Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  It was already noon, but Davie guessed Lassiter was not an early riser, for he’d been waiting ten minutes and he still hadn’t emerged from his bedroom. Mannie was there, though, and Davie took the opportunity to deliver a warning. He gave the big guy a hard look and said, ‘Never let your boss go off on his own again.’ Mannie blinked but said nothing. Davie was taciturn, but he realised this guy had turned it into an art form. ‘You understand?’

  Mannie blinked again and Davie thought he saw something like belligerence cross the broad face. Davie tensed, wondering if the bloke would take a swing. If he did he’d move fast, pick up the heavy ashtray he saw on the coffee table and go to work. Davie had already identified it as a possible weapon, should he need it. It was something he’d done almost unconsciously, along with checking out the exits. He knew he couldn’t take Mannie without a weapon, he was too big. But Mannie simply nodded and looked away. He knew he’d screwed up and he was man enough to admit it. He was silent and he admitted his mistakes. They’d get along.

  The door to Lassiter’s bedroom opened and Davie had a glimpse of a big bed and Coco’s naked back as she slept on her stomach. It was tanned and smooth and delicately muscled. So she assisted the actor in that way, too. That’s showbiz.

  ‘Davie,’ said Lassiter, his voice hoarse. He coughed, trying to clear it, not managing. ‘Come for the script?’

  Davie nodded. Lassiter moved to the table by the window and lifted an inch-thick bound sheaf of paper. He crossed the room, holding it out. As he got closer, Davie could see his eyes were red-rimmed, as if they’d been sewn in with red thread. And his hand trembled slightly. He’d had one hell of a party, right enough, probably came back the night before and hit the medicine. Fair enough, Davie thought, we all unwind in different ways. In Lassiter’s case it was drugs and, Davie assumed, sex with Coco. For others it would be drink. For himself, after Lassiter had left, he had listened to music, let Nat King Cole’s smooth voice sooth him. It was a greatest hits album and it worked, particularly ‘Nature Boy’, a song Davie found hauntingly beautiful.

  During one of their many nights playing chess and listening to music, Jos Klein had once told him that the singer had a rough time in the entertainment business, thanks to his colour. Cole himself thought the executives were ‘afraid of the dark.’ Davie did not understand prejudice, whether racial or religious, but he knew all about fear of the dark.

  ‘Have a read, let me know,’ said Lassiter, his voice still scraping like a match on sandpaper. Davie nodded, flipped through the pages. It had a strange format, all ‘INT: CITY STREET – NIGHT’ and the dialogue was centred under character names, but he’d get the hang of it.

  ‘I appreciate you doing this,’ the actor said. ‘It’ll make all the difference, you know?’

  Davie didn’t know if he would make a difference or not, but he’d made a deal and he’d see it through. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ he said.

  Lassiter said, ‘Take a coupla days. Read, digest.’

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ Davie repeated. He’d made a deal, but he wanted this done quickly. ‘There’s something else you need to give me, too.’

  Lassiter looked puzzled, then he recalled their bargain. The money. ‘Sure, Coco’ll get it for you today. Tomorrow then. We’ll make a start.’

  DCI Bolton didn’t ask Knight to sit down. Knight would’ve found it funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. All this over a bit of fanny. The thing was, old by-the-book hadn’t even been married to the cow when Knight was shagging her, so what the hell was he getting all bent out of shape for? She knew the score, knew he was a bit of a lad – truth be told, that was what she’d liked about him, Knight was certain of that. But here was Bolton, keeping him standing in front of his desk like a cadet about to get his arse felt, nose buried in some file or other. Knight had been in Stewart Street the day before but Bolton had been ‘too busy’ to see him. A smile teased Knight’s lips. It was all a game. Knight may be a DI, but Bolton was a DCI and this was a show of power.

  ‘Something funny, Knight?’ Bolton was looking at him, having finally lifted his face from the file.

  ‘Naturally jovial, Scotty, you know me.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re just a ray of sunshine. And it’s DCI Bolton or Sir. Keep that in mind.’

  Jumped up wee shite. ‘Understood.’ He paused before he spoke again, just to show Bolton what he thought. ‘Sir.’

  Bolton sat back in his chair. ‘Let’s get something clear right away – I don’t want you here. I think you’re trouble. Jack Bannatyne might think the sun shines out of your jacksey, but I don’t.’ He leaned forward again. ‘But I’m lumbered with you, nothing much I can do about it. So I’m warning you, Knight, I don’t want any of your shit here, right? You’ll do things my way, or not at all. Is that clear?’

  Knight smiled at him. ‘As the proverbial crystal.’ He fell silent for a couple of beats again, then said, ‘Sir.’ He hoped he made the single word sound like and I hope your next shite’s a hedgehog. ‘So, what would you like me to do? Sir?’

  If Bolton caught the disrespect in Knight’s tone, he didn’t show it. ‘The vagrant who’d been dossing in the alleyway. We’re drawing a blank. Not surprising really, these people don’t tend to leave a trail. All we know is his street name is Scratchy. I think he saw something and he’s making himself invisible. You’re well acquainted with the low lives of Glasgow, Knight, so I want you to bring your particular skills to bear. Find him. Find him fast.’

  ‘You’ve got two bodies already. You think some jakey will add anything concrete?’

  ‘An eye witness is always good, Knight.’

  ‘What about the lassie and the junkie?’

  Bolton shook his head. ‘She’s in no state. Under sedation. She was as pissed as a fart anyway. She says she can’t ID anyone. As for the junkie…’ Bolton gave the notion a dismissive shrug.

  ‘This guy you’re looking for is probably out of it most of the time, too. And he might not even have been there.’

  ‘We won’t know that until we find him, will we? And I’m not looking for him, Knight – you are.’

  Knight tilted his head, giving in. ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bolton, ‘I am.’

  Davie sat in what had once been Rab’s bedroom in the Sword Street flat, but had now been given over to Joe the Tailor’s record collection. The old man had loved crooners – Sinatra, Martin, Crosby – and Davie had developed a taste for them, too. But he had also come to enjoy the swing music of the ’30s and ’40s. Joe’s extensive collection contained a number of albums, all lovingly cared for, by the likes of Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, Stan Kenton, Benny Goodman and the rest. He was listening to Artie Shaw’s version of ‘Stardust’ and the plaintive horn was ideal for his mood. He was staring at Audrey’s face, drawn from memory. It was a skill he’d discovered while inside. Now he sketched whenever he was alone. He’d sit in this room, music playing on Joe Klein’s old stereo, wishing that the old man’s voice would echo from the speakers. He had hundreds of sketches, all hidden away where no-one would find them. It relaxed him. He’d draw faces he’d seen during the day, faces – like Audrey’s – from the past. Landscapes, some of the city, others of vistas he’d only seen in photographs.

  He laid the pencil portrait on top of the wide arm of the arm­chair and looked at another drawing. Vari, drawn from life. She was the only person who had ever sat for him, the only person who had seen his work. He’d not shown Rab, who would have thought it poofy. He’d not even shown Bobby. He looked at Vari’s pretty face and remembered it in the flesh, her blue eyes smiling at him, always trying to draw him out of himself. And he recalled other things. The feel of her cool lips. The touch of her hand on his body. Her fragrance. Her taste.

  All she had wanted was for him to let her in. He’d wanted it, too. But there was always something holding him back. And he’d been too willing to succumb to Bernadette. Sure, he’d stopped it before it went too far, but still…
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  Vari was a nice person, despite the troubles of her past, and she deserved better. Davie knew he was not a nice person. He was the bad guy and no good came of growing too close to him. So he had kept her at arm’s length. It was the right thing to do. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  The doorbell snatched him from his thoughts and he carefully placed the drawings into the centre of the double album of ‘Frank Sinatra: A Man and His Music,’ one of Joe’s favourites, and gently slid the album back into its place on the shelves lined with precious vinyl. The rest were spread throughout Joe’s old records, where no-one would ever look. As he moved into the hallway he heard someone stamping their feet on the stone floor outside, dislodging snow from shoes.

  He opened the door and a face he hadn’t seen for five years looked up. Davie was speechless for a second.

  ‘Davie,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Sammy,’ Davie said, a grin spreading, ‘when’d you get out?’

  They shook hands, but he noticed Sammy wasn’t smiling back. He looked a lot older, the lines around his eyes deeper, his body slimmer, more stooped. They’d spent a lot of time together in the Bar-L, where Sammy had kept him from his own stupidity when the system turned harsh, helped him see that being a troublesome prisoner was self-defeating. You couldn’t beat the system, it was too big. Sammy had told him to do his time, get out and don’t let the bastards grind you down. The old guy hadn’t taken the place of Joe Klein, but he came close.

  ‘Coupla months ago,’ said Sammy. ‘November.’

  Two months. ‘Why’d you not come see me? Phone?’

  Sammy didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, ‘You gonnae invite me in, son, or keep me standing here like a fuckin milk bottle?’

  Davie apologised and stepped back. He watched Sammy’s face as he passed. He’d seen that look of grim determination before. Davie had barely stepped into the cell they shared for the first time before Sammy began a lecture on the stupidity of fighting the system. He sensed something similar was coming. He offered a cup of tea but Sammy declined. He didn’t take off his thick coat. He didn’t take off his gloves. He stood in the living room and Davie could feel the older man was on edge.

  ‘What’s up, Sammy?’

  Sammy was silent for a moment, but his eyes continued to betray him. Something was worrying him. He needed help. But he was finding it hard to ask.

  ‘Sammy,’ said Davie, ‘it’s me. What is it?’

  Sammy swallowed. ‘You mind when we was in the jail and I told you about your dad?’ Davie nodded. Sammy had known his father in the old days and had given him some insight. Not enough, though, for the man Davie finally faced was not the Danny McCall Sammy had known. ‘Mind I told you that when the devil came knocking…’

  ‘And you either let him in or told him where to go? Sure, Sammy, I remember it all.’

  Sammy stared straight into Davie’s eyes. Here it comes, Davie thought. ‘I didn’t come see you before now because I’ve heard a lot about you since you got out. The devil came knocking, didn’t he? And you let him in, didn’t you, son?’

  Davie felt his breath freeze. After Joe the Tailor, this man was the one person in the world he looked up to and he knew now that he had let him down. Sammy was an old lag, he knew the score – he wasn’t inside for going through a red light – but he had warned Davie about the dangers of the dark thing. He’d told him that it would consume him if he let it, just as it had his father. Davie had vowed it would never happen to him. And it hadn’t. Not yet. But it was close.

  ‘So, you asked me why I never got in touch when I got out. I’ll ask you something – why’d you never come see me while I was still inside?’

  Davie shifted his feet like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Sammy nodded, knowing the answer to his question.

  ‘You didn’t come to see me because you knew I’d spot it in you. And I didn’t come and see you because I didn’t think I’d find the young guy I knew inside.’

  Davie sat down on the couch. He didn’t know what to say. Sammy watched him then seated himself in the nearest armchair. ‘I’ve heard the stories, son. Lots of stories. Blokes would come in the jail, talk about the outside. Your name would be mentioned, how you did this fella or that fella. One bloke told me what you did to him, beat him down, battered fuck out of him, kicked him. Broke his arm, fractured three ribs. Knocked him cold.’

  Davie’s voice was flat. ‘What was his name?’ Sammy told him. Davie tried to remember, but he couldn’t. There were so many.

  Sammy watched him trying to recall the incident and coming up with nothing. He exhaled in disappointment. ‘I heard what happened with your dad, terrible business, right enough. But you’ve let what lives inside you take over. You’ve let Danny take over.’

  Davie looked up then, some heat returning to his voice. ‘I’m not like him. I’m nothing like him.’

  Sammy conceded the point with a tilt of the head. ‘Maybe no. Not yet. You still follow old Joe’s rules and that’s something, at least. But you’ve hurt people. For Rab. For the business.’

  Davie glanced away. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.’

  Sammy shook his head and Davie knew he’d said the wrong thing. He’d hurt people simply because Rab had wanted him to do it. He still followed the rules – no women, no children, no civilians – but anyone else was fair game. That was his world now. He understood why Sammy had stayed away and he didn’t blame him. He’d been a handy bloke in his day, an armed robber, a hard man. Until he was banged up for killing an old man during a bank raid. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, but he’d been there all the same. Even so, he’d kicked against the system in the jail – attacking the screws, waging war with dirty protests. When Davie met him he’d calmed down, but he was no pushover, as some boys found out when they stepped over a line. But Davie knew that all he wanted to do was complete his lengthy sentence, get out and get back with his family. With Davie being the way he was, Sammy would not have risked being drawn back into The Life.

  ‘So why are you here, Sammy?’

  Sammy’s jaw clenched and he began to blink rapidly. Davie could tell this wasn’t easy for him. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘My grandson – I told you I had kids?’ Davie nodded, glad the focus was away from him. ‘He’s in trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Sammy hesitated. ‘He’s basically a good lad, but he’s got into the wrong company. You know how it is.’

  Davie nodded. He knew how it was. To some, he was the wrong company.

  ‘My lassie, she’s done her best,’ Sammy went on. ‘Tried to keep him out of trouble, him and his wee brother both. Her man’s away most of the time, works the rigs.’

  Davie said softly, ‘What kind of trouble is he in, Sammy?’

  The old man looked away, ashamed. ‘They’ve charged him with murder. They say he’s killed one of your mate Rab’s lads. In some club down the town.’

  The Dickie Himes murder. ‘Which is he, Bonner or Moore?’

  Sammy closed his eyes, took a deep breath and said. ‘His name’s Martin Bonner. But he didn’t do it, I know him, he couldn’t.’ Sammy opened his eyes and Davie saw the anger and defiance he’d seen back in the jail. ‘He’s being fitted up, Davie.’

  Jimmy Knight’s Uncle Charlie had been a copper, spent thirty years in the blue, walking the city streets, never made it out of uniform. Knight had seen photographs of him in uniform, a big man, a powerful man, the kind of man you wouldn’t want to cross. However, his memory of him was of a man who had been eaten away by cancer, lying in a scabby hospital bed in striped flannel pyjamas, talking about the old days in a voice coarsened with disease and medication. The young Jimmy wanted to be a policeman when he grew up so Uncle Charlie told him stories of the glories of the Force. He also told him about the ‘bonuses’ he got on the beat – bottles of whisky here and there, the occasional couple of quid from reporters looking for
some tip or other, a freebie from a tart up a back close.

  ‘But that was nothing,’ the old man rasped, his hand gripping the boy’s wrist, the bones shining white through the dying flesh, ‘nothing to what some of the CID boys could make. Listen to me, son, if you want to get ahead, get a hat, get a hat…’

  He was talking about the then Head of CID’s insistence that all his plainers wear a hat of some kind. To hear Uncle Charlie talk, there wasn’t a straight cop in CID, they all had their nose dipped in some trough or other. When Knight joined the Force and even­tually got into CID, he found that wasn’t the case. There were strokes pulled, certainly, but only the occasional bad apple. Knight, though, had decided that he would not end up like Uncle Charlie. Cancer aside, the old guy died with barely a pot to piss in – and that was owned by the NHS. No, Jimmy Knight would not die in some hospital bed in a cheap pair of pyjamas. When he went, he’d be wearing silk with a shapely blonde by his side. Maybe two. The Job paid peanuts, but he was no monkey. So he kept his eyes and ears open, always on the lookout for the main chance. He’d spotted Rab McClymont early on, recognised a kindred spirit, forged an alliance. It had proved mutually beneficial over the years. There were others, for Knight had more strings to his bow than a paranoid archer. He did not kid himself, though. He knew he was corrupt. He didn’t try to justify it to himself, didn’t analyse it. He was a crooked cop and that was the way he liked it, because it brought him money, it brought him the recreational stimulants he enjoyed during his off hours and it brought him women. A certain type of woman, sure, but that was what he liked. He had a wife at home and a daughter heading into her teenage years with his dark looks but too much weight. He’d married because it was an aid to upward mobility on the Job – the bosses liked to see a man settled. The missus was a quiet girl, didn’t ask too many questions, accepted that he was away from home a lot. Pressures of the job, dear. She had a nice house in Milngavie, two foreign holidays a year, her own four-wheel drive, enough money to buy nice things. He threw her the occasional shag, strictly missionary position, never forgot her birthday or Mother’s Day or their anniversary. She was happy. The fact of the matter was, she was none-too-bright, but that suited Knight right down to the ground. He was able to juggle his work life and his home life and his real life with ease.