by Alan Parks
Thomson nodded. ‘It’s a bloody sweathole at the best of times.’
A cup of tea later McCoy had had enough. He was dying of the heat and needed some air. He stood up, told Thomson he’d be back in an hour or so. Thomson nodded, didn’t pay much attention, knew that whatever McCoy was doing these days didn’t matter much.
He stepped out the station, wondering what the noise was. Soon found out. The reporters had been joined by thirty or so assorted lunatics. Some of them had signs – ‘BRING BACK HANGING’ – some of them just had a look of blind hate in their eyes. They were milling about behind a rope cordon. One of them, a woman the size of a house, even had a picture of Alice from the paper pinned onto her dress. She was holding up a framed picture of the Sacred Heart, reciting the rosary.
A man with shorts and a vest got up to the front of the crowd, shouted at McCoy as he passed. ‘Took you long enough!’
McCoy just ignored him.
‘You one of the useless articles that let her die?’ he shouted again.
The crowd started moving, pressing against the rope. He’d got them agitated.
McCoy left Billy trying to get them under control and started walking up the road. Was like a bloody lynch mob in a cowboy film. God knows what would happen if they got a hold of the boy in the interrogation room.
Half an hour and a pint in the Eskimo later, McCoy was back at his desk. Crowd outside the station had got even bigger, more nutters, more press. Had to fight his way through them to get in. He looked over at Thomson and he just shook his head. No news. He couldn’t believe it. They were still in the interrogation room.
‘How long is that now?’ he asked.
Thomson looked up at the electric clock on the wall. ‘Five hours and nine minutes.’
‘Fuck sake,’ said McCoy.
He got out Wattie’s robbery files, pretended to read them while he had a think. There was something about this whole Laura Murray thing that was beginning to bother him. Hadn’t really noticed it at the time, but both Murray and his brother hadn’t exactly seemed panic-stricken that Laura had run away, or even that surprised. Was more like they were expecting it somehow.
He got out his fags and realised he’d only a couple left. He lit up and just as he did the door to the corridor burst open and Raeburn was standing there. Everyone went silent, everyone turning to him in expectation. Raeburn’s sleeves were rolled up, hair and shirt wet with sweat, looked exhausted. He waited a couple of seconds, slowly looked round the room at the waiting faces then grinned, raised his hands above his head.
‘He’s coughed,’ he said. ‘Full fucking confession!’
The change was immediate. All the tension went out the room and suddenly there were shouts, whistles. Thomson started clapping, uniforms and plainclothes gathered round Raeburn, slapping him on the back, congratulating him. Jacobs got a bottle of whisky out from the drawer in his desk, started splashing it into paper cups.
McCoy took one, drank it over, needed it if he was going to do the right thing. He went up to Raeburn, held his hand out to shake.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
Raeburn shook it. Nodded. A temporary truce.
‘Got there in the end. Thank God that woman came back from her sister’s!’ he said, grinning.
‘You did a good job, Raeburn. Case closed in three days. That takes some doing.’
Raeburn smiled. ‘Just good police work, McCoy, that’s what it always comes down to.’
And that was about as much as McCoy could take. He said congratulations again, then turned back to his seat before he said something he would regret. Was hard to believe, but Raeburn’s false modesty was even worse than his usual blow-hard attitude. He sat at his desk, took another cup of whisky when Jacobs brought the tray around, tried to look like he was happy.
The problem was that Raeburn really had done well, no doubt about it. So well they might give him the job permanently, move Murray up the ladder to Pitt Street when he came back. McCoy could maybe manage another few months of Raeburn pissing on him from a great height but there was no way he could take it for much longer than that. He swallowed over the last of the whisky, crumpled the paper cup, threw it in the bin and went off to find Wattie.
Billy told him he’d seen him going round the back, so he took the long way round, couldn’t face pasting a smile on and walking through Raeburn’s celebrations again. He walked down by the garages and saw Wattie sitting on one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out into the sun.
‘Congratulations are in order, I believe. You and the bold Raeburn did well.’ He held out his hand to shake.
Wattie didn’t take it. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.
‘What’s up?’ asked McCoy. ‘Why the long face, as the farmer said to the horse. Shouldn’t you be celebrating? It’s no often that—’
‘Not here,’ Wattie said, standing up. ‘Come on.’
18th July 1967
Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco
‘He’s coming down over from Berkeley, probably got stuck in traffic.’
Bobby nodded. Was probably true, but it wasn’t helping his paranoia. ‘You sure he’s going to turn up?’ he asked.
Cathy nodded. ‘Just got to be patient.’ Handed him a lit joint.
Bobby took a drag, hoped it would take the edge off. Wondered how long he’d spent in the past couple of months waiting for dealers to turn up. He walked over to the window. Could see the limo waiting outside, engine running. Could see Rusty the tour manager pacing up and down the street, hotel canopy obscuring him every now and then.
They were supposed to have left two hours ago. Headed to Monterey. Any minute now Rusty was going to get the lift upstairs, start knocking on the hotel room door telling him they had to go.
‘You got works?’ he asked Cathy.
She nodded absently, sat on the bed and flicked through a magazine, silent TV playing behind her. Helicopters and burning jungles.
‘Owsley’s going to be there. Sheri said he’s bringing Grade A liquid acid for the musicians.’
Bobby nodded, had a feeling his days of acid were long gone.
‘Bobby, he’ll be here. I promise.’
He nodded, looked back out the window. Swore. Rusty was nowhere to be seen. He took another drag of the joint, pinched the end, put it in the pocket of his jacket. Didn’t have to wait long, couple of minutes at most, then the knocking started.
Cathy looked up at him. ‘Told you he’d be here,’ she said, ran to the door.
Rusty was standing there. He took one look at Cathy in her underwear, Bobby’s half-packed case on the floor, shook his head. ‘For fuck sake, man, we should be on the road by now!’
Bobby mumbled, ‘Sorry.’ Started stuffing shirts into his case.
As Rusty stepped into the room, there he was, right behind him. Jackson. Standing in the doorway, big grin on his face.
‘Traffic was a bitch, man.’
Bobby shut the door, locked it. Shouted through, ‘Be five minutes, Rusty! Take the bags down!’
He turned to Jackson, grinned. Then he felt under the sink for his other washbag, opened it, took out a spoon and a length of rubber tube.
‘Well, somebody’s an eager beaver.’ Jackson dug in his pocket, took out a small glassine bag, held it up.
Bobby grabbed it.
NINETEEN
McCoy had tried to get Wattie to stop, sit down, but he was having none of it. Kept striding on, wanted to get as far away from the station as he could. They were in Rose Street now, walking up the hill, McCoy trying to keep up, failing.
‘You want to tell me what this is all about?’ he asked, following two steps behind. ‘Better do it quick before I pass out. This hill’s killing me.’
Wattie didn’t smile, didn’t stop, just started talking.
‘His name’s Ronnie Elder, we brought him in this afternoon. That’s what the uniformed lassie up at the park came and got me for. Raeburn wanted me back at th
e station pronto. I got there and he’s lit up like a Christmas tree, full of it. All excited. “We’ve got him,” he says. “You should be in on it.” Was so happy you’d think he’d won the bloody pools. The neighbour that came back saw him and Alice Kelly together that afternoon. Last sighting of her by anyone. We’d even interviewed him. Thomson did it. Elder said he was playing football at the Blazes all afternoon with his pals. No reason to disbelieve him. Now it turns out he hasn’t got any pals and the pitches are closed for resurfacing.’
They were at the top of the hill now. McCoy stopped, hands on knees, breathing heavy.
‘You’re going to have to give me a minute,’ he said. ‘I’m no as young as I was.’
Wattie nodded, stopped. Kept talking, though, desperate to get it all out. ‘Sent some uniforms up to his flat. They found a load of dirty mags, women dressed up as schoolgirls.’
‘Christ,’ said McCoy, finally managing to catch a breath.
‘That’s not the worst,’ said Wattie. ‘They also found a pair of the girl’s knickers in his bedroom, dried spunk all over them. It all adds up. Guilty as sin.’
Wattie turned and looked at him. ‘The trouble is, I don’t think he did it.’
McCoy was leaning against the wall of St Aloysius Chapel, still wasn’t quite right. He looked at Wattie, surprised. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I thought he confessed.’
Wattie nodded. ‘He did. Said he strangled her and chucked her body in the river. Just like Raeburn told him he did. Told him over and over for five fucking hours.’
Wattie turned, was about to walk down the hill.
‘Wattie! I can’t. I’ve got a bloody stitch. Give us a minute, eh?’
He bent over again, didn’t help, still had the pain in his side. Had an idea. Pointed over at St Aloysius. ‘C’mon, we’ll sit down on the steps.’
Wattie looked doubtful.
‘It’s the steps! I’m no asking you to convert. It’s either that or I’m going to have to lie down on the pavement.’
Wattie had a quick look round, sat down, then started talking again. ‘I don’t think the boy’s quite right, Harry. He’s no real idea what’s going on. Kept asking when he could see his mum.’
‘What’s his lawyer saying?’ asked McCoy, finally getting his breath back.
‘Hasn’t got one. Raeburn told him he didn’t need one. Said if he wasn’t guilty, why would he need a lawyer? So he gave a personal statement.’
McCoy took a deep breath. Didn’t really want to say what he was about to say.
‘Look, Wattie. He might not be all there, but that doesn’t mean—’
‘Raeburn just kept on and on at him: “What did you do with Alice?” Kept asking over and over again. Boy was crying, kept asking for a drink of water and Raeburn wouldn’t give him one. You know what that interview room is like, it’s a bloody sweatbox. Just kept on at him: “Tell us what you did and you can go home and see your mum.”’
‘Christ.’
‘He didn’t even go to a normal school, went to the place up in Maryhill Road for, you know, kids with . . .’
McCoy nodded.
‘Eventually he breaks down, starts bubbling and snottering, screaming for his mum. Raeburn grabs him, tells him to stop the bubbling, tells him he’s never seeing his mum again if he doesn’t tell us what he did with Alice. And then Raeburn started slapping him around. Really hitting the poor bastard, punches into the body, hitting him on the back of the head. Then he tells him that was nothing, things were going to get worse, much worse. That if he didn’t tell us where Alice was he’d have to get a big polis to knock seven shades of shite out him until he did. Turns to me. Said I’d give him a doing if he didn’t start cooperating. Then that was that. The boy was on the ceiling, wailing and crying for his mum, saying he would be a good boy and that he was sorry.’
He looked at McCoy.
‘He would have said anything just to get Raeburn to stop, to get out of that room. So Raeburn walked him through it, bit by bit. “You took her up to Jaconelli’s, didn’t you? She didn’t want to kiss you, did she? So you hurt her, taught her a lesson, didn’t you?” The poor bugger just nodded, agreed to anything Raeburn told him. Raeburn wrote it all down for him, tells him if he signs it he can see his mum and go home.’
McCoy tried to get a word in, but Wattie kept going, needed to get it all out.
‘You should see his signature, Harry, it’s like a wee kid’s writing. He signs it and then he says, “Can I see my mum now? Can I go home?” And Raeburn says can you fuck. Gives him a couple of slaps. Tells him he’s a nonce and that he’s going to jail. Boy freaks out when he realises he’s not going home, not going to see his mum. Starts banging his head on the table, screaming blue murder. So Raeburn puts him in handcuffs, shoves him down into the corner. Says to me, “That’s how it’s done, son.” Was all proud of himself. “He did it all right, just needed a push to admit it.” And then he boots him hard in the stomach a couple of times, tells him that’s for Alice. And then . . .’ Wattie stopped for a second, took a breath, managed to get it out. ‘And then he gets his cock out and pisses on him. Tells him this is gonna happen to him every single day for the next twenty years.’
Wattie looked like he was going to cry.
McCoy was quiet for a minute, wondering how he was going to say it.
‘Look, Wattie,’ he said, trying to tread carefully. ‘You’ve no worked on many cases like this one. One where everyone’s wound up to high doh, a wee girl dead, public and Pitt Street on your back. They’re different. The interrogations can be an ugly business, right enough, the gloves come off. Raeburn’s no likely to do anything different, he’s always been the heavy, it’s his style. And he got a result.’
Wattie turned to him. Looked exasperated. ‘No, he didn’t! All he did was force a terrified boy to sign whatever he put in front of him. That’s what he got!’
‘Okay, let’s look at it the other way.’ McCoy took it slowly, counted it off on his fingers. ‘One: he lives in the same close and he knows the girl, been seen with her before. The age gap isn’t good, boy that age and a girl that age aren’t just going to be pals, doesn’t happen. Two: he had a pair of her knickers in his room. The fact he’s wanked off on them shows clear and unlawful sexual interest. Three: he’s got previous as a sex offender. He won’t be the first one to start off flashing his dick and end up raping or killing some girl. Four: Raeburn’s got a signed confession that he killed her. You think that was forced out of him. Probably was, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not true. Sometimes these guys take a bit of pushing to get to the edge, to say what they’ve done.’
Wattie was looking straight ahead, not acknowledging anything McCoy was saying.
He kept trying. ‘Look, Wattie, a crime like that is a hard thing to admit to. It’s no a bank robbery or an assault that makes you a big man, that gets you points in the jail. It’s just you having to admit to the world that you’re the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth. It’s saying you fucked a wee girl and then you killed her. Nobody is going to admit to something like that without some amount of persuasion. You admit it and you’re signing your death warrant. Maybe Raeburn did go too far, but it won’t be the first or the last time the polis have had to lean on someone like that to get a result.’
Wattie shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
McCoy sighed, knew it wasn’t going be that easy. ‘Okay, look at it the other way. How come you’re so sure he didn’t?’
Wattie turned to him. ‘Because he’s a daft boy, maybe a pervert, I don’t know, but he’s not a murderer. He didn’t really confess, he didn’t even know what was going on, he just wanted to see his mum, thought if he said what Raeburn wanted then he’d let him.’
McCoy sat there, tried to think. He’d said what he was supposed to say, but there was something in what Wattie was saying that was bothering him. Wattie was inexperienced, but he wasn’t daft. He was a good polis and if he was sure the boy was innocent then maybe he was r
ight. Maybe.
‘Where’d the knickers come from, then?’ he asked, trying to ignore the fact that he was having this conversation outside a chapel.
‘Said he got them off the washing line weeks ago. Mum can’t remember what pair she had on when she went missing. He could be telling the truth, McCoy.’
McCoy nodded. He could. ‘And how come Raeburn’s so sure she’s in the canal?’
‘I don’t think he is. It’s just the most obvious place. Chances are that is where she is, no matter what happened to her. If she turns up somewhere else, he’ll just say Elder was lying to put us off.’
‘What did Raeburn actually charge him with?’ asked McCoy.
‘Murder,’ said Wattie.
McCoy couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re joking! Without a body? He’s being a bit ambitious, isn’t he? Could have just charged him with the theft of the knickers, been enough to keep him in until they find her.’
McCoy thought for a minute, then asked the real question. The one that they were going to have to answer if there was any hope of getting the boy off. ‘Well, if Ronnie Elder didn’t kill her, who did?’
Wattie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but unless we do something whoever did do it is going to get away with it.’
‘Look, Wattie, I know you’re upset and you’re angry, but I don’t know what we can do. He’s been charged with murder. It’s out of our hands now.’
Wattie turned to him. Disappointment on his face. ‘That it? That all you’re going to say? Hard cheese, son. Barlinnie here you come? I thought better of you, McCoy. Thought you cared about what happened to people like that boy. Just shows how wrong you can be, eh?’
‘Come on, Wattie, that’s no fair!’
Wattie stood up, pushed past him. ‘Neither’s that boy being fitted up for something he didn’t do. That’s what really matters.’
McCoy called after him, but he didn’t turn around, just kept going.
McCoy sat there on the steps, wondered if Wattie was right. Maybe he had stopped caring about people like Ronnie Elder. Maybe he had become like every other polis. The kind of polis he swore he’d never become.
