by Alan Parks
‘Stupid bugger,’ said Pete.
‘Arsehole,’ Mary muttered.
McCoy looked over but the mum and dad were still out for the count.
‘How much further? he asked, trying to stifle a yawn.
‘Ten minutes or so,’ said Pete. ‘No far.’
‘Should I wake the Babes in the Wood?’ asked McCoy.
Mary leant over the seat, had a look. ‘Just leave them,’ she said. ‘They look like they need it.’
McCoy nodded, leant his head against the window and watched the scenery go by. Wasn’t long until he saw a big wooden sign by the side of the road.
THE LOCH LOMOND HOTEL TWO MILES ON RIGHT.
Then it suddenly occurred to him.
‘You staying the night, Mary?’ he asked.
‘Me? Too bloody right. Looking forward to running up the Record’s bill in the bar. Why?’
‘How am I going to get home?’ he asked.
She laughed. ‘That’s your problem, McCoy. Serves you right for hitching a bloody ride.’
‘I can wait an hour or so before I head back,’ said Pete. ‘That long enough?’
‘Gonnae have to be. Thanks, pal. Nice to see some people from Govan have manners.’
Mary stuck her tongue out at him in the mirror, gave him the V-sign.
They slowed down and turned the corner into the long driveway up to the Loch Lomond Hotel. They could see the big castle-style building up ahead, had to be half a mile of driveway before they got there. It was lined with old trees, some of them touching each other, making a kind of tunnel.
‘Is that the mad bugger that overtook us? asked McCoy. A navy-blue Rover had stopped in the middle of the driveway up ahead.
‘Looks like it,’ said Pete.
‘Good. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,’ said Mary and started to roll down her window. And then she stopped, looked puzzled. ‘What the fuck?’
The Rover had started up and was reversing towards them. Fast.
‘Get your head down!’ shouted Pete.
His voice cut off as the Rover hit them full tilt. A bang and a grinding and everyone was thrown forwards. The mum and dad ended up on the floor, Mary hit her head on the windscreen and McCoy’s face hit the back of the seat in front. He sat up, held his head, felt warm blood on his fingers. Just had time to see the doors of the Rover open before he caught movement in the rear-view mirror. He turned around, looked out the back window in time to see another Rover accelerating towards them.
He tried to get down, but there wasn’t enough time. He was thrown against the side window, head hitting it hard. Then the mum was screaming, Mary wailing. There were men in balaclavas all around the car, the door he was leaning on was opened and he half fell, was half pulled out and dumped on the driveway.
He tried to get up. Heard someone say ‘Not him! The other one!’ before a boot hit him in the stomach, followed by another one in the face. He tried to roll over to get away and saw two men pulling the dad out the other side of the car. They got him on the ground; he was trying to crawl away, screaming and shouting on his wife as they kicked in at him. One of the men got behind him, sat on his back, hit him on the head with the grip of a gun. The screaming stopped immediately and he collapsed. Two of them grabbed his arms, dragged his inert body towards one of the Rovers.
McCoy tried to stand up, wobbled, thought he was going to fall, heard Mary shout: ‘McCoy! Behind you!’
Then an explosion of pain at the back of his head and he fell forward onto the driveway. He felt the gravel in his mouth, blood down his face. Heard the cars accelerate away and then nothing.
THIRTY
McCoy woke up with Wattie peering at him.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘Mary phoned me.’
McCoy tried to sit up and winced, head really hurt. He put his hand up to it, felt a big bandage.
‘Woman in the kitchens was a nurse during the war. Must have been the Indian Mutiny. Looks like a bloody turban sitting on your head.’
McCoy tried to smile, tried to work out where he was. A hotel bedroom, big old-fashioned bed, tartan wallpaper, a portrait of some guy in a kilt on the wall above the fireplace. Could see the loch through the window, shining in the evening sunlight.
‘I feel shite,’ he said.
‘Not surprised,’ said Wattie. ‘There was blood everywhere. Must have given you some whack.’
It all came back: the cars, the guys in balaclavas pulling the dad out the car, bundling him into the other one. ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.
‘You tell me,’ said Wattie. ‘Why would anyone want to kidnap her dad? This some sort of weird vendetta against the family? I don’t get it.’
‘Me neither,’ said McCoy, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Mary okay?’
Wattie nodded. ‘The mum was hysterical. She took her back to Glasgow in a taxi. She said she needed to make sure Alice was safe. Driver’s in worse shape than you. Took him to the hospital in Luss. Broken nose and jaw.’
McCoy stood up, wobbled. Wattie held a hand out to steady him. ‘Plus the local polis want to have a word with you. Keeps saying it happened on his patch, so he should be investigating.’
‘Bugger that,’ said McCoy. ‘Need to get back and talk to Murray. Let’s get going before PC Plod appears.’
*
Wattie radioed ahead from the car, spoke to Murray. Said they’d meet him in the Victoria near McCoy’s flat. Didn’t sound too happy about going to a pub, but Wattie told him McCoy might not last that long, should be in his bed soon.
McCoy lay on the back seat listening to the two of them on the radio. Kept getting waves of nausea, sparkles at the edge of his vision, but he felt happy. Something about being in the back of a car at night, lying down, listening to adults talking, reminded him of being a wee boy. Not that his dad could ever afford a car. Must have been his uncle Terry’s he was thinking about. A Hillman something, couldn’t remember.
Wattie turned the radio on and the sound of T. Rex filled the car. He closed his eyes. Tried to think why anyone would want to take the dad. Wasn’t a small operation. Two cars, must have been five or six of them. Guns. All well prepared. More like a military operation than anything else. Wondered how they knew they were going to the hotel. Wondered how Tracey was getting on with the fingerprints. Wondered why anyone would kidnap a daughter, then her dad.
One good thing, though. The idea of him investigating the robberies seemed to have gone away. Wondered how Auntie Margery really was. Seemed more shook up than she was letting on. Wondered what Angela was really up to. And then he remembered the dad had been in Belfast doing God knows what, so maybe the attack wasn’t military, maybe it was paramilitary. Maybe the dad had – he winced as a sharp pain spread inside all of his head at once. Waited for it to pass, but it didn’t.
Said to Wattie he didn’t feel very well. Threw up onto the floor of the car before he could help himself. Tried to sit up. Saw the lights on the Erskine Bridge. Told Wattie his head really hurt. Felt the car decelerate and then he passed out.
11th August 1970
Sunset Sound Studios, Los Angeles
‘I can’t hear the backing track.’
The engineer pressed a button on the desk, let his voice be heard in the booth. ‘You want me to turn it up?’ he asked.
Bobby nodded. Adjusted his headphones, took a quick drag of the joint burning in the ashtray on the little table beside him.
‘Rolling.’
The engineer looked at the clock on the wall. Coming up for six p.m. and they had been at it since twelve. Trying to nail the solo on the ‘Symphony’ track. If anyone had asked him, which they wouldn’t, they got it on the fourth pass. That was the trouble with artists producing themselves. No one to tell them to stop.
Through the glass he could see Bobby listening intently, hands on his Les Paul, waiting for the moment. Suddenly his face screwed up, fingers started moving and he was in. The engineer sat back, only took a few second
s to realise something different was happening this time. He sat forward, listened intently.
In the booth, Bobby had gone somewhere else. Eyes closed, foot tapping, hands moving up and down the neck of his guitar. The engineer double-checked the levels, moment of panic that he had missed this but he hadn’t. Tape was safely turning. Out the corner of his eye he could see his assistant standing by the machine, dumbstruck look on his face, just watching Bobby, listening to him play like no one had played before.
Forty seconds later Bobby stopped, dropped his hands, looked at them through the glass of the booth. He was grinning. The engineer was grinning, the assistant was grinning, none of them quite believing what they had just heard.
The engineer leant forward, pressed the button on the desk so Bobby could hear him. ‘I think that’s a keeper.’
All of them started laughing.
In the booth, Bobby leant into the mic. ‘Time to celebrate, I think.’
18th July 1973
THIRTY-ONE
Light was streaming through the windows of the dayroom. Twenty or so armchairs, a few coffee tables with worn magazines on them, a wasp buzzing on the windowsill. McCoy looked at his watch. Quarter to nine. Wattie was supposed to be there at nine. Said they wouldn’t let him go home unless someone came to collect him. Didn’t have the energy to argue. Hoped Wattie had brought a shirt. One he had on smelt of sweat and still had a sick stain down the front, no matter how many times he’d tried to dab it off.
Concussion. He didn’t feel too bad, really, a bit of a headache but he’d had worse hangovers. Didn’t remember coming to the hospital. Apparently he’d been a bit confused, thought he was checking into a hotel, tried to pay the doctor. Had slept most of yesterday. Woke up at teatime, wolfed down some mince and tatties, and immediately fell back asleep.
The door opened. He looked round, expecting Wattie, but it wasn’t him. Was a big guy with a proper Ted’s quiff, pyjamas and a stripy dressing gown, packet of Regal and a box of Swan Vestas in his hand. He nodded over at him and sat down.
‘How’s ye?’ he said. Broad Northern Irish accent. He held up the cigarettes. ‘Dying for a bloody fag. Won’t let you smoke in the bed in case you set yourself on bloody fire.’ He nodded at McCoy’s bandage. ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars.’
‘Something like that,’ said McCoy. ‘You from Belfast?’
The man nodded, lit up. Looked blissful as he dragged in a lungful of Regal smoke. Held it and let it out. ‘Born and bred. Been over here for a couple of years, though. Wife’s from here. Couldn’t stand it there any more. Can’t say I blame her.’
‘Lot of construction over there, is there?’ asked McCoy. ‘They need workers?’
The man shrugged. ‘Fair bit. A fair bit of work cleaning up bomb sites as well.’
‘Enough that they need workers from over here?’ asked McCoy.
The man sucked air through his teeth. ‘Don’t think so. Maybe if you’ve got some specialty, a spark or something, but not if you’re just an ordinary joe with a shovel. Got more than enough of those at home.’ He smiled. ‘Why? Thinking of moving over there? I wouldn’t if I was you. The place is a bloody nightmare at the moment. Breaks my heart.’
McCoy nodded. Had started to wonder what the hell Finn Kelly was really doing over in Ireland. Didn’t look like he was labouring like he said he was, that was for sure.
‘McCoy!’
He turned and Wattie was standing there. He bowed. ‘Your chauffeur’s arrived.’
McCoy stood up, wave of dizziness hit and he held onto the back of the chair.
‘You okay?’ asked Wattie.
He nodded. Wasn’t. Sat back down. ‘Might need a minute or so,’ he said.
Wattie nodded at the man in the dressing gown as he got up to leave.
‘Be better one day,’ he said. ‘God willing.Then I’ll go back. Good luck.’
Wattie sat down opposite McCoy. ‘What’s that about?’
‘Belfast,’ said McCoy. ‘How’s Mary?’
Wattie smiled. ‘How do you think? Delighted. Front page of the Record. “MY KIDNAP HELL BY STAFF WRITER MARY WEBSTER”. Haven’t seen much of her. Think she’s sleeping at the office. You see Murray?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘He was in last night.You must have been sleeping.’ Looked a bit guilty. ‘He spoke to the doctor.’
‘Did he now,’ said McCoy, uneasily. ‘And what did the doctor say?’
‘Told him you needed to be off for a week. I’m not here to take you to the shop. I’m here to take you home.’
McCoy argued, shouted and swore, but it didn’t do any good. Wattie just kept saying that Murray had said McCoy was off for a week on doctor’s orders; if he turned up at the shop, he was being sent straight home. No arguments.
‘And what about Alice Kelly and her dad?’
‘Murray’s taken it over,’ said Wattie. ‘He’s moved back from Perth for a while.’ Looked guilty again. ‘I’m helping him.’
‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘So I have to sit on my arse in the house while all this is going on?’
‘Not my idea,’ he said. ‘Don’t blame me.’
‘I don’t. It’s that arse of a doctor I blame. Was it that werewolf?’
Wattie looked taken aback. ‘Eh? What you on about?’
Didn’t get an answer.
‘Where is Murray anyway? I need to talk to him,’ McCoy said.
‘Harry, he won’t—’
‘Not police business. Personal.’
Wattie looked doubtful. ‘Working from home this morning.’
McCoy stood up. Another rush of dizziness, but this time he managed to disguise it. ‘Good. Let’s go. We’ll drop in on him on the way home.’
THIRTY-TWO
He made it out of the hospital without stumbling, got into the car and rolled down the window. Was still boiling, no sign of the weather breaking yet. Seemed to have got worse, if anything. Really humid now as well.
McCoy pulled the sun visor down, looked at himself in the wee mirror. ‘I don’t look that bad,’ he said.
‘Not from the front,’ said Wattie. ‘But that’s because you can’t see the baldy bit at the back with the line of stitches. You look like a spayed dog.’
‘Christ, thanks a lot,’ said McCoy. ‘Don’t hold back or anything.’
‘You asked,’ said Wattie, grinning.
McCoy twisted his head in the mirror, but it was no use, couldn’t see anything.‘Twelve stitches,’ he said.‘Least someone’ll be happy I got a doing. How is your ex-boss anyway?’
Wattie’s face clouded. ‘Not good,’ he said.
McCoy pushed the sun visor back up. ‘Neither would I be if I was parked and waiting for the big boys to nail me to the wall.’
‘And me with him,’ said Wattie glumly.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said McCoy. ‘Got any fags?’
Wattie nodded at the glove compartment. ‘Try there.’
McCoy did. No luck.
‘He was waiting outside the station yesterday when I got out, Raeburn was. Said he wanted a word.’
‘Did he now,’ said McCoy, a fair idea why.
‘He said we needed to get our stories straight,’ said Wattie. ‘Needed me to back him up.’
‘What a surprise,’ said McCoy. Pointed out the windscreen. ‘Take Great Western Road. What did you say?’
Wattie indicated, took a left turn. ‘I told him I’d be telling the truth.’
‘That go down well, did it?’
‘What do you think? That wasn’t even the worst bit. Then he started in on you.’
McCoy looked at him. ‘Me? What did he say?’
‘Load of shite. How you were to blame for what Murray had done, how you were out to get him, always had been.’
‘Arsehole,’ said McCoy
‘He sounded serious, Harry. Said he was going to get his own back. Said you needed a doing. You should watch out.’
‘Like fuck I will. Raeburn’s just a blow
hard, all mouth and no trousers.’
‘You sure?’ asked Wattie.
‘Yep,’ said McCoy, with more conviction than he felt. What was it they said about a trapped rat? Nothing as dangerous. Would need to worry about that later. Had to get through the chat with Murray first.
‘I thought Murray lived in Jordanhill?’ said Wattie, as they turned into Hyndland Road and pulled over where McCoy had pointed.
‘Not any more,’ he said, opening the passenger door. ‘You okay to wait in the car for five minutes?’
Wattie nodded. Looked puzzled. Was about to ask why Murray had moved, but McCoy slammed the door before he could get any questions in. Managed to make it up the path without feeling dizzy and pushed the doorbell. The big polished door opened and Murray was standing there, suit trousers, white shirt open to reveal a string vest, navy tie hanging around his neck.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The doctor was very clear. No work. Rest.’
‘That’s not why I’m here,’ said McCoy. ‘Laura’s why I’m here.
They ended up in the garden. There was a table and some chairs in the shade of the trees by the wall. McCoy shoved a not happy tabby cat off one and sat down, head spinning a bit.
Murray sat down opposite, peered at him. ‘You look bloody terrible,’ he said.
‘Should see the other guy.’ McCoy smiled. ‘He looks fine.’
He moved his chair further into the shade. Sunlight was hurting his head. ‘Any sign of the dad?’ he asked.
Murray shook his head. ‘Disappeared into thin air. Any idea why they took him?’
‘Thought I wasn’t supposed to be at work?’ said McCoy.
‘Aye well, you’re here now, smart arse,’ said Murray.
‘Not a bloody clue. He’s got no money. They gave the daughter back and took him instead. Two kidnaps in one family? Something’s going on with the Kellys. They’re not the bloody Gettys. Only thing I can think of is it’s to do with his being in Belfast.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Murray.
‘Grabbing him was set up to go like clockwork, military-style. Maybe it was paramilitary?’