Bloody January

by Alan Parks

‘Cup of tea,’ said Wattie. ‘And how about a smile?’

  ‘Nae chance,’ she said, walking off.

  ‘Charming.’ He looked round at the red booths, greasy laminated menus. ‘This one of your usual haunts, is it?’

  ‘Pre-existing skull fracture,’ McCoy said, tapping his head with his teaspoon.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isabel Garvey. She had a pre-existing skull fracture and Chas has no proper record. Story’s believable enough. He’s besotted with a beautiful girl who calls him a sweaty, fat bastard and won’t go through with it even after he’s paid over the odds. One accidental shove—’

  ‘Followed by a wank after he’s pulled the clothes off her dead body—’

  ‘—and it’s a tragic accident. He’s crippled with remorse and shame. Manslaughter. Good lawyer and he’ll get six years, out in four. Looked after inside. That deal could be worth ten grand to someone like Chas.’

  ‘Who’s got ten grand?’ Wattie sat back as the girl plonked the tea down in front of him. ‘Ah, hang on. I get it. The evil Dunlops did it and got Chas to cop to it for them.’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, McCoy. Tommy Malone shot Lorna Skirving. Chas Gow killed Isabel Garvey.’

  ‘Chas Gow says he killed Isabel Garvey. That’s a different thing.’

  ‘Okay, so how’d the Dunlop’s find Chas? Not a lot of fat shebeen bouncers hanging out at Broughton House far as I remember.’

  ‘They didn’t find him. They’ve got someone that does that sort of stuff for them. Jimmy Gibbs is ex-polis, he’d know exactly where to find someone like Chas.’

  ‘The Jimmy Gibbs that ran off with your wife? That you don’t have any axe to grind with at all?’

  ‘Could have got Tommy Malone the gun as well,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Aye, and maybe he was Bible John too. You can’t see the wood for the trees on this one. Case is closed; he confessed. It’s over.’

  McCoy pushed his cup away. ‘Not yet; we’ve got tonight left.’

  ‘Aye? To do what?’

  McCoy tapped his heart. ‘Bobby. We still haven’t talked to Bobby.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  McCoy and Wattie were sitting in traffic in Hawthorn Street. Snow was still coming down fast, windscreen wipers struggling to keep up. The heater was on full, smell of damp coats and cigarette smoke filling the car. McCoy rolled his window down, stuck his head out, trying to see what was going on. Wound it up quick. Freezing.

  ‘Why do we still care about Bobby?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘We don’t,’ said McCoy, yawning. ‘But way Murray is at the moment, if we haven’t spoken to him and he finds out, then the both of us will be in for it.’

  ‘Still can’t believe Howie Nairn was a poof,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Aye well, welcome to 1973. Things are changing.’

  The car in front started to move and McCoy slipped the car into gear. Pressed on the accelerator, felt the wheels spin on the black ice then catch.

  Hawthorn Street ran from Possil to Springburn. People were very concerned with which end they lived at. Nearer Springburn the posher it was. Distinction didn’t mean much to McCoy. Both ends had the same four-in-a-block council flats, wee shops, crappy pubs. People always wanted to look down on someone, he supposed.

  They drove under the railway bridge, pulled in by a big sign for the greyhound stadium. McCoy pulled the key out the ignition, radio died. ‘Rocket Man’ cut off in his prime.

  They hurried out the car, coats pulled above their heads, and wrenched the big doors open. Stood in the foyer, shaking the snow off their clothes.

  ‘This it?’ asked Wattie, looking round.

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Not exactly Las Vegas, is it?’

  ‘What d’you mean? It’s the Ashfield Club. It’s better. Billy Connolly’s played here, you know. Chic Murray. Glen Daly. Loads of people.’

  Wattie looked round the half-deserted club. ‘Not the night, though.’

  Someone had been keen, gone crazy on the Christmas decorations. Strings of tinsel still hung across the bar. ‘Seasons Greetings’ signs and plastic santas and snowmen everywhere. A huge silvery Christmas tree blinking in the corner. They walked down the steps, heading for the long bar at the back.

  ‘Shouldn’t these be down by now?’ asked Wattie. ‘Is it no bad luck?’

  ‘Bad luck for the poor cunt who’s got to take them down more like. Come on.’

  A middle-aged woman with a blonde beehive and cat’s-eye glasses was standing behind the bar, framed by the optics and a big pale ale mirror. She walked forward as they approached.

  ‘Boys, what can I get you?’

  McCoy nodded at the Tennent’s tap. ‘Two pints.’

  The Ashfield Club was a Glasgow institution. Been there for years, ever since McCoy could remember. Did the lot: dinner dances, bands and comedians, bingo nights. He’d been here a good few times, birthdays, staff nights out. Even came here with Angela once, had a great time. Didn’t look like they were going to tonight, though. Half the tables on the floor were empty, only the ones at the front near the stage were busy. Clouds of cigarette smoke sitting over tables filled with pensioners nursing their drinks.

  ‘Quiet the night?’ he said.

  Barmaid shook her head, pulled the wee silver tap towards her. ‘Always are now, son. Telly’s killed us, specially on a night like this. Fridays and Saturdays are no bad, though. Still packed then.’ She put the two pints down on the bar. ‘What brings you two boys here?’ McCoy reached in his pocket and she shook her head. ‘Polis drink for free in here. Always have done.’

  McCoy took a draft. ‘That obvious?’

  She smiled. ‘Been behind this bar for near on thirty years, son, no much gets past me.’

  ‘We’re here to see Bobby Thorne. He around?’

  She nodded over at the stage. A pianist appeared out the darkness, lit up in the beam of a red spotlight. ‘Just in time. He’s coming on. Would have thought you two are a bit young to be seeing Bobby. Old ones love him, though.’

  She was right. Clapping and cheers started as soon as he appeared from behind the gold curtain. Bobby Thorne was a wee middle-aged man stuffed into a midnight blue dinner suit and ruffled shirt, big velvet bow tie, pinkie rings on both chubby hands. He smiled, pearly teeth catching the light, and grabbed the microphone.

  ‘How’s it going, my good peeps?’ he shouted. Pianist running up and down the keys behind him. Rapturous cheers and then he was off, straight into ‘Granny’s Heilan Hame’.

  Wattie looked dismayed. ‘Christ, have we got to sit through this?’

  ‘Looks like it. Can’t exactly pull him off the stage, can we?’

  A group of blue-rinsed women smiled at them as they sat down. They were already clapping along, singing the words before Bobby got there. McCoy supped at his pint and wondered what they were doing here. Nobody cared about Lorna Skirving any more. Wasn’t sure he even did. If he was being honest, it was only the Dunlops that were keeping him going. Murray was right. The case was closed the moment Tommy Malone put the bullet in his head. The why and wherefores weren’t their problem. He rubbed at his eyes. He was tired, sore, needed his bed. Five more songs and another two pints in, Bobby’s act was starting to wear thin. He leant over to one of the women at the next table.

  ‘Is there an interval?’

  She nodded, reluctant to turn away from the stage. ‘He sings “These Are My Mountains” and “A Scottish Soldier”, then he goes off for fifteen minutes. Enjoying the show?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Oh aye. Marvellous.’

  Bobby wasn’t really that bad, just wasn’t McCoy’s cup of tea. You don’t survive thirty years in working men’s clubs and variety shows without knowing how to please a crowd. His voice was a surprisingly deep baritone, not bad at all, and he had the patter too. Mother-in-law-jokes, Paddy jokes, stories about wee Glasgow women at the bingo, even got one of the old dears up on stage to serenade her. He’d just launched into ‘A Scottish Soldier’ when Wattie leant over.
>
  ‘I didn’t realise it was him we’d come to see. My mother’s got one of his records. Wonder if she knows he’s a poof.’

  Bobby did his big ending, took a deep bow and told his ‘good peeps’ he’d be back after a short interval ‘where drink would no doubt be taken’.

  Bobby didn’t look quite so good up close. He’d undone his trousers, belly poking out, finally free. His wee dressing room stank of his stockinged feet, crossed on top of his bashed patent pumps. His face was orange with make-up, shiny head of hair a fairly obvious toupee. He swallowed back a whisky and looked them up and down. McCoy held up his badge.

  ‘I know who you are. Polis. I’ve been waiting for you cunts to turn up. Finally find out who did it, did you?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Thorne. That investigation is still ongoing. We’re here on a separate matter.’

  Bobby held out his hand. ‘Badge.’

  McCoy handed it over. Bobby looked at it, and his face crumpled. ‘You’ve got some nerve coming here, McCoy, some bloody nerve. He’s dead because of you, dead because of what he told you.’ He threw the badge on the floor. ‘Get out. Get out my dressing room.’

  McCoy picked up his badge, smiled. ‘I’ll say this for you, Bobby, you’ve still got it. I remember seeing you at the King’s when I was a wee boy. How Green Was My Valley. You were good. Let’s cut the Oscar-winning stuff and just get on with it, eh?’

  Bobby considered for a minute, then poured himself another whisky, looked at the clock on the wall above the mirror. ‘Cheeky bastard. You’ve got ten minutes, then I’m back on.’ He knocked it back, grimaced. ‘Roar of the pish, smell of the mothballs.’

  ‘You know who killed Howie?’

  Bobby shook his head.

  ‘I’m not talking about whoever slit his throat in the showers at Barlinnie, I’m talking about who paid them to do it. I saw the tattoo, Bobby.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Right above his heart, saw it when he was lying on the tiles, lifeblood draining out of him. Somebody made that happen, Bobby, somebody needs to . . .’

  The tears had started. Bobby pulled some paper hankies out of the cardboard box on the dressing table, wiped at his eyes. ‘Twenty-two years we were together. Twenty-two bloody years. Longer than most marriages. Nobody bloody cared. Had to find out he was dead by reading it in the paper. Nobody came to tell me, they told his cunt of a sister. Fucking cow wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral, got a visit from her and some Church of Scotland minister, both of them looking down their noses at me, telling me if I went I would upset the family. Me! He hated his family, hadn’t seen her or them since he was fourteen and his dad chucked him out the house. Wouldn’t even let me see the body.’

  McCoy sat forward. ‘I need you to help me, Bobby. I know you’re scared, I know what they did to Howie, but I need you. Without you I can’t get them. Howie worked for them, didn’t he? Before he went back in?’

  Bobby was really crying now, could only manage a nod.

  ‘And those cunts didn’t lift a finger to help you, did they? What do you owe them, Bobby? Nothing. Give me something. Tell me.’

  Bobby looked at them, was about to speak when the door opened behind them, a girl poked her head around. ‘That’s your five-minute—’

  ‘Beat it,’ said Wattie and pushed the door shut.

  ‘Come on, Bobby. What was it all about? Lorna Skirving. Tell me.’

  He took out a cigarette and Wattie was there with the lighter, Bobby’s fat hands clasping round his to keep it steady.

  He took a deep draw, blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘You don’t know what they’re like. They’re evil, the pair of them. Pure. Fucking. Evil. The father and the son. Tag team, that’s their thing. One girl between them and they like it rough, very rough. Don’t even try. Howie tried, he tried to help that girl and look what happened to him. I mean it, McCoy, it’s more than your life’s worth.’

  Piano music started up and Bobby looked panicked, started to fix his make-up, squeeze his shoes on.

  ‘Come on, Bobby.’

  ‘I cannae, McCoy. I’m no cut out for it. I’m scared. Look at me. I’m a fat, middle-aged poof who’s scared of his own shadow. If they did that to Howie, the hard man Howie was, what chance have I got?’

  ‘They both fucked her, that what you’re saying, is it? Bobby?’ He was leaning into him, voice raised, trying to push him over the edge. ‘They fucked her, the two of them. What happened next, Bobby? What happened to Lorna Skirving? To Howie?’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. Started crying again, snot coming down his nose. ‘I can’t, McCoy. I can’t, I just can’t.’ He sat there sobbing, shoulders shaking up and down.

  McCoy sighed, pulled a hanky out the box, handed it to him. Knew he’d gone too far, too soon.

  They stood at the bar and watched Bobby come back on stage, sing another number. Note perfect. Like nothing had ever happened. Like the old pro he was.

  ‘What now?’ asked Wattie over the noise of ‘You Need Hands’.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, can’t hear myself think.’

  Back outside the snow was still coming down. McCoy looked up at the big flakes whirling through the orange circles of the streetlights. His hand was sore, ribs were sore. No painkillers left. Wattie was standing under the awning watching the people going in and out the brightly lit chippy across the road. He buttoned up his raincoat, pulled his scarf a bit tighter.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing happens at all.’

  ‘What do you mean? You heard Bobby.’

  ‘Aye, I heard Bobby. The Dunlops like kinky sex. That’s all he said. Nothing we can use, nothing that takes us anywhere. Bobby’s never going to tell us anything, he’s a fucking nervous wreck. Scared for his life. Can’t say I blame him. We’re in the same place we were before we spoke to him. Time’s up.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘What’s up with me? What d’you think’s up with me? I’ve been kicked to fuck, my hand’s killing me, my insides are killing me. I’ve got a boss who’ – he looked at his watch – ‘is shutting this case down in less than two hours. Far as he’s concerned he’s got two murders sewn up. One killer dead, the other one singing like a canary. And I’ve got some disgruntled old poof who says Dunlop and his son like fucking the same girl at the same time. It’s no nice, but it’s no a crime last time I looked. In other words, fuck all. What do you want me to do?’

  Wattie stepped back from him. ‘Christ, okay. Keep your fucking hair on. Just no like you to give up.’

  ‘I tried last time and where did it get me, eh? I almost lost my job. So this time I’m taking the easy road just like I’ve been told. Everybody’s happy. Fuck them. If they don’t care, why should I?’

  Wattie shrugged. ‘That’s it then, is it? Case closed, we move on?’

  ‘Looks like it. That okay with you?’ he said, knowing he sounded like a petulant teenager, just couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘Fuck sake, McCoy. Don’t know what you’re angry with me for. You’re the one that’s been dragging me around, wasting time trying to pin something on the Dunlops. Bobby’s almost there and you’re backing off, and now it’s all my fault? Fuck off. It’s not my fault you gave up last time—’

  ‘I didn’t give up, I went—’

  ‘Aye, went up there pissed is what I heard. Gave the Dunlops the perfect excuse to fuck you over. Shot yourself in the foot. Doesn’t come as much of a fucking surprise.’

  If he hadn’t slipped, his fist would have connected square with Wattie’s jaw. As it was, all that happened was he hit him a half-blow on the shoulder and ended up on his arse in the snow. Wattie didn’t say anything, just walked away and left him there. Headed off down Hawthorn Street, hand held up for a passing cab.

  *

  Didn’t even know if she’d be in, didn’t have her phone number to call. He parked the car on Hillhead Street, whole body hurting as he stepped
down onto the pavement. He looked up; there was a light on at least, had to be a good sign. There was a more than even chance he was going to get the bum’s rush but it was worth a try.

  He climbed the stairs. Top floor – would be, wouldn’t it? – and chapped on the door. A fiddling with the locks and Susan pulled it open. Stood there, looking at him.

  ‘Try again?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I was a dick. Wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me again.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Come on, what have you got to lose?’

  ‘What have I got to gain?’ she said and closed the door.

  He stood there looking at it, at the peeling paint and the handwritten label with ‘Thomas’ written on it.

  Last try. He bent down, pushed the letterbox open and shouted through. ‘You get to examine a member of the Glasgow Police close up. The enemy in all its horrible detail.’

  Nothing. Tried again. ‘And I’m really horrible, believe me.’

  Sound of steps, lock turning, door opened again.

  Susan was standing there with half a smile on her face. “That it? That what you’ve got to offer? How much of an arse you are?’

  ‘Think yourself lucky. You can make me the star of your thesis. Tell everyone how a Glasgow polis confirmed all your worst fears.’

  She considered. ‘If you want a drink AND you promise not to be an arse, you can come in for ten minutes.’

  He went to step over the threshold. She held her hand up, stopped him. ‘Just to be clear. If you think I’m sleeping with you, you’re even stupider than I thought.’

  ‘I probably am, but I get the message. Loud and clear.’

  She held the door open and he walked in.

  She put two glasses down on the kitchen table, opened a bottle of red. Sat down. The flat was warm, candles burning on the table casting a dim light over the old range and a giant Cuban flag pinned to the wall. Record player clicked and a new album fell. Blonde on Blonde.

  ‘There. One drink.’

  She pushed a half-full tumbler across the table at him.

  ‘What are you really here for, McCoy?’ she asked.

  ‘To see you.’