Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘Leave him,’ said Murray. ‘He’s fine over there. Least he’s managed to get in the bloody building this time.’

  Wattie grinned at him, mouthed ‘Wanker’.

  The three of them were gathered round the body on the slab. That suited McCoy fine, at least they were blocking his view of what was going on. All he got was the occasional glimpse of a hand or a green sheet through the gaps between them. Gilroy stepped to the side and he saw mottled skin, puff of pubic hair. He looked down quickly, started his breathing, counted the floor tiles. Anything to keep his mind off it. Gilroy’s posh voice still managed to cut through.

  ‘Fractured skull, hardly surprising but interesting though. Could have been very light, almost a tap.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Murray. ‘How come? Half the back of her head’s caved in.’

  Gilroy took a pen from the breast pocket of her lab coat and pointed at the side of her skull. ‘She had a pre-existing hairline fracture. Clear as a bell on the X-ray. She’s had it for years, probably had no idea.’

  ‘So anything could have done it? A fall? A punch? Something like that?’ asked Wattie.

  Gilroy looked amused. ‘Well, I doubt it was entirely accidental, going by the rest of her. But a good defence lawyer could certainly argue it.’ She moved down the table, pointed with her pen again. ‘The bruising is largely centered on her breasts, inner thighs, buttocks. Attack was undoubtedly sexual in nature. The walls of her vagina and anus are bruised and torn.’

  ‘Raped?’ asked Murray.

  Gilroy shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. Not in the conventional sense anyway. No trace of semen or rubber. Used something wooden, unfinished, large. Whoever did it was just trying to cause pain, a great deal of pain I would imagine.’

  McCoy tried to walk towards them, took one step, felt so dizzy he had to stop, put his hand against the tiled wall to steady himself.

  ‘We’ve been here before,’ he said.

  ‘Lorna Skirving,’ said Murray.

  Gilroy nodded. ‘Took the words out of my mouth, young man.’

  McCoy was almost at the slab, was walking slowly, felt like the top of his head was going to come off, like he’d done a huge line of speed too fast. Murray turned, shook his head. ‘You sure about this, McCoy? She’s no a pretty sight.’

  He nodded, tried to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. ‘Let me have a look.’

  Murray nodded and he and Wattie stepped aside. For a moment McCoy thought he was going to go, edges of his vision were blurry, could feel the sweat running down his back. He held onto the edge of the steel table and tried to look. Body was a just a mess of fresh bruises over old ones. There was a handsaw lying by her arm; he tried not to look at that either, blood pulsing in his temples. Murray lifted the gauze cloth off her face and that was that.

  *

  ‘Here.’ Murray was holding out a plastic cup of water. McCoy took a drink, breathed in the cold January air, felt better. They were sitting on the big sandstone steps of the High Court next door. He didn’t have much memory of getting there, was just glad he was out the examination room.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

  Murray shrugged. ‘Suppose you cannae help it.’

  ‘I thought you were a goner,’ chimed in Wattie. ‘Lucky you didn’t bash your head on the corner of the slab.’

  ‘You ever go to that woman?’ said Murray.

  ‘What woman?’ asked Wattie.

  McCoy shook his head.

  ‘Might no be the worst idea,’ said Murray. ‘Can’t do any harm. Doesn’t go on your—’ He looked over at Wattie, sitting there all ears, didn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘Aye, so they say,’ said McCoy. He found his fags in the pocket of his trenchcoat, lit up. Felt better and worse at the same time. Head was spinning but from the nicotine this time, first full drag of an Embassy Regal’ll do that to you.

  ‘Isabel,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Murray, looking at him.

  ‘That’s her name. Isabel.’

  ‘You know her?’ asked Murray. ‘How come? Isabel who?’

  ‘Don’t know her second name, don’t really know her. She’s one of Ronnie Naismith’s girls, works in his clubs, does a bit of escort work too, I think.’

  A bus drew up across the street, scramble to get on, too many people and not enough spaces.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’ said Murray.

  ‘What I’m going to tell you. I saw her last night. I was at one of Billy Chan’s casino nights with Stevie Cooper—’

  ‘For fuck sake, McCoy, how many times do I have to tell you to stop seeing that—’

  ‘Dunlop,’ he said quietly. ‘The son, she was with Teddy. And someone told us last night that he’s got previous.’

  8th January 1973

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘What more do you fucking need?’

  ‘More than you’ve given me, McCoy. A lot more.’

  He’d been waiting at his desk when Murray’d got in. Big surprise for everyone. First time he’d been in the shop before 8 a.m. in a long time. Thomson said he’d take a picture for the noticeboard, couldn’t believe it.

  McCoy’d gone through it all last night, went over it again as he was shaving, getting dressed. What he’d say, how he’d convince him. Murrray arrived at half past as usual, didn’t look too happy to see him. McCoy gave him five minutes to settle in, then knocked on the office door. He’d started well, all rational and reasonable. Sat in the chair opposite Murray’s desk and quietly ran through why he no longer thought they were dealing with a straight domestic. Why they needed to have a look at Dunlop Junior. Hadn’t worked. He tried explaining again. Still didn’t work. Now he was just shouting. Angry. Knew it wasn’t helping but he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘Isabel Garvey was out last night with Dunlop Junior. Dunlop Junior has a history of abusing girls. Now Isabel Garvey’s dead. Lorna Skirving was seen at the Dunlops. She died of the same injuries, exact same bloody bruises, and you don’t think it’s worth talking to them?’

  ‘That’s not what I said, so sit down and just listen for two minutes.’

  He just stood there, too angry to do what he was told.

  ‘Sit! Now!’

  He sat. Pushed his feet out in front of him and crossed his arms.

  ‘If, and I mean if, there is a connection to the Dunlops, we will find it—’

  ‘He was in the bloody casino with her!’

  ‘As were about fifty other people. Including you.’ Murray was talking quietly, taking it slow, trying to regain his temper. ‘Was she specifically with him, or was she just trying to get the bunch of lads out the place?’

  ‘He was with her.’

  ‘You a hundred per cent on that? She spoke to a group of lads. Maybe he was just one of them.’

  ‘He left with her,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Sure of that, are you? Half pissed and full of painkillers and you could still tell what was going on? I don’t think so.’ Murray had his pipe out now, angrily stuffing tobacco down into the bowl. He looked up as if it had just dawned. ‘And, by the way, how many fucking times do I have to tell you to keep away from Stevie bloody Cooper?’

  ‘Come on, Murray, that’s got fuck all to do with it. It’s the same injuries, that’s what matters, the same fucking injuries! I’ve got a witness who saw him assaulting a girl, stubbing a fucking cigarette out on her arm for kicks.’

  ‘And this witness is going to come forward and give a statement, are they?’

  ‘It’s not that easy for—’

  ‘Fucking thought not!’ Murray held his hands up. ‘I’ve had about enough of this shite. Young Dunlop will be asked for a statement, same as everyone else in the club that night, that’s it. And, believe me, you won’t be the one doing it.’

  ‘Come on, Murray—’

  ‘Shut it. It’s my decision. Up to me. End of. You’re too close, McCoy. Too much history. Think they’re goin
g to tell you anything?’

  He knew he was probably right. Dunlop’s lawyer wouldn’t let him within a mile of the two of them. ‘Who then?’

  ‘Me. And Wattie.’

  ‘Wattie? What the fuck does he know about anything?’

  ‘Not much, but I do. That okay by you, is it?’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Christ, McCoy, I swear it’s like dealing with a teenage boy. I’ve got two of those at home, I don’t need another one at my work.’

  A knock on the door.

  ‘What!’ Murray barked.

  It opened and Wattie peered round. ‘Sir, can I have a word?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘It’s important, sir,’ he said.

  Murray rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, come in then.’

  Wattie came in, holding out a sheet of paper. ‘The girl,’ he said. ‘Isabel Garvey. Just had Eastern on the phone. Someone’s copped for it.’

  *

  McCoy had worked at Eastern for a while. Full of supposed hard men and blokes on the take, crappy shop he’d got out of as soon as he could. Wasn’t looking forward to going back. All they had been told was that someone had walked in off the street and told them he’d killed Isabel Garvey. Told them where he’d dumped the body, what kind of sheet it was wrapped in. Wasn’t going to be Dunlop Junior, that was for sure.

  The front office at the Eastern shop looked the same as it always had. Cream paint yellow with nicotine, worn-through lino and a bench bolted to the wall. The desk sergeant was about as welcoming as an Edinburgh landlady; left them standing there while he took his time phoning through. He put the phone down after a wee chat about Partick Thistle’s chances, lifted up the top of the desk and stood aside.

  Raeburn was sitting with his feet up on his desk when they went through to the office, hands laced behind his head, big smile on his face.

  ‘McCoy, what you doing here? The sauna’s a couple of doors down.’ Few of his sidekicks laughed. Murray didn’t, didn’t even crack a smile, just looked at him.

  ‘Bloke who copped for the Garvey girl. Where is he?’ he asked.

  Raeburn stood up, realised he better behave himself. ‘Still in the cells, sir. He just walked in, said it was an accident. Didn’t mean to kill her, he pushed her and she banged her head. He knew all the gen, where she was, where she’d been dumped. Kosher.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked McCoy.

  Raeburn looked at his notes. ‘One Charles Alexander Gow.’

  ‘Hang on. You mean Chas Gow? Big Chas?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Works for Stevie Cooper, heavy at the shebeen in Cumberland Street.’

  ‘Another one of your dodgy pals, is he?’ asked Raeburn.

  ‘Aye, he is, and there’s no way he did that girl.’

  ‘Fuck off, McCoy, he copped for it.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  Raeburn shook his head. ‘Can you fuck, it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Murray, ignoring him.

  ‘I know Chas, known him for years, just want to hear his side of the story.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t seem too much to ask, does it, Mr Raeburn? Put him in an interview room, will you?’ said Murray.

  Raeburn didn’t move. Murray leant forward. ‘I meant now, you cunt,’ he said softly. ‘Now.’

  *

  ‘He’s sweating,’ said Murray.

  ‘He always sweats; he’s near enough twenty stone.’ McCoy held his hands up to the glass, shaded his eyes. Chas was sitting in an orange plastic chair in front of a battered table, tin McEwen’s ashtray full of butts in front of him. He was scratching at his neck, looking worried.

  ‘Thanks for that, by the way.’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ said Murray. ‘That Raeburn thinks he’s something. Just another wide boy with a badge.’ He stepped back, leant against the wall of the tiny viewing room. ‘What are we doing here, McCoy? He’s admitted it, knows the details.’ He tapped the glass and Chas looked around bewildered. ‘That fat bastard in there came in and coughed. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘That’s what worries me. C’mon, let’s have a word.’

  ‘All right, Chas?’ said McCoy, opening the door.

  Chas looked up, surprised and relieved to see him. He was in a bit of a state. He’d a black eye, scrapes down the side of his face, one sleeve of his too-small suit was ripped, yellow nylon shirt showing through. ‘McCoy, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Came to see you, Chas.’ He looked him up and down. ‘Eastern been their usual hospitable selves, I see. You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Sure they knocked me about a bit but I’ll live. Irish man in the jail? Happens all the time.’

  McCoy pulled out the chair opposite Chas and sat down. ‘I heard you’d been telling stories.’ He nodded over. ‘That man standing over there is Chief Inspector Murray. My boss. He’s a good polis, Chas, makes me look like a right amateur, so you better have your story straight, eh?’

  Chas took a sideways glance at Murray. ‘It’s no a story. I already told the other polis. I killed her. Was an accident. We had an argument, I pushed her and she hit her head on the wall. Didn’t even hit it hard. Next thing I knew she was dead. I panicked.’

  ‘That right? You and Isabel an item, were you?’ He ran his finger round the groove of CUMBIE gouged out the table, looked up. ‘I don’t want to be rude, Chas, but you’re a fat middle-aged bastard who’s a bouncer in a brothel. Not really her type. Where’d all this happen, then?’

  ‘Mine. She came back to mine.’ He looked up, sweat beading on his shadowed upper lip. He wiped it away. ‘She wasnae my girlfriend. I paid her. Told her I’d give her double what she usually got.’

  McCoy sat back in his chair. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then she didn’t want to go through with it. Said I was stinking, too fat. She couldn’t do it. I got angry, tried to force her onto the bed, and that’s when she hit her head.’

  ‘That’s it? You didn’t fuck her. She just bumped her head when you were struggling?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay, say we buy your wee scenario. What’d you take her clothes off for?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Chas? What did you take her clothes off for?’

  Nothing. Murray stepped forward. ‘Answer the man, Mr Gow.’

  Chas looked at them both, ran his fat hand through his greasy hair, coughed. ‘I wanted to look at her.’

  ‘You wanted to look at her?’

  He nodded, wiped at his eyes. ‘She was a lovely wee girl, I just wanted to see her, see what she looked like.’ And then his face crumpled. McCoy pulled a hanky out his pocket, handed it over.

  ‘Fuck sake, Chas. How’d all this happen, this isn’t you.’

  Chas shook his head, blubbering now, hanky held up to his face. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What’d you do with her clothes?’

  ‘In a bin. Stopped the car on the way there, put them in some bin.’

  ‘Where?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘How’d she get the bruises?’ asked Murray.

  He looked up sharply. ‘I didnae do that, I tell you. They were there when I took her clothes off. Honest.’ He looked back and forward between them, trying to make them believe. ‘Honest as I’m sitting here in front of you, I didn’t batter that girl.’

  *

  They were standing outside the station waiting for a panda to be brought round. Line of kids filed passed them, towels under their arms, woman with a whistle at the front. Schools must be back already, holidays over.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Murray.

  McCoy shrugged. ‘If you’d asked me an hour ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. All the forensic stuff, the timings, they check out?’

  ‘Going through them now,’ said Murray.

  ‘If they do, it’s no really worth arguing about, is it?’
>
  ‘But . . . there’s always a bloody but with you.’

  ‘I’ve known Chas for years. He’s worked in brothels and shebeens for half his life. He’s been around the girls, had his fair share of perks and freebies. No sure he’d suddenly flip over one of them. Too much other fruit on the tree.’

  ‘She was a good-looking girl.’

  ‘No more so than most of Ronnie’s girls. They’re proper escorts. Still doesn’t explain the bruising. If he didn’t do it, who did?’

  The panda drew up and Murray opened the back door. ‘Not our problem. Nobody’s going to care about that if he murdered her. You coming?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Think I’ll walk.’

  Murray looked up at the dark sky, heavy with snow. ‘Up to you. No more goose chases though.’

  *

  Wattie walked into the cafe and looked round. It was warm, steam from the coffee machine and the smell of fried food hanging in the air. Two old ladies nursing cups of tea, a woman with a fat baby on her lap. Took him a minute to see McCoy, sitting up the back in a booth staring into space, absent-mindedly stirring a Pyrex cup of tea. He eased in opposite, waved his hand in front of his face.

  ‘Earth to McCoy.’

  He stopped stirring, put the spoon down. ‘Got the message then?’

  ‘Aye. Took me a while to find it. What’s up with you?’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Nothing. Chas. Girls with bruises. The Dunlops. Everything.’

  ‘Thought that Chas bloke had copped for it? They’re all happy back at the shop. Open and shut in one day.’

  ‘He did. Sang like a canary. Don’t think he did it, though.’

  ‘Christ, you’re never satisfied. Why would he cop for something he hasn’t done?’

  Young girl with a face full of spots and a huge David Cassidy badge on her blouse appeared. She held up a wee notebook and a chewed ballpoint pen. ‘What ye wanting?’ she asked.