by Alan Parks
‘Yes,’ said McCoy, smiling as the waitress put down the order.
Wattie waited until she’d wandered back to her post by the door. ‘How’d that happen?’ he asked.
McCoy tapped the side of his nose.
‘Wanker,’ said Wattie, grinning.
‘Watch it, Watson. You may be Raeburn’s bum chum but I’m still your superior officer. Probably be a good idea if you’re there when Lomax arrives, don’t want Raeburn trying any funny business.’
‘You can come too,’ said Wattie.
‘Don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s going to be pissed off enough with Lomax turning up without seeing my handsome face.’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Don’t think he’ll be anything this morning. Apparently he was in the Eskimo all night celebrating, ordering whiskies for all the bar. He’ll still be in his bed. We’ll go to Stewart Street, see Lomax, then I need to go up to the canal. Divers started again this morning. If she’s in the canal, they’ll find her today.’
McCoy looked down at the pictures of Alice Kelly on all the front pages. ‘Poor wee bugger,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t much of a life, was it?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie. ‘And neither will Ronnie Elder’s be, not unless Lomax pulls something out the bag. You know something?’
‘What?’ McCoy sipped his coffee. Rotten.
‘You may be a wanker, but you’re a good guy.’
‘Great guy, you mean,’ said McCoy. ‘Now away and pay the woman and make sure you give her a tip. With any luck, she’ll spend it on some deodorant.’
The shop was firmly in ‘morning after’ mode. Hardly anyone in and those who were, were sitting at their desks, head in hands. The desks, the filing cabinets, the drawers were littered with the remnants of last night’s celebrations: pint pots, cans, ashtrays full of butts and the occasional whisky bottle. Whole place stank of sweat, cigarettes and stale beer.
Wattie tipped a balled-up fish and chip wrapper off his chair and sat down. McCoy tiptoed over to the sleeping Thomson, bent down and shouted in his ear. ‘Morning!!’
Thomson jumped, swore, then put his head back in his hands. Looked a right state. No tie, shirt half undone, exposing a yellowy-looking vest.
‘You stay the night here?’ asked McCoy.
He nodded. ‘Fell asleep under the desk about three.’ He scratched his head. ‘Christ, I feel shocking. You got any fags?’
McCoy gave him one, watched as Thomson lit up, drew deep and the coughing fit started. Spat a lump of phlegm into the bin, seemed to be back to normal.
‘Where’s Raeburn?’ asked McCoy, looking round.
‘Fuck knows. In his bed hopefully.’ Thomson yawned, exposing a mouth full of dark metal fillings. ‘Him and Jacobs left here about two, talking about going for another drink in some shebeen.’ He stood up, swayed a bit. ‘And now I am going to the bogs to spew up and then fall asleep for another half an hour.’
He bowed theatrically, then wandered off.
‘McCoy!’ A shout from Billy at the front desk. ‘Mr Lomax to see you.’
Lomax appeared a second later. He was dressed, as always, in immaculate chalk-stripe suit, snow-white shirt, navy-blue tie, shiny black brogues. He took a look around at the mess of the office, raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it me or are standards within the Glasgow Constabulary declining dramatically?’
McCoy was about to explain when Lomax started again. ‘Mr McCoy, I believe you are aware I have a new client?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded.
‘I would like to interview him, if that’s not too much trouble?’ Looked at his watch. ‘Some of us are busy.’
McCoy pointed the way towards the cells. Hoped Brian the turnkey was in some sort of acceptable state. They walked down the corridor and the smell of bleach hit them. They turned the corner and Brian was swabbing the floor with a mop, bucket beside him. He looked up.
‘As if my job’s no bad enough with they mucky bastards in the cells, never mind bloody Thomson spewing up in my corridor. The stupid bugger didn’t make it to the bogs. Who are you wanting?’
‘Ronnie Elder,’ said McCoy. ‘Lawyer to see him.’
Brian reached for the keys around his waist. ‘Least the wee bastard’s stopped crying.’ He nodded at cell number 4. ‘He’s in here.’
McCoy and Lomax waited as he fumbled with the lock, swore under his breath, eventually got it to turn, pushed the thick iron door open.
‘That bloody lock needs replaced, don’t know how many . . .’
He stopped. Just stood there, staring into the cell.
McCoy pushed past him into the doorway. Knew what he was going to see.
Ronnie Elder was hanging from the bars on the window, face contorted, a twisted sheet around his neck.
He heard Lomax say ‘Jesus Christ’ behind him, heard Brian running down the corridor and hitting the alarm. He ran into the cell and tried to push Elder’s body back up, release the tension. Knew as soon as he touched him there was no point. His body was lifeless, heavy like a sack of potatoes. But he put his fingers on the boy’s neck. No pulse. Held his hand up at his mouth. Couldn’t feel any breath. He managed to untie the sheet from the bar on the window, half carried and half pushed Elder onto the foam mattress on the floor.
McCoy sat down beside him. Looked at Ronnie Elder’s swollen face, his sock half hanging off his foot, his bitten-down nails, and he swore he was going to get Raeburn for this. He didn’t care if it cost him his job. Some stupid, pathetic boy was dead, had hanged himself in despair because of Bernie Raeburn, so he was going to pay for it.
And then Wattie was there behind him and Thomson was there and Lomax was shouting and the alarm was going and he realised there was a bit of paper on the floor beside him. A blank page ripped out the Bible sitting on the other mattress. He picked it up. Note written on it in pencil in what looked like a child’s writing.
‘Tell my mum I’m sorry.’
He looked up, handed it to Wattie. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘What a bloody mess.’
Half an hour later they were watching the ambulance men carry a covered stretcher through the office. Wattie hadn’t said much, just sat there watching, look on his face that was half anger and half fear. Raeburn was still nowhere to be found. Thomson had tried everywhere they could think of, had even sent a uniform to his flat. No answer. He could hear Billy on the front desk telling the ambulance men they’d be better taking him out the back door, through the garage. There were still reporters milling about outside.
McCoy stood up. He’d had enough. Didn’t want to be there any more. Needed air. Needed away.
‘No point in me sitting here,’ he said. ‘When Raeburn turns up, he’ll just tell me to fuck off and the mood I’m in I’ll lamp the bastard.’
Wattie nodded, face was pale. He was fiddling with a paper clip, straightening it and bending it again.
‘Come on, Wattie, it’s not your fault,’ said McCoy.
‘Aye, it is. Why do you think he did it?’ he asked. ‘For the fun of it? Because of what Raeburn and I put him through, that’s why.’
McCoy sat back down, sighed. ‘Look, we still don’t know if he was innocent or not. Doesn’t matter how many times he said it. Or that you believed him. The evidence is strong. Maybe he just couldn’t live with the guilt.’
Wattie went to protest and McCoy held his hand up, silenced him. ‘You reported your concerns to a senior officer immediately after the interview. If anyone drove him towards it, it wasn’t you, it was Raeburn. Okay?’
Nothing.
‘I said okay?’
Wattie nodded, looked about as far from okay as any man could be.
McCoy stood up again. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. They’ll have to bring in another team to look at this. Gilroy’ll have to do a post-mortem. Raeburn’ll have to turn up from wherever the fuck he is. Nothing’s going to happen for a while yet.’
He left Wattie sitting there. Heard Thomson say to someone on the way out, ‘At least th
e wee bastard has saved us the trouble.’ Supposed that would be the opinion of most of the polis.
Still wasn’t sure whether it was his or not.
TWENTY-FOUR
McCoy decided he needed a walk. Needed the air and the time to think. Most of all he needed to be away from the shop and the thought of Ronnie Elder hanging in his cell.
He found himself walking along Great Western Road. Thought he may as well head for Cooper’s. The lights changed and he crossed Park Road. A gaggle of student types passed him. Long-haired boys in cut-off denims and T-shirts, girls with cheesecloth shirts open over bikini tops. They were carrying a couple of bottles of rosé, no doubt heading for Kelvingrove Park. Looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. Wondered what they thought when they passed him. Just another sad old guy in a suit probably. Depressing, but they weren’t far wrong.
Couldn’t get the image of Elder hanging there out his head. Raeburn should have put the poor bugger on suicide watch. Too busy celebrating to think of it, and even if he hadn’t Wattie should have. Too busy burning with injustice to pay attention to his job. Supposed it was what the young did. Tried to fight the big fights while forgetting the people they were supposed to be fighting for. There’d be an inquiry, automatic with any death in custody. Had the feeling no one was going to come out of it very well.
He crossed the road at the lights, stopped. There was another one on the wall by the subway station. Same red spray paint, same big letters.
‘BOBBY MARCH WILL LIVE FOREVER!!’
Shook his head, was regretting giving that boy the money. He had March’s bag now, not that it was doing him any good. Nobody seemed to care much about what had happened to Bobby March, not his dad certainly. Papers had moved on. Alice Kelly was all they cared about. Was beginning to think it might be better to just let Bobby and his overdose fade away into the background.
He turned into Hamilton Park Avenue, could see Cooper’s ugly big house at the end of the road. He noticed his lace was undone, bent down to tie it and saw what looked like spots of Ribena or something on the pavement. Looked closer. It wasn’t Ribena, it was blood. The street was empty but for a wean sitting in a big Silver Cross pram on the pavement opposite. The baby looked at him, smiled. He smiled back, waved and then he heard a moan.
Then another.
He looked round. Saw a leg coming out from under Cooper’s neighbour’s hedge, black baseball boot on the end. He bent down, pushed the hedge aside and suddenly he was looking at Laura Murray. She was pale, breathing shallow, blood running down her face and a pool of it between her legs, skirt stained red.
‘Fuck sake! Laura!’
She opened her eyes, tried to smile at him.
‘McCoy,’ she said. ‘Thank God. I couldn’t make it to the house.’
Then her eyes closed and she sank back into the leaves.
*
An hour later McCoy was sitting at the kitchen table, watching the stairs. Dr Purdie had turned up half an hour ago, muttering something about ‘having a proper job, you know’. Soon shut it when McCoy told him he could take another five hundred off his debts. Since then he had been in and out Laura’s room, sending Iris for water, towels, all sorts. When Iris came out the bedroom carrying a dripping blood-soaked towel that was more than enough for McCoy. He’d retreated downstairs, sat at the table, smoked and waited.
Laura had come round when he was carrying her into the house. Made him promise he wouldn’t phone the police. They’d tell her parents where she was. McCoy told her he wouldn’t to shut her up, but he was waiting on Purdie to tell him how bad she was; if it was anything serious he would have to call Murray, didn’t have a choice.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and Purdie appeared, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie over his shoulder. He dumped his leather bag on the table, pushed his fair hair back off his face, undid the top button of his shirt and pointed at the sink.
‘May I?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded and Purdie poured a big glass of water and sat down, lit up.
‘Is she okay?’ McCoy asked.
Purdie nodded, blew out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils, waved it away.
‘She’s a bit battered and bruised. She’s had a fright more than anything else, but she’ll live.’ He hesitated. ‘I know Mr Cooper is being helpful with my debts, but when it comes to getting involved in assaults on young girls I could honestly do without it. I don’t want to get involved in any sort of crime scenario that—’
‘Maybe when you’re back to owing nothing, you can pick and choose,’ said McCoy. ‘Until then, you do what you’re told. Got it?’
Purdie nodded, looked resigned to his fate. ‘Sorry. Who is she anyway?’
‘A friend’s niece. I’m looking after her,’ said McCoy.
‘What age is she?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen,’ said McCoy.
‘That might go some way to explain it,’ said Purdie.
‘Explain what?’
‘She’s had an abortion.’
‘She’s what?’ asked McCoy.
‘An illegal abortion,’ said Purdie. ‘Not the best idea, but it happens.’
‘Christ.’
‘Exactly. Isn’t the worst I’ve seen, but it’s far from the best. She’s got heavy bleeding, clots. Beginnings of an infection. So I’ve injected her with a big dose of antibiotics, which will hopefully see it off.’
‘Will she be okay?’ asked McCoy.
Purdie shrugged. ‘She’s young and in good health, she should be. Anything else happens, any change in her condition, you’ll need to take her to the hospital immediately, regardless of the consequences.’
McCoy nodded, was still trying to take it all in.
‘Why would someone attack her?’ asked Purdie. ‘By the looks of it she’s been given a fair few kicks in the stomach as well as the bump on her head.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said McCoy. Realised he really hadn’t. Wasn’t much chance it was a random attack, not in broad daylight. But why would someone be after Laura Murray? ‘Is that why she’s, you know, bleeding?’ he asked.
‘Certainly wouldn’t help,’ said Purdie. ‘Kicks seemed to be aimed there, probably knew she’d had the procedure.’
Purdie fiddled with his Dunhill lighter, turned it over and over in his hands. ‘If I was really doing my job, I’d be calling an ambulance now,’ he said.
McCoy got up and took glasses and a bottle of whisky from the shelf, poured them two belts.
‘You know that I am supposed to report this kind of thing?’ said Purdie.
‘Which you aren’t going to,’ said McCoy.
‘Which I’m not going to,’ repeated Purdie. He smiled, looked a bit sad. ‘Just like I don’t report the various slashings and knife wounds I come here to stitch up.’ He took a sip of the whisky. ‘You know, the day I graduated from medical school I told my parents I was going to be a surgeon, specialising in coronary care.’ Smiled again. ‘Was all on track until the gee-gees got me and now I do anything for the money. Fix up dirty abortions, inject Mr Cooper with Seconal to let him ride out his withdrawal symptoms.’ He held up his glass. ‘Cheers, here’s to my brilliant career!’
He swallowed the whisky over and stood up. ‘Time to go back to the practice, back to the important stuff, reassuring middle-aged men with flu that they’re not about to die.’ He dug in his pocket, handed McCoy a small bottle. ‘Forgot to give these to Iris. There’s six in there. Two a day for your friend Cooper. Should be fine when they’re finished.’ Pretended to tip his hat and left.
McCoy watched him go, took another sip of his whisky. Wasn’t sure if he should tell Murray what had happened or not. If he did, he was pretty sure he’d take her back to Bearsden, come hell or high water, and maybe he was right to. If someone had beaten her up, there was a reason and it might happen again. Chances were she’d be a lot safer at home with her mum and dad, no matter what Laura wanted.
McCoy was just about to go up and see how Cooper was doing when
Iris appeared, big ball of bloody bedclothes held out in front of her. She stuffed them into the washing machine and sat down. Poured a shot of whisky into Purdie’s glass and swallowed it in one.
‘Christ, I needed a drink after all that.’ She glanced upwards. ‘She’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘Out like a light. Purdie gave her something. So’s Cooper. It’s like night of the living bloody dead up there.’
‘Did she say what happened?’ asked McCoy.
‘No really, says someone came up behind her. She was walking back from getting the messages, heard a shuffle behind her and then something hit her on the head. She falls down, gets kicked a good few times and shoved into next door’s bloody hedge.’
‘Did she see who it was?’ asked McCoy.
‘Naw, he was behind her the whole time. Cowardly bastard that he was. Why’d someone attack her?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘You know about the . . .’ he started.
Iris looked at him like he was mad. ‘What do you think all those bloody sheets were from? The wee bump on her head? Christ, McCoy.’
‘Sorry.’ He poured them another drink. ‘Suppose we know why she didn’t want to go home. Wonder if Donny MacRae knew.’
Iris snorted. ‘What? You think if he hadnae got killed they’d be getting married, painting the nursery? Wise up. She’s young but she’s no stupid. She’d have done it anyway.’ She looked at him. ‘And why are you so bloody sure it was Donny MacRae anyway?’
‘Who else would it be? She have another boyfriend on the go?’
Iris rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, but men are stupid. It won’t be the first bloody time. Fathers, brothers, uncles. A pregnant girl runs away from home. You’re supposed to be a polis, must have crossed your mind.’
And the terrible thing was that until that moment it hadn’t. McCoy suddenly felt like the ice was cracking under his feet. Suddenly it all seemed so obvious. Her dad not wanting the police involved. Murray telling him not to dig too deep. Laura telling him, ‘Even good old uncle Hec couldn’t fix it this time.’ It had been there all along and he’d missed it. No wonder nothing was going to make her go back home.