Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  He could hear the toilet doors opening again, two uniforms started pissing in the urinals moaning about how cold it was on the beat. He wanted to give Cowie a chance. Almost ten years they’d been working together, that counted for something. He looked at all the other faces round the rug, scared he would recognise someone else. Just more middle-aged men, cigars in hand, hard-ons tenting their towels.

  The uniforms left and McCoy stood up and unlocked the door. He put the picture back in his pocket and went over to the washbasins, wet his hands and rubbed them on the hard, yellow lump of soap on the spindle. He’d just finished when the door swung open, laughter. Wattie walked in, Cowie behind him, both of them smiling.

  McCoy put his hand on Wattie’s chest as he moved towards the urinals.

  ‘Fuck off for a minute, eh?’

  ‘What? I’m needing a piss.’

  McCoy was looking past him, staring at Cowie. ‘I need a word with Cowie. Private. Use the other ones.’

  Wattie looked at him, looked at Cowie. Both of them silent, just looking at each other. He swore under his breath, turned and left them to it.

  ‘Harry?’ said Cowie uncertainly. ‘What’s up?’

  McCoy reached into his pocket and handed him the photo. He took it, took him a couple of seconds to realise he was in it, then looked up at McCoy.

  ‘Quite a line-up, eh, Cowie? Jimmy Gibbs. Tommy Malone. Lord Dunlop. Lorna Skirving and her pal, of course,’ said McCoy slowly. ‘And you.’

  Cowie leant back against the sinks, normal big florid face gone white, looked like he was going to pass out. ‘Got any fags?’

  McCoy passed him one; he took it, held it up at McCoy’s lighter, hands shaking so much he could barely get it lit. He took a deep draw, blew it out, then held his hands up to his face, slumped down onto the sink and started to sob.

  McCoy left him a minute or so, couldn’t trust himself not to hit him. Cowie stood back up, found a hanky in his pocket, wiped at his face, tried to pull himself together.

  ‘It was one night,’ he said. ‘You know what my situation is, wife cannae . . . Christ, what a mess.’ He splashed some water on his face, turned to face McCoy.

  ‘There’s a woman works at the library at the university, Joan. I talked to her a few times when I was in there. One night I went into Curlers for a pint on the way home. She was in there with a couple of friends, all of them dressed up, bit drunk, stoned, I don’t know. She called me over and we had a drink, she was laughing at my jokes, kept holding my arm.’ He looked over at McCoy, tried a smile. ‘I thought I was in there.’

  McCoy didn’t smile back, just flicked the end of his cigarette into the urinal. Waited.

  ‘They were going to a party out near the Campsies, asked me to go with them. What was I going to say? We got in one of their cars, some posh Edinburgh bloke, a doctor. Soon as we got out of town they started lighting up joints, not my thing but I joined in, car was full of it anyway. Time we got there I was stoned out my box. Didn’t realise where I was until later. Huge big modern place—’

  ‘Broughton House,’ interrupted McCoy.

  Cowie nodded. ‘Everyone just trooped into this big swimming pool bit, clothes were already lying everywhere. Towels being handed out. So I joined in.’ He tried another smile. ‘Proving to myself I was as free and liberated as all the rest of them.’

  McCoy waited for him to carry on.

  ‘There were women everywhere . . . People having sex in the pool, could hardly believe what was going on. Joan was all over me, smoked another joint, there was some kind of whistling, people shouting the show was about to begin. Two girls lying on a rug playing with each other, everyone standing round trying to pretend it was a usual Friday night, me included. Joan starting kissing my ear, telling me it was turning her on; we went for a wander, found some wee room with a couch in it . . .’ He faded off. Tears in his eyes again.

  ‘I swear, Harry, I didn’t do anything. Didn’t even speak to Lorna Skirving, never saw her again after that night.’

  ‘Just waltzed into the Shish Mahal with the big news about her fucking autopsy. Never mentioned anything. It’s not fucking on.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure it was her. I was so fucking out of it. I couldnae be sure, didn’t seem worth telling you.’

  ‘That right? Decide that, did you?’

  ‘My wife—’

  ‘Fuck you and fuck your wife, Cowie. Didn’t care much about her that night, did ye?’

  Cowie was shaking his head, tears running down his face, snot coming out his nose. ‘I swear, Harry, swear on my life, that was it. One night when I didn’t have to sit on the couch waiting to change her, carry her up to bed, lay out her medicine, listen to the clock fucking ticking and ticking.’

  ‘If I find out you’re lying to me, Cowie, I swear I’ll crucify you. I mean it. I’ll kick your fucking head in, then I’ll take this picture to Murray and you’ll be out on your arse, no pension, no nothing.’

  Cowie was nodding, head still down. ‘I’m not lying, Harry. I swear it. On my life.’

  McCoy didn’t want to look at him any more, was reminded of the man in Cooper’s room, same terrified look, same pleading in his eyes. He folded up the photo, stuffed it into his pocket and left, Cowie shouting after him all the way down the corridor.

  *

  The two of them had been sitting at their desks for going on four hours. Shifts had changed; night guys had come in, half of them back out on calls already. McCoy looked at his watch. Half eight. He’d handed the photos over to Murray after he’d left Cowie, told him the story, told him who the man in the reflection was.

  Murray had looked at them, scratching his stubble every so often, cursing quietly, then spent the rest of the afternoon in his office, door shut, phone glued to his ear. Chief Constable had been in and out a couple of times. Looked angrier than he usually did. Murray had told him and Wattie to sit tight, say nothing to nobody and wait. Which is what they’d done. Now McCoy had run out of fags and his empty stomach was gurgling, making itself heard. Chief Constable had appeared again twenty minutes ago, tall man in a business suit with him. Wattie was reading yesterday’s Record for the third time when the door opened and Murray’s head appeared.

  ‘You two. In.’

  The man in the suit was called Mr Cavendish, no further explanation. Whoever he was, he was in charge, Murray and the Chief fussing round him like waiters. He was sitting behind Murray’s desk, short hair going grey at the sides, pinstripe suit, kind of face you wouldn’t remember.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said without looking up. Wattie and McCoy sat down on the two orange plastic chairs, looked up at their bosses but their faces were set; they weren’t giving anything away. This was Cavendish’s deal all right. He finished flicking through the file on his desk, closed it and looked up at them.

  ‘These are difficult times,’ he said. ‘A time for difficult decisions. There are strikes in the shipyards and in the mines, IRA bombs in London, power cuts. Our country is under siege. The last thing we need is another problem, another erosion of our values, another assault on our beliefs. It’s up to us to protect it.’

  McCoy was half listening, half trying to work out exactly who this guy was. Wattie was listening hard, looking terrified. Cavendish’s suit was too expensive for him to be Special Branch, so was his accent, public school with a hint of Edinburgh. MI5 maybe? Home Office? Whoever he was, he was in full flow.

  ‘It is our duty to make sure of the safe running of this country. That we keep order, irrespective of who threatens it. That we stay true to what is best for this country and its people, that—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Cavendish, but what’s that got to do with us?’

  Cavendish didn’t look happy about being interrupted. He sat back, narrowed his eyes. Murray and the Chief Constable looked like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on them. McCoy knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut but he was tired, hungry and he needed a smoke. He’d done his bit and handed the pictures o
ver, didn’t much care about Cavendish, whoever he was, and his speech about the world teetering on the brink. He sat forward. In for a penny.

  ‘You got us in here because I gave Chief Inspector Murray there a picture of Lord Liddesdale and Jimmy Gibbs watching Lorna Skirving getting a cock shoved into her mouth. Teddy Dunlop’s cock, to be exact. The same Lorna Skirving who was later murdered by a bloke who worked for Lord Dunlop. I’ve handed the pictures over, played by the book. I’ve been a good boy. So if you don’t mind me asking, who the fuck are you?’

  Wattie was looking between the two, looked terrified, eased over in his seat as far from McCoy as he could get.

  Cavendish turned to Murray. ‘As far as I understand, that particular case is now closed? The murderer shot himself at the scene.’

  Murray nodded. Correct. ‘It is closed,’ he said tightly. ‘And you, McCoy, you fucking behave yourself.’

  ‘What point are you struggling to make, Mr McCoy?’ asked Cavendish.

  ‘You know fine well what I’m saying. Dunlop’s up to his neck in this. I know it, Murray knows it and now you—’

  ‘So what exactly is it we know, Mr McCoy?’ he said icily. ‘Do we have any proof of Lord Dunlop’s involvement in the murder of this girl?’

  McCoy looked at Wattie. His eyes were fixed firmly on the floor in front of him. No help there.

  ‘No reason to look at him, Mr McCoy, it’s a simple yes or no question. Do we have any proof?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Not yet, but if we had a bit more time—’

  Cavendish held up his hand. ‘I’m not sure we need any more time. According to your superiors here and the procurator fiscal, the case was closed today. So as far as I can see there is nothing to be gained by anyone knowing about this picture.’

  ‘What, you’re telling me to just forget it exists?’

  ‘Precisely so,’ said Cavendish. ‘And it’s not just me who’s telling you. You recently became a detective, which means you signed the Official Secrets Act. As of four o’clock this afternoon this photograph is covered by said act. Any discussion by you of its contents or indeed its very existence would mean your immediate arrest, the loss of your job and a lengthy jail penalty. All covered by a D-notice. No one would even know it had happened.’ He pulled a sheet out the file in front of him and put it in front of Wattie, then took a silver fountain pen out his jacket.

  ‘Mr Watson, could you sign it too, please?’

  Wattie looked at Murray and the Chief. The Chief nodded. ‘Go on, son. Sign it.’

  McCoy watched him sign. ‘You can’t do this.’

  Cavendish took the form back and tucked it into his file. ‘I just did.’

  ‘Aye, well, it won’t finish there, I’m—’

  ‘No, you’re not. Whatever you think you are going to do, you’re not. You’re playing with the big boys now, Mr McCoy, and we don’t play fair and we don’t play nice.’ He opened the manila file and McCoy caught a glimpse of his photo stapled to the corner of the top page.

  ‘On the surface it looks like you’ve done rather well. Detective at age thirty. A fast promotion for anyone, never mind a Catholic in the Glasgow force. Especially a Catholic with your kind of background. Children’s homes and the like. Your superiors speak highly of you, say you’re bright, clever, destined to go far.’ He sat back, smiled. As welcoming as a shark. ‘I, however, take a different view. A very different view.’

  He picked up a page from the file, scanned it. ‘It seems you have made rather a habit of harassing the Dunlops. Wild accusations of murder. Drunk on duty.’ He tutted. ‘Not very clever.’ He looked over at him, at the black eye and scrapes on his face, the two fingers bandaged together. ‘Looks like your reckless behaviour goes on unabated. Professionally and personally you are a mess.’

  He replaced the page and picked up another. ‘May as well go through it all while we’re here, eh? Steven Paul Cooper. Runs most of the crime in the north of the city. Good friend of yours apparently; cosy little chats in his saunas and the like. Seems you’re rather fond of trying out his merchandise.’

  He put back the paper and closed the file. ‘You know what’s ironic, Mr McCoy? You sit here in front of me full of moral indignation and self-righteousness and yet it seems to me you’re just another bent copper. A bent copper I would happily have got rid of were it not for the appeals from your superior officer here.’

  McCoy looked at him, thought about the two hundred and fifty quid in his top pocket and the nights with Janey and the drugs and the favours he’d done Cooper. Didn’t know how Cavendish knew it all but he did.

  Cavendish shut the file. ‘Do we understand one another, Mr McCoy? Mr Watson? Understand what is at stake here?’

  Wattie nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  McCoy stood up. ‘Can we go now?’ he asked Murray.

  Murray looked at the Chief, who nodded. Cavendish stood up, held out his hand to shake. Wattie shook it. McCoy didn’t. Cavendish shrugged, looked amused.

  ‘I mean what I say, Mr McCoy. We play dirty, so forget all about that photograph. As far as you two are concerned it doesn’t exist. If I ever hear different I’ll destroy you, grind you into the dirt like the piece of worthless shit you are.’ He smiled. ‘Now fuck off out my sight. You’re turning my stomach.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Wattie and McCoy walked out the back door of the station, anxious to get out and as far from Cavendish and what had happened as possible. A bottle-green MG turned into the backcourt, wheels kicking up slush. It stopped and Phyllis Gilroy manoeuvred herself out, all wrapped up in a sheepskin car coat, fur hat and leather gloves.

  ‘Ah, Mr McCoy. Hoped I might run into you.’ She ducked back into the wee sports car and got her briefcase off the back seat. ‘Have something rather interesting for you.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ asked McCoy, mind elsewhere.

  ‘Girl we found in the abandoned house, remember her?’

  He nodded. ‘Isabel Garvey.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ She stopped, looked at them. ‘What’s up with you two anyway? Look like you’ve lost a fiver and found a shilling.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Nothing. Long day. The girl?’

  ‘The girl indeed. We found a good few carpet fibres under her fingernails, she may have gripped onto it at some point during the evening. We couldn’t identify the bloody stuff anywhere. Didn’t match any of our standard domestic samples, right pain in the bahookey. Collins in the lab, smart boy, made it his mission to find out where they came from. Sent them off to some friend of his who works for the Met.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they came from the carpet in a car, it seems,’ she said, taking off her hat and attempting to rescue her hairdo.

  ‘Chas’s car?’

  She finished pushing and patting it into shape, checked it in the wing mirror, turned to them and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t think so. Not unless he’s won the pools lately. Bloody stuff came from a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.’

  *

  Neither of them spoke as they drank their first pints, both too absorbed in what had just happened. They were sitting up the back of The Kiwi, as far as they could get from the crowd of cops coming off their shift gathered round the front door. McCoy hated The Kiwi, too near to the shop, too many coppers, but he wanted a drink soon as. Wattie was sitting there looking like he’d been hit by a truck, face ashen as he brought the last of his pint up to his lips.

  ‘Another?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie nodded, swallowed the dregs back, looked at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think all that means I’m fucked, never going to get promoted?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Naw. Not you.’ He smiled, tried to lighten the mood. ‘Me on the other hand, I’m a dead man walking. Tennent’s?’

  He still looked terrible when McCoy brought the drinks back. He sighed, put the pints on the table, thought he’d be as well to just get it out the way. ‘Okay, spit it out. What do you want to know?’
>
  ‘That guy Cavendish. Who was he?’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Special Branch, Home Office, fuck knows. Whoever he was he’s a cunt.’

  Wattie wasn’t looking at him, was rubbing his finger through the film of beer on the table, making lines. ‘The things he said about you. They true?’

  ‘Some of it. I know Stevie Cooper, we go back a long way, since we were wee boys. He tells me a couple of things, I tell him a couple of things. Like I told you, you need contacts in this game. I’ve got Cooper. Murray plays golf every so often with Naismith. Doesn’t mean he’s bent or I’m bent, it’s just the way it is.’

  ‘You ever take money from him?’

  ‘Fuck off. Any more of that and I’m going to get offended. Of course I havenae. You ever seen me do anything bent?’ Wattie shook his head. The necessary white lie believed. ‘Cooper runs some girls and, bless me, Holy Father, for I have sinned, I’ve slept with a few of them. Not all of us are as straight down the line as you.’

  ‘What about you and the Dunlops?’

  ‘Christ, Wattie, I’ve been interrogated enough today. Give us a break.’ He sighed, may as well get it all out. ‘Jimmy Gibbs was a good polis and then he wasn’t, got caught up with all sorts and then he got done by Discipline. I got dragged through the shite with him because I worked with him and he didn’t lift a finger to put them right. Thought me involved would take the heat off him. Then he gives the fucking Masons’ handshake and gets invalided out, no questions asked, while I get parked on my arse in Kilmarnock for four months. I got pulled in every few days until they finally realised I was clean. Meanwhile Gibbs had got a job at the Dunlops’, big car, good money. Him and Angela out on the town every weekend while I tried to stick my life back together.’

  ‘So you went after him?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Naw, not that exciting. That girl killed herself on the Dunlop estate. I got sent out to have a look. Gibbs acted like the cunt he’d become. I went back that night after four hours in the pub, was going to tell him what I really thought, maybe give him a kicking, who knows. Trouble was Lord fucking Dunlop was back from London, so I started in on him instead. Not my finest hour.’ He sat back, lit up. ‘That okay with you?’