh and a big one just outside Dyce. See if the two of them ever overlapped. They have to have known each other somehow. Then after that—’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

  ‘Nope. Go and have a look at Lorna Skirving’s flat. Have a poke about, see if you can find anything.’

  ‘Thomson’s already done it, there’s nothing there.’

  ‘Thomson’s a good guy to have a drink with, but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.’

  ‘And I am?’ grinned Wattie. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Aye right.’

  ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Going to go and have a chat with Madame Polo. Not sure Cowie was right. If this girl did do kinky stuff, there’s a chance they ran into each other.’

  ‘So you’re going to some high-class brothel while I give a single-end in Royston the once-over?’

  ‘Them’s the perks. Now get going.’

  *

  Park Circus was part of a series of grand Edwardian terraces built on a hill overlooking Kelvingrove Park. They were unusual for Glasgow, looked more like something that should be in Edinburgh. It was a posh area, townhouses for rich people, some lawyers’ and bankers’ offices and a couple of hotels.

  The door had a buzzer and an intercom, no name. McCoy pressed it and said he was here to see Jean Baird. Waited a minute or two and then it clicked open. A girl was standing there dressed in a maid’s outfit. She opened the door wide and he stepped in.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected. Red flock wallpaper? Chandeliers? It wasn’t anything like that. Dark wood panelling, the tick of a grandfather clock, fresh flowers on a marble stand and some paintings of hills and glens dotted up the stairwell.

  The maid beckoned to follow her. There was a door sunk in the panelling; you’d miss it if you didn’t know it was there. She knocked twice, there was a muffled ‘Come in’ and she pushed the door open and stood aside.

  It was a small office, mostly taken up by a large Victorian desk. There was a woman sitting behind it. She was old but well preserved, hair swept up, face perfectly made up. She gestured to the chair in front of the desk.

  ‘Well, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘McCoy,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Mr McCoy, you certainly managed to get my attention. Not many people call me by that name, not any more. What can I do for you?’

  McCoy reached into his pocket and held out his police card. She glanced at it, nodded, and he put it back into his pocket.

  She smiled confidentially. ‘I assume you are aware of certain, how shall we say . . . arrangements I have with some of your colleagues in the higher echelons of the force.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘I’m not here about kickbacks, Mrs Baird.’

  She held up her hand. ‘Helene, please. I haven’t answered to that other name for many years.’

  He took out the little picture of Lorna Skirving and pushed it across the
polished desk. She picked it up, looked at it and pushed it back.

  ‘I need to know if she worked here.’

  She looked at McCoy as if he was mad. ‘Mr McCoy, I assume you are aware of the kind of establishment I run. For me and my clients, discretion is paramount.’

  The door opened, the maid again.

  ‘I thought I told you to always knock,’ Helene snapped at her.

  The maid looked terrified. ‘It’s Mr Cameron, he’s . . .’

  She held up her hand. ‘Enough,’ she hissed. She stood up, edging round the desk. ‘If that’s all, Mr McCoy? Something needs my immediate attention.’

  He smiled and stayed put. ‘It’s okay, I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘There were a few more things I wanted to ask you, if that’s all right?’

  She wavered, torn between leaving McCoy in the office and dealing with Mr Cameron, whoever he was. There was a thump like furniture going over and a muffled scream, seemed to be coming from directly above. It made her mind up for her. She hurried out, telling him she’d be back in a couple of minutes.

  A couple of minutes was more than enough time. McCoy walked round the desk and started going through the drawers. Nothing much in the top one, mostly bills and office stuff. Nothing much in any of the other ones either. A half bottle of vodka tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. That was about it. There was a large cardboard box tucked into the leg space of the desk. It was all taped up, printer’s bill stuck to the top, addressed to 12 Park Circus. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. McCoy got the letter opener from the top of the desk, sliced through the tape and pulled up the cardboard flaps. It was full of magazines. Full of copies of one magazine, to be exact. Jezebel.

  McCoy took one out and started flicking through it. What you’d imagine really, reasonably high-quality dirty pictures, mostly of naked girls tied up and blokes standing over them with whips and, in one instance, a cricket bat. He should pocket one for Dirty Ally. Was just about to put it back in the box when he saw her. In the picture she was tied to a chair, nothing on but a pair of high-heeled boots, bloke with a whip, a mask and a big cock standing over her. Seemed the rummage was worth it after all. He put the magazine in his pocket, closed the box up again, slipped it back under the desk, sat back in the seat and waited.