by Alan Parks
The pub door opened and a boy came in with tomorrow’s Sunday Mail under his arm. McCoy waved him over, bought one. Opened it out and looked at the front page.
‘SOMEONE MUST KNOW SOMETHING!’
They’d managed to get hold of another picture of Alice Kelly. Paper crown from a Christmas cracker on her head, smiling, bit of Christmas cake in her hand. Looked even younger. Even more innocent. A quick scan of the article revealed they’d nothing new. Just an exercise in keeping the pot boiling until she was found.
He put the paper down, wondered how Wattie was getting on. If he was being honest he didn’t much care right now. The state of Cooper had knocked him for six. Felt out of sorts, sorry for himself and sorry for Cooper. Hoped that Billy would go gung-ho tomorrow, that it would buy them time. Nothing else he could do now but sit there in the pub and get pissed. Wasn’t going to help in the long run, but it would make him feel better for a few hours. Sometimes that was enough.
Or it would have been, had Raeburn and Thomson not walked into the pub ten minutes later. In all the Cooper drama, he’d forgotten the Pewter Pot was Raeburn’s local. He’d just wanted a drink, and quick, and it was the nearest pub.
Raeburn barely nodded at him, headed for the bar, and Thomson came over.
‘All right, Harry. What you doing here?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Just passing. What you been up to?’
‘Went to see some nonce that lives in they big flats up near Byres Road. See if he had anything to say.’
‘Did he?’ asked McCoy.
Thomson shook his head. ‘Knew nothing, said he hadn’t heard anything. And, believe me, that bastard would know. He moves in some right dodgy circles.’
‘You believe him?’ asked McCoy.
‘Aye. Not sure Raeburn did. Tried to get heavy, punched the bloke a few times. Didn’t get us anywhere. Just ended up with some middle-aged music teacher with a bleeding nose crying his eyes out.’
McCoy sipped his pint. ‘Sounds like Raeburn all right. Always was fond of chucking his weight about.’
On cue the man himself appeared, two pints in his hands. One for him, one for Thomson. Subtle.
McCoy swallowed over the rest of his pint. Stood up. Nodded at Raeburn. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
Raeburn looked at him. ‘Good. Getting there. You off?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Just came in for one.’
Raeburn sat down, lit up. ‘Actually, there is something you can do for me, McCoy. For the Kelly investigation.’
‘What’s that?’ asked McCoy.
‘You know Dirty Ally, don’t you?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Go down to his stall tomorrow, ask him if anyone’s given him any dodgy films to develop lately. Wee girls. Know what I mean?’
‘Will do,’ said McCoy and headed for the door.
Heard Raeburn say something like ‘only thing he’s fit for’ to Thomson, just loud enough for him to hear. He kept walking, wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Stepped out into the street and took a few breaths. Raeburn’s day would come soon, he was sure of that. Just depended on McCoy keeping himself under control until it did.
He hailed a taxi, told it to head down to the Victoria. Really did need a drink now.
11th February 1967
Cromwell Road
Bobby wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been lying on the floor. Wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been in the flat. Wasn’t quite sure about anything really. He giggled. What he was sure of was that Iggy said she’d be back soon. Gone to see Victor. New stuff. Liquid this time, not blotters. Maybe he should get up. He thought he was hungry but he wasn’t sure, couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. Was sure him and Duggie had gone to a cafe, but when was that? Yesterday? Last week? Giggled again.
His vision was almost straight now, just the edges fading away into streamers. Could see the cat sitting on the windowsill, bathing in the sunshine. Could hear a radio somewhere outside. Donovan. He’d played on that one. Played on so many songs now he could hardly keep track. P.J. Proby, Lulu, the Walker Brothers, even played on a Stones track. Couldn’t remember which one. His manager’s phone going all the time, everyone looking for the best session guitarist in London.
He waved his hand in front of his face, watched the streamers. And here he was lying on a floor waiting for Iggy. Couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. Hadn’t seen Syd for a while, maybe he’d gone with Iggy. Maybe he was next door. Was pretty sure he’d hear his guitar if he was here. Never put it down. The cat stretched, yawned, jumped down and headed for the kitchen. Donovan finished and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ came on. He lay there and listened, music filling his head.
Song finished, he heard the door open and then Iggy and Syd were standing there, grinning. Iggy held out a tiny brown bottle.
‘Got it,’ she said.
She knelt down beside him, unscrewed the top, held the dropper over his left eye.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Keep still now,’ she said. Squeezed the rubber bulb and a drop wobbled on the end of the glass tube, fell, and landed on his eye.
He blinked a couple of times, eye burning a bit. Couple of seconds of Syd and Iggy looking down at him. Nothing much seemed to be happening. Then . . .
‘Oh God,’ he said, big grin on his face. ‘Oh my God . . .’
15th July 1973
TWELVE
Even being half pissed when he got to bed hadn’t helped McCoy sleep. Sight of Cooper lying on the bed, gone to the world, had got to him. Felt like the rug had been pulled out under his feet. That wasn’t what Cooper was supposed to do. Cooper was supposed to be the same all the time. Strong, confident, scary – not lying there, out for the count with a syringe beside him.
He eventually got fed up of the tossing and turning and put the radio on about half five. Waited for the news. Alice Kelly was still missing, police were overrun with volunteers asking to help in the search. He knew they meant well, but it was the last thing an organised search needed, people running about, trampling over evidence, getting bored and going home when they didn’t find her in twenty minutes.
He got dressed, made a cup of tea, watched the sun coming up behind the cranes at the bottom of the hill. Another hot day, by the look of the bright blue sky. He dumped the last of his tea in the sink, picked up his keys and his fags, headed for the door. Up and at them.
Sundays Dirty Ally had a stall at the Barras rather than at Paddy’s. Sunday was his day to be legit. None of the under-the-counter photosets or pictures he developed that couldn’t go to Boots, or the second-hand porn mags. On Sundays it was cameras, lenses, photo equipment. Just another friendly stallholder.
McCoy used go to the Barras with his dad when he was a boy. All the shouting and crowds and the chance of a poke of chips was the best start to a Sunday he could think of. Now he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than battle through the crowds, but he needed to get it out the way, make sure Raeburn didn’t have anything on him.
The Barras had been there as long as he could remember. Saturday and Sunday mornings, rain or shine. Was a big market in the East End that sold everything from curtains and carpets to meat trays and old army regalia. Half inside, with rows of stalls in big warehouse buildings, and half outside, with stalls set up in the street. On weekends, most of the population of Glasgow seemed to be wandering round, looking for a bargain.
McCoy got out by the Squirrel, usual rebel songs blaring out the windows, and made his way along Stevenson Street. Luckily the hot weather and the holidays had lessened the crowds a bit. The market had a listless air today; it was just too hot. The stallholders were sitting beside their goods fanning themselves with newspapers or just sitting with their faces up to the sun, trying to get a tan.
He walked past one of the patter merchants doing his routine. Standing on a box behind a stall stacked with curtains, bedclothes, tea sets. McCoy stopped for a minute to li
sten, was hard to resist – these guys had always been his favourite when he was wee. The bloke had his top off, big tanned belly, swept-back silver hair, five or six gold chains round his neck. Must have been sixty odds. Wasn’t letting it stop him. He was holding a fanned-out tea set in his left arm, in the right a broomstick. He was scanning the crowd, catching their eyes.
Started quiet.
‘Not twenty pounds.’
‘Not fifteen pounds.’
Started to get louder. Crowd getting excited.
‘Not even ten pounds!’
Louder still.
‘Would you believe me if I said seven pounds?’ he shouted. ‘Just as well because that would be a lie! Because, hold onto your hats, ladies . . .’
Another scan of the crowd. Big grin on his face, chains flashing in the sunshine.
‘Ready?’
Suddenly he battered his broomstick off the counter, loud crack making everyone jump.
‘Five pounds for this fine bone china tea set! Only have a couple, so get in quick!’
His plants in the audience held up fivers, shouted they wanted one, and of course some others got caught up in the excitement, handed over their fivers for a boxed-up factory reject tea set with wonky flowers on it. Some things never changed.
McCoy left them to it, wandered into the cool of the dim warehouse, usual smell of damp, candy floss and chips. He walked down past the rows of different stalls, heading for Ally. His stall was at the back. A prime position next to a stall selling broken biscuits and one selling parts and spare bags for hoovers. Ally looked up from fiddling with a camera, saw him coming, smiled, exposing his small, brown tobacco-stained teeth.
‘Mr McCoy, how’s the boy? You after a camera for your holidays? Got a good deal on a Leica. Fancy that? Bloody good camera, a Leica. Thirty quid to you. What d’you say?’
‘I say nope,’ said McCoy. ‘Need a word.’
Ally sighed, told the guy with the broken biscuits he’d be back in ten minutes and followed McCoy back out into the sunshine. McCoy bought two cones from the ice-cream van and they sat on the wall opposite the pet supplies stall.
Ally licked his cone. ‘No had a cone for years,’ he said. ‘Good shout.’
McCoy nodded, tried to eat his before it melted all over his hands. ‘You know this wee girl that’s gone missing?’ he said.
Ally nodded, looked wary. ‘Aye. Up in Maryhill?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Anyone brought in any photos to be developed lately? Girls younger than they should be?’
Ally looked at him with great umbrage. ‘Excuse me! What kind of person do you think I am exactly?’ he said.
‘Don’t give us it, Ally,’ said McCoy, licking the ice cream off his fingers. ‘Remember I’ve read your record sheet, so I know exactly what kind of person you are. The kind that would do anything for money, and for something like developing photos of that young girl I’m guessing you could charge a fair amount.’
Ally sniffed. ‘I really wouldn’t know.’
‘Aye, and I’m playing for Celtic next year. Come on, Ally, this is off the record. I don’t care what you’ve been up to in your wee dark room. I just need to know if anyone has an unusual interest in young girls. This is about getting Alice Kelly back, not about your money-making sidelines.’
Ally finished his cone, wiped his hands on his trousers. Decided to come clean. ‘No for a while. Despite what you think, stuff like that doesn’t come in that often,’ he said.
McCoy nodded, had no real reason to disbelieve him. He stood up, finished the last of his cone. ‘You’ll let me know if it does,’ he said. More of a statement than a question.
Ally nodded, McCoy turned to go, start walking back towards town.
‘Although something else came in the other day,’ said Ally.
McCoy stopped, turned. Ally was grinning. McCoy walked back and sat on the wall again.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ said Ally. ‘It’ll cost you.’
McCoy looked at him. Didn’t say anything. Ally started to look nervous.
‘Some people like this weather,’ said McCoy. ‘Cheers them up. Me, I don’t. I get too hot, sweaty, in a bad mood. So if you don’t tell me what you’re on about, Ally, I’m going to kick your head in. Right here, right in front of the pet supplies stall.’
Ally tutted. ‘Was worth a go, no need to be nasty.’
‘Ally . . .’ growled McCoy.
‘Pictures of your pal,’ said Ally. ‘I’ve got some very interesting pictures of your pal.’
‘Who’s that, then?’ asked McCoy.
‘You’ve only got one pal. C’mon, I’ll give you a goosey-goosey.’
There were six of them. First three looked like they had been taken without him knowing. Door of the bedroom framing Cooper sitting on the bed bare-chested. First one, he had a rubber tube round his arm. Second one, he had a Zippo lighter under a spoon. The third one, he was injecting himself. Next three were all pretty similar. Cooper must have passed out. Whoever had taken them had come into the bedroom. In all three he was lying back on the bed, dead to the world, empty syringe in his hand.
McCoy sat down on the wee stool behind Ally’s stall, felt sick, felt like he couldn’t breathe. What he was trying to prevent had happened already. Someone trying to cash in on Cooper’s condition.
‘Good stuff, eh?’ said Ally.
‘Who brought them in?’ asked McCoy.
‘Boy. Twelve, thirteen. Handed me the roll of film and twenty quid and said he wanted them developed. Would be back in a couple of days. Said a man had given him a quid to do it.’
‘What man?’ asked McCoy.
Ally shrugged. ‘That was all he said – a man.’
He went to take the photos back. McCoy held onto them.
‘I need these and the negatives,’ he said.
Ally sucked air through his teeth. ‘Not sure I can do that, Mr McCoy. What do I tell the boy when he comes back?’
McCoy got his wallet out. Had forty quid and change. Handed over the two twenties. ‘You tell him light got in the camera somehow, the film was blank. Right? Give him some old exposed film.’
Ally took the money, shoved it into his pocket.
‘Right?’ said McCoy again.
‘Aye right, I promise,’ said Ally. Shuffled round in one of the trays behind the counter. Handed McCoy a glassine envelope of negatives. ‘Happy now?’
McCoy took them, moved in on Ally. ‘I swear, Ally, if any of these turn up, or I hear you talking about them, I’ll fucking destroy you. Get you charged with everything I can think of, plus I’ll make sure everyone thinks you took the photos as well. Barlinnie will be hell on earth. Got me?’
Ally nodded. ‘Christ, you need to calm down, Mr McCoy. Deal’s done. Forty quid. We’re square.’
McCoy walked out the darkness of the warehouse into the heat and sunlight, photos and negatives in his pocket. Trouble was, he didn’t trust Ally as far as he could throw him. Chances of him staying quiet were even at best. He walked up to Trongate wondering who had taken the pictures and why. Billy? Ellie? Couldn’t be Jumbo, he didn’t have the wits about him. Stopped. Couldn’t believe it. He crossed over. Big red letters on the wall of Goldbergs department store.
‘BOBBY MARCH WILL LIVE FOREVER!!’
He stood and looked at it. Had a fair idea who would have done it and he probably used the T-shirt money he’d given him to buy the spray paint.
THIRTEEN
McCoy sat down at his desk and dumped Wattie’s files in front of him. First instinct was to go to Cooper’s with the photos but he didn’t think he’d be well enough to make any sense. Besides, he didn’t really want to be there when Cooper discovered the box of smack had been binned on his orders. Decided to leave Billy and Dr Purdie to deal with it. Let them earn their money for once. Also, he knew if he went there now he’d blurt something out about the photos and he needed to have a proper think, work out how to approach it first. Needed
something in the front of his brain and to let the photo problem wheel away in the back. Hence the files.
He lit up, opened the first one. Was the latest, only last week. Some robbery at the Southern General of all places. Two masked guys with rifles burst into the administration block, threatened the wages clerks – two middle-aged women, by the look of them – told the accountant they would ‘shoot his fucking face off’ if he didn’t open the safe. Sensibly he did and they got away with thirty-six thousand quid of wages. Were seen getting into a blue Cortina and driving off, driver also wearing a balaclava. The Cortina, stolen, was dumped by a warehouse in Hillington.
‘We meet again.’
McCoy looked up and PC Walker was standing there.
‘You ever leave this place?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Sleep in a wee nest of paper under my desk.’
‘I believe it. You busy?’ he asked.
‘You joking?’ she replied, looking around the empty office. ‘I’ve even started washing the mugs.’
‘Good,’ said McCoy. ‘Away up to the Woodside Inn and tell Raeburn that Dirty Ally was a dead end.’
‘I could phone and tell him,’ she said. ‘Be quicker.’
‘You could,’ said McCoy, ‘but this way you get an hour out this dump and an hour in the sunshine.’
She smiled, recited, ‘Detective McCoy said Dirty Ally was a dead end.’
‘That’s it. He’ll know what it means.’
McCoy sat back in his chair, watched her get her hat on and go. He had sent her for his benefit as much as her’s. Much as he appreciated her enthusiasm he didn’t want to spend the next hour with her eyes burning into his back, desperately hoping he’d ask her to do something. He dropped some ash onto the top file, brushed it off and opened it. Heart sank. Raeburn had done him over, right enough. What he knew about armed robbery you could write on the back of a bloody postage stamp.