Bobby March Will Live Forever

by Alan Parks

  A man in a suit got out a cab opposite. Gave him an idea. An idea that might work. Just had to pick up Laura Murray first.

  TWENTY

  Just like last time the Strathmore was rammed with young people, jukebox going, couple of drunk or stoned girls dancing to Mungo Jerry. Wee Tam put two pints on the table and sat down. Last time McCoy remembered talking to him was a couple of years ago. McCoy used to come in the Strathmore quite a lot round then, had a flat in Sandfield Street up the road.

  Wee Tam had been picked up by the polis one night, had started hanging about with the Young Cumbie, got involved in some mass brawl in Ruchill. His dad wanted to try and put a stop to it before he got sucked in properly, asked McCoy to have a word. So he did. Told him all the horror stories about young guys with their faces slashed open, what really happened in Barlinnie to young guys like him, tried to put the fear of God into him.

  He was about fifteen then, still not quite grown up, still Isa and Tam’s boy. Not any more. He’d shot up, was broad too, over six foot. Like every other young bloke in the place, he had long hair, a T-shirt, jeans and sandshoes. Wee Tam’s T-shirt in this case was long-sleeved, green scoop neck, Led Zeppelin’s flying angel logo in bright yellow.

  ‘Have to admit it, you’ve done well with this place,’ said McCoy, looking round.

  Wee Tam nodded. ‘Wasnae too hard. Amazing what one jukebox will do. Just got to make sure it’s got all the right tracks on it, they come flocking. Mind you, all the lassies do is put David Bowie on over and over again . . .’

  ‘So I noticed,’ said McCoy. ‘The Jean Genie’ had just come on for the third time.

  Wee Tam took a sip of his pint. Grinned. ‘No offence, and it’s always nice to see you, Mr McCoy, but I’m not sure this is really your kind of pub any more.’

  ‘You saying I’m too old for all this?’ asked McCoy. Only half joking.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Cheeky bugger. Don’t worry, I won’t cramp your style. I’m just here to meet someone. Girl called Laura Murray. You know her?’

  Wee Tam nodded. ‘She’s been in a few times.’

  ‘You talk to her?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘No really. She’s no from round here. Bit too snobby for me, bit up herself.’

  ‘You get a lot of snobby girls in here, do you?’ asked McCoy, sipping his pint.

  Wee Tam nodded. ‘Loads of them. It’s mental. They go for the boys from the teams. If they’re bladed up, all the better. Seems to be their big thing, anything to annoy Mammy and Daddy. I steer clear, myself.’

  ‘The teams come in here?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Aye, a fair few. We’re sort of in no-man’s-land, neutral territory. Get the Gestapo mainly, the Shamrock. Depends if they’re knocking lumps out each other that week or not. Mostly come in on Fridays and Saturdays.’ He grinned again. ‘All works out. The lassies come for the music. The teams come for the lassies. We’re dead busy.’

  ‘Much trouble?’ asked McCoy.

  He shrugged. ‘No much. Most of it goes on later at the dancing. They’re still no completely pissed when they leave here. Time they’ve drunk their half bottles on the bus into town they’d fight their own bloody shadows.’

  ‘Donny MacRae come in a lot?’ McCoy asked, raising his voice above some Roxy Music song blasting out the jukebox.

  ‘You heard what happened to him?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Nasty business.’

  Wee Tam thought for a minute. ‘He might have been in a few times. I didnae really know him, to be honest. Just another ned.’

  ‘How about you? You keeping yourself out of trouble, Tam?’

  ‘Yep. I keep away from the teams, I’m no daft. I’m a busy man, got a pub to run now. Speaking of which . . .’ He nodded over at the bar. Tam was sweating, looking harassed, besieged by a crowd of young ones holding up notes.

  ‘Off you go,’ said McCoy. ‘And Tam, just do me a favour. Try and at least look like you’re checking people’s ages before you serve them.’

  He saluted, said ‘will do’ and went off to rescue his dad.

  McCoy watched him go, lit up and took another sip of his pint. Wee Tam was his father’s son, right enough. He couldn’t lie to save himself either. No way was he buying his ‘I know nothing, I just run a pub’ pish. He was sure Wee Tam knew a lot more about Donny MacRae than he was letting on, and if that was true the chances were he was lying about keeping away from the teams as well.

  McCoy wasn’t quite sure why he was playing everything close to his chest. He didn’t think he was a bad lad. Just easily led, as they say. And sometimes that’s the worst way to be. Gets you in even more trouble.

  He sat for a while watching the dancers, sipping his pint, wondering what to do about Wattie. Still worrying that he was becoming the kind of polis he used to hate, the kind that took the easy road, didn’t cause trouble. Wattie full of spit and fire reminded him of himself a few years ago. Maybe it was just time to pass the baton to people like Wattie, let them fight the good fight now. Maybe it was just part of getting old. Felt it tonight. He could still remember Wee Tam as a boy, running about the shut pub pretending to be an aeroplane, shouting on his dad to watch him. Old and tired. Had been a tough year. Maybe he just needed out from under Raeburn. Get a transfer to Southern maybe, start somewhere new.

  It wasn’t until both Tams started shouting last orders that Laura Murray walked in. She dumped her bags on the bench beside him and sat down. Looked exhausted.

  ‘My taxi broke down outside the Woodside Inn. I had to walk all the way up Maryhill Road. I was worried you’d be gone.’

  Wee Tam came over and asked if McCoy wanted one for the road. He asked for a pint for himself and a Coke for Laura. Wee Tam said he’d bring it over, nodded hello at Laura and headed back to the bar.

  ‘You know him?’ McCoy asked, as they watched him pick up empty glasses from the tables.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Why unfortunately?’ asked McCoy.

  She shrugged. ‘He was always trying to hang around with Donny and his boys. Was like a wee dog running after them, wanting to be in on everything they were doing.’

  ‘Did they let him?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Occasionally. His dad owns a pub. I suppose they thought he had his uses. Donny didn’t mind him, let him buy him drinks, hang around. I think he’s a creep.’

  ‘Oh aye. Why’s that?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Well, Donny wasn’t a girl, put it that way. Didn’t have tits to stare at, did he? Don’t think Wee Tam’s ever looked at my face when he was talking to me. Maybe he’s just a bit immature.’

  ‘So speaks the fifteen-year-old?’ said McCoy.

  She stuck two fingers up at him. Grinned. ‘So where am I going to stay, then?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding,’ said Laura, as they got out the taxi in Great Western Road. Streetlights were on, but there was still light in the sky. Didn’t really get properly dark this time of year. Just got dimmer for a few hours before dawn. ‘Stevie Cooper?’ She sounded shocked. ‘That Stevie Cooper?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘The one and only.’

  He took one of her bags off her, seemed to be full of sketchpads, big notebooks and paint brushes. Weighed more than he thought.

  Laura hoisted her duffel bag onto her shoulder. ‘Stevie Cooper was the only guy Donny was really scared of. He told me he was an animal.’

  ‘Did he now,’ said McCoy, handing a couple of quid to the driver. ‘He might well be an animal, but he’s an animal with lots of spare rooms. Besides, your beloved Iris should be here. She can keep you company.’

  ‘Iris?’ said Laura, looking surprised.

  McCoy rang the doorbell. ‘Iris. The famous Parisian dancer.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said. ‘What’s Iris doing here?’

  ‘You can ask her yourself. More strings to her bow than dancing at the Folies Bergère, old Iris.’

  The door opened. Billy Weir was standing
there, vest and pair of shorts on, looking a bit flustered.

  ‘McCoy,’ he said, looking Laura up and down. ‘Come on in, more the merrier. It’s like bloody Central Station in here. Who’s your pal?’

  ‘Laura,’ said McCoy, handing him the bag. ‘About to get even merrier. Laura, take your shoes off.’

  Half an hour later McCoy and Billy were sitting at the kitchen table, open lager cans and two whiskies in front of them. French windows were open, bit of a breeze cooling the room down. Bobby March’s Postcard from Muscle Shoals softly playing in the background. McCoy looked around, still couldn’t believe it. Six months ago, him and Billy would have been having this conversation at the stained kitchen table in that dump of a flat in Memen Road. Rats running wild in the back courts, tap dripping, no heating.

  ‘She’s whose niece again?’ asked Billy, carefully licking along the edge of two cigarette papers he was using to roll a joint.

  ‘Chief Inspector Murray’s,’ said McCoy. ‘So keep your dirty paws off.’

  Billy looked horrified. ‘That fat bastard’s got a niece like that? Cannae believe it. Anyway, don’t worry, she’s no my type.’

  ‘No your type? Last time I noticed, anything with a pulse was your type.’

  ‘Not any more. As befitting a posh West Ender, I’ve upped my standards.’

  ‘What to? A pulse and the ability to form a sentence?’

  ‘Ye of little faith,’ said Billy, twisting the end of the joint, putting it in his mouth, pulling it out through pursed lips. ‘Done!’

  ‘Did you do what I said?’ asked McCoy.

  Billy nodded, put the joint behind his ear and reached under the table, pulled up a brown leather satchel. Put it on the table, took out a couple of official-looking letters. Held them up.

  ‘Ta-dah! Purchased today. One betting shop in the Gallowgate and one pub in Royston. Pub actually makes money, apparently. Made sure I accidentally let slip who was buying them, the word should be out. Plus I told Jumbo to go visit Ronnie Drew in Barlinnie and tell him Cooper wasn’t happy about the split he was getting from the Lindella and that Drew better not be messing him about.’

  ‘Christ, Billy, you were taking a risk,’ said McCoy. ‘You asked Jumbo to do that?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Mind you, I had to go through it with him about twenty times before he went. Even phoned me from a box outside the prison to check again.’

  McCoy started laughing, could imagine Jumbo panicking, desperate not to get it wrong. ‘Poor bloke.’

  ‘But he said it went okay. Even said Drew looked scared, said he’d sort it out.’

  ‘Well done to Jumbo. Who’d have thought he had it in him? He over at the shebeen now?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Yep. Holding the fort.’ He lit up the joint, took a deep drag and handed it to McCoy. ‘One of Iris’s lassies is running it. He’s just sitting in the kitchen doorway looking dangerous.’

  ‘How’s he getting on?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Jumbo? Good. Can just about read properly now. Caught him with a Broons annual the other day, giggling away to himself.’

  McCoy blew out a cloud of smoke, handed the joint back to Billy. Time to drop it in, try and catch Billy off guard, see what his reaction was.

  ‘You been taking any photos, Billy?’

  ‘What?’ Billy looked up at him. ‘Photos. With a camera. In this house.’

  Billy shook his head, put the joint down in the ashtray. ‘No idea what you’re on about, Harry. Pictures of what? I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I havnae even got a camera.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said McCoy. ‘My mistake.’ He stood up. Drank over the rest of his whisky. ‘Suppose I better get this over with. Give us another drag before I go.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Billy, handing him the joint. ‘You might well need it. Let’s just say Cooper wasnae that happy when he discovered his stash had been binned on your say-so.’

  ‘Christ,’ said McCoy. ‘Just what I need. If I’m no down in twenty minutes, call an ambulance.’

  McCoy climbed the stairs, was pretty sure Billy was telling the truth about the photos, hadn’t seemed anxious to deny it or nervous. Just seemed like he genuinely had no idea what McCoy was talking about. Which was a relief, and a pain in the arse. If it wasn’t Billy who’d taken the photos, then who the fuck was it?

  He stepped onto the landing and walked towards the bedroom. Stopped. Could hear the sound of someone being violently sick, retching and retching. A moment later Iris emerged from the bedroom, bucket with a tea towel over it in her hand. Didn’t look very pleased to see him.

  ‘This your idea, was it, me as a bloody nursemaid!’ she snarled at him. ‘Bloody cheek.’

  ‘Aye well, let’s just say you owe him,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Owe him? For working for him for eight years for pennies? Lucky bloody me.’

  ‘Come on, Iris. The shebeen stopped making money years ago, all of them did, that’s why yours is the only one he’s got left. He only keeps it on for you.’

  ‘That’s shite,’ she said, looking less than certain.

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Believe what you want. You always do.’ Iris headed for the stairs, leaving the smell of acrid sick behind her. Muttered something about ‘shitey polis acting smart’ and disappeared.

  McCoy stopped outside the door for a minute, trying to work out what he was going to say. Was just about to go back downstairs, maybe smoke some more of the joint, maybe just go home, when he heard a voice.

  ‘I know you’re out there, McCoy.’

  Cooper. Sounded weak, but still like himself. Nothing for it. McCoy pushed the door open and went in.

  The bedroom was dim, only light coming from candles dotted about. Cooper was sitting up in the bed, vest on, hair back in its usual quiff. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for weeks. His muscles had faded away, vest looked too big for him now. His face was thinner too, drawn.

  ‘Got you to thank for this, have I?’ Cooper said.

  ‘Looks like it.’ McCoy sat down on an armchair by the bed. The room smelt stale, like sick and sweat. Like illness.

  ‘Dr Purdie came by.’ Cooper held up a small bottle of pills. ‘Another bloody five hundred quid off his debt.’

  ‘Worth it, though. How you feeling?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Shite,’ said Cooper. ‘And all thanks to you, I hear.’

  ‘Sorry about that, but I—’

  Cooper held his hands up. ‘You had to do it. I know, I know.’

  ‘I was scared,’ said McCoy quietly.

  ‘So was I,’ said Cooper. ‘I didn’t realise how quick it was. One day it was helping my back, I was feeling great, no pain for the first time in months, and then a couple of days later I’d forgotten all about Ellie. All I was doing was crawling up the walls waiting for Angela to turn up.’

  ‘Angela?’ said McCoy surprised. ‘What? My Angela?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Helped me out when Ellie wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re kidding me on,’ said McCoy. ‘What’s it got to do with her? I thought she was working at the Maryland? Booking the bands or something.’

  ‘She was,’ said Cooper. ‘Now she works for me. That okay with you, is it?’

  It wasn’t a question. A flash of the old Cooper.

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Up to her. I just hadn’t heard. Why her, though?’

  ‘Billy and I know all about the usual stuff, moneylending, protection, stuff like that, but I’m no expert when it comes to drugs.’ Cooper smiled weakly. ‘As you can see.’

  He lifted his fags and lighter off the bedside table, went to light one and something seemed to hit him. He sat for a minute, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Put the fags back with a shaky hand.

  ‘Maybe leave them for a bit,’ said McCoy.

  Cooper nodded, lay back against the headboard, shut his eyes. Looked exhausted. Carried on. ‘After I set up the smack deal with Billy Chan it all went nuts. Like started coming to like. We’re shifting it all now. Dope, speed, acid, pills, ev
erything, so we needed someone who knows their way around that stuff.’

  He opened his eyes, attempted a grin. ‘And if there’s anyone who knows their way around that stuff it’s your Angela. So she came to work for us. Been doing it for the past couple of months, bloody good at it too.’

  ‘Can’t believe it,’ said McCoy shaking his head. ‘Of all the bloody people.’

  ‘Come on, McCoy, you split up a couple of years ago,’ said Cooper.

  ‘We did, but still.’

  ‘You want me to fire her?’ asked Cooper.

  McCoy shook his head. Looked up at Cooper. ‘Nope, don’t want you to do that, but I want you to do me a favour.’

  ‘What, besides putting up your waifs and strays?’ asked Cooper. ‘Give us a bloody break, McCoy!’

  ‘Aye well, don’t worry about that, hopefully that won’t be for long. Archie Lomax still your lawyer?’

  Copper nodded.

  ‘Good. Need you to get Billy to call him. Tell him to take on a guy called Ronnie Elder. He’s in the cells at Stewart Street. And I need you to pay for it.’

  ‘Don’t ask for much, do you? You know how much Lomax cost’s a bloody hour? Who is this Elder anyway and why—’

  Cooper stooped, suddenly gestured to the bucket in the corner.

  McCoy got it quickly, held it under his chin as Cooper retched watery sick into it. Retched up nothing a few times then sat back on the pillows, looked so white he was almost transparent.

  McCoy put the bucket under the bed, poured him a glass of Lucozade from the yellow cellophane-covered bottle by his fags. Cooper got one of Purdie’s pills out, swallowed it over, handed the glass back.

  ‘Elder’s a sixteen-year-old boy,’ said McCoy. ‘They’re saying he killed that wee girl Alice Kelly.’

  Cooper looked blank. Wasn’t surprising he wasn’t up to speed, given his past couple of days.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t think he did. And he’s no got a lawyer,’ said McCoy.

  ‘So you want me to pay for Lomax, take in some waif and stray . . .’ Cooper shook his head. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’

  McCoy grinned. ‘That’ll do for now, but I’ll let you know.’