Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘Ah, always hard to explain. I arrange things for people. Make sure they go with a bang.’ She smiled at them. No takers. Kept going. ‘Parties, fashion shows, promotional events . . .’

  ‘How about whores?’ said McCoy. ‘That’s what I heard. Men, women, all sorts. Nothing you can’t sort out. That right?’

  Atmosphere changed, her face went hard, started drumming her fingers on the table. Wasn’t looking for smiles any more.

  ‘What precisely is it I can help you with today, gentlemen?’

  ‘True, is it?’ asked McCoy. ‘About the whores?’

  She stood up. ‘I think it’s time I ran along. You want to come back and make some more dumb allegations, be my guest. It’s your dime. Archie Lomax? Know him, do you? Thought you might. He’s my lawyer, on retainer. Be delighted to sit beside me holding my hand. Now, if you please . . .’

  McCoy didn’t move. ‘Archie Lomax. That right? Pretty high-powered lawyer for someone who arranges birthday parties, isn’t he? Now, sit back down and start talking. Otherwise we can just wait until your delivery turns up, see exactly what kind of make-up it is, eh?’

  She stood there twisting a big red plastic ring round her finger, wondering how to play it. She sighed, sat back down. ‘This off the record?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said McCoy, lying.

  She lit up another pink cigarette. ‘Let me try and explain it. There are rich people in this town, rich people who live boring lives. Sometimes they have parties to liven things up a bit. I help spice them up. I have a great Rolodex. I do a great guest list.’

  ‘Including whores?’

  ‘Occasionally, but mostly it’s just interesting people. Good-looking kids, artists who want a free meal, bands that are in town. Suddenly these boring rich people aren’t boring any more, they’re in the Herald and the Scotsman society pages with Hugh Fraser and Lulu. Suddenly they’re hip.’

  ‘And they pay you?’

  ‘Oh yes, honey, they pay. Pay well. Everybody wants to be hip and groovy these days, even boring old bankers. Everybody wants to meet a famous musician, or even a criminal. Maybe you could help me out – starting to get very fashionable, you know.’

  ‘Aye right. So you provide whatever it is people are looking for? That the deal?’

  She nodded. ‘Within reason.’

  McCoy dug in his pocket, brought out the picture of Lorna Skirving, set it down on the table in front of her. ‘Provide her?’

  She took the picture and looked at it, handed it back. Shook her head. ‘I’ve seen her at a couple of parties, though, usually wrapped round some fat, sweaty businessman. Not really my kind of thing, all a bit low-rent really.’

  ‘Arrange any parties at Broughton House?’

  She only took a second to arrange her face again, but McCoy had seen it. Fear. ‘No, sadly not, bit out of my league. Practically royalty, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’re being modest. Smart woman like you? I’m sure you could handle them, sort some things out they were looking for. In fact, I think you did.’

  She shook her head again. ‘Nope. Not me.’

  There was no way she was going to give up the Dunlops that easily. Couldn’t say he blamed her really. That wasn’t going to happen without more of a fight, and more money going into Archie Lomax’s account.

  She stood up again and looked at her watch. ‘David’s limo will be here. We’re going back to the Albany. Can I go?’

  McCoy smiled, shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want to miss it.’ She was looking anxious, tried another smile. ‘First rule of rock and roll, you know, don’t get left behind.’

  McCoy padded his pockets, found his cigarettes. ‘That right? You know what, I think I’ll get vice to have a proper look over your wee supply and demand racket. Then I’ll get them to have a word in the ear of their pals at the Daily Record. Not sure they have a society page, but I’m sure they can work up a nice piece, big picture of you in all your finery. Then you can sit back and watch all your rich clients drop you like a fucking hot brick. That what you want? You’re not going to give me the Dunlops, that’s fine. I’m a big boy, I can live with it. Give me something.’

  She was chewing her lip, bright purple lipstick coating her front teeth. Made up her mind and sat back down.

  ‘Show me the picture again.’

  She looked at it, handed it back. ‘She did a job for me, one job, year or so ago. A client of mine had a Swedish business associate in town. He was looking for someone who could accommodate his special interests, who didn’t mind if he took it a bit further than usual. Her name came up, so I set it up. She did the job all right, no problems, but she stole thirty quid out of his wallet while he was having a shower afterwards. I never worked with her again.’

  ‘She’s dead. Someone shot her in broad daylight. Why would someone do that?’

  She sat back. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Finding out who killed her is your job, not mine.’

  ‘We know who killed her. A young guy called Tommy Malone. We want to find out why. She ever meet the Dunlops?’

  ‘I didn’t arrange it,’ she said evenly.

  ‘That’s not what I asked you.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t,’ she said.

  McCoy sat back, sighed. ‘Wattie, away and phone Central, get a car here. I’m sick of being taken for a cunt.’

  Wattie nodded, stood up. He was halfway across the dance-floor before she said it.

  ‘Okay.’

  One little word. Enough. McCoy looked at her. And she began.

  ‘She did a lot of parties for them. I didn’t set them up, but I saw her there.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Whatever they paid her to. Girl-boy, girl- girl, bondage, S&M, whatever they asked. Seemed to go through their major-domo. Guy with reddish hair . . . John?

  ‘Jimmy?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s him. Stone-cold creep. There was another girl, I think she worked there at the house. Just a stupid girl who wanted people to like her. He loaded her up with acid, let anyone fuck her, filmed it. Some guy called her over in front of everyone, she came running like a lapdog.’

  She stopped, lit another coloured cigarette.

  ‘He told her to hold her arm out, she did and he stubbed his cigarette out on it. Smiled when he did it. Told her to go upstairs and wait for him. Called her his toy.’ She exhaled, a weak smile through the cigarette smoke. ‘Ugly stuff.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do anything?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Because I was scared.’

  ‘Of who?’

  She shook her head. ‘Someone told me she hung herself a few days later. That was the last time I ever went to Broughton House.’

  ‘Who was the guy?’ asked McCoy.

  Nothing. He waited. She wouldn’t look at him as she said it, stared down at the floor.

  ‘Teddy. Lord Dunlop’s son.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The force pushed McCoy hard against the car door, Wattie almost on top of him.

  ‘Fuck sake,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘I cannae bloody help it,’ said Wattie as the car pulled out the corner and they managed to straighten up again. Siren was going, light on, the full works. He made out something from the front seat about ‘being able to drive a bus through there’ as the car accelerated sharply between two Corporation buses and ran a red light.

  ‘I think I’m going to boak,’ groaned McCoy as they slammed round another corner doing sixty odd. He wasn’t sure why they were going so fast. If she was dead, she was dead, nothing they could do about it now. Brakes went on hard and McCoy groaned as he hit the back of the seats in front of him. Soon saw why they’d stopped: the street ahead was full of men wearing green and white scarves, making their way down London Road towards the car, police on horses trying to herd them away from the other team’s burgundy-scarved supporters.

  ‘Did you no fucking realise there was a game on?’ Murray shouted at the driver.


  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Borders accent. Stupid bugger had to be another one of Murray’s rugby boys. None of them knew fuck all about football. McCoy was going to say something about employing Glaswegians in the Glasgow force, then thought better of it.

  ‘You should have told him, McCoy. It’s your lot,’ said Murray.

  ‘So it’s my fault now?’ he asked.

  Murray didn’t reply. Just sat there looking murderous.

  The car made a sharp right at the big abattoir and headed down into Dalmarnock. Glasgow was a city of villages, of territories marked out by gangs and old arguments about whether one road was in or out. He couldn’t remember anyone arguing much about Dalmarnock. Nobody wanted it.

  They pulled up outside a tenement block marooned in an empty plot of mud pitted with puddles and broken rubble. The entrances and ground-floor windows of the flats had been timbered over by the council, ‘STAY OUT – DANGER’ notices just visible under the spray-painted gang names. Notices hadn’t done much good. Half of the boards had been kicked in or prised off, splintered ones lying on the ground.

  ‘Kids found her,’ said Murray, rubbing at the condensation on the car window and peering out. ‘In there playing hide and seek. Cannae blame them, not much else to do round here.’

  The snow was almost horizontal, wind blowing it hard against the car windows. Nothing else for it, they needed to run. Wind almost took the car door off when McCoy opened it. He ran between a couple of pandas and an ambulance heading for the flats. Thomson came out the close with his raincoat pulled over his head and pointed up.

  ‘Top floor,’ he said.

  By the look of the place it wasn’t only kids who’d been in the building. Doors of the flats had been kicked in, rooms strewn with old blankets, pale ale cans, wallpaper and floorboards scorched black where fires had been lit. Snow was coming through what was left of the glass panels in the stairwell roof; even with that fresh air the place still stank of piss. They trudged up the stairs, shaking snow off their coats, aware of people above them shuffling about, shouting instructions. On the top floor, lights had been rigged up on stands, big battery packs humming. They squeezed past them and into the flat. Wattie pointed to a room lit up like a stage set, harsh white light illuminating everything, including what they were all here for.

  A bloodstained sheet wrapped round something lay in the far corner underneath a cracked window. Only clue it contained a woman was the slim ankle and foot poking out the bottom of it. A woman in her late fifties, tweed suit half covered by a white lab coat, was kneeling on the floor beside it. She turned and looked up at them.

  ‘At bloody last,’ she said. ‘We’ve all been waiting for the esteemed Mr Murray to cast his eye before we can touch anything.’

  ‘Phyllis,’ said Murray. ‘Always a pleasure.’

  Phyllis Gilroy was a big woman, tall as well as broad, owner of the poshest Glasgow accent McCoy had ever heard. Had been the police pathologist ever since McCoy had joined up. Probably would be after he’d gone. She stood up, straining a bit. ‘This weather’s not good for my knees, not good at all. I’m going outside for some air and the dim hope of finding some sort of lavatory nearby. All yours, gents.’

  She squeezed past them and McCoy started his breathing. Hoped it was going to help. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. He moved in, trying to shield his eyes from the lights, knelt down, pulled a corner of the sheet back, saw blood, looked away. One. Two. Three.

  He heard Murray swearing, then he moved in beside him, pushed him out the way. ‘Fuck sake, we’d be here all day if it was up to you.’ He leant forward, grabbed the corner of the sheet and slowly started pulling it away from the body. It came away like a wrapper off a toffee, sticking to the skin as he pulled. McCoy kept his eyes fixed on the ripped wallpaper beyond, trying to breathe slowly. He heard Wattie mutter ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath and he looked down.

  She was naked, hands tied behind her back with a necktie. She looked young – twenty-odd – and tall. The parts of her body he could see through the sticky blood were bruised. Yellow. Blue. Black. The back of her head was just a crumpled mess of shattered bone, blonde hair thick with blood.

  Murray pointed to the back of her head with his shoe. ‘Pretty obvious what killed her unless Lady Muck tells us different. Looks like she was knocked about a bit beforehand as well.’

  ‘Do we know who she is?’ said McCoy, trying not to look.

  ‘Nope. There’s nothing on her,’ said Thomson. ‘Going to have to try dental records, could take a while. Kids that found her haven’t said much, still shell-shocked I think.’ He pointed at a carrier bag spilling empty beer cans onto the floor. ‘Been the usual alkies up here too, but I can’t see any of them having much to do with this.’

  McCoy risked another look. ‘Doesn’t look like all this happened here, there’s not enough blood.’

  ‘And where’s her clothes?’ added Murray. ‘You find them?’

  Thomson shook his head. ‘They’ve had a look through the building. Nothing.’

  ‘They?’ asked Murray. ‘Who the fuck’s they?’

  ‘Couple of uniforms,’ said Thomson warily.

  ‘That right? Fuck’s up with you, then? Too bloody important?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Away and have a look yourself, you fucking clown. Now!’

  Thomson pushed past them, looking sheepish, and Murray shook his head. ‘Is he any use? I’m beginning to bloody wonder.’

  ‘Done?’

  Gilroy had reappeared, two dripping wet ambulance men behind her carrying a collapsible stretcher. Murray nodded and Gilroy stepped aside to let the ambulance men through.

  ‘What time is it now?’ asked Gilroy, looking at her watch. ‘Sixish.’ She stared into space, mentally calculating. ‘About nine, I’d say. Should have her cleaned up and some idea of what happened. So, until then . . .’

  *

  The office was quiet, radio on in the background. They’d been back for a couple of hours, nothing much McCoy could do but wait for Gilroy. Wattie was bent over his typewriter, tongue out, trying to finish his report. McKee filling out his football coupon while absentmindedly dipping his biscuit in his tea.

  ‘Where are we then?’ asked McCoy for want of something to say. He’d read through a few reports, made some phone calls, went to see Cowie for a cup of tea. He was bored now.

  Wattie sat back from his desk and looked at him.

  ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘No one reported missing in the past couple of days that fits her description. The house to house, if you can call it that, got us nothing. No houses anywhere around really, just a pub. Tried there and nobody saw nothing, no one heard a car. Most of the people that drink there barely know what day it is, mind you.’

  ‘What about the staff?’

  ‘Saw nothing, heard nothing.’

  ‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘Know what we have to do now?’

  Wattie nodded at the door.

  ‘Perfect timing.’ Fat Billy from records was standing there, three overflowing cardboard boxes in his arms. ‘Fuck sake, gie us a hand, I’m dying here.’

  Wattie took the top one off him and dumped it on his desk, dust going everywhere.

  ‘Got them to pull all the mispers from the past six months.’

  ‘Fuck me, Wattie. You might make a polis yet.’

  ‘You two clowns. Move.’ They turned. Murray was coming out his office, arm half in the sleeve of his tweed jacket. ‘Her ladyship’s early for once. Come on.’

  *

  McCoy bought the evening paper from the bloke outside the shop, started reading in the car while Murray and Wattie droned on about some rugby match. Lorna Skirving was nowhere to be seen, already yesterday’s news. He turned the page. Some bloke shot outside Rolls-Royce in Belfast. Common Market. Train drivers threatening to strike. Bruce and Anthea’s secrets of a happy marriage. Usual stuff. He turned the page again and stopped. Big picture of Lord Dunlop and anot
her middle-aged man shaking hands. He skimmed the article. The Dunlop family and the Mackenzie Trust announce takeover bid of Allied Newspapers. Time for new blood. Looking forward to working together. Share price announced tomorrow.

  ‘You see this?’ He leant forward and passed the paper to Murray. He glanced at it and gave it back.

  ‘Aye, I saw it this morning. Fuck all to do with you, McCoy. Far as you’re concerned the Dunlops don’t exist.’ He looked back over his shoulder at him. ‘That clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ he said, sighing.

  ‘Any news on Skirving and that Malone lad? You getting anywhere? Super’s been after me to close the file.’

  ‘Not yet. We were pretty sure it was a domestic, seems like Malone had been up at the flat shouting the odds a few times.’

  ‘Were?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Are,’ said McCoy. ‘No real evidence of anything else. She may have had another boyfriend, paid-for private dates, kinky stuff, whips, pain, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Who is he, this boyfriend?’

  ‘Not sure. We’re struggling a bit, but I think there’s maybe more than just Tommy Malone being jealous and killing her. Doesn’t really sound right.’

  ‘Aye well, what it sounds like is the square root of fuck all to me. Nothing by the morning and I’ll have to close it. Domestic it is.’

  The mortuary was in Saltmarket down by the Clyde. Funny wee low building facing Glasgow Green. Wattie pulled the car over outside and Murray got out. Wattie watched him go, held his hand up to keep McCoy in the car.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know who we still haven’t spoken to? Bobby.’ Wattie pointed to his chest, where the tattoo had been. ‘You told Murray you’d do it.’

  ‘Shite,’ said McCoy. ‘I forgot all about it. Don’t let Murray know, for fuck sake. Why’d you no remind me?’

  Wattie rolled his eyes. ‘Give us a break. Be a waste of time. What’s Nairn’s boyfriend going to know anyway?’

  ‘Fuck all, no doubt, but we better find out.’

  *

  McCoy stood at the back of the room trying to breathe through his mouth, avoiding looking at what was going on in front of him. If bodies at murder scenes were bad, bodies in places like this were somehow worse. It was the white tiles and the enamel buckets and the stink of bleach. The more they tried to cover up what was going on, the worse it was. Gilroy was looking over at him, smirking and shaking her head.