by Alan Parks
Nothing.
He knocked.
Nothing.
Knocked again, harder this time, even gave it a boot. Still nothing. Swore, then gave the handle a go. Was amazed when it turned. Luck going his way for once. He pushed the door open, stepped inside and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Wasn’t difficult to work out why MacRae hadn’t answered the door. He was lying on the press bed, very pale and very dead, naked but for a pair of blue underpants and one red football sock. His eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling, his chest a mess of cuts and stab wounds. The grubby white sheets he was lying on were soaked with blood – blood that McCoy realised was only just starting to dry.
A wave of dizziness hit and he looked away quickly, counted down from ten, tried to breathe slowly. Could hear flies buzzing against the windows, a lorry going by on Alexandra Parade, the rattle of the bottles on a milk float. There was a Rangers team poster on the wall, looked at that, tried to remember the players’ names: Sandy Jardine, John Greig, Alfie Conn? The dizziness began to fade; he started to feel normal again. Experimented with a look over at MacRae. Managed it without his head spinning. Hoped he was going to be okay.
MacRae’s flat was a typical single end. A one-room flat at the corner of a tenement. Bed, kitchen, everything, stuffed into a twenty-foot-square room with the wallpaper peeling and a dull stink of damp. There was a steady ticking noise. Took McCoy a minute to realise what it was, thought it was a clock at first. Wasn’t. It was the blood dripping off the end of McLeod’s hand, dropping into the shiny pool forming on the lino.
He edged over to the bed and looked down at what was left of Laura’s boyfriend. Donny MacRae’s ginger feather cut was stiff with blood, a couple of knife wounds below his pale blue eyes, blood from them congealing round his nose and mouth. He was, or had been, a good-looking guy. Even with the mess his face was in, you could still see it. Body was like a boxer’s, slight but hard with muscle. Tattoo of King Billy on his bicep. Perfect bad boy dream of every rebellious middle-class girl like Laura Murray. No wonder she’d fallen for him. Fallen hard enough to prefer a shithole like this to a big comfy house in Bearsden. A fly landed on MacRae’s face, crawled around, made its way into the blood around his eye. McCoy looked away. Enough was enough. Time to clean up.
There wasn’t much to get rid of. A paperback on the bed, a Scottie dog brooch sitting on the table. An ashtray full of butts with lipstick on the ends sitting by the bed. He put the brooch and the butts in his pocket, picked up the book. Didn’t seem that likely it was Donny MacRae who was halfway through The Great Gatsby, so he put that in his pocket as well.
He slid his arm under the pillows. Sat MacRae up like some nurse making a patient comfortable and felt around. Came out with a rolled-up nightie and an earring, then eased him back into position. He wasn’t completely cold yet, couldn’t have been dead that long. Was hard to tell in this heat, though. McCoy put his jacket back on and jammed the nightie in his pocket with the rest of her stuff.
There was no question Laura Murray had left in a hurry – left so quick the door was still open. The real question was whether she left before or after Donny MacRae got himself ventilated. That wasn’t McCoy’s problem. Murray could worry about that. As long as he’d done his job and not missed anything, Laura had never been there.
He checked he’d no blood on his shoes to leave footprints, pulled MacRae’s door shut behind him, walked down the stairs and out into the street. Whitehill Street was still quiet, no one up and around yet. If he was lucky no one would have seen him, and even if they had it was just another punter, nothing to worry about.
There was a caravan parked along from the factory – ‘Jean’s Rolls’ painted on the side, hatch open, bowls of sugar and a jar of teaspoons on the fold-out counter. Why it was open when there were no workers to buy anything he had no idea, but he wasn’t complaining. Hadn’t had any breakfast and he was starving. He soon found out. And he’d only asked for a cup of tea and a roll and sausage.
‘I’ve nothing else to do, son. I’m here every day at six for workers from the factory, then I just stay on for the pubs shutting.’ She laughed. ‘I’m like a permanent bloody fixture.’
The woman behind the counter pointed to a photo in a frame of a shy-looking boy with glasses and a navy uniform, hung by the hob.
‘I lost my son in the war. Some German bastard bombed his boat. All hands lost. Only two months before the bastards surrendered as well. Just his luck.’ She crossed herself. ‘They wanted to give me some posthumous medal. I told them where to stick it. They took my boy. I want him back, no a bloody wee coin on a bit of ribbon. So that’s my story. Here, come rain or shine. What am I gonna do at home? Sit in an empty house twiddling my thumbs? I don’t think so. Would drive me up the bloody wall. Rather be out here watching the world go by. If I enjoy it, why not?’
‘Why not, right enough,’ said McCoy, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s desire to tell him her entire life story. ‘Tell you what, you make good rolls too. I’ll take another one.’
While she made herself busy, he decided it was worth a try.
‘Mind if I ask you a question?’ McCoy pointed at the side of the van. ‘Jean, is it?’
She nodded.
He held out the picture of Laura Murray. The woman took it and peered at it.
‘You seen her around here?’ he asked.
Jean looked at him. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘Her mum and dad are looking for her, she’s only fifteen. I’m trying to get her back.’
Jean handed McCoy his roll, took the dowling stick away from the counter and pulled the flap down to reveal a large painting of a bacon roll. Well, more like a brown circle with two stripes of red, but he thought that’s what it was meant to be. She reappeared from round the back of the van holding two packets of cigarettes.
‘Want one? I’ve got hundreds – the girls at the factory trade them for rolls.’
McCoy nodded, took one and they crossed the street and leant on the wall overlooking the Monklands canal. The canal wasn’t really a canal any more, just a long trench that was starting to get grown over. They’d drained it a couple of years ago, supposed to be building yet another motorway.
Jean took out a box of Swan Vestas and lit up. McCoy had the feeling she needed another push. The white lie.
‘That Kelly girl going missing has sent her mum and dad right off the edge. Wondering if that’s happened to their daughter too. The mum’s in a right state, can’t stop crying, the dad’s out all hours, all over the city trying to find her. You recognised her, didn’t you? You see what goes on around here. Help us, Jean. Please.’
Left it at that and tried to look as sad as possible. Seemed to work. Jean started talking.
‘She was here this morning,’ she said. ‘Crying her bloody eyes out.’
‘What about?’ asked McCoy, trying to sound innocent.
‘God knows. Couldn’t get any sense out her, just gave her a cup of tea, tried to get her to calm down. She got in a taxi and that was that.’
‘She say where she was going?’ he asked.
Jean shook her head. ‘Nope. But I heard what she said to the driver.’
‘What was it?’ asked McCoy.
‘Told him to drop her on Queen Margaret Drive. By the swing park.’
McCoy thanked her, walked up the road. Jean hadn’t told him much, but it might just be enough to find Laura Murray. He stopped at a phone box outside the Royal. Picked up the handset as an ambulance pulled in, lights on, siren wailing.
‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!’ Murray said when he got through. ‘Dead? You sure?’
‘Yep. Dead all right,’ said McCoy. He was holding the door of the phone box open; heat was making the smell of piss overwhelming. ‘Body’s a right mess, must have been stabbed twenty or so times at least.’
A pause on the line, sound of fumbling. With news like he’d just given him, it had to be Murray fumbling about for
his pipe. Came back on the line.
‘Christ. What a bloody mess.’
‘In more ways than one,’ said McCoy. ‘But a bloody mess she hopefully won’t have anything to do with. Removed all traces of Laura Murray from the premises. I’ll call it in to Northern anonymously. Those clowns’ll have it down as a gang thing soon as they hear who he is and how he died.’
‘And is it?’ asked Murray.
‘Who knows? There’s been a bit of jostling for position lately. Chances are.’
A pause. The inevitable question. The one McCoy didn’t even want to ask himself.
‘You don’t think Laura’s got anything to do with it, do you?’
An elderly man with a gas bill in his hand had appeared by the phone box, was peering in, giving him the evil eye. McCoy shifted round the other way. Tried to sound even.
‘You tell me, Murray. She’s your niece. I don’t even know the girl.’
‘Not sure I do any more. If she’s got anything to do with this, we’re going to have to bring her in. Jesus Christ . . .’
‘Look,’ said McCoy, fanning the door back and forward, wondering exactly how many people had peed in there. ‘It won’t be her. She’s fifteen, nice girl, goes to a private school and probably plays bloody netball. Is she really going to be able to overcome someone like Donny MacRae? Stab the life out him before he does anything about it? MacRae could take care of himself. Not going to be overpowered by a teenage girl, is he?’
Unless he was asleep when she started in on him, he thought, but wasn’t going to suggest that to Murray yet. Needed to speak to her, find out what really happened before he gave Murray a heart attack.
‘You still there?’ asked McCoy. The man had walked round the other side of the phone box, was peering in at him again.
‘Yes,’ said Murray. ‘Just thinking. You’re right. Must be one of his bloody gangland pals. You any nearer to finding her?’
‘Getting there,’ said McCoy. ‘I’ll let you know.’
He hung up. Was tempted to make another call just to annoy the stupid bugger but he didn’t, held the door open.
‘All yours, mate. Enjoy the piss.’
The man took the door, muttered ‘dirty bugger’ under his breath and pulled the door closed behind him.
SEVEN
McCoy could tell by the expression on Billy the desk sergeant’s face that he wasn’t having a good day. He had one receiver cradled in his neck while the other phone on the desk rang angrily. Holding the fort for all he was worth. He hung up the one under his neck and took the other off the hook, laid it down on the desk, hissed ‘Fuck off!’ at it.
‘Going well, then?’ asked McCoy.
‘Aye, and you can fuck off too, smart arse,’ said Billy.
‘Any news?’ asked McCoy.
Billy shook his head. ‘Still radio silence from the Woodside.’ Took a dry roll from a bag on the desk and started chewing. The phone started to ring again. He picked up.
‘Stewart Street.’
Listened. Grimaced.
‘I can assure you, madam, we are doing all in our power to find Alice. It’s not—’
Listened. Grimaced again.
‘Yes, I am eating actually. Yesterday’s bloody dry roll, if you must know. It’s all I’ve got because I’ve been behind this desk all bloody night, so is that all right with you?’
McCoy could hear the woman’s angry voice squeaking out the phone from the other side of the desk. Left Billy to it and walked through to the office.
For once the office was just a room full of empty desks. None of the usual chatter and ringing phones; even the usual fug of cigarette smoke had gone. Place looked about the emptiest he’d seen it. Between the holidays and Alice Kelly, he was the only one in. Or so he thought.
‘Any news from the Woodside?’
PC Walker emerged from under a desk with a pencil in her hand. ‘Dropped it,’ she said, smiling at him.
‘Not according to Billy,’ said McCoy. Struck him. ‘Why you not up there?’
‘I was,’ she said. ‘Mr Raeburn sent me back. Guess they had enough people to hand out glasses of water.’
‘Long you been here now, Tracey?’ asked McCoy, taking his jacket off.
She thought for a second. ‘Near enough four months,’ she said.
‘Enjoying it? he asked.
She looked wary.
‘Off the record,’ he said.
She looked relieved. ‘Not really, not if I’m being honest. Hoped I’d be doing more than making tea and trying to laugh along with the insulting jokes, but so far that’s about it. Oh, and dealing with drunk females in the cells who don’t have any sanitary protection, which was obviously my life’s ambition. I’m making a tea. You want one?’
McCoy nodded, watched her walk over to the wee kitchen. Must have been – what? – mid-twenties? Good-looking girl, seemed smart. Had no idea why anyone like that would want to be a polis. She was on a losing wicket before she started. Hard enough to be taken seriously in a job like this as a woman, never mind a young and good-looking one.
He sat down at his desk. Felt a bit strange, with the office being so quiet. He leant over and put Thomson’s wireless on to fill up the empty space. Familiar choppy guitar riff of ‘Brown Sugar’ faded away and ‘Yellow River’ started. He leant over again and switched it off. There was only so much a man could take.
He sat back in his chair, listened to Tracey humming away in the kitchen, wondering what was happening up at the Woodside Inn. Alice Kelly had been missing for almost forty hours. Chances were, if they were going to find her alive they would have done by it now. Whether anyone admitted it or not, they were looking for a body now. The phone rang, made him jump. He picked it up.
‘McCoy,’ he said.
‘Need to speak to a detective.’ Sounded like an old man. Gruff voice.
‘I’m a detective, how can I help you?’ said McCoy, getting the pencil out from behind his ear and looking for a bit paper.
‘I killed her and I fucked her first and then I fucked her again.’
McCoy sighed, put the pencil down. ‘And your name is, sir?’
The phone went dead in his ear. He put it back in the cradle. Shouted through to Billy.
‘Billy! Thought you were supposed to be filtering the bloody nutters?’
An exasperated shout came back. ‘Give us a break! There’s just me here and the bloody phone’s going every five minutes! Can’t catch every mad bugger!
Billy had a point. Cases like this attracted them like bees round a honey pot.
‘I did it.’
‘I saw who did it. He was my boss.’
‘My neighbour looks shifty. I found porn mags in his bin.’
‘I saw a space ship hovering above Maryhill Road.’
‘My brother-in-law likes wee girls, he’s always hanging about outside school playgrounds.’
It just went on and on, every nutter in Glasgow crawling out the woodwork.
PC Walker appeared with two mugs of tea, put one down on his desk.
‘Thanks.’
He sipped it. Rotten. The phone started ringing again. He shouted through. ‘Billy!’
A shout came back through. ‘It’s legit.’
‘Bloody better be,’ McCoy mumbled under his breath and picked up. Listened.
This time it was.
EIGHT
The address was in Thornliebank, right on the edge of Glasgow. So on the edge that McCoy wasn’t sure if it still was Glasgow any more. Might be Paisley? East Renfrewshire? What he did know was that it was bloody miles away.
He managed to purloin a uniform who was headed to the Paisley Station for a game of five-a-side to give him a lift, persuaded him it was on the way. Jamie was his name, some big Highlander with sandy hair and hands the size of shovels. There were fewer of them now, those big Highland lads. There were loads when McCoy started in the force: big gruff guys from up north, took no shit. Half the force seemed to have been made up of them. Police
force loved recruiting them. They thought if they didn’t have connections to anyone in Glasgow they were less likely to be compromised or have some cousin doing housebreaking that they would turn a blind eye to. Thought that they had ‘good moral character’ too. Wee Frees, half of them. God-fearing men. There was still some detective over in Western, McCormack, something like that, couldn’t remember. Lived up the road from him, funnily enough. Came from Ballachulish. Quiet sort, kept himself to himself. Good reputation, mind you.
Jamie drove slowly and didn’t say much. Suited McCoy fine. He rolled the window down, let the breeze fill the car. Smell of cut grass, car exhausts, parched earth. Summer.
‘You no boiling with that uniform on?’ he asked.
Jamie nodded. ‘Melting.’
And that was that. Didn’t say another word until he dropped him off. Probably realised how much out his way McCoy had taken him.
Like most of the streets in Thornliebank, Arden Avenue was a long road of pebbledash four-in-a-block flats, neat wee gardens at the front, kids on bikes and roller skates zooming round. He walked up past a man watering his garden with a hosepipe and stopped outside number 23. Wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say to Wullie March. Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone who knew exactly what had happened to his son. A courtesy call, really. Kind of thing he used to do when he was a uniform. He sighed, rang the doorbell and waited.
‘You looking for Wullie?’
McCoy looked round, realised the voice was coming from the next-door garden. A middle-aged man in a vest, shorts and black socks was sitting in a velvet-covered armchair in the middle of a sun-parched lawn. Wee table beside him with a can of lager and an open paperback copy of Papillon on it.
He caught McCoy looking at the armchair. ‘I dragged it out this morning, couldn’t find the key for the bloody hut.’
McCoy nodded, none the wiser.
‘Deckchairs are in the hut,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said McCoy. ‘Wullie March, aye. You seen him? Said he’d be in this afternoon.’
The man smiled. ‘Did he? Stupid bugger. He’s never in. He’ll be where he always is.’ He pointed at the back of a large building just across the street.
