February's Son

by Alan Parks

  McCoy started tidying up the papers on his desk, couldn’t find any notes from Wattie about the children’s homes records he’d asked him to look for. Looked through again, wasn’t concentrating on what he was doing, too busy trying to sit on the rising panic that had been bubbling up since he’d got there. Told himself they were looking for Connolly, not him and Cooper. Found himself watching Murray and the two suits in his office through the dimpled glass. Had a flash of himself in court charged with manslaughter. Was about to go out and buy more fags, anything to get out of there, to try and calm down, when Wattie appeared.

  He walked in carrying a white paper bag, a cardboard cup of tea, hair still wet. If the fact that he was whistling didn’t give it away, the fact that he was still wearing his good suit definitely did.

  He sat down at his desk, pointedly not looking over at McCoy.

  McCoy leaned back in his chair. ‘Mr Watson, nice of you to join us. Out last night were you?’

  Wattie nodded, opened his bag and pulled out a square sausage roll.

  ‘Nice time, did you?’ asked McCoy innocently.

  Wattie nodded, bit into his roll, brown sauce dripping onto his notes. He cursed, wiped it off with a paper serviette.

  ‘Fuck off, McCoy,’ he said.

  ‘Knew it!’ said McCoy. ‘Someone got their hole last night.’

  Wattie kept eating his roll, refusing to look at him.

  ‘Who’s the unlucky lady?’ he asked. ‘Anyone I know?’

  Kept eating.

  ‘Let me think. Had to be a first date for you to try and impress her with that flash suit.’

  Wattie stuck two fingers up at him.

  ‘So must be someone you’ve just met.’ And then it dawned. ‘No!’

  Wattie nodded.

  ‘Mary from the Record? Fuck me. You’re a better man than I!’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what she said too.’ Wattie rolled up the empty bag, dropped it in the bin. ‘Now, do you want to know about Connolly or not? Come on.’

  McCoy stood up, followed Wattie down the back corridor into the old part of the station. It was mostly unused, a room still full of horse tackle. Seemed Wattie had been busy after all. He’d commandeered one of the old meeting rooms, walls still covered in photos of police football teams and Have You Seen This Man? Bible John posters. The big wooden table in the middle was completely covered in huge lists of children’s homes, care homes, approved schools. Phone and scribbled-on bits of paper beside them.

  Wattie sat down on one of the chairs. ‘Spent last night doing this while you were at home with your food-poisoning-my-arse. Fucking nightmare.’ He pointed at the lists. ‘Some of these places are run by the council, some by the church, some by charities, Barnardo’s, that sort of thing. Trying to find anyone who knows anything is a bloody nightmare. But,’ he did a drum roll on the table with two pens, ‘I did.’

  He flicked through his notes. ‘St Martin’s Approved School, Bishopbriggs. Our man Connolly was sent there in 1956 with two of his pals for trying to rob a tobacconist in Ashgill Road.’

  ‘What age was he?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie looked at his notes. ‘Hang on . . .’ Looked up. ‘Ten. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘You know Diane in Records, don’t you?’ asked McCoy, ignoring him.

  Wattie sighed, nodded. ‘Aye, she comes from Greenock, same as me. As a matter of fact her brother was in the same football team as—’

  ‘Go and see her. Find out where Kenneth Burgess was stationed in 1956. Then meet me outside in twenty minutes. We need to get out of here before Murray puts us on the funeral recce.’

  Wattie sat there.

  ‘What you waiting for?’ Struck him. ‘Fuck sake! Thank you, Watson, for your endeavours with the care homes and thank you for going to see Diane, and no, I still don’t want to know about her brother’s bloody football team. Happy?’

  ‘No problem.’ Wattie stood up. ‘And remember, Detective McCoy, manners cost nothing.’

  The only pool car McCoy could get was a clapped-out Viva, crack in the windscreen and a heater that didn’t work properly. Still, at least the engine sounded fine. He was getting into it when a police van pulled up by the garages and six uniforms from Eastern got out. Jake Scobie was being buried tomorrow morning. A whole lot of villains expected to attend and maybe Connolly as well. Murray wanted every aspect of the route covered and that meant a recce that afternoon. No way was he sticking around for that. Having to go to the funeral was bad enough, without having to go over the route of the cars this afternoon as well.

  He drove round the block, pulled up outside the front of the station. Wattie was standing there blowing his hands. He got in, tried to turn the heater up, realised it made no difference.

  ‘Better not be muddy where we’re going, I’m not getting this suit ruined.’

  ‘So where’d you get to last night then, you and the lovely Mary?’ said McCoy, pulling out into the traffic.

  ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, went to the Berni Inn for something to eat then back to hers.’ He rubbed at the condensation on his window. ‘She’s quite a lassie, that Mary. Not backwards in coming forwards.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. Diane?’

  ‘Ah,’ Wattie dug in his pocket, got out a folded bit of paper. ‘Seems that in 1956 our man was stationed in Lennoxtown. Seconded there for six months covering someone’s leave.’

  ‘What’s that? Twenty minutes or so from Bishopbriggs? Not very far.’

  ‘So what exactly are we going to this approved school for?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Evidence. Need someone who remembers him coming to the school,’ said McCoy.

  ‘From 1956? You’ll be lucky.’

  They were past Springburn now, heading out towards the hills. They were covered in snow, sun shining on them, looked like a biscuit thin.

  ‘Why would Burgess come to the school?’ asked Wattie. ‘I don’t get it.’

  McCoy sighed. Last thing he wanted was to go through it, tell Wattie how he knew Uncle Kenny liked to visit places like St Martin’s. Besides, he’d told Murray he’d keep it quiet.

  ‘Seems Burgess went to schools to give career talks to the boys. Theory is he might have met Connolly there, maybe he did something that pissed Connolly off and he never forgot it.’

  ‘What?’ Wattie looked at him. ‘Who came up with that load of shite?’

  ‘Me,’ said McCoy. ‘Shite it might be, but has to be better than walking the fucking funeral route in this weather.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Wattie. ‘Can’t believe Murray fell for it, though.’

  Bishopbriggs was just past Auchinairn, at the northern edge of Glasgow, almost in the country. An old high street surrounded by acres of new houses, every one the same as the others. Every good citizen’s dream home. Three bedrooms and wee garden. Bishopbriggs was where the working-class people who had done well moved to as soon as they had enough money to leave the council houses of Milton and Springburn. Taxi drivers, electricians, painters and decorators, those kinds of people.

  When St Martin’s was built it was probably in the middle of farmland, nice view of the Campsie Hills behind; now it was slowly being encircled by the new houses. They turned off and drove up the long and bumpy drive. McCoy hadn’t been in St Martin’s but it looked exactly like all the other homes he had been in. Grand Victorian building surrounded by cheaply built extensions covered in white pebbledash and ringed by playing fields. Last thing he wanted to do was visit a place like this but he didn’t have a choice. He had to make the connection between Uncle Kenny and Connolly, shut the investigation down as soon as he could.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ said McCoy as he parked the Viva in front of the entrance. ‘Play it by ear.’

  Wattie rang the bell. McCoy lit up while they waited. Noise of locks being undone, call of ‘Hang on!’ and eventually the door opened to reveal the last thing Mc
Coy expected. An attractive young woman, red hair piled on her head, jeans and a peace symbol T-shirt.

  ‘Sorry, bloody door’s a nightmare. How can I help?’ she said.

  They held up their police identity cards.

  ‘So you found the wee bugger?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ asked Wattie. ‘Found who?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Are you not here with Barry Armstrong?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Ah. To be honest I thought it was a bit early to have found him. Normally manages about three days on the run before he gets caught.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Alice. Come away in.’

  They followed her through into the main hall. Was much like it would be in any other school: notice boards, kids’ paintings on the wall, smell of floor polish. Only difference was the set of keys around Alice’s waist jingling as she walked. She led them past a group of sullen-looking boys in jeans, blue jumpers and white sandshoes being marched towards the stairs, and into a cluttered office, sat down behind the desk. Wattie and McCoy sat down opposite her.

  ‘I’ll say it again,’ she said, sipping from a big mug with a picture of Tweedledee and Tweedledum on it. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Bit of a strange one. We’re hoping to speak to someone who was here in the mid fifties,’ said McCoy.

  ‘God! Now you’re asking, not sure there is anyone. Not me, plainly. Let me think.’ She put her mug down, drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘Mr McBride left two years ago. He’d been here since the Middle Ages, I think.’

  ‘He live local?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Did. Passed away at Christmas, I’m afraid. Can I ask what it’s in regard to?’

  ‘Murder investigation,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Golly!’ she said. ‘Does it have to be a teacher?’

  McCoy shook his head.

  ‘In that case you might be in luck. Mr Spence, the caretaker. I’m sure he’s been here a long time, not quite sure he goes that far back, but he’s probably your best bet.’

  ‘Where’ll we find him?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Behind the sports pavilion. He’s got a wee hut thing, think he lives in the bloody place. Weather like this, he’ll definitely be in there with the fire on not doing his job.’

  The playing fields were rock hard with the cold, slippy with frost. Didn’t stop them being used. Teams of boys were playing football, or more accurately using the game as an opportunity to knock lumps out each other. Referee’s whistle blowing every five minutes followed by cries and protests.

  ‘They must be bloody freezing,’ said Wattie as they walked past the pitches. ‘Shorts in this weather.’

  ‘Character-building, or at least that’s what they used to say. There it is.’ McCoy pointed over at a green wooden hut, smoke coming out a chimney in the corner. ‘What did she say his name was again?’

  ‘Spence,’ said Wattie.

  Spence turned out to be a small wiry man with thick black hair. Looked like a Beatle wig sat on top of his wrinkled face. Effect wasn’t pleasant. He let them into the hut, sat them down on an old park bench and sat himself back down on a battered armchair by the fire. The hut was tiny, full of junk from the school. Broken benches, big clock with one hand missing, pile of gym mats, broken tennis rackets. Smelt of smoke and some sort of fertiliser.

  ‘What was it you were wanting?’ asked Spence, poking at the fire.

  ‘How long is it you’ve been here, Mr Spence?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Me? Christ, now you’re asking.’ Thought, counted on his hands. ‘Thirty-three years. Since I got demobbed.’

  ‘So you were here mid fifties, aye?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ He shook his head at their obvious stupidity. ‘Thirty-three bloody years.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said McCoy. ‘You ever remember a policeman, Kenny Burgess, coming to the school?’

  The poker gave it away. Stopped dead for a few seconds, no more rearranging the coals.

  Spence shook his head, started poking again. ‘No. What would a bloody policeman be coming to a school for? And even if he did I cannae remember that far back. Who bloody can?’

  McCoy sat back on the bench. ‘Wattie, do me a favour. I left my jotter in the car. Go back and get it, will you?’

  Wattie looked at him like he was mad. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just go and get it,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie stood up looking murderous, stomped out the hut.

  McCoy waited until Wattie was definitely gone, Spence sitting there poking the fire, muttering to himself. Took out his cigarettes and lit one up.

  ‘Thirty-three years,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty good going. You must have led a charmed life to get away with it that long. Charmed life and a bit of protection from a certain boy in blue. Nice wee arrangement, right enough. Neat. You’re here with all these young boys and he’s out there making sure any complaints they make come to nothing.’

  Spence looked at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That right? Well, let me make it crystal clear for you, you fucking cunt. Either you pimped out the boys to Burgess so he could fuck them, or here’s my more likely scenario, you weren’t just a pimp. Sampled the goods before you handed them over.’

  Spence stood up, sat back down again. Looked at the door.

  ‘Bet you never thought when you got out your bed this morning that this was going to be the day. Must have known it was coming sometime, though. And here it is. Gravy train has just derailed, Spence. Big time.’

  Spence looked at him again. McCoy had never seen a trapped rat but now he knew what one looked like.

  ‘Easy way or hard way?’ he asked.

  Spence swallowed. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Always the fucking same,’ muttered McCoy.

  He stood up and moved towards Spence.

  Spence held the poker out at him. ‘Get away from me! I mean it!’ he shouted.

  McCoy kicked it out his hand. Spence cowered back in his chair. McCoy grabbed him, pulled him out of it and onto the floor. Stood on his hand with his left foot, ignored the scream and started kicking at his body with the other. Good few kicks in the balls as well. Within a few minutes Spence had stopped screaming, was down to a low moan every time McCoy’s shoe thudded into him.

  One last kick and McCoy knelt down by him. Punched him in the mouth hard, then did it again. Sat back against the park bench and got his cigarettes out. Spence lay there sobbing and moaning, wiping the blood from his mouth.

  ‘Here’s a wee heads up, Spence,’ said McCoy. ‘That’s fuck all compared to what’s going to happen to you every fucking day in Barlinnie. It will be all that and worse. They’ll batter you every day, throw boiling water with sugar in it at you. Put shite in your food, piss in your tea. Chances are you’ll last a month or so of that until someone finds out where you worked and realises that’s where their wee brother or their nephew was. Then they’ll kill you as slowly and painfully as they can.’

  Spence was wailing now. Reached out, held on to McCoy’s foot. ‘Please . . . please, I’m sorry . . . I . . .’

  McCoy blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke, waved it away. ‘Sorry, are you? Well, that’s nice, but I couldn’t give a fuck. I want you in Barlinnie. I want you to suffer every fucking day.’ The wailing was increasing. ‘But I’m in a hurry, so there’s a deal on the table.’

  Spence nodded, face looking hopeful. ‘Yes, please, anything.’

  ‘Okay. This is it. Non-repeatable, non-negotiable. You’re going to tell me everything I need to know now. Right now. And when we get to the station and you’re in your cell I’m going to take the turnkey for a cup of tea before he takes away your belt and your shoelaces. Should give you enough time, eh?’

  What he was proposing dawned on Spence. His face crumpled.

  ‘What? Don’t tell me you thought you were getting off?’ McCoy shook his head. ‘That’s the only deal. It’s up to you, you fucki
ng piece of shite.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wattie was talking to Alice in her office when he saw McCoy walking back across the playing fields to the main building. He hurriedly said cheerio, ran out to meet him.

  ‘I’ve got the jotter,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Sorry, got a bit waylaid.’

  McCoy held out his hand. ‘Give us it.’

  Wattie handed it over. McCoy tried to take it and get his hands in his pocket before Wattie saw but he didn’t manage it.

  ‘Why’ve you got blood all over your hands?’ asked Wattie. He looked up. ‘Christ, it’s all over your shirt as well.’

  McCoy slipped something into the notebook. ‘Tripped on the way out the wee hut. Go back and get that wee cunt and get him into the car.’

  ‘What? Now? Did you find anything out?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘That it? No sharing?’

  ‘Nope. Just get the cunt. And get his fucking biscuit tin.’

  McCoy walked back into the building, sat down on a bench in the main hall. Put his head in his hands, tried to breathe. They were all the same, these guys, couldn’t help themselves, took pictures. Some they could put into Boots to get developed, some they had to take to Dirty Ally at Paddy’s market, or someone like him. He opened the notebook and looked at the one he’d taken from Spence.

  A Boots one. Couldn’t face going through the other ones he had in the biscuit tin under the floorboards. Uncle Kenny in a pair of shorts standing on a riverbank. Two lads in the water with their underpants on. One of them was Connolly; even at twelve years old you could recognise him. Squinting at the camera, one arm wrapped round Burgess’ leg. The photo was going to be enough to convince Murray, he was halfway there already.

  If they wanted to look at Spence’s other ones, find more evidence about what Uncle Kenny really liked to get up to on these wee camping trips, that was up to them. He’d done his bit. No way he was looking at photos like that, not for all the tea in China.