Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘It’s no nice here, is it, son? I mean, the politicians say prison’s like a holiday camp these days but it’s hellish, really. Mind you, I’ve been in some holiday camps that felt like prison, right enough.’

  Did this guy think he was some kind of dickhead? Did he think this pally stuff was fooling him? Jesus, cops were stupid, so they were.

  Knight leaned forward, both hands clasped on the tabletop, the cigarillo clamped between his teeth. ‘I’ll get right to the point, because maybe I’m keeping you from a glamorous granny contest, or whatever activities the screws have got lined up to keep you entertained. We’ve just had a wee natter with a guy who says you and your mate admitted to stabbing Dickie Himes.’

  Stewie felt the shock tingle throughout his body. His mind raced, trying to think who would say such a thing. He drew a blank.

  ‘And see this guy?’ Knight was talking again, his tone still reasonable, like they were discussing football. ‘He’s willing to say it in court. He’s going to say that you and your mate Marty told him you did it. He’s going to say that Marty held Dickie down while you stuck him.’

  ‘That’s shite, that is!’ Stewie was on his feet now. He was up before he knew it. The two cops didn’t even flinch, though.

  ‘Calm down, Stewie,’ it was the other one now, Donovan. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘Take it easy? Take it easy? I’m getting fitted up here and you’re sayin take it fuckin easy?’

  ‘Sit down, son,’ Knight again. Stewie remained standing, a nerve in his thigh making his leg jiggle. Knight’s voice hardened. ‘Sit down, son, before I sit you down.’

  Stewie sat down. He placed his hand over his thigh and squeezed to keep it still. This was bad, this was really bad. He tightened his grip, trying to keep the panic in.

  ‘No-one’s fitting you up, son,’ said Donovan. ‘Look at it from our side. We’ve got a knife we know was Dickie Himes’s covered in your pal’s blood. Your pal’s got a face wound and doctors say it was left there by a knife just like Dickie’s. You say you were with him all night on Friday. And now we’ve got someone who says you’ve been bragging about doing it.’

  ‘That’s shite, I’ve no said nothing.’

  ‘We know how it is in here. You’ve got to show you’re a hard man, show the guys what you’re made of. Lets them know where you stand in the pecking order. Most of they guys in the hall? They’re in for theft or possession, maybe assault. Murder’s really something, Stewie. Makes you a big man, right?’

  ‘I never plunged that boy.’

  Knight said, ‘Evidence tells us different.’

  ‘Your evidence is shite. You’re shite. You’ve got it all wrong.’ Stewie was talking tough, but even he could hear the tremble in his voice. He knew he wasn’t fooling them. He slumped in his chair.

  Donovan leaned forward now, speaking softly. ‘Then put us right, Stewie. Tell us what happened.’

  Stewie stared at the tabletop, the fingers of his hand still biting into the flesh of his thigh, but he didn’t notice it now.

  Donovan was still talking. ‘You’re right – your lawyer should be here. But it could help you if you tell us what happened that night. I don’t think you did it, DI Knight doesn’t think you did it, but with what we’ve got on you, a jury will think different. You’re facing life, Stewie, you need to realise that. Just tell us what happened and we’ll do everything we can to help you.’

  Stewie shook his head and when he spoke what fire had been there before was quenched. ‘Cannae say.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Stewie. I know you don’t want to grass but this is self-preservation we’re talking about here. Why should you go down for something someone else did?’

  Stewie looked up, his eyes floating with tears. ‘They’ll do me.’

  ‘Who’ll do you?’

  Stewie shook his head, dislodging a single tear. ‘Cannae say nothing.’

  ‘We’ll protect you, you’ll be safe. We’ll get you on protection. No-one will get to you.’

  Stewie looked up. He wanted to believe them, he really did. But still the street rules held him back. You don’t grass, simple as that. You certainly don’t grass a headbanger like Scrapper Jarvis. But if he didn’t, he would go down for life. If he didn’t stand up for himself, who would? He swallowed hard, feeling something bitter dislodging in his throat. Scrapper was a menace, so he was, shouldn’t be on the streets. Him and Marty were just ordinary blokes, they didn’t even carry blades, for Christ’s sake. Why should they go down for something Scrapper did? And they said they could protect him. He’d need to say it court, or at least in front of his lawyer, before it was binding. Maybe if he told them, he’d feel better, then he could deny it later. But he needed to get them off his back for now, give him time to think, time to talk it over with Marty. That’s it, Stewie, buy time…

  ‘We didnae do it. I cannae say who did, though. No yet. Let me talk to my lawyer.’

  Bobby Newman’s brow furrowed as he thought about what Davie and Sammy had told him. They were in the cosy living room of the home he’d made with Connie, a former council house Bobby had bought years before and had fixed up. It had been completely remodelled inside, with the living room and kitchen now converted into one big room, separated by a dark wooden breakfast bar. It had a new roof, the dampness that had attacked it after years of neglect eradicated and it was warm, comfortable and tastefully decorated, thanks to Connie. But even through the double glazing Davie could still hear the traffic whizzing past on the Edinburgh Road.

  Connie held her three-month-old baby as she listened to them talk. She was a tall woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed, attractive in the kind of way that it takes a while to notice. She had been good for Bobby, had prompted him to leave The Life behind, become a straight arrow. He’d gone to work in his uncle’s hardware business on Duke Street. When his uncle died of a heart attack two years before, he’d taken it over. He was doing well enough to hire people to enable him to spend time at home on a weekday.

  But it wasn’t hardware Davie and Sammy had come to discuss. And Connie wasn’t pleased.

  Bobby was pouring the coffee he’d brought in from the kitchen when she said, ‘I don’t want Bobby involved, Davie, simple as.’

  Bobby said, ‘Connie…’

  Connie cut him off. ‘Sammy, I’m sorry, I know you need to help your grandson and I sympathise, but Bobby’s left all that behind. You must know what I’m saying?’

  Sammy nodded and accepted the coffee cup from her word­lessly. He knew to keep out of this.

  Bobby said, ‘Connie, I’m not going to go back to The Life.’

  ‘Bloody right you’re not.’

  Davie decided it was time he said something. ‘Connie, all we’re asking is that Bobby steer us in the right direction.’

  That was all they wanted. Bobby had always had a bulging contact book, even if only in the figurative sense. For as long as Davie had known him, Bobby had always ‘known a guy’. What­ever was needed, he knew someone who could provide it. He was not in The Life any longer but he still had the contacts.

  Davie had asked him if he knew anyone who could help them find a homeless guy called Scratchy. All they knew of him was that he dossed in the lane behind the Club Corvus.

  ‘Skippered,’ Bobby had corrected him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They don’t call it dossing, it’s skippering.’

  But the mention of the Corvus had worried Connie. She’d read about the murders, knew about the Jarvis Clan and did not want her husband anywhere near either.

  ‘Take it easy, darling,’ Bobby assured her. ‘We’re no getting the band back together, honest. There’s no way I’m being drawn back in.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘that’s what Michael Corleone said, too.’

  Bobby smiled. ‘That’s a film, pet. This is real life. All I’m gonnae do is steer the boys in the right direction, introduce them to a guy…’

  Connie glared at him, but Bobby broadened his smile and rubbed one han
d up her arm. She exhaled deeply and audibly and looked down at their child, sleeping peacefully in her arms, then turned to Davie. ‘You let him get hurt, David McCall, and you’ll have me to answer to, understood?’

  Davie nodded. He’d take on any number of Glasgow neds before he’d want to face up to Connie. She was the toughest of them all. And she was a primary school teacher. He looked to Bobby. ‘So, who’s this guy?’

  ‘Bloke called Lester, but for fuck’s sake don’t call him that. He prefers Lenny, for some reason. Ex-paratrooper, but you won’t believe that when you see him.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Cos he’s the answer to one of the greatest mysteries of all time – who ate all the pies?’

  DCI Bolton listened to Donovan’s account of the interviews with both Fowler and Stewie without interruption. Donovan was thank­ful for that, because his lack of sleep and excess of stress made it difficult for him to retain any kind of flow. When he’d finished, he sat quietly, waiting for his boss to say something.

  Bolton thought over everything, staring at his desk as he pushed items around the surface. Finally, he said, ‘So what do you think, Frank? We got the wrong guys here?’

  ‘They were there, boss, no question. But I’ve never bought into the notion that they actually killed Himes.’

  ‘If not them, who?’

  ‘We know they run around with Scrapper Jarvis. We know Himes was punting gear at the Corvus, we found it on him. We know the Corvus is a Jarvis place. We know Scrapper’s a dangerous wee shit and if he’s coked up he could be lethal.’

  ‘We don’t know he was there, though. Maw Jarvis swears blind he was at home with her all night Friday.’ Donovan grimaced to show what he thought of Scrapper’s alibi. Bolton smiled, then said, ‘Okay, this lad wants to talk to his lawyer, let him. We’ll see if he comes back, if not you go see him again. What does Knight think, by the way?’

  ‘You know Jimmy Knight. He doesn’t care either way. He knows this pair were there, that’s good enough for him, they’ll still go down unless they make a deal with the PF to give evidence about who actually did do it.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Grabbing some kip before he heads out again tonight, still looking for that dosser.’

  ‘He’s dogged, I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘Aye, once Jimmy gets his teeth into something, he doesn’t let go. Especially if there’s something in it for him.’

  Lenny Malloy had obviously been a powerful individual, but he’d let himself go to seed. Bobby had told them he’d been with the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment. He’d been one tough bastard back then, seeing action in the Falklands. Operation Corporate, they’d called it, and 2-Para had been deployed as part of 3-Commando. Lenny had been one of the first to land on Blue Beach, as San Carlos Water was known. After that, he’d fought at Goose Green and Wireless Ridge before helping recapture Port Stanley. He’d been wounded in the hip, invalided out. He had a walking stick and it tapped along the corridor of the building on the Clydeside near the Saltmarket as he led them to what he called the mess hall. Bobby had said he didn’t need the stick, he just liked to carry it.

  In addition to being a fit bugger who liked nothing better than throwing himself out of planes, Lenny had always been a genius with figures. When he came home he finagled a job in the financial sector and made a good living helping the city’s well-off become even more comfortable. And as he put his old life behind him, he cast off his powerful build. He was a big man and at his peak he was all power and muscle. As he kept figures on paper looking good, he allowed his own figure to vanish under a layer of flesh that would’ve made a whale blush. He ate well and he drank well and he not only lived off the fat of the land, he became it.

  But one January night two years before, when the mercury had taken a nosedive, he found a man dead and frozen on a bench on the Clydeside. The man had been a Gulf War veteran and an Iraqi bullet had taken off part of his thigh. His return to civilian life had not been glorious, but he found drink and drugs. He’d been on the streets for a year when Lenny found him.

  The words ‘by the grace of God’ were uppermost in Lenny’s mind and he realised that he had allowed his life to become one of excess and privilege. He resolved to do something about it. He set up the Soldier’s Rest Hostel, forged out of a derelict building near the Saltmarket. He even sketched the logo he wanted, an infantryman sitting against a wall smoking a cigarette, although an artist refined it. The logo adorned a sign at the front of the building and also on the black sweatshirts worn by the volunteers who worked there.

  He’d made some canny investments and he had enough saved to bide him over, so he jacked in his job, although he still carried out some lucrative freelance consulting for those with the readies. He spent most of his time helping those on the streets, not just the former military personnel. He’d lost some of the weight he’d gained, but when Davie was introduced to him, he was reminded of the line that inside every fat man is a thin man wondering how the hell he’d just been eaten.

  A young volunteer, a stick-thin teenage girl with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail, brought them all coffee and left them to talk. They sat in a corner, well away from the street people who were being served food and drinks by four other volunteers. Nothing fancy, Lenny had explained, just basic stuff, but it helped keep them alive in this weather. Davie scanned the faces of the customers, seeing men and women, young and old. He wondered how they ended up here. He wondered if he could ever end up here.

  When he looked back, he saw Lenny watching him as he sipped his coffee. Something had come into his eyes when Bobby had introduced them and they had rarely left Davie’s face since. Bobby had explained they were looking for a street person called Scratchy and he’d told him why. Davie and Sammy knew Bobby would tell the man everything, it was the best way.

  ‘And if you find Scratchy, what will you do with him?’ The question was directed at Davie

  Bobby answered. ‘We steer him to a friendly copper.’

  Lenny’s eyes bored deep into Davie’s. ‘That right?’

  Davie nodded. This guy knew him, or knew of him at least. Some­times that was good, sometimes bad. It was difficult to say what it was on this occasion, because Lenny gave nothing away. The big man stared at Davie for a few moments then gave a satisfied bob of the head.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I know Scratchy, you’ll find a lot of the street people do. He’s one of those kind of men, people know him, people like him. He used to be in the Royal Navy, was sent to the Falklands. He was on the Sheffield when the Argentinian Exocets found it. He was badly burned and sometimes it itches, which is why he’s called Scratchy. Suffers from PTSD, which is not uncommon out there. MOD doesn’t fully recognise it because the shit-­licking civil servants don’t have a form for it. Not yet, anyway.’

  Bobby asked, ‘And now he’s homeless?’

  ‘Yes, lots of ex-servicemen come back, mind and body screwed up to buggery, can’t keep things straight. Hit the bottle, hit the needle. Hit the streets.’

  Sammy leaned forward. ‘Can you find him?’

  Lenny thought about this, but when he spoke, he spoke to Davie. ‘I’ve heard of a Davie McCall. Bad bit of goods, I’m told.’

  Never fails, thought Davie.

  ‘The way I hear it, Davie McCall is a cold bastard, wouldn’t go out of his way to help a mate.’

  Bobby cleared his throat. ‘Lenny, that’s…’

  Lenny raised his hand. ‘But Bobby here vouches for you – and I’m not inclined to pay much heed to rumour.’ He switched from Davie to Sammy. ‘I can find him… Sammy, is it?’ Sammy nodded. ‘I can find him.’

  ‘Cops have been looking for him since last Friday, Lenny.’

  Lenny smiled. ‘The street people won’t talk to the cops. But they’ll talk to me.’

  Jimmy Knight was pissed off. Three nights now he’d been hitting every bothy, hostel, dosshouse and skipper he could think of and had come
up with bugger all. He didn’t like that. He wasn’t used to it. When he set out to find somebody, he found them, but this bloke Scratchy was proving harder to catch than a fish in the desert. If tonight’s search yielded nothing, he’d have to admit defeat and that didn’t make him a happy bunny.

  The Christian Street Mission was his final throw of the dice. They were a bunch of happy clappers who went out into the streets to bring food and succour to the down and outs and street walkers. Soup, hot rolls, blankets, a tip for a bed for the night if they needed it. Of course, they threw in a word or two about God and Jesus, but that was a small price to pay. Knight didn’t know how many souls they saved, but he’d often picked up a line or two from their customers. They had a converted ambulance that they parked up at various locations to act as a beacon to bring the street people gathering round.

  He found them near the archway at Glasgow Green opposite the High Court, the ambulance’s blue light flashing. A crowd of the city’s homeless and a few working girls hung around on the pavement, clutching plastic cups filled with soup or munching the rolls. It was a cold night, well below zero, and their collective breath frosted in the air like ectoplasm in a ghost story. That’s how it looked to Knight – some of these people were already dead, they just hadn’t lain down yet.

  One of his great strengths was his memory. He remembered names, dates, details, faces. And one of the faces in the crowd was familiar to him. He hadn’t seen it in eighteen years but he knew it right away. The man was nearing forty now, but he still had the glasses, the longish hair, although it was thinning. He’d lost weight since Knight had last seen him, across Court Number Two over the road, but Knight knew him.

  ‘Well, well – Lowry-like-the-painter,’ he said, forcing the man to turn around, a startled look on his face that took Knight right back to another freezing cold night all those years before, back to Firhill Basin where Knight found him hiding behind a rubbish skip. ‘When’d you get out?’