February's Son

by Alan Parks

  ‘Was that the first indication that his attitude to you had changed? The first time you were worried?’ asked McCoy.

  She shook her head. ‘For years Kevin Connolly was a family friend; I’ve known him since I was a wee girl. He’s always been like an uncle, my dad’s best friend. But in the past year or so things changed.’

  ‘How?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘He’d started looking at me differently, accidentally touching me, turning up here at the shop, at restaurants, everywhere I went. Think he was following me. It was creepy. Finding him in my flat was the final straw.’

  McCoy and the others listened patiently as she ran through more of the script. How Connolly had started harassing her, how Connolly had always disliked Charlie. How upset she was to think of Charlie alone on top of that building. How she would never get over his death.

  McCoy nodded sympathetically for a while. Wasn’t long until he was sick of listening her run through the points Lomax had obviously coached her on. He wanted a cigarette, he wanted something that was actually going to help him with the case, but most of all he wanted off the uncomfortable bloody sofa. Time to get things going.

  He smiled at her, tried to look puzzled. ‘Maybe you can clarify something for me, Miss Scobie,’ he said. ‘Help me understand what was going on?’

  She smiled back. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Connolly was your boyfriend, wasn’t he? Until you chucked him for some glamour-boy football player? That the story?’

  Lomax looked shocked, drew in his breath, started scribbling on his pad. Not Elaine. She sat forward, face only inches from McCoy’s. He could smell her perfume, see the blue of her eyes. See the fury in them.

  ‘If you think a remark like that is funny then I feel sorry for you. If you were being serious then I feel even sorrier for you. Kevin Connolly never was, is, or will be my boyfriend. If the extent of your investigative powers is asking ridiculous and insulting questions like that, then I’ll be asking Archie here to put in a complaint, and I’ll be asking for someone else to be assigned to this case. My fiancé has been murdered and all you can do is try and score cheap points. You know what, Mr McCoy? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  She stood up, walked into the back office and slammed the door shut behind her.

  McCoy sank back into the Chesterfield. ‘I hate to spoil a dramatic exit,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t finished.’

  Lomax stood up. ‘Oh, I rather think you have, Mr McCoy, I rather think you have.’ He opened his briefcase and dropped his notepad into it. ‘Let me see you gents out.’

  They found themselves back out on Union Street waiting for a squad car. Traffic was back to back, hardly moving. Pouring rain had brought everything to a halt. They stood under the awning of the Golden Dawn trying to stay half dry.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Fuck them,’ said Murray, ‘and the horse they rode in on.’

  He got his pipe out, tried to light it with a Zippo stinking of petrol. ‘It was a legitimate question to ask; only problem was the answer wasn’t in Elaine’s script.’

  ‘Wasn’t just me then?’ asked McCoy.

  Murray shook his head. ‘Been coached through the whole thing. Two reasons Lomax would have done that. Either she was so nervous he was worried she’d get flustered—’

  ‘Think we can forget that one,’ said Wattie. ‘No way she suffers from nerves.’

  Murray nodded, blew out a cloud of blue smoke. ‘Or she’d been told exactly what to say and what to leave out.’

  ‘You don’t really think she was Connolly’s girlfriend, do you?’ asked Wattie. ‘She’s about twenty years younger than him for a start. And she’s too good-looking.’

  McCoy and Murray looked at each other.

  ‘Sheltered life these Ayrshire boys live right enough,’ said Murray. He looked up the road at the stalled traffic, still no sign of the squad car. ‘One bit of bloody rain and this whole bloody city grinds to a halt.’

  ‘So why were we interviewing her then?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘It’s called poking the midden, son, poking the midden,’ said Murray. ‘See what crawls out. Oldest trick in the—’

  ‘McCoy, you bastard!’

  They all turned. Shout had come from across the road. A small woman bundled up in a fur coat was waving frantically at them from the kerb opposite.

  ‘You, ya bastard! Wait there! Do not fucking move!’ she shouted.

  Murray raised his eyebrows. ‘A friend of yours, McCoy?’

  McCoy shook his head, looked resigned to his fate. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Mary Webster. Daily Record.’

  They watched as she weaved her way between the cars, gingerly stepping through the puddles in huge platform boots. Finally made it to their side of the road. Up close she looked about fifteen: wee button nose, eyes outlined in lime green and a woolly hat with a bunch of plastic cherries dangling from it.

  ‘Off out, Mary?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t you sweet-talk me, you cheeky bastard. You hung up on me!’

  Murray and Wattie had taken the opportunity to move off and were pretending to look at the cakes in the window of the Lite Bite, keeping their heads down.

  ‘When?’ he said, trying to look puzzled. ‘Wasn’t me, Mary. Must have been someone in the office.’

  ‘I left you about twenty bloody messages!’ she squawked.

  ‘Did you?’ Looked like he was trying to think. ‘Ah, I know what’s happened. You didn’t leave them with Billy the desk sergeant, did you? He’s terrible at delivering them. I’ll have to have a word with him.’

  She looked dubious. ‘Thousands wouldn’t, McCoy, thousands wouldn’t.’ She took a packet of cigarettes out her bag. Lit up, waved her fingers at him, green nail varnish, and blew smoke in his face.

  ‘Divinely decadent, don’t you know,’ she said in a husky voice.

  McCoy looked at her blankly.

  She tutted. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked.

  He nodded back over his shoulder. ‘The grieving widow.’

  ‘What? The delectable Elaine? Good-looking girl, but Christ does she know it. And let’s be honest, she wouldn’t know grief if it crawled under her dress and shouted in her fanny. Readers love her, though. Can’t get enough.’

  ‘You know what?’ said McCoy. ‘You always did have a lovely turn of phrase, Mary. Maybe you should think about becoming a writer, something like that.’

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘That what you’re doing here, is it?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘And I’m late as well. Madam won’t be happy. Pages four and five tomorrow. How we met, how he popped the question, how much I miss him. Usual shite. I’ve got to get it in by ten. To be honest I’d be as well sitting at home and making it up myself.’

  ‘True love no run deep then?’

  She stopped, looked at him. ‘Hang on a bloody minute. Why should I be giving you the benefit of my wisdom? What did you ever give me, you hangy-up bastard?’

  He grinned at her.

  ‘Fuck off! Believe me, one drunken shag counts for sweet FA. Especially when it was from you. I’ve had more thrills taking my knickers off and riding my bike over the cobbles. Give.’

  He held his arms out. ‘I’ve got nothing to give, Mary. First time I get something I’ll be straight on the phone. Promise.’

  Nothing. She smoked her fag, examined her nail polish.

  ‘Come on, Mary, be a pal. For old times’ sake.’

  She snorted. ‘Don’t make me boak. I’m still trying to forget that night of horrible sexual degradation.’ She looked up and down the street like a spy. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but she’s no exactly grieving alone.’

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Way she’s acting? Give me a fucking break. He’s been dead, what, two nights? And she’s all wee chats on the phone, giggles. Call it feminine intuition but who gets all dressed up like Bi
anca bloody Jagger just to spend a night in? I don’t think so, no, siree. There’s someone else if you ask me. Doesn’t seem that broke up about poor Charlie and what that bastard wrote on him—’

  ‘Who told you about that?’

  She looked triumphant. ‘I knew it! You could have fucking well told me that, McCoy. Anyway, that’s as good as a confirmation so fuck you.’

  He shook his head, knew he’d been done good and proper. ‘You sure about this other bloke?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, I’m sure. A woman knows these things.’

  ‘Know who he is?’

  She shook her head. ‘I answered the phone once for her. Whoever he is, he didn’t go to school with Archie Lomax. Sounded dog rough.’

  ‘Older?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Could be.’

  McCoy thought. ‘So what’s the plan after your wee tête-à-tête?’

  ‘She was talking about going for a drink.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Doesn’t like being in the flat by herself, the wee lamb.’

  ‘You let me know if you do? asked McCoy.

  She folded her arms, looked like she meant business. ‘And you’ll give me something real?’

  They heard the bell and the door of the Golden Dawn opened behind them. Archie Lomax poked his head out, looked at the two of them, didn’t look too happy.

  McCoy nodded at Elaine. A deal. She smiled.

  ‘I didn’t realise you two knew each other,’ said Lomax. ‘Mary, she’s ready for you now.’

  ‘Just coming, Archie,’ said Mary, voice shifting from deepest Bridgeton to posh West End. She dropped her cigarette into a puddle, stood on it.

  ‘Bye, Mr McCoy.’ She leant over, kissed him on the cheek. ‘And thanks.’

  The door shut behind her and McCoy realised there was some sort of poem painted over the window of the boutique. He stepped back.

  YOU ARE A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE

  NO LESS THAN THE TREES AND THE STARS

  He stopped reading there, already felt queasy. Murray and Wattie wandered back over, both looking very pleased with themselves.

  ‘She seemed very friendly,’ said Wattie, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Fuck off, Wattie. It’s about time—’

  Horn sounded and they turned. Thomson drew up in an unmarked Rover. Murray opened the door. ‘Saved by the bell, McCoy. Saved by the bell,’ he said and got in.

  TWELVE

  The afternoon lull. A low hum of people talking on the phone, the occasional yawn, tap of the new electric typewriters, a curse as it goes wrong. McCoy is working, not working at what he should be, but working nevertheless. He’d got the staff book off Diane in Records. List of everyone in the Scottish Police Force. Rank, home address, next of kin.

  Chief Constable Kenneth Ralph Burgess, Glen View, Strathblane Road, Strathblane.

  Uncle Kenny’s face peers up from the page. Head of Dunbartonshire Constabulary. Dunbartonshire’s big, covers a lot of places – Clydebank, Cumbernauld, Lenzie – places where they have children’s homes, Borstals, reform schools, scout troops, army cadets. The kind of places Uncle Kenny likes. The kind of places people like Uncle Kenny go.

  He can remember Joey now. Quiet wee boy, scared of his shadow, wasn’t much different from him but Joey didn’t have Stevie Cooper looking out for him. So he got bullied, wet his bed, cried all the time, a natural victim. Stevie even battered him a few times, down in the basement, while Uncle Kenny and whatever other men were there that evening looked on.

  Gathered in a circle. Flipping the lids off bottles of beer, nervous laughter, sweaty rings under their armpits, beady wee eyes taking it all in, putting their hands down their trousers, rearranging their underwear to accommodate their growing hard-ons.

  Stevie battered Joey because that’s what happened down there sometimes. A wee wrestling match to get the juices flowing. Two boys down to their pants and vests trying to batter fuck out each other, trying to batter fuck out each other because it was simple, because sometimes if you won you got to go back upstairs before the fun started.

  ‘I said McCoy!’

  McCoy turned and Murray was standing at his desk. ‘Jesus, what’s up with you?’

  McCoy sat up, tried to shake himself back to the here and now. ‘Sorry, sir. Miles away.’

  Murray shook his head. ‘Fat lot of good that does me.’ He handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Connolly was in Barlinnie for five months starting in October ’71. We should look at his cellmates. One of them might be a pal we don’t know about.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said McCoy, taking it.

  ‘Aye, it is, and you should have bloody thought of it.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it,’ said McCoy.

  Murray went to go.

  McCoy called after him. ‘Sir, you know Chief Constable Burgess?’

  Murray nodded. ‘Aye. Ken. Dunbartonshire. Met him a few times at various dinners. Why?’

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked McCoy.

  Murray looked suspicious. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  McCoy looked innocent. ‘No reason. Just saw a picture him in the paper the other day. That who they want you to replace, is it?’

  Murray nodded. ‘Head of Central goes to Dunbartonshire, I go to Central. Trouble is I’m no bloody going. Keep asking, no matter how many times I tell them no. Mind you, no like Ken to be in the paper, tends to keep his head down. Bit of a Holy Roller, I think. Church of Scotland, an elder, all that stuff. Lives over Strathblane way, I think. Bit of a dry stick for my tastes but he’s well thought of. That okay for you, is it?’

  ‘Aye, was only asking.’

  ‘Well, now you’re told.’ He started walking back towards his office. ‘Get on those bloody cellmates. Now!’

  McCoy picked up the phone and called Barlinnie.

  *

  Murray, Wattie and McCoy were sitting at a Formica table in the Pitt Street canteen, teas in front of them. Murray had yet another meeting about Central so they came to him. McCoy liked the canteen, was on the top floor, good view. Had a comforting smell of food and cigarette smoke, stewed tea and burnt toast. Radio on in the background. The New Seekers still trying to teach the world to sing.

  Apart from the women behind the counter scrubbing at the macaroni on the big metal dishes left from lunchtime, they were the only ones in there. McCoy had his wee red jotter open in front of him. Blue ballpoint writing over two pages.

  He sipped his tea, started. ‘So, three cellmates in the time Connolly was in. Clifford Reid, in for aggravated assault—’

  ‘I know that name,’ said Murray.

  McCoy nodded. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. List of shitey arrests as long as your arm. Housebreaking. Breach of the peace. Reset. Goes on and on. Anyway, doesn’t matter. He’s in Cardonald Cemetery now, died last year.’

  ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Murray. He looked over at the women behind the counter. ‘Watson, away up and see if they’ve got any cakes or biscuits left.’

  Wattie rolled his eyes and stood up. ‘You want anything?’ he asked McCoy.

  ‘See if they’ll make me a cheese sandwich,’ he said. Hadn’t eaten anything the night before because of the speed, stomach was empty.

  ‘They’re shut, they’ll no make it,’ said Wattie. ‘You’ve no chance.’

  ‘Use your charm, they all like you. So you keep telling me.’

  Wattie grinned. ‘I’m a good-looking guy,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  ‘What have I told you two about bloody carrying on?’ said Murray, sounding exasperated.

  Wattie muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.’ Headed off to the counter with a cheery smile on his face. ‘All right, Lena? How’s things?’

  ‘Next one,’ said Murray.

  ‘Next one was Stuart McPhee, currently in Strangeways after battering his wife to death with a hammer.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Murray shaking his head. ‘What’s up with these bloody people?’

  Wattie appeared with a plate of biscuits, sat do
wn. ‘That’s your whack. Lena said you can shove your cheese sandwich up your arse. Or words to that effect.’

  ‘Great. Thanks for nothing, Lena. Number three is a weird one. Dr George Abrahams.’

  Murray took two biscuits, stuffed them in his mouth, chewed down.

  ‘A doctor in the jail?’ asked Wattie, supping his tea. ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Gets weirder. Abrahams was a big cheese at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee. Consultant psychiatrist or something like that. I don’t remember it, but was all over the paper apparently.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Murray, dunking another two biscuits in his tea.

  ‘Was charged with assaulting a patient,’ said McCoy, picking one up from the plate before Murray managed to eat them all.

  ‘He battered one of his patients?’ asked Wattie.

  McCoy tapped the jotter. ‘That, Mr Watson, is where you are wrong. He’s a doctor after all. He didn’t do something as run-of-the-mill as battering them. Oh no, the bastard lobotomised them.’

  Murray and Wattie looked at him. ‘He did what?’ asked Murray.

  McCoy was enjoying the telling of the tale. ‘Spoke to a guy called Mason up at the Dundee shop. He worked on the case, told me all about it. Ninewells has a big psychiatric wing. Specialises in lobotomies—’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t think they still did those,’ said Murray. ‘Thought they’d stopped them years ago.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Everyone else has. Still quite keen on them up there, apparently.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s Dundee for you.’ Carried on. ‘Anyhows, there’s a patient, a young woman, forget her name. Parents are rich. Father owns half of Tayside. Girl’s a bit of a wild one, few arrests for breach, public nuisance. Lawyer pleads, tries to get her off a custodial sentence by saying she’ll go into Ninewells for psychiatric assessment. Abrahams examines her, does an interview, recommends a lobotomy.’

  ‘Fuck sake!’ said Wattie.

  ‘Exactly. Parents say absolutely not. All she’s done is drink too much, throw a hairy fit at some woman in a shop and threaten her with a steel comb. No exactly crime of the century. The bold Abrahams? He does it anyway. Daughter comes home a vegetable. Father predictably goes nuts, employs some big advocate from Edinburgh, gets Abrahams done and struck off from the medical register.’