Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  A couple of minutes later Helene reappeared, looking slightly less put together than she had before. She sat back down, tucked some errant strands of hair back into her bun and opened the bottom drawer.

  ‘Drink?’ She was holding up the vodka. McCoy nodded. She filled two glasses and handed one over.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing we can’t handle.’ She took a sip of the vodka.

  ‘What else was it you wanted to ask me, Mr McCoy?’

  He took the magazine from his pocket, opened it at the page with the girl and put it down on the desk in front of her.

  ‘Someone shot her the other day in the bus station. We know who it was, but we have no idea why.’

  Helene looked at him, not a flicker. ‘What exactly has this got to do with me, Mr McCoy?’

  ‘Did she work here?’

  Nothing.

  He sighed. Things were never easy.

  ‘You’re not a stupid woman, Helene. What you’ve got here takes building up, years of work. Do you really want me to tear it all down?’

  Not a flicker. ‘As I said, Mr McCoy, there are arrangements in place with certain ranking members of your force. Ranks undoubtedly far higher than the one you hold. You had best think about what you are saying.’

  He tapped the photo of Lorna. ‘Did she work here?’

  She sipped her vodka and stared at him.

  ‘I’m giving you a smart way to do this, Helene. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll be out of here in ten minutes, you’ll never see me again; your establishment won’t get mentioned anywhere, I swear.’ He put the photo of Lorna back in his wallet. Still nothing. One last go.

  ‘My boss is called Chief Inspector Murray,’ he said. ‘I doubt you’ve heard of him, doesn’t mingle with the great and good at Central and the High Court. All he is interested in is finding who killed the girl. He does not give a fuck who or what he brings down to do it. If it means raiding this place in broad daylight with the papers outside, he will do it. Believe me, he will do it. This is a murder case. Help me.’

  That was it, the grand pitch. It was up to her now. McCoy wasn’t lying, Murray would take the place apart, but it would take time and warrants, time he didn’t have. He stared at her, she stared back. He could hear the clock in the hall ticking and the rhythmic squeaking of a bed somewhere upstairs.

  ‘Lorna Skirving,’ she said eventually, ‘worked here for a month or so around November. She was never, how shall I say, up to the standard of our usual girls, but she had an interest in more specialised areas, areas we have a demand for. Became more trouble than she was worth, one of the clients thought he’d money missing from his wallet. I had to let her go.’

  McCoy nodded. All understood.

  ‘Private visits with the clientele are banned. Lorna never managed to stick to that rule. She became friendly with one of them. He was a younger man, an exception. Most of our clients tend towards the middle-aged or the elderly. Very proud of him, you know, talked about him to the other girls. Spoke about him a little too freely, in fact.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Told them she had started doing visits off premises, strictly not allowed. Not safe for the girls or the clients, but it happens. The girls get greedy, do jobs where they don’t have to pay the house. Told one of the other girls this boyfriend had paid for her for a whole weekend.’

  ‘Where was this?’ he asked.

  ‘Funnily enough it was just a couple of doors down. A townhouse in Park Circus. The townhouse is usually empty. The man rarely uses it apparently, has other homes.’

  ‘Do you know what number?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, but it was next to the Bon Accord Hotel, overlooking the park.’

  ‘And this boyfriend was?’ McCoy asked.

  Helene shook her head. ‘I don’t actually know, but even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. That’s how it works here, Mr McCoy. Anonymity as soon as you walk through the door.’

  ‘What did she tell the others about him?’ he asked.

  ‘Just said he was a cut above the kind of man she’d met before. Lorna wasn’t a bad girl. Not too bright, but she didn’t deserve a fate like that.’

  He stood up to go and she walked him through the hall to the front door. ‘Just find out what happened to her, Mr McCoy.’ She looked older in the light from the hall, tired. ‘People look down on the girls here, think they’re worthless. But they are just girls, no better and no worse than anyone else.’

  He told her he would do everything he could and stepped out into the quiet of Park Circus, waited. Rang the bell again. The maid answered the door and McCoy put his finger to his lips. Shush. Held out his cigarettes. She looked behind her, up and down the street, then stepped out onto the stair and he lit it for her.

  ‘You know Lorna Skirving?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘You know who the boyfriend was?’

  Nodded again. McCoy got the message, took a couple of quid out his wallet. She tucked it under her wee black skirt.

  ‘Don’t know his name. She never told anyone, said he wanted to be discreet.’

  ‘Christ, well what do you know? I’m a few quid in remember.’

  ‘He liked, you know, the stuff she did professionally.’

  ‘Pain?’

  She nodded. ‘All that stuff. Wasn’t short of a bob or two. Lived out in the country somewhere. Aberfoyle? Somewhere like that.’

  ‘Drymen? Broughton House?’

  She shrugged. ‘She didn’t say.’

  McCoy went to walk away.

  ‘She said he was her ticket out. Whatever it took, she wasn’t going to lose him.’

  SEVENTEEN

  McCoy didn’t know why he was sitting back at his desk. He could never think in the shop, couldn’t get any peace. Still, he supposed he’d better show Murray he was at his desk working, even if he was spending most of the afternoon staring into space. Wattie put a mug of tea on the desk. McCoy sipped it, grimaced.

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Never bloody happy, are you?’

  He watched Wattie sit back down, take out his notebook and square himself up in front of his typewriter. For want of anything better to do, McCoy got his wee red jotter out. Opened it. Sighed. No inspiration there. He swallowed over some of the rotten tea. If Lorna Skirving’s boyfriend was from Drymen or somewhere round Broughton House that would connect her to Tommy Malone. And who did he know in Drymen that was sleazy enough to be fucking a nineteen-year-old girl behind his girlfriend’s back? Jimmy Gibbs. The more he thought about it, the better a fit he was. He had the run of Dunlop’s properties; if they owned a townhouse in Park Circus, he would have access to it. He suddenly realised Murray was standing over him.

  ‘Busy?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Was just having a think abou—’

  ‘Aye, bollocks. Wattie! Get over here.’ Wattie scrambled over. ‘Where would he go?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Who?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Malone was missing for four days, must have gone somewhere. Where?’

  ‘He’d have gone home,’ said McCoy. ‘Except he hasn’t got a bloody home.’

  ‘Everyone’s got a home, somewhere they go to,’ said Wattie.

  ‘That’s very bloody lyrical, Wattie. Some song, is it? Fat lot of fucking good that’s goin—’ Murray stopped and looked at McCoy, who was starting to realise what was coming. ‘You know people who don’t live anywhere, don’t you, McCoy?’

  ‘Give us a break. It was one fucking case, sir, that’s all.’

  ‘Tramps, alkies, nutters – I thought you were the great saviour?’

  ‘What?’ said Wattie.

  ‘You no hear? McCoy here solved the great murder case of 1970. One tramp murders another. Nobody cares but our golden boy here.’

  ‘That’s not fair, sir.’

  ‘Seems some bastard living rough was running the jakies down by the Clyde. Taking their benefit books off them, taxing their f
ucking two bob begging money. One of them couldn’t take it any more, stabbed him. Thanks to McCoy’s heartfelt speech from the dock the murder charge got reduced to culpable homicide, only got eighteen months. Since then McCoy cannae walk down the street without some jakey shaking his hand, telling him he’s a fucking hero.’

  Wattie started to laugh. ‘King of the Jakies, eh?’

  ‘McCoy, away down and see your pals, see if he’d been there, or if they know anything at least.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Just get down there – doesn’t look like you’re doing anything else. Ask around, you never know. And Christ knows we could do with a fucking break.’

  EIGHTEEN

  As far as McCoy could tell, the fall down through the cracks happened in stages. Living at home. Chucked out of home. Living in a flat with other jakies. Living in a hostel. Living in the Salvation Army shelter. Living in any shelter that would still take you. Living in an abandoned building. Living on the street, usually the hot air grates behind St Enoch Station.

  After that, it got really hopeless. Down at that level no one’s too fussy. Meths, water with gas from the pipes bubbled through it, hairspray filtered through milk, anything. Aftershave, boiled-up boot polish.

  So they started at the Grates, as low as you could go while still expecting coherent answers. The people they talked to were friendly, most of them anyway. They looked at the picture, tried to think. Said they’d maybe seen him, weren’t sure. Mostly just trying to help McCoy out. Wattie stood off at the side for most of it, trying not to wrinkle his nose up or look too disgusted. Wasn’t really managing it. They were just about to leave, head for the soup kitchen at the Broomielaw, when they heard someone singing ‘Danny Boy’ and two figures bundled up in coats and old blankets emerged from the walkway under the station. The walkway was like a cloister, huge stone pillars holding up the arches. The woman had her head thrown back, singing for all she was worth. Her voice, what was left of it, echoing round the cloister. Her voice must have been great in its day, hoarse now, top notes missed, but the emotion was still there. Everyone stopped talking as they grew closer and listened. She finished, ‘Oh Danny Boy, I love you so!’, bowed with a flourish and fell over. The man helped her back up on her feet, stuck his half bottle of red biddy into her hand.

  She bowed again, managed to stay upright this time. Her companion was peering at McCoy. He looked like a docker or a builder, woollen hat shoved down on his head, bright blue eyes in a ruddy, bearded face.

  ‘Jesus Christ, it is you. Mr McCoy. How’s the boy?’

  ‘I’m good, Eamonn, good. How’s you?’

  ‘You know he passed away in the jail?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘I heard.’

  Eamonn crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul. You did a good thing there, son, a good thing, won’t be forgotten.’ He shifted his weight, deposited the woman on the grate beside a wee man with no teeth. ‘Bit much of the biddy, eh? Who’s this?’ he asked, looking at Wattie.

  ‘Wattie, new at the shop, helping me out.’

  Eamonn held out an extremely dirty hand, one finger missing. Wattie shook it, nodded.

  ‘Not from Glasgow, are you, son?’

  ‘How’d you know?’ he asked.

  Eamonn shrugged. ‘What you down here for, Mr McCoy?’

  McCoy held out the photo. Pointed at Malone. ‘Seen him anywhere? Think he might have been living rough.’

  Eamonn shook his head. ‘Looks like a lot of the young lads you see on the street. What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s dead, just trying to find out what he was up to before he died. You doing anything for the next hour or so?’

  Eamonn grinned. ‘No. Want me to hold your hand?’

  McCoy drove, Eamonn in the front, Wattie in the back. It was snowing, coming down hard now. Heater was on full but Wattie rolled down his window, tried to do it without them noticing. Didn’t escape Eamonn.

  ‘’Fraid I don’t smell as fresh as where you’re from, son. Used to work on the tattie fields down Ayrshire way. Me and every other poor Irish bugger. Beautiful place. That where you’re from?’

  ‘Greenock,’ he said. ‘Further up.’ He hadn’t really spoken since they’d got to the Grates. Was still looking shell-shocked.

  ‘Lovely part of the world, working the fields, two weeks then a dance in the camp. Everyone drunk. Girl from Gweedore let me pull her—’

  ‘Left?’ asked McCoy, not sure where he was, somewhere round the back of Dalmarnock power station at a guess.

  Eamonn looked out the misty windscreen. ‘Aye, stop at the next building.’

  They pulled up outside the gates of a half-demolished factory. Side of it had collapsed, avalanche of brick and masonry pouring into a muddy puddle the size of a swimming pool. A bent iron sign stuck out the water, surrounded by a thin layer of ice: THOMSONS ‘BEST IN THE WEST OF SCO . . .’

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Fuck knows. Eamonn?’ said McCoy.

  Eamonn took the bottle of biddy out his pocket and had a swig, handed it to McCoy, who did the same. He tapped on the windscreen with his knuckle. ‘This? This, son, is where you don’t want to end up.’

  They were walking round the back of the factory, picking their way through the frozen puddles, when Wattie pulled McCoy aside. ‘You sure about this? I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.’ He sounded scared, was shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking off into the distance. ‘What is this place anyway?’

  McCoy looked over at the abandoned factory. ‘This? This, Wattie, is the end of the road. Where the Legion of the Damned are. Polis never come here. Fuck, even the Salvation Army doesn’t come in here. Too dangerous. That’s why we need Eamonn. If Malone really had nowhere to go, he might have ended up here.’

  Wattie looked away, rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said McCoy. ‘You stay out here. If we’re not out in an hour, call for two pandas, eh?’ Was only his third day on the job, after all, and it had been a hellish few days.

  Wattie nodded gratefully. ‘That okay?’

  It wasn’t really, but he’d rather have Wattie out here than in there making it dangerous for all of them. ‘Off you go.’

  Eamonn was waiting for him outside a boarded-up window on the ground floor. Handed him the last of the bottle of red biddy. ‘You fit?’

  McCoy swigged it down. ‘As I’ll ever be.’ He moved forward and Eamonn stuck his hand out, stopped him. ‘We’re just asking about your man in the picture, aye? Nothing else for you to worry about. Deal?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Deal.’

  Eamonn pulled a couple of the loose boards back and they scrambled in. Was dark inside so they stood there for a minute, let their eyes get used to it. Eamonn pointed to a dim light coming from the back of the building, staircase just visible. They walked towards it, going slow, watching where they stood. Floor was covered in bits of old machinery, broken bottles, fair few dead pigeons. A man was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, middle-aged, thick specs, raincoat, notepad in his hand. He was writing in it, tiny letters covering each page. He didn’t look up as they went past, just kept writing, muttering under his breath.

  McCoy could hear noises as they climbed the stairs. A radio turned down low, someone crying. They got to the first floor and McCoy looked round amazed. The internal walls of the factory had been knocked down, making a room the size of a couple of tennis courts. There were wee fires burning, groups of people round them, couple of dogs wandering about. He heard laughing behind him, turned as a woman emerged from the darkness. She was nude, fat body pale in the flickering light. She was wiping a towel between her legs with one hand, swigging cider from a bottle with the other. She approached the line of elderly men ranged along the back wall, nodded at one and he got up and followed her back into the darkness.

  McCoy was about to say something, but Eamonn shook his head. The bargain had been made. Nothing to do with them. He point
ed over to a small fire in the corner, people sitting round it, passing a bottle.

  ‘You sit over there. I’ll no be long. You got the photo?’

  McCoy gave it to him, and Eamonn headed off towards the furthest corner. McCoy walked over to the fire and nodded a hello. The people sitting there didn’t seem to pay him much mind; they’d seen him with Eamonn, that was enough. He took a seat on a big burst couch next to a heavily pregnant girl holding hands with a boy whose face was almost all an angry red birthmark. McCoy held out his cigarettes, everyone took one, some mumbled thanks. Always the easiest way to make friends. An old woman with a shaved head and a row of stitches crossing it handed him the bottle, fingers with long tobacco-stained nails wrapped round it. He took it and swigged back before he could think about it too much. Hit him like a rock, he spluttered, was like battery acid. The woman smiled at him, no teeth.

  ‘Good stuff, eh?’

  He nodded, tried to hand it back but she pointed to the pregnant girl. He handed it to her and she swallowed a big glug back without flinching, handed it to the boy with the birthmark.

  McCoy sank back in the couch, tried to take in what was going on. A teenage boy, face made up like the bands on Top of the Pops, glittery shirt, baggy trousers and yellow platforms appeared at the top of the stairs. He was giggling, leading a well-dressed middle-aged man by the hand. Suit, overcoat, good black shoes shined by his wife no doubt. The boy moved over to the window, man still being dragged behind him, and stood in front of a tiny wee woman with a row of cans and bottles arranged on a plank in front of her. He turned, kissed the man on the mouth and pointed at a bottle of vodka. The man took out his wallet, handed over a fiver without flinching and they moved away into the darkness. Boy singing now, about a long-haired lover from Liverpool, not a care in the world.

  McCoy watched him go, remembered what him and Eamonn had agreed. He was here for Malone. End of. He had had another couple of slugs of whatever was in the bottle as it went round again, handed out his cigarettes again in return. He looked at his watch. Half an hour Eamonn had been away. An elderly man dressed in what looked like homemade priest robes appeared out the darkness reciting the books of the Old Testament over and over. McCoy found himself joining in, residual memory kicking in. ‘Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers . . .’ he was repeating under his breath when he realised Eamonn was standing there shaking his head.