by Alan Parks
‘Now and then,’ he said.
Elaine inhaled, then blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘Really? You do surprise me.’
McCoy went to walk away and she sighed theatrically. ‘Sit down, Mr McCoy,’ she said. ‘If you’ve gone to all the trouble arranging this farce you may as well stay for a drink.’
They shuffled along and McCoy eased himself into the booth. Elaine poured him a glass from the bottle. He could smell her perfume, no idea what it was but it smelt expensive.
She looked at them both. ‘You in on this, were you, Mary?’
Mary snorted. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I’ve had enough of this one to last me a lifetime.’
Elaine took a sip of her drink, sat back against the banquette, totally in control of the situation. Pretended to think, drummed her fingers on her chin.
‘Okay, let me see if I’ve got this right. You, Mr McCoy, turn up out the blue and I fall for your, frankly, non-existent charms, ignore the fact that I have no lawyer present and start talking to you about Charlie, Connolly and my father until I’m blue in the face. That about it?’
‘Well . . .’ said McCoy.
‘Exactly how stupid do you think I am?’
‘Not stupid enough to fall for it, apparently.’
Elaine smiled and raised her glass. ‘Touché.’
They clinked glasses then Elaine leant in towards him, blue eyes staring into his. ‘Now, no offence, Mr McCoy, but why don’t you just fuck off and think yourself lucky I’m not on the phone to Lomax and your superiors already.’
McCoy sat back, swallowed the rest of his wine. She’d had her fun but now he was starting to get tired of Elaine Scobie and her superior attitude, really fucking tired. He smiled at her.
‘I tell you what, Miss Scobie, before I go, why don’t you ask yourself this question? Why am I bothering hanging round this jumped-up shithole trying to talk to you while you act like I’m the fucking shite beneath your shoe? One reason. One reason I’m here and one reason I’m bothering. Kevin Connolly is a psychopath. He shot your boyfriend, but not before he’d beaten him all over the roof of a fucking skyscraper, took pictures while he was doing it so he could have a good wank over them afterwards—’
‘McCoy!’ said Mary. ‘Fuck sake!’
‘What? Oh, sorry. Am I putting you off your drinks? Nice expensive red wine and all. Well, I’m sorry about that, but Connolly’s out of control and the chances are the next person he’ll come after is you. That’s the only reason I’m here. Let us get you into protective custody for a few days until we catch the bastard. Is that really such a stupid idea?’
Elaine looked at him. The smirk was gone, face was white, bottom lip trembling. ‘If you’re still here in two minutes, I’m calling Lomax.’
McCoy stood up, shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I tried. It’s your funeral.’
He stood in Rogano’s doorway and lit up. Felt a bit of an arse, his great plan come to nothing. Rain was off but the wind was up. His dad always said he could smell snow coming, something to do with his sinuses. Maybe McCoy had inherited it, was pretty sure there would be snow in the morning. Air had that icy feel in the back of his throat.
The door behind him opened and Elaine appeared. Black fur coat draped over her shoulders.
‘Looking to call Lomax?’ McCoy asked. ‘There’s a phone box corner of Buchanan Street and Gordon Street. Knock yourself out.’
‘I’m not looking for a phone box,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you without Mary listening in. Is there somewhere we can go?’
They walked round to the Horseshoe. Wasn’t a bar McCoy liked, too big, too full of arseholes and loudmouths, but it was the nearest one he could think of. He held the door open for Elaine and they went in. As usual it was mobbed. He pushed through the crowd and found them a wee table at the side of the long bar. Elaine looked round at the sea of ruddy-faced drinkers bundled in their coats, at the old men huddled over their pints and roll-ups and sat down. By the look on her face it didn’t seem to be the kind of place she liked either. She took her coat off, laid it across her knees.
‘Be back in a minute,’ said McCoy. He nodded down at her coat. ‘I’d keep a tight hold on that if I was you.’
He pushed into the bar, ignoring the tuts and curses, and ordered two whiskies and a pint. Brought them over. ‘Didn’t think you’d want to risk the red wine in here,’ he said, putting the whisky down in front of her.
Elaine picked it up and took a sip. Grimaced. Looked at him. ‘You’re wrong.’
McCoy pulled out the stool and sat down, took a pull on his pint.
‘About the red wine? Everything in general?’
‘About Connolly,’ she said.
‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Fucker clattered me with a chair this morning. Left a hotel room full of bottles of his own piss and shite. He’s not a well man.’
‘He would never hurt me,’ she said.
McCoy shook his head. ‘There’s no way you can know that. He’s not the man you knew. Way he’s acting seems like the wheels have come off. Right bloody off.’
‘I do know,’ she said.
Sounded like she was trying to keep herself in check, not get angry. Not used to being disagreed with.
‘He blamed Charlie for it all, only Charlie, for turning my head, for taking me away from him. As far as Connolly’s concerned I’m the innocent one. I’ve done nothing he’s angry about.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘Anyway, that’s not really why I’m here. I need to talk to you about my dad.’
‘Oh aye,’ said McCoy, raising his eyebrows. ‘Fire away.’
Bell rang, shout for last orders. Most of the customers got up and made for the bar. McCoy looked at Elaine expectantly but she shook her head.
‘Connolly hates the fact my dad likes . . .’ she stumbled. ‘That he liked Charlie, worshipped him, in fact.’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes I think he liked Charlie more than he liked me. The son and heir he never had.’
She pushed a strand of hair back over her ear. ‘My mum couldn’t have any more kids after me. My dad tried to be good about it, but you could tell he missed having a son. If I’d been a boy I would have . . .’ She thought, searched for the right phrase. ‘Would have carried on his business, if you understand what I mean. But instead I got a shop full of pretty wee things and an expense account at Fraser’s. I was just a lassie.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Even you don’t believe that. Don’t think anyone would ever call you “just a lassie”.’
She looked at him. Smiled. ‘Are you trying to flirt with me, Mr McCoy?’
‘Are you fishing for compliments, Miss Scobie?’
She grinned. ‘Maybe Lomax was right about you after all. He thinks you’re bright, the coming man, as they say.’
‘Great. Been waiting my whole life for a recommendation from Archie bloody Lomax. Your dad?’
‘Sorry. When Charlie came on the scene, Connolly got pushed to the side, became an employee again, instead of one of the family.’ She took out a packet of cigarettes, the box opened like a tray, revealing black cigarettes. She lit one up. ‘I think that’s what sent him over the edge. He lost his place in the family, in the hierarchy. When he got someone to go for Charlie’s leg, that was the final straw. After that Dad fired him.’
‘Fired him?’ asked McCoy.
Elaine nodded. ‘Connolly’s worked for my father since he was a teenager. He’s never done anything else in his life. Then suddenly he’s out in the cold. No job, no family, no nothing. If there’s anyone Connolly’s angry at, it’s my dad. That’s who you need to be looking out for.’
McCoy laughed. ‘Come on. If there’s anyone who can look after himself, it’s your dad. Believe me, he was happily effing and blinding at me this morning for a start.’
‘I don’t think he can. Not any more.’ She hesitated, trying to decide whether to say it or not. ‘He’s been diagnosed with lung cancer.’
McCoy made himself look surprised. ‘What?’
‘Lung cancer. They want to operate in a couple of weeks. He’s in his late sixties, scared. Not what he was.’
‘Maybe so, but he’s still Jake Scobie,’ said McCoy.
She shook her head. ‘No, he’s not . . . not the way you mean.’
Bell rang again. Fat bloke in a white short-sleeved shirt behind the bar started shouting, ‘On your way!’ Crowd started grumbling, finishing off their pints, heading for the doors.
McCoy tried to be reasonable. ‘Look, even if he’s not what he was, he’s got protection, heavies, his boys with him all the time.’
‘That’s the trouble. That’s all they are, boys and thugs. That’s all he’s got now Connolly’s gone.’ She drained the last of her whisky. ‘People think Connolly’s a thug, that he just did my dad’s dirty work, but he’s more than that. Connolly’s clever, cleverer than anyone thinks. If he wants to get to my dad, he will. Can you just get some police to watch him? Follow him? Make sure he’s okay?’
‘Put a protective tail on Jake Scobie? Are you joking? After his performance this afternoon? You really think my boss is going to approve that?’ said McCoy.
Eyes flashed, voice got steelier. ‘Fine. So you just wait, let Connolly get to him? Saves you police the trouble? That it? I might’ve bloody known.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said.
‘Really? You sure? Jake Scobie out the picture, that not what the Glasgow Police have been wanting for years?’
‘Look, if you’re really worried about your father then maybe we could have a word with the local boys, get them to—’
Elaine stood up. ‘If you’re not going to do anything, fine, but don’t patronise me. For Christ’s sake save me from that.’
‘I wasn’t trying to—’
‘Thanks for the drink,’ said Elaine, pulling her coat over her shoulders. ‘And thanks for nothing.’
He watched her walk out the bar. She really did have a gift for the big dramatic exit. Sat there nursing his whisky. He’d fucked up tonight good and proper. No way Elaine was going to talk to them again now. Maybe he was off his game, out of practice after three weeks off. Not concentrating. Mind elsewhere. Too much Uncle Kenny and Joe Brady.
The pub door opened and a couple came in, snow on their coats. Barman told them no chance. Well, at least he was right about one thing. He had smelt the snow.
*
McCoy looked at the clock beside the bed. Half four. He sighed, got up reluctantly. Flat was freezing but he needed a pee. Badly. He’d found a couple of cans when he got in from the Horseshoe. Drunk them and tried to work out how they were going to get to Uncle Kenny without being caught. Was paying the price now.
He padded through to the bathroom. Soon realised why he was so cold. The back courts out the bathroom window were already thick with snow, big clumps of it coming down. He peed, flushed the toilet and walked back through to the bedroom. Put his socks and yesterday’s shirt on before he got back into bed. Didn’t help. Was still freezing.
At last I can see what I need to see. You. You turning the bath taps on. Pouring some coloured liquid in, frothing the water. I am already hard, straining at my trousers. I undo the belt buckle and they fall to the ground.
Now the skirt, now the blouse, and you stand in front of the mirror in bra and knickers. You look at yourself as you tie up your hair. I push my underwear down. I spit in my palm. I move closer to the windowpane as you take the bra off and I see your breasts and my hand is starting to move and I hear another groan from the thing in the bath, a groan of pain, makes it better.
My hand moves faster, urgent now. Another cry from the bath and I come in the sink, judder and groan. I lick the spunk from my fingers, wash the rest down the drain. You are in the bath now, hidden from my sight.
I have come once but I need to come again. I need to judder and spurt and think of you, Elaine, and the puff of black hair between your legs. I turn to the thing in the bath. I grab its hair, pull the duct tape off its mouth, tell it if it makes a noise or screams or doesn’t do exactly as I say I will kill it. It nods. I stick it in its mouth.
14th February 1973
FIFTEEN
Thomson was waiting for him on the Prince of Wales Bridge, silhouetted against the early morning sun, suit collar up, hands deep in pockets. He was pacing to and fro, trying to keep warm. McCoy trudged down the hill towards him, glad he’d thought to wear his wellies. He’d even found the horrible scarf his neighbour had got him for Christmas and wrapped it tight round his neck before he left his house. His flat was freezing, ice on the inside of the windows, as bad as being outside. He could only find one glove in the drawers, didn’t seem worth the bother. He approached the cordon of uniforms, nodded at Big Gordy, who stepped aside to let him through.
‘Welcome to the Winter Wonderland,’ said Thomson.
The River Kelvin was the only streak of colour in all the white. The grey water was choppy, running fast about thirty feet below them. McCoy could hear a dog barking in the distance and the crackle of a police radio; other than that, nothing. The snow had silenced the city. Kelvingrove Park may as well have been in the bloody Highlands instead of the West End of Glasgow. The six acres of park in the West End were normally full of dog walkers, kids, people using it as a shortcut to get to work. Not today. Just the uniforms, the snow and Thomson standing watch on the bridge.
‘Wattie come for you?’ he asked as McCoy approached. McCoy nodded.
‘We had to leave the patrol car on Gibson Street and walk, couldn’t get any closer. Cars abandoned everywhere. There’s even a bus stuck at the bottom of the hill, can’t get up, keeps slipping down. Chaos.’ McCoy looked at him again. ‘You not got a coat?’
Thomson looked miffed. ‘I left the bloody thing up in Dundee when I was visiting the weans.’
‘Arse. How’s that going anyway?’
‘Great,’ said Thomson glumly. ‘Don’t know what’s worse, the fact they’re getting on with Bob or the fact I can’t help myself being angry about it. Still, as long as they don’t start supporting Dundee United I can live with it.’ He put his fingers in his mouth, tried to suck some feeling into them, nodded upriver. ‘If you peer over you can see him.’
McCoy brushed the snow off the stone balustrade and leant over. Looked down. Couldn’t see anything, just the grey water. ‘Where?’
Thomson leant in beside him and pointed. ‘There, about twenty yards up the river.’
He was pointing at a little island of rocks and branches in the centre of the current. The man’s body must have drifted downriver and got caught up in it. His top half was out the water, propped up on the island, bottom half still in the river, water eddying and swirling around him. The body was naked, pure white in the cold. His right arm was bent behind him at an impossible angle, an angle that could only mean the bone was broken.
‘The parkie saw him this morning, called it in about six,’ said Thomson.
McCoy looked around. ‘Is Murray no here?’ he asked.
Thomson shook his head. ‘On his way from Jordanhill. It’s taken him an hour to get as far as the Crow Road. I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
Wattie appeared through the row of uniforms, woolly bunnet, big anorak, carefully carrying three paper cups of Bovril, trying not to slip in the snow. He put them down on the bridge wall, cursing as one overflowed and burned his hand. McCoy took one. He never drank Bovril but it was hot. How bad could it be? He sipped it and found out. Grimaced.
‘They no have any tea?’ he asked.
‘Fuck off,’ said Wattie, sucking his fingers. ‘Was hard enough getting that.’
‘Fair enough,’ said McCoy.
Thomson kept pacing back and forward, trying to stay warm. ‘The problem we’ve got is we can’t get him out the bloody river. The divers can’t get here for another few hours, called out to some capsized boat in Leith last night. They’re still on their way back.’
‘What about the River Police?’ McCoy asked.
‘They on
ly cover the bloody Clyde, so the cunt of a sergeant took great delight in telling me this morning.’ He rubbed his hands together and stuffed them in his pockets. ‘I’ve closed the park but I don’t know what else we can do but wait.’
McCoy squinted in the sun and sipped the horrible Bovril. ‘Anyone reported missing this morning?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘I checked, but it’s chaos. Traffic accidents, people stuck in their cars, phone lines down. There’s a good chance nobody’s even noticed he’s missing yet.’
‘Who is he?’ McCoy asked. ‘Any ideas?’
Thomson shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. Can’t really see his face from up here.’
They all peered over the bridge to look. Wattie seemed to have the best eyesight. ‘Dark hair, looks old, about sixty-odd. He’s got a scar, I think, a scar across his cheek. Looks like someone’s taken a razor to him.’
‘Great,’ said Thomson. ‘All this for some fucking hard man—’
‘What side’s it on?’ asked McCoy.
Wattie squinted again. ‘Left.’
McCoy peered harder. Sinking feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t be sure, eyesight wasn’t what it was, but somehow he knew.
‘I think it might be Jake Scobie,’ he said.
‘Eh?’ said Thomson. He looked closer. ‘You know what? You might be right. It does look a bit like him.’
McCoy kicked at the pile of snow by the wall. ‘Fuck!’
‘What’s up wi you?’ asked Wattie.
‘She told me last night, said she was worried about him. I thought she was talking shite.’
‘Who did?’ asked Wattie, sounding exasperated.
‘Elaine Scobie,’ said McCoy. ‘Fuck!’ He kicked the snow again.
‘Fuck sake! Calm it! Are you sure it’s definitely him?’ asked Wattie.
They all leant over the bridge as far as they could.
‘Look at his face,’ said McCoy. ‘I’d recognise that scar anywhere.’ He pointed. ‘It’s him all right, look at his—’