by Alan Parks
He laughed, Duncan laughing along with him.
McCoy’s mind was going full tilt. Adrenaline pumping into his brain. Realised he had to keep them talking, play for time.
‘I’m a polis, Norton. You better watch yourself.’
Norton laughed. Duncan joining in like the good yes man he was.
‘This is Bandit Country, McCoy. The Wild West. Anything can happen here. All bets are off.’ He grinned. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re the one tied to a tree.’
‘I should have known,’ said McCoy. ‘Realised what was going on.’
‘And what would that be, McCoy?’ asked Norton.
‘You even told me, didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘In the back of your car in Bilsland Drive,’ said McCoy. ‘One of them will always think he can fuck the others over.’
Norton hacked up, spat on the ground. Looked at McCoy, didn’t look happy.
‘Kelly fucked you over, didn’t he? Took the money from the Southern General job and ran. Took his chance to change his life. Came here to lie low until he could move on. Driver, was he?’
Norton smiled, not an ounce of humour in it. ‘Clever boy.’
‘What happened to the usual one? He get pulled in?’
‘Measles,’ said Norton. ‘Got it off his daughter.’
‘Thirty grand or so. Must have buried it somewhere near Belfast.’
‘That right?’ said Norton.
‘And you took his fingers off one by one until he told you where,’ said McCoy.
Norton smiled, shook his head. ‘Great imagination you’ve got, McCoy. Wasted being a polis. Imagination like that you should write a book something.’
Norton squatted down in front of him, pointed over to the left.
‘Over there, Belfast, lovely city but a dangerous place. People get murdered all the time. Wander into the wrong district, say the wrong thing, meet the wrong people. Think that’s what happened to poor Finn Kelly. Wrong place at the wrong time.’
He smiled again.
‘Nothing to do with me. Stupid bugger must have had an argument with some of the Boys. It’s obvious. Why else would he be lying dead just off the Falls Road with both his kneecaps gone? Just another casualty of these terrible troubles. That right, Duncan?’
His driver nodded, didn’t take his eye or his gun off McCoy for a second.
‘Same thing could happen to anyone, any stranger in town. Maybe even a Glasgow polis wandering round Belfast asking questions. Wouldn’t be a surprise if the Boys took him for a ride in their car. Maybe bring him to a field like this one. After all, a man like that must have a reason for being here, eh? Can’t just be an ordinary copper. Must be up to something. Maybe that’s why they tortured him before they killed him. Find out who he really was.’
McCoy couldn’t think for the fear. Kept rising up, filling his mind, images of kneecapping and bolt cutters. He tried to breathe, tried to think clearly, just hoping that something, anything, would happen. His mind was racing. Needed to do something quick.
‘Not your style, I didn’t think,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ asked Norton, lighting his cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter.
‘Well, I can see the theory. Makes sense. You kidnap Alice to flush the dad out. Get him to appear back in Scotland so you can pick him up. What father wouldn’t?’ He stopped, shook his head. ‘But things go wrong, don’t they. The wee girl’s not so wee, she’s almost a teenager, a pain in the arse, so you start drugging her to shut her up, force whisky down her throat. Christ knows, doing that to a kid was bad enough, but then to do something like that to a wee girl . . .’
Norton snapped the lighter shut, walked over and kicked McCoy in the stomach. Hard.
‘Don’t know what you think you’re implying, McCoy, but nothing like that happened.’
‘You sure?’ asked McCoy, still wincing from the pain.
Slight flicker on Norton’s face.
McCoy pressed on. His only hope.
‘I was at the hospital when they examined her. She’d been raped. Repeatedly. That the kind of people you run with these days, Norton? Nonces like that?’ How are you going to keep wandering around Milton like the bloody Godfather when people find that out? They’ll be fucking spitting on you in the—’
Didn’t manage to get ‘street’ out. Boot in the face from Stewart.
McCoy rolled back in the grass, tried to deal with the pain. Lay there. Could hear Norton hissing at Stewart, voice low but angry, very angry. McCoy opened his eyes a bit, took a look. Stewart was holding his hands up, shaking his head. McCoy shut his eyes again. He’d bought himself a couple of minutes anyway. Not sure how much good it would do him. His mind was starting to drift. Wasn’t sure if it was the last of the concussion or just his mind shutting down so it wouldn’t have to deal with what was happening, but he felt calm, even a bit sleepy. Could hear Norton and Stewart arguing. Could feel the dry grass beneath him, watched the sun starting to fall behind the hills in the distance.
Suddenly he was pulled up, set against a fence. Norton was standing in front of him.
‘Without you,’ he said, ‘no one is going to connect the body with Glasgow, me or any bank robberies. So you tell me why I shouldn’t just let Stewart here shoot you?’
‘No reason. Tell him to go ahead,’ said McCoy, trying to sound calm.
Norton raised his eyebrows.
‘But if you do, all that gentleman bank robber stuff is gone, no matter how much money you’ve got. All that will happen is you’ll be remembered for kidnapping a wee girl who got raped over and over again on your watch. Soon enough people will just think it was you. It’s a better story that way.’
Norton looked white. ‘It was nothing to do with me!’
‘Maybe so,’ said McCoy. ‘Pity that.’
Stewart advanced towards him, pulled his boot back again.
‘If that clown touches me again,’ hissed McCoy, ‘I’m going to stop talking.’
Norton put his hand out and Stewart stepped back.
‘I can fix it,’ said McCoy. ‘Make sure the assault disappears off the report. Persuade the mum that it’s better for the girl if nobody knows about it and she doesn’t try and prosecute. You let me go and I’ll do it. If the truth comes out and people find out what really happened to her, you can shoot me in the street.’
Norton looked at him. McCoy could see his mind working behind his eyes. He held out his hand to the driver, nodded at the gun.
‘Give us that. Away and get me more fags from the car. I’ve none left.’
Stewart nodded, handed the gun over and walked off.
Norton knelt down in front of McCoy, pushed the gun into his mouth, pushed it as far as he could. McCoy gagging on the metal and the oily taste. Norton primed the trigger.
‘You try any funny stuff and this is what will happen to you. Except you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be praying for me to pull this trigger. Deal?’
McCoy tried to nod.
‘Who?’ asked Norton. ‘Who was it?’
Norton pulled the gun out his mouth and McCoy spat on the ground, gagged. Was his last chance but he could hardly get the words out. ‘She said he had red hair. The man that did it. He said call me Daddy Duncan.’
Stewart walked back from the car, a new packet of Rothmans in his hand. He held it out and Norton took it, put it in his pocket, then he turned, held the gun up and shot him in the face.
McCoy felt the hot blood splatter across his chest, saw Stewart fall, blood pumping out of what was left of his head. He leant over and retched. Nothing came out, just saliva, felt Stewart’s hot blood running down his face, retched again. He looked up to see Norton aim at the driver’s kneecap. He shot the left one, then the right. Shot him again in the chest. Air was full of smoke, the smell of bullets and blood, noise ringing in McCoy’s ears.
Norton walked back to him. ‘Fucking nonce deserved it.’
McCoy nodded.
&n
bsp; Norton turned, started walking towards the car and McCoy realised he was going to leave him there, bound hands and feet, covered in blood and lying next to a dead body.
He shouted after him. ‘Norton! Norton!’
Norton didn’t turn back. He walked towards the car and got in, started the engine. The headlights cast white beams over the rutted field.
‘Norton!’ he shouted again, tried to make himself heard over the car engine. ‘Come back!’
McCoy watched as the car did a slow circle, headed for the gate and the dirt road back to the main road. Watched the lights until they disappeared round a hill. Sat there in the gathering darkness, Stewart’s blood drying on his face.
THIRTY-NINE
The fox came back again, tentatively circling Stewart’s body. McCoy shouted and it walked away, but it didn’t go as far this time, sat a couple yards away from the body, watching. Wouldn’t take it long to work out all that McCoy could do was shout, then it would start on the body and he would be ten foot away, hearing the whole thing.
He pulled at the ropes behind his back. No use. Tried to stand up, but he couldn’t balance with his feet tied so close together so he fell, face hitting the soft earth. He lay there wondering what would happen. Supposed he’d lie there all night until a farmer appeared and called the police and he’d have to explain what he was doing tied up next to a dead body.
Had no idea what he was going to say. Tried to think of something, but his mind was either in a panic or slow and sluggish. Maybe he was suffering from shock, he had no idea. Wasn’t that sorry about what had happened to Stewart. He was an evil bastard. Wasn’t going to shed any tears over what he’d done. It was either Stewart or him. He’d made the right choice.
The fox started to advance towards the body again. He was about to shout when it looked up startled, then ran away into the darkness.
McCoy heard a few seconds later the noise of a car engine. He could see the headlights now, expected it to go past on the main road, but it stopped, turned into the dirt road, heading for the field.
Another lurch of fear. Maybe Norton had changed his mind, decided to come back and finish the job. The car advanced, headlights dazzling him now, came nearer, stopped a few yards away. McCoy shut his eyes; headlights were pointing right at him. The engine stopped and the lights went off. He opened his eyes.
At first he couldn’t see anything, just a white flash burned on his eyes. Heard the doors open and slam shut. Sound of someone coming towards him.
‘Fuck sake, McCoy. What’s going on here?’
He looked up at a grinning Stevie Cooper. He’d never been so happy to see anyone in his life, thought he was going to start crying. Cousin Sean stepped out behind him, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
‘Sean,’ said Cooper. ‘Untie the man, I’m too pissed.’
He realised Cooper was swaying from side to side, big daft grin on his face. Sean knelt down beside him, got a penknife out and started sawing at the ropes round his wrists.
Cooper was still grinning, took out his cigarettes, dropped them, muttered ‘fuck sake’, picked them up. ‘You ruined a bloody good night, you know,’ he said. ‘It was just getting going.’
Sean managed to cut the ropes and he was free. He rubbed at his wrists, winced at the pain as the blood flowed back into them.
‘What are you doing here, Stevie? How did you know I was here?’
Cooper had managed to light his cigarette, pointed at Sean, now trying to hack through the ropes around McCoy’s legs. ‘He’s been following you since you left the wake. Told him to keep an eye on you. Came back and got me when you ended up here.’ He pointed at the body. ‘Who the fuck is that?’
‘William Norton’s driver,’ said McCoy.
Cooper looked surprised. Moved closer and peered down.
‘You’re right. Duncan Stewart, nasty shite that he is. Well, was.’ He laughed. ‘What was that old bastard Norton doing here?’
Sean managed to get through the ropes and the pain hit McCoy’s ankles.
‘It’s a long story. You got anything to drink?’
Cooper nodded, went into the car, came back with a can of Harp. Opened it, drank half and handed it over. McCoy swilled the warm lager round his mouth, spat it out, swallowed back the rest.
‘Can we get out of here?’ asked McCoy.
Cooper nodded ‘Too right. Wake’ll still be going. I need to get back. My cousin Anne’s brought a pal. She was all over me like a cheap rash.’ He nodded over at the body. ‘What do you want to do about that?’
McCoy leant on Sean, managed to stand up. ‘I don’t give a fuck. Let’s just go. Please.’
3rd August 1971
Villa Nellcôte, South of France
Quarter to three in the morning and the basement was still like a sauna. He wasn’t quite sure why it was so hot down there. Never really asked. Thought it was all the amps and the tape machines, all plugged in, all giving off heat. Whatever it was, he actually liked it, was sort of like going down a mine to work.
Heat was terrible but it served a purpose – only people that could face going down there were the musicians. No dealers, no girlfriends, no hangers-on. They were all upstairs, sprawled across the couches they’d dragged out onto the lawn, talking about restaurants in New York and what the best air service was to the Hamptons.
Nicky had fallen asleep on his chair, Longhorns cap on his head, saxophone lying by his side. Lately everyone seemed to be falling asleep, or not appearing for days, or spending the time they should have been recording looking out the window, waiting for the big Citroën to arrive. He wasn’t innocent himself, but at least he was still a musician who occasionally took smack rather than a smack addict that occasionally played.
He got up, took his headphones off, stretched. He was down to a pair of Scotland football shorts; everything else – T-shirt, shoes, socks – shed as the heat got worse. Fingers were sore doing overdubs all night on ‘Good Time Women’, or whatever it was called now.
Nicky suddenly sat up straight, rubbed his eyes. ‘What time is it, man?’ he asked.
‘About three,’ said Bobby.
‘Jesus, we done?’ he asked, adjusting his cap.
‘Think so,’ said Bobby. ‘If Keith was coming, he’d be here by now.’
Nicky nodded, stood up. Grinned. ‘How’s about we go upstairs and see what the candyman done brought the children?’
Bobby smiled, put his guitar on its stand.
‘After you, my dear Alphonse.’
20th July 1973
FORTY
McCoy was leaning on the rail of the ferry looking down the dock, seagulls circling overhead, last of the cars on board now and still no sign of Cooper. Hadn’t been in his room at the hotel this morning either. Bed not even slept in. McCoy’d had his breakfast, eye on the door of the dining room, waiting for him to turn up but he hadn’t.
He looked up at the sky: clear blue, another blistering hot day on the way. Although he wasn’t that keen on boats, he was looking forward to the trip, planned to spend most of it on deck, letting the fresh air clear the cobwebs out his head. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes until they were meant to depart. The cranes along the dock were unloading a big cargo ship, distant sound of instructions being shouted.
Cooper and Sean had dropped him off at the hotel last night, sped off into the night, determined to get back to the wake. McCoy hadn’t said much in the car, was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, still felt scared, like he wasn’t safe yet. Cooper and Sean didn’t seem to care. Cooper had spent most of the journey pumping Sean for information about his cousin’s friend. In a way he was glad. The last thing he wanted to do was go over it all again.
He checked his watch again. Ten minutes. Was about to give up the ghost, go and get a cup of tea, when a blue Viva rounded the warehouses and sped towards the ferry. It pulled over and Cooper, looking like he’d just woken up, funeral suit still on and without any luggage, got out, slammed the door
and ran for the gangway. Blokes were about to pull it up, shaking their heads as he ran up it. He’d made it with seconds to spare. He looked up, saw McCoy, pumped his fist.
‘Ya dancer!’ Cooper shouted and hurried up the gangplank.
Ten minutes later they were nursing mugs of tea, watching the port of Belfast slowly getting smaller through the windows of the cafe.
‘Don’t suppose I need to ask where you got to last night?’ asked McCoy.
‘Nope,’ said Cooper, grinning. ‘I couldn’t tell you anyway. Anne’s house, wherever the fuck that is. Woke up with Sean battering at the door, didn’t have a clue where I was. I thought it was the bloody peelers!’
‘How you feeling?’ asked McCoy.
‘I’ve got a hangover, a fuck of a hangover to be exact, but for the first time in months I feel like me. Think all that shite is finally out my system.’
‘That’s good,’ said McCoy. ‘Back to normal.’
‘Will be after I drink this,’ he said, taking a half bottle of Bushmills out his pocket and splashing it into their mugs of tea. He took a slug, grimaced as it went down. ‘Now, do you want to tell me what the fuck was going on last night?’
So McCoy did. The whole story. The robberies, Alice Kelly, Norton’s advice, Finn Kelly’s death, and what he’d told Norton about Alice Kelly.
Cooper listened, sat back. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Hopefully nothing,’ said McCoy. ‘They don’t identify the body as Kelly. I don’t tell them it was him. And Norton leaves me alone and goes back to being the big man handing out fivers to the good people of Milton.’
‘And what about the money?’
‘Norton’s got it back. Polis weren’t getting anywhere with the robberies before. Don’t think that’s going to change.’
Cooper looked thoughtful.
‘So you’re telling me that Norton’s sitting on almost thirty grand and nobody’s looking for it?’
McCoy’s alarm bells started ringing. ‘Stevie . . .’