by Alan Parks
‘You all right?’ Iris was peering at him. ‘Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
McCoy sat up in his chair. ‘I’m fine, fine.’ He dragged himself to his feet. ‘I’ll just go up and see how she’s doing.’
Iris narrowed her eyes. ‘Purdie told you, no questions. She needs rest.’
He held his hands up. ‘Couple of questions, that’s all, I promise.’
She shook her head. ‘On your own head be it.’
McCoy stopped at the doorway. Turned.
Iris looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Just in case you think I’m that daft, Iris, I know you either did it or you sorted it out. How else is a nice teenager from Bearsden going to get in touch with a back-street abortionist?’
The blood drained from her face. ‘Don’t know what you’re bloody talking about.’
‘Let’s hope you just put her in touch. Because if something happens to her, if this gets worse, it won’t be me that’s after who did it, it’ll be Chief Inspector Murray.’
Iris stood up, walked towards him, put her face right into his. He could smell her perfume, the whisky on her breath.
‘What is that, McCoy? Some kind of threat? You think I’m scared of you or that fat arsehole Murray? You must be joking. And if you think I’m going to stop helping women in trouble you’re very much mistaken. Because I’m sick of men like you. Stick it anywhere you want, then fuck off when she gets up the duff. You’re all the bloody same, leaving some lassie’s life ruined all because you wanted your hole and she was stupid enough to believe your shite.’
She was getting angrier as she went on. Spitting it out now, face screwed up with contempt.
‘I’m fifty-three. I work in a shitty shebeen. Do you think I give a fuck if you try and send me to jail? I don’t care. I’m proud of the women I’ve helped and given my time again I’d do the bloody same. So before you start issuing threats, why don’t you try and find out who really gave her the baby. Happens all the time. Even in leafy bloody Bearsden.’
She was furious now, hands in fists. McCoy wasn’t sure if she was going to hit him. But she sat back down, screwed the top off the whisky and poured herself another, hands shaking so much she spilt most of it.
McCoy stood there, feeling like a wee boy who’d been given a row. The worst thing was most of what she’d said was true. She looked up at him, took a swig of the drink.
‘Beat it, McCoy,’ she said, sounding tired. ‘Just get out my sight.’
*
Laura was awake when he went in. The bedroom was dim, warm, light coming through a crack in the closed curtains. Laura looked tired and very, very pale.
McCoy sat on the side of the bed. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Dr Purdie told me to leave you to rest, but I need to know a couple of things, Laura. It’s all getting too serious for me to be polite, okay?’
She nodded again and pulled herself up on the pillows, effort making her grimace.
‘Whose baby was it?’ he asked
She looked at him, surprised. ‘Donny’s,’ she said. ‘Who else’s would it be?’
‘Are you sure?’
She looked at him puzzled. ‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve only had one boyfriend. What are you asking me that for?’
McCoy took a deep breath. ‘You ran away from home, you were fifteen and pregnant. Things happen in families, Laura. Things that aren’t right.’
She was looking at him with shock. ‘You thought it was my dad?’
‘I had to ask,’ said McCoy
‘No, you didn’t, but it wasn’t him, I swear on my life. You happy now?’
She turned away and looked at the wall. McCoy felt like a bastard doing it, but he had to keep pressing, he needed some answers.
‘So are you going to tell me why you really won’t go back?’
She didn’t turn round. Was almost a whisper when she said it. ‘It’s not my dad. It’s my mum.’
‘Your mum?’ he asked. Was the last thing he expected.
She took her arm out from beneath the covers and pulled up the sleeve of her nightie. There were burns all up her arm, some faded, some still angry red welts. Scars too. Deep slashes across her forearm.
‘Burns are from the poker,’ she said. ‘It’s one of her favourites. Cuts are from anything that comes to hand, bread knives are what she usually uses. You want to see my leg too?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think . . .’
‘I’m not going home,’ she said. ‘Not now, not ever.’
She kept her face to the wall but McCoy could hear her sobbing. He left her, shut the door behind him and stood on the landing. Seemed leafy Bearsden could be just as dangerous and brutal as anywhere else in Glasgow.
TWENTY-FIVE
McCoy walked out Cooper’s house, shut the door behind him. Still didn’t really know what had happened to Laura. Why would her mother do something like that? Whatever it was she was doing looked like it had been going on for years. Some of the scars and burns had almost faded away. No wonder she didn’t want to go home, couldn’t blame her.
He stopped at the corner of Great Western Road and lit up. As far as he was concerned Murray had some explaining to do. What was happening to her couldn’t have gone unnoticed, he must have known. A taxi pulled up just along the road. He was about to run and try and catch it when the door opened and Angela got out. Couldn’t help it, heart skipped a bit when he saw her. She paid the driver, walked down the road and saw him, smiled. She was wearing jeans, suede boots, a little leather jacket, a T-shirt with a Superman symbol on it. Looked fantastic.
‘Harry? What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Was in seeing Cooper,’ he said, pointing back at the house. Seemed easier than explaining about Laura.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I’ve been summoned, must be on his feet again. About time.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m early for his majesty and it’s a lovely day. You fancy a walk?’
‘Perfect,’ said McCoy. ‘Need to talk to you anyway.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ she said, smiling. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a cone. I’m boiling.’
They wandered up Great Western Road, vaguely heading for the Botanic Gardens. Sun was high in the sky, must have been nearly eighty. McCoy took his jacket off, slung it over his shoulder. Angela took a pair of huge sunglasses out her pocket, put them on. Hanging about bands must be getting to her; she was starting to look like a rock star these days.
‘So, where were you?’ asked McCoy. ‘Cooper said you were away.’
‘Liverpool,’ she said, lighting up. ‘You ever been there? Makes Glasgow look like bloody Paris. Total dump.’
McCoy shook his head. Then realised. ‘Actually, I have. Forgot. Uncle Tommy’s funeral.’
Angela stopped. ‘Tommy died?’
‘Aye, in June. Cancer. Diagnosed and then he was dead a month later.’
‘You should have told me. I liked the old bugger.’
‘Would you have come?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘Probably not.’
‘What were you doing there?’ he asked.
Realised he suddenly sounded like he was interviewing her like a policeman. She must have felt the same.
‘That would be my business,’ she replied coldly.
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy. ‘Force of habit.’
They walked on. Had to step aside to let a group of women pushing prams get past, then a man walking three big Alsatians, none of whom looked friendly.
‘I was thinking about you last night,’ said McCoy.
‘Were you now. Why’s that?’
‘Don’t know, just remembering when we lived in Vulcan Street, when I was on the beat.’
‘Christ . . . That was a while ago.’
‘And I used to come in and get into bed while you were still asleep.’
Angela stopped. ‘What’s up with you, Harry? What’s with the trip down memory lane?’
And for a second he was going to say it. Tell her he missed her. But he didn’t. He just shrugged. ‘Life’s a bit shit at the minute,’ he said. ‘Work. I’ve been better.’
‘And Cooper?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t help,’ said McCoy, glumly. ‘Did you know what was going on?’
‘Not really. I knew Ellie was one for the occasional dabble in heroin, but I thought that was it, then Cooper just sort of disappeared, never out his room. I started dealing with Billy. Should have been obvious, but I just thought he was being the Big Man, delegating, you know?’
He nodded. Wasn’t quite sure whether he did or not, mind still half on the sight of Ronnie Elder hanging in his cell. They were at the crossroads now, entrance to the park across the road obscured by an ice-cream van. They waited for the light to change.
‘You all right, though, Harry?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘You know me, bounce back in no time.’
‘Not so sure about that. You always were a bit of a miserable bugger. So what was it you wanted to ask me about?’ she asked.
‘Heroin,’ said McCoy.
‘Why? Thinking of giving it a go? Don’t think that’d cheer you up much. Well, would for a bit, maybe.’
‘I’ve got enough bad habits without starting any more,’ said McCoy.
‘That’s true. So, what do you want to know?’
The lights changed, the green man appeared and they started walking across the street.
‘Bobby March. Came into town from New York, and unless he was more stupid than anyone thought he wouldn’t be carrying any smack. Then he was dead of an overdose twenty-four hours later. Where’d he get it from?’
‘Me,’ said Angela, as they stepped up onto the pavement.
McCoy stopped. ‘You?’
‘Me,’ she said, stepping in behind two wee girls in the queue for the Mr Whippy van. ‘You want a ninety-nine?’
McCoy nodded, walked up the park path a bit, found an empty bench outside the Kibble Palace and sat down. The huge greenhouse was boiling at the best of times, hated to imagine what it was like today, had no intention of going inside to find out. Was better off out here with the breeze and the smell of flowers from the big beds cut into the lawns. A group of boys were playing football just past the beds, shirts vs skins, shouts, insults and laughter drifting over.
Angela appeared, ninety-nine in each hand, can of Coke poking out her jacket pocket. She held one out. ‘Take this before it melts all over me,’ she said.
McCoy took it and she sat down beside him, started licking the melted ice cream off her fingers.
‘This is between you and me, Harry. I don’t want any trouble with the law and I really don’t want any trouble with Stevie.’
McCoy nodded, pulled the flake out his ice cream and stuffed it into his mouth.
Angela had managed to stem the flow of melted ice cream, started talking. ‘We have a, how shall we say, an understanding with the venues in town. Greene’s, Electric Garden, Burns Howff, places like that. We—’
‘The Burns Howff?’ said McCoy. ‘That dump? Worst place to see a band in Glasgow.’
She ignored him. ‘We do good business in them. The bands coming through every week get what they need easy, are happy to come back, and we supply the lower-grade stuff to the bouncers on the door to sell to the punters.’
He smiled. ‘It’s funny hearing you talking like some drug dealer.’
‘Aye well, needs must. Stevie offered me the job. Was either that or keep working in the Maryland for bugger all.’
‘You not feel funny about it? Being on the wrong side of the law and all that?’
She looked at him. ‘I’m not you, Harry. I don’t have a career, a proper job. Never did have. What was I doing when I met you? Working in a pub. Pubs, shops, cafes . . . that’s my brilliant career. Least this way I’m making money for once. That all right with you, is it?’
‘Would you care if it wasn’t?’
She grinned. ‘Nope. Do you want to hear the story or not?’
He nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘So I don’t normally bother going myself. Billy goes if it’s a big order or he sends Jumbo. But this was Bobby March. And as we know Bobby March played with the Stones.’
McCoy had forgotten Angela’s devotion to The Rolling Stones, them and The Faces and a bit of Rod Stewart, depending on how she was feeling about him leaving them. They were all she had ever played on the record player in the old flat in Vulcan Street. Must have almost worn out the copy of Let It Bleed. Remembered them both stoned, drunk, singing along to ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, her in tune, him way off. Good times.
‘You remember that record we had, Olympic Silver?’ she asked.
McCoy shook his head.
‘You must do! The bootleg that cost me four bloody quid! The one with “Jiving Sister Fanny” on it? Black cover? “Blood Red Wine” on it as well?’
‘Oh, that one. Aye, I remember it now,’ said McCoy. Still didn’t really remember it, but it was easier to just agree.
Angela was shaking her head in disappointment.
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy. ‘Remember I wasn’t a bloody fanatic, unlike you.’
‘You bloody should have been, if you’d had any taste. Anyway, that’s Bobby March playing on it, that record. That was his audition,’ she said. ‘When they asked him to join.’
‘“The best version of the Stones there ever was”, according to Keith Richards,’ said McCoy. ‘I read it in the paper.’
She nodded. ‘Exactly. So when the call came in from the Maryland I said I’d go. See him, see the people I used to work with. I really wanted to meet him, talk to him about it.’
‘Ya big groupie,’ said McCoy, grinning.
She sighed. ‘Do you want to hear this bloody story or not?’
‘Sorry, aye. Crack on,’ he said, crunching the cone, safe now all the ice cream was gone.
‘So I goes to the sound check, delivers the goods to the guitar tech. He gives me passes, says come to the show, come backstage afterwards. No way was I going to the show but I came down about eleven. Figured it would be over by then.’
‘You were smarter than me. I went. Apart from “Sunday Morning Symphony” it was bloody awful.’
‘There’s a surprise. Anyways, I go to Bobby’s—’
‘Bobby’s, is it?’ McCoy was grinning again. ‘Sorry.’
She ignored him, got the can out her pocket, opened it and took a drink.
‘So I go to the dressing-room and we start chatting, about Glasgow, bands we’d seen. He was nice, bit spaced out but funny. Then I ask him about the Stones and I can tell right away he’s sick of talking about it, but I don’t care. I keep asking. So eventually he gives in, starts talking about Villa Nellcôte, about all the drugs and the dealers and the hangers-on and Bianca and Mick, how him and Keith are big buddies, and how he’s all over Exile without a credit. I’m lapping all this up. So I tell him I’ve got the Olympic Silver bootleg and how great it is.’
She lit up, took another sip of her drink.
‘And he smiles and he says, “You’ve no idea!” By this point, whatever he’s taken is kicking in. Looked like mandies, but fuck knows. He’s a bit all over the place, slurring, spilling his drink. And then he says, “That was only day one. No one’s ever heard day two.” Taps the side of his nose. “Day two is really why they asked me to join.” Then has a sleep and the tech comes in and says, “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I’m thinking, is there any point? But I goes anyway and we get back to his room and we do some coke he’s got from somewhere and he perks up a bit and starts acting like a dick, telling me he’s going to be bigger than the Stones ever were and then he starts pawing at me and I tell him to fuck off and he says what the fuck are you here for then and I leave.’
‘That it?’ asked McCoy.
She nodded.
‘You didn’t shoot him up in the hotel room?’ he asked.
‘No, I bloody didn’
t!’ she said. ‘I was only there for about ten minutes. Whatever happened to him happened long after I was gone.’
‘Did you see a bag when you were there? Shoulder bag thing with a long handle, brownish?’
She nodded. ‘Had it with him when we left the venue.’
‘And it was still there when you left?’ McCoy asked.
She nodded again. ‘Yes, officer. Far as I remember, that is. I was a bit gone myself.’
‘So you left and he must have injected himself and had an overdose, that the story?’
‘I don’t know! I wasn’t there, as I keep bloody telling you. He was a junkie, junkies overdose. Not the first or the last time that’s going to happen,’ she said, pushing her hair behind her ear. Just like she always did when she was nervous. She looked at her watch.
‘Fuck, I better get going or Cooper’ll go spare.’ She stood up, finished her can and dropped it in the wire bin next to the bench. Leant over to him. ‘Remember, Harry, between you and me. You promised.’
‘Sure, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Take care of yourself, Angela.’
He watched her walk down the path, waited until she disappeared out the park gates, then he got his hanky out his pocket, went over to the bin and wrapped it carefully around the Coke can and put it into his jacket pocket.
TWENTY-SIX
McCoy scanned the morning papers piled up on the big wooden John Menzies counter. All of them much the same. All about Ronnie Elder or ‘The Beast’ or ‘The Teenage Killer’ and what he’d done. The news about his death wasn’t out when they’d gone to print, definitely would be by the afternoon editions. Wondered if Raeburn had surfaced yet, must have done. Had the feeling Wattie and Raeburn would be in Pitt Street by now, giving a statement about exactly how Ronnie Elder managed to kill himself in custody.
He could feel the wrapped-up Coke can in his jacket pocket. Needed to get Angela’s fingerprints taken off it, compared to the ones on the syringe. Might be a job for PC Walker. She was bright enough, just wasn’t sure if he could trust her to do it on the fly. Wasn’t quite sure why he kept coming back to what had happened to Bobby March, but he did. Didn’t think that Angela would have deliberately given Bobby March enough smack to kill him. Why would she? Chances were he’s been bumming his chat about how he and Keith Richards were such big-time users that she’d thought he’d need more than normal. Probably scarpered when he keeled over. Couldn’t really blame her. Couldn’t really call it much of a crime either. So why was he trying to prove Angela was involved? Wasn’t sure he even knew himself.