by Alan Parks
Mary snorted. ‘You’re no anybody’s type, believe me, not unless they’re drunk and desperate. So, what are you going to tell me about Jake Scobie that no one else knows so I can bump your pal off the front page and lead with a decent story?’
‘Now why would I want to do that to poor Wattie in there?’ said McCoy.
‘Because if you do I’ll keep an eye on the delightful Elaine and her phone calls and wee trips into town.’
‘What trips are they?’ he asked.
Mary didn’t say anything, examined her nails, took a drag of her cigarette, looked at her watch.
‘Okay, I’ll bite. Jake had “cunt” carved into his stomach,’ said McCoy.
She looked at him. ‘I can’t use that, as you well know. Family newspaper. Try again.’
‘Connolly’s not been named yet. I’ll give you a picture, name him as chief suspect—’
‘Like it—’
‘If you let Wattie have his front page tomorrow. Hold it a day while I clear it with Murray.’
She looked at him, narrowed her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to fuck me about, would you, McCoy?’
‘Thought I’d already done that,’ he said.
She rolled her eyes, dropped her cigarette on the lino floor and stamped it out. ‘Need the photo and the clearance by six p.m. tomorrow or so help me God, Harry, I’ll—’
‘You’ll get it. Promise.’
She nodded, walked back into Wattie’s room. ‘Right, Wattie, you ready for me?’
*
Scobie was alive but only just. He’d knife wounds in his torso – one dangerously close to his heart – he’d lost a lot of blood, had hypothermia, been banged up badly in the fast-moving river. Apart from his broken arm, he’d a broken pelvis, a broken leg and numerous cuts and bruises. Hard to tell if they had been caused by him being battered off the rocks in the river or whether they had happened before he even went in. Unsurprisingly, the prognosis wasn’t good. He was unconscious and not expected either to come round or survive.
McCoy had gone to see him before he came to see Wattie. He was lying in a bed in a quiet room two floors down, shallow breaths coming out in wheezes. His face was bruised, side of his head shaved, big line of stitches running down it. Two cotton pads on his eyes. The carved CUNT had been stitched up, black threads contrasting with his pale white skin. McCoy almost fell sorry for the poor bugger. Almost.
An elderly minister was sitting by him, holding his hand, Bible open on his lap, reciting under his breath. McCoy ignored him and sat down on the chair on the other side of the bed.
‘Are you a relative?’ the minister asked. He was looking over at McCoy expectantly.
McCoy shook his head. ‘No.’
The door opened and a young doctor came in, looking like they usually do, like the captain of the rugby team with a side shed and a bad smell under his nose. McCoy held out his identity card and the doctor managed to look slightly less superior.
McCoy nodded to the door and they stepped outside, leaving the minister to it. They stood in the corridor, waited for a group of nurses to pass.
‘Anything you can tell me?’ McCoy asked.
He shook his head, spoke in an Edinburgh accent. ‘I don’t think he’ll last much more than a few hours.’
‘Any chance of him coming round?’
‘I wouldn’t think so.’
McCoy went to walk away.
‘One thing, though,’ said the doctor. ‘Results of his blood tests came in early. Apart from everything else, he’s full of Methaqualone.’
‘Which is?’ said McCoy.
‘More commonly known as Mandrax,’ he said.
SEVENTEEN
If you were sick and needed cheering up, the hospital canteen wasn’t the place to go. Striplights in yellowing ceiling tiles, beige walls, old burgundy lino and various burnt offerings curling up under heat lamps. McCoy and Murray were sitting by the window, half-empty cups of tea in front of them, half-eaten pineapple cake in front of Murray.
Murray’d wanted to see Wattie so McCoy had stuck around until he turned up. Doctor’d told them he’d be out by the morning, no permanent damage done. Now the two of them were silent, glum, looking over at the far side of the room and the only other occupied table.
It was too far to hear anything but it wasn’t hard to work out what was happening. The doctor approached the table looking serious, told them something. Elaine Scobie burst into tears and Lomax put his arm around her.
‘Must have died,’ said McCoy.
‘Looks like it. Can’t say I’m too sorry to hear it,’ said Murray, sipping at his tea.
Elaine’s sobs were becoming louder, or if McCoy was being unkind, more theatrical. The woman behind the counter put down her cloth, crossed herself.
‘We should go over there,’ said Murray. ‘Offer our condolences.’
‘You should go over there,’ said McCoy. ‘I doubt she’ll be happy to see me. She asked me last night to put a tail on her dad. She was worried about him being hurt.’
‘Oh aye, and what did you say?’ asked Murray.
‘I told her where to go.’
‘Quite right.’
Lomax had produced a hanky from his coat pocket and Elaine was wiping her eyes with it.
Murray stood up, drained his mug. ‘Nothing ventured.’
McCoy sat back in his chair, watched the bulk of Murray weave between the Formica tables. He stood in front of Elaine and Lomax, started talking. Elaine looked at him with contempt and Lomax looked at him with something like pity. Elaine stood up, finger prodding Murray’s chest, face full of fury. McCoy was glad he couldn’t hear what she was saying; didn’t need to, he could guess well enough. Murray stood there stoic, took it all while Lomax tried to quieten her down. She was having none of it, still prodding, still shouting.
And then she saw McCoy. Her eyes narrowed and she started walking towards him. Lomax grabbed at her but she got past him.
He stood up as she approached. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about—’
Apology cut off by a slap across his face.
He stood there, face stinging.
‘You may as well have killed him yourself. I told you, I fucking told you, and all you did was laugh at me.’
‘I didn’t laugh at—’
Another slap. McCoy took the decision to just ride it out, no point arguing.
‘You told me I was stupid, that he wasn’t in any danger. Have you seen him? Have you seen what that animal did to him? Have you?’
He nodded.
‘And you still stand there telling me how sorry you are? You did this to him!’
She was spitting the words out now, tears and snot running from her nose. She drew her sleeve across it. ‘I hope you have somewhere else to go, McCoy, because you’re not going to be a detective much longer. Not after this, not after Lomax is done with you. Shame on you. Shame on you!’
And then she spat in his face.
He went to wipe it off and she did it again, eyes daring him to make her do it again. He stood there with her spit sliding down his cheek, watched her walk out the door, Lomax hurrying after her.
He sat down.
Murray appeared, handed him a serviette. ‘Charming,’ he said.
McCoy wiped at his face. ‘She’s kind of got a point.’
‘No, she bloody hasn’t,’ said Murray. ‘Jake Scobie reaped what he fucking sowed. I hope he died in agony. Things that animal has done to people he fucking deserved everything he got. And Madam has had her fun. I’m getting a bit tired of her routine now. We’ll get her in tomorrow. That girl knows much more than she’s letting on, and if Lomax says no we’ll arrest her as an accessory, make sure the press knows all about it.’
McCoy looked up at him. ‘You know something, Murray?’
Murray shook his head.
‘I’m glad we’re on the same fucking side.’
EIGHTEEN
‘Mandrax.’
‘What?’ said Cooper, stil
l peering down at the map on his knee.
‘You sell it?’ asked McCoy.
‘Naw, hard to get a hold of and no that popular any more. No worth the bother. Why?’
‘Where’d I get some?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Cooper, looking up. ‘Fancy a big night, do you? You and that wee bird? She looked the type, mind you. Bit of a raver, I’d say.’
McCoy sighed, put the windscreen wipers back on. Snow had started falling again, thick flakes whirling in the light of the headlamps of the big Austin. ‘Not for me. Where would Connolly get a hold of it? Scobie was full of it, and so was Charlie Jackson as it turns out. He must have given it to them before he . . . you know.’
‘What? Carved them up?’ Cooper pointed through the windscreen. ‘Turn right at the next crossing.’
‘Aye, you know what Mandrax is like, knocks you skelly. Would make them easier to control, less likely to resist.’ He looked up ahead. ‘Right? You sure? Sign says Strathblane is to the left.’
Cooper folded up the map, chucked it into the back seat. ‘I don’t fucking know. I cannae even drive. How the fuck would I know how to read a map?’
He leant forward, switched the radio on, twiddled the knob, looking for the football. Eventually found it. Heard the score. Swore. Switched it back off again.
‘How many cars have you got?’ asked McCoy.
‘Besides this one?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Two.’
‘What? Three cars, and you can’t even bloody drive?’
‘Don’t need to,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s always some arse to drive me about.’ He grinned, glanced at McCoy.
They were deep in the countryside now, hedges at the sides of the road, fields beyond white with snow, stretching off into the distance. Cooper looked out the window as they passed a sign for Helensburgh.
‘Were we no in a place round here?’ he asked.
‘St Andrew’s Home,’ said McCoy, pointed left. ‘It’s about twenty miles that way, I think.’
The car was silent, just the noise of the windscreen wipers. Cooper lit up. ‘My front teeth got knocked out in that shithole. Was that the place with that cunt, Brother Benedict?’
McCoy nodded. ‘I think Joe was in there too.’
‘Was he? I cannae remember. Too many places like that, too many cunts like Uncle Kenny and Brother Benedict. All started to blur together after a while. How much longer till we get there?’
‘Ten minutes or so,’ said McCoy. ‘As long as this bloody snow doesn’t get any worse.’
Strathblane was a pretty wee village, red sandstone houses, church on the left. Even prettier now with the snow making it look like a Christmas card. They drove up the high street, almost back out the other side. McCoy turned off, parked the car beside the back of a scout hall.
‘You got the address?’ asked Cooper.
‘First right after Blainfield House. Not far, we should walk. Don’t want anyone remembering the car.’
Cooper nodded. Reached round and picked up the Umbro sports bag sitting on the back seat, opened it and handed McCoy a balaclava and a thick woollen sock with two billiard balls in it. ‘Put them in your pocket until we get to the house.’
Cooper did the same with his own set, put a length of clothes line in his pocket too. Turned to McCoy. ‘Ready?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Good. Let’s go and get the cunt then.’
*
The village was silent, streets deserted under the falling snow. They caught a glimpse of an occasional TV through a window, football on. Looked like England’s slaughter of Scotland was still going on. They walked in silence, both of them thinking about what they were about to do. McCoy had the feeling he was about to cross a line he shouldn’t be crossing. Maybe he should have left it to Cooper – he wouldn’t have minded doing it alone – but he’d let him do his dirty work too many times. He needed to be in on this one.
They walked past Blainfield House. The road was bordered by the long wall of an estate on one side, fields on the other. They turned right and walked up through a field towards the house, avoiding the driveway in case any safety lights came on. The house was a large stone villa, sloped roof running off to the side, smoke from a chimney snaking up into the cold air.
‘Done well for himself has old Uncle Kenny,’ said Cooper.
A TV was on in the front room, the glow visible through the thin curtains. Lights on in the hall, dining room and one of the upstairs bedrooms too.
‘Listen to me,’ said Cooper, suddenly serious, businesslike. ‘We don’t talk at all. If we have to, don’t use our names. You get the wife tied up in the other room and I’ll deal with Uncle Kenny until you come back. Right?’
McCoy nodded, tried not to think about how he was going to tie up some crying woman.
Cooper held up his sock with the balls in it. ‘Try not to hit his head too much, these billiard balls can crack your fucking skull easy. Go for the joints. The knees, elbows, hit as hard as you can, it’ll hurt like fuck. If you kick him, kick him in the balls and stomach. I’m going to break his fat greasy fingers one by bloody one. Okay?’
McCoy nodded again. Was starting to feel a bit sick. Reality of what they were doing kicking in. They put their gloves and their balaclavas on and headed down the hill towards the house. They were halfway down when McCoy stopped, held up his hand.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, sure he could hear something.
‘What?’ said Cooper.
Lights suddenly illuminated the driveway and a car appeared round the corner.
‘Fuck!’ said McCoy, dragging Cooper to the ground.
As the car approached the house a middle-aged woman opened the door, peered out, then shouted back into the hall, ‘Kenneth!’
The car pulled up, and they watched as the passenger door opened and a girl in her mid twenties got out. She’d a fur hat on, multicoloured scarf, long coat.
‘Hello, Mum!’
The older woman embraced her, looked amazed. ‘Caroline? What are you doing here?’
The shape of a man appeared in the doorway and McCoy’s stomach did a flip. He was dressed in slacks, patterned jumper.
‘Caroline?’ he asked.
‘It’s us, Dad! Jamie got a few days off so we thought we’d surprise you.’
‘Fuck,’ said Cooper under his breath. ‘Fuck.’
‘Let me see if His Majesty is awake,’ said Caroline, opening the back door as a man in a car coat and suit got out the driver’s seat and embraced Uncle Kenny’s wife.
Uncle Kenny padded round the car in his slippers in time to take the sleeping boy off Caroline as she lifted him out the back seat. He kissed the toddler on the top of his head, got his arm under his bum, laid his neck into his shoulder.
‘Better get him in quick, Dad,’ said Caroline. ‘He’s only got his jammies on.’
They watched as the car was unloaded, the lights went on all over the house and the snow started to fall again.
‘No point waiting here,’ said Cooper, pulling his balaclava off. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked back into town, found a pub that was open. Dirty look from the landlord as they ordered two whiskies. Not locals. Glasgow accents too pronounced. They sat down by the fire, tried to get some heat into their bones. McCoy could feel the weight of the billiard balls in his pocket.
‘Did you know he had a daughter?’ asked Cooper.
McCoy nodded. ‘It’s in the file. She lives in Yorkshire, didn’t think it would matter.’
‘Trust us to pick the bloody night she comes home for a surprise visit.’ Cooper shook his head. ‘Fuck it, just have to try again another night. We know where he lives, fucker’s not going anywhere.’
‘Did you see the way he picked up that wee boy?’ asked McCoy.
Cooper nodded.
‘That’s the way he picked me up,’ said McCoy. ‘The night I had to fight Tommy Dunn. I was exhausted, I thought that was it, it was all over. I thought he was carrying
me upstairs to put me to bed.’
‘No point in going over it,’ said Cooper. ‘What’s done’s done. He’s going to pay.’
‘Let’s do it fast,’ said McCoy. He looked at Cooper. ‘Before he has a chance with that wee boy.’
Cooper nodded. Threw over his whisky. ‘I’ll get you another one.’
*
There was a note pinned to Susan’s door when he got back.
IN VICTORIA BAR WITH CLAIRE. COME JOIN!! XX
Just what he didn’t need. He sighed, took the note off the door and put it in his pocket.
The Victoria was in Dumbarton Road, just across from Partick Station, nearer his flat than hers. He walked past the library, was tempted to just turn right, go up the hill, go home. Suddenly, all he really wanted to do was go to bed, put the covers over his head and sleep. To stop thinking about Uncle Kenny, St Andrew’s, all of it. But he didn’t. He kept walking, trying to avoid the slush piling up on the pavement, trying to put a smile on his face.
‘Harry!’
He waved, walked over to the table in the corner where Susan and Claire were sitting. She kissed him as he sat down, the two of them already a few drinks in.
‘You remember Claire, don’t you?’ she asked.
He nodded. Unfortunately he did. A total pain-in-the-arse friend of Susan’s from the university. Another graduate student, another person who liked to refer to people like him as pigs.
She smiled at him, almost managing to hide the contempt on her face. ‘Well, if it isn’t our friendly local policeman.’
‘Got you a whisky in,’ said Susan, pushing it across the table at him. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere. The usual. Trying to catch up with paperwork at the shop.’
‘Did you ask him?’ she asked expectantly.
‘Shit! I forgot.’
‘Aw, Harry! You promised.’
‘I’ll ask him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Honest.’
Susan turned to Claire. ‘One of Harry’s friends came to the flat the other day looking for him. Turns out he’s a bit of a bad guy. Involved in the vice trade. I’ve asked Harry if he can set up a meeting between us, for my thesis.’
‘And he forgot,’ said Claire.
‘Yep,’ said McCoy, standing up. ‘Just another of my many faults. Another?’