Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘Who?’ she asked, not really understanding.

  ‘Another pal? Your maw maybe?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll go into the work. Last thing I want to do is stay in here.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ McCoy stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll give you a lift.’

  SEVEN

  ‘Funny smell in here,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Shut it,’ said McCoy.

  The waiter took their coats as Wattie looked round suspiciously. A big blown-up photo of an Indian market filled one wall. Windows overlooking the Kelvin making its slow and muddy way through the city the other. The restaurant was in Gibson Street near the university. Glasgow’s very own bohemian neighbourhood, full of wee bedsits, bookshops, pubs full of hairy students and lecturers talking about Marxism and the struggle of the working classes. Might have talked more sense if they’d ever met a member of the working classes, but that wasn’t going to happen up here. They couldn’t afford the price of the drink.

  They sat down. Wattie picked up the menu and scanned a list of things he’d never heard of.

  ‘Have they got any normal food?’

  McCoy just ignored him, ordered him a chicken dhansak when the waiter appeared. He eyed it suspiciously when it appeared, tasted a tiny bit on the edge of his fork then started wolfing the bloody thing down. He settled back in his chair, empty plate in front of him, and burped loudly.

  ‘Not half bad, this stuff. Don’t think they have it in Greenock. Didn’t think I’d like it but it’s no bad at all.’

  The couple of pints they had consumed in the pub next door beforehand seemed to have loosened Wattie up, he was happy to talk away now. His Greenock accent meant most of what he said was lost under the background sitar music. Suited McCoy fine. He had enough to worry about. He was going through everything in his mind, trying to make some sense of what had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Nairn, the shooting at the bus station. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He was stuck, as always, on the things that didn’t matter. Christine Nair and her hopes pinned on an engagement ring that looked like it had come out a lucky bag, the expression on the boy’s face as he put the gun to the side of his head. He seemed happy, almost like he was looking forward to it. Could only have been eighteen or so – why would a young boy want to do that to himself? Two seconds away from blowing the side of his head off and he was smiling away like he’d won the pools. Didn’t make any sense. He drifted back to Wattie’s chatter. Was trying to recount the plot of some gangster film he’d been to see. He stopped, looked at him, must have asked a question.

  ‘You listening to me?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye sure, shot him in the boat. Sounds great. What did they get from that cunt of a manager?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Wattie. ‘Was about to let her go. No idea about her extra-circular activities. Knew nothing full stop.’

  ‘Curricular. They believe him?’

  ‘Think so. He’s a wee weirdo apparently. Managing the restaurant is all he cares about, wouldn’t put that in jeopardy for the kickbacks of two girls on the game.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What time’s he coming then?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s always late.’

  Apart from Murray, Alasdair Cowie was the only polis McCoy thought anything of. Not a good sign, seeing the Glasgow force was more than two thousand strong. Cowie was smart, smarter than him, would have been fast-track material but his wife got ill, MS, and he took his foot off the pedal. Liked to be home twenty minutes after his shift, no nights and no overtime. Bosses didn’t know what to do with him, was obvious he’d be wasted as a journeyman polis, so he was shifted about different departments, kind of a troubleshooter. He was in vice now, trying to form a liaison group between the polis, some woman’s group from the university and the girls who worked Blythswood and the Green. God help him.

  ‘Who’s it going to be, then?’ asked Wattie, looking round the restaurant. A group of drunk businessmen in suits, young couple holding hands, two middle-aged women inspecting the menu.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everywhere we’ve been today somebody’s died. My money’s on that couple getting poisoned by their curry.’

  ‘Aye, very funny. Think I preferred it when you kept your mouth shut.’

  The restaurant door opened and Alasdair Cowie appeared in a blast of wintry air. One of the waiters greeted him at the door, took his duffle coat off him, pointed at their table. Cowie looked over and waved, handed the waiter a long red scarf. He wasn’t big, Cowie, but he was broad and getting broader as the years went on. Round face now sat above a couple of chins. He was ordering en route, waiter behind him scribbling in a notepad. McCoy could have told him the order himself, never changed in all the years they’d been coming to the Shish Mahal. Mushroom pakora, lamb rogan josh, saffron rice, two chapattis.

  ‘All right, Harry?’ Cowie asked, pulling a chair out.

  McCoy pointed across the table. ‘Wattie. Seconded. Stuck to me for two bloody months. And he’s from fucking Greenock as well.’

  Wattie nodded warily. Knew he was an unwelcome presence, but he was determined to stick it out whether McCoy liked it or not. Just like Murray’d told him to.

  ‘That was a right fucking mess this morning,’ said Cowie, sitting down and pulling his polo-neck jumper over his head. He put it on the chair next to him, tried to smooth out his hair and his wrinkled flannel shirt. Murray had called him a ‘fucking unmade bed’ more than once, wasn’t far wrong. He leant across the table, scooped up the last of McCoy’s curry with a bit of naan bread. ‘And all your fault, I hear.’

  He turned to Wattie. ‘He been telling you his war stories, has he?’ Wattie shook his head. ‘What? Not even the one about the great bookies raid of 1969?’

  ‘Fuck off, Cowie. How’s Jackie?’

  ‘Okay. The same. Not getting any worse. I would say she’s been asking after you but she hasn’t.’ One waiter appeared with a tray of lagers, another with Cowie’s pakora. McCoy watched him tuck in, pinched one of the little deep fried bhajis for himself. Cowie pointedly moved the plate back towards himself.

  ‘No a great day for you. Blood everywhere. You okay?’

  McCoy nodded. Tried not to notice Wattie looking at him with interest.

  ‘You sure? You been back at the doctor lately?’

  McCoy shook his head. Changed the subject quick. ‘What do you know about girls working at Malmaison, Whitehall’s, places like that?’

  Cowie sat back, pretended to look pained. ‘And here was me thinking you’d asked me out because you liked me. Amateurs, you mean?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  He shrugged. ‘Happens on and off in those kind of places, low level stuff. Businessmen in town for a night. Same as chambermaids. Nothing organised or official, mostly underpaid girls trying to make pin money.’

  He dipped a mushroom pakora into the wee silver dish of pink sauce and grinned. ‘I’m sure Lorna Skirving would have been able to tell you more about it.’

  ‘Smart arse. How come you know about her?’

  ‘Saw Gilroy at the station just before I came out. She was delivering the preliminary post-mortem report to Herr Führer Murray.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I earwigged on their conversation on your behalf, knowing full well that I’d have to sing for my supper. Cause of death was bullet in the aorta. It was the other stuff that was a bit more interesting. Funny I know more about your case than you do, isn’t it? I’m quite enjoying it.’ He waggled his empty pint glass. ‘Finding it hard to talk, though, throat’s awful dry.’

  McCoy waved over at the waiter by the bar, got him to bring over another three pints.

  ‘How kind,’ said Cowie, taking a sip. ‘Now I am replenished, I will continue.’

  ‘Christ, I’d be quicker going and getting the bloody report off Gilroy myself.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the big news. Lorna Skirving had some unusual injuries apparently. Lot of bruises, faded whip marks on her back, ligature marks on her w
rists and ankles. Bruising inside her anus and vagina, seem to have been caused by some sort of wooden stick or pole.’

  Wattie let out a low whistle.

  ‘I know,’ said Cowie. ‘Grim. And to top it off she had two razor cuts across her left breast. Forming an X.’

  ‘Nasty,’ said McCoy. ‘How recent?’

  ‘Week, maybe two.’

  ‘Somebody beat her up?’ suggested Wattie, eager to get in on the conversation.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Cowie. ‘Bit too precise, though.’ He sat back on his chair. ‘More likely that’s what she got paid for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Wattie.

  ‘Sorry, forgot you were from Ayrshire. You don’t have sexual perversions down there, do you? Just sheep wandering around looking worried.’

  ‘That likely?’ asked McCoy, ignoring him.

  ‘Not sure. Very specialised area, girls tend to be older. There’s a small demand all right, but as far as I know it all goes through Madame Polo’s up in Park Circus.’

  ‘Christ, that place still going?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Oh yes. She must be seventy odd now. You’d think the old bag would be sick of it, retired to a wee tearoom in Tillicoultry. But no, still up there, still paying the kickbacks, still open.’

  ‘What?’ said Wattie. ‘What kickbacks?’

  ‘Maybe she was moonlighting at Madame Polo’s? As well as the punters from the restaurant?’ suggested McCoy.

  Cowie shook his head. ‘If she was, she wouldn’t have been working as a waitress and gobbling off some salesman from Newcastle in the back of his Cortina. Those girls earn a proper packet. Rich clients. Judges. Lawyers.’ He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Even senior police officers, I hear.’

  ‘What?’ asked Wattie again, trying to keep up. ‘That right? Who?’

  Cowie tapped the side of his nose. ‘Need to know, son, need to know.’ He held up his empty glass, showed it to the waiter. ‘My round, I think. Wife’s at her mother’s in Aberdeen. The night is young and I am free, but sadly not single, so we are going to get pished, my friend – royally pished.’

  3rd January 1973

  EIGHT

  McCoy stepped out his close, yawned, looked up at the sky. Rain had gone off but it was foggy, could barely make out the cranes and the big granary by the river at the bottom of the hill. He’d lived in Gardner Street for a few years now. Everyone knew Gardner Street, was the steepest street in Glasgow – looked like something from The Streets of San Francisco – big drop down to the Dumbarton Road below.

  They’d eventually managed to get rid of Wattie around nine, and him and Cowie ended up in a lock-in at the Doublet until way past midnight. Was paying for it now. His stomach rumbled. Maybe he needed something fried, could go to the wee cafe by Partick Station. He was about to cross the road when a silver Zephyr pulled up beside him. The window slid down and a head leant out.

  ‘Cooper wants to see you.’

  He didn’t recognise the particular bloke driving the car, but he looked the same as all Cooper’s boys did. Bit too flash and a bit too thick. Feather cut, suit with big lapels, open beige shirt with pictures of Charlie Chaplin on it. The young hard man’s look of choice.

  ‘Now?’ he asked.

  The driver nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’

  McCoy sighed, he didn’t need this on top of a hangover and Murray doing his nut, expecting results in hours. Driver was chewing gum, waiting for him to get in. Cooper wasn’t going to go away, though. Maybe he’d be better getting it over with before Murray noticed he was missing. He opened the door of the big silver Zephyr and got in the back. The cafe would have to wait.

  McCoy hated sitting in the back of cars, always made him feel a bit sick, especially after what he’d drunk last night. Had vague memories of a hamburger from some van on the way home, no wonder he felt ropey. The driver didn’t tell him where they were going but they ended up in Tollcross. It was in the East End, made Springburn look like a holiday resort. They stopped at the lights and McCoy watched the wrecking balls disappear in the clouds of dust as another big wall went down.

  The driver muttered something about the dust ruining the finish of his motor and pulled the car in outside a pub called the Grapes. McCoy’d been in it once, when he’d first started, was still on the beat. Was a Friday night, packed full of punters, must have been fifty or sixty in there. Some bloke had got his face slashed twice while he was standing at the bar and nobody saw nothing. Not one witness, just Duncan Stewart sitting in the corner with his cronies, grin on his face. No one would say anything, too scared. The bloke’s girlfriend was screaming and crying while McCoy held a bar towel to the guy’s wounds, trying to stop the blood while everybody kept their eyes down, supped at their pints.

  ‘He in there, is he?’ McCoy asked, looking out the window.

  Driver shook his head, pointed. ‘Next door.’

  The Tropical Sauna consisted of a dingy-looking shopfront, cracked frosted glass windows with two palm trees etched into them. There was a handwritten sign taped to the window saying ‘New Girls’, just in case some passer-by was stupid enough to actually think it was a sauna.

  ‘Starting a bit early, isn’t he?’

  Driver shrugged. ‘Don’t think he’s been to bed yet.’ He slumped down in his seat, closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be out here when you’re done, just chap on the window.’

  The woman behind the counter looked up from her copy of Cosmopolitan with a big smile until she realised who she was looking at. Smile disappeared immediately. She pressed a buzzer under the counter and the door behind her clicked open.

  ‘He’s in the premier suite,’ she said, eyes back on her magazine. ‘Blue door at the back.’

  Cooper wasn’t the only one starting early. Most of the cabin doors off the corridor were shut, moans and rhythmic squeaks coming from behind them. Tends to happen when you build cubicles out of plywood to save money, not exactly soundproof. He knocked on the blue door at the end and a voice boomed out immediately.

  ‘That you, McCoy?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, get in here then, ya dozy prick!’

  If this was the premier suite, he’d hate to see a normal one. The room was painted light blue, overheated, one of those paintings that Boots the Chemist sold by the bucketload of a naked girl on a beach hung above a wee table covered in bottles of lotion, faded towels and boxes of paper hankies. The window had a grille over it, only light coming from two fluorescent strips in the plasterboard ceiling. Cooper was sitting on the massage table in the middle of the room, legs dangling over the side, white towel round his waist not doing much to hide his obvious erection. He’d his arms wrapped round two girls, blonde on one side, brunette on the other. Both were topless, fancy knickers and high heels, Page Three come to life. Except Page Three girls didn’t normally look scared, or like they needed a bath.

  McCoy took in the scene. ‘You want me to come back? Looks like you’re busy.’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

  Glasgow was a town of small men, wiry. Anyone over five foot eight tended to get called ‘Big Man’ but Cooper was the real deal. Well over six foot, built like a bear, as they say. Hair fashions had come and gone, but none of them had touched Cooper, blond hair cut into a short back and sides, side shed, just like he’d always had. Same as his clothes, unless it was a funeral or a wedding; he’d be wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and a red Harrington jacket. James Dean had a lot to answer for. He pushed the blonde girl off the table and smacked her on the arse. She winced; he’d hit her hard.

  ‘Away and warm each other up. I’ll no be long. And you, ya prick, come here. C’mon, what’s up? Gone all shy on me?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m no in the mood, Stevie.’

  Cooper didn’t say anything, just kept staring.

  ‘I mean it, Stevie. I’ve got a hangover, give us a break.’

  Nothing. Just Cooper staring at him with a stupid grin
on his face. He sighed. Nothing much ever changed between him and Cooper; he always got his own way eventually. One day twenty-odd years ago Cooper had decided McCoy was going to be his pal and that was that. There didn’t seem any real reason he’d picked him. He was just another one in the group of snotty, frightened boys in the playground, but for some reason Cooper had decided on him and McCoy’s life had never been the same. Nobody hit him, he was safe. Mess with him and you had Cooper to answer to. And nobody wanted that. Protection came with a price, though. Cooper cared about one thing and one thing only: loyalty. Jump over the gap between the roofs of two buildings, shoplift from Woolworths, wait outside Peter O’Hara’s house for four hours keeping Cooper company so he could batter him when he came out. Anything Cooper wanted you to do, you did.

  He walked over reluctantly, knew what was going to happen, thought he may as well get it over with. Soon as he got near enough Cooper grabbed him, got him in a stranglehold.

  ‘Submit? Submit?’ said Cooper, rubbing his knuckles hard on the top of McCoy’s head.

  McCoy tried to nod, head trapped under Cooper’s arm, throat being crushed.

  Cooper pulled him round again, squeezed his arm tighter into his neck. ‘What? I cannae hear ye!’

  ‘I submit!’ McCoy managed to get out in a strangulated whisper. Cooper laughed, let him go and he stumbled, lost his balance, fell down hard on the lino floor.

  The girls giggled. From down here on the floor he could see the bruises on their thighs, dirty feet squashed into stilettos. ‘Beat it!’ Cooper barked at them and they made for the door, tits wobbling. McCoy stayed down on the floor, rubbed at his neck.

  ‘You’re like a big bloody wean, Cooper. Give us a hand up.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ He yawned, stretched, scratched at the hair on his chest.

  ‘Long night, was it?’ asked McCoy, dusting himself off.