by Alan Parks
Wattie nodded.
‘Thank fuck for that. Thought I was back up before the Discipline.’ He waggled his empty glass. ‘Now go and get us a pint.’
Three pints later they weren’t feeling so bad. McCoy had told some of his old war stories, the funny ones. Man arrested for fucking his dog, time some jakey threw up all over Murray, the old chestnuts. Wattie put his glass down, was about to get them another when he remembered.
‘Miss Gilroy. I forgot all about her, what she said.’
‘Shouldn’t have bothered remembering, no going to do you any good,’ said McCoy.
‘Dunlop has a Rolls-Royce, places him with the girl on the night she died.’
‘I’m sure he does and I’m sure it does. Makes no fucking odds though, not after this afternoon. Do you want to go in tomorrow and start shouting about the Dunlops to Murray again?’
Wattie shook his head.
‘No. Me neither. Thing about people like Dunlop is they don’t forget. Behind all that money and accent he’s just like any other thug. Holds a grudge until he’s ready to do something about it. I’m barely hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it is. He gets angry again, losing my job will be the least of it. You’ll learn, Wattie, some of them get away, nothing you can do. Just have to learn to fight another day. Get us a short as well.’
Wattie spent the next half-hour telling McCoy what a great team they were, how they were going to be pals forever. McCoy nodded, tried to look like he was listening hard, then put him in a taxi. He looked at his watch. Half eight. Better get a move on.
The cab dropped McCoy off at the Cartwheel at the bottom of Byres Road. Susan was already there, sitting at the table. Both of them ordered steak, bottle of red wine. Any awkwardness went with the first glass. He ended up telling her about his early days on the beat, his funny stories, party pieces. She laughed, made him tell the one about the burglar’s false teeth twice. She’d interviewed Baby Strange the day before, found her ‘amazing’, wanted to maybe shift her thesis around, make it more about her. McCoy nodded, looked interested, didn’t mention what she’d said about Broughton House, didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere.
After their steaks, she made him have a tiramisu so she could have a spoonful then ate the whole thing. McCoy ordered another bottle of red wine and when it came they got the waiter to open it and took it with them, walked arm in arm up Byres Road, heading for her flat.
And now she was asleep, softly snoring beside McCoy. He’d tried to sleep but it was no use. He got out bed, pulled his trousers on and went into the kitchen where the gas fire was still on. He sat at the table, smoked a cigarette. Didn’t mean to do it but the notepad was right in front of him.
INTERVIEW BABY STRANGE 8TH JANUARY TRANSCRIPT
He skimmed through it; lots of talk of female empowerment and the economic misogyny of conventional prostitution. He was about to give up when it caught his eye.
INT. How have your relations with the police been?
B.S. What do you mean? (laughter)
INT. Have you ever been arrested?
B.S. Once, a long time ago. Nothing to do with prostitution. Shoplifting!
INT. The police . . .
B.S. Circles I work in now? They seem to have been taken care of, not really a problem. You meet some at parties, smoking dope, whatever, wouldn’t know they were police unless they told you.
INT. And they get involved in the sexual side of things?
B.S. Sometimes.
INT. How?
B.S. The usual way! Sometimes it’s a freebie to oil the wheels, as it were, and sometimes they come back as punters. Join in like everyone else.
INT. And they don’t cause trouble?
B.S. No. Well, one did. Turned out to be a real creep.
INT. How?
B.S. Came to one of the parties and saw a girl there, she was a performer really.
INT. Performer?
B.S. Sex show, you know. Her and another girl. Anyway, found out where she lived, where she worked. Started turning up, harassing her. Told her he’d have her arrested unless she did what he wanted. Really creepy.
INT. And this was when you had the house in Chelsea?
B.S. No, it was here. Poor girl came to me for help. What could I do?
INT. What happened?
B.S. She said she’d tell his wife and he beat her black and blue . . .
‘You been up long?’ Susan was standing in the kitchen doorway, dressing gown on.
He turned. ‘Half an hour.’
‘Come back to bed, I’m freezing.’ She came over, embraced him. ‘What time is—’
He felt her stiffen as she saw what he was reading. ‘Susan, I . . .’
She let him go, walked over to the sink, turned the tap on and let it run, filled up a glass.
‘I’m sorry, it was just on the table.’
‘That really what you’re here for, is it? A little snoop around? A little read of a confidential interview, see if there’s anything you need to know?’
‘Come on, it’s not like that.’
‘Really? That’s exactly what it looks like.’
‘Susan . . .’ McCoy started.
‘I should have known. Once a policeman, always a policeman. And here was me thinking that despite it all, all the macho tough guy stuff, that you were good underneath. You know something? I even thought you might actually like me.’
‘I do.’
‘No, you don’t, Harry. You just think you do. This is what you really like.’ She waved at the notebook on the table. ‘Checking up on people, spying, finding things out you’re not supposed to know.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, it is. I don’t really blame you for it. It’s your job, it’s you, it’s what you are.’ She drained the glass, set it upside down on the drainer. ‘Do me a favour. Just don’t use me to do it.’ She walked away, went into the bathroom, slammed the door.
McCoy sat back. Wished desperately he’d never started reading it, but he had. He got his clothes out the bedroom, put them on quickly, left Susan a note. Call you tomorrow. Eased the door shut behind him and walked down the stairs onto Byres Road. He needed a drink after that.
The lights were off, place was dark for the first time he could remember. He chapped the door, expected Big Chas for a minute then remembered. No answer. Chapped again.
‘Fuck off. We’re closed.’
He leant into the door. ‘C’mon, Iris. It’s McCoy.’
‘I don’t give a fuck who it is, we’re closed. Now fuck off.’
He rapped the door harder. ‘I’ve got money. Come on, Iris, be a pal, I need a drink. Come on.’
The lock was pulled back and Iris stood there in the gloom. Took him a second or two to realise it was her. No make-up, faded dressing gown pulled round her, hair in a net.
‘Well? Come in before you let all the bloody heat out.’
The flat was dark, all the doors closed. He followed her towards the light coming from the half-opened door at the end of the corridor. Iris’s room was tiny, wee couch with antimacassars, armchair, telly, framed pictures of doe-eyed Victorian kids on the walls, Jim Reeves softly singing from the radiogram. It was warm, smelt of perfume and the remains of mince and tatties sitting on a plate by the chair. He eased himself down onto the couch and looked around. ‘I’ve never been in here before.’
‘Aye, and you won’t be again. What’s up with you anyway? Thought you polis were the ones who dealt out the beatings?’
‘Doesn’t always work out that way.’
‘Gin’s all I’ve got,’ she said, pouring him half a tumbler.
‘What happened? Where is everyone? This cause of Chas?’
She snorted. ‘As if. Cooper no tell ye? We’re shutting down. Supposed to be moving to some fucking sauna in Duke Street. His instructions. Fucking liberty it is. Twelve years I’ve run this place and now I’m supposed to sit behind a desk handing towels to punters.’ She swallowed a good half of her gin over. ‘
Good mind to tell him to shove it up his arse.’
‘What about the girls?’
‘Couple of days’ holiday until they do the new place up. Except your wee pal that is, she’s fucked off.’
‘Janey?’
‘She no tell you she was going?’ She sat back in her armchair, looked amused. ‘And here was me thinking you two were peas in a pod.’
‘Where’d she go?’
‘Nae idea. Got up one morning and the wee cow had gone. Told Cooper but he didnae give a shit, served her purpose as far as he was concerned.’
‘What does that mean?’
She shrugged.
‘Come on, Iris. Stop being a narky cow for once in your fucking life. Tell me.’
‘Needle marks on her arms, passing out while the punters were riding her. No that good for business, is it?’ She mimed sticking a syringe in her arm. ‘I tried to tell her to stay away from that shite. Laughed in my face, asked me what the fuck I knew about it.’
McCoy swallowed the gin over, grimaced and held out his glass for another. ‘I didnae think she was intae that, didn’t think she was that bad.’
‘She wasn’t, just couldnae say no, not to him.’
‘Who?’
She shook her head. ‘Cannae see what’s in front of your fucking face, can you, led by your dick like all the rest, same old fucking story.’ She poured another half tumbler. ‘This is your last; after this you’re out.’
He padded his jacket, found a squashed packet of Regal and lit up. ‘You think Chas did it?’
She laughed. ‘You taking the piss?’
‘Who put him up to it?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Somebody did. You’re the polis, you find out who.’
‘He ever mention a Jimmy Gibbs?’
She shook her head. ‘That who told him to do it?
McCoy shrugged. ‘Think so.’
‘He was a shite doorman, only ended up here when they couldnae use him anywhere else. Only chance he’ll ever get to make a bit of money. Cannae blame him, I suppose.’ She swirled the oily gin round in her tumbler, looked into the fire.
Way she looked when she talked about him made McCoy think the rumours about her and Chas might be true. ‘You gonnae miss this place, Iris?’
She shook her head again, tried to smile. ‘No this place. The life maybe. Mind you, hasnae been the same for years. Used to be the shebeens were the places, after the war. Used to love working them, busy they were, six, seven nights a week.’
He smiled. ‘Heard you used to be a pro, eh, Iris?’
‘Aye I was, nothing wrong with that. I was a good-looking girl back then, just wasnae any good at it. To make real money you have to convince the punters you’re having a good time. I couldnae manage that so they started me looking after the booze, then the girls. Much more my style.’
‘Maybe the sauna’ll be okay?’
‘Aye, and maybe it won’t. Come on, you, move it. I need my bed.’ She pulled a drawer of the dresser open and took out a half bottle of whisky, handed it to him. ‘Take this with you, save me pouring it down the sink.’
THIRTY-THREE
He looked up and down the street; no chance of getting a taxi in this weather. Only one thing for it: walk. At least he’d the half bottle to keep him warm. Snow must have been on the whole time he was in Iris’s. The streets and the buildings were covered, quiet, sound all muffled. He opened the whisky, took a swig and grimaced. Watered down. Good old Iris, cheap until the very end.
The Dunlops had a Rolls, he’d seen it at the press conference, seen it up at Broughton House. No doubt that was where Isabel had ended up, fingers clawing at the carpet. What could he do with that, though? Maybe needed to take some of his own advice and let things go. Maybe Chas had been right: he needed to move on, stop seeing Cooper with the easy birds and the easy drugs. Murray and the Chief were going to be watching him, maybe it was time to keep his head down, stick to the straight and narrow for a while. Couldn’t do any harm. He took another swig. Only a couple of days late with his New Year’s resolutions. He’d holidays he had to take as well. Next week off maybe. No more Dunlops or Cooper. Maybe go up north for a few days. Clear his head.
He’d just turned off Hyndland Road into Havelock Street when he saw the lights. Three pandas were parked round the edge of the wee swing park, lights spinning, flashing blue on a huddle of plainers over by the iron roundabout. He recognised Gilroy’s wee MG parked over at the fence. Must be something big to get her out her bed on a night like this. A uniform with a big overcoat was guarding the park gate; he showed him his badge and he lifted the rope, let him duck under.
As he got closer he saw the familiar outline. Trilby, tweed coat, pipe in hand. Murray. He was talking to Wattie, pointing back at the road. Wattie saw him and called him over. He walked over, wishing he hadn’t come in. Last person he needed to see tonight was Murray, especially when he was pissed.
‘McCoy, what you doing here?’ asked Wattie.
He took his hands out his pockets, rubbed them together. ‘Nothing. Was on the way home and I saw the lights. Sir,’ he nodded at Murray, who nodded back. Both of them awkward. ‘What’s the story anyway?’
Wattie nodded over to a young couple with blankets round their shoulders, looking scared. ‘Winching couple climbed over the fence, drunk, fancied a wee burl on the roundabout and found him. Young guy, late teens, twenty, not long dead. Been given a right going over as well.’
‘Do we know who he is?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Doesn’t seem to have any ID or anything, pockets are empty. Got a tattoo, though.’ He pointed at his knuckles. ‘Come On Die Young. Looks like he did. Should be called in as missing soon. You all right?’
McCoy nodded, hoped he was wrong. ‘Can I see him?’
‘No like you, McCoy. Thought you hated blood. He’s over there.’ He swept his arm towards the swings. ‘Be my guest.’
He walked over just as they managed to get the lights hooked up, area ahead suddenly flooded with white light and the huge spindly shadows of the swings. He eased through the plainers, following Murray. Said a prayer under his breath.
The boy was lying face down, blood-stained jeans and underpants halfway down his legs. His shirt was torn and bloody; back a mess of stab wounds. He’d one arm folded beneath him, the other stretched out towards the lights, blue ink letters just below the knuckle of each finger. C.O.D.Y.
Gilroy was buzzing about, instructing the two ambulance men spreading a tarpaulin out on the ground beside the body. One knelt by the boy’s shoulders, the other by his feet.
‘Careful now,’ she said. ‘At the count of three. One, two, three!’
They rolled the body over and McCoy found himself looking, just like he knew he would be, into the face of one of the boys who’d taken Cooper’s tally book. Billy Leeson.
‘Fuck,’ he said, looking away.
‘What’s up?’ asked Murray. ‘You know him?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘No, sorry, just the usual. You know me.’
Murray looked down at the boy. ‘All the gear on as well. Some poor bugger who wished he’d never gone out the night.’
The boy’s print shirt was dark red and soaking. Right eye swollen and black, looked like his front teeth had been knocked out. Gilroy carefully eased the sides of the tarpaulin over him and the ambulance men started fastening belts around his shrouded body. Job done, she eased off her gloves and stuffed them in her jacket pocket.
‘Mr McCoy, we meet again. What are you doing here? I thought Murray and Wattie were taking care of this one?’
‘They are. I was just passing.’
‘So, what’s the story?’ asked Murray.
‘Provisionally?’
Murray sighed. ‘Provisionally.’
Gilroy nodded. ‘Male, late teens, five foot ten or thereabouts. General wear and tear, scratches, minor cuts and abrasions. Seems to have lost three of his teeth or, to be completely accurate, two and a half, the other ha
lf’s still in there. Two major centres of interest. Two deep wounds in his chest, one piercing his lung, the other going straight into his heart. Carving knife or something similar, serrated. Ninety-nine per cent the cause of death.’ She grimaced. ‘I can only hope those wounds were inflicted before the other one.’
‘The other one?’ asked McCoy.
‘Mmm. Seems someone has shoved the same carving knife up his back passage and given it a good twisting round.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said McCoy.
‘I’m not given to bad language, but “fucking hell” indeed,’ said Gilroy.
‘Must have got on the wrong side of someone pretty important,’ said Murray. ‘Let’s see if we can find out who he is pronto. Fingerprints are bound to be on file.’ He dug his gloves out his pocket, put them on. ‘Not much point in me standing here all night. Wattie, get a fingertip search going, keep the park closed and get that bloody tent up before the press get here.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘You want a lift?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m only a couple of streets away. I’ll walk. Don’t think you’d get a car up Gardner Street in this snow anyway.’
Murray looked up at the clumped flakes falling from the sky. ‘Could be right. Seems to me you might be better on this mess. Keep you occupied. Let Wattie think he’s running it, keep an eye out.’
‘Babysit, you mean?’
Murray nodded. ‘Keep your head down for a week or so, until we’re sure Cavendish isn’t coming back. Okay?’
‘Fine by me,’ said McCoy. Least he could do.
Murray walked out the circle of light, down the slushy path towards the pandas. McCoy watched him go. Looked like they were back on an even keel. He turned back to the red churned-up snow, the outline of where the boy had been. Poor fucker had got on the wrong side of someone, right enough. And all because of him.
Wattie approached, blowing into his hands. ‘What you doing lurking about this time of night?’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
