February's Son

by Alan Parks

  ‘Quite a place,’ said McCoy.

  Murray looked round, didn’t look impressed. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  Gilroy appeared, sat down at the table. Even with her boiler suit on, she still had an air of ladylike poise. She unhooked her face mask from her ears and peeled off her rubber gloves.

  ‘Sitting Bull?’ she asked, nodding at the fireplace.

  ‘Geronimo,’ said McCoy. ‘Says it at the bottom.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I should know better. Just started a fascinating book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, the story of the American West told from the perspective of—’

  ‘Alan Mitchell?’ asked Murray pointedly.

  ‘Sorry . . . Back to the matter in hand. I think Mr Mitchell was unfortunate enough to inhale his own vomit. He threw up, and with all that duct tape on his mouth it didn’t really have anywhere else to go but into his lungs.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he have just swallowed it back over?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘In theory, yes,’ she said. ‘His gag reflex must have been diminished by something.’

  ‘Mandrax?’ said McCoy.

  She nodded. ‘Could be, that or some other opiate-type drug would do it. Sort of thing that seems to happen to musicians quite a lot . . . Jimi Hendrix, for example . . .’

  Suddenly noticed Murray was staring at her.

  ‘Sorry again, Mr Murray. Mea culpa. Seem to be easily distracted today for some reason. Yes, Mandrax seems very likely. Given it was present in the bloodstream of Mr Jackson and Mr Scobie, it seems more than likely that we’ll find it in the unfortunate Mr Mitchell too.’

  She looked at McCoy. ‘Do you think this Connolly is going to kill someone else?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Don’t think he’s finished yet.’

  ‘Have you talked to a psychiatrist?’ she asked. ‘Might help.’

  Murray snorted. ‘He’s no that bad. He’s getting better at the blood stuff for a start.’

  Gilroy smiled. ‘About Connolly, I meant.’

  ‘Ah! Sorry,’ said Murray.

  ‘Matter of fact, we have,’ said McCoy. ‘His old cellmate was a shrink, funnily enough. Said Connolly was the closest he’d ever seen to a pure psychopath.’

  ‘George Abrahams, was it?’ asked Gilroy.

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Not many psychiatrists get sent to prison. I remember the case. What did he say?’

  ‘Said he thought Connolly was going to keep on killing or he was going to kill himself,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s the latter.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve a ten-year-old killed in a farm accident coming in. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’

  ‘Anything else we need to know?’ asked Murray.

  ‘One other thing. There seems to be some dried substance around his mouth and nose. Looks like it could be semen.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Murray.

  ‘Semen?’ asked McCoy. ‘You think Connolly . . .’ He stumbled.

  ‘Ejaculated into his mouth?’ asked Gilroy. ‘Could be, I’ll know better in a couple of hours.’

  ‘I didn’t think Connolly was that way inclined,’ said Murray. ‘Thought it was Elaine he was after?’

  ‘Also seem to be traces of it in the sink,’ said Gilroy. ‘If you were to ask me I would suggest that it’s not really to do with the sex of the victim in this instance. More a case of any port in a storm as it were. Riled up by the sight of Elaine, well . . . who knows?’

  She stood up. ‘I’m overstepping my role here so I will retire gracefully.’ She looked at McCoy. ‘Were I a detective I’d have a look at Hervey Cleckley’s list of psychopathy symptoms from 1941. Still stands up after all these years.’

  She walked away, stopped, turned back to them. ‘By the way, the itinerant who killed himself in the church? Did anything come of it?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Just another depressed alkie.’

  She nodded, walked off, pulling the boiler suit from her shoulders as she went.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me she never married,’ said Murray. ‘Too bloody clever for her own good.’

  McCoy grinned. ‘I always thought you had a wee soft spot for Madam Gilroy.’

  Murray looked at him. ‘Shut your trap, Detective McCoy. Not everything is about sex, as you would do well to learn.’

  McCoy held up his hands in surrender. ‘I never said anything about sex. That was you.’

  ‘Very bloody smart, McCoy. She’s an intelligent, well-bred woman . . . she—’

  ‘Sir?’

  They turned and Wattie was standing there. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

  Alan Mitchell’s flair for interior decoration didn’t seem to have extended to the box room. It had a single bed, a wardrobe, a bookshelf full of art books and a wee armchair. The bed had been slept in, gave off a vinegary smell of old sweat. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the bedside table, balled-up fish-and-chip paper beside it, full ashtray. Cashmere coat lying over the armchair.

  McCoy looked around. Had a feeling it would be somewhere. He opened the wardrobe, recoiled. ‘All his piss and shit is in here.’

  Wattie screwed his face up.

  ‘Like the hotel room?’ asked Murray.

  McCoy nodded. ‘Weight’s all marked, just the same.’

  Murray turned to Wattie. ‘Away and get Andy, get him to take some photos.’

  Wattie scurried off.

  Murray looked defeated. ‘How were we ever supposed to find him here?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Aye, too bloody late. For all we know he’s just chapped someone else’s door, tied them up in the bath and made himself at home. Sitting pretty now, watching the racing on the telly. How the fuck do we find him now?’

  ‘Same way we found him here,’ said McCoy. ‘Doing what you always told us. Following things up, checking things. Police work. And a lucky break.’

  ‘It’s always a lucky break,’ said Murray. ‘I’ll call Lomax, tell him what’s happened. See if it makes any difference to her coming in. You need Wattie tonight?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said McCoy. ‘Why?’

  ‘Boxing’s on tonight. St Andrew’s Club in the Albany. He’s been pestering me for weeks to go. Thought he could do with a wee reward for that river stunt. And it might do him some good to meet some of the other high heid yins.’

  ‘Big do, is it? asked McCoy. ‘Why’d you no ask me?’

  ‘Boxing? Blood splattering everywhere? You’d be boaking your load and fainting in five minutes.’

  McCoy grinned. ‘True.’

  ‘Besides, a night with all the top brass is probably your idea of hell.’ He put his hat on, headed for the door. ‘I’ll let you know what Lomax says.’

  McCoy watched him walk out the door. Looked at his watch. Two p.m. More than enough time to find Cooper before tonight.

  *

  McCoy sat at his desk chewing the end of a yellow pencil he’d found in his drawer. Time to do what Murray always told him to do when he was stuck. First principles. He wrote

  Staying where?

  Connolly had to be somewhere. Wrote

  Check opposite the Golden Dawn?

  He shouted across the room, ‘Thomson?’

  Thomson looked up, still seemed to be looking at the coats in the catalogue. ‘What?’

  ‘Are there any flats in Union Street? Opposite the Lite Bite, Golden Dawn, around there?’

  He sat back. ‘Don’t think so, think it’s all offices. If there are, British Rail’ll probably be the landlord.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour? Do a check?’

  He snorted. ‘What’s up with Wattie?’

  ‘I cannae find the bugger—’

  ‘Someone mention my name?’

  The office turned, and the shouts and the wolf whistles started. Wattie was standing there in a dinner suit, shiny patent shoes, dark blue velvet bow tie. Blond hair wetted down in a neat side shed.

  He bowed. He
ld his hands up. ‘What can I tell you? Some of us have just got it.’

  ‘The clap you mean!’ shouted Thomson.

  More laughter.

  Murray emerged from his office, piles of papers in his hand, pipe going. He looked Wattie up and down. Exploded. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Watson? We’re not going for another three hours! We get changed at the bloody hotel!’

  Wattie stood there, going red.

  ‘Get that stupid bloody suit off now and do some bloody work!’ He put the papers down on Thomson’s desk, walked back into his office and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘I feel like a bit of an arse,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Penance. Help Thomson with British Rail.’ McCoy stood up, put his coat on.

  ‘Where you off to?’ asked Wattie, unclipping his bow tie.

  ‘Out,’ said McCoy.

  Headache is back

  can hardly see out my left eye

  i don’t know how much more of this I can take

  Hello Pogba

  Hello the Legionnaire

  Help an old comrade

  please

  The light is burning me

  help

  TWENTY-TWO

  McCoy was looking at the papers laid out on the big round John Menzies kiosks when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and Stevie Cooper was standing there.

  ‘Did you no see me waving at you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  No wonder he hadn’t, he could hardly bloody recognise him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him without his red Harrington jacket and jeans, even the blond quiff was gone. His hair looked darker, fact that it had been plastered down with Brylcreem no doubt helping. Umbro duffel bag over his shoulder.

  McCoy stepped back and looked at him properly. ‘I didn’t even know you had a suit.’

  ‘I’ve plenty,’ said Cooper. ‘Never wear them.’

  ‘Hate to say it but you look quite good in it, sort of grown-up.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ said Cooper. ‘I look like every other bugger, which is the main idea.’

  He stepped out the way as the tannoy announced the five fifteen to Greenock and the crowd surged towards the platform.

  ‘You fit?’ he asked.

  McCoy nodded. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  They turned and made their way through the crowded station, down past the clacking departure boards, out by the taxis and onto Hope Street. The rain was back on, a light drizzle blurring the streetlights.

  McCoy stopped for a second, lit up. ‘How the fuck are we going to do this without being caught? Place is gonnae be full of coppers, most of who I probably know.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s full of families staying there and businessmen and people who’ve come to see the fight. No fucker’s going to notice us.’ He looked at McCoy. ‘You sure you want to do this? If you’re worried, I can do it myself, keep you out of it.’

  ‘No fucking way,’ said McCoy, sounding more emphatic than he felt. ‘I’m in.’

  The foyer of the Albany was a large double-height room, pale carpet stretching as far as the eye could see. Sets of armchairs and wee tables dotted round, potted plants against the light blue walls. There were people bustling around the front desk, checking in. Could see a couple of guys erecting the boxing ring through the half-open door to the ballroom. McCoy kept his head down, made for the house phone, while Cooper stared at a copy of Atlantic Crossing framed on the wall, picture of Rod Stewart with his arm round the hotel manager beneath it.

  McCoy picked up the phone and a woman answered.

  ‘The Albany Hotel. Moira speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘Could you put me through to Mr Burgess? I think he’s in room . . . God, I just spoke to him, my mind’s like a sieve.’

  ‘Three-three-four?’

  ‘That’s it. Thanks.’

  ‘Putting you through now.’

  A click and then the noise of a phone ringing. He let it ring twenty or so times in case he was in the shower. No reply. McCoy put the phone back in its cradle. Swore under his breath.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked McCoy, joining Cooper under the picture.

  ‘We could check the bar, but what if someone sees you?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Murray said he’s a Holy Roller. He’ll no be in the bar. Fuck . . .’ He stood there for a second trying to think. Realised he could smell something. Chlorine.

  ‘Smell that? Now where would you be right now if you were good old Uncle Kenny?’

  Cooper sniffed, smiled. Looked round, saw a sign for the swimming pool. ‘This way.’

  Down a corridor, through some doors, and there it was. They stood at the big window overlooking the pool, didn’t take long to see him. He was sitting on the edge of the pool, podgy body in tight blue swimming trunks. He looked a lot older, black hair greyish now. His burly frame had gone slack, run to fat. But it was him all right.

  McCoy could suddenly remember the way he smelled, sweat barely covered by talcum powder. He went to get his fags, realised his hand was shaking, put it in his pocket before Cooper could see.

  Wasn’t hard to see why he was there. Two women in robes were sitting on the loungers at the side of the pool chatting. Three wee boys in their trunks splashing and laughing in the shallow end in front of them as Uncle Kenny looked on.

  McCoy backed away from the glass. Managed to take his eyes off Uncle Kenny, looked at Cooper. He had that look on his face that meant danger: eyes far away, mouth set. Right hand tightened into a fist.

  ‘Stevie?’ Nothing. He tried again. ‘Stevie? You okay?’

  Cooper turned away from the window. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait for him in the room.’

  *

  They took the stairs to the third floor, less chance of seeing someone they knew than the lift. McCoy had a sick feeling in his stomach, wasn’t sure if it was from seeing Uncle Kenny after all these years or because of what he was about to do. Cooper wasn’t talking, just looked angry. McCoy’d seen what he could do when he was in a mood like that before, wouldn’t want to be Uncle Kenny for all the money in the world.

  The bedroom lock didn’t put up much resistance. Was easy enough to open with the set of wee picks Cooper had in his bag. A quick jiggle in the keyhole and they were in. The room was large, big window with a white net curtain over it, two double beds, one with an open holdall sitting on it. White shirt and dress uniform hanging on the handle of the wardrobe, Alistair MacLean paperback open on the bedside table. Mothercare catalogue. Took McCoy a moment to realise why that was there.

  Cooper held his bag open and McCoy took out one of the balaclavas and put it on. Why they were there abruptly became real. McCoy had no doubts about what they were going to do, Joe Brady and his own memories made sure of that, but he felt odd, like he was suddenly on the wrong side.

  He sat down on the bed, could see himself and Cooper in the mirror. Looked kind of scary and kind of stupid with their balaclavas on in all this chintzy niceness. The point, really. Cooper reached into the bag again. Pulled out a wool sock with two billiard balls in it, handed it to McCoy.

  They waited. Didn’t take long. Sound of someone whistling ‘Little Baby Bunting’, then the noise of a key in the lock and Uncle Kenny opened the door. Stopped. Looked at McCoy on the bed, trying to work out what was happening, and in that couple of seconds Cooper grabbed him round the neck, pulled him into the room and wrestled him to the floor.

  ‘What are you—’

  Was all he got out before McCoy stuffed a facecloth he’d got from the bathroom into Uncle Kenny’s mouth. Cooper swung the sock above his head and brought it down into his face. Uncle Kenny’s nose burst in a cloud of blood. He looked surprised, like he still didn’t know what was going on, then the pain hit and his face screwed up as he tried to scream through the balled-up facecloth.

  McCoy wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hit him, seemed too clinical, until he saw the signet ring on his finger. Remembered
it on Uncle Kenny’s hand as he reached round the back of his head, pushed it down. ‘On you go, son, don’t be scared.’

  And then he was up off the bed and kicking at Uncle Kenny’s body. And then he was punching and then he was swinging the billiard balls in the sock and Cooper was shouting at him to stop and he kept swinging the sock and kicking and hitting and hitting and hitting . . .

  He could feel Cooper trying to pull him away, hear him screaming at him. He shrugged him off, brought the sock and the heavy balls down on Uncle Kenny’s left hand, heard the snap of fingers. Raised it above his head to bring it down again and Cooper pulled him harder, spun him round. Said one word: ‘Enough.’

  McCoy looked down at Uncle Kenny, at the mess he was, at the blood and the broken fingers and his elbow joint the size of a grapefruit. Didn’t really know how it happened, how long it had taken. All he could really remember was seeing the signet ring and then it was black.

  Cooper pulled him up. Let himself be led towards the door. Took one look back. Wave of nausea at the pool of bright red sticky blood surrounding Uncle Kenny. His towelling robe was open, soft white belly black and blue, trunks stained with blood. Cooper pushed him into the bathroom, made him wash the blood off his hands, took the balaclava off his head. Looked him in the eye.

  ‘What the fuck? You almost killed him!’ he hissed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said McCoy, but he wasn’t. Was anything but. Watched the bloody water flow down the drain in the sink. Uncle Kenny’s blood. Thought of Joe and Stevie and all the other wee boys who had been lined up in that fucking basement. Thought of himself.

  Cooper looked him over, smoothed his hair down, wiped a spray of blood off his neck like a mum getting her wee boy ready to go out.

  ‘Don’t walk fast. Don’t draw attention to us. Just two guys who’ve had a drink heading home. Okay?’