by Alan Parks
‘Drink some of this. It’ll get you down from the fucking ceiling at least. Cunts on pills do my fucking nut in.’
McCoy took a big swig, coughed as his throat burned and it went down. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Red Hackle.
‘I hear you’re a big polis now. That right?’
McCoy nodded, swallowed back some more of the whisky.
‘Well, you shouldnae be in places like this then.’
‘Didn’t know you cared, Chas.’
The big man snorted. ‘I don’t. Just don’t need you round here causing trouble.’
McCoy lay back, looked up at the cracked tiles on the close walls. ‘Long you been working here then, Chas?’
‘Christ, you’re asking now.’ He tried to work it out on his fingers. ‘Three years here. Crownpoint Road for two years before that, shitehole that it was.’
‘You like it here? Doing this job?’
He shrugged and his worn suit rode up, must have bought it a good few years and a good few stone ago. Could see the tattoos on his forearms. ‘No Surrender, 1690, King Billy’. Looked like he’d done them himself with a pin and a ballpoint pen. Borstal tattoos. ‘Money’s no bad, you get a sore face once in a while but that’s the script working in a place like this.’ He grinned. ‘Sure, where else is a fat cunt like me gonnae get his hole on a regular basis? Got some perks, this job.’
‘Cooper ever come around?’
‘Not really, not for a while. Think he prefers the saunas now, puts the better girls in there. Can charge more in those places.’
‘Who does he put in here, then?’
‘Old timers mostly, lassies that aren’t the best looking. Most of the punters are so pissed they don’t care.’
‘What’s Janey doing in here then?’
He stood up, brushed the dust off the seat of his shiny trousers. ‘You know fine well. She’s a druggy, isn’t she.’
‘That’s no so unusual.’
‘Maybe so, but there’s druggy and druggy.’
They both stopped, looked up. A police siren up on the Garscube Road, another one behind it.
‘Looks like your lads are busy the night.’
‘What does that mean, Chas? Druggy and druggy?’
He sighed. ‘Do you need me to draw you a bloody picture now? Heroin, that’s what it means.’
McCoy sat up, looked at him. ‘Fuck off. She’s no intae that. Besides, you can’t get the bloody stuff in Glasgow, you’re talking shite, Chas.’
Chas looked down at him. ‘You know, for a clever polis you can’t half be a stupid bastard. Take a telling, this isnae a place for you any more. Find yourself a wee bird with big tits and settle down, or if you cannae manage that start going to the saunas. Just don’t come here any more. Right?’
McCoy nodded, not really sure what was going on. Chas said goodnight, stepped over him and disappeared into the close.
‘I mean it,’ he said, walking up the stairs. ‘No more, McCoy.’
4th January 1973
TWELVE
‘What happened to you?’ said Wattie, pointing at McCoy’s black eye.
‘Slipped on the bloody bathroom floor and banged it on the sink. I’ll budge over, you can drive.’
Wattie revved the Rover, got it into gear and they set off down the Great Western Road, heading for out of town and Broughton House. The rain had finally stopped, clouds blown through. Morning was crisp and cold, bright blue sky, snow on the hills in the distance. The change in the weather hadn’t done much to lift McCoy’s spirits. He’d still been wired when he got home, couldn’t sleep. Combination of the speed and trying to work out what Chas was really talking about kept his mind turning over. He’d eventually managed a few hours’ kip on the couch, woke up with a banging hangover and an empty half bottle beside him.
‘I’d some head on me this morning,’ said Wattie. ‘Last thing I remember is the snooker club, no idea how I got home. Landlady wasn’t too happy this morning. Apparently I made a right arse of myself.’
McCoy nodded along as Wattie chattered on about being sick in his landlady’s garden and waking up in his suit, but he wasn’t really listening. He knew the silence had been too good to last. Amazing what a difference a night on the piss could make, was like they were big pals now. The Two Musketeers. Traditional Scottish way, he supposed, get pissed together and you were friends for life.
He fished the Daily Record out Wattie’s coat pocket and looked at the front page, familiar red type. But it was a later edition than the one he’d seen last night, someone had been babbling meantime. He drew the air in between his teeth. Murray was going to be apoplectic by now. Double page spread.
SHOT GIRL WAS A PRO
The headline was followed by an exposé of the vice trade in Glasgow’s leading hotels and restaurants on pages four, five, six and seven. No doubt some telephonist or secretary from Central had cashed in, got on the phone to the news desk with what they’d managed to pick up listening in. Usual story. Lorna Skirving’s period of grace had ended and ended quick. Last night she was an innocent bystander tragically killed. Today she was a pro who probably got what she deserved.
‘Which way?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy looked up. ‘Take the switchback, head for Drymen, it’s out that way.’
Wattie nodded, turned off at the roundabout. Broughton House. So far McCoy’d managed not to think about it too much. Not for much longer. The home and now Broughton House. No wonder he’d got out his box last night. He lit a cigarette and watched the houses get bigger and more spaced out as they passed through the suburbs then into the country. This was where the rich people lived, as far from the slums and factories of Glasgow as you could decently get. The proper rich, that was, the factory owners, the building tycoons and the richest ones of them all: the Dunlops.
After another few miles and a wrong turning, Broughton House emerged from between the trees. It was a long, low building made of gleaming white stone, two curving wings and a round glass tower in the middle like some kind of lighthouse. It sat in a valley surrounded by thick woods and a high wall. Liked their privacy, the Dunlops. Wattie was craning out the window, trying to get a good look.
‘I was expecting some kind of castle thing,’ he said.
‘Used to be one, knocked it down in the thirties and built that. Looks like the bloody bathing pavilion at Rothesay.’
They rolled up the drive between the rows of clipped trees, navigated round an ornamental pond and parked at the front of the house. The driveway was already littered with cars, all of them expensive. A Jensen Interceptor, a big Merc and what looked like a thirties Rolls-Royce. Wattie got out and looked up at the glass tower.
‘People actually live here then?’
‘Some of the time. They’ve got a big house in London, all sorts of places. That’s what you get when you own a shipyard. Your dad probably paid for a few bricks.’
They crunched towards the door, feet sinking into the wet pebbles. McCoy pulled a brass handle and a chime sounded deep in the house. Wattie was pulling his tie straight, looking nervous. If he’d had a cap, he’d have been ready to doff it. The door was answered by a maid in a black dress, white pinny over it. She looked Filipino, Malaysian, something like that. Tiny. McCoy held out his card.
‘Morning, Glasgow Police to see Lord Dunlop.’
She shook her head. ‘Lord Gray not here.’ She pointed past them to the hills. ‘Hunting.’
‘Okay, how about Jimmy Gibbs? He around?’
‘Master Jimmy is here, yes. Please.’ She bowed her head, held the door open and they stepped into the hallway. Was hard not to be impressed. The glass tower reached up above them, vast curved stairway swooping round it. The hallway was huge, light from the big windows bouncing off the white marble floor and walls. A lavishly decorated Christmas tree sat in the corner, must have been twelve feet high, boxes of wrapped presents scattered around it. Various vases full of white lilies dotted about the place.
‘Who shall I say is
here for him?’ she asked, bowing again.
‘Just tell him it’s Harry McCoy, I’m an old pal of his.’
‘Lovely flowers,’ said Wattie.
‘From the greenhouses. Lord Dunlop grows them,’ said the maid. She bowed again, wandered off.
McCoy looked at Wattie.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Lovely flowers?’
‘They are. My maw works in a florist. These are the good stuff.’
McCoy shook his head. Why him?
‘Who’s Jimmy Gibbs anyway?’ asked Wattie, wandering over to look at an enormous tapestry of a stag being brought down by hounds.
‘Jimmy? He runs the place for the Dunlops, takes care of problems. Knows where the bodies are buried.’
‘How come you know him then?’
McCoy sat down on a long white leather couch by the fireplace. ‘Was a girl working here, in the kitchens, killed herself. Turned out she was having an affair with the son and she was up the duff. All very convenient, so I started asking some questions. Got warned off.’
Wattie turned away from the picture. ‘What? She was murdered?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘No, was suicide all right but I’d rather find that out by myself than get told what to think.’
The maid reappeared. Smiled and bowed. ‘Master Jimmy is in the sunroom; he’ll see you now. Please.’
They followed her down a corridor lined with pictures, all modern, all abstract, all no doubt worth a fortune. An open door revealed a big ballroom off to the left, grand piano under a white sheet and stacks of red and gold chairs lining the wall. The corridor turned into a kind of glass tunnel coming out the back of the house and stretching across the garden towards a large greenhouse. The garden was full of artfully overgrown dark foliage with classical statues dotted amongst it. Wattie’s head was swivelling from side to side trying to take it all in. The maid held the glasshouse door open.
‘Through here, please.’
There was a swimming pool in front of them, slight steam rising up from it, tang of chlorine in the air. A man was ploughing up and down the middle of it at some speed. Head down in the water, arms scissoring. He reached the side, touched it like he was in a race, stood up, looked at his watch and smiled. McCoy coughed and Jimmy Gibbs turned to them, took his goggles off and wiped his hair back from his face.
‘Thanks, Mary. That’ll be all,’ he said.
The maid nodded and retreated.
Gibbs pulled himself out the pool, stuck his hand down the front of his trunks and rearranged himself. He was wiry, looked fit. He padded over to one of the sun loungers, picked up a towel and hung it across his shoulders.
‘Didn’t think you’d have the balls to turn up here again, McCoy,’ he said, rubbing at his reddish hair with the towel. ‘Thought you’d have learnt your lesson.’
‘Tommy Malone,’ said McCoy, ignoring him. Knew he was going to rise to the bait at some point, was just trying to postpone it as long as possible.
Gibbs shrugged, reached down to the wee table by the lounger and picked up his drink, ice cubes clinking as he took a sip.
‘The boy that shot himself, you mean? Funny business that.’
His manner was indifferent, seemed more interested in his drink than anything else. Acting like he knew something McCoy didn’t, which he probably did. McCoy looked round at the swimming pool, the rattan chairs, the palm trees stretching up behind the wet bar.
‘Long way from the Maryhill shop this, eh, Jimmy?’
Gibbs opened his arms, looked around. ‘What can I say? Some of us managed to make something of ourselves.’
McCoy sat down on one of the loungers, took out his cigarettes.
‘No smoking in here,’ said Gibbs. ‘Family don’t like it.’
McCoy put them away, was still playing nice. ‘Tommy Malone?’
‘Hello, Harry.’
A voice he’d recognise anywhere. He turned and Angela was standing there. She looked a bit thinner, that was the only difference, still had the looks. Multicoloured robe over a swimsuit, dark hair piled up on top of her head, big round sunglasses on. She looked nervous, skittish, too thin.
He stood up. ‘Angela,’ he said. ‘Looking good.’
She smiled, same smile she’d always had. The one that always made him do whatever she asked. Could smell her perfume as well. Worth. Cost a fortune. He should know, he’d bought it often enough.
‘Wish I could say the same for you,’ she said, looking at his black eye. ‘You looking after yourself?’
‘Like you’re bothered,’ he said. It was meant to sound funny, just came out sounding mean.
She sighed. ‘I was only asking.’
‘I’m okay, aye. How’s you?’
Gibbs walked over, put his arm round her, kissed her cheek. ‘You all right, love? Want anything?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, Jimmy.’
‘Are you?’ said McCoy.
‘What?’ said Gibbs.
She shook her head. ‘You really can be a prick, Harry. A real fucking prick.’
‘Only one reason you ever wore sunglasses. He getting that for you now, is he?’
Angela picked Gibbs’ drink off the table and threw it in his face, wasn’t much of it left but it was enough to make her point.
Wattie was looking back and forth at the three of them, no idea what was going on.
Angela kissed Gibbs on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later, eh?’
The three of them watched her go, high-heeled sandals clicking on the floor of the glass tunnel. McCoy reached for a towel, started wiping his face down.
‘Well done,’ said Gibbs. ‘Always were a charmer. Not surprised she fucking left you.’
Wattie stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. They stopped, turned to him.
‘Fuck sake, pack it in, you two. I don’t know what’s going on here, don’t even want to know, but we’re here for a reason, not for a bloody rammy.’ He pointed at the lounger. ‘Mr Gibbs, if you could sit down?’
McCoy looked at him amazed, didn’t think he had it in him. Gibbs looked as shocked as he did, but he sat down and Wattie took out his notebook. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Gibbs?’ he said. ‘Tommy Malone?’
Gibbs looked at them both, looked like he was about to start shouting again, then thought better of it. ‘Been here for a year or so, kept himself to himself. Didn’t see much of him.’
‘How did he end up here?’ asked Wattie.
He shrugged. ‘Same way lots of lads do. Lord Dunlop is on the Board of Governors at Nazareth House, few places like that. He’s a very charitable man, likes to give the less fortunate a leg up in life. Poor boys whose parents have turned to drink and abandoned them. You know what I mean, don’t you, McCoy?’
McCoy ignored that, was getting more difficult though.
‘Anything else?’ asked Wattie. ‘Friends?’
Gibbs shook his head. ‘Did his work, kept his nose clean. Nothing else I can tell you.’
‘So who’s the groundskeeper, the bloke he worked for?’
‘Henry Mason. He’s no here, though, gone off to visit his sister in South Africa.’
‘Convenient,’ said McCoy.
Gibbs shook his head. ‘Watch it, McCoy, you’re getting paranoid. Trip was booked last year, been saving up for years he has. You’re seeing things that aren’t there and you know what happened last time you did that.’ He leant over, pressed a buzzer on the wall. ‘Now if you and the boy wonder are done, I’ve got things to do.’ He picked up the paperback lying on the table by the lounger, lay back and started reading.
‘His bedroom, where he lived, we’ll need to see that,’ said McCoy.
Gibbs ignored them until the maid appeared. ‘Mary, can you show these two the Malone lad’s room? Gentlemen, let’s hope we don’t meet again.’ He went back to his book.
‘Didn’t know you could even read, Jimmy. What is it? Dick and Jane Frame a Punter?’
Gibbs turned the book over, looke
d at the front. ‘No, it’s called Harry McCoy Got Fucked Right Over. Read it?’
That was it, he’d had enough. McCoy moved towards him, felt Wattie’s hand on his arm. ‘Leave it,’ he said quietly.
‘See these clowns out, Mary, before I lose my temper.’
McCoy followed Mary and Wattie back down the corridor towards the main house. Wattie was listening hard to what Mary was saying, trying to understand where she was telling them to go. McCoy fell behind, mind on other things.
Been a couple of years since he’d seen Angela. Couple of years since she’d told him she was going. Didn’t believe her at first, Gibbs of all people, thought she was just saying it to wind him up. He stopped, let them walk on ahead and took his wallet out. Tried not to do this too often, didn’t help him, but seeing her had made him want to look. He pulled the photograph out, corners were getting worn, he’d have to get it copied or something, was the only one he had. He looked at it and couldn’t help but smile. He’d a blue jumper on one of the neighbours had knitted, wee fat legs in woolly tights. He was lying on his back on a tartan rug, teddy bear beside him. He rubbed his thumb over his face. He was smiling, about to start laughing, could tell from his expression.
‘McCoy?’
He looked up. Mary and Wattie were standing at the end of the corridor waiting for him. ‘Coming,’ he said, putting the picture away. ‘Coming. Hold your bloody horses.’
Mary walked them back across the vast hallway and opened the door. A bell rang somewhere and she looked up the stairs anxiously.
‘You know him, Mary? The Malone boy?’ McCoy asked.
She nodded. ‘Very nice boy. Very sad.’
‘Why would he do a thing like that, shoot someone? Any idea?’
She shook her head. ‘He was a nice boy.’
‘And he changed?’
The bell rang again. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
She looked back up the stairs, bell was going again, more insistent this time. She shook her head, began to close the door on them. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. My English. I must go.’