by Alan Parks
He stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Cooper, already looking sleepy.
‘Leaving before Angela gets here,’ said McCoy. ‘Last thing I bloody need. I’ll come back tomorrow, tell Laura to stay put, not to go out of the house until I get back.’
Cooper nodded.
McCoy headed for the door.
‘McCoy.’
He turned and Cooper was looking at him.
‘Thanks for . . .’
Didn’t have to say it.
‘Anytime,’ said McCoy.
Cooper nodded, lay back on the pillows. Went out like a light.
TWENTY-TWO
McCoy stepped out the house, started walking up towards Great Western Road. Looked at his watch. He was tired, ready to go home. Last thing he wanted to do was to try and get a hold of Liam and tell him about Mila, but Phyllis had left a message reminding him he’d promised to help Mila, so he whistled at a passing taxi, got in. Took a bit of persuading to get the driver to take him to Orton Street. He didn’t want to go anywhere near it. McCoy took out his police card, told him to get on with it. The driver mumbled something under his breath, pulled the wee glass screen over. Suited McCoy fine. He had no great desire to engage the moaning-faced bastard in conversation.
Twenty minutes later the driver turned off Broomland Road and into the land of no return. McCoy got out, slammed the door shut and didn’t give him a tip. Driver leant out the window, shouted at him as he drove off: ‘Wanker!’ McCoy didn’t entirely blame him. He wouldn’t go down into Wine Alley unless he had to either. It wasn’t big, Wine Alley. Just five or six blocks of pebble-dashed three-storey flats. But it was like nowhere else in Govan. Like nowhere else in Glasgow.
Wine Alley had started off as Moore Park, a scheme they’d built to house people from the Gorbals whose tenements had been knocked down. Started off okay, but within a couple of years it was notorious. Shebeens, alkies, problem families, beggars, knives, and an awful lot of drink. Had become infamous. Forever in the papers. Got its nickname. The worst scheme in Western Europe, some said.
‘You!’
McCoy turned and a man in his fifties, in a pair of suit trousers and nothing else – no shirt, no shoes – was standing in the middle of the street. He was trying to walk towards him, wasn’t having much luck, swaying back and forward, looked well gone. Yellow streetlight reflecting off the long kitchen knife in his left hand. He raised it up.
‘Money. Gies your money,’ he said.
‘Fuck off before I chase you,’ said McCoy.
The man stepped forward, swayed a bit more, lost his balance. He fell forward, horrible crack as his head hit the pavement, knife skittering off into the gutter. A tiny woman in her nightie appeared from nowhere, ran over and knelt down beside him.
‘He okay?’ asked McCoy.
She nodded. The man had managed to sit himself up, was cursing, spitting blood out his mouth. McCoy walked over, held out a quid. The wee woman looked at him suspiciously. Hand stretched out and grabbed it.
‘Tell him not to be such an arse. He’ll get himself damaged,’ said McCoy.
She nodded. Looked up and down the street. ‘Shouldn’t be walking around here at this time of night, son. It’s too dangerous.’
McCoy nodded and walked off, the man already starting to ask how much he’d given her and how half of it was rightfully his.
McCoy found number 43, walked up what was left of the garden and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Knocked on the door and it fell open. Looked down, the lock was broken, hanging off by a screw.
‘Liam, you there?’ McCoy asked.
He stepped into the flat just as the bedroom door opened and Liam appeared. Paisley pattern pyjama bottoms, hair everywhere, rubbing the sleep out his eyes.
‘Harry? Jesus Christ. You gave me a fright. What are you doing here?’
‘Need a favour,’ said McCoy. ‘Got a minute?’
Liam closed the bedroom door behind him and pointed towards the living room. McCoy went to put on the light, pressed the switch and nothing happened.
‘Need money for the meter?’ he asked, digging in his pocket.
Liam shook his head. ‘Been shut off for weeks.’
McCoy sat down on a kitchen chair in the middle of the room, light from the street outside giving the room a dim yellow glow. He looked round. A miserable sight. There were the remnants of some bamboo-patterned wallpaper on one wall, a bare hardboard floor and a couple of dirty cushions in the corner that looked like they had come from an old couch.
Liam leant on the windowsill. Now McCoy could see him properly, the light illuminated an angry and fresh-looking scar dotted with stitches running from his ear along his left jaw to his chin.
‘Liam, Christ, what happened?’
Liam shook his head. ‘Was sleeping rough the other night, passed out with the biddy, woke up and this was here. Blood everywhere. Fella told me there were young ones going about, doing it for a laugh. Slashing the jakeys. I wasn’t the only one.’
‘Christ,’ said McCoy. He looked round again. ‘This your place, is it?’
Liam shook his head. ‘Shelia’s. Got it off the council a year ago. It’s a dump, but it’s somewhere. Now, nice as it is to see you, Harry, I can’t believe you’re waking me up in the middle of the night just to enquire after my welfare. What’s up?’
McCoy told him about Mila, how she needed a guide and protector to take her round.
Liam smiled. ‘What? Give her the Grand Tour of Glasgow’s Shitholes, you mean?’
McCoy nodded ‘Exactly. Worth a bob or two to you. You in?’
Liam nodded. ‘Sure now, what else have I got to do?’
McCoy stood up. ‘One o’clock tomorrow, by the bullet in Central Station. I’ll introduce you, then leave you to it.’
Liam nodded. ‘I’ll walk you up to Broomlaw Road. You’ll get a taxi there, no chance getting one round here, and we wouldn’t want a delicate flower like yourself walking Wine Alley at this time of night.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m a big boy, Liam. I’ll be okay.’
‘Aye, and you’re the only polis that gives a shit for people like us. Don’t need you removed from the picture. Selfish reasons, that’s all it is.’
McCoy gave up. Liam was coming, no matter what he said.
‘Give us a minute to get me breeks on,’ he said and disappeared into the bedroom.
McCoy caught a glimpse of a mattress on the floor and a sleeping figure through the closing door. And just before it shut he caught a glimpse of something else.
He pushed the bedroom door open.
Liam was naked, stepping into a pair of jeans. Looked surprised. ‘Christ, McCoy, can you no give a man a minute?’ he said, pulling them up.
McCoy walked over to a pile of clothes and shoes in the corner. Picked up a bag. A hippy-looking bag. Long handles, beige, woven cloth.
‘Where’d this come from?’ he asked.
Liam was looking at him like he was mad.
‘God only knows. It’s Shelia’s. She collects all sorts of shite, tries to find stuff to sell at Paddy’s.’
McCoy walked over to the window to get some light and opened the bag wide. It was empty, just a tiny balled-up bit of paper in the very corner. He dug in, got it out, unrolled it. It was a receipt. Some place called Max’s Kansas City, 213 Park Avenue South, New York NY 10003. Fourteen dollars and twenty cents. He looked at Liam.
‘Need to know where this came from, Liam. Can you wake her up?’
Liam was still looking at him like he was mad, but he bent over, shook the sleeping form in the bed.
‘Shelia, love. Need to wake up.’
A moan.
Liam kept shaking and eventually Shelia sat up. McCoy was surprised at how young she was, could only be early twenties. She had a port wine stain birthmark covering half her chin and neck, long hair. She looked around the room, scared.
‘Liam? What’s going on?’ she asked.
; ‘This is Mr McCoy. He’s a polis. Needs to ask you about a bag.’
McCoy held it up. ‘You’re no in trouble, Shelia. I just need to know where this came from.’
She looked at the bag, looked at him, looked at Liam. He nodded at her.
‘I got it in the bins behind that hotel, the Royal something,’ she said.
‘Royal Stuart,’ said McCoy.
She nodded. ‘I go through the bins behind the big hotels, looking for the wee bottles of shampoo and bath stuff. I pour the dregs into one big bottle, then sell it at Paddy’s.’
McCoy nodded. ‘When was this?’
She thought. ‘Be early Friday morning, I think. Lorries come at half nine to pick up the big bins, so it’d be before that.’
‘Where was the bag?’ McCoy asked.
‘It was just lying there on top of one of the bins. Looked like someone had left it there.’ She was starting to look a bit panicked. Glanced over at Liam for reassurance. ‘I only took it because no one wanted it any more, it was just—’
‘Don’t worry,’ said McCoy. ‘You’re no in trouble, honest. Was there anything in it?’
‘No, just a wee jotter, full of writing. Blue ballpoint pen.’
‘Lyrics? That sort of thing?’ asked McCoy.
Shelia didn’t answer. Looked over at Liam.
‘Shelia can’t read,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be long gone now anyway.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I just put it back in the bin with the rest of the stuff and took the bag. I thought it might be worth a couple of bob. You sure I’m no in trouble?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘No, no trouble.’ He dug in his pocket, found a quid, gave it to her. ‘Need to buy it off you. That okay?’
She looked down at the pound note. Nodded.
‘Go back to sleep, love. I’ll be back in a while,’ said Liam.
*
Outside it was still warm. Moths battering themselves off the streetlights, distant sound of music and shouting coming from some party. There was a group of lads waiting by the corner, all of them dressed in white jeans and bovver boots, black braces over their bare chests. One even had a bowler hat on. They started to walk towards them, one of them pulled a long screwdriver from inside his jeans.
‘Shite,’ said McCoy under his breath.
‘All right, boys?’ said Liam. ‘He’s with me.’
They nodded, screwdriver went back and they retreated to their corner.
‘Glad you came after all,’ said McCoy.
Liam nodded down at the bag. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Long story,’ said McCoy. ‘Probably nothing. Think it belonged to Bobby March.’
Liam looked blank.
McCoy mimed playing a guitar. ‘Bobby March, rock star?’
Liam shook his head. ‘I like the showbands myself, proper music.’
‘Aye, if you’re deaf as a post, that is.’
Liam grinned. ‘Watch it, McCoy. Don’t insult the greats. I saw the Miami Showband one night in Sligo. Bloody brilliant, they were.’
A taxi appeared at the top of the street and McCoy waved at it. The light went off and it drove towards them.
‘One,’ he said, getting in the cab. ‘Central.’
‘I heard you the first time,’ said Liam. ‘See you there.’
McCoy got in the cab, said he was going to Gardner Street. Half listened as the driver started a rant about how many taxi licences they were giving out these days. He nodded, said ‘That’s terrible’ in the right places, but he had other things on his mind. Wattie, Ronnie Elder, some photographs of Stevie Cooper, and most of all Bobby March’s bag sitting on the seat beside him.
He leant on the cab window, tried to think. Watched the city go past. He’d always liked Glasgow at night, even when he was on the beat. Liked the empty streets, occasional drunken straggler making his way home. Just him wandering through the empty city, seeing the things most people never did. The starlings covering Sauchiehall Street, flour-covered men through the windows of the baker’s, working girls sitting on a wall passing cigarettes and a half bottle. Liked coming home when everyone was still asleep. Liked sliding under the covers beside Angela’s warm body, trying not to wake her up.
The cab turned into Dumbarton Road. Almost home. He yawned, sat up. And now Angela was working for Stevie. Wasn’t quite sure what he thought about that. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. She’d walked out on him years ago. No note, no wave goodbye. Just came in from the beat one night and she wasn’t there and neither was her stuff.
Cab stopped outside his close and he got out and paid the man. Looked up at his empty flat, realised he still missed her.
30th December 1968
Gulfstream Park, Florida
Terry was nervous. Terry was always nervous before a show. Strumming his guitar, standing up, sitting down, pacing round the motorhome. Fiddling with his hair, the necklaces round his neck. Bobby took a drag, handed him the joint. Terry took a drag, handed it back, sat down on the kitchen counter, swig of Dr Pepper.
‘What should we start with?’ he asked. ‘“Tinker Tailor”?’
Bobby nodded. ‘Great idea,’ he said.
Truth was he didn’t much care what they started with or even what they ended with. He just wanted this tour to be over and after tonight it would be. Three months of shit hotels, shit food, shit drugs, watching the headliners from the edge of the stage. Three months of trying to warm up bored audiences waiting for the main attraction. He’d had enough.
One thing he did know, this was the last tour he was going to do as a member of somebody else’s band. He was going to do something of his own. Was sick of being a gun for hire, even if the pay was good. It wasn’t Terry’s fault. Terry was a nice guy, one of the good ones. He was just ready to jump. Had been working on his songs for a year. Hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t played them in the dressing rooms or the jam sessions after the shows. He was keeping them. Keeping them for himself. When he got back to London he was going to go and see Kit Lambert, maybe Peter Grant, someone who could make things happen.
He’d been out of it one night, rehearsals for the Rock and Roll Circus mess. Been so stoned and coked and fuck knows what else he had told Keith what he was going to do. Only person he’d told. Keith told him to get going, get it started. Time waited for no one. Wished him luck, told him anything he could do to help he would.
Wasn’t sure Keith even remembered the conversation. He’d run into him a couple of days later in the Speak. Hadn’t said anything, just dug into the pouch round his neck with a key, held it out. Bobby sniffed, wiped his nose. Good stuff.
‘Maybe “When You Get Home”? Faster tempo . . .’
He looked up and Terry was standing over him. ‘What?’ he asked, still back in London.
‘Start with “When You Get Home”?’ Terry said again.
Bobby nodded, took another pull of the joint. ‘Great idea.’
Terry nodded. ‘Think it’ll work.’
Bobby stepped out the motorhome into the noise and wet heat of Gulfstream Park. Tried to work out whether to tell Terry tonight or on the plane home tomorrow. Didn’t matter much, he supposed. Wasn’t going to be happy either way.
16th July 1973
TWENTY-THREE
McCoy took a sip of his tea and looked at his watch again. Ten past eight. Maybe Wattie wasn’t going to turn up after all. Had sounded grumpy on the phone this morning. McCoy thought it was because he’d woken him up, but maybe it was more than that. Still smarting about Ronnie Elder probably. Or maybe Mary had told him the news. Still wasn’t quite sure why she’d told him; maybe she’d just needed to tell someone. Now that he thought about it, he’d never heard her mention any family, a sister, mother, anything like that. God help her if he was the only person she had to turn to for advice.
The Golden Egg felt different. Was usually mobbed at this time. Serving breakfasts like nobody’s business. Not today – today it was just him and the guy that alwa
ys sat in the corner, coat and bunnet, woollen fingerless gloves even in this heat. He yawned again. Didn’t get to his bed until after one, head whirring with Alice Kelly and Bobby March. Was thinking he should have ordered a coffee instead, wake himself up when there was a thud and a pile of the morning’s papers landed on the table in front of him followed by Wattie sitting down opposite.
‘Aye, good morning to you,’ said McCoy. ‘You nearly spilt my bloody tea.’
Wattie wasn’t bothered. He fanned the papers out. Front page headlines all much the same, just variations of.
‘BEAST ARRESTED!’
‘HE KNEW HER!’
‘“HE MUST HANG!” SAYS ALICE MUM.’
‘What chance have we got now?’ asked Wattie, staring at him.
‘You want to order anything?’ asked McCoy. ‘Before you start giving me the third bloody degree.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing his still wet hair off his forehead. ‘These bloody papers just got me wound up.’
The waitress – desperate to serve them for once, nothing else to do – was hovering over them. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, pencil ready.
‘Tea,’ said Wattie.
‘A black coffee and some toast,’ said McCoy.
She nodded, didn’t bother writing it down, wandered off, smell of stale sweat and some kind of sickly perfume thankfully leaving with her.
‘You don’t like coffee,’ said Wattie. ‘Late night?’ He grinned. ‘Who was the lucky lady?’
‘Liam,’ said McCoy. ‘Had to go to bloody Wine Alley.’
Wattie let out a low whistle. ‘Surprised you got out alive. Eat coppers for breakfast there, I heard.’
McCoy piled the papers up, put them on the floor and sat back in his chair. ‘Well, ye of little bloody faith. Wine Alley’s not all I’ve been doing. I’ve been busy.’
‘Doing what?’ asked Wattie.
‘Helping your bloody pal. So, due to my many connections and level of influence in this fair city, in about twenty minutes Archie Lomax is going turn up at the desk at Stewart Street and demand a meeting with his new client, Ronnie Elder.’
‘No!’ said Wattie, looking surprised.