by Alan Parks
‘That what this was about then?’ asked Wattie. ‘He try it on with someone on his weekly visit? Lovers tiff?’
Mullen shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘Any witnesses we can talk to?’ asked Wattie.
Mullen and McCoy looked at each other. ‘He just started, has he?’ asked Mullen.
McCoy nodded. ‘Go easy. Rule number one, Mr Watson. Never any witnesses in prison, never are, never will be. We’re on our own.’ He loosened his tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Christ, it’s like a fucking oven in here.’
‘Plumber’s on his way,’ said Mullen.
‘Aye, so’s Christmas,’ said McCoy. He stepped back from the body, tried to get nearer the door and the fresh air. Tried to think. ‘I can’t see some bloke Nairn’s had a go at in the showers doing this, can you? Nairn was an animal. He asked you to touch your toes you’d do it, say thanks afterwards.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said one of the ambulance men, looking disgusted.
‘You’d have to be as much of a cunt as he was to do this. So who does that leave us with then? Martin Walsh still in?’
Mullen nodded. ‘Another couple of years to go. Martin Walsh definitely. Maybe Tommy MacLean? You know the suspects as well as I do. But if it’s some jealous boyfriend, then fuck knows, bets are off. That sort play their cards close to their chests in here. Don’t want it getting back to the wife or the boys in the pub who’s tucking them in at night.’
One of the ambulance men moved forward, causing a wave in the water that broke against McCoy’s trouser legs. ‘You want him moved?’ he asked.
McCoy shook his head. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No way. Barlinnie’s in Eastern’s territory. They’ll be here soon, they can sort it out. You okay now?’
Wattie was leaning against the tiled wall, still deathly white. He nodded, looked sheepish.
‘I’ve got to get out of here, I’m fucking melting. All right if we use your office for a bit, Tommy? Think the High Heid Yin’s on his way. I promise I’ll no let Wattie here be sick in it.’
Tommy’s office was right at the back of the prison, hidden away. He’d done it up over the years, tried to make it homely. It was a room not much bigger than a cupboard, strip of carpet on the floor, various pictures of him holding up fish, waders on, stuck on the wall. He’d a kettle on a tray, two cracked mugs and a bag of sugar full of brown clumps sitting next to it. McCoy sat on the chair, started to undo his shoelaces. They were wet, couldn’t get the knot to come loose. He stuck his half-bitten nails in and pulled, eventually came free. He nodded to the kettle.
‘Penance for boaking your load. You can make the tea. Think you’ll manage that?’
Wattie nodded, plugged it in and pressed the red switch. ‘You ever seen anything like that before?’ he asked.
‘Like what? Somebody with their throat cut or with their tongue cut out?’
‘Don’t know. Whole thing, I suppose. All that blood in the water, him lying there.’
McCoy pushed the other shoe off with his foot, couldn’t be arsed with the laces. ‘Nope. But I’ve seen different and I’ve seen worse. Think yourself lucky you didn’t want to be a fireman. That’s the real gruesome stuff. Bodies mangled in car accidents, kids burned in their beds, all sorts of shite. No sugar for me.’
McCoy had just finished his tea and was lighting up a fag when he heard Murray shouting at somebody, as usual. He didn’t care if they were a polis who worked for him or not, he was happy to shout at anyone. The door opened and he took in the scene. Face clouded over immediately.
‘What the fuck’s going on here then?’ he said, looking at the two of them sitting there drinking tea in their shirts and skivvies.
McCoy nodded over at their socks and trousers steaming on the radiator. ‘We got soaked, sir, just trying to dry off.’
Murray shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Fucking pair of clowns. You see Nairn yet? What’s he got to say for himself?’
‘Not much,’ said McCoy. ‘You want a cup of tea?’
Wattie made him one while McCoy explained how they’d got so wet. Murray sighed, sat down on the edge of the desk and started padding his jacket. ‘I don’t even know why I’m asking this, but I will. Coincidence?’ he said hopefully.
Wattie looked for something to say, to redeem himself from the shame of being sick at a crime scene. ‘He was a poof, sir. Could be he fell out with one of his boyfriends? Or maybe he tried to get someone in the showers?’
Murray looked over at McCoy. He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Whoever did it cut out his tongue, didn’t like what he’d been saying and wanted someone else to know. Howie Nairn was a big man in here, but there’s others. Others that would have done it to him for the money. Somebody outside probably paid for it or called in a favour.’
‘What? Because of what he told you?’
‘Good a chance as any. According to Mullen, other than getting me up here for his wee story he’s been a good boy. Quite happy doing nothing but parking his arse in front of The Magic Roundabout.’
‘Christ, you telling me that fucking animal was in the Special Unit? A murdering cunt like him gets a fucking colour TV and a vegetable patch after all he’s done? What about the people he slashed and killed? What do they get?’
McCoy held up his hand, tried to stop the rant or they’d be here all day. ‘It’s Eastern’s patch, maybe they can find out something about who did it.’
Murray grunted. ‘Eastern? You’re kidding yourself, aren’t you? Even if they weren’t worse than fucking useless they’ve no hope. Murder in a prison? About as much chance as winning the pools. You sure you’ve still no idea why he told you?’
‘I’m sick of telling you, Murray. No, I haven’t, and you know what? I wish he hadn’t fucking bothered. Right?’
Murray held his hands up. ‘Don’t be so fucking touchy, McCoy, was only asking.’ He’d found his pipe and was now tapping the bowl off the edge of Mullen’s desk. ‘Boy’s dead, by the way. In the ambulance to the Royal.’
McCoy walked over to the radiator and felt his trousers. Dry enough. He shook them out, stepped into them. Remembered sitting there, boy’s hand in his, eyes staring up into the sky. ‘He say anything?’
‘You saw him. He’d only half his fucking brain, what do you think?’
‘Fair enough. What about the girl?’
‘What about her? Dead as soon as the bullet hit. Whoever he was he was a fucking good shot. Bullet went straight into her heart.’
McCoy was balancing on one leg, hopping about, trying to pull on a damp sock. ‘Who was she, then? What’s her story? Any connection with Nairn?’
Murray shook his head. ‘Not so far. Came from Aberdeen. Only moved down six months ago and the parents haven’t heard from her since. Worked at Malmaison, on the verge of getting the boot it seems. Turning up late, general uselessness. Theory is she spent the night at her pal’s after a night at the dancing. We should get the pal in, see what she knows.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’ll go to her. Get more out of her that way.’
Murray nodded and stood up. ‘Up to you. And what about laughing boy in the showers?’
McCoy finished tying his shoelaces. ‘Eastern’s problem now.’ He brushed himself down, trousers looked a mess but that was no great change. ‘Someone’ll have to tell Bobby, by the way.’
‘Bobby?’
McCoy tapped his chest where Nairn’s tattoo had been. ‘His faithful other half.’
Murray rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck sake.’
‘It’s the seventies, Murray. Legal now and everything. Should send a woman, not some old copper who’s going to sit there thinking he’s a nonce. Be more sympathetic. Get more out of him.’
Murray started again on the Special Unit and fucking nonces and sympathy for the bloody victims. McCoy let it wash over him. Couldn’t help but think Murray was right. Had to be a reason Nairn had got him up here, had told him about Lorna Skirving. All he had to do was work out what it w
as.
SIX
The last time McCoy had been in Bedlay Street it was still a proper street, rows of tenements, a few shops, even a pub. He’d run Janey up, sat in the car while she went up to buy hash from some guy who’d been to Amsterdam. Was only a year or so ago, but now Bedlay Street was just a strip of cobbles running through mud. Same all over. The Springburn he remembered, the big locomotive works, rows of tenements crammed full of people, was long gone. The works had all been shut down, people moved out to the new schemes on the outskirts of town. Schemes that were already riddled with damp, if you believed the people sent there.
Now Springburn was just motorways, half-demolished tenements with wallpapered rooms open to the sky and the odd pub left stranded in the middle of nowhere. Everything around it gone. Council may as well have firebombed the place, would have been quicker at least. He stood on the cobbles looking round, trying to get his bearings. Could see the big chimney at Pinkston, which meant he must be facing west, realised he must be standing across from where the baker’s had been.
‘What’s up with you?’ asked Wattie.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just trying to work out where I am. I used to get sent to the baker’s up here. Saturday morning, get my dad’s rolls.’ He looked at the muddy patch of ground where Boland’s should have been. The Black Lion next door was gone too. Number of hours he’d had to spend waiting outside for his dad he could have happily knocked it down himself. He turned away.
‘What’s the pal’s name again?’
Wattie fished his new polis notebook out his inside pocket. ‘Christine Nair,’ he said, snapping it shut and looking up at the windows. ‘Top floor.’
‘Where you from, then?’ McCoy asked as they walked into the close.
‘Greenock. Down near Scotts.’
‘Didnae fancy the shipbuilding, eh?’
‘Didnae fancy me. Most of them are shut down. My da’s been sitting at the kitchen table staring into space past couple of years.’
The close was dark, bulb gone, graffiti everywhere. They trudged up, eventually got to the top landing. Stopped, caught their breath. Christine Nair’s door was surrounded by plastic bags full of rubbish, half of them burst, eggshells and soup cans spilling down the stairs.
‘What about you, then?’ Wattie asked. ‘Glasgow?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Possil.’
‘Where’s that?’
He pointed behind him. ‘About five minutes down there. What’s left of it.’
*
Christine Nair answered the knock on the door in a shiny bomber jacket, big badge with ‘The Sweet’ pinned on it, yellow satin miniskirt, face all made up. Bored eyes stared out from under her feather cut. Didn’t look very happy to see them.
‘Off out?’ McCoy asked pleasantly.
She looked the two of them up and down. ‘Aye, and I’m late. What’s it to you?’
McCoy held out his police card. ‘We need to talk to you, hen, about Lorna.’
She sighed, held the door open and they walked in. The Marc Bolan posters and the tie-dyed bedspread weren’t doing much to cheer up a single-end on its uppers. There were piles of dirty clothes on the floor, an overflowing bin in the corner, tap dripping on a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. The room smelt of joss sticks just like the shebeen. Wasn’t enough to cover the smell of damp, though. Big dark patch of it in the corner of the ceiling. She switched the radio off, the overhead light on and sat down on the bed. Didn’t take her jacket off.
‘What’s she done, then?’ she asked.
‘She’s no done anything, hen,’ said McCoy. ‘She’s been killed.’
‘She’s been what?’ She looked at them both, trying to work out if this was some kind of joke. ‘She left here this morning . . .’
‘Wattie, see if you can make a cup of tea, eh?’ said McCoy. He nodded, went over to the cooker. Turned the gas on. Nothing doing. He sighed, reached in his pocket and stuck ten pence in the meter.
‘I’m sorry, love. It must be a shock, eh? You all right?’
She nodded, tears starting in her eyes. McCoy searched his pockets for a hanky but couldn’t find one. Wattie produced a neatly folded one from his coat pocket and handed it over.
‘What happened?’ she asked, looking bewildered.
McCoy sighed, wasn’t really an easy way to do this. ‘She was shot, she didn’t feel anything, was very quick, it’s—’
‘She was what?’ The girl was looking at him like he was mad. ‘No! Lorna was shot?’
McCoy nodded. Wattie took the hanky out her shaking hands, handed her the tea. ‘Drink this, loads of sugar in it, do you good.’
She managed to get the chipped Snoopy mug up to her mouth, took a sip. ‘I cannae believe any of this, are you sure?’
McCoy nodded. ‘She stay here last night, did she?’
She nodded. ‘We went out last night, both on early shift at work. The Muscular Arms . . .’ She faded away, tears started rolling down her cheeks. ‘Who killed her?’
‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘Why’d he do it?’
‘We don’t know that either.’
She shook her head. Took another sip of her tea. ‘I cannae take this in, I cannae believe it.’
McCoy tried to find somewhere to sit, wasn’t anywhere, leant back against the dressing table, caused a minor avalanche amongst the nail varnish bottles and wee pottery dogs covering it. ‘Sorry about that, hen,’ he said, righting them. ‘What was Lorna like, then, Christine? She a good friend of yours?’
She nodded and then shook her head. ‘Sort of. Met her at work. She could be a pain in the arse, but why would someone want to kill her?’
‘Pain in the arse, how?’ McCoy asked.
Christine shrugged. ‘Borrowed money and never gave it back, was always late for her shifts, got me to cover up for her.’
‘She have a boyfriend?’
She reached over to a wee yellow bag, rummaged in it, brought out a ten pack of Kensitas Club. Lit up. ‘She didn’t really have a proper boyfriend.’
‘Good-looking girl like her? You sure?’
She chewed on her bottom lip, purple lipstick coming off onto her teeth, unsure whether to go on or not.
‘Just tell us, love. Anything you know will help us find out who did it. Doesn’t matter if he was married or something. Just need to know.’ McCoy thought she was going to clam up; she took another drag of her cigarette and looked at him uncertainly.
‘Come on, Christine, love. It’s important.’
‘The customers at the restaurant. She went with them sometimes. In their cars. Hotel rooms. Old men.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Pure disgusting, it was.’
‘What? Lorna was on the game?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No really, she didnae go up Blythswood or anything like that. She was good-looking, wanted a good time. Money. Clothes. “Sugar daddies”, she called them. They gave her money, took her out to clubs, the dancing, maybe bought her a present. That cunt Agnotti pays us fuck all, you know.’
‘What about you? You short of money, too?’
‘Fuck off.’ She held up her hand, showing half-moons of dirt beneath her nails and an engagement ring with a tiny chip of diamond. ‘I’m getting married in the summer, saving up.’
There was a strip of pictures Sellotaped to the headboard behind her, kind you get from the photo booths in train stations. The two of them, Lorna and her, sticking their tongues out, then pulling model faces. They were both dressed up, looked a lot older than they were. McCoy leant over and peeled it off the wood, peered at it.
‘Go out a lot together, did you?’
Christine shrugged, picked at a thread on the candlewick bedspread.
‘That the problem, is it? Think your boyfriend’ll find out what you’ve been up to?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, not looking at him.
McCoy waited, didn’t say anything. Normally worked. He wandered over to the wind
ow, rubbed some of the dirt off and looked out at the road heading up towards Bishopbriggs and its acres of new Wimpey houses. Spam Valley, they called it. People up there had spent so much of their money on their houses that was all they could afford to eat. The lights were starting to come on in the city below, already getting dark at four o’clock. January in Glasgow.
‘You’ll no tell him? He doesn’t get to know?’
He turned round. ‘Course not.’
‘Promise?’
He ran his finger across his suit jacket. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
She seemed satisfied. ‘I never even knew their names, honest. I only went with her a couple of times, she kept nagging me. Called themselves Ronnie or John, whatever came into their heads. Only did it when her bloke had a friend, wanted someone else to tag along.’
‘No names. You’re sure?’
She nodded. ‘Might know a couple if I saw them, don’t know . . . I’ve made her sound a right cow, haven’t I?’
‘Was she?’ asked McCoy.
She shook her head. ‘She was brilliant sometimes, made you pee your pants laughing, but she was never gonnae stick to waitressing.’ She smiled. ‘Just as well. She’s shite at it. She really wanted to be a hairdresser, work at the make-up counter in Fraser’s. Something glamorous.’
She looked round the dingy room. She smiled again, wiped at her tears with the hanky.
‘Cannae blame her really, can you?’
‘Who was it arranged these dates, then? Someone at the restaurant?’
She shook her head. ‘Lorna did it herself. Said she could tell as soon as they sat down, could pick them out. Changed her tables to serve them, got them talking . . .’
‘These guys, all old were they?’
‘Only ones with the money, she said.’
‘She know a younger guy? Eighteen, nineteen, short hair, skinny? Wore a padded anorak?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. She wasnae what you’d call the romantic type. Unless he had money she wouldnae be interested. I still cannae believe she’s dead.’
McCoy sat down on the bed and took her hand. The bed smelt sour, of unwashed sheets. How many rooms like this had he been in? More bad news for people whose lives were shitty enough as it was. ‘Anyone we can phone for you, love? Want someone to come up and sit with you?’