February's Son

by Alan Parks

  ‘Good,’ said Cooper, dropping the rib bone back onto his plate. ‘We’ve no been out for ages. You can come fishing with me.’

  *

  To be honest, he didn’t have much else to do, couldn’t think of a real reason to say no, so here he was, sitting beside Jumbo in the back of a Zephyr listening to Cooper and Billy Weir discuss how many more boys they were going to need. Verdict seemed to be five or six. That decided, Billy turned the radio up, started to sing along to ‘My Sweet Lord’. Badly.

  Luckily he didn’t have to endure it for too long; they weren’t going far, just along Argyle Street to the Gallowgate. The Land Bar to be exact, although being that exact about the Land Bar wasn’t easy; it seemed to change its name every five minutes. Last time McCoy had been in it, it was called the Civic. Something else before that. Reid’s maybe?

  Cooper leaned over the back of the seat, handed McCoy a half-bottle of vodka. McCoy took it, took a swig. Held it out to Jumbo who shook his head.

  ‘What exactly is it we’re doing again?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘Finding new blood,’ said Cooper. ‘Way things are going we’re going to need it. Some guy that leads off one of the shitey wee gangs over this way’s supposed to be no bad. He’s got a couple of mates too. Comes recommended.’

  McCoy took another drink of the vodka, grimaced, wondered what kind of person found up-and-coming gang members to recommend. They pulled up at the lights at the High Street. Watched a woman pushing a pram and dragging two weans struggle across the road. Rain was still pouring down, wet streets reflecting the car headlights. Jumbo humming to himself, drawing smiley faces on the condensation on his window.

  ‘These guys know we’re coming?’ asked McCoy as they set off again.

  Billy looked at him in the mirror, grinned. ‘Not exactly.’

  The Land was just like every other shitey pub in Glasgow. Worn-out lino, few tables and chairs, two dirty wee windows and a couple of striplights in the ceiling illuminating the faded wallpaper and the line of no-hopers lined up at the bar. They shuffled in, found a table while Jumbo went up to the bar.

  The back area was filled with young guys, obviously their patch. Long hair, denims, the occasional leather coat. All of them smoking, all of them staring at Billy and Cooper. All trying to work out what the fuck Stevie Cooper was doing in their bar, all of them desperately trying to look like they didn’t care.

  ‘So that’ll be the gang then?’ said McCoy as Jumbo put the drinks down on the table.

  ‘Look like a bunch of cunts,’ said Cooper mildly.

  ‘Am I going to get my head kicked in here?’ asked McCoy. ‘Because if I am, can we get it over with and go somewhere else for a drink? This place is bloody miserable.’

  ‘No, you’re no, so shut it,’ said Cooper. ‘You can just sit there and watch.’

  ‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘What a night out. Glad there was nothing on the telly.’

  Billy stood up, drained his pint. ‘May as well get this show on the road.’

  Cooper nodded.

  Billy walked over to the bunch of lads. There was a shuffling, a changing of positions, couple of hands went into pockets, gripped chibs. Defiant stares from the braver ones.

  ‘Which one of youse is Tony Reid?’ he asked.

  A tall red-haired guy stepped out the pack. Denims, white granddad shirt, Fair Isle tank top. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Me, ya prick. C’mon,’ said Billy. ‘Someone wants a word.’

  He turned to walk back towards Cooper but Reid didn’t move, just stood there.

  ‘Christ,’ said Billy. ‘Gonnae be like that, is it?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Reid.

  Billy muttered something under his breath about not having enough time for this, stepped forward and headbutted Reid in the face. He dropped, Billy grabbed his hair before he hit the ground and started dragging him along the floor towards Cooper.

  The group of lads stepped back, started looking anywhere but at Billy dragging Reid across the filthy floor.

  Billy hauled him up, sat him on a chair opposite Cooper. Reid looked dazed, blood streaming from his nose. All bravado gone.

  ‘You know who I am?’ asked Cooper.

  Reid nodded.

  ‘Someone recommended you. Said you could handle yourself. That right?’

  Reid nodded again.

  ‘Well, in that case this is your lucky day. Need you and two others. You work for me, deal with Billy.’

  Reid looked at Billy doubtfully. Billy smiled at him, winked.

  ‘All good?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘That’s the boy. Billy’ll fill you in, me and my business associate are going along the road for a drink.’

  Cooper stood up, looked at McCoy.

  ‘Oh me?’ said McCoy, surprised. ‘Sorry, didn’t know who you meant. Great.’

  Cooper shook his head.

  They walked back along Gallowgate into town, Jumbo following a few steps behind. Rain was getting worse so McCoy pointed up ahead to the Tolbooth. Couldn’t face walking any further, he was soaked already. Besides he liked it, the Tolbooth, well-run pub, good beer. Cooper didn’t seem quite so sure. Grumbled about there never being any women in it, just bloody old men. But it was warm and it was near. McCoy won out.

  They settled down near the fire, started to dry out. Jumbo happy with his Coca-Cola and some coppers for the one-armed bandit. They were a good few pints in, been through where Cooper was going to find another couple of lads, why Billy was a good number two, how shite the Scotland team were, before Cooper started talking about what they were really there for.

  ‘Wasn’t only that cunt Uncle Kenny I was thinking about when I was in that bloody hospital,’ he said. ‘Started thinking about the future.’

  ‘Sounds serious,’ said McCoy.

  ‘It is. What am I? Thirty-two? Getting too old for the shite I’ve been doing. No more street fights, no more fucking tally books.’

  ‘You like fighting, though,’ said McCoy.

  Cooper nodded. ‘Doesn’t like me so much any more.’ He glanced at McCoy. ‘Tell anyone this and I’ll fucking bust you, okay?’

  McCoy saluted.

  ‘Seems my back’s a bit fucked. Major muscle damage. That cunt with the sword really did a fucking number on me.’

  The news wasn’t a surprise to McCoy, he’d seen the way Cooper moved now. The surprise was he was admitting it.

  ‘It’s no that bad, is it?’

  Cooper shrugged. ‘Might be. I’ve to go back in a couple of months, see some specialist. Anyway, whatever the fuck happens with it, it’s time for me to move up, been fucking about for too long. Things are changing, starting to fall into place: me, you, Billy Weir, Billy Chan’s on board.’

  ‘Me?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Aye, you.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Keep your head down, get promoted.’ Cooper grinned. ‘I might need a friend in high places one day.’

  McCoy ignored that one; no matter how friendly him and Cooper were there was no way he was becoming his pet bloody policeman.

  ‘So, the new boys? The plans for world domination? When’s it all kick off then?’

  ‘Soon enough,’ said Cooper. ‘Just need another couple of pieces to fall into place and we’re off to the races.’ He stood up. ‘Meanwhile, let’s get pissed.’

  A couple of drinks later they were getting there. Billy Weir had come and gone, came to tell Cooper he had picked up another few decent lads at the Land to join the cause. He’d also dropped off a couple of grams of speed – passed them under the table.

  McCoy came out the toilets wiping his nose. Knew starting doing speed at eight o’clock on a Monday night was a bad idea but couldn’t stop himself, especially after a few pints. He sat down by Cooper, felt the familiar chemical taste dripping down the back of his throat and took a big slug from his pint.

  Cooper was surveying the bar, eyes wide. Didn’t l
ook happy. ‘Told you this place was full of old bloody men.’

  He had a point. The two of them and Jumbo seemed to be the only punters under sixty.

  ‘Where’d you fancy going?’ asked McCoy.

  Cooper turned to him, grinned. ‘Funny you should ask.’

  *

  Half an hour later they were sitting in the Gay Gordon’s in Royal Exchange Square, drinks in front of them. They had a bit of trouble getting in. Doorman took one look at Jumbo and told them it was regulars only. Cooper had smiled, told him to go and get Chan before he punched his fucking face in.

  Seemed to work. Chan the manager appeared at the door all smiles and handshakes and drinks tickets and guided them in. Was like walking into some giant shortbread tin. The carpet was tartan, the walls were tartan, pictures of stags and Highland warriors on the walls. He walked them through the back to a booth in the cocktail bar, sent a waitress wearing a mini kilt over to take their order.

  Wasn’t the first place McCoy would have wanted to go but Cooper seemed happy, smiling at the waitresses, making wisecracks, knocking back the drinks.

  ‘Any particular reason we’re here?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Cooper. ‘Just hold your fucking horses.’

  Speed was making McCoy want to talk, that and the drink giving him enough confidence to ask the question.

  ‘Remember in Memel Street?’

  ‘What?’ Cooper turned distractedly, had been eyeing up two girls sitting at another booth.

  ‘You said Murray was dirty, on the take.’

  Cooper was looking at him, listening properly now.

  ‘Is he?’ McCoy asked.

  The waitress appeared with another tray of pints and whiskies. Coke for Jumbo. Placed them down on the table carefully. Winked at Cooper and wandered back to the bar.

  ‘No. I made it up because you were annoying me. Happy now?’

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Fuck sake, McCoy, I just told you, didn’t I!’

  He was about to ask him again when the lights dimmed and the James Bond theme started thundering over the speakers.

  Cooper leant over, shouted in his ear. ‘This is why we’re here.’

  A voice boomed over the music. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Bryan Marley Dancers!’

  Six girls emerged from the dry ice flooding the stage, stepped into the spotlight. All wearing bikinis, all carrying revolvers. Music switched to Shirley Bassey belting out ‘Goldfinger’ and they starting dancing, pointing the guns at the audience as they moved round the stage.

  McCoy sat back in the booth, sipped his whisky, watched as the girls started winding themselves round the columns holding the ceiling up, legs up, stilettos pointing. Wasn’t sure if Cooper was lying now or then.

  Had the feeling that was exactly what he wanted.

  My head hurts. Been hurting all day. Hit it off a wall a couple of times, sometimes it works. Not this time, though. I go for a walk in the rain, thinking the cold will calm it down. Stop on a bridge over the Clyde. Watch the water.

  I can’t be sure but I think I see a body floating in it, arms outstretched, spinning as it disappears under the bridge. A body floating in the water, just like they did in the Rhine in 1944.

  I can see lights in the sky, see colours round the streetlights. Crunch six aspirin.

  Take a half-bottle of vodka from my new coat pocket. Drink it as I walk up the town, swallow over three black bombers. Start to feel better. Decide I need to fuck someone, pretend it’s her. Feel her hair in my hand, the curve of her arse, her tit in my mouth. That will make my head better.

  I walk up Sauchiehall Street, hand rubbing my cock through my pocket. Am already hard by the time I get to Blythswood Square. I imagine I am crossing the Rhine, Mauser over my back, Porta and the Legionnaire beside me, German girls for the taking.

  I watch for a while then pick a girl with black hair just like hers.

  Oh my love, I say as I bend her over and come in her, not long now, not long now . . .

  13th February 1973

  ELEVEN

  The picture of the grieving widow in the paper hadn’t done her justice. She really was a stunner. Her dark hair was cut short now, flicked off her face, big blue eyes and a figure that would stop a clock. Elaine Scobie was leaning back against an old draughtsman’s cabinet wearing a blue silky jumpsuit thing, green platforms and an expression of contempt. Couldn’t have looked less happy to see them if she tried.

  The draughtsman’s cabinet wasn’t the only thing McCoy wasn’t expecting to see in the boutique. The shop was full of stuff that had been salvaged from God knows where. Old tram signs, Victorian busts of dead generals, wooden plant stands with ferns growing in chamber pots on them. Place was so full you could hardly see the clothes. They seemed to be dotted about at random, like an afterthought. McCoy looked at the price tag on a wee blouse hanging from a stag’s antlers. Was more than he’d spent on his suit.

  ‘Somewhat mob-handed, aren’t you?’ asked Lomax, looking rather amused by the whole thing. He was suited and booted as usual. All chalk stripe and flowery tie. ‘Didn’t realise we would be entertaining the full set.’

  ‘More the merrier,’ said Murray. ‘Mountains coming to Muhammad.’

  Elaine Scobie smiled unconvincingly and screwed the last of her black Sobranie cigarette into a big marble ashtray. ‘This going to take long, Archie?’ she asked. ‘I do have an appointment later.’

  Lomax gestured towards two battered and cracked leather Chesterfields at the back of the shop. ‘Gents, take a seat.’

  They sat down and immediately sank too far down into the depths of the sofa. Struggled to sit back up to a normal level. Murray, McCoy and Watson were on one, Lomax and Elaine on the other. Old Louis Vuitton travelling trunk between them with another marble ashtray sitting on the old Union Jack draped over it.

  They’d got the word that morning. A call into the shop from Lomax’s office. The interview had finally been agreed to. Nowhere as normal as the shop or his office. The boutique it was. It seemed Miss Scobie’s distress was finally under control. Looked more than under control to McCoy, looked positively submerged.

  A young girl dressed like she was on Top of the Pops was hovering about, huge purple baggy trousers and a striped polo neck. She squatted down beside her boss.

  ‘Anything I can get you, Elaine? You going to be okay?’ she asked.

  Elaine shook her head, the suffering martyr. She took the girl’s hand, squeezed it. ‘No thanks, Margo, I’m fine. Just turn the sign to closed as you go, eh? Thanks, doll.’

  Margo smiled at her then gave the three men on the couch a look that would curdle milk. ‘Will do,’ she said.

  They waited a minute until she’d gone, then sat in silence. Tick of a big old train station clock on the wall seeming ominously loud. Wattie was looking round, eyes wide.

  ‘Have you had the Golden Dawn long, Miss Scobie?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite some place.’

  ‘Two years,’ she said. ‘I don’t really have time for this small talk, Mr . . .’

  ‘Watson,’ he said, starting to blush.

  ‘Watson,’ she said. ‘Could we just get on with it?’

  McCoy stepped in. ‘Fair enough. So could you tell us when was the last time you saw Mr Jackson?’

  She looked at Lomax, who nodded, leather attaché case across his knees serving as a desk for his notepad.

  Elaine sat forward, picked some lint off her trouser leg. ‘The day before . . . the day before he died . . .’ She looked up at the ceiling, lip trembled for a second, then she carried on. ‘Friday. He came into the shop before he went for training. We went for a coffee.’

  ‘And this would be what time?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘We weren’t open long. About half ten? He has to get to training by twelve.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked.

  ‘Epicures in West Nile Street, it’s where we always go. Why does this matter?’ she asked, looking exasperated.
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  ‘Just trying to build up a picture,’ said McCoy. ‘That was the last time you saw him?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And how did he seem to you? What did you talk about?’

  ‘He was fine, Charlie was always fine, he wasn’t a worrier. We talked about the game coming up, what to get his father for his birthday, the usual.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Lomax leant over, held her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Elaine, you’re doing fine.’ He looked over. ‘Mr McCoy?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘And the night Charlie . . . Where were you?’

  ‘I went to a party in Doddy Laing’s house in Milngavie. Archie was there.’

  They all turned to Lomax.

  He smiled. ‘Indeed I was. Excellent do. Doddy’s not shy about sharing his largesse, I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘I stayed the night,’ she continued. ‘Fiona, Doddy’s daughter, is a friend of mine. They woke me up at seven, my dad was on the phone with . . .’ She looked down at her lap, seemed to steel herself. When she looked back up her eyes were glassy with tears. ‘With the news about Charlie.’

  To complete the dramatic moment Lomax reached into his suit pocket, brought out a spotted silk hanky and handed it over. He glanced over at the three of them as Elaine dabbed at her eyes, trying to preserve her make-up.

  ‘Gents, as you can see Miss Scobie is very upset, unless this questioning is vital I’d like to draw it to a close now.’ He made to stand up when Murray spoke.

  ‘Sit back down, Mr Lomax,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know when the interview is over.’

  Lomax was caught. He hovered, bent over, deciding which way to go, then sat back on the couch. ‘Well, let’s get it over with as soon as possible then.’

  ‘And when did you last see Kevin Connolly?’ asked McCoy.

  Another glance at Lomax, another nod. To McCoy it was obvious. She’d been coached through all this already, probably had a couple of practice runs. Question was: why?

  ‘It was the end of November last year. I came home from work and he was sitting in my flat, bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates. He didn’t have a key, must have broken in. I was scared, really scared, so I called my father and he came straight over. I left them to it and I haven’t seen him since.’