February's Son

by Alan Parks

  He stood up, held his hand out to McCoy. ‘Until the next time, Mr McCoy.’

  McCoy shook it, amazed. Lomax nodded at Murray and left.

  Murray sat back in his chair. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said McCoy, relief flooding his body.

  ‘You’re fucking lucky,’ said Murray. ‘Won’t happen twice. Now fuck off.’

  McCoy stood up, headed for the door.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Murray. ‘I forgot.’

  McCoy sat back down.

  ‘Burgess. The Albany. Definitely something funny going on there.’

  ‘Aye?’ asked McCoy, fear rising.

  ‘Gilroy now. Her report’s in. He had Mandrax in his throat. Was pushed down there post-mortem.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Exactly. Why would you give someone Mandrax when they were already dead? Doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Maybe Connolly just wanted to do what he always did?’

  Soon as he said it McCoy knew how stupid it sounded.

  Murray looked at him.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Whatever it is, something’s not quite right. I might hand it to Eastern right enough, get them to look at it as a separate case. Can’t do any harm.’

  ‘No,’ said McCoy. He felt as if he was going to be sick. New investigation. No way they weren’t going to find out about him and Cooper beating him up first.

  ‘When are you going to decide?’

  ‘When I decide. That okay with you?’ asked Murray, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Gonnae be hard with Connolly the way he is, isn’t it?’

  Murray sat back. ‘Not if he didn’t do it, it isn’t. Crammond from Eastern’s good. He’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  McCoy nodded. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse. Crammond. He was a fucking terrier, good detective. Everyone expected him to be a chief inspector in a few years. If Murray got him on the case he was fucked, truly fucked.

  Murray pointed at him. ‘And by the way, I meant what I said. I’m going to get Cooper whatever it takes and if I ever hear you use him to threaten anyone again, even a cunt like Abrahams, I’ll batter fuck out you myself.’

  McCoy nodded. Didn’t disbelieve him.

  FORTY

  McCoy sat down at his desk. Looked at the clock. Half past seven. Chest hurt like fuck. Kept thinking about being on that table, not able to move, Connolly with the scalpel. No wonder he felt like a drink. Usually, after a case like this, with someone like Connolly in custody, there would be a big piss-up. Murray putting thirty quid behind the bar at the Eskimo, everyone ending up merry with the drink and flushed with the success of getting the bastard.

  Not this time. Nobody really had the heart for it. Least of all him. Connolly was downstairs in the cells but it wasn’t really him that was there. Was like he’d escaped his body somehow, had the last laugh. Pulled a fast one on them. No trial, no prison sentence, just a lifetime spent staring at a wall in somewhere like Woodilee, vacant smile on his face.

  Elaine Scobie was gone. Whisked away by some auntie, was at her house in Lenzie, it seemed. Auntie wasn’t stupid. Elaine was a very wealthy young woman, her father’s death had seen to that. Whoever was in charge of her welfare would get their hands on it soon enough.

  Wattie appeared beside him. ‘You okay?’

  McCoy nodded. Wasn’t. Was still thinking about bloody Crammond.

  ‘Heard Murray had a right go at you.’

  ‘I deserved it.’

  ‘How’s the stitches?’

  ‘Sore. I’ll live.’

  ‘The forensic boys are dismantling his wee torture chamber now, seeing if they can find any trace of him doing it to anybody else.’

  ‘Don’t think he did,’ said McCoy. ‘Wee bastard was so proud of himself he’d have told us.’

  ‘Probably right.’ Wattie pulled the chair from his desk over, sat opposite McCoy. Looked round to make sure no one was listening. ‘It’s started,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Viking. Stevie Cooper. Heard it on the radio. Waller and Tommy Simons are in an ambulance on the way to the Royal. Waller’s not expected to make it.’

  ‘Christ,’ said McCoy.

  With all that had happened today he’d forgotten about Cooper’s plans.

  ‘That’s not all. The Silver Bells is on fire, so’re two houses in Bishopbriggs and there’s about twenty troops in A&E waiting to get stitched up.’ He sat back. ‘Looks like your pal’s the new boss of the Northside.’

  ‘Does Murray know?’

  ‘Will do in about ten minutes. Thomson’s just checking everything before he goes in to tell him. Wouldn’t want to be Thomson for all the bloody tea in China. He’ll go fucking mental.’

  McCoy stood up.

  ‘Where you off to?’ asked Wattie, looking surprised.

  ‘Need to go and see Cooper. And need to get the fuck out of here before Thomson breaks the news.’

  Wattie grinned. ‘You off to congratulate him?’

  ‘No. To give him the news. Let him know his girlfriend’s a fucking vegetable. You stay here. No matter what anybody says, you and I were never in the Viking, right?’

  Wattie nodded.

  ‘I mean it, Wattie. Not a fucking word or both of us are fucking toast.’ Chances were he was toast already but he didn’t need Wattie knowing about that.

  Wattie held his hands up. ‘Okay. Okay. Christ . . . calm down.’ He thought a minute. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Abrahams will be dead within the week. Can tell you that for a fact.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  Thomson was getting up from his desk, couple of pages of foolscap in his hand, heading for Murray’s closed door. McCoy picked up his coat from the back of his chair and hurried towards the door as Thomson started knocking.

  FORTY-ONE

  Memel Street seemed to be the best bet. He got a cab outside the station. When he told the driver where he was going the man said he’d take him to the corner but there was no way he was driving down there. McCoy just said okay. Couldn’t be bothered arguing.

  He sat in the back, watching the city go by, feeling sorry for himself. Tried to scratch under the bandage on his arm. Seemed like it was all piling up, wasn’t sure he was going to make it through the next couple of weeks. If Murray gave Crammond the go-ahead to look at Uncle Kenny’s murder he and Cooper were fucked. No way Crammond wouldn’t find out what really happened.

  Even if he got away with that, Murray was so intent on bringing Cooper down he was going to get caught in the crossfire. Way his record was he’d never survive a disciplinary meeting. He’d be out on his arse, charged with something, if he was lucky, and if he wasn’t he was heading for Barlinnie.

  The taxi dropped him on Hawthorn Street and he started walking up Memel. Chances were Cooper already knew what had happened to Elaine. Always seemed to know what was going on before most of the police did. Still, he owed it to him to tell him the story, even if he wasn’t much looking forward to it.

  He was about halfway up the road when he started to hear the music and the shouts and the laughing. Seemed the victory party was in full swing already. Just what he felt like. A bunch of kids were hanging out outside the close. Looked for the wee girl with the cardigan but couldn’t see her. He pushed past them and climbed the stairs.

  Couple of guys were standing guard halfway up, recognised him from the Viking, let him through. One of them had a thick cotton patch attached to his cheek with tape, blood seeping out from under it.

  ‘That looks sore,’ said McCoy.

  The boy shrugged. Boom-boom of the music from the party louder now. He took a gulp from his bottle of Whisky Mac, held it out for McCoy. He took a slug, was grateful for it, grimaced as the cheap whisky burned his throat. Handed it back. ‘Anyone else get hurt?’

  ‘Few of the boys. Tam Mullen’s in the Royal. One of the cunts had a hatchet.’

  ‘Nasty.’r />
  The boy grinned. ‘Should have seen the state of them, but.’

  McCoy trudged up the stairs. ‘The Jean Genie’ finished. ‘Virginia Plain’ started. The door of the flat was ajar. McCoy pushed it open and the music was deafening. The flat was boiling hot, mobbed; most of the crew he’d seen at the Viking plus loads of young dressed-up and made-up girls. The air was thick with dope smoke and the smell of incense and perfume. A girl dressed in her bra and knickers was hammering at the bathroom door.

  ‘Billy!’ she shouted. ‘Billy! Let me in!’

  The bathroom door opened and McCoy caught a glimpse of Billy Weir, naked but for his Paisley patterned underpants, holding an album cover covered in white lines up to a girl’s face. The other girl jumped in, slammed the door shut behind her.

  He elbowed his way through the crowded hall, took a few drags of a joint that was offered to him, made it to the kitchen. Table was covered in cans and bottles. Someone was unwrapping a big newspaper parcel full of steaming fish suppers. Jumbo was sitting on a chair at the back looking about as unhappy as McCoy had ever seen him, long-haired girl sitting on his lap, arms round his neck.

  ‘Where is he, Jumbo?’ shouted McCoy above the noise.

  ‘He’s in the Central Hotel,’ said Jumbo. ‘I know where it is. I’ll take you.’

  He stood up so quickly the girl fell off his lap onto the floor. She looked disgusted, started brushing herself off.

  They walked out the close and back along the muddy gardens. Even though it had started to rain again, a cold drizzle turning the light round the lampposts a hazy orange, the fresh air felt good. Jumbo seemed to have been decked out by someone. No plimsolls and woolly jumper any more. He’d smart black slip-ons, shirt with repeat patterns of Charlie Chaplin on it, leather jacket. Looked like every other member of Cooper’s troops.

  ‘I know where the Central is, Jumbo,’ said McCoy. ‘It’s the biggest bloody hotel in Glasgow.’

  ‘Thought I’d make sure,’ he said.

  ‘You no want to stay for the lassies?’ asked McCoy. ‘You want to go back?’

  Jumbo shook his head, face going red. ‘I’ll show you where Mr Cooper is.’

  ‘Suit yourself. So how’d the big battle go?’

  ‘It was horrible,’ said Jumbo.

  McCoy stopped, realised Jumbo was close to tears. Even with his flash clothes, he still looked like he always looked, like a lost boy in a hulking man’s body.

  ‘Why? What happened?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘I went with Mr Cooper to the pub.’

  ‘The Silver Bells?’

  He nodded. ‘Mr Cooper stabbed the two men before they knew what was happening to them. He stabbed them and stabbed them, they were crying and screaming, and one of them fell on the floor and he stamped on his face, did it three times. Then he—’

  He stopped, wiped at his eyes. ‘The other one had a big knife—’

  ‘A machete?’

  Jumbo nodded. ‘He went for Mr Cooper with it but he managed to get it off him and he hit him across the face with it.’

  ‘Jumbo, you don’t—’

  ‘And half his face was hanging off and the blood was all over Mr Cooper and he was shouting he was going to fucking kill him and Billy was trying to pull him away and I thought he was going to kill Billy he looked so angry.’

  McCoy put his arm round him. Could feel the sobs shaking his body. ‘You sure you’re cut out for all this, son?’

  He managed to get it out through the sobs. ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go.’

  McCoy patted his back, told him he was going to be okay, that he was just upset, he’d be fine tomorrow. Almost believed it. Felt like it was half his fault. In trying to save Jumbo he’d managed to sell him into a terrible kind of life, a life his body was right for but his mind wasn’t. Horrible thing was he was right. He really didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  A taxi emerged from the mist and rain. McCoy hailed it and they got it in. Told the driver to take them to the Central Hotel. Lit up a fag. Tried to convince himself things could be worse. He could be Jumbo. Failed.

  *

  The taxi stopped at the rank under the canopy outside Central Station and they got out. Rain was really coming down now, line for the taxis stretched all the way back to the hotel. The Central was a huge railway hotel – ornate building, all towers and carved stone. Unlike the St Enoch, this one was booming. Everybody had stayed there, from Laurel and Hardy to Judy Garland. Even Led Zeppelin. Until they got banned that was.

  ‘He’s in the penthouse suite,’ said Jumbo, looking up.

  ‘Okay,’ said McCoy. ‘How come you’re no with him? Thought you two were joined at the hip?’

  ‘He said he wanted to be by himself tonight,’ said Jumbo.

  ‘What you going to do now? Go back to the party?’

  Jumbo shook his head, looked a bit embarrassed. ‘The Jungle Book’s on at the Odeon. I saw it when I was a wee boy.’

  ‘It’s a good film.’

  Jumbo nodded. ‘Tell Mr Cooper I’ll be downstairs in the hotel from seven in the morning if he needs me.’

  McCoy nodded, watched Jumbo lumber up the street towards the cinema. Wondered how long he was going to survive this new life.

  FORTY-TWO

  The best-looking girl McCoy had ever seen answered the door of the suite. She was as tall as him, long blonde hair, figure barely hidden in what looked like one of Cooper’s short-sleeved shirts.

  ‘I’m looking for Stevie,’ he said, trying not to stare.

  She smiled. ‘Sure.’ American accent. ‘He’s in the big bedroom.’

  Big bedroom implied there was more than one. Suite must be even bigger than it looked from the door.

  ‘Through the seating area, can’t miss him.’ She opened the door wide and turned, shouted, ‘Steven! You got a visitor!’

  Steven? He hadn’t heard Stevie called that since they were at school. He smiled at her, feeling slightly awkward, and walked into the big seating area, stood for a minute, took it in. Two couches facing each other, glass coffee table with a big arrangement of flowers on it in the middle. Long windows overlooked Hope Street and the lights of the city beyond.

  His shoes sank into the carpet as he walked towards a pair of double doors on the back wall, passed a silver tray on the sideboard loaded with gleaming crystal tumblers and shiny bottles of spirits. Memel Street and Billy’s party couldn’t have been further away.

  Cooper was sitting up in a huge double bed, bare-chested, hair all over the place. Was propped up on what looked like four or five crisp white pillows, big grin on his face.

  ‘So I guess all this means your plan worked out?’ said McCoy.

  Cooper laughed. ‘Ellie!’ he shouted. The girl appeared in the doorway. ‘Do us a favour, hen, get us a couple of beers?’

  She nodded, walked away, bum looking like it was chewing toffees.

  ‘Where the fuck did she come from?’ asked McCoy, watching her backside disappear.

  Cooper grinned. ‘Akron. Wherever the fuck that is. She’s a model. Here to do some fashion show thing for Fraser’s. Met her in there when I was buying another suit.’

  ‘You don’t even wear suits,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Might start now. Now that I’m living the high life.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said McCoy. ‘She’s certainly made herself at home, I’ll say that for her.’

  Cooper patted the side of the bed. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘Nope,’ said McCoy, pulling the chair out from the dressing table. ‘Not falling for that one. Don’t need my head rapped, thank you.’

  ‘Would I do that?’ said Cooper, patting the bed again.

  McCoy sighed. Cooper was in one of his good moods. Was liable to keep this going until he did what he asked. May as well get it over with.

  He sat on the side of the bed. Cooper smiled, did nothing. Then grabbed him in a bear hug, got his head under his shoulder, arm across his neck.

  ‘Surrender!’ he sh
outed.

  ‘I surrender,’ said McCoy, trying to breathe through the stranglehold.

  Cooper squeezed harder, rapped the top of his head with his knuckles. ‘Didn’t hear ye!’

  ‘I surrender!’ he gasped.

  Cooper laughed, let him go, pushed him away, and McCoy tumbled off the bed and ended up on the floor. Sat up.

  ‘You know something, Stevie? The fact you still find that funny after twenty bloody years is really fucking sad.’

  ‘What’s fucking sad is you fall for it every time,’ said Cooper.

  McCoy was about to explain but didn’t. Sat on the chair, tried to smooth himself down. ‘You okay then? Survive the war intact?’

  Cooper twisted round, long fresh cut intersecting the scar that was already on his back. Pulled the covers back to show McCoy a deep gouge on his calf that seemed to have been bandaged with duct tape. Then he held up his left hand. Tip of his middle finger was missing.

  ‘Like Dave Allen,’ he said, grinned.

  ‘Yep, except you’re not funny. That’s not too bad, could have been a lot worse. Heard you put some people in the hospital.’

  Cooper shrugged. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood. ‘Nature of the game. Fuck them. They’d have done the same to me.’

  ‘Boys.’

  They turned and Ellie was standing there with four bottles of beer on a tray. She put it down on the end of the bed, winked at Cooper and left again.

  ‘Is she actually real?’ asked McCoy. ‘Looks like Miss World, appears with trays of beer and she seems to actually like you.’

  Cooper grinned again. Was like a cat that had got the cream, all of the cream. ‘You ever slept with an American bird?’

  McCoy shook his head, took a swig from his beer bottle.

  ‘Whole different ball game—’

  ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’ McCoy held out his bottle. ‘Cheers!’

  They clinked bottles, drank.

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘This is what happens now,’ Cooper said, waving his arm about. ‘Places like this. Northside’s mine now. Billy Chan’s back from Hong Kong. Sorted out his connection. All systems go. No more fucking Memel Street and all the shite that goes with it. That’s Billy’s now. I’ve done my fucking time at the coalface. Time to kick back and enjoy life for a change. Gonnae stay here for a while, starting to get used to it.’