by Alan Parks
McCoy walked round onto Barrhead Road and stood there for a minute looking at THE TRADEWINDS HOTEL as it proudly proclaimed itself via a big wrought-iron sign sitting on a big wrought-iron boat. The front of the building was white, clean lines – supposed the idea was that it looked like a yacht club or something, effect somewhat spoiled by the graffiti on the side.
‘HOLE IN THE WALL GANG COUNTRY!’
Somebody with a spray can had obviously been watching too many cowboy pictures. There were a lot of places like the Tradewinds around Glasgow. Hotels, not pubs. Didn’t think anyone ever stayed in them, but if they had a couple of bedrooms upstairs it meant they could apply for a hotel license and sell drink on a Sunday. And that was the day they made all their money, people coming from everywhere. He pushed the door open and went inside.
The lounge was huge, big booths, rows of seats, rows of one-arm bandits, and a stage at the end, smoke and dust whirling in the light from the big windows along the side. It was more like the kind of place you got at Butlin’s or Pontins holiday camp than a pub. The difference was holiday camps tended to be busy, happy places, full of people having a good time. The Tradewinds was anything but. Sheer size made the five or six wee groups dotted around look even more miserable. All of them elderly men, all of them nursing pints, all of them smoking for Scotland.
He walked up to the bar and ordered a Coke and a pint. Drank the Coke over quickly in one slug and handed the glass back to the barman.
‘Must have been thirsty,’ he said.
‘I was,’ said McCoy. ‘Still bloody boiling out there.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘You know Wullie March?’
The barman nodded, pointed over at an elderly man sitting by himself at the window. Even in this heat, he had a bunnet and a cardigan on. And even at this distance, McCoy could see his hand shaking as he raised his pint up to his mouth.
‘Give us a double whisky,’ said McCoy to the barman. ‘What kind does he drink?’
Barman snorted. ‘He’s no that fussy, believe me. Old bugger stops just short of turps.’ He pressed a glass into the Bell’s optic twice, handed it over. ‘Gie him that. He’ll think his ship’s come in.’
McCoy took it and walked over to the table. Big picture window behind Wullie March affording a view of a newsagent, a butcher’s, a parked Viva and a queue of people waiting at a bus stop. Cowes it was not.
‘Mr March? You called the station, spoke to me? Detective McCoy.’
Wullie March’s wee rheumy eyes took McCoy in. Then they took in the glass of whisky in his hand.
McCoy held it out. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
March nodded, shaking hand reached out for the whisky and he swallowed it over. Instant look of relief on his face.
‘Sorry about what’s happened,’ said McCoy. ‘He was a young man. Must have been a shock.’
March nodded. Now the distraction of the whisky was out the way he was looking at McCoy properly. So McCoy did the same. March was probably only fifty odds but the drink had taken its toll, burst blood vessels on his cheeks and nose, eyes red-ringed and watery. Tremor in his hands. Suit trousers shiny, white nylon shirt beneath the cardigan yellowing around the collar.
‘It was. You the polis that dealt with my son?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ said McCoy.
‘Where’s his bag? You got it?’ said March.
McCoy looked blank. ‘What bag?’
March’s face crumpled, looked genuinely upset.
‘Sorry, was it a sentimental thing?’ asked McCoy. ‘Did he have something in it? Photos?’
The upset face turned angry in a second. March spat out the words. ‘I knew it, some bastard’s stolen it. I fucking knew it.’
He looked up at McCoy, anger now becoming fury. Pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. ‘Was it you? You take it, did you?’
‘Me?’ said McCoy. ‘No! I’m a polis.’
‘Think that makes a difference, do you?’ said March. ‘I’ve known more bent polis than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Fair enough,’ said McCoy. ‘Not arguing with you there, but I’m not one and there wasn’t a bag in his room. I would have seen it.’
March’s hands had formed into fists, face going red. ‘Well, someone’s had it and I want it, should be mine. I should get it, shouldn’t I?’
McCoy nodded. Started to wonder exactly how much of a toll the drink had taken on Wullie March.
‘What kind of bag was it?’ he asked, trying to get him back on track.
March shook his head in disgust. ‘Some bloody hippy-looking thing. Cloth, long strap, wore it over his shoulder. Got it in Greece. Sandy-coloured. Had it for years, never went anywhere without it.’
‘And what was in it?’ asked McCoy.
March’s face lit up. ‘Money, there’d be money in it, wouldn’t there? My boy did well, should have had money.’
He looked at McCoy, horrible smile on his face. ‘And that money’s mine now. It’s owed. I’m his next of kin.’
McCoy nodded. Thought about Bobby March lying dead on his bed. Thought about how his father hadn’t asked anything about him. Just all about the bloody bag and the hope of some easy money for more drink. More than likely the bag was where he kept his drugs and his fags rather than the wads of cash March was imagining.
‘He still have pals back here?’ asked McCoy. ‘Girlfriends? Anyone he would see?’
March shook his head. Looked at the empty whisky glass. McCoy wasn’t biting. Yet.
‘No. Didnae even come and see me. Hated Glasgow. Couldn’t wait to get out of it. Went to London when he was seventeen. Some band he was in. I had to sign his record contract because he was so bloody young. Never came back here, if he could help it. Hated it.’
He seemed to drift off, stared out the window at the queue of people at the bus stop across the street. Snapped back, looked at McCoy. ‘Will you find the bastard that’s taken it? It’s a crime. They’ve got it and they’ve got my money. I haven’t worked for years. I need it. I’m entitled.’
McCoy held his hands up. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Okay?’
March nodded, shaking hands took a ready-made roll-up out his baccy tin.
‘Why’d he hate Glasgow so much?’ asked McCoy.
March shook his head. ‘No idea. It was his home.’ He looked at him as if something had just dawned. ‘You know any newspaper reporters? They’d pay for my story, wouldn’t they? Could tell them all about Bobby, everything they want to know. Got pictures from when he was a wee boy. A gold record, too. How much that be worth, you reckon?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m a polis. Don’t know anything about newspapers or gold records.’
March looked at the empty whisky glass. Tried to look like he was about to cry. ‘My poor boy, my poor wee boy.’ Took a filthy hanky out his cardigan pocket and blew his nose into it.
McCoy knew he was laying it on thick, had to be daft not to, but he gave in. His son was dead after all, so he bought him another whisky and left him to it. Told him he’d be in touch as soon as he found out anything.
NINE
McCoy sat down on the steps of the Sherriff Court and lit up. Across the road, Glasgow Green was full of sunbathers dotted about on the grass. In the distance the tinkle of an ice-cream van somewhere in the park. The mortuary, a low bunker-like building, was next door to the court, but he wasn’t going in. Not if he could help it. Gilroy knew him well enough to know she could find him out here, away from the blood and the smell and the running water flushing whatever it flushed down the sinks. He was just going to sit here on the steps, enjoy the sun and wait for her to come out.
He took his jacket off, noticed his shoe was undone and bent over to tie it. When he looked back up, he was standing there, the boy from outside the hotel. The glitter on his face had two clear lines cutting through it where the tears had rolled down his cheek. His lip was trembling.
‘You all right, son?’ asked McCoy.
‘He’s de
ad. Isn’t he?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded.
Tears grew in the boy’s eyes, rolled down his cheeks. He sat down by McCoy and started to weep, snotty gasps and choking sobs. McCoy was a bit taken aback, wasn’t quite sure what to do. Wasn’t often he had a sixteen-year-old boy breaking his heart beside him. He reached out his hand, clapped his back, thin cotton wet with sweat, label sticking up. A Woolworths vest he’d decorated himself.
‘Come on, son, try and pull yourself together a bit, eh? It’s sad, but what’s happened’s happened, eh?’
A few sniffs, a rub at the eyes and he sat back up. The felt pen ‘BOBBY MARCH’ he’d written on his vest was smudged from the sweat and the tears. The boy looked down at it.
‘My dad threw my real one in the bin. Had to make this one. It’s shite. I know it’s shite.’
McCoy was about to say no it isn’t but didn’t think he’d be able to make it sound even halfway convincing.
‘Why’d he throw it away?’ asked McCoy.
‘Because he thinks I’m a poof,’ he said. ‘Says a T-shirt like that is for lassies.’
He wiped the snot from his nose, rubbed it on the stone stairs.
‘Broke my records too. And now he’s dead.’
Lip went, looked like he was about to start crying again. McCoy thought quickly, dug in his pocket, brought out the plectrum. Had a wee Bobby March logo on one side. Les Paul logo on the other. He held it out to the boy.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this. Don’t tell anyone, but it was one of his.’
The boy just looked at him, eyes wide.
‘Take it,’ said McCoy.
The boy stretched out his hand and took it. Looked at it like a priest would look at some holy relic and carefully put it in his pocket.
‘Now cheer up, eh?’
The boy nodded, smiled at him.
‘That’s the best thing anyone has ever given me. Thanks, mister.’
‘A mortuary’s an awful place,’ said McCoy. ‘It’ll no help you.’
‘I just want to be near where he is,’ he said, with painful honesty.
Wasn’t much McCoy could say to that, supposed he wasn’t doing any harm.
‘You at the concert last night?’ he asked the boy.
Shook his head. ‘Too young. Wouldn’t let me in.’
McCoy looked at him. At the tear-stained glitter on his face, the felt pen T-shirt, the school trousers that were too short for him.
‘What’s your dad going to say when you get home?’ he asked.
‘He’s not going to say anything,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s just going to beat me to fuck like usual.’
Something about the boy reminded McCoy of himself at that age, wasn’t sure what. Maybe the sense that life was shite and it looked like it was always going to be shite for someone like him. McCoy dug in his pocket, looking for change, came out with a fiver. Fuck it.
‘Take this,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Go to Listen in Renfield Street and buy yourself a proper T-shirt. Then go in the toilets and wash the glitter off. Money left, you should be able to go and get yourself another copy of Sunday Morning Symphony. Hide it under the bed. The last thing you need tonight is your dad leathering you.’
The boy took the note, looked stunned. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘One fan to another, eh?’ said McCoy
He nodded, then grabbed McCoy in a bear hug. Started crying again. McCoy managed to peel him off, told him to get to Listen before they sold out and he ran off towards Argyle Street.
McCoy watched him go, good deed for the day done. Looked at his watch. Three o’clock. Wondered if the inevitable had happened yet. A panicked phone call from some woman who’d been walking her dog in Ruchill Park or by the canal and had seen a wee leg poking out from the bushes. What would happen then? Press would get worse, the gory details, pictures of the grieving parents. And with that the pressure from Pitt Street would get worse too.
‘Penny for them,’ said Gilroy, sitting down on the step beside him. ‘You’re miles away.’
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy. ‘Just having a think.’
She looked at him. ‘You appear to have glitter on your cheek.’
McCoy rubbed at his face. ‘God knows where that came from. That it gone?’
Gilroy nodded and they sat for a minute looking out over the park. At the kids running round, waiting in the ice-cream queue, playing with their mums and dads. Doing the kind of stuff Alice Kelly wouldn’t be doing again.
‘I hate to ask, but any news?’ asked Gilroy.
McCoy shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve heard. Been in the wild west interviewing the dad.’
‘Let’s keep hoping then,’ said Gilroy. She held up a buff-coloured file. ‘The matter in hand. One Robert Thomson March. Born 12th April 1946. Died 13th July 1973. I’m assuming you don’t want to see the pictures?’
‘Too bloody right,’ said McCoy. ‘So, what’s the story? Is there one?’
‘There might well be,’ said Gilroy. ‘There might well be.’
‘Really?’ McCoy was surprised.
‘Cause of death is an overdose of an opiate. Had small traces of cocaine and Mandrax in his bloodstream also.’
‘Didn’t do things by half then,’ said McCoy.
‘Both so small no real effect on his death, but . . .’
‘But? You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
Gilroy smiled. ‘The life of a medical examiner can be a dull and lonely one. Need to brighten it up somehow. Two interesting things,’ she said. ‘The amount of heroin in his bloodstream was extremely high. Much more than the usual margin for error – taking in usual strength, quantity and so on. It was three times the normal level in a confirmed drug user.’
‘An overdose?’ asked McCoy. ‘Deliberate, you mean? Mind you, I might have killed myself if I’d made his last album.’
‘That’s one option,’ said Gilroy. ‘Another is what I believe is known as a hotshot, according to my lab technician. A deliberate overdose prepared by someone else.’
‘There wasn’t anybody else there, I don’t think,’ said McCoy. ‘Just March.’
‘Which leads me to my other interesting thing. You might have to rethink that idea,’ said Gilroy and smiled. ‘Mr March was right-handed, I looked on his album cover.’ She mimed him playing guitar. ‘That would imply he would inject himself in the crook of his left elbow.’
Dawned on McCoy. ‘Fuck, you’re right. The syringe was sticking out his right arm.’
‘Precisely,’ said Gilroy. ‘Somewhat of an anatomical impossibility to inject your own right arm with your right hand. Presumably someone else did it for him.’
‘He was murdered?’ McCoy asked.
Gilroy shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. Could be a friend injected him, got the amount wrong. Made themselves scarce when they realised what had happened.’
‘Were there any—’
‘Fingerprints on the syringe?’ She grinned.
‘You’re way ahead of me,’ said McCoy. ‘As always.’
‘There were some partials, but two sets. March’s themselves and one other. Not on file, unfortunately. I got Hester to do a quick check. The chances are they are a woman’s prints, though. TRC was 116.’
‘TRC?’ asked McCoy.
‘Sorry. Total Ridge Count. Average for men is 145.’
‘So where does that get us?’ asked McCoy.
Gilroy stood up, brushed the dust off her trousers. ‘It gets me the rest of the afternoon off, as it all went so quickly. Not entirely sure where it gets you.’
She went to go. Turned. ‘Ah, I forgot. Mila was asking about some man you mentioned to help with her photography assignment. A Liam, I think?’
McCoy felt his face going red. Flash of him standing there with the drinks in his hand. Had forgotten Mila was staying with Gilroy.
‘Speaking to him this weekend,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it fixed up.’ Changed the subject as fast as he could. ‘By the way, you
didn’t see a bag when you were in March’s room, did you? Some hippy-looking thing, cloth?’
Gilroy shook her head. ‘Not that I remember. Why?’
‘His dad’s asking about it. Seems to think he should have had it with him.’
Gilroy waved, walked back into the shadows of the mortuary. McCoy watched her go, thought about what she’d told him. Bobby March’s overdose was starting to get complicated. Just what he didn’t need.
He stood up. Thought about the other thing he didn’t need and had to get on with.
Finding Laura bloody Murray.
TEN
Jean said Laura Murray had told the cab driver to drop her ‘by the swing park’. And that’s where he was now, standing on the corner of Queen Margaret Drive and Hotspur Street. There were still kids out playing in the evening sunshine, trying to push the swings over the bar at the top, hanging onto the roundabout for dear life. Mums and dads were sitting on the benches, keeping watch. Didn’t blame them, after all. Whoever had taken Alice Kelly was still out there.
He walked along Hotspur Street, noise of the kids getting quieter as he went. All he had to do now was remember which close it was and he was laughing. He plumped for number 45 and started climbing the stairs. The heat had turned whatever was in the rubbish bags lying outside the front doors; the whole stairway stank of rotting food. He got to the top and chapped the door. Noticed someone, a disgruntled customer no doubt, had carved ‘IRIS IS A COW’ into it.
The door was pulled open and Iris McLean was standing there, seemed less than pleased to see him. She looked him up and down.
‘Well, well. Harry bloody McCoy. What brings you up here?’ she asked.
For once Iris wasn’t in her usual Joan Crawford of Glasgow get-up. Must have been off duty. The tailored suit she normally wore had been replaced by a shapeless dress, flowery pinny over it. Hair bundled under a net, slippers instead of the usual high heels.
‘Cooper’s no here,’ she said, going to close the door.
McCoy stuck his foot in it to stop her. ‘No come to see Cooper, Iris, come to see you.’
She looked even less pleased and pulled the door open. ‘Better come in, then.’