Bobby March Will Live Forever

by Alan Parks

  He nodded over to Wattie.

  ‘Wattie here is your man. He’s been on this since the very beginning. He knows what has and hasn’t been done. Use him. If in doubt about something, ask him. I don’t want anything done twice or missed out. As soon as we’re back from interviewing Alice he’ll be sitting here helping to organise everything, as will I.’

  He held up a sheet of paper. ‘Assignments have already been divvied up. Get on them as soon as possible.’ Looked round again. ‘This station has made an arse of itself. Now’s the time for us to redeem ourselves. To show people we are real polis by getting this wrapped up as soon as. For Alice’s sake. Thank you.’

  A collective letting out of breath. People lit up, started talking.

  Wattie walked up to McCoy and grinned. ‘You actually sounded like a boss. Well done.’

  ‘C’mon,’ said McCoy to Wattie. ‘You can tell me how great I am in the car.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  McCoy stood out front, waiting for Wattie to bring the car round. He realised in all the drama he’d forgotten to speak to Murray about Laura. Supposed it could wait. Needed to get his head around the Kelly case and quick. Sun was still high in the sky. Seemed to be getting more humid, hotter, maybe the weather would break soon. Felt like it needed to. Everyone needed a change. A honk on the horn and Wattie was there in a blue Viva. He leant over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Raeburn?’ asked Wattie, as they pulled out the station yard.

  McCoy shrugged. ‘No idea. Not my problem.’

  ‘Not sure he sees it that way,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Probably not, but the minute I start giving a shit what that incompetent bastard thinks it’ll be a minute too soon.’

  ‘He’s a right vindictive swine, you know,’ said Wattie. ‘And he’s got pals. He won’t forget it.’

  ‘Aye well, so am I, and I won’t forget the sight of Ronnie Elder hanging from the bars of that window. So whatever he wants to do, he can go ahead. As I said, not my problem.’

  Wattie nodded, drove on.

  *

  Wasn’t much else they could do but wait. Wait until the blood tests came through. Wait until the doctors said they could talk to her. Wait for Murray to turn up. So that’s what they did. Drank cups of tea in the hospital cafe surrounded by men in pyjamas, women in wheelchairs, relatives trying to think of something to say to each other. They’d opened all the windows in an effort to get the temperature down, wasn’t doing much good. Breeze hardly moved the net curtains. Heat was making McCoy tired. He yawned for about the third time in five minutes. Was just about to stand up, go for a walk to try and wake himself up, when the last person either of them expected to see was standing in the doorway of the cafe looking round.

  Wattie waved and Mary Webster made her way through the tables towards them. She leant down, kissed Wattie on the cheek.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, wiping some crumbs off the orange plastic chair and sitting down. ‘Can’t wait to see how the Glasgow polis is gonna try and talk its way out of this one. I’m thinking of calling her “The Lazarus Girl”. Like it?’

  She took out her cigarettes and put them on the table, found a lighter in her handbag.

  ‘Why the silence, boys?’ she said, looking at the both of them. ‘Cat got your tongues. Fire ahead. I’m all ears.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Not us you need to talk to. It was nothing to do with me. Wasn’t even on the case, as you well know, and Wattie here was convinced the boy was innocent, made sure he told me. So might need to take your enquiries elsewhere. Ask a certain arse called Bernie Raeburn. And, by the way, what are you doing here anyway?’

  Mary looked very pleased with herself. Lit up, leant over to another table and grabbed their ashtray, put it in front of her.

  ‘If you must know, Mr McCoy, I am here accompanying the delighted and vastly relieved parents of Alice Kelly, who’ – she looked at her Mickey Mouse watch for effect – ‘as of half an hour ago, contracted to tell their story to yours truly and only yours truly. On three double-page spreads with exclusive photos, of course. And yes, you may congratulate me on beating out Ian Gourlay from the Express and that wee snotter McGinlay from the Mail to the exclusive.’

  ‘They upstairs?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘You mean my exclusive parents? Yes, they are. And at this very moment they are behind closed doors being tearfully reunited with Alice herself right in front of Tam Renfrew’s clicking Nikon.’

  ‘Told you it was your kind of story,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Let’s just say I took your advice for once and once only.’

  ‘You want anything?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Cup of tea, doll, thanks.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said McCoy. ‘One sugar.’

  They watched Wattie lumber over to the counter, start telling the smiling woman behind what they wanted.

  ‘You’d think he’d be happy, wouldn’t you?’ Mary asked. ‘He always said that boy was innocent.’

  ‘Not as simple as that,’ said McCoy. ‘The trouble is Wattie was present at the interview. Even if he thought what was going on was wrong, he was in the room and he didn’t stop it. There’ll be an inquiry, death in custody, always is. The only way he can save himself is to drop Raeburn in it. Tell them exactly what he did.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mary. ‘The prick deserves it.’

  ‘You won’t find me arguing about that, but, much as Raeburn is a prick and was completely in the wrong, he’s also a polis and the polis aren’t too keen on other polis telling tales. Especially ones that are telling tales on a twenty-year veteran with pals in the lodge.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Mary. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. No wonder he looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’

  ‘One way to cheer him up,’ said McCoy. ‘Tell him he’s going to be a daddy.’

  ‘Very funny. And I told you to never mention that again. Besides, I’m still no sure whether he’s going to be or not.’ She turned to him. ‘Any idea where she’s been?’

  ‘Nope,’ said McCoy. ‘But seems she’s okay.’

  ‘Did they . . . you know.’ She let it lie there.

  ‘Not as far as we know,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Here,’ said Wattie, putting the tray down.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mary. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Chances are I’m going to get my jotters and if I don’t I’m going to get a disciplinary and every polis in Glasgow is going to hate me. Might be looking for another job soon.’

  ‘That’s shite,’ said McCoy, with more conviction than he felt. ‘You’re a good polis. People know that.’

  Mary took his hand. ‘Stop being so bloody hard on yourself, you’ve not done anything wrong. Raeburn has, not you.’

  Wattie nodded, couldn’t have look glummer if he’d tried.

  ‘Mr Watson? Is there a Mr Watson here?’

  The woman behind the counter was holding the receiver of the phone attached to the wall in her hand. ‘Mr Watson? Call for you.’

  Wattie stood up. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said McCoy.

  Wattie walked over to the counter.

  ‘You think he’ll be okay?’ asked Mary. ‘At work, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said McCoy. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Fuck sake,’ said Mary. ‘It’s that bad?’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Maybe. Tell you something, it’s not going to be a pleasant few months, that’s for sure. Depends what Raeburn does, really. If he falls on his sword, it should be okay. If he tries to fight it? Chances are he’ll take Wattie down with him.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Mary.

  Wattie came back. ‘Doctor says we can go up now.’

  The doctor looked like more like some sort of woodland creature. McCoy had never seen so much hair on a man in his life. Auburn it was, too. It was poking out from under his shirt cuffs, his collar, one big ey
ebrow right across his brow. He scratched his nose and McCoy noticed it was all over his hands too. The man looked like a ginger werewolf.

  He held out his hand to shake. ‘Mr McCoy? I’m Adrian Potter.’ North of England accent. ‘Why don’t you come in here and I’ll run you through things.’

  He held the door open to a meeting room, three orange-cushioned chairs, a table with a plastic pot plant and a box of hankies on it.

  ‘Wattie, go and make sure that your better half’s behaving herself. Don’t want her finding out anything we need to know before we do.’

  Wattie nodded, set off down the corridor and McCoy stepped into the werewolf’s lair.

  They sat down and Potter took out his file, skimmed through it. Looked up and smiled. Seemed to have a five o’clock shadow already. The poor guy must have to shave three times a day.

  ‘Alice Kelly. 12/02/61,’ he said. ‘Poor girl seems to be okay. The blood tests came back: she’s got traces of Valium, some other tranquilliser, possibly Seconal, and alcohol in her bloodstream. A potent combination in someone of her age and weight. She’s undernourished, dehydrated, doesn’t seem to have been fed. Not quite my area of expertise but I assume the idea was to keep her docile and disorientated. And by the amount they have given her they would certainly have succeeded.’

  ‘Will she remember anything?’ asked McCoy.

  Potter scratched his nose again. ‘I wouldn’t think so, not anything concrete anyway. May have some hazy impressions. Combination of those kinds of drugs and alcohol tends to wipe out the short-term memory. I’d be surprised if she remembered anything helpful. However, I would appreciate it if she was left alone until tomorrow morning. Whatever has happened to her, she has undergone an ordeal. She’s still got the drugs swirling round in her bloodstream and she’s on a drip to try and get some fluids into her. Maybe in the morning she’ll be fit to speak. Until then she needs to rest.’

  ‘Great,’ said McCoy glumly.

  Potter looked at his notes again. ‘No evidence of assault, sexual or otherwise. The idea seemed to be to simply contain her rather than harm her.’ He looked up. ‘Did they ask for a ransom?’

  McCoy laughed. ‘No, they’re no that stupid. She lives in a council flat in Maryhill.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Potter, smiling. ‘I see. Sorry.’ He closed his file. ‘Over to you, then.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘She’s had a haircut, amateur by the look of it, and was dressed in boy’s clothing, as you no doubt noticed. Other than that, not much. You found her in Central Station?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Very odd. Can only assume she was dumped there somehow.’

  ‘Christ,’ said McCoy. ‘So we don’t know why she was taken, where she was taken, who took her or why they let her go.’

  Potter stood up. ‘Bit of a mystery all round, I’d say. Thought that’s what you detectives liked. Agatha Christie and all that. Good luck.’

  McCoy walked along the hospital corridor, the familiar smell of bleach and something underneath that. Started climbing the stairs to the next floor. Felt like he’d lost a pound and found a penny. Never get what you wish for, as someone said. He had been desperate to get on the case and now he was, big time. Had to find out what had happened to Alice Kelly and why and do it pronto.

  A thought crossed his mind, wasn’t a happy one. What if Alice Kelly wasn’t going to be the only one? What if there was some madman who got his kicks out of kidnapping kids? Didn’t want to think about that. Not until he had to anyway. Spotted what he was looking for just along the corridor. A row of phones under curved silver awnings. Put his money in and called the shop.

  ‘Billy, can you put me through to PC Walker?’

  A click, a wait, sound of a phone ringing. Knew he was chancing his arm, but didn’t know who else to ask.

  ‘PC Walker speaking.’

  ‘Tracey. It’s McCoy.’

  ‘Ah, hello, sir.’ She sounded a bit surprised and a bit scared. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘Know anyone in fingerprints that knows how to keep their mouth shut?’

  *

  Wattie was standing outside Alice Kelly’s room, her door flanked by two uniforms.

  ‘What did the doctor say? he asked as McCoy walked up.

  ‘Drugged but unharmed. Can’t speak to her until tomorrow. Even then, he doubts she’ll remember anything.’

  ‘Shite,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Exactly. Where’s the mum and dad?’ he asked.

  ‘In there with her now. With the photographer and Mary. Couldn’t really stop them.’

  ‘Suppose not,’ said McCoy. ‘You and Raeburn’s files and notes back at the shop?’

  Wattie nodded.

  ‘We’ll go back and plough through them again, see if I can see anything we’ve missed. Get Thomson to go back to Maryhill, to the neighbours, the ones who said she was more of a teenager than a wee girl. See if they remember anyone older hanging around, ask them if they saw her hanging round somewhere she shouldn’t be.’

  Wattie nodded, hesitated. ‘You really think Raeburn’ll try and take me down with him?’ he asked, worry written on his face in capital letters.

  McCoy shook his head. Lied. ‘He’ll be too busy looking after his own skin to bother about you.’ Trouble was, the first thing someone like Raeburn would do was flail about trying to find someone to blame for what happened, and there was only one obvious candidate: Wattie.

  The door opened and Mary appeared, followed by Alice’s mum and dad. The mum was red-eyed, hands shaking, wiping at her face with a hanky. She was in a blue sleeveless dress, white crocheted cardigan thing, looked like she’d had her hair done for the photos. The dad was dressed in a suit and tie, looked about forty odds, seemed quiet, sandy hair in a side shed. Looked like he wasn’t quite sure what was going on.

  ‘Mr McCoy,’ said Mary. ‘These are Alice’s parents.’

  McCoy shook their hands, told them he would be taking over the case. They nodded, didn’t really seem to be taking much in.

  ‘I’d like to come and talk to you tonight, if that’s okay?’ he asked.

  They nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry to say I’ll be asking you a lot of questions you’ll have been asked before, but hopefully we’ll find something we’ve missed. That’ll let us know what happened to Alice and why. That okay?’

  They nodded again, then the mum started crying properly. Dad put his arms round her.

  ‘They won’t be at home, McCoy,’ interrupted Mary. ‘We’re taking them to the Loch Lomond Hotel, a bit of pampering to help get over their ordeal. The gran’s going to stay with Alice. She’s out for the count, will be for hours, needs the sleep.’

  And the best way to keep them out the way of any other reporters, thought McCoy.

  ‘Okay, no problem. I’ll see you out there. You heading there now?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Got a car and a driver downstairs.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll come with you. Have a chat when we get there. Save time,’ said McCoy. ‘All good?’ he asked the parents, who nodded before Mary could object.

  She looked daggers at him. ‘No problem at all.’ Expression saying the exact opposite. ‘We all want to get this solved as soon as possible. Let’s go.’

  They walked towards the lift.

  ‘I’ll go back to the shop and get started,’ said Wattie.

  McCoy nodded as Mary sidled up beside them. ‘Thanks a bloody lot,’ she said. ‘That’s my interview back two hours.’

  ‘Happy to be of service,’ said McCoy and pressed the button.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The car was waiting outside, big black Daimler shining in the afternoon sunlight. McCoy tried not to look impressed.

  ‘The Record splashing out?’ he asked Mary.

  ‘Biggest story of the year, told them to up it a bit. Mind you, they seem to have taken the ball and run with it. Looks like we’re going to a bloody funeral.�
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  She got in the passenger seat and McCoy got in the back with the mum and dad. The driver was an amicable middle-aged bloke in a chauffeur’s uniform with a buzz-cut and a beer belly.

  ‘Name’s Peter Lawson, call me Pete. Sit back, enjoy the ride and I’ll have you there in no time.’

  McCoy decided to take him at his word, relaxed back into the leather seat, stretched his feet out and looked through the window as they turned onto the motorway and headed west. Realised too late he should have called Murray too, told him Laura was safe. Too late now, he’d have to phone him from the hotel.

  They weren’t far out of Glasgow before the mum and dad were asleep. He couldn’t blame them: the combination of sleepless nights and the sun beating down on the car was enough to send anyone off. Mary and Pete were engaged in some long conversation about growing up in Govan. What school they went to, what street they lived in, what people they knew.

  ‘Thought you grew up in Wine Alley?’ said McCoy, grinning.

  ‘Did I chooky,’ said Mary, glowering at him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I did, though!’ said Pete and they both laughed. McCoy sat back in the seat, let his mind drift in and out of the conversation, let his eyes feel heavy, and he drifted off.

  When he woke up he could see the flash of the blue loch through the trees on his right. The road snaked round and there it was in all its glory: Loch Lomond. On a day like this, it looked like all the postcards of it he’d seen. Blue water. Green hills. Blue sky without a cloud. He was about to roll down the window when the car swerved as a navy-blue Rover overtook them on the inside. Must have been doing fifty or sixty.