Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘My apologies. He has a tendency to step over the mark. Can be useful sometimes, as you can imagine. No real harm done, I hope.’ He smiled.

  McCoy wasn’t playing. No chitchat, no exchanged smiles. He took a long swig of his lager, wiped his mouth of the foam. ‘That Rolls outside, that the one Junior took Isabel home in the other night?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘C’mon, Dunlop, you can do better than that. That night slipped your memory, has it? Let me see if I can help you out. It was the night your son raped her, stubbed cigarettes out on her, kicked fuck out her, then punched her so hard her skull fractured. Isabel Garvey was her name. Lovely lassie, lying in the morgue now. Ringing any bells?’

  McCoy should have known better. Should have known he was wasting his time. Dunlop didn’t say anything, was like water off a duck’s back, didn’t even flinch. Just wasn’t interested.

  ‘I need those photographs back, McCoy. That’s what I came here for. I hoped you could be reasonable. It’s not in either of our interests to have to bring the big guns in.’

  ‘Who’s that, then? The Chief? The mysterious Mr Cavendish? Not sure the old school tie will survive pictures of you and Junior fucking either end of a dead eighteen-year-old girl. You know what? Despite you sitting there looking like butter wouldn’t melt you must be worried. Deep down inside you’re shitting yourself. Otherwise there’s no way you would be sitting here in the Bells trying not to breathe in in case you catch something.’ He shook his empty glass at him. ‘Now away up and get me another pint. I’m thirsty.’

  Contempt flashed across Dunlop’s face. He was about to say something, thought again and didn’t.

  ‘Right decision,’ said McCoy, holding his gaze. He held out his glass. ‘Tennent’s.’

  Dunlop took it, made his way to the bar, drinkers parting to let him in, barman at him straight away. Privileges of wealth even extended to a shitehole like the Bells. Dunlop still thought he had the rest of the pictures. Thought he’d only handed over the one with the two of them and Lorna Skirving in it. Didn’t know Cavendish had them all. For some reason Cavendish was keeping that news to himself. Supposed that’s what men like Cavendish did. Kept things in case they needed them one day. Well, he wasn’t going to tell Dunlop any different.

  Dunlop came back, put the pint of Tennent’s down in front of him. ‘There you are. Now, what I need is for—’

  McCoy laughed. ‘You still think you can call the shots, don’t you? Don’t you get it? You’re fucked, Dunlop, completely fucked. So why don’t you shut it and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.’

  Dunlop looked like he’d been slapped in the face, wasn’t used to being talked to like that. He was keeping his temper; just how difficult that was for him was written all over his face.

  ‘I’ll give you the photos back but I want something in return. You’re not going to give me, Teddy . . .’ McCoy shrugged. ‘I can see that. I’m a reasonable man, but I want him gone. Your wee tag team needs to split up. No more shared girls scared out their wits, fucked all ways then battered black and blue or worse. Send the wee fucker off to the colonies, one of your rubber plantations, diamond mines, I don’t care. Just somewhere away from here.’

  Dunlop thought, nodded. ‘We have interests in Canadian forestry. Saskatchewan. That far enough?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Doesn’t sound like you’ll be that sad to see him go.’

  ‘Have you any children, McCoy?’

  McCoy shook his head. No way he was talking about Bobby to someone like Dunlop.

  Dunlop shrugged. ‘They can be a burden as well as a joy. Teddy has always been a, how shall we say, troubled boy. That trouble is going to come home to roost at some point. I’d rather that happened in Canada than here.’

  ‘Is that a confession?’

  For once Dunlop looked like an ordinary man, a man who, despite all his wealth, couldn’t do anything about his own flesh and blood. ‘It may take a couple of days. He’s not been at home.’

  ‘No? Where is he?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘As I said, Teddy is a complicated boy. He goes AWOL every so often. Sometimes it’s a drugs and alcohol binge, sometimes he checks into a clinic for a rest and sometimes he just disappears. Is that it?’ he asked, going to stand up.

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Nope. I want Gibbs.’

  Dunlop raised his eyebrows. ‘Gibbs? That could be problematic. He’s taken care of family business for the past five years or so, knows where—’

  ‘The bodies are buried?’

  A humourless smile. ‘Not quite. Despite your paranoid fantasies. Rather more prosaic I’m afraid; we’ll need a handover, confidentiality agreement, etc. He may not know where the bodies are buried but he knows enough, more than enough. He won’t be happy. I’ll need a couple of days, a deal will have to be struck. Recompense made. Will be tricky.’ He sipped his drink, grimaced again. ‘What are you actually going to charge him with, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  McCoy ticked off on his fingers. ‘Conspiracy to supply illegal drugs, sexual assault of a minor, trading in and manufacture of pornography. All sorts. Don’t you worry, I’ll find enough to put the cunt away for a good few years.’

  ‘So it will be in the papers?’

  ‘Bet your life. They’ll have a fucking field day. But at least they won’t have the photos, and without the photos they won’t have that much. I’m sure one of your expensive lawyers will be able to minimise the damage.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you’re stupid enough not to have made copies.’

  ‘Nope. I’ve seen enough detective films. They’re in a sealed envelope in a lawyer’s office; anything happens to me, he opens it and sends it straight to the press. Believe that’s the usual procedure.’

  Dunlop swallowed over the last of his drink and stood up. ‘As I said, I’ll need a couple of days.’

  ‘Junior gone. Gibbs handed over, no protection.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘And if you don’t I give the pictures to the papers and to the police. Will make the Headless Man trial look like a fucking tea party.’

  Dunlop pulled his gloves back on. ‘Anything goes wrong I’ll ensure your police career is over.’

  McCoy laughed, hadn’t taken Dunlop long to get back to his old imperious self. The Dunlop that always wins, that looks after number one no matter what, that fucks over anyone to do it. The Dunlop McCoy hated more than anyone he’d ever met. The Dunlop he couldn’t even look at any more. ‘Fuck off before I change my mind.’

  That was more than Dunlop could take. He’d kept his powder dry but now he leant into McCoy’s face. ‘Now you listen to me, you ignorant little fucker. I’ve tried to be civil—’

  McCoy punched him in the face. Hard. Dunlop’s nose exploded, blood splattering all over his face, his tie, his good silk shirt. McCoy pulled his fist back and punched him again and Dunlop went down, flat out on the sticky, beer-stained carpet. McCoy stepped back, knew if he didn’t stop now he never would, that he’d kick Dunlop unconscious and keep going.

  Dunlop was up on his elbows; he looked half surprised and half terrified. He held his hand to his nose, tried to stop the bleeding.

  ‘I told you to fuck off,’ said McCoy. ‘I’m not going to tell you twice.’

  Dunlop scrambled up, headed for the door, head down, banged it open and was gone. McCoy knew it was pointless, would no doubt come back on him, but he didn’t regret it. It was a little victory in a situation where he was never going to get the big one. He walked up to the bar, ordered a pint and wiped the blood off his knuckles with a bar towel.

  ‘On me,’ said the barman, as he put it down. ‘Fucking snobby cunt never left a tip.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Wattie grabbed him as soon as he walked into the shop. ‘Murray’s looking everywhere for you. He’s up at the hospital.’

  ‘Shite. What’s he doing there? And what you doing here? Thought you were going to some dance?’

  ‘I was, until
Murray got wind. Got a right doing.’

  ‘What’s at the hospital?’

  Wattie shrugged. ‘Didn’t tell me, just told me to get you over there. Soon as. I was just coming to look for you.’

  Wattie drove. Traffic was down to a bare minimum, nobody wanting to go out in the weather unless they really had to. Half the roads were blocked, cars abandoned in the snowdrifts. Radio was reporting power had gone down in the Southside, car accidents everywhere, bridges closed. McCoy swore and switched it off. Ignored Wattie’s protests. Wattie was hunched over the wheel, rubbing at the windscreen, trying to make out where they were through the condensation and the snow.

  ‘Can you no go any faster?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘Aye, no problem. Just as long as you want to end up under a fucking bus. What’s up with you anyway?’

  Didn’t reply. Didn’t shut him up, though.

  ‘That bloke from the play park?’ Wattie asked. ‘Any luck?’

  Took McCoy a minute to realise what he was talking about. Had forgotten that’s what he was supposed to be doing up in Springburn. ‘No, no really. This weather’s shut everything down, nobody out and about. Place was deserted. We can try again tomorrow.’ Wattie seemed to buy it, went back to rubbing the end of his coat sleeve on the windscreen.

  A bus had conked out in the snow in Argyle Street. A crowd of cold and angry passengers were standing outside it, conductor trying to explain what was going on.

  Murray had his pipe going when they pulled up, was pacing up and down the pavement outside the big A&E entrance trying to keep warm. Held it up as they approached.

  ‘No let me smoke this in there, so I’m out here in bloody Antarctica.’ They moved towards the door and Murray put his arm across Wattie’s chest. ‘Not you, son,’ he said. ‘Give us a wee while, eh?’

  Wattie started to protest, could tell by Murray’s face it wasn’t a good idea, walked back to the car muttering at the injustice.

  ‘That bad, is it?’ asked McCoy. ‘Do I have to go in? I fucking hate these places, Murray, can we no—’

  But he was talking to the back of Murray’s coat. He sighed and followed him in.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

  They were standing by a bed looking down at Janey. McCoy stepped forward, held her hand through the sheet. He clasped it, held it into his body. His vision was getting blurry; tear rolled down and made a dark spot on the green sheet. He sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his face.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Kids found her in an empty flat in Partick. Syringe still sticking out her arm. Did you know?’

  He nodded. ‘Sort of. Tried to find her yesterday, didn’t realise how bad it had got.’

  ‘They think she’ll pull through, but they can’t say for certain. She was lucky, three others this week found dead. It’s like a fucking plague. Young kids, all of them. She got any family?’

  ‘I don’t know. Iris’ll know. Try Iris.’ He was still staring at her. Remembered waking up on those mornings at the shebeen, frost on the windows, her wrapped around him, both of them too cold to get out of bed. He always gave in first, jumped up, put the electric fire on, then jumped back in. Two of them talking and laughing, waiting for the room to heat up. Realised now how happy he’d been then, how much he’d missed her.

  ‘You all right, son? You want some time?’

  McCoy shook his head. Didn’t want this to be what he thought about when he thought of her. The stink of floor cleaner, the IV going into her bruised arm, the rows of beds. He stepped back and Murray put his arm round him, patted his back.

  ‘I’m sorry, son. Shouldn’t happen to someone this young. She’ll make it, I know she will.’

  McCoy took out his cigarettes and lit one with a shaky hand. He inhaled, felt dizzy, wanted to feel dizzy, wanted to feel anything but how he was feeling now.

  ‘There’s gonnae be more of this, McCoy. Got a feeling this is only the beginning. Never used to get this stuff up here and now it’s turning up everywhere. Your pal Cooper know anything about it? This is serious, need to get him put away before any more girls are lying in beds like this—’ Murray stopped, realised McCoy was staring at him. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked. ‘You okay?’

  McCoy wasn’t listening to him. What Cooper had said about Murray and Naismith – was that why he was really here? Was Murray showing him Janey, thinking he’d give him Cooper? Was all Murray’s sympathy just about leaving the field wide open for Naismith?

  ‘You all right?’ asked Murray. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour.’

  He didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to think it could be true. ‘Just need some air,’ he said, pushing past him. ‘Some fresh air.’

  He sat in the A&E reception for a while, trying to take on board all that had happened. Trying to work out what he believed and what he didn’t. Murray had been like a father to him, more of a father than his own had ever been. Was he really dirty? Cooper didn’t tend to make things like that up, wasn’t his style. Whatever he was, Stevie Cooper was straight down the line. And whatever he was, he was the reason Janey was lying in the hospital. And who was he, sitting there judging them? Hadn’t been doing so well himself. Janey, Susan back to thinking he was a cunt, Billy Leeson dead, Jumbo beaten to within an inch of his life.

  ‘You can fuck off too!’ He looked up and a uniform was trying to huckle a girl out of A&E. She was drunk, skirt too short, street girl.

  ‘I’m waiting for my pal!’ she screeched. Took a swipe at the uniform. People waiting giggled. A cry of ‘Batter him, hen.’ McCoy smiled too and then he remembered. Jean Baird. He hadn’t called her back.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Thought I’d come in person,’ said McCoy.

  Madame Polo, or Jean Baird, whatever her name was, had opened the door herself, bit of a surprise, he’d expected a maid. Uniform the girl was wearing last time must have been for something else entirely. Madame Polo held the door open, led him into a sort of reception room. She poured them both a whisky from a crystal decanter and came straight to the point.

  ‘Elsa, the girl you met last time, is missing. She didn’t turn up for work, wasn’t at home, nobody knows where she is.’

  ‘Maybe she just took off? They must come and go in this business.’

  She looked at him. ‘They?’

  ‘Sorry, the girls.’ McCoy felt suitably chastised. Susan was right, she really was like some kind of headmistress.

  ‘Not Elsa. She’s as reliable as they come. No way would this happen unless something was wrong.’

  ‘What could be wrong?’

  Madame Polo looked down at her drink. ‘I may not have been as forthcoming as I might have been the last time we spoke.’

  McCoy didn’t say anything. Waited.

  ‘Elsa told me she did a job with Lorna Skirving and her boyfriend. He wanted two girls.’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘She was blindfolded the whole time, part of the scenario. He didn’t want her to know what was coming.’

  ‘Which was?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘She didn’t say, didn’t want to talk about it. But whatever happened she wouldn’t go with them again. Lorna asked her and asked her, offered her double money, seems the boyfriend had taken a shine to her. Didn’t work. She point-blank refused.’

  ‘And you’re worried she’s gone off with the boyfriend?’

  Madame Polo nodded. ‘And not come back.’

  ‘Who’s the boyfriend?’

  ‘As I said, Mr McCoy, discretion is the key to my business. I am not going to identify any of our clients.’

  ‘Teddy Dunlop – was it him?’

  She nodded, just a slight tilt of her head. Enough.

  McCoy sat back, watched Madame Polo get up, make her way back towards the drinks cabinet. No way he could go back to Murray with this. The fact it was the Dunlops wasn’t enough to get fired straight away, but he could hear him now: ‘Where’s the evidence?’ There wasn’t any, j
ust a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. And the only person he could think of to help him try and get rid of it was the last person in the world he wanted to see. Still, blood, of whatever kind it may be, was thicker than water.

  Madame Polo handed him a half-full tumbler.

  ‘Will you help?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Can I use your phone?’

  *

  McCoy was waiting outside the Bon Accord for twenty minutes or so, getting colder and colder, before the Silver Zephyr drew up. Cooper stepped out, hit the roof a couple of times, shut the door and the driver drove off into the foggy night. Cooper turned his collar up, blew into his hands and walked over.

  ‘So, what’s the big problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Need a bit of help with someone. Off the books.’

  ‘That it?’ said Cooper.

  McCoy pointed behind him to the townhouse next to the hotel. ‘In there. We should go round the back.’

  ‘That’s the big emergency? You need me to batter someone for you? Fuck sake! I could have sent Billy.’

  ‘You going to help me or not?’ asked McCoy.

  Cooper turned, headed towards the townhouse. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  They made their way past the lit-up windows of the Bon Accord, sounds of a party going on inside, towards the lane that would take them behind the row of buildings. They turned into the lane, feet sinking into the soft, undisturbed snow. A fox jumped down from an open bin, disappeared through a gap in the fence. Their breath was blowing out in front of them, clouds in the freezing air.

  There was never going to be a good time to say it, but he had to do it before they got in the house.

  ‘Janey’s in the hospital,’ he said. ‘Overdose.’

  ‘That right?’ said Cooper, chewing at his thumbnail. ‘No real surprise.’

  ‘No, not considering you put her there.’

  Cooper turned to him, laughed. ‘I did what?’

  ‘Smack. Got her hooked while she tried out your fucking strengths for you. Then you chucked her out the shebeen when you didn’t need her any more.’