Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  Lowry pushed his glasses up his nose – Christ, thought Knight, he still has the same mannerisms – and his eyes became hunted. Knight had seen that look before, when he’d bumped into men he’d lifted in the past. Generally it was guys like Lowry, not criminals, just blokes who had made a mistake. In Lowry’s case, that mistake had led to a life sentence. ‘Coupla years now, Mister Knight,’ he said. His voice had changed, though. Still posh West End, but it had matured. He’d grown up in the jail. Knight would’ve taken even money that he’d not had an easy time of it inside. ‘Out on licence.’

  Knight jerked his head at the ambulance beside them. ‘You with this lot?’

  Lowry nodded. ‘Volunteer. Felt I needed to do something.’

  Knight lowered his head and said softly, ‘Lowry-like-the-painter – you get religion inside?’

  The man looked almost embarrassed for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘I did wrong, Mister Knight. I was punished by the law, but a greater punishment lies ahead.’ He sounded as if he was repeating what someone else had said.

  ‘Trying to get a wee bit on the credit side of the balance sheet, that right? Do a bit of good?’

  Lowry nodded again. ‘It won’t bring that girl back, though.’ He looked at the ground, his shame apparent. He’d killed a girl he’d fancied back in ’77, battered her, strangled her, almost killed the boy she’d been humping on the canal path. Knight and Donovan had been in uniform then, guarding the body until the brylcream boys arrived to take charge. Lowry had done the return-to-the-scene-of-the-crime thing, giving his real name. ‘Lowry – like the painter,’ he’d said, and that was how Knight still thought of him. He’d tried to get away, but Knight ran him down to Firhill Basin and that skip. A wee tap on the napper with his baton and Knight was on his way to plainclothes.

  Knight asked, ‘You been doing this long?’

  ‘A year or so, started a few months after I got out.’

  ‘You’ll have got to know some of the regulars, then?’

  Lowry became wary. ‘A few.’

  ‘Know a dosser named Scratchy?’

  Lowry pushed his glasses up his nose with his thumb again, his brow wrinkled. He shook his head. ‘Why you looking for him?’

  ‘Routine inquiries,’ Knight said. It was his go-to answer when he didn’t want to expand further.

  ‘Sorry, don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Scratchy.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive. You get to know some of the names, faces mostly though. If you had a picture?’

  Knight said, ‘Naw, no picture. Not even got much of a description. Average size, long hair, wears a long brown coat, uses one of they stretchy things to keep luggage safe on a car roof rack as a belt, you know what I’m talking about?’ Lowry nodded to show he did. ‘That’s about it. Ring any bells?’

  Lowry searched his memory, but came up with nothing. ‘Sorry, Mister Knight.’

  Knight felt irritation rise. This was not proving to be his finest hour and it was getting his goat. Still, wasn’t Lowry-like-the-painter’s fault. He took a final look around the people milling about on the pavement, saw no-one else he recognised or who would help him. ‘Not to worry, son,’ he said. ‘You keep out of trouble, okay?’

  ‘That’s my plan, Mister Knight.’

  Knight gave him a hearty clap on the back, propelling the young man’s slight frame forward. ‘Good man.’

  Knight lit up a cigarillo as he walked away, thoughts of the waitress’s tidy frame perking him up. He’d failed to find Scratchy, so what? Can’t win em all. And he really doubted the boozed up vagrant had anything to say. He was only looking for him because he wanted to show off to by-the-book Bolton. He’d had uniforms and plainers from Stewart Street swarming everywhere trying to find the man and Knight would’ve liked it if he could’ve shown them all up. Anyway, c’est la vie.

  As he walked away, he didn’t see the small, wizened face watching him intently from behind the converted ambulance, the eyes thoughtful.

  FRIDAY

  Jerry Jarvis had one thing in common with Davie McCall, but he didn’t know it – he was used to waiting. He was a patient man, unlike his brothers. Marko had been all go, a bundle of nervous energy that found release in shagging. Andy was also full of life, always moving, having to be doing something. Scrapper was a walking punch, little more than muscle and threat galvanised by cocaine and a low boredom threshold. But Jerry could sit still for long periods of time, just waiting for something to happen. It didn’t mean he lacked resolve, it just meant that he appreciated those quiet moments when he could lose himself in his thoughts.

  It wasn’t easy with the two Welsh brothers rabbiting in the front seats of the four-wheel drive. Owen and Gwynfor Jones, bickering about something or other. Jerry had long ago lost interest. They were big men who made a brick shithouse look like a prefab and they were well used to meting out punishment, which was handy, because that was exactly what Jerry was about that day. But, my God, they didn’t half get on his tits. They never agreed with each other, always found something to pick at, like an old married couple.

  He was about to tell them to shut the fuck up when he saw a battered old van pull up outside the workshop across the road. Jerry watched a small man with thinning grey hair climb out of the driver’s seat, unlock the workshop door and go inside. Jerry gave him a moment then got out his four-wheel drive. He told Gwynfor to stand guard and he and Owen pushed the door open.

  The small space was dominated by a workbench on which lay four wood panel doors. There was raw timber piled up against every wall apart from one, where a series of old shelves was filled with a variety of tools. The man they had come to see was called Ron Hobbs. As they entered he had his back to them and was hauling on a pair of overalls. He was a carpenter by trade, but a crook by choice. Jerry knew the man had a lucrative sideline in punting smack, courtesy of Big Rab McClymont. In fact, Ron was one of the big fella’s oldest customers, having bought stuff from him since the very early days. He wasn’t a big player, but he was a player nonetheless. He’d regret it.

  Ron turned round, his eyes instantly suspicious when he saw Owen Jones wedging the door shut. He knew who Jerry was, of course, but he feigned nonchalance as he thrust his arms into the overalls and buttoned them up. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Jerry walked over to the doors on the workbench and ran his fingers along the grain. ‘Don’t need doors, if that’s what you’re offering. Mind, these are nice, right enough.’

  Ron let the compliment pass and backed slowly towards the shelves. Jerry saw the move and he nodded to his man, who sprang forward just as Ron stretched beyond some tins of woodstain to reach the handle of a sawn-off shotgun. His fingers brushed the weapon just as he was jerked away and spun towards the bench, where Jerry waited, one hand leaning on the new door. Owen stayed close to Ron, his face impassive.

  Ron gave the burly Welshman a look up and down then watched as Jerry sauntered over to the tool shelves. Ron swallowed and said, ‘I don’t know what you want here, Jarvis, but I cannae help you.’

  Jerry’s eyes roved over the tools on display. ‘Your man McClymont has done us a bit of damage this past few days and we want to repay him. In kind, you know what I’m sayin?’

  Ron knew what he was saying well enough. ‘I told you, cannae help you.’

  Jerry smiled. ‘Ron, Ron, I think you undervalue yourself. I think you can help me big time.’

  Ron glanced again at Owen, then looked back at Jerry. ‘How?’

  Jerry reached out and plucked a nail gun from its place. He hefted it in his hands. ‘Nice tool, this. Handy thing to have. Save a lot of effort, does it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Bet it does. Saves all that banging with a hammer. Just a couple of dunts with this and the job’s done, I’ll bet.’

  Ron swallowed hard again. He knew about Jerry, about his reputation, but he was determined not to show fear, even though he could feel his knees weakening and his guts seethed. He hoped he wouldn’t lose
it, hoped he wouldn’t throw up. Ron was a crook but he wasn’t a hard man. ‘I don’t know what you’re after, but I’m telling you, there’s nothing I can do for you.’

  ‘Tell us a wee bit about Big Rab’s operation.’

  Despite his growing terror, Ron smiled. ‘Do you know how Big Rab has stayed ahead of the game all these years? Because he doesn’t tell guys like me anything. There’s only him and maybe one or two other blokes who know what he’s up to. You heard the sayin “the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doin”? Well, Rab’s left hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing. I’m just a buyer. I take some smack and I punt it around the town. That’s it. I don’t know where he gets it, I don’t where it comes from, I don’t know fuck all.’

  Jerry nodded. This was what he’d expected. Ah well, he thought, such is life. There were more dealers on his list to see, maybe he’d have better luck there.

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Ron,’ he said and then nodded to Owen. The man moved fast again, pinned Ron’s arms to his side and bent him over the workbench. Jerry moved back to the bench and began to loosen the clamps of the vice that jutted from the edge. Ron struggled but was held down easily.

  ‘You see, Ron old son, if you’d known anything, it might’ve saved you a shitload of pain,’ said Jerry as he grabbed hold of Ron’s left hand and thrust it into the vice. He spun the metal lever to tighten the jaws, clamping Ron’s hand in their grip. ‘Who really cares what Rab’s left hand’s doin, eh? Cos we know what yours’ll be doin, pal. Hold your breath, cos this is gonnae smart…’

  He twisted the handle again, tightening the vice on Ron’s hand. Ron tried to jerk free but both Jerry’s man and the vice held him steady. And as the unyielding metal crushed his fingers, he began to scream.

  Marty watched Stewie chewing on his lunch and waited for the right moment to say what he had to say. He knew his mate would burst, but now he had to rein him in. Marty hadn’t touched his own food, because he’d felt like throwing up all morning, ever since his brief conversation with Andy Jarvis up on the gallery. As soon as he saw the bloke heading his way, he knew it wasn’t good. He was right. Now he had to pass the message on to Stewie.

  He waited until there was no-one within earshot, but he still kept his voice low. ‘Don’t do it, Stewie.’

  ‘Don’t do what?’

  ‘Tell the law about Scrapper.’

  Stewie’s jaws stopped moving and his eyes took on a wary look. Oh Christ, Marty thought, he doesn’t even trust me. ‘Don’t know what you’re talkin about, Marty.’

  Marty looked around, leaned forward, dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Stewie, mate – they know. The Jarvis clan. They know you’ve been talkin. They know you’re thinkin about burstin.’

  Denial sprang in Stewie’s eyes, but died a swift death. Marty knew he couldn’t lie to him. ‘How’d they know?’

  ‘Fuck knows, but they do. Andy Jarvis had a word. They said I was to explain the situation to you.’

  Stewie’s voice turned hard. ‘I don’t give a fuck, Marty. I’m facin life in the jail here for something I didnae do. They can do what they like to me. If my lawyer says it’s a good idea, I’m going for it.’

  Marty shook his head. ‘It’s no you they’ll do anything to, son.’

  Stewie’s eye narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  Marty took a deep breath. This was what had sickened him. ‘They said if you spoke out of turn, you’d never see your maw again.’ Stewie blinked, but for Marty, there was worse to come. ‘And they’d do Sonya, too. My Sonya. So I’m askin you, mate, for your maw’s sake, for Sonya’s sake, keep your mouth shut.’

  Stewie blinked again and Marty thought he saw tears welling up. Stewie looked down at his half-eaten lunch and pushed the tray away. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. ‘They’re bastards, so they are.’

  Marty saw Andy Jarvis watching them from another table, a broad smile on his lips.

  ‘Aye, son, so they are…’

  Bernadette sipped her coffee and listened to her husband rage. She knew to let him vent without interruption, although she wished he wouldn’t use such language so close to the kids. They were tucked up in bed upstairs, but Rab’s voice could carry, especially when he was in full flow.

  ‘Fuckin bastardin shitehawk Jarvises,’ he said, his voice just a bit too loud, but then, he’d had a few whiskies since the news came in. ‘Dirty fuckin scumbags.’

  Six of Rab’s best customers had been hit that day, each one badly injured. Two had been shot in the legs, one had his hands crushed in his own vice and nails driven into his knees with a nail gun, one had been beaten with an inch of his life, one hit by a car and another had both kneecaps drilled with a power tool. They had also nailed his hands to the chair for good measure. It was brutal and barbaric and it horrified Bernadette. They were used to violence, but the level of reprisal shown by the Jarvis clan had shocked even Rab. The upshot was that many of Rab’s dealers were laying low, fearful they might be next.

  Rab’s tirade finally ran out of steam and he stared at his wife, knowing she would have something to say. She waited to make sure he was finished, then she laid her mug of coffee down on the small table beside her armchair and leaned forward.

  ‘You knew there would be repercussions, Rab,’ she said, her voice soft.

  ‘Yeah, I know – but this? Torture, just for the sake of it? I mean, Jesus…’ He shook his head. He had done many things in his life but this kind of viciousness was beyond even him. He was confident none of the injured men would have been able to say any­thing, but it was still damaging to the business. Other dealers would think twice about coming to him for product if they thought Jerry Jarvis was going to pay them a visit. ‘Fuckin butcher, right enough.’

  Bernadette said, ‘This has to end, you know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but Davie was right, we’ve opened up a can of worms.’

  ‘Then we close it again.’

  ‘How?’

  Bernadette sat back in her chair. ‘How do you kill a snake?’

  The first night of their search had revealed a new world to Davie. He knew the city had multiple personalities. To straight arrows, it was a home and a playground. To those in The Life, it was a money­maker. To the homeless, it was at once a refuge and a prison.

  Lenny took them to the places that did not appear on tour guide schedules, showed them things that councillors in their polished offices in the City Chambers liked to pretend didn’t exist. They visited shelters, parks, abandoned factories. Under Lenny’s direction, Bobby drove them from an old hospital in the north to a railway embankment in the south. Many of the homeless were middle-aged, with the wraith-like flesh of the user, the drinker, the living dead. There were young people, male and female, fleeing abusive homes, Lenny said. He saw a young girl standing against a wall, smoking, her eyes older than her years, her face thin and pale and a stranger to a smile. She was Vari in an alternative universe. This could’ve been her life, Davie realised. But she’d been stronger, found a job, set up on her own before she’d ever met him.

  Others he could see had obvious mental problems. He watched one woman clutching an old teddy bear and muttering to herself, being coaxed into eating something by charity workers on an empty stretch of dockland on the Clydeside. Care in the community at its worst.

  Davie had always known there were homeless people in Glasgow. As a boy, he’d seen men in rags sitting on the pavement in the city centre, looking for handouts. He’d once been on the Broomielaw with his mother, he would’ve been about eight years of age, and she’d pointed out a group of men sitting in a group sharing bottles of cheap wine. She told him they sometimes drank meths mixed with milk. He didn’t know if that was true, but the sight of the men with nowhere to go haunted him. He had a fear of being without a home ever since.

  He recalled Audrey showing him addicts waiting for their dealer to arrive. He’d not been long out of jail and he hadn’t really understood how his city had changed in the ten yea
rs he’d been inside. The sight had sickened him. He felt the same as he watched this parade of human misery. He felt uncomfortable, ashamed some­how, that he had a decent flat in which to live and these people were freezing on the streets or depending on charity to keep them alive.

  But he forced the feeling down, squeezed it into the deepest, darkest part of himself. It was crowded in there, but he knew he had a job to do. Scratchy had to be found. Lenny had heard Knight was on the trail and they had to get to Scratchy first. They knew the big cop was striking out but that wouldn’t last long. Someone along the line was bound to give him a steer, it was inevitable. They had known when they set out they were against the clock but now the countdown had accelerated.

  ‘Hey…’

  The voice was ragged and sounded female, but when Knight turned he really wasn’t sure what sex he was looking at. The figure was small, bundled in layers of grimy clothing, hair cropped close as if someone had been trying to get to the nits nestling there and the face was round and streaked with dirt.

  ‘I heard you speaking to that young fella last night,’ said the creature. Female, decided Knight, definitely female. ‘The Holy Joe.’

  Knight sensed a breakthrough here. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I ken him, the guy you’re looking for. Scratchy. I ken him. So does the Holy Joe, no matter what he says. ’

  So Lowry-like-the-painter had lied. How about that? Knight considered finding the speccy wee bastard again and exchanging a pointed word or two, but then thought better of it. He couldn’t blame the man for holding a grudge but it did prove that turning the other cheek wasn’t high on his new agenda. Knight looked back at the figure before him. ‘You know where Scratchy is then?’

  The woman’s expression changed to one Knight recognised even under the layers of grime. Greed. Didn’t matter who you were, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief or whatever the hell it was he was looking at, they all had it. ‘Aye, well, info like that doesn’t come cheap, ye ken.’