Bobby March Will Live Forever

by Alan Parks

  FIFTEEN

  McCoy walked back to the car, just what he needed in heat like this. To give him his due, the Junior Al Capone was still on duty, sitting on his bonnet scanning the Milton streets. He gave him another ten pence for his diligence and drove back towards town, past Maryhill Road, past Munns Vaults and the undertaker’s, past Jaconelli’s. Knew where he was going to end up, couldn’t help himself.

  He had to admit, he quite liked Norton. Had a bit of style about him even if he was a dinosaur, part of an earlier generation. At least you knew where you were with him. McCoy smiled to himself – where he was with Norton was firmly in his bad books.

  Thomson was standing outside the Woodside Inn when he got there, directing two uniforms with coloured ropes trying to erect some sort of cordon round the pub. Needed to stop ‘every bugger’ wandering in, as he described it. The crowd around the pub had got even bigger: even more kids, even more reporters. More people with nothing else to do but sit on the walls or stand around eating cones, smoking cigarettes, hoping that something was going to happen and they were going to be there to see it.

  Thomson shook his head, kept his eyes on the lads with the ropes, shouting advice, telling them how much of an arse they were making of it. Ropes finally up to his satisfaction, he turned to McCoy and told him he was in luck. Raeburn was at Pitt Street giving them a progress report.

  He went to walk into the pub and Thomson shouted after him, ‘Your pal’s no in there, by the way.’

  McCoy stopped. Turned. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Up at Ruchill Park organising the fingertip search,’ said Thomson. ‘And no, before you ask, there’s no bloody news, just me stuck here trying to keep this bunch of idiots away from this bloody pub.’

  McCoy cursed, realised he’d have to walk back up the hill. He left Thomson to it, took off his jacket and set off. A woman he vaguely recognised from the TV news was interviewing some of the mums with weans in their arms. Must be desperate. He heard her ask ‘And what do you think has happened to Alice?’ as he walked past. Didn’t wait to hear the answer. If the woman had told her the truth, said she was probably lying dead somewhere, they weren’t going to show it anyway.

  McCoy couldn’t remember ever being in Ruchill Park, just knew it was big, hill right in the middle with a flagpole on top of it. He crossed at the lights, stayed on the shady side of the street, wondered what Raeburn was telling Pitt Street. The usual, he imagined. We’re expecting a breakthrough soon, getting close. Whether it was true or not that was what they wanted to hear – the only thing they wanted to hear.

  McCoy stopped for a minute; even in the shade it was boiling. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. Walked past the old men passing a bottle outside the church at Queen’s Cross, up to Murano Street and through the gates to the park.

  First thing he saw was a line of uniformed polis stretching across the bottom of the hill, slowly inching their way forward, heads down, trying to find some sort of trace of Alice Kelly in the parched grass. Could see Wattie behind them, another thirty or so uniforms gathered round him listening as he pointed out the route they were to take. They walked off, formed a line over by the trees and started the same head-down walk. McCoy put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Wattie looked up, waved, walked over.

  They found a bench on the path beside a bed of wilting pansies and sat down. Wattie’s shirt was damp with sweat, sticking to his back. He took a look round, decided no one would see, pulled it out his trousers, unbuttoned it and started flapping the tail around, trying to get some air between the clammy cloth and him.

  ‘Had a quick look at your robbery files,’ said McCoy. ‘You sure you finished school?

  Wattie sighed. ‘And to think I was almost missing working with you.’

  ‘Any news?’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Think I’d be up here sweating my arse off if there was?’

  ‘Fair point,’ said McCoy, lighting up. ‘How’s the bold Raeburn getting on?’

  Wattie looked vaguely guilty, knew he shouldn’t really be telling tales out of school, spoke quietly as if Raeburn might hear him. ‘Far as I can tell, we’re getting nowhere,’ he said. ‘And Raeburn’s getting more and more wound up, shouting the odds, acting like a right arse. Gone up to Pitt Street to give them a report. Trouble is he hasn’t got anything to tell them, least of all anything that’ll shut the papers up, which is what they really care about.’

  ‘And here was me thinking he was your new best pal,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie looked exasperated, still flapping his shirt in the wind. ‘I didnae choose this, McCoy, you know that fine well. I’m no bloody stupid. I know the only reason he’s got me on board is to annoy you.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I know. Sorry.’

  McCoy felt a bit guilty. Was too easy to wind Wattie up about his new role as Raeburn’s right-hand man. And that was Raeburn’s plan, he supposed. Oldest one there was. Divide and rule.

  ‘These bloody bank robberies you’ve dumped me with . . .’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Inside job?’

  ‘You not read the file?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘I told you, I tried to, but there’s only so much bad grammar and atrocious spelling a man can take.’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. I interviewed all the staff, checked their backgrounds, seems they’re all clean. Plus there were too many different kinds of places, post offices, shops, banks. Can’t have had someone in each place. Think that’s asking too much.’

  ‘Should have thought of that,’ said McCoy glumly.

  ‘It was thirty-two grand from the Southern General alone, Harry. That’s a lot,’ said Wattie, one eye on the advancing line of uniforms.

  ‘What are Pitt Street saying to it?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re not happy, not happy at all. Word is they were about to pull Raeburn in for a bollocking about it before this Alice Kelly case came up.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll go back after him when the girl turns up,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie stopped flapping and looked at him. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Harry? He’s dumping it on you deliberately. This Kelly case has given him the excuse. It’s not him Pitt Street’ll be after. It’ll be you.’

  McCoy sat back on the bench, reality of the situation dawning on him. ‘It’s hard to believe, but Raeburn is even more of a sneaky bastard than I thought,’ he said in wonder.

  Wattie nodded. ‘And he’s a devious bugger, too. Dumps the robberies no one can get anywhere with and meanwhile solves the Kelly case, highest-profile case of the year, looks like a hero.’

  McCoy sighed. ‘And I end up fucked.’

  ‘I didn’t say that . . .’

  ‘Suppose I better take a proper look at the bloody files, then,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie grinned, sat down beside him on the bench. ‘Might not be that bad an idea.’

  ‘What’s Mary saying to Alice Kelly?’ asked McCoy. ‘She pumping you for all the details?’ Realised what he’d said. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘I’ve hardly seen her, been working so hard I haven’t really been home. Besides, she knows I wouldn’t be able to tell her anything.’

  ‘Does she?’ said McCoy, trying not to sound surprised.

  Besides being a senior reporter at the Record, Mary wasn’t someone that usually took no for an answer, even if she was your girlfriend. Especially if she was your girlfriend. Was hard to imagine Wattie laying down the law, but couples were funny things.

  They sat for a minute and watched the slow progress of the uniforms advancing up the hill. Both of them hoping that there’d be a shout, one would look up, hold up his hand, say he’d found something. McCoy nodded over to the park stretching out in front of them.

  ‘This bloody park’s huge. Then beyond that there’s all that scrub ground behind the football stadium.’ He pointed over to the left. ‘Canal basin’s just over there. She couldn’t have disappeared in a worse place.’

 
; ‘Tell me about it,’ said Wattie, sounding downhearted. ‘They’re starting the divers in a couple of hours. He’s held off as long as he can but . . .’

  McCoy knew what he meant. Soon as the divers were out the press would be right on it, the parents would find out. May as well just ring them up and tell them we think your daughter’s floating face down in the Forth and Clyde canal, bear with us while we fish her out.

  ‘Raeburn’s getting some police dog delivered from Stirling. Asked the maw for a pair of the girl’s socks, see if the dog can get a scent.’ Wattie wafted his shirt again. ‘So what do you think?’

  McCoy decided to be the better man and tell the truth. ‘Much as it pains me to say it, I think Raeburn’s doing not a bad job.’

  Wattie looked surprised. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear that.’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘He’s been a polis for twenty years. He’s an arse, but he’s not completely useless. Knows the mechanics.’ He smiled.

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Can never tell with you, McCoy. Not sure if that’s a compliment or a slap in the face.’

  ‘It’s a compliment!’ he said. ‘Always delighted to congratulate a fellow officer on sterling work.’

  ‘Now I know it’s not,’ said Wattie.

  ‘By the way, how’s the mum and dad?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Ah, here we go. Was waiting for that.’ He looked round, no one within earshot. ‘I was just about to tell you. Between you and me, I think there’s something funny going on there.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie lit up, flicked the spent match towards the bin. Missed.

  ‘Well, you speak to the mum and the little girl was an angel. Helped look after her wee brother, played with the kids in the close, did what she was told. Door-to-door uniforms got the same story.’

  ‘But . . .’ said McCoy.

  ‘But I talked to the neighbours myself, pressed a bit harder . . .’ He sat forward, lowered his voice. ‘She’s thirteen, but neighbours say they see her out at all hours, hanging about with older kids. Full of cheek, more of a teenager than a wee girl.’

  ‘So she might have had the gumption to go for a wander on her own? Or with a boyfriend?’

  Wattie shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but it could mean she knows whoever’s taken her, that it’s not just some stranger bundling her into a car out the blue. Might have gone with someone voluntarily, thought she was being all smart and grown up and then found herself in real trouble.’

  ‘Which is a whole different ball game,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie nodded. ‘I’m sure some of this is just gossiping neighbours, but they also said the mum’s no much of a mum. Apart from letting Alice run wild, she’s had the Cruelty up at the baby a few times. Neglect. Left him alone while she’s downstairs in the pub. Neighbour’s could hear him crying for hours. And it seems she’s no averse to coming home with men pals when the husband’s away.’

  McCoy shook his head. Never ceased to amaze him how eager people were to put the boot in. Whatever Alice Kelly’s mum had or hadn’t done, her kid was missing, probably dead, and it was going to be all her fault because she didn’t bleach her net curtains often enough.

  ‘How about the dad? What’s his name?’

  ‘Finn,’ said Wattie, waving at a persistent fly in front of his face.

  ‘Finn? Finn?’ said McCoy. ‘Last Finn I heard of was a Christian Brother at Nazareth House and he was a right bloody psychopath. Finn Kelly? Sounds like he should be playing at the bloody Shamrock Inn.’

  Wattie nodded. ‘I told you the bloody house was like a shrine. Up the IRA and all the rest.’

  ‘What’s this Finn doing in Ireland anyway?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie shrugged. ‘Nobody’s really sure. Mum said he was working for his cousin. Some building site in Belfast.’

  ‘Got a record?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Straight. Labouring jobs mostly. Drove a van for Tennent’s for a while. He’s getting the plane from Aldergrove. Should be here this afternoon.’

  ‘Make sure you’re there when Raeburn talks to him, eh?’

  Wattie nodded. Looked at his watch. ‘Fido or whatever the bloody dug’s called should be here by now. Better get going.’

  ‘Norton gave me the bum’s rush. Mostin’s in Peterhead. Big Rab’s getting on seventy. Can’t see it.’ McCoy thought again. ‘Roddy Curry?’

  ‘What?’ asked Wattie, looking puzzled.

  ‘Bank robbers!’ said McCoy.

  ‘I thought we were talking about Finn Kelly?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘We were. But now, thanks to you and my impending career collapse, I’m thinking about bank robbers.’

  ‘He’s in Barlinnie,’ said Wattie. ‘Roddy Curry.’ Tried to look at his watch without McCoy seeing.

  ‘Away you go before Raeburn gets back and catches you with the enemy,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie nodded, stood up. ‘Have a proper read of my files, then I’ll go through it with you. Maybe you’ll see something nobody else did.’

  ‘Mr Watson!’

  They turned and a female in uniform was running towards them. McCoy shaded his eyes, realised it was PC Walker. He nodded at Wattie. ‘Better button up your shirt, don’t want the poor lassie overcome with desire.’

  ‘Shite,’ said Wattie, starting to button quickly.

  ‘All right, Tracey?’ said McCoy. She nodded, was breathing hard, tried not to look as Wattie unzipped his trousers, exposing paisley-patterned underpants, and tucked his shirt back in. ‘You still up here?’

  ‘Got roped into pint-glass-of-water duty,’ she said. ‘Feel like a bloody barmaid. Least they’d get some bloody tips.’

  She put her hand to her mouth, realised she was being too familiar. Tried to compensate. ‘Mr Raeburn sent me up to get you, Mr Watson. He wants you back at the Woodside.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said McCoy. ‘Probably wants his arse wiped.’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘Can’t help yourself, can you?’ he said, and followed PC Walker down the hill.

  McCoy watched Wattie go, hated to admit it but he missed him. Missed his enthusiasm, missed having someone to work with. Couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do less on a day like this than sit in the office reading a pile of bank robbery files. Still, knew he had to get on with it and a part of him hoped he would find something in the files they’d all missed. Something he could use to find the robbers, then ram that right up Raeburn’s arse.

  Stood up, felt the sun on his back. The files could wait. Too nice a day to sit in an empty office trying to work out what Wattie was on about. The mention of Mary had given him an idea.

  SIXTEEN

  The new Daily Record building, two ugly reddish boxes sitting on top of one another, had been built in the middle of the wasteland that used to be Anderston. Sat there surrounded by mud and half demolished tenements. The cab dropped McCoy off and he walked up the steps, through the glass doors and to the desk, held out his police card.

  ‘Detective McCoy to see Mary Webster.’

  The girl behind the desk nodded, picked up the phone and a couple of minutes later the lift door opened, revealing the woman herself in all her glory.

  ‘What you doing here, McCoy?’ she asked.

  Mary, as always, looked the part. Not that McCoy was quite sure what that part might be. A pair of red velvet hot pants were attached to braces that snaked over a white satin blouse peppered with pictures of Donald Duck. Suede platform boots completed the look.

  McCoy nodded over to the row of angular and uncomfortable-looking seats by the window.

  ‘Just saw your other half,’ he said, sitting down.

  ‘Did you now?’ said Mary, lighting up. ‘See him more than I do then. Quick pump on a Friday night’s all I get and a cheerio as he heads out the door every bloody morning.

  ‘Raeburn’s got him—’

  ‘Stop! Don’t even say that word. It’s banned in our house.’

  McCoy grinned. ‘Bet you wish
he was back working for me.’

  Mary sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not that desperate.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What you doing here anyway, McCoy? Last I heard you were handing out parking tickets and telling wee kids about the Tufty Club.’

  ‘It’s no quite that bad,’ said McCoy. ‘But I’ll be honest, it’s no far off, hence the visit. You got a photo file on Bobby March?’

  She nodded, looked suspicious. ‘Might do. Why?’

  ‘Need to see if you can find a photo of him carrying some sort of cloth bag. His father claims it’s been stolen.’

  Mary sat back. ‘Now why would I want to spend my time with our esteemed picture editor – or, as I like to call him, the lech of the century – just to do a wee favour for you, McCoy?’

  ‘Simple. Because apart from being charm itself I’m far less ethical than your man when it comes to discussing Alice Kelly and what’s going on with her case.’

  She was suddenly interested. ‘You better not be mucking me about, McCoy.’

  ‘When have I ever done that?’ he asked.

  ‘Far too bloody often.’ Mary stood up. ‘I’ll be back in ten – and remember, this better be bloody worth it.’

  McCoy sat in reception waiting for her to come back, watching the comings and goings. Mind started to drift back to Billy Weir. Would he really try and fuck Cooper over? And if so, was Cooper strong enough to do anything about it? Didn’t seem like Billy, but you never knew. Et tu, Brute and all that.

  ‘Here.’

  He looked up. Mary was holding out a cardboard-backed photo. He held out his hand to take it and she snatched it away, held it out his reach.

  ‘Alice Kelly,’ she said. ‘Good stuff, or this is going straight back upstairs.’

  McCoy sighed. Knew he had to play ball. Also knew he had nothing real to trade. Decided to give it a go anyway.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty police, uniforms and administrative staff, anyone they can press-gang into it, are doing a fingertip search of Ruchill Park right now. Dad arrives back from Ireland today. They’re going to start the divers on the canal later. That enough?’