by Jack Dickson
Sad smile. “Whit diz, Big Man.”
She had offered to pay, and money was money. Why not? “Okay, ye’ve convinced me. Ah’ll see whit ah kin dae. Huv ye goat a recent photograph?”
Hand thrust into jacket pocket, then withdrawn. “Taken a coupla weeks before Hanger Thirteen – last year – but he’s no’ changed that much.” A strip of photobooth snaps extended.
Jas took it, scanned five headshots. The first two showed Mhairi grinning. In the next two a bullet-headed boy scowled into the camera. Jas stared. Young for eighteen. Dark, step-cut hair, one gold ring and a stoned stud in left ear. Sullen eyes.
He looked at the last photograph.
Two faces, cheek-to-cheek. Both grinning now. One with long dark hair, the other with the layers. One with a scar, the other without. Same pale skin. Same sullen eyes. Street eyes. Junkies’ eyes.
Jas reached over and lifted a small notepad. “Let’s huv some details. Whit’s his full name an’ date o’ birth?”
She stared at him. “McGhee – Paul McGhee.”
Three
JAS OPENED HIS EYES.
Golden sunshine streamed in through curtainless windows.
His brain raced. A jumble of images pounded at the back of his eyes. He rubbed his face and concentrated.
The jumble faded slightly.
Last night. Mhairi’s request: what would it take – a few phone calls? Jas sat up and stretched.
Mhairi had a brother. Younger brother.
He pulled the duvet up around his ears.
Two McGhees: brother and sister. Supplier and user.
Keep it in the family?
Jas looked at the clock: 6 a.m. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Five minutes later he got out of bed.
Ten minutes later he was dressed and leaving the flat.
Fifteen minutes later he was running along Alexandra Parade towards the hospital.
Early mornings. They were the worst. Running helped. His usual circuit took in the Royal, the Cathedral. Duke Street and back up Cumbernauld Road.
Well-padded Nikes pounded on empty pavement.
Rhythm.
Purpose.
At the top of Wishart Street he paused, barely out of breath. He slipped two A4 envelopes into a pillar-box, then looked left. The Necropolis: his former running-ground. He squinted through sun shards. The large cemetery was bathed in autumn leaves.
Jas began to run again.
At seven am he was back at the flat.
At seven-fifteen he was naked, and exercising.
Press-ups. Sit-ups. Burpees. One hundred of each.
Jas stopped and sat on the floor. Sweat dripped from soaking hair. His brain still raced. He scowled, wiped face on arm. The Royal’s physiotherapist had recommended yoga: ‘Calms the mind, synchronises thought.’
Jas stood up. His thoughts were synchronised. That wasn’t the problem. He repeated the routine then headed for the shower.
The cheap plastic cubicle was cramped, but functional. It did the job. Like he had. Under icy power jets he looked down. No hard-on.
For a change.
At eight forty-five he was dressed and sitting beside the telephone. No time like the present. A list of physical characteristics – age, height, weight – and distinguishing features – double-pierced left ear, vaccination scars – sat beside the strip of five photographs. Above them, one name. Paul McGhee.
Might as well do this properly. He punched in the number for Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary.
An hour later he replaced the receiver. No amnesia cases or unidentified accident victims answering Paul McGhee’s description were at present lying in any of Scotland’s twenty-four major hospitals.
The phone rang.
Jas let the machine pick up. Beep. Male voice, young, awkward:
“IBS here, Peter speaking. You collected a report from us yesterday.” Pause.
Jas lit a cigarette and smiled. Hairy Knuckles had a name.
Throat clearing: “Er, some documentation has ... er unfortunately been omitted from your report. I – I could drop it round to you sometime today, if that’s convenient. I’ll be out of the office all morning, but if you want to contact me, my mobile number’s 0674-109825.” Pause. “Looking forward to hearing from you.” Beep.
Jas blew a smoke ring, followed it with his eyes.
The company search was complete..
Hairy Knuckles searching for another kind of company?
He looked at his watch: just before ten. Time for the gym. He took a sportsbag from the bedroom and left the flat.
Jas cut along Cumbernauld Road into Onslow Drive. The mist was clearing. As he passed Whitehill Swimming Pool a flash of colour from the notice-board caught his eye.
The naked torso of a man. Tanned. Over-developed pecs. Diaphragm ridges. Blond stomach hair disappeared off the bottom of the picture.
Jas walked on.
The Dennistoun Sports Centre was going up in the world. Big Rab had secured a £10,000 grant for new equipment from the National Lottery. Deprived area. High unemployment. The poster campaign had followed. Membership had soared.
He turned down Whitehill Street, then left through derelict school gates. In front, two thin boys with ‘Head’ sportsbags. He followed them through the charred double-doors, paid his £1 and headed for the weights room. It was empty.
Jas undressed down to shorts.
It was early.
A dark head round the door. Asian features. Grin. “No’ comin’ tae circuit-training, man?”
“No’ the day, Ali. It’s ma weights day.”
Eyes over shoulder. Sigh. “Fuckin’ room’s still locked ...” Dressed in Adidas, the slim figure moved into the room. Rolled-up newspaper under one arm. Ali removed, unfurled the Record and leant against a wall.
Jas smiled. “No’ like Rab tae sleep in.”
Snort from behind newspaper pages. Then a laugh. “Did ye read this? Some wuman fae Cranhill’s given birth tae triplets – at fifty!”
Jas stared at the front page headline: ‘Third Week of Illegal Strike!’ He scanned the rest of the article. “Naw ...”
Ali began to fill him in. Enthusiastically.
Jas walked to the weights rack, mind elsewhere. Terry’s son. Mhairi’s brother.
The Scottish Prison Officers Association. Technically, they had no union ...
He lifted a small cylinder with his left hand and transferred it to his right.
... and no prerogative to industrial action. Technically, it wasn’t a strike: cooperative doctors had provided ‘stress-related’ sick notes for some. Others self-certified ...
Gripping the weight with trembling fingers he began to curl then uncurl his arm. Knuckles brushed shoulder.
... the action was a strike in everything but name and made history. Whether it would make any difference to anything else remained to be seen.
Fuck.” A whisper. A single droplet of sweat formed on his forehead. He pushed the strike from his mind and concentrated.
At fifteen: “... unbelievable, eh?”
Jas raised his head. “Aye, Ali.”
In the distance, a door opened and closed. Then footsteps. Ali closed the newspaper, shoved it in the back pocket of Adidas sweatpants. Head poking back into hallway. “That’s the big bastard noo.”
Tendon throbbed in his right forearm. “Mebbe ye’ll git an easier time, if he’s hauf asleep.”
“Aye, an’ pigs might fly!” Wry grin. “Catch ye later, Jas.”
“If there’s much left tae catch ...” Tendon-throb shivered up his right arm.
Laugh, then door closed.
He continued. At twenty his fingers spasmed. The weight dropped, rolled across ancient floorboards. A loop of metallic trundling filled the hall. The weight finally stopped under wall bars.
Jas retrieved it and began again.
This time he reached thirty, then paused.
Better. He transferred the weight to his left hand and sat down.
The door opened. A wiry man in sweats walked into the room, nodded to Jas and began to undress.
He nodded back and continued, switching the barbell from hand to hand.
After half an hour he stopped, lowered his head. Voice above him:
“What weight you up to now?”
“Four K.” Mouth dry as dust.
“How many of each?”
Jas raised his head.
Wiry man in black jock-strap, crouching. Thighs like pleated rope. Plastic bottle in hand. He held it out.
Jas took it and drank. Fizzy water sparkled over teeth and tongue. He coughed, passed the bottle back. “Four groups of twenty.” He clenched his fist. Nails dug into palm.
Slap on the back. Standing. “You’ll get there. Just don’t push it. Tendon damage’s always slow to repair itself.”
Jas stood up. “Day off?”
Head shake. “Afternoon surgery.” Grin. “No rest for the wicked!”
Jas walked to his sports bag and took out a towel. He rubbed face and hair, then wiped underarms and chest. He turned.
The wiry man was strapping on a support belt. Two 10k weights lay beside him.
Jas pulled on sweats and T-shirt, picked up the sports bag and walked to the door. “Catch ye later.”
Grunt. Then: “Look after that arm.”
“Sure, doc. Thanks.” He left the sports centre and walked back to the flat.
Half an hour later Jas sat down beside the telephone and punched in the number for Glasgow’s mortuary.
Training. Procedure.
Fifteen minutes later he replaced the receiver and frowned.
Four unidentified male bodies matching Paul McGhee’s general age and description lay unclaimed. An appointment had been made to view them today, at 2 p.m.
Jas clenched his right fist. Just what he fuckin’ needed. His arm trembled.
He reached for cigarettes, lit one. His right hand cramped. Exercise hadn’t helped.
Jas stood up, walked through to the bedroom. At the window he stared over the rooftops at Haghill.
Today was a bad day.
He flexed his fingers, then rubbed them with his left hand. Tingling shot up his arm. He rotated his shoulder. Eventually the tingling subsided. Jas sat down on the bed and rubbed his face.
The phone rang in the other room. The machine picked up: Beep. Beep. “Mr Anderson? Peter McLaughlin from IBS here.
It’s, er nearly one o’clock.”
He walked towards the voice.
“I’ll be in your area this afternoon. Maybe I could drop in with the report if ...”
Jas picked up.
1.50 p.m. On the other side of the road Glasgow Green was a mass of amber and red. Jas kicked a pile of leaves and crossed the Saltmarket into Jocelyn Street. The squat, sandstone outline of Glasgow’s mortuary beckoned to him. He pulled open a heavy swing door and walked in.
The familiar smell hit him immediately. During twelve years with Strathclyde Police he had walked along this tiled corridor countless times.
Countless nameless bodies.
Countless waxen faces ... or remains of faces.
At least half were never identified or claimed.
Jas knocked softly on a smoked glass door and waited. Countless deaths unacknowledged.
Husky voice: “Come.”
Jas pushed open the door and walked in. Small room. The smell of old leather and formaldehyde. Behind a large desk, a small man. Wrinkly, brown skin. Pickled-looking. Like a lot of his customers.
The pathologist stood up. “Good to see you again, Sergeant Anderson ...”
“It’s no’ sergeant ony mair, doctor. Just plain Jas.”
Frown. “So they didn’t want you back, then?”
Jas lied. “Ah didney want them.”
Old head shaking. “Their loss. You were a good cop. I remember when.”
He stared at a photograph above the pathologist’s head. It showed a much younger Dr Patterson in a white coat shaking hands with a grey-haired suit. Jas peered, trying to read the inscription underneath. Too faint. His eyes drifted.
“... was it not?”
He looked at the small man. “Aye, doctor. Now, kin a huv a look at yer stiffs?”
Light laugh. “Still not big on words, are you?” Dr Patterson moved round from behind the desk and opened the door.
Jas followed him into the corridor. “Ah leave that tae you, doctor.” He followed the sounds of laughter towards the refrigeration room.
Not as cold as the name implied. But still. Silent. A wall of sixteen shiny handles. The others tiled.
“Like I told you on the phone, we’ve got four which match your approximate requirements. This one ...” Doctor Patterson grabbed a stainless steel handle and pulled. “... was in the Clyde for quite a while before some kids spotted him. He’s been here three weeks.” He unzipped a black plastic body-bag.
Jas looked down.
Bright, fluorescent light bleached already bloodless skin.
Patterson talked on. “The height’s about right. Age approximately seventeen to twenty-five. I’ve never seen teeth as bad as his ...”
Jas stared at the bloated, white flesh of the corpse’s face, then into black pulpy pits.
“... and I’m afraid the fish got to his eyes, but from the hair and skin colouring I’d say they were probably brown.”
Jas looked at the right ear. One cheap, greening sleeper. He looked away. “That’s no’ him.”
The sound of zipper zipping. Cheerful voice. “Ah, well. Three more to go. You might get lucky.” Sounds of heavy drawer closing, then another opening.
Jas withdrew the strip of photographs from his pocket and reacquainted himself with a sullen, bullet-headed boy.
More zipping. “An addict, you say?”
“Dealer ...” Jas looked down at a second, lifeless boy. “... though he probably did use, fae time tae time.”
“RTA two weeks ago. There’s not much left of the head.” Jas stared.
Ears were mush. As was most of the skull.
“... but he’s got a birthmark on his left thigh – and old trackmarks around the groin. Want a look?”
“Aye ...” Mhairi hadn’t mentioned any mole, but the trackmarks sounded promising.
Sounds of zipper unzipping further.
Apart from the pulped head, the rest of the body was intact. Lightly muscled chest. Thin. Ribs visible beneath parchment skin.
“Here ...” The pathologist pulled rigid thighs apart and pointed to a faded brown patch of skin.
Jas stared.
“And here ...” Blond pubic hair brushed aside to show faint puncture marks.
Jas rested his eyes on a one-inch, torpedo-shaped birthmark, then looked away. “Wrang hair-colouring.”
The pathologist laughed. “A peroxide job! Doesn’t match underarm.”
Jas frowned, shook his head. “The body-type disney fit. Let’s see Number Three.”
Zipping, closing and opening of drawers. Then unzipping. “This one’s interesting. MDA overdose ...”
Paul McGhee had used ecstasy. Jas stared at a peaceful, pale face. Left ear pierced from lobe to cartilage.
“... so at least he died happy!” Zipper fully extended.
The body had the underdeveloped musculature of a teenager. Flawless, ivory skin luminescent in death. Strong, even features. Not Paul McGhee’s features. Jas shook his head and looked away.
“The last one’s still in the autopsy room. Came in early this morning.”
“Let’s huv a look.”
The pathologist slammed the drawer shut and walked to a small door on the far side of the room.
Jas followed.
“Had five hundred pounds on him, but no ID.” Dr. Patterson pushed open the door and held it for Jas. “Baird Street think he was a dealer, that the death was drugs-related – haven’t had time to PM him yet ...” He walked past two sheeted gurneys.
He sniffed. The smell was strongest in here.
The pathologist stopped at a wide steel table.
Jas walked forward and looked down. Brown, close-cropped hair. A shaved line running from above the right ear. Freckles dotted on still vaguely-pink skin. He closed his eyes. “Ah don’t ken how he died, but ah kin tell ye where this wan wis at half-nine last night.” He looked at Dr Patterson.
Curious. “Is it ...?”
“At the bus stop opposite ma flat. Cumbernauld Road. And it’s no’ Paul McGhee.” He turned and walked from the room.
Back at the flat Jas took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa.
Paul McGhee: not in any hospital, or the city’s mortuary. After the obligatory reminiscing, Dr Patterson had agreed to fax the boy’s photograph to chief pathologists in Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Inverness.
He lit a cigarette. A freckled face swam before his eyes.
Then three other faces.
All dead.
All between seventeen and twenty-five.
The smell of the mortuary clung to his clothes, seeping through the fabric.
Jas inhaled on the cigarette and concentrated.
At least Mhairi’s brother had not been among them. He closed his eyes and focused thoughts.
Who had seen Paul McGhee most recently, that he knew of?
The staff and inmates of Barlinnie prison.
Who was running the Bar-L, for the duration of the prison officers’ unofficial strike?
Jas lifted ‘Yellow Pages’, thumbed through, then punched in the number for Hadrian Security Solutions.
A recording told him he had omitted the code.
Jas punched in the code for Livingston, then the number. Waited. Was given another number and an extension. Punched it in. Waited again.
He was still waiting twenty minutes later when the door bell rang.
“Haud oan!” Jas repunched in the original number and left a comprehensive message with a secretary. She repeated it back to him. He replaced the receiver then walked to the front door. He opened it mid-umpteenth ring of the bell.
Six-footish, dark glossy hair falling into eyes. Early twenties. No bad suit this time. Well-cut jeans. Good body under white shirt. Manila folder under one arm. The other extended. Nervous. Two inches of thick, black hair visible between shirt-cuff and wrist. Thicker than the knuckle-hair. Polite voice. Polished accent. Newton Mearns via Glasgow Academy: “Mr Anderson. We met briefly yesterday. Peter McLaughlin.”
