Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  She sat back, didn’t look convinced. ‘Now why would you want to come and visit me? Must be loads of girls you could go and see, cop groupies, all sorts.’

  ‘There are. They’re queuing up. But I wanted to see you.’

  ‘That right? Why’s that? You wanted to have another conversation about how patriarchy builds in an expectation that women will do what men want?’

  ‘Wasn’t going to be my first choice.’

  ‘Okay, maybe how the female officers at the station spend most of their time being told to make tea for the lads?’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘And the worst thing is they do it.’

  ‘Or my second.’

  ‘Okay, a long discussion about the failure of society to acknowledge the continuing conditioning of girls to expect less and be happy about it?’

  ‘You finished?’ he asked.

  ‘Or maybe you just want to jump my bones?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘You’re limping, grimacing when you lift your glass up, all battered and bruised. You sure you’re up to it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Shame you’re never going to find out.’

  McCoy’s face fell. He looked up and she was grinning at him. ‘What’s up? Can’t take a joke?’

  She picked up the two glasses, took his hand, led him out the kitchen. Bob Dylan sang on, asking the sad-eyed lady if he should wait.

  When he woke up, she was propped up on one elbow looking at him. He yawned, stretched. She was still looking at him.

  ‘What?’

  She smiled. ‘You’re lying here in my bed and I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I’m a polis, you think I’m a male chauvinist pig and contrary to your fears I was more than up to the job.’

  She shook her head. ‘Add arrogant bastard.’ She leant over to the bedside table, got her wee tobacco tin and opened it, started rolling up. ‘Tell me something.’

  ‘What? What do you want to know?’

  ‘Cowie said you had a rough childhood, grew up in care?’

  ‘Did he now? Good old Cowie. Yep, wasn’t much fun.’

  ‘What happened to your parents?’

  He sighed, didn’t want to go through this now. Or any other time.

  ‘My dad’s an alkie. My mum fucked off when I was about three. My dad tried to cope but he couldn’t. Too busy drinking.’

  ‘That’s rough. Was there no one else around?’

  ‘Yep. My uncle Tommy. Was worse than my dad.’

  ‘So how did . . .’

  ‘You sure you want to hear this?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Polis found me wandering about Saracen Street at eleven at night looking for my dad.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘My dad got charged with child cruelty and I got sent to a foster home. That’s pretty much how it went until I was sixteen. Too old for care. Bloke that was my foster dad at the time was the only good one I had. Took me along to the station and that was that.’

  She lit the cigarette, took a drag, handed it to him.

  ‘I joined the force.’

  ‘So you could help other boys like you maybe?’

  ‘No, because I was used to doing what I was told. You get that way in the homes. Just do what they say right away. Saves you a beating.’

  ‘Where did your mum go?’ she asked.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it I—’

  He held his hand up, stopped her. ‘It’s okay.’ He took a deep drag, blew it out. ‘I’d only just started on the beat, was nineteen or so, walking up Saracen Street and I meet this woman who used to live next to us in Vulcan Street. Said she’d met my mum a year or so ago. This woman had been in the hospital for her nerves, as she called it. Met her in there.’

  ‘Her nerves?’

  ‘She was in Woodilee. Big asylum out Lenzie way.’

  ‘And your mum was in there?’

  ‘Had been there for almost ten years.’

  Susan sat back against the headboard.

  ‘You asked,’ said McCoy. ‘Bet you wish you hadn’t now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’ he asked. ‘It happens. I came out it better than most. There’s only one thing about it that’s really damaged me, that’s had an effect.’

  ‘What?’ she asked, sounding concerned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I need to have a cup of tea within five minutes of waking up and I don’t know why but I can’t make it myself. Can you help a poor damaged soul?’

  She stubbed the cigarette out on the tin lid. Pulled the covers back and got out of bed. ‘You, McCoy, are one fucking arsehole.’

  He grinned. ‘One sugar, please.’

  9th January 1973

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘What’s all that bloody noise about?’

  Wattie’s landlady went over to the window and pulled the net curtain aside. Wattie was trying to ignore her, manfully chewing his way through a roll filled with very fatty and very undercooked bacon. She’d a point, though. A car horn had been going on and off for the past couple of minutes.

  ‘Bloody cheek of him. Look.’

  Wattie sighed, swallowed half the roll down with a swig of tea, walked over to the window. McCoy was leaning on the side of an unmarked Viva, reading the paper. He dropped his fag, ground it with his shoe, reached into the open car window and pressed the horn again. He was the last person Wattie expected to see that morning. He ignored the landlady’s moaning, got his coat and scarf from the stand in the hall, and went out to see what McCoy had to say for himself.

  McCoy heard the front door of the house open, folded his paper and put it in his coat pocket. ‘You fit? Come on.’

  ‘That it?’ asked Wattie, walking down the path.

  ‘Is what it?’ he said, and then it dawned. ‘Jesus Christ’. He rolled his eyes, then tried to look sincere, didn’t work very well. ‘I, Harry Vincent McCoy, humbly apologise for trying to punch you yesterday when you were being a cunt. That do you?’

  Despite himself Wattie was smiling. ‘Suppose it’ll have to. What you doing here anyway?’

  ‘We need to be somewhere. Hurry up, I’m freezing.’

  McCoy turned the ignition over as Wattie got in, big grin on his face.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Vincent?’

  ‘Think yourself lucky you’re a prod,’ said McCoy. ‘I could have been Ignatius.’

  The Albany was the best hotel in Glasgow. Didn’t stop it being one of the ugliest as well. It was a squat brown skyscraper on the edge of town near the motorway. Flags of every European country jutted out above the entrance, cracking and flapping in the wind. As they pulled up the doormen were busy for once. Attending to men in suits getting out of chauffeur-driven jags, opening doors of taxis full of noisy reporters. They watched as a photographer tried to get himself, two bags and a tripod through the revolving doors.

  ‘What’s going on here, then?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Just thought we’d keep our oar in, seeing you were so disappointed in me last night.’ He checked his watch. ‘Shite, come on, we’re going to miss it.’

  They hurried through the big brass doors, flashing their badges at a woman with a clipboard and a face like she was chewing a wasp. A sign on an easel in the thickly carpeted foyer directed them up to the Alexander Function Suite. They climbed up the two flights of stairs and made it just as they were closing the wooden doors.

  Inside there was a stage set up, rows of gold chairs laid out like pews facing it. Every chair was filled. McCoy recognised some of them, reporters and photographers from The Herald and the Record mostly. There were even a couple of TV crews, serious-looking men with big heavy cameras and earphones. The air was thick, cigarette smoke sitting above them all like fog. McCoy and Wattie made their way up to the back and stood with the other latecomers lining the wall. Wattie turned to ask McCoy what the fuck they were doin
g there just as a man in a business suit and glasses appeared on the stage calling for quiet. He waited patiently for the general hubbub of chat to die, leant forward into the microphone and began.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Glad to see so many of you could make it. Let me run through what’s going to happen this morning. Mr Forfar and Lord Dunlop will be on stage in a couple of minutes. They will each read a prepared statement, shake hands for the photos and then there will be a short, and I mean short, question and answer period. I’d prefer questions from the financial papers, but if you tabloid boys and girls – and yes that means you, Mary’ – the crowd laughed as a woman stood up and took a small bow – ‘want to ask questions, make it about the announcement please, nothing else. Got me?’ There was a general grumble of disapproval, a few ‘Aye, that’ll be right.’

  ‘Thought you’d given up on the Dunlops?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Aye, and I thought you’d given up being a smart arse,’ said McCoy, grabbing a handout. Two sheets of thick paper stapled together, company logos at the top of each. He started skimming it. Proud and pleased to announce a dynamic new chapter in the life of the Glasgow Citizen, Scotland’s oldest running newspaper. James Forfar, long line of newspaper publishers, awarded OBE for his charity work. Lord Dunlop, major force in the Scottish business community. Usual bollocks. A squeal of feedback and they turned to see the man back on stage at the podium, Dunlop and Forfar standing in the wings.

  Flashbulbs popped as they walked forward. Gray Dunlop looked immaculate as ever. Chalk-stripe suit, hair swept back, silver watch chain in his waistcoat. James Forfar didn’t. Looked like a bank manager from Arbroath. Dark suit, burgundy tie, toothbrush moustache and a face as long as a wet weekend. From what McCoy could remember he was a Wee Free, strict Baptist, something like that, all blood and thunder. No unions in the workplace, no women at the paper, no working on Sundays. Dunlop smiled and walked towards the podium.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said and the room immediately went quiet. He had presence if nothing else. ‘James has graciously asked me to begin.’ He turned and acknowledged Forfar, standing off to his left. Didn’t look too gracious to McCoy. ‘Today is a historic one for James, myself and the companies we represent. So it gives me great pleasure to announce that as of today there will be a merger between the Dunlop Trust and Forfar Publishing.’

  As Dunlop rattled on about the new opportunities and a combination of strengths, McCoy’s eyes drifted round the room, caught sight of Dunlop Junior. He was sitting in the front row, same chalk-stripe suit, same swept-back hair as his father. Peas in a pod. He thought about what Bobby had told them. Pictured the two of them with Lorna Skirving. Wasn’t a pretty picture. What would make a man want to fuck some girl in front of his son? Power? Showing him who’s boss? Was beyond McCoy. Not quite sure what was in it for Dunlop Junior. either. Was evidence that he liked stubbing cigarettes out on girls about enough to make him believe Teddy Dunlop had killed Isabel Garvey? He wasn’t sure any more. Was that too big a leap to take? Suppose that was up to Wattie and Murray to find out.

  Forfar was on now, flat monotone rendering anything he was saying too boring to listen to. The crowd in front of him had already lost interest, had started fidgeting and whispering. McCoy’d lost interest too; something else Bobby said last night was bothering him, about ‘Howie trying to save that girl’. As far as McCoy knew, Howie Nairn never did a favour for anyone, especially not a woman. They didn’t exist to Howie; unless they were serving him in a pub, he wasn’t interested. Why would he be bothered about trying to save Lorna Skirving?

  ‘Fuck.’

  He didn’t realise he’d said it out loud until the back rows of the audience turned to look at him. He held his hands up in apology and nudged Wattie.

  ‘Come on. We’re going.’

  They made their way through the crowd to general mutters of disapproval. Wattie managed to stand on the foot of a wee fat bloke with a notepad who tutted loudly and barked, ‘Watch where you’re bloody going.’ More people turned to see what was happening, glad of the diversion.

  Forfar droned on regardless, but McCoy saw Dunlop look towards the back of the room, shielding his eyes from the lights, trying to see. His eyes met McCoy’s. McCoy tugged his imaginary forelock. Dunlop just looked at him, face blank, blue eyes taking everything in.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Bobby Thorne’s house was a trim wee bungalow in King’s Park, the very vision of Southside respectability. Neat flower-beds in the garden, net curtains in the windows, same as all the others in the street. Bobby was standing at the open door with clipboard in hand, tartan slacks and a yellow V-neck jumper, looked like he was en route for the nineteenth hole. He was pointing at various boxes as they were taken out, telling the movers what was going in the van and what wasn’t. Wattie and McCoy walked up the driveway, stepping aside to let a boy with a cardboard box marked ‘Mementos’ get past.

  ‘Where’s this stuff going, son?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Into the van,’ he said, anxious to get out of the snow that was beginning to fall again.

  McCoy wasn’t sure if he was being cheeky or just thick. He tried again. ‘After that?’

  ‘Goes to the depot, then it’s going on the international van. Off to Spain, I think.’

  Bobby looked up from his clipboard and saw them. Tried to arrange his face to look happy about it. Didn’t really succeed.

  ‘You boys again? Twice in two days? People will talk.’

  ‘You off somewhere, Bobby?’ asked McCoy, watching the procession of boxes leaving the house.

  ‘Aye. Spain, Benidorm. Going to stay with my sister for a while.’

  McCoy looked up at the darkening sky. ‘Don’t blame you; weather’s getting bad again. You no going to ask us in?’

  They sat at the kitchen table while Bobby rummaged in a box full of scrunched-up newspapers, trying to find some mugs. Wasn’t having much luck. ‘You know what, Bobby, we’re no really here for a cup of tea. There was something you said last night; I’ve been thinking about it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Howie wanted to help that girl – that’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

  Bobby nodded, looked wary.

  ‘Well, I knew Howie and there is no fucking way he was going to help some lassie he didn’t know out the goodness of his heart.’

  ‘You didn’t know Howie like I knew—’

  McCoy held his hand up. ‘Save it, Bobby.’ He looked round at the half-packed boxes, the brighter patches left on the orange patterned wallpaper where pictures had been hung. ‘That the plan, is it? Ditch this place for a wee retirement on the Costa del Sol? Singing in a few hotels, watching the young lads on the beach in their swimmers? Miles away from shitey Glasgow and miles away from the Dunlops. Sounds ideal. Don’t blame you. Pity, though.’

  Bobby sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘What’s a pity?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘That I’m going to stop you going.’

  He shook his head. ‘No way, you can’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, yes I can,’ said McCoy. ‘And I will. So why don’t you make us a cup of tea after all and tell us the story, eh? I don’t want you, Bobby – to be honest, I don’t give a shite about you – but I want the Dunlops and I’m going to get them. You don’t want to talk, that’s fine, keep your trap shut, but you’ll be stuck here in Glasgow while I make sure they know we’ve had a wee chat.’

  ‘You wouldnae do that.’

  ‘Oh, yes I would, Bobby. As I said, I couldn’t give two fucks about you.’ He leant back in his chair, smiled. ‘Or you can start talking and the Dunlops won’t know a thing about you and me.’

  Wattie leant forward, tapped the kettle on the table in front of him. ‘Two sugars in mine, thank you, Mr Thorne.’

  *

  Bobby disappeared for a while and reappeared with large brown hardback envelope in his hand. ‘I never told you this. My name doesn’t go near the Dunlops and you let me get
the flight tomorrow.’

  McCoy nodded.

  Bobby sat down, put the envelope on the table in front of him. ‘Howie knew Jimmy Gibbs. Knew him from when he was a polis; he lifted him a few times. Called him out the blue a couple of months ago and arranged to meet up. Jimmy knew what Howie was.’

  ‘A criminal, you mean?’

  Bobby shook his head. ‘Queer. Didnae have any qualms about it. Offered him a deal. The Dunlops were having someone over from America, important business guy, they were having a party for him and they wanted Howie to come. Apparently Howie was his type, would pay him thirty quid to go, and if Howie and this guy got friendly he’d get another thirty.’

  ‘And what did you think about that?’

  ‘Me?’ Bobby shrugged. ‘Howie was Howie. I learnt long ago not to worry about him having his fun, meant nothing. He always came back to me. That was the important thing.’

  McCoy might have believed him more if his speech hadn’t sounded so rehearsed. Sounded like he’d got used to having to say it, whether he believed it or not.

  ‘So?’ he asked.

  ‘So he went. Was like no kind of party Howie had ever been to, like anyone had ever been to. Drink, drugs, boys, girls, all sorts. He gets talking to Jimmy Gibbs while he’s there. He was out of it on something – acid, dope. Kept asking Howie if he wanted anything. Told him he had everything there. Didnae take it, though, the free drink was enough for Howie.’

  He took a drink of the tea, lit up a Kensitas and blew the smoke into the air. Wringing the moment dry like the old ham he was.

  ‘So Jimmy tells him to come and see this, takes him into another room with a big two-way mirror in it. That’s Jimmy Gibbs’ thing, you know, likes to watch and he likes to take photos.’

  He tapped the envelope with his finger and pushed it over to McCoy.

  McCoy opened it. A dozen or so glossy black and white eight by tens. Some naked girl lying on a bed laughing, wrists tied to the bedposts, another girl bent over her, face in between her legs. Next one was of a big room, looked like an attic. The whole thing was painted white, walls, floor, everything. Even with the mask on he recognised Jimmy Gibbs.