February's Son

by Alan Parks

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘What’s he like then?’ she asked.

  ‘Cooper? I’m the wrong man to ask. I’ve known him since he was a wee boy.’

  ‘Hang on, doesn’t that make you exactly the right person to ask?’

  He shook his head. ‘I see a different side of him to most people. He’s brighter than people think but he’s dangerous as well. Doesn’t take no for an answer. Ambitious.’

  ‘Sounds like the ideal man to help her run the business.’ She smiled. ‘And more.’

  ‘You think they’re together?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell with a woman like Elaine. She’s so wrapped up in what she looks like, how sexy she is, the whole image thing, I don’t think she can separate business and pleasure that easily. Two sides of the same coin for her. Both about getting what she wants.’

  She hesitated for minute, said it. ‘Do you think she’s dead?’

  McCoy couldn’t think what to say. ‘Maybe. You know what Connolly’s like.’

  ‘Aye, and I know what he did to the other ones.’ She looked down at the table, shifted her glass. ‘Christ, she was a right pain in the hole, but you wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.’

  The middle-aged woman finished her conversation with herself and headed for the door. Stopped by their table to tell them that the Daughters of Isis walked amongst them. Mary said she’d look out for them. The woman seemed satisfied, left with a smile on her face.

  ‘You think she goaded Connolly into killing them?’ asked McCoy.

  Mary thought for a minute. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. She seemed pretty broken up about her dad but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Hard to say anything definite about Elaine. She’s a cold one.’

  ‘Cold enough to get Connolly to do her dirty work then not keep her side of the bargain?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘She say anything useful about Connolly at all? Any idea where he is?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to think. She didn’t talk about him much. Said he used to be different, reckons he came off his medication.’

  ‘What medication?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Don’t know, she didn’t say. Stuff to make him less loony, I suppose. She thinks it’s when he stopped taking it that he got obsessed with her.’

  ‘We checked all this after Charlie Jackson. He’s not registered with any doctor.’

  ‘Isn’t he? That’s weird. Where’d he get it then?’

  McCoy sat back in his chair. Opened his jotter to write down ‘Double-check doctors’ and it fell out again.

  Mary bent over, picked it up, looked at the front. ‘Where did you get this shite?’

  McCoy took the pamphlet from her, swallowed back the rest of his pint, kissed her on the head and made for the door.

  ‘McCoy!’ she shouted after him. ‘Where the fuck are you going?’

  I know how to do it before the light burst in and

  together together the ties thatbind

  e l aine.

  19th February 1973

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘You never saw Connolly after you left Barlinnie?’ asked Murray.

  They were in the interview room. Too small, too hot, stink of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes. They’d sent a couple of uniforms to pick him up before he went out on his daily walk with his sign. Didn’t want to come in, didn’t see why he should. He may have been disbarred and a borderline nutcase but he was still a psychiatrist, a learned professional, not used to being treated with disrespect.

  Abrahams shook his head, looked like he was enduring the most tiresome morning of his life. ‘I already told your colleague all this. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve been dragged in here this morning to go over it all again.’

  ‘Never prescribed him any medication?’ asked McCoy.

  Abrahams sighed. ‘How could I? As you are so keen on reminding me, I’m no longer a practising doctor. Even you must realise that means I’m not able to prescribe anything any more.’

  ‘Come on, Abrahams,’ said McCoy, sitting forward. ‘I’m sure you’ve still got some prescription pads lying about, samples from drug companies, stuff you stockpiled when you knew you were going to get struck off.’

  Abrahams gave a weak smile. ‘For a policeman you really do have a very vivid imagination.’ He sat back in his chair, looked round the interview room with a mixture of distaste and curiosity, looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Any idea where Connolly is now?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s kidnapped a young woman.’

  Abrahams looked alert all of a sudden, practised boredom gone. ‘Ah well, that is unfortunate, very unfortunate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Murray. ‘Of course it’s bloody unfortunate!’

  Abrahams took his wee round glasses off, started to polish them with his jumper, suddenly looked older, vulnerable. ‘It’s not good because it probably means that he’s entering his final stage.’

  He put his glasses back on. Looked at the two of them. ‘Even psychopaths have a sense of self-preservation. They want to keep doing what they’re doing. If he has taken this girl the chances are he’s not much concerned with his fate any more, or indeed the fate of the girl.’

  ‘You mean he’s going to kill her?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘When was she taken?’ asked Abrahams.

  McCoy looked at Murray.

  He shrugged, didn’t seem any point in keeping it secret. ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  Abrahams sighed. ‘In that case I imagine he already has.’

  *

  They let him go. Didn’t have any reason to hold him, or to think he wasn’t telling the truth. McCoy knew they were clutching at straws, didn’t know what else to do. Murray was going to Pitt Street to give them a progress report, didn’t look very happy about it. He wasn’t surprised. What was he supposed to tell them? No progress whatsoever since the last time he spoke to them and by the way, Elaine Scobie is missing?

  He walked back into the office, sat back down at his desk, felt useless. Even with all the extra staff, the phonelines, the door-to-door, the alerts on the TV and the radio, he had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen next. Soon, probably tomorrow, someone would call 999, say they’d found a body. They would rush there, sirens going, lights flashing, and they would find out what they already knew, that the body was Elaine.

  Elaine, as dead as she would have been if they’d spent the time since her disappearance sitting on their arses playing dominos. Whatever they were doing to try and find Connolly, it wasn’t working. Maybe Murray would get pulled after all. Maybe that’s what they really wanted him at Pitt Street for. He hated to say it, but maybe that’s what the case needed. Someone new to look at things, to make new connections.

  He looked up and Wattie was standing in front of him.

  ‘What are you doing staring into space like some loony?’ he asked.

  ‘Thinking,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Aye right. Catching flies, my mum used to call it. Any luck with the Abrahams interview? Stupid old bastard left a pile of his pamphlets on the duty desk.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Waste of time. Which is what I’m doing sitting here.’ He stood up. ‘Get a pool car, eh? If I sit here any longer doing nothing I’m going to go mental.’

  ‘A car? Why? Where are we going?’

  ‘Springburn. Time for you to meet the big boys.’

  Wattie shook his head, walked off to get the car.

  *

  He wasn’t at Memel Street, was only the young lassie there. She told them he’d gone somewhere with Billy but she didn’t know where. Offered them a cup of tea, line of speed. McCoy was tempted but the disapproving look on Wattie’s face was enough to put him off. They walked back out the close, headed for the car.

  ‘Where now?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Let’s try Billy Chan’s.’

  Wattie stopped. ‘The Chin
a Sea? You’re kidding? All the way back into town?’

  ‘You got something better to do, Sergeant Watson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, shut the fuck up then.’

  They walked on. The scrubby lawns and broken-down fences in front of the tenements were covered in a thin layer of snow. McCoy stepped over a bent pram wheel.

  ‘You think the fact she’s a girl’ll make any difference? He’s killed three guys, tortured them, even cut bloody words into them. You think he would do that to a woman?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie got the car key out his pocket. ‘Maybe she is alive. Maybe he just wanted to talk to her, try and convince her that he’s the man for her. Might not hurt her at all.’

  McCoy blew into his hands. ‘That, Wattie, is not the most stupid thing you’ve ever said. And if it’s true, at least it gives us more time to find her before he changes his mind and decides to carve her up. Either way we need to find the bugger, and while we’re clutching at straws we may as well clutch at them all, hence the search for Stevie Cooper.’

  ‘Was he going out with her? That the sketch?’ asked Wattie, unlocking the Viva.

  ‘Not quite sure. Might have been more of a business arrangement. Now hurry up and open the bloody door. I’m freezing!’

  Wattie did, and they got into the car. Wasn’t much warmer than standing on the pavement.

  ‘Either way, Cooper’s been talking to her. She might have said something to him about Connolly, something that helps.’

  ‘You’ve not told Murray, have you?’ said Wattie, starting the car.

  ‘Do I look stupid? The name Cooper is like lighting the bloody touch paper. He just rants, doesn’t get us anywhere. Let’s see if I can find anything out, then I’ll worry about Murray.’

  They’d just driven out onto Hawthorn Street when McCoy spotted one of Cooper’s boys coming out the baker’s across the street, carrying a big cardboard box with steam coming off it. Recognised the Rod Stewart feather cut and the leather jacket. Couldn’t remember his name. He’d come to pick him up in Cooper’s Zephyr once. John? James?’

  Told Wattie to pull over beside him. He rolled the window down. ‘Get in, they’ll get cold. John, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Jamie,’ he said, looking uncertain. ‘I’m fine, I can—’

  ‘I wasn’t actually asking, son. Now, get in the bloody car.’

  Jamie reluctantly got in the back, put the cardboard box down beside him. Smell filled the car.

  McCoy leant over the seat. ‘Scotch pies?’

  Jamie nodded.

  ‘So,’ asked McCoy cheerily, ‘where we off to?’

  The Viking was on the corner of Maryhill Road and Ruchill Street. About ten minutes away via Bilsland Drive. McCoy had the occasional look at Jamie in the rear-view mirror as they drove there.

  He looked worried, chewing on his bottom lip. No doubt trying to work out how Cooper would react to him telling the polis where he was. Not well, probably.

  ‘Any of these pies going spare?’ asked Wattie. ‘I’m starving.’

  Jamie rustled about in the box, handed one over.

  Wattie bit into it, swore as hot fat poured out the bottom of it and splashed onto his shirt and tie. ‘For fuck sake!’

  Jamie handed over one of the papers they were wrapped in and Wattie proceeded to scrub away at his front, spreading the stain everywhere.

  ‘Many’s in there?’ asked McCoy, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Twenty,’ said Jamie unhappily. ‘Well, nineteen now.’

  ‘Cooper must be awful hungry, eh?’

  Jamie didn’t say anything. Just looked out the window, chewed his lip.

  THIRTY-TWO

  They pulled in to the car park behind the Viking. It was deserted. Was a Sunday, pub was shut. They got out and Jamie stood there looking lost, box in hand.

  ‘On you go, son,’ said McCoy.

  Jamie nodded, knocked on the back door. It opened and Billy Weir was standing there. Didn’t look happy.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been? We’re bloody starving. Did you get—’

  Looked even less happy when McCoy stepped in front of the doorway.

  ‘All right, Billy? How’s things? The boss in?’

  Walked past him into the pub before he had a chance to answer.

  McCoy had been in the Viking’s function room before, someone’s retirement do. Had been brightly lit then, balloons, streamers and a table with a big cake on it. Wasn’t quite the same this time. Lights were dimmed, stop anyone walking past thinking the place was open. Jukebox in the corner was on, turned down low. Faint rumble of ‘Brown Sugar’.

  Twenty or so guys were sitting at the tables in groups of three or four. All early twenties. All looked much the same. Leather coats or denim jackets, pale indoor skin, long hair in middle partings, fags in hand, trying to look hard. Troops. They looked at McCoy and Wattie with studied indifference, giving nothing away, waiting for the boss to let them know what they thought. The atmosphere was tense, ugly, like something bad was about to happen.

  Stevie Cooper was standing in the middle of the room. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a blood-splattered vest, open razor in his hand. He had the look in his eyes that McCoy always dreaded, that faraway look that meant he was out of control. There was a guy tied to a chair in front of him. He was naked, head hanging down onto his chest. Arms and chest a mess of slashes, blood pouring out the cuts and pooling on the floor. His nose was broken, eyes swollen, but McCoy still recognised him. He’d seen him at the funeral, one of Scobie’s lieutenants. Been in the shop a few times as well, arrested for aggravated assault. Could even remember his name. George Hughes.

  He felt Wattie step in behind him, trying to get out of Cooper’s sightline. If McCoy had been sensible he’d have got the two of them out of there as soon as he could, said sorry, maybe another time. But being sensible didn’t always work with Cooper, sometimes you had to be as fearless as he was. He hoped to God he had judged it right and this was one of those times.

  He moved into the light, felt the heart beating in his chest. Tried to look calm.

  ‘McCoy,’ said Cooper evenly.

  ‘Full confession,’ said McCoy. ‘Wattie here ate one of your pies, but the rest are here.’ He took the box off Jamie. ‘Want me to give them out before they get cold?’

  Cooper smiled. ‘Aye, go on then. Make yourself useful for once. Billy! Get the beers!’

  Tension was broken. McCoy tried not to look too relieved. Colour came back into Wattie’s face. McCoy walked round the tables holding out the box, the troops took the pies, made a few jokes about the polis delivery service and him being a shite waiter. McCoy laughed with them, joined in, didn’t care. They were here-today-gone-tomorrow boys, cannon fodder, half of them would be in Barlinnie this time next year.

  Billy appeared with a wooden crate of beer bottles, started handing them out too. Cooper grabbed a couple, motioned to McCoy to follow him, disappeared through into the bar.

  Wattie grabbed McCoy as he walked past, hissed in his ear, ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Just stay calm, don’t do anything stupid. Speak to Billy about the football or the fucking price of tea, just don’t ask any questions about what’s going on. Okay?’

  Wattie nodded, didn’t look okay at all. Nothing McCoy could do about it, he’d have to sink or swim. He followed Cooper through the door.

  Cooper was sitting in the shadows. Table right at the back of the bar. He pushed the chair opposite him out with his boot and McCoy sat down. Cooper put a beer in front of him. He looked less distant now, seemed to be back to normal.

  ‘You sure can pick your moments,’ he said.

  ‘Was that George Hughes?’ asked McCoy, taking a slug.

  Cooper nodded. Now they were this close, McCoy could see the blood on his chest and up his arms, on his bruised knuckles, in his fingernails as he grasped the bottle. There was even a spray across his neck
. Looked like Cooper had been at it a while.

  ‘Tell you what you wanted to know, did he?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘Finally.’ Cooper took another slug. ‘They always do.’

  McCoy sighed. ‘This what’s gonnae happen, is it? You’re gonnae make me winkle it out of you bit by bloody bit?’

  Cooper smiled. Didn’t say anything.

  McCoy stood up, started pacing. ‘Right. Let’s see if we can hurry it up. Scobie’s gone, firm’s in a mess, no anointed successor, so this is a perfect time to strike – with or without Elaine on board.’ He nodded towards the function room. ‘You and the boys in there are going to do it tonight while the iron’s hot. By the looks of him, Hughes has told you what you needed to know so it’s pies, a beer, few lines of speed maybe and you send them off into the night to cause chaos. Right so far?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Good. So they smash some pubs up, do over some of his taxis, hammer a few of Scobie’s more senior lowlifes. Now his boys know which way the wind is blowing you give them a one-off chance to come join your merry band while you and Billy storm the Citadel, or as it’s normally known, the Top of the Town, and take out Waller. The king is dead, long live the king.’

  He sat down, took a swig of his beer. ‘That the sketch?’

  Cooper shook his head, smiled. ‘You know something, McCoy? You always were too fucking smart for your own good.’

  ‘What can I say? It’s a gift. Now your plans for world domination are out the way, can we talk about what I really came here to talk about?’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Elaine,’ said McCoy. ‘You hear anything? From her? Connolly?’

  Cooper shook his head, started peeling the paper label off his beer. ‘What’s to hear? She’s dead.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said McCoy.

  Cooper looked up at him. ‘Yes, I do, and so do you.’