Another voice, Dickie didn’t recognise it, then a scream, a girl, and Scrapper cursing. Another scream and the sound of feet slapping away through the snow but the sounds merely drifted around Dickie. He felt so very tired as he lay there and all he wanted to do was sleep, just sleep, that’s all. His eyes were open and he watched the flakes of snow floating towards him as if they had hidden parachutes. He felt their cold kiss on his cheeks, but he could not move to wipe them away. All he could feel was the chill penetrating from below and the soft caress of the snow from above. There was no pain, so maybe he wasn’t hurt that bad. He could feel the music now, a pulse, a beat, vibrating below him. He didn’t want to dance now. He was too tired. At one point he was aware of faces looming over him, then they, too, were gone. Somewhere a girl was sobbing, he didn’t know who. Didn’t matter, he was just going to have a wee nap and when he woke up, he’d see Big Rab and they’d talk about what was to be done about Scrapper Jarvis. After he’d had a wee nap he’d be fine.
And as he lay there, his life staining the snow red around him, he felt the music end.
Davie McCall could see the waiter looking at them in the reflective sheen of the metal doors, wondering just what the hell they were doing there. The guy had a small trolley with two trays on top. Delivering room service, Davie decided. He’d never had room service. Never stayed in a hotel, come to that. Unless you count Her Majesty’s Hotel Barlinnie, where room service was a piss pot in the corner. He couldn’t blame the guy for giving them the eye, because neither he nor his companion looked like the hotel’s regular clientele, who paid more for a manicure than Davie spent in a week. He saw the look in the bloke’s eye that said you don’t belong here, but he held the gaze. The guy looked away. Davie was unsurprised. They always did.
A bland, electronic version of ‘Moon River’ eased softly from hidden speakers, all life and charm squeezed out of it in the process. Lift music. Davie hated lift music. A sniff from his companion caused the waiter to shift position in order to study him in the door. Freddie Armstrong was a picture, right enough. He had a stocky, powerful frame, a broad face with skin so smooth it belied his 34 years and hair long and straggly, tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing a heavy parka to ward off the January cold and thick cargo pants, his booted feet leaving wet traces of snow on the lift’s plush carpet. That was not what was distinctive about him, though. It was the sniffing. He wasn’t making a wordless comment on the quality of the music. Winter or summer, he seemed to have a cold and constantly sniffed, snorted or blew. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his parka and Davie knew they would be filled with paper hankies. As if to emphasise the point, he treated the lift to a long, rattling inhalation that contorted his face, as if he was drawing the mucus right to the top of his head. It was for that reason they called him Kid Snot. Davie knew the man would have preferred Freddie the Ponytail, but he’d long ago given up trying to argue the point and now accepted the nickname with some degree of pride. In their crowd, it was good to have a nickname. It showed acceptance.
Davie McCall did not have a nickname. He didn’t require acceptance. Those who knew him well called him Davie, but that was a small group. Most everyone else called him McCall. Often preceded by the words ‘that bastard’.
The lift stopped on the fourth floor and Davie and Kid Snot eased past the trolley.
An arrow pointed in the direction of the room they sought, but they both turned the other way. When they heard the lift doors sliding shut again they reversed, walked wordlessly down the corridor and stopped in front of room 403. Kid Snot gave another long sniff and rattled his knuckles on the door. He took out a clean tissue and blew his nose. Davie wondered where he kept all the phlegm.
The door swung open to reveal a woman for whom the word gorgeous didn’t quite make the grade. She was in her mid-twenties, with cropped platinum-blonde hair, a slim frame wrapped in a voluminous sweatshirt, its wide neck slipping off one carefully burnished shoulder, and cut-off denim shorts showing off long, straight legs with good muscle tone. When she smiled, she revealed a dazzling array of perfect white teeth. Right away, Davie knew she wasn’t from around here.
‘Hi, guys, can I help you?’ she said in a voice that carried with it the sunshine and surf of Malibu.
‘Lester sent us,’ said Kid Snot, hastily thrusting his used tissue in a pocket and automatically straightening his stance as his free hand reached up to smooth down his hair. She smiled, used to that reaction from men, and switched her gaze to Davie. He didn’t react. She didn’t seem to mind. When a girl was that attractive, one guy being immune to her was no great tragedy.
‘Cool,’ she said and stepped to one side. ‘C’mon in, guys. Mickey’ll be right out.’
Davie didn’t know who Lester was, but he suspected it was some kind of code word. It wasn’t Lester who had sent Kid Snot but Big Rab McClymont, Davie being there for protection. Davie was not sent, or told, or instructed. He was asked. Rab didn’t order Davie around.
The suite was large and plush and probably bigger than Davie’s Sword Street flat, given that he could see two doors leading off the sitting room. He suspected they opened onto two bedrooms, each no doubt having their own en suite facilities. There was a large heap of muscle sitting at a glass-topped dining table, his body about to erupt from his white t-shirt. His head was shaved into the wood and his broad face was impassive as he regarded the newcomers. His skin was light brown and his features Hispanic. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to peg him as a bodyguard.
The blonde was walking ahead of them, giving the Kid the opportunity to appreciate her tanned thighs and pert behind. She turned. ‘Get you guys anything? A soda, maybe? Or a drink? We got wine, scotch, bourbon, beer.’
‘I’m fine, hen,’ said Kid. Davie merely shook his head when she looked in his direction.
‘Cool,’ she said again, treating them both to another wide smile before she threw herself onto a couch big enough to sleep a family of four and picked up a magazine. She crossed her legs, all the better for them to see her perfect tan. Kid Snot couldn’t take his eyes off them. Davie leaned against the wall beside the door, from which vantage point he could see the entire room and all entrances, while being ideally placed for a swift exit if needed. It wasn’t a conscious act, it was just something he did, like breathing.
There was a lull in which Davie was perfectly comfortable. Silence did not bother him. Kid Snot, though, was restive. He stood in the centre of the room, looking like a pile of clothes that had once been dumped there and forgotten about. He scanned the suite appreciatively.
‘Some place, this,’ he said, obviously feeling the need to fill the void.
The blonde looked up from her magazine and cast her eyes around her, as if for the first time. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it’s kinda cool. Don’t like your weather, though. I mean, how can it be so cold all the time?’
‘Welcome to Scotland, hen,’ said the Kid. ‘Where even the polar bears get frostbite.’
Her mouth twitched and she gazed at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Come on – you don’t have polar bears in Scotland.’
‘Too bloody cold for them, that’s why.’
One of the bedroom doors opened and Kid Snot’s eyes bulged as he recognised the man who walked in. Even Davie was impressed. Mickey, he thought, the girl said Mickey. He hadn’t expected Mickey to be Michael Lassiter. But then, why would he expect a Hollywood A-lister to appear in a Glasgow hotel room, even one as pricey as this?
Lassiter wasn’t as tall as he appeared on screen, but he was almost as good-looking. On set, make-up would have filled in the lines around his mouth and disguised the slight discolouration beneath his eyes. Like the girl, he had a deep tan, but his dark hair was beginning to go grey. Davie knew all about that, for his own hair was already turning. It looked good on the actor, just as it had on his father James, who had been a star from the 1960s and ’70s. But the flesh on his cheeks and jowls was puffy, as if the lifestyle that Davie had read about in t
he tabloids was taking its toll. Drink, drugs and women, the Hollywood cocktail.
‘You’re Michael Lassiter,’ Kid said, just in case the guy had forgotten who he was.
Lassiter was dressed in a long bathrobe and was drying his hands on a towel so thick it could be used as a mattress. He tossed it to one side and gave Kid Snot his best west coast grin. The girl rose from the couch – in the fluid way of someone who exercised regularly – to retrieve the towel from the floor. Davie guessed that was part of her duties. He wondered what else she did for her boss.
‘That’s right. Pleased to meet you,’ he moved to Kid Snot, his hand outstretched.
The Kid gave Davie a glance and a nervous smile, then shook the proffered hand. ‘Freddie Armstrong,’ he said, then felt the need to inhale some wayward slime. This acted as a reminder. ‘But they call me Kid Snot.’
Lassiter retracted his hand hastily and said, ‘No kidding.’ He looked across the room at Davie, expecting him to volunteer his name. Davie remained silent, so the Kid stepped into the void again. ‘That’s Davie, Davie McCall.’ Lassiter nodded in Davie’s direction. Davie nodded back. Lassiter stared at him for a second, a bemused smile on his lips, as if he expected some kind of verbal response. He was disappointed.
‘You got something for me?’ Lassiter asked.
The Kid unzipped his parka and fumbled around in an inside pocket to retrieve a plastic bag filled with white powder. ‘Your medicine, Mister Lassiter, right there.’
Lassiter took the bag and barely looked at it as he dropped it onto a low table in front of the couch. ‘Mannie’ll settle the tab,’ he said. Prompted, Mannie hauled himself to his feet and dug around in his trouser pocket before producing a wad of notes. He held them out, obviously not prepared to deliver. The Kid crossed the room and plucked the cash from Mannie’s large hand.
‘Cold out?’ Lassiter said to Davie, who had not moved from his position against the wall, hands in the pockets of his thigh-length woollen jacket, collar turned up. Davie nodded. Amusement crept into Lassiter’s eyes and he turned to the Kid, who was indelicately counting the notes. Starstruck he may have been, but if he went back to Rab a pound short there’d be hell to pay.
Lassiter jerked his head towards Davie. ‘He say much?’
Kid Snot stopped counting and looked first at the actor, then at Davie. He shrugged and returned to fingering the bills. ‘Not that you’d notice.’
‘Okay,’ said Lassiter, thoughtfully, studying Davie again. ‘Okay.’ Then he picked up the bag and turned to the bedroom door again. ‘Thanks for coming, guys. Have yourself a good night, okay? Coco will see you out.’
And then he was gone. The blonde, still holding the wet towel, led the Kid to the door, giving him another chance to enjoy the view. ‘Nice to meet you, guys,’ she said, giving them that smile again.
‘You too, hen,’ said the Kid, politeness itself, as he thrust the bundle of notes into his jacket and zipped it up again. Davie followed him through the door.
In the hallway, Kid Snot said, ‘Can you believe that? Can you fuckin believe that? Michael fuckin Lassiter! Fuckin hell, wait till I tell the lads. And did you see the size of that boy Mannie? I mean, c’mon to fuck, man! Tell you what, I wouldnae like to clean out his cage. You think he’s on steroids?’ The Kid didn’t wait for a response. ‘I think he’s on steroids. Stupid bastard. They’ll shrivel his winkle.’
Davie remained silent as he punched the button to summon the lift. The Kid wasn’t normally that excitable, but he was hopped up on star juice. ‘Hey, you know what? You kinda look like him, you know? Michael Lassiter, I mean, no Mannie Mountain. Same size, same build, hair’s kinda the same. You’ve both got blue eyes, fuck sake, you could be brothers. He hasn’t got that scar, though – you never did tell me how you got that.’
And I never will, Davie thought.
‘Don’t say anything about tonight, Kid,’ said Davie, flatly.
The Kid gave Davie a wide-eyed stare, unable to believe this. ‘What? How no?’
Davie sighed. ‘Not a word.’ If Davie had been one to explain things, he’d’ve told the Kid that the money tucked away in his jacket bought more than a bag of medicine, it also bought discretion. However, he doubted if the Kid even knew what discretion meant.
‘Don’t see how no, Davie. I mean, it’s Michael Lassiter. Did you ever see him in that picture? She was a cop, he was a male prostitute? Fuckin magic, so it was.’
‘Keep your mouth shut about it, Kid. I’m telling you.’
Kid Snot grumbled about it all the way down in the lift. For the first time in his life, Davie McCall was grateful for lift music.
Frank Donovan stood under the flashing light and surveyed the alley. The uniform keeping the incident log had told him it was a bloodbath, a killing ground. He was right.
Donovan’s churning stomach had nothing to do with the blood and death before him. He’d thrown up in the station toilet just before the shout came in and he could still taste the bitterness in his throat. He’d had a couple of drinks ahead of his shift, but that wasn’t what had caused him to speak to God on the big white phone. Mind you, it hadn’t helped. He had things on his mind, lots of things on his mind, and an extended period of disturbed sleep, fluttering nerves and too much drink had knocked his body out of whack. Now, with the young boy spread-eagled at his feet, he forced himself to focus.
His name was Dickie Himes, according to his pal, who was being interviewed in the club’s office. He was 19 years of age.
Just a kid, thought Donovan sadly. They’re all just kids.
Blood had seeped into the snow around the body like dark wings. Donovan could not tell how many wounds there were, the exact number would be determined at the post mortem, but whoever did this was in a frenzy. One of the wounds must have severed an artery, for there was a blood spray across the narrow alley. There was a series of deep gashes on Himes’ face, too, while his hands were lacerated with defensive wounds.
Donovan squatted closer to the body, being careful not to touch it, even though he was covered from head to toe in a white coverall, his hair encased in a plastic bonnet, his feet wrapped in disposable slip-overs. There was a time when detectives would have attended the scene in their overcoats, dropping fag ash and picking their noses all over the place. Donovan dredged up a quote about the past being a foreign country where they did things differently. That should be the motto of coppers everywhere, he thought, because change was a way of life in their business. Forensic was king, now. The scientists with their white coats and their microscopes and their major mass spectrometers, whatever the hell they were. Now detectives could look but not touch. Somewhere on this body there might be a contact trace, something that would link the victim to the killer. Hair, blood, saliva. The strictures extended to the scene, but the snow around the corpse was scuffed and slushy thanks to the combined trails of dozens of feet, so that wouldn’t be much use.
He studied the dead boy’s face, trying to place it but coming up blank. That did not mean anything in particular, except that their paths had never crossed. If the late Mister Himes had ever been in trouble with the law they would find a record, even if only a memory from a uniform somewhere.
‘Don’t think the kiss of life’s going to help that one, Frankie boy,’ said a voice behind him and Donovan sighed inwardly.
‘What you doing here, Jimmy?’ He didn’t turn. He didn’t want Jimmy Knight to see the look of distaste that had creased his face.
‘I was in the area, thought I’d drop by, see what was what.’
Donovan straightened and faced the big detective. Jimmy Knight, now a Detective Inspector with the Serious Crime Squad, working out of Force Headquarters at Pitt Street. His large, muscular frame was encased in an expensive black overcoat, his dark features framed by his thick black hair and a heavy shadow on his chin and jaws. No matter how close he shaved, Jimmy Knight could never lose that shadow. Some people thought that was why they called him the Black Knight, but Donovan kne
w better. The man standing before him with that cocky grin earned his nickname for being an out-and-out evil bastard who would as soon batter shite out of a suspect than interrogate him. The bosses loved him, though, because he brought in the bodies. That was why, despite them being on the Job for the same length of time, Knight was a DI with Serious Crime while Donovan was only a Detective Sergeant with Stewart Street CID. Some things hadn’t changed.
Knight kept his distance from the immediate area around the body, but Donovan could still see surprise flash across his face. ‘Jesus, Frankie boy,’ said Knight, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘You lost weight? You on the F-Plan diet?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Donovan, curtly. He’d been telling colleagues that he was on a diet, but it wasn’t true. However, he was not about to discuss his problems with Jimmy Knight.
‘Just as well. All that fibre makes you fart like a young thing, I’m told. I’d need to make sure I was standing upwind.’ Donovan didn’t register any emotion because he knew it would only encourage Knight to further conversation. He saw Knight shrug before giving the body a cursory once over. As he did so, he asked, ‘Where’s your gaffer?’
‘Inside.’
‘In out the cold, eh? Privileges of rank, eh, Frankie boy?’
Detective Chief Inspector Bolton was talking to the victim’s pal, but Donovan didn’t see any point in enlightening Knight.
‘Someone else copped it, too, I hear,’ Knight said as he gazed up the lane towards West Nile Street, where the second corpse lay. Two other CID officers were standing over it, just as Donovan and Knight were standing over Dickie. ‘Connected to this boy, you think?’
‘Don’t know. Doesn’t seem so, though,’ Donovan replied. ‘Way we hear it, the guy was out in the lane with a girl and got in the road when the scroats ran off.’
Knight smiled. ‘Was he gettin a wee feel? At least he went out with a smile on his face, eh? Got any clue who the scroats were?’
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