by Alan Parks
He was early, was only quarter to, so he had a wander round the station. It was busy, people still setting off on their holidays as well as the usual everyday punters. The wooden destination boards above the shops rattled and clacked every few minutes as trains came and went. He bought some fags, stood under the clock and lit up, let the crowds pass him either side and hoped Liam hadn’t gone on a bender after he’d left him and wouldn’t turn up.
‘McCoy!’
He turned and Mila was standing behind him. Faded army jacket, two cameras around her neck and a bag over her shoulder, big smile on her face. He’d forgotten how good-looking she was: tall, blonde, blue eyes. Not your usual Glasgow girl.
‘Mila, how are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Good! It’s another lovely day. Are you coming with us?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Liam’ll show you around, though. He’s had a bit of an accident with his face, so don’t worry when you see him.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she said, smiling. ‘The party was fun. Those girls were crazy, had me drinking Boofast?’
‘Buckfast,’ said McCoy.
‘That’s it! Evil stuff. Why didn’t you come? I asked the boy at the next table to give you the address.’
‘Ah,’ he said. Not entirely sure whether to believe her or not. ‘Think there was a bit of a mix-up.’
‘I think tonight we would like to do something a bit more exciting, to thank you for this. Do you want to?’
He nodded. ‘Definitely.’ And then he stumbled forward. Had no idea what had happened, then realised Liam had clapped him on the back. Forgotten his strength, as usual.
‘McCoy! I’m here! Reporting for duty.’
And he was. Dressed for the weather in a pair of jeans and a red T-shirt with ‘Property of Alcatraz’ written on it, sandshoes completing the look, big scar and big smile on his face. He looked Mila up and down and the smile got even wider.
McCoy went to speak but the tannoy started to blare out, announcing the arrival of the 1.06 from Ayr, and suddenly the station was full of returning holidaymakers. Kids, red-faced dads carrying luggage, harassed mums and aunties. McCoy tried to talk above the hubbub but there was no point, neither of them could hear him. Eventually, the crowd thinned out, the noise went down a bit and he tried again.
‘Mila, Liam. Liam, Mila. Mila here wants to take photographs of the worst kind of living conditions. That right?’
Mila nodded. ‘The charity I am working for wants to shock people, let them see how people are really living in 1973.’
‘Okay,’ said McCoy, turning to Liam. ‘Maybe try what’s left of the Gorbals? Woodside? Blackhill?’
Liam nodded. Still smiling. Still looking at Mila.
‘Then maybe take her down by the Clyde, the people living rough, then along to the Great Eastern?’
No response.
‘Liam?’
Liam seemed to come back, nodded, stopped staring at Mila. ‘No bother. We can do that. You all set, Mila? You want to get a piece or a bottle of ginger?’
Mila was nodding, plainly didn’t understand a word of Liam’s broad Irish accent. He tried again, talking slower, somehow only made his accent broader. She nodded again, not quite understanding it was a question and she was supposed to answer.
The board rattled and announced the 1.14 to London was leaving from platform three. Another rush of people. McCoy could hear some kid crying, a woman shouting on her friend to hurry up or they wouldn’t get seats, inspector at the gate shouting ‘Tickets ready, please!’
‘We’re gonna go, Harry,’ said Liam.
‘Okay. Hope it all goes well,’ said McCoy. ‘See you later.’
He watched them head off, Mila turning back with a comedy look of fear on her face as they walked towards the Hope Street exit. The crowd had settled down, formed a line at platform three, but he could still hear the kid crying. Maybe he’d lost his mum. McCoy looked around, couldn’t see where the noise was coming from. Eventually spotted a little boy crouching by the toilets. He looked about nine or ten, short blond hair, a Scotland strip, white training shoes.
McCoy waited in the hope someone else would deal with it. No luck. No railway police to be seen, everyone else hurrying for their trains. He sighed. Just about his level these days, rescuing lost weans.
He walked over, the crying getting louder as he got a bit closer. The boy’s face was all scrunched up, fists in his eyes, wailing away. An elderly woman in a pair of huge white sunglasses, a straw hat and tartan dress had appeared beside him.
‘I think he’s lost,’ she said. ‘Maybe he got left behind when his family got on the train. Poor wee bugger.’
McCoy tried to sound friendly, knelt down in front of the boy. ‘Come on, son. It can’t be that bad. What’s your name, eh? You lost your maw, eh? Don’t worry, we’ll find her soon enough.’
The boy stopped crying for a second, raised his head, looked up at him and McCoy realised he wasn’t looking at a boy at all. What he was looking at was a girl with her hair cut short.
‘Do you want me to get him an ice cream or a bottle of juice?’ asked the woman. ‘I could go across to the shops. Would maybe cheer him up a bit?’
She kept talking, but McCoy wasn’t listening, just trying to understand what he was looking at.
‘Alice? he said. ‘Is that you?’
The girl nodded.
McCoy couldn’t believe it, but it was true. He was kneeling down in Central Station looking into the dirty, tear-stained face of a very alive Alice Kelly.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Billy looked up from his desk when McCoy walked into the station, put the phone down.
‘Is it true? She’s alive?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded. ‘He here?’
Billy didn’t have to ask who he was talking about.
‘Came in about an hour ago, looks bloody shocking. Must have—’
McCoy didn’t wait to listen to the rest, pushed the door of the office open and walked in. A few faces looked up. Could see Raeburn sitting on his desk at the back. If he doubted what he was going to do, the sight of him had made his mind up. Felt the anger growing in him, was all he could think about. Knew it was one of the few times in his life he was about to surrender to it. Knew he was getting out of control and he wasn’t sorry about it. Not this time. He walked straight across the office floor towards him, could hear Wattie shouting ‘Harry!’ behind him.
Raeburn looked up, saw him and stood up as he got closer. ‘Better call your pal off, Watson,’ he said. ‘Before he does something he shouldn’t.’
McCoy felt Wattie grab him, arms around his shoulders, but he managed to shrug him off and ran at Raeburn. Raeburn went to duck but not quick enough. McCoy managed to punch him in the side of the head. Hard. Raeburn went down and McCoy straddled him, knees on his shoulders and punched in at his face. Again and again and again. Didn’t even stop when Raeburn’s nose gave way under his fist and spurted blood all over the carpet and all over him.
He could hear shouts, Raeburn crying out, people scrambling, and then Wattie was on him, hands round his neck, trying to pull him off. He struggled, managed to get a few more punches in at Raeburn’s bloody face before Wattie dragged him off and rolled him onto the floor.
He lay there for a second, chaos around him, tried to get his breathing back to normal. His knuckles were killing him, felt like he’d broken something. He sat up, rubbed at them and looked over at Raeburn. Thomson was helping him up. He managed to get him to his chair and Raeburn sat down heavily. He looked over at McCoy and McCoy realised he was smiling through the blood. Looking at him in triumph.
‘That’s assault of a superior officer,’ he said, wiping the blood from his nose. ‘You’re gone, McCoy. Out the fucking door.’
McCoy got up to go at him again, stopped dead, heard a voice boom out behind him.
‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’
Everyone turned, looked at the doorway. Detective Inspector Murray
was standing there. He was pointing at him, fury on his face. ‘You! McCoy! Away out my sight. I’ll deal with you later.’
Murray’s face got even angrier. He pointed again. ‘And you, Raeburn, you useless prick of a man. In my office. Now!’
He walked past them and slammed his office door behind him. Raeburn stood up, walked towards the closed door. Wasn’t grinning any more.
McCoy was leaning on the edge of a sink in the toilets, running cold water over his right hand, trying to stop the swelling. Was pretty sure he’d just chucked what was left of his career in the bin, but he didn’t much care at this point. If his career was going to be working for people like Raeburn they could shove it. Looked up into the mirror and Wattie was standing there.
‘Not sure that was the best idea in the world,’ he said. ‘Glad you did it, though. The arsehole deserved it and more.’
‘Done now,’ said McCoy. ‘Can’t take it back. What’s Murray doing back?’
‘Dealing with Raeburn, I suppose. Even by Murray’s standards he looked furious.’
‘Great. Just what I need. Murray on a bloody rampage,’ said McCoy.
‘Where is she now?’ asked Wattie. ‘Is she okay?’
McCoy nodded, inspected his knuckles, red and swollen, and put them back under the tap. ‘Took her up to the Royal. She’s alive, but she’s all over the place. They think she’s been drugged. Doesn’t really know where she is or what’s happened.’
‘Christ,’ said Wattie.
‘Going to go back up there, see what’s going on. Assuming Murray doesn’t murder me. They tell the mum and dad?’
Wattie nodded. ‘Doing it now.’
McCoy decided his knuckles were as good as they were going to get, pulled some paper towels out the holder, dried his hand. ‘Think we can get out of here without Murray knowing?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Wattie, grinning. ‘He sent me in here to get you.’
*
McCoy knocked on the doorframe. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Come in. Shut the door behind you,’ said Murray without looking up.
He did, sat down in the chair in front of Murray’s desk. He wasn’t wearing his usual tweed suit, must have been pulled in from leave. Wondered if he’d come from Perth or Phyllis Gilroy’s. He had cords on, tattersall shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Top of his head red from the sun. McCoy watched as he finished writing whatever he was writing and screwed the top back on his fountain pen. Hands were dirty, must have been gardening. Murray put the pen on the desk and sat back, looked at him.
‘How did this mess happen?’ he asked calmly.
McCoy decided he had nothing to lose. ‘Raeburn wanted a quick resolution. Got the boy in. Kept him in. Terrified him, threatened him, battered him until he signed the confession.’
‘And why didn’t you stop him?’ asked Murray.
‘What?’ asked McCoy, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘I wasn’t there. I’ve been doing suspicious deaths, house calls, any old shite Raeburn could find, anything but the Alice Kelly case. Wouldn’t let me anywhere near it.’
Murray looked genuinely surprised. ‘What? You’re a senior officer. You should have been on it. Don’t tell me Raeburn was still pulling that shite, was he?’
McCoy was beginning to get exasperated. ‘I told you this at Phyllis Gilroy’s! I tried to get on the case but Raeburn wouldn’t have it. He hates me, has done since I requested out Eastern and away from him. So he had the opportunity to chuck his weight about, make sure everyone knows he was the boss and I was a piece of shit beneath his shoe. It was Wattie that was in the interview, came and told me after.’
‘Well, why didn’t he do something?’ asked Murray, looking increasingly frustrated.
‘Come on, Murray, he’s no in a position to stop an interview. He did what could, he told me,’ said McCoy.
‘And how did that boy manage to kill himself in our bloody custody? How did that happen?’
McCoy wasn’t having anything to do with that one. ‘You’ll have to ask Raeburn and Brian about that. Ask them why he wasn’t on suicide watch.’
Murray stuck his hand in his pocket, came out with a pipe, opened the desk drawer, started rifling through it looking for matches. Couldn’t find any, slammed it shut in frustration. ‘Three months! That’s all! Three bloody months I’m away and this happens! It’s a disgrace. An absolute bloody disgrace!’
McCoy held his hands up. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
‘Stop acting so bloody innocent, McCoy! You, my boy, aren’t getting away scot-free either. Not by a long shot. You should have told me what was going on.’
‘What?’ said McCoy. ‘It’s my fault now, is it? I did tell you! Jesus Christ, Murray!’
‘Where was your common sense? Raeburn’s an idiot. I only let his promotion go through because I knew you were here. I thought you could stop him doing too much damage until I got back.’
McCoy was starting to get annoyed now. Was happy to take responsibility for what he’d done, not for what Murray thought he should have done. ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t have bloody promoted him in the first place!’
‘I didn’t! He’s brown-nosed Pitt Street for years. I couldn’t stop it.’
‘Well, stop blaming me, then!’ shouted McCoy. ‘Blame Raeburn and his lodge pals!’
Thought Murray would explode but he didn’t, just sat there looking a bit defeated. There was silence for a few moments.
‘Is she okay?’ he asked. ‘The girl?’
McCoy nodded. ‘She’s alive. But that daft boy is lying in the morgue because of Raeburn and his bloody glory-hunting.’
Murray had finally found some matches, lit up his stinking pipe. Waved the smoke away. ‘Leave that with me.’
‘What are you going to do about him?’ asked McCoy.
‘As I said, Detective McCoy. Leave it with me,’ said Murray.
Knew by his tone that he couldn’t push any harder. He nodded.
Murray looked pained. ‘So, who took her? Do we have any idea? Has she been, you know . . .’
‘They don’t think so,’ said McCoy.
Murray ruffled through a pile of assignment forms. ‘What else have you got on just now?’
‘Nothing,’ said McCoy. No way was he mentioning the robberies, not if he could help it.
‘Give me a few minutes,’ said Murray. ‘Away and sit down.’
*
McCoy stepped outside Murray’s office and looked up. Realised everyone in the office was staring at him. He sat down at his desk, felt the Coke can in his pocket, slipped it into his drawer without anyone noticing. Could feel Raeburn’s eyes on his back, hear him muttering away to Thomson. Pretended to look at the papers in front of him but, like everyone else, he was just waiting for Murray’s door to open.
Ten minutes later it did and Murray stepped out his office, stood in front of the blackboard, papers in hand. Office gradually went quiet. He looked round at them, looked disappointed, like a headmaster in front of a class who had been misbehaving for a new teacher.
‘I’m supposed to be off today. I’m supposed to be working in Perth next week. That’s not going to happen because of the shitshow here. And to top it off I walked into this station, my station, to see two senior officers brawling on the floor. Not acceptable. A boy hanged himself yesterday down that corridor. Not acceptable. And worst of all we had charged him with the murder of Alice Kelly. The same Alice Kelly that is sitting in the Royal right now, very much alive and kicking.’
He looked round them again, caught every face, even if they were trying to look at the floor.
‘Do you clowns have any idea what that makes us look like to the public? Incompetent, glory-hunting idiots. That’s what. And I’m not going to disagree with them. I’m ashamed that this is my station. I’m ashamed that officers that were under my watch acted the way they did. So . . .’ He looked round again. ‘As of now, Detective McCoy will be in charge of the investigation into Alice Kelly.�
��
‘You’re joking!’ Everyone turned. Raeburn had got off his seat, pulled the bloody hanky away from his nose. ‘That bugger just attacked me for no reason and you’re taking me off the case?’
Murray looked at him with contempt. ‘And Acting Detective Inspector Raeburn will be relieved of his duties pending an investigation into his handling of the Alice Kelly case and the death of Ronnie Elder.’
‘Fuck sake, Murray! McCoy?’ Raeburn was shouting now, ranting, blood down his shirt, hair everywhere. Fury on his face. ‘He’s a liability, drunk half the time. Oh, but I forgot, he’s your wee pet project, isn’t he, wee teacher’s pet? Well, fuck that, and fuck you! I’m no gonna forget this.’
He kicked his chair over, headed for the door.
Murray didn’t even bat an eyelid, pointed at Wattie. ‘Watson? Brief me and McCoy on everything to do with Alice. Soon as.’
An hour later McCoy was standing in front of the assembled station. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to start, some of Raeburn’s cronies looking down their noses, others with notebooks ready. He took a breath.
‘This investigation has been a shambles so far.’ A few mutters, intakes of breath. ‘But that stops now. As of now we work together to find out who took Alice and why, and to make sure he’s caught before he does something like it again. Ronnie Elder was never our man. Too young, too stupid. The person that took Alice managed to make her disappear in broad daylight a couple of hundred yards from her home. That takes planning and intelligence.’ He looked round at them. ‘And that’s what worries me. Because someone like that might well do it again and this time he might be planning to do something worse with whoever he takes.’
He stopped for a minute, pointed to the blown-up picture of Alice taped to the blackboard.
‘For all we know, Alice might be able to tell us what happened to her. We don’t know that yet. If she can’t, it’s back to us. She must have been kept somewhere. A cellar, a garage, a coal bunker. I want all of these in a quarter-mile radius searched. I want any known nonces rolled. Talk to her pals. Do they know if she was talking to anyone she shouldn’t have been? She’d a Scotland strip on, a new one. Who sells them and who’ve they sold them to? Fact they cut her hair and put her in that strip to make her look like a boy means she must have been somewhere at some time when she could be seen. So we’re looking for any sightings of a boy in a football strip.’