by Alan Parks
The boy with the glitter on his face looked up. ‘Is he still in there, mister?’
McCoy nodded, started walking up Jamaica Street. Someone else could break the news.
FOUR
After a whisky, a bath and a shave, McCoy was wandering around the flat in his skivvies drinking a big glass of tap water. The windows were wide open but he didn’t care. If anyone was interested in looking at him in his underwear then God help them. Was still about seventy degrees, no sign of a breeze, so he was avoiding putting his clothes on until the last minute. Then he had a sudden thought. Was he supposed to bring something? That seemed familiar from posh West End dinner parties. If so, what? Chocolates? Flowers? A bottle of the type of rotten wine he could afford?
Thought of asking Susan, even picked up the phone, but put it back. Things hadn’t been going that well since she’d got the place at Manchester uni. Her phone calls were getting less and less frequent, weekend trip down there had been more awkward than anything else. New uni pals not sure what to make of a Glasgow polis. Her and him trying to fill up the silences, pretend everything was hunky-dory, same as it had been up here. Both of them knew it was pretty much over, bar the shouting. Turned out he’d been a bit of a holiday romance, right place right time, no more no less. He just needed to take it on the chin and get on with it.
He put his shirt on, buttoned it up and stepped into his trousers. He’d looked around but couldn’t find anything in the house he could take anyway. The half bottle of Grant’s sitting on the mantelpiece didn’t seem quite right and the shops would be shut by now. He’d just have to show up empty-handed. Looked at himself in the mirror as he tied his tie. His face was red from the sun, freckles on his nose coming out. He put his shoes and his jacket on, picked up his keys from the bookcase and pulled the front door shut behind him.
Wasn’t that far a walk to Phyllis Gilroy’s house, just up his street and over. Noticed the change as soon as he topped the hill. Suddenly the kids in the streets weren’t wearing their big brother’s or sister’s hand-me-downs. The bikes they had were new-looking, shiny. Even their accents were different, softer, posher. The line for the ice-cream van was a neat crocodile shuffling forwards, not the free-for-all it was in the schemes. He was in Hyndland now, right enough.
Six Beaumont Gate was a tall, red-sandstone townhouse. The kind of place that reeked of old money and privilege. Four floors and a basement, a garden in the front full of spiky bushes, front door with a stained-glass panel of a Highland landscape. He pressed the bell and waited. Figured if he got out by half nine he could be back at the Victoria in time for the usual Friday night lock-in. Heard footsteps and the door opened.
‘Harry! Excellent. Glad you could make it,’ said Phyllis, beaming at him.
Trousers and blouse had been replaced by some sort of white dress with big red flowers on it. Thought for a minute she’d hurt her head, then realised it was a turban thing of the same material.
‘Sorry, I didn’t bring anything . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve enough wine to sink a battleship!’ She held the door wide. ‘Come in!’
He followed Phyllis through the hall and down the stairs, the noise of chatting and laughing drifting up, and found himself in a basement kitchen about twice the size of his whole flat. A large wooden table in the middle was covered with a patchwork cloth, candles dotted on it, some sort of metal rack above it with copper pans hanging down. The wall at the opposite end was almost covered with an enormous painting of two wee kids, red hair and freckles, words and bits of newspaper stuck all over them. A raised panel to the side of the picture had bells and the name of the rooms above them. Summon the servants without getting off your arse.
A record was playing in the background. Sunday Morning Symphony of all things. Six people were sitting at the table, glasses of wine in front of them, all of them looking up as he appeared.
Phyllis put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Everyone? This is a colleague, and hopefully a friend of mine, Harry McCoy. Was at a bit of a loose end tonight, so he was kind enough to join us.’
Phyllis pointed at the table.
‘Harry, this is Jack and Eden Coia.’ A tiny elderly couple smiled up at him. ‘Edwin and John on the left,’ she went on. An older man with specs and a younger one. She continued, pointing at the furthest seat from where they stood, ‘Professor Hobbs at the top.’ Bald, fat, flushed. Phyllis nodded at an empty seat. ‘And next to you is Mila de Ligt.’ Young, blonde, jeans and a collarless man’s shirt. She looked up and waved.
‘Now,’ said Phyllis, sitting him down, ‘as you can see, we are in the kitchen this evening, bit cooler and a bit less formal, so enjoy yourself. White or red?’
He’d only been sitting down for a few minutes, just managed to swallow a half glass of red, when the inevitable question came up.
‘So, Harry, Phyllis tells us you are a policeman?’ Hobbs pronounced ‘policeman’ as if it was something he’d never heard of.
Harry nodded.
Hobbs pointed to the record player with his cigarette. ‘Phyllis said you were there today.’
‘We both were,’ said Phyllis. ‘I thought I better give his music a go, least I can do. I bought it on the way home. I rather like it, you know,’ she said, putting a big platter of bread, cheese and olives on the table. ‘Was the last copy left in Woolworths.’
‘Dead rock stars one day, bank robbers the next. Your life must be rather fascinating, I would imagine,’ said Hobbs, spearing a bit of brie with his knife.
McCoy was just lifting a bit of cheddar to his mouth when he realised the whole table had turned to look at him. He put it down.
‘Can be,’ he said. ‘But it’s the same as most jobs. Some bits of it are interesting, some as dull as ditchwater.’
‘The little girl?’ continued Hobbs.
McCoy nodded, didn’t have to ask what he was talking about.
‘I can’t even imagine what the poor mother is going through,’ said Eden, shaking her head. ‘Whole thing is tragic.’
Hobbs was looking at him in expectation. ‘You must know something.’
‘No more than you,’ said McCoy evenly.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Hobbs, looking round the table for support. ‘What is the theory you are working on?’
‘I’m not working on a theory,’ said McCoy. He was starting to get annoyed. Even if he did know anything about Alice Kelly, he wouldn’t be telling this fat arsehole, no matter how much he felt entitled to know.
Hobbs laughed. ‘Well, that’s not very reassuring! May I ask why not?’
‘Police business is confidential, Phillip, as you should well know,’ said Phyllis, rescuing him. ‘So stop hectoring our guest. This is a dinner, not an interrogation. Now, who fancies the gazpacho? I couldn’t face making hot soup in this heat.’
McCoy sat there for a bit, eating – drinking? – his gazpacho and trying not to get any angrier. Should have known better than to come. He was just putting his spoon down when Edwin the poet leant across the table, spoke quietly.
‘Don’t worry. Phillip Hobbs is an arse. Always has been. Always will be.’ Then he grinned.
After that, the evening started to look up a bit. Edwin the poet turned out to be a bit of a laugh. Cheeky wee guy, dirty sense of humour. His friend constantly rolling his eyes as he described the trouble they’d got into on some trip they’d been on to Greece.
Mila didn’t say much. He supposed Glasgow accents were difficult enough, never mind if you’re Dutch, but she smiled, tried to join in. He was half listening to some argument between Mrs Coia and Edwin about the value of public space in city planning, whatever that was, when Mila leant into him and whispered.
‘God, this is boring.’
He laughed, hadn’t expected it. He turned and she was smiling at him.
‘I love Phyllis but she does have some very dull friends,’ she said.
‘Me included?’ asked McCoy.
She wrinkled h
er nose. ‘Not sure yet. Phyllis said you might be able to help me.’
‘How’s that, then?’ asked McCoy.
She lit up, blew the smoke away, held up an expensive-looking camera.
‘I’m a photographer. A charity called Shelter have asked me to document the lives of people living in poverty in Glasgow. Bad housing, people who are living on the roads . . .’
‘The streets,’ said McCoy. ‘We say the streets.’
She smiled. ‘Sorry, the streets. Phyllis thought you might be able to introduce me to some of these people.’
McCoy sighed. He was getting a bit sick of being Glasgow’s official representative for the downtrodden. He couldn’t face wandering about Glasgow trying to find Charlie the Pram with Mila in this heat, no matter how good-looking she was.
‘I can’t just now,’ he said. ‘Have to work, short-staffed at the moment, but I know someone who can. Friend called Liam. Just the man you need. I’ll introduce you.’
‘Is he a social worker?’ Mila asked. ‘A charity worker?’
‘Not exactly,’ said McCoy, not wanting to tell her last time he’d seen him he was passed out on a grate at the back of the St Enoch Hotel. ‘He’s more someone who knows Glasgow, knows everyone. He’s your man, believe me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be most helpful.’
He was just about to ask her why they’d got a Dutch woman to take photos in Glasgow when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. He looked up and the last person he expected to see was walking down them. Chief Inspector Murray. He’d a new suit on, and a new haircut, was carrying a holdall, smiling. Looking very much at home.
‘Still bloody boiling out there,’ he said, taking his jacket off and hanging it over the last empty chair. ‘Have I missed the food?’
He sat down and Phyllis got him a plate, put it in front of him. ‘I think you know everyone, don’t you, Hector? Oh, this is Mila – a photographer friend, here from Rotterdam. I bought some of her pictures last year when I was on holiday.’
They nodded at each other and Murray started putting food on his plate as Phyllis poured him a large glass of red wine.
All McCoy could do was watch in amazement. Murray didn’t like wine. He didn’t like wearing a suit unless he had to. And last McCoy knew, attending a dinner party was a fate worse than death for him. Yet here he was, chomping away, asking Edwin how his holiday to Greece had been. Sharing a laugh with Mrs Coia. There was only one explanation McCoy could think of: him and Phyllis must be seeing each other. He knew they were friends, but he thought it was just that. Shows how much he knew. Must have been written on his face.
‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Murray, pointing his fork at him.
‘Nothing,’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing at all.’
Wasn’t until after the coffee that Murray stood up. ‘Phyllis, will you excuse us for ten minutes? Work calls.’
He nodded at McCoy, and McCoy got up and followed him upstairs. They ended up in the big front room, grand piano, lots of dark wood panelling, a smell of beeswax polish. A huge portrait of a serious-looking middle-aged man with an Edwardian moustache looked down at them from over the fireplace. Little title on the frame: ‘Sir Phillip Gilroy’.
Murray pushed a sleeping ginger cat off the cushion, settled down on a leather armchair and pointed at the one opposite.
‘How long’s this been going on?’ asked McCoy, sitting down and trying not to grin.
‘If that was any of your bloody business I’d tell you,’ said Murray.
Suddenly struck him. ‘Does Janet know?’ he asked.
Murray nodded. Face giving nothing away.
‘And?’ asked McCoy.
‘And Janet’s fine about it. She’s living in Peebles now. With her friend.’
McCoy was about to ask about the friend but thought better of it.
‘And that’s that,’ said Murray. He started looking for his pipe. Seemed that part of the conversation was over.
‘How’s that arsehole Raeburn getting on?’
McCoy shrugged.
‘He still giving you the bum’s rush, is he?’
‘Yep. Not allowed anywhere near anything,’ said McCoy.
‘Raeburn’s bloody loss. He better find that wee girl and quick. Stupid bugger should take any help he can get.’ He pulled his pipe out his pocket, banged it on the heel of his shoe and a shower of ash fell into the grate.
‘Not much I can do about it,’ said McCoy. ‘How you getting on in Perth?’
‘I’m surviving. Counting the days until I leave.’ Murray sat back in his chair, looked at him. ‘There’s another reason I’m here. Wanted to talk to you.’
‘Oh aye. What about?’ said McCoy warily.
‘You remember John?’ Murray was padding his trouser pockets. The hunt for his matches was on.
‘Your brother John?’ McCoy asked.
Murray nodded, gave up the search and reached for a bronze lighter on the coffee table. Lit his pipe.
‘Yep. What about him? What’s he done?’ asked McCoy
Murray’s face re-emerged from a cloud of bluish smoke. ‘John? Not a thing. Pure as the driven snow, our John. It’s his daughter Laura. She’s run away again.’
McCoy listened, as Murray told him the same old story. She was fifteen, didn’t get on with her mum and dad, had come home drunk a couple of times, was seeing boys, dogging school.
‘Not sure that’s much different from any other fifteen-year-old,’ said McCoy.
‘It is now. She’s been gone for two nights and John and Shelia are climbing the walls.’
He leant forward, reached round and got his wallet out his back pocket, opened it and handed McCoy a photo. Must have been taken at some family celebration. Looked like a restaurant or a hotel. Laura was a good-looking girl, big dark eyes, long brown hair. She was standing a little distance away from the rest of the family, not much but enough to let you know she’d rather be anywhere than standing there with her mum and dad and her wee brother. From the photo, McCoy would have guessed she was eighteen or nineteen rather than fifteen.
‘I don’t get it,’ said McCoy. ‘Why all the cloak and dagger? Why’s this not going through the shop? She’s only fifteen, they’ll look for her, especially if she’s the boss’s niece. Has your brother not reported her missing?’
Murray shrugged, looked a bit guilty. ‘Not officially.’
‘Why not?’ asked McCoy. ‘What’s the problem?’
Murray sighed. ‘John’s the deputy head of Glasgow Council. The last thing he wants is his runaway daughter plastered all over the front of the Evening Times. And between you and me he’s going to run as an MP next year. Glasgow West are going to select him. Deal’s done. He doesn’t want Laura’s behaviour scuppering his chances.’
‘What a gent,’ said McCoy.
Murray looked resigned. ‘He’s a prick, always has been. If he wasn’t my brother, I wouldn’t cross the street to piss on him if he was on fire.’ He blew out another cloud of smoke, waved it away. ‘Was tempted to tell him to sort out his own bloody mess, but I’m fond of Laura. The last thing I want is anything happening to her.’
‘Maybe she’s just staying at a pal’s, putting the wind up her mum and dad?’
Murray shook his head. ‘If only. Seems young Laura has developed an interest in the seamier side of our fair city. She was seen in the Strathmore last night.’
McCoy wasn’t expecting that. The Strathmore was only half a mile up the road from where they were sitting, but that half a mile put it right into Maryhill. And the Strathmore was a dive even by Maryhill’s less than stellar standards.
‘Apparently she was with a guy called Donny MacRae, pissed, making a right arse of herself,’ Murray added.
‘Donny MacRae? That Donny MacRae?’ asked McCoy. Things were looking worse by the minute.
Murray nodded. Rubbed at the reddish stubble coming through on his chin, made a noise like sandpaper. ‘Do me a favour, Harry, just find her and de
liver her back to her comfy bed in Bearsden. Get my bloody brother off my back.’
McCoy nodded. Wasn’t like he could say no. If there was anyone in the world he owed it was Murray. ‘Give me a couple of days. I’ll find her. Thanks to Raeburn, I’ve got bugger all else to do.’
‘And Harry? This is between you and me, eh?’ said Murray. ‘Nothing official.’
McCoy nodded. Looked up as the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.
‘And here was me thinking I’d a night off,’ he said. ‘Was going to go to the lock-in at the Victoria.’
He stood up to go.
‘Janet’s not bothered,’ said Murray. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’s got her own life now.’
McCoy nodded. Wasn’t sure if he believed him or not.
They went back downstairs and McCoy said his goodbyes to Phyllis and the rest of the guests. Thought he’d give it a go, nothing to lose.
‘Actually,’ he said to Mila, ‘I’ve got to go and have a look at a pub up the road. Fancy coming? Might be a good place to take photos, if you fancy it?’
She smiled gratefully. ‘Yes, I would, let me get some more film.’ She disappeared upstairs.
He left Murray down there, sitting beside Phyllis, a glass of red wine in his hand, tie undone. What age was Murray? Late fifties? Suppose he still had a life to lead. Still a shock, though. Stood in the hall waiting for Mila to come down. Took the photo out his pocket and had another look. Laura Murray looked out at him. Fifteen going on eighteen. Trouble. Heard Mila on the stairs, put it back in his wallet.
They stepped out the door and into the warmth of the night. Streetlights had just come on, moths flickering round the yellow lights. Mila put her arm in his and they started walking up Byres Road towards the Strathmore. Streets were busy, weather and the holidays getting everyone out for the night. Stopped while Mila took some pictures of three drunk women at the taxi rank. They were swaying, holding hands, singing ‘Delilah’ at the top their voices.
McCoy didn’t know anything about photography, but Mila looked like she knew what she was doing. Let them pose and grin for a few shots, then dropped her camera to waist level, kept talking to them, still pressing the shutter without them knowing. They finished the song and she gave them a kiss each, hurried up the road towards McCoy.