20
FRANK DONOVAN SAT at his desk in Baird Street and stared at the crime scene photographs from the Springburn bedsit. Then he looked at the shots taken in the Oatlands flat thirteen years before. Then he looked at them both together. He’d suspected that the two scenes were almost identical but he couldn’t be certain until he received the file. He’d been right. The way Virginia had been murdered mirrored the death of Mary McCall exactly.
He’d asked Davie McCall if the name John Keen had meant anything to him, just on the off chance. He didn’t think the guy would know the name. Donovan didn’t even think this John Keen existed. There would be men of that name in the city – and they were in the process of tracking them down in order to eliminate them – but Donovan was confident none of them was his guy. He’d told Davie McCall that he was a ghost, and he’d meant it.
Donovan considered what all this meant. Two murders, years apart, with the second being dressed to look like the first. It couldn’t be a copycat because the details of the first murder had never been made public. Unless the second killer was a cop, a notion which made Donovan sweat a little, but his gut told him differently. Of course, in the interests of a thorough investigation, any officer on the scene in Oatlands all those years ago would have to be checked out. That’ll go down a storm, he thought. Davie McCall would have been able to recreate the scene of his mother’s death easily, he would imagine, Donovan being certain it was preserved in his memory like lines in stone. But the younger McCall was no killer, Donovan was certain of that. He could handle himself and maybe someday he’d do someone in during a fight, but not a woman, never a woman. Joe the Tailor had taught him too well. Anyway, he’d been tucked up in Barlinnie the night Virginia died.
So if it wasn’t a stranger and it wasn’t a cop and it wasn’t the son, that left only one possibility.
Danny McCall. The man, the myth. The ghost.
Donovan had only been on the job a year or two when the older McCall murdered his wife, almost killed his son and then vanished into the night. But he knew all about it. The events of 1980 had led him into probing Davie McCall’s background and that, inexorably, led to Danny. He’d asked around, done a bit of digging and managed to get a feel for the man.
He’d been an enforcer for Joe the Tailor and was good at his job. What set him apart from others in his trade was his intelligence, the majority of men in his line of business being dumb brutes who broke that bone or sliced that flesh when their bosses told them. When he was sent out to put a scare into someone, he put some thought into it, coming up with novel ways to intimidate. The famous crucified man, hands nailed to the floorboards, had been his work, although no official complaint was made and no-one arrested. Danny McCall had also led a charmed life with regards to the law, for Donovan could only find one conviction, for mobbing and rioting, when he was in his late teens and running with a street gang out of Dennistoun.
He was thirty-six when he disappeared, that would make him forty-nine now. Where the hell had he been all that time? What had he been doing? And what was he doing back in Glasgow? He was calling himself John Keen, but Donovan would bet his pension it wasn’t the only alias he’d used over the years as he’d drifted from place to place, dodging the Law and Joe Klein. Couldn’t have been easy but a guy with Danny McCall’s smarts would have known what he was doing. He’d’ve made contacts over the years, guys with no liking for the Law, or Joe, who would give him aid. Donovan sat back in his chair and considered what Danny McCall would’ve done with himself all these years. A bit of work here and there, he supposed, for those same men who sheltered him would have found a use for his particular talents. Donovan gazed again at the photographs spread across his desk. Two murders, over a decade apart. Were there more, he wondered? A request through HOLMES, the computer system beginning to link forces up and down the country, would help there.
His phone rang. ‘DS Donovan.’
‘Frank, it’s Detective Superintendent Bannatyne.’
Donovan closed his eyes. He’d forgotten to let Bannatyne know he’d spoken to McCall. ‘Sorry, sir, I’ve been wrapped up in this murder, forgot to call…’
‘Never mind that now, Frank. Events have moved on.’
Donovan was puzzled. Did Bannatyne know about his theory about Virginia’s murder? Donovan hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, not even his DI, but he wouldn’t put it past Gentleman Jack to have some way of knowing. ‘Sir?’
‘You hear about the dead man up Sighthill?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Donovan. Another detective from Baird Street was leading that one.
‘Dead man is Gerald Lomas.’
‘Yes, sir, security guard at a whisky warehouse, I hear.’
‘Yes, latterly,’ said Bannatyne. ‘But before that he was a prison officer.’
Donovan raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t heard that.
‘Frank, Gerald Lomas was the officer who came upon David McCall battering all kinds of shite out of a boy called Donald Harris.’
Donovan felt something cold steal over him. But there was worse to come.
‘And earlier this morning, Donald Harris was found dead in a flat in the Gorbals.’
Donovan’s eyes were on the pictures before him but he didn’t see them. Davie, he thought, what the hell have you done?
* * *
‘Davie, what the hell have you done?’
Davie had opened the door to his flat to find the Audrey on his doorstep, her face set hard. Wordlessly she pushed past him and then, once he had closed the door, whirled on him in the hall and fired the question at him like a bullet.
‘What you talking about?’ He asked.
‘Jinky… Donald Harris,’ she said.
Davie was puzzled. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead, that’s what about him. So that’s the prison officer and now him.’
‘How’d he die?’
‘Overdose, it seems. But he was an experienced user, Christ he was almost making a career out of it. He was too wise to OD. He knew the score.’
‘Aud, it was nothing to do with me…’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
Davie took a deep breath and then expelled it slowly. He didn’t expect her to believe him but he would have to convince her somehow that he was not responsible. He couldn’t bear the thought of her believing him to be a double killer. Not her.
And there was only one way he could think of that might make her understand.
‘Come with me…’
She stood her ground in the hallway, eyes burning with anger, arms folded across her body.
‘Please,’ he said, motioning towards the living room. Audrey relented but her face remained frozen.
Davie picked up the envelope containing the Polaroids from the coffee table and handed it to her. She looked at it and said, ‘Soon? What’s soon?’
He didn’t reply. She sighed and slid the pictures out. She flicked through them, her face turning pale. There was a slight tremor in her hand as she held them out to him. ‘What is this?’
‘There was a woman murdered the other night, working girl.’
‘Virginia McTaggart, I know. How did you get these pictures? Are they police shots?’
Davie shook his head. ‘They were taken before the police got there. She wouldn’t have been long dead.’
Audrey looked down at the photographs, her brow working as she struggled to understand. ‘You going to tell me where you got these, or have I to assume you killed her as well as Lomas and Harris?’
That comment stung Davie like an open razor. ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I told you, the other man you saw killed Lomas, Harris too, probably. And he killed this girl. These pictures were left here for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because what you’re seeing there is a replica of the night my mother died. There are slight differences but the table, the overturned chair, the standard lamp – it’s all the same. She’d been ironing the night it happened. She hit my dad w
ith an iron when he went after me. He then beat her to death with a poker. He’s recreated it, for some reason.’
She stared at him, taking this in. When she spoke her voice was softer. ‘Your father did all this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Danny McCall…’ she saw his look of surprise when she said his name. ‘I’m a reporter. I find out things, it’s what I do. I’ve known about him since a few days after we met.’
He nodded, understanding. He’d never told her about his father but it stood to reason that she would do some research.
‘You have to take these to the police,’ she said. ‘Frank Donovan’s on that case, take them to him.’
Davie knew she was right, but the ingrained mistrust of the law would not leave him. Audrey caught his hesitation and said, ‘Davie, you have to do it. And tell them about Lomas, too.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, Aud. Can’t go to the cops.’
‘Davie, if you’re right your father is practically a serial killer. He’s killed your mother, he’s killed these people, who knows how many others he might’ve done over the years.’
That was just it, Davie thought. It was a truth he was finding difficult to face. His father was a stone cold killer. It was the drink that had led to him murdering his mother, no matter what fanciful theories old Sammy might have had about some dark force inside him. But these killings had been planned, premeditated. Lomas had it coming, maybe even Harris, for he was killing himself by inches anyway. But the girl? Davie couldn’t accept that. More than ever Davie feared that whatever lived inside his father also nested within him. There was only one way to purge it, he believed.
He had to get Danny McCall himself.
Audrey knew him well, though. ‘Davie, you can’t do this alone.’
‘Got to, Aud.’
She grew angry again. ‘What is this, some kind of macho thing? A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do?’
‘Can’t go to the police, Aud. This is between me and him…’
‘Not anymore, is it? Tell that to this girl,’ she held up the photos. ‘Tell that to Lomas and Harris and whoever else he kills from now on. Their deaths will be on you, Davie. You could do something now to stop him but you’re so fucking pig-headed, so fucking insular, that you can’t see sense. Step outside yourself, David McCall, look around. You can’t do this your way, Joe’s way. You need to talk to the police.’
Finally, Davie snapped. ‘He killed my mother!’
She took an involuntary step back at the violence in his tone. She had never seen Davie lose his temper, few people had, and his face had changed with such suddenness that it unnerved her. His eyes seemed to darken and his features harden into a mask. For a moment she thought he had become someone else. Something else. Then it was gone as quickly as it appeared and he looked ashamed. He turned his face away from her and when he spoke again it was barely a whisper.
‘My mother, Aud. And he tried to kill me. Now he’s playing some sort of game with me, God knows why. If I go to the police, I lose. He’ll vanish again and I’ll wonder when he’s going to turn up again, always looking over my shoulder. He’ll still be there. Still waiting and watching.’ He looked up then. ‘Him and me, Aud, that’s how it has to be. That’s the way he wants it. I don’t know what his end game is, but I do know that it’s going to come down to just him and me.’
And then, as if on cue, the phone rang. Davie’s eyes darted towards it and he felt something like dread. Audrey watched him, warily. ‘Are you going to answer it?’
‘It’s him,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
He looked back at her and for the first time ever she thought she saw fear. ‘I know.’
They both remained immobile, watching the phone as it rang. Then Davie gave a little sigh and plucked the handpiece from its cradle. He said nothing as he held it to his ear and at first all he heard was the muted sound of traffic on the line. Then he heard his father’s voice. ‘How’s it going, son?’
Davie watched Audrey as she moved to the couch and sat down, perching on the edge as if she was ready to bolt. ‘You’re one sick bastard, you know that?’
He heard a small laugh. ‘Good to hear your voice, too…’
Davie turned away so Audrey could not see him close his eyes tightly. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse. ‘Why you doing this?’
‘Same reason a dog licks its balls, son. Because I can…’
‘You said “Soon” on the note. What does it mean?’
‘Just what it says. Soon.’
‘You killed that girl just to send me that message?’
‘What? You didn’t like it? Thought it was a work of art myself.’
‘You didn’t need to kill her.’
‘Now, where’s the fun in that? Eh?’
Then Davie asked the question that had puzzled him for years. ‘Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?’
There was a pause on the line and again Davie heard traffic sounds. He was in a call box somewhere, he was sure of it. ‘Call me sentimental,’ Danny said eventually.
‘Yet you murdered your wife.’
That small laugh again. ‘What can I say, son? My moods are… changeable.’
Davie felt his rage reach boiling point and his grip tightened on the handset. ‘You really are sick.’
‘Now, now, sticks and stones. You don’t want your girlfriend there thinking you’ve no respect for your old man…’
Everything froze and Davie shot a glance in Audrey’s direction. When she saw his expression, she tensed. Then Danny was gone with a click. Davie dropped the phone and threw himself across the room to the window. He pulled back the curtain, his head darting left and right. There was no call box out there, but he couldn’t help himself. He thought about rushing out, finding the nearest box, but his more rational self told him his father would be long gone. But he now knew for certain that Danny McCall was always there, watching, waiting.
Audrey was at his side, her hand gently touching his back. He could feel the slight pressure of her hand and somehow it soothed him. ‘You’re not like him, you could never be like him. Forget all this lone gunfighter shit. Go to Frank Donovan. Tell him.’
For the first time he could remember, Davie McCall was confused and unsure of what to do next. He wished Joe were there, he would know. Joe would sort it all out. But Joe wasn’t there. Maybe Audrey was right, maybe going to the cops was the best thing to do. So what if his father took to the wind again, at least he’d be out of his hair, if only for a while.
In the end, the police came to him.
21
JIMMY KNIGHT sauntered through the Necropolis, a cigarillo clenched between his teeth, casually casting an eye over the gravestones and lairs as he passed them. He wasn’t taking in any of the names or dates etched into the various stones. He wasn’t interested in the dead of the past. To his right rose the vaulted roof of Glasgow Cathedral, beside it the dark bulk of the Royal Infirmary, both set against a slate grey sky. The low rumble of the traffic on the M8 behind him and the High Street was muted in the damp air. The Victorian city of the dead was peaceful and he met no-one along the way. Very few locals ventured here, at least during the daylight hours. Glasgow people were largely unaware of the history on their doorstep. At night teenagers might climb the fence and trek up the hill to find a place to drink and laugh and explore each other’s bodies, while junkies probably sought the seclusion for their pursuits, but only a few city dwellers would visit the place, leaving it to the tourists and the historians. But on a dull November weekday, there were few tourists and Knight wasn’t interested in history.
He found his quarry standing alone, looking across the tombstones towards the East End of the city. ‘Rab,’ said Knight. ‘Glad you could make it.’
He spoke as if McClymont had a choice, which he hadn’t. Knight had insisted on a meeting and when Knight insisted, Rab had to comply. Knight had built up quite a file on McClymont containing evide
nce which, if revealed, would put him away for some time. Rab did not want to go away for any length of time. Knight also had Rab McClymont registered as an official informant, codename ‘Bluto’, which amused the big cop no end. He’d chosen the cartoon name because as Rab grew older he looked more like Popeye’s nemesis – dark hair, dark shadow on the chin that no amount of shaving could shift, muscles beginning to run to flab. If it ever got out that McClymont was telling tales, it would be the end of him. The legend RAB McCLYMONT IS A GRASS would be found on a wall and Rab himself face down in a ditch somewhere.
Knight knew Rab also had a file – photographs and tape recordings of Knight making deals that would make his superiors drop their Filofaxes. They had reached a stalemate, the threat of mutually assured destruction binding them even closer together. Neither of them wanted to use their weapon because their partnership had proved to be far too rewarding but it was there, just in case.
‘What’s up?’ Rab asked.
Knight withdrew his cigarillo and blew a cloud of smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from Rab. He knew the big guy hated the stench of his preferred brand and he was nothing if not considerate of other people’s feelings. ‘Your boy Davie is getting himself in hot water.’
Rab looked surprised. ‘What? Already? What’s he done?’
‘Bloke by the name of Lomas was stabbed over there in Sighthill. He was a screw in Barlinnie while McCall was there. And an ex-con called Harris died of an overdose.’
Rab thought about this, then said carefully, ‘So what’s that got to do with Davie?’
‘Lomas was the screw who caught your boy beating up Harris. His evidence put him away for another eight years. Theory is that Davie boy is settling scores.’
Rab shook his head. ‘No, no way. If they’d been damaged a bit, aye maybe, but no killing. No Davie.’
‘People change. He’s been away a long time. So he’s no mentioned any of this to you?’
‘Not a word.’
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