by Alan Parks
‘A few months,’ he repeated.
McCoy nodded. ‘You do that and then you come back and I’ll get you a job with Mr Cooper. Right?’
He shook his head violently, started crying again.
‘It’ll be okay, he’s a friend now, everything’s changed. Honest.’ He leant over the front seat. ‘He’s ready, Billy. You take him to the Royal, then put him on the train.’ Billy nodded, didn’t look very happy about it.
McCoy turned back to Jumbo. ‘I’ll see you when you get back, eh?’
Jumbo nodded. McCoy kept his eyes on his face, trying to avoid the smashed and broken hand. ‘I’ll see you.’ He went to get out the car and Jumbo grabbed him, embraced him, started crying again. McCoy looked at Billy, embarrassed, patted Jumbo’s back. ‘You’re all right, son. It’s all right now.’
11th January 1973
THIRTY-SIX
‘Hold your fucking horses!’
The hammering had woken him up. He’d tried to ignore it at first but it wasn’t going away. He’d got home, fallen asleep on the couch. He looked at his watch: eight o’clock, he’d only been asleep for a few hours. No wonder he felt terrible. He slid the bolt in the door and pulled it open.
‘You stupid fucking cunt,’ Jimmy Gibbs said. ‘You stupid, stupid cunt.’ He barged past him and walked into the flat.
‘Come in,’ said McCoy, shutting the door behind him.
Gibbs was all suited and booted, reddish hair combed into a neat side shed. Must have come straight from Dunlop. He walked into the living room, lighting up as he went. He supposed he’d expected him, just wished he’d been in a better state to deal with it. Gibbs chucked his match into the fireplace and turned to face him.
‘You got any idea the trouble you’ve caused?’
McCoy sat down at the table, yawned and scratched his chest. ‘What do you want anyway, Gibbs? I was in my bed. And by the way, how much did you have to pay Chas Gow to get him to take the rap for Isabel Garvey?’
‘I haven’t a fucking clue what you’re on about, McCoy. The rest of them. Where are they?’
McCoy was reading the back of yesterday’s Record. Well, pretending to. ‘I give up. The rest of what?’
‘The photos, you fucking clown.’
‘What photos is that? I’ve no got any photos.’ He looked up, smiled. Couldn’t resist it. ‘How’s the merger going, by the way?’
Gibbs shook his head. ‘Still acting the smart prick, aren’t you, McCoy? You’re nothing but a fucking amateur.’
He sat at the table, was about to put his elbows down then noticed the toast crumbs and spilt milk, snatched the Record over and leant on that instead. His sleeves hitched up and McCoy saw it. The bottom half on a pentangle tattooed on the inside of his wrist.
‘That work, does it?’ he asked, pointing at it. ‘All that devil worshipping shite. Help you get to fuck teenagers, does it? Much acid did you have to give Tommy Malone to fry his brain, get him to do what you want?’
‘Tommy did what he wanted to do. I didn’t have to make him do anything.’
McCoy looked at him. Realised. ‘You actually believe all this shit, don’t you, Gibbs? Really fucking believe it.’
Gibbs pulled up his sleeve. Blue pentangle was there and there was something above it too. An inscription in blue copperplate writing. McCoy leant forward and read it. ‘Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
‘It means you don’t understand what you’re dealing with. What we are capable of.’
‘We? What, you and the Dunlops? You’re getting ideas above your station. You’re just another servant, as far as they’re concerned. There’s no “we”. You’re just another one of their houseboys.’
‘I didn’t think someone like you would understand. It’s all a bit above you, McCoy. Bit too much for your brain to take in.’
‘Maybe you’re right, Gibbs, maybe I’m just too thick to understand how drawing pentangles on stoned teenagers gives you an excuse to treat them like pieces of shit.’
‘As I said, it’s beyond you, McCoy. You just don’t get it, never will.’ Gibbs smiled at him. ‘Lord Dunlop and I had a cosy wee dinner with Forfar, talked him through the art of faking photographs. Told him all about unscrupulous business rivals who would do anything to stop this merger going through. Dunlop told him exactly how disgusted he was by that faked photograph, that it was an obscene abomination, the product of a sick and godless mind.’
And then Gibbs was up and out his chair before McCoy knew what was happening. He grabbed the empty milk bottle from the table as he jumped up and smashed it down on McCoy’s head. It shattered and McCoy fell backwards. Gibbs was on top of him instantly, knees pinning down his shoulders, jagged neck of the bottle pushing into his cheek. Gibbs’ face was in his, smell of cigarettes on his breath.
‘Listen, you cunt, because I’m only going to say this once. I want the photos. All of them. You’ve got until the end of the day tomorrow.’
‘Get the fuck off me,’ said McCoy, struggling to get out from under him.
Gibbs looked him in the eye. ‘End of the fucking day,’ he said, and pushed down on the bottle. McCoy felt the pressure on his cheek, then it gave way and he screamed as Gibbs pushed the glass deep into his skin.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The cars were circling. Cortinas, Vivas, Hillman Imps. Family cars full of family men just looking, plucking up the courage or making a choice. A car pulled over every so often, girl leant in the window, did the deal, then got in. Glasgow Green was a good step down the ladder from the leafy square of Blythswood. And where he was going was even worse.
McCoy walked past the girls leaning on the Green railings, smoking, trying to stay warm in their miniskirts and wee tops, and headed down towards the dark lane running by the back of the old box factory. The road hadn’t been used for years, was littered with broken wine bottles, cigarette packets, used condoms. A huddle of figures was gathered round a fire in an oil drum down at the end. They were either very young or had reached the ends of their working lives. Nothing in between.
The old girls were falling down the slippery slope, no use in the saunas or the shebeens, or even for the circling cars two streets away. The younger girls all looked the same. Thin, too thin, black circles under their eyes, runny noses, desperation written all over their faces. Couple of them approached, tried to smile.
‘All right, fella, what you after?’
McCoy held up his badge and any hope they had on their faces died.
‘Looking for someone. Girl called Janey.’ Nothing. He dug in his pocket, pulled out two quid. The girls looked at the notes, couldn’t take their eyes off them.
‘She’s no here,’ the taller one said. ‘She was here earlier on, got a couple of jobs. Some old guy gied her two quid just to suck him off. Lucky cow.’
‘Where’d she go?’ he asked.
They didn’t look at him, didn’t take their eyes off the money in McCoy’s hand. ‘Where d’you think? To score.’
‘Where would that be?’ asked McCoy.
‘Anywhere. There’s loads around just now. Good stuff tae.’
McCoy held out the money, their eyes followed it like a dog following a stick. ‘You see her, you tell her McCoy’s looking for her. She knows where she can find me.’
He couldn’t look at the hunger in their eyes any more, held out the notes. They snatched them, were straight off up the road. McCoy knew he was probably wasting his time but he had to try, try and find her before she got in so deep she couldn’t get back out. He’d tried a couple of the shelters, roads at the back of the Tennent’s brewery and then the Green. Knew that’s where she was probably going to be working, was kidding himself with the other places. Heroin doesn’t take any prisoners. Couldn’t find her. Wherever she’d gone with her score, she’d disappeared.
By the time he got into the office it was after three. Radiators had gone on the blink; some pipe had burst with th
e cold. Everyone was sitting at their desks with their coats on, hats and scarves. Wattie was on the phone, had some sort of mittens on, looked like a big kid. He hung up and came over, handed him a note. Call Jean Baird. Took him a minute to remember who Jean Baird was. Madame Polo. What was she phoning him for? Was just about to pick up the phone when Murray appeared round his office door and shouted on him and Wattie.
‘You two okay?’ he asked as they walked into his office. Then he noticed McCoy’s cheek. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Shaving,’ said McCoy.
Murray raised his eyebrows, shook his head. ‘Shaving, my arse.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Aye, very funny, McCoy. That body the other night, the one in the swing park? Have we identified him yet?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘He’d nothing on him, nobody knows who he is. No fingerprints on file either.’ He looked glum. ‘Think we’ll have to try the mispers books.’
Murray thought. ‘He looked like he was a small-time boy. One of the troops. Sort of person McCoy knows.’
McCoy nodded. ‘Might do. Think I should try it?’
Wattie nodded, looked relieved. ‘Good idea.’
‘Well, get up to Saracen, Milton, Springburn, ask around, you’ve got contacts up there. Find out if anyone knows who he is.’
They nodded, stood up.
‘He was serious, that Cavendish,’ said Murray. ‘Talking about the Official Secrets and that. You never saw those photos, never heard of them. I’ll say it again. Just keep your head down, get back to some proper polis work. Don’t give him an excuse to come looking for either of you. Clear?’
‘You still going to interview Teddy Dunlop?’ asked McCoy.
‘Am I fuck,’ said Murray. ‘As you well know. Now beat it.’
McCoy and Wattie made their way to the back of the shop to see if there were any pool cars around.
‘You go ahead, see if you can find one. I’ll no be a minute,’ said McCoy.
Wattie nodded, kept walking down the corridor. McCoy waited until he’d gone and pushed the door to Cowie’s office open.
Cowie was sitting behind his desk typing something, didn’t look up as he came in. ‘Mr McCoy! Sit yourself down. If I don’t finish this paragraph now, I’ll lose track of the whole bloody—’
‘Lorna Skirving.’
The typing stopped. Cowie looked up. ‘What about her?’
‘That’s why you were waiting about outside Murray’s office, wasn’t it? Waiting to see if you could get a heads-up on the coroner’s report. See if the bruises you’d given her were still there. Lucky for you someone else had had a go at her since, managed to give her a whole new set. No wonder you were so cheery when you turned up at the Indian.’
Cowie looked at him. Blinked. Sat back in his chair.
‘The neighbour. Wattie had a chat with her. She told him all about her boyfriend turning up at her door. Thought it was Malone at first. Why wouldn’t I? But then I thought about what she said. Said he was “untidy, messy”. Now who does that sound like?’
‘That’s a load of shite,’ said Cowie.
‘All that crying and pleading. It was only the once, poor me with my crippled wife, I’m so sorry, I don’t know anything. But you did. You knew Lorna Skirving and you made her life hell. Harassed her, blackmailed her into sleeping with you. Beat her black and blue when she threatened to tell your wife.’
‘Harry, come on, we can talk about this, it doesn’t—’
‘You’re fucked, Cowie. It’s over. No pension, no Pass Go. Out on your fucking arse.’
‘You don’t have any proof.’
‘Don’t I? You want to bet on that? What do you think Murray’s going to do when I tell him you were fucking a murder suspect and you didn’t tell anyone? Give you a pay rise?’
Cowie stared at him. Swallowed. ‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. Resign. Get the fuck out this office.’
‘I’m nineteen years in, Harry. I need that pension. Without that me and the wife, we won’t survive. She’ll have to go into a home. Please, Harry, be a pal. I need—’
‘You know what, Cowie? I don’t give a shit.’
Cowie was white, all the colour gone from his face. Looked desperate, broken, like he was about to cry.
‘What if I had something to trade, something I could tell you?’ he said.
Taken longer than McCoy thought it would, but he’d finally got him there.
‘Like what?’
‘Something about the Dunlops.’
‘What the fuck do you know about them? Far as I could see you were just standing there with your dick in your hand.’
Tears started. Cowie wiped them away with the back of his hand. ‘Teddy,’ he said.
‘The son?’ McCoy asked. ‘What about him?’
‘All I know is the women I was with wouldn’t go near him.’
‘Why not?’
Cowie shrugged. ‘That’s all I heard. Maybe I can try and . . .’
McCoy turned, walked away. Was almost at the door when Cowie shouted after him.
‘Harry! Please!’
The noise cut off as he shut the door behind him.
*
‘You going up to ask around?’ said Wattie, nodding towards the north of the city.
‘Me? That not supposed to be we? You not supposed to be showing me what you can do?’
‘Sure, sure, no problem,’ said Wattie, pulling a pair of woolly gloves out his coat pocket. ‘Just thought you might get on better on your own, people more likely to talk.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘And it’s the football club Christmas dance the night,’ he said, grinning.
‘Christmas was two weeks ago.’
‘I know, they have it in January. Supposed to cheer everyone up.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Off you go.’
‘Cheers, McCoy,’ he said, pulling a woolly hat on. ‘I owe you.’
‘Aye, you fucking do.’
McCoy watched him hurry past the big hospital gates and down the hill into town. Wattie didn’t know it but he’d saved him a problem; he’d been trying to work out how to get rid of him. Didn’t need Wattie standing there in some pub in Springburn while a bloke told them his pal Cooper had done the boy in, everyone knew that.
If the real story came out, he was fucked, up to his arse in it. Murray couldn’t save him this time. He’d delivered the boys wrapped up like a parcel so Cooper could make dog meat out of them. Needed to find him quick. A taxi passed, yellow light shining weakly in the fog. A miracle in this weather. He hailed it and got in, told the driver to take him up to Springburn.
The driver gave up around the fire station, didn’t want to go up the hill, too scared he’d get stuck. McCoy got out, didn’t give him a tip, ignored his moaning and started trudging up the hill. He could see his problem, though. If anything, the snow was getting worse, was almost horizontal now. Both sides of the road were lined with abandoned cars, most of them already half buried. The streetlights weren’t doing much good against the snow and the fog, barely lighting up the way ahead. He walked up past the fire station and crossed the bridge; railway tracks below were covered as well, no trains running tonight.
He was almost at the Bells when he saw it. A car was making its way down Balgrayhill towards him. It was a dirty big black Rolls-Royce. Didn’t see many of them in Glasgow, never mind in Springburn. He stood outside Bells and waited, wasn’t surprised when it drew up beside him and a driver in a cap and greatcoat got out.
‘Mr McCoy? I’ve been looking for you. Lord Dunlop would like a word.’
‘That right? Well, tell Lord Dunlop I’m busy.’
‘He has a suite at the Albany.’ He gestured to the car. ‘Will only take us ten minutes to get there. You’ll be back here within the hour.’
‘Tell you what . . .’
‘Mason,’ said the driver.
‘Tell you what, Mason. Why don’t you get in your big car and go and get D
unlop? If he wants to talk to me, I’ll be in this pub here for the next hour. Tell the mountain to come to Muhammad.’
Mason nodded, got in the car and started it up, clouds of exhaust fumes in the icy night air. McCoy pushed the door of the Bells open, watched it drive off down the hill.
Sitting in the pub brooding and waiting wasn’t doing him any good, Isabel Garvey, Tommy Malone, Lorna Skirving going round in his head. Who knew how many others the Dunlops had chewed up and spat out? How many of the runaways they found floating in canals, the pregnant girls who hung themselves out of desperation, the ones already living rough on the Grates had run into people like the Dunlops? Jimmy Gibbs leading them like some pied piper towards Broughton House and the cameras in the walls and the pentagrams and the handcuffs on the bedside table?
He ordered another pint, drank a whisky at the bar while he was waiting for it to be poured. Sat back down and tried to get his mind onto something else. Couldn’t.
He’d just finished his second pint, pretty sure Dunlop wasn’t coming in, when the door opened. Just like a cowboy film everyone stopped talking and turned to look at the stranger in the doorway. An old boy let out a low whistle, taking in the bespoke suit, the dark blue cashmere coat and the kid-leather gloves Dunlop was peeling off his elegant hands. He looked around, spotted McCoy in the gloom of the dingy pub and came over.
‘Happy now, are we?’ he asked. ‘Made your point?’
They sat at a wee table at the back, hammered copper table top sticky with spilt beer, ash and soggy beer mats. Punters in the pub weren’t shy; they were taking a good look at Dunlop, trying to work out what he was doing there. Too rich-looking to be a polis, not flash enough to be a landlord. Dunlop lifted up the gin and tonic McCoy had got him, peered at it, didn’t look happy. No ice, no lemon, just a warm oily liquid in a smeared glass.
‘What do you want?’ asked McCoy. All he wanted was rid of him. He was sick of it. Sick of Dunlop, sick of Gibbs, sick of them getting away with it.
Dunlop took a sip of his drink, tried not to grimace. ‘Was that Gibbs?’ he asked.
McCoy’s hand went up to the plasters on his face. ‘Yep.’
