by Alan Parks
‘What?’ he asked, sounding defensive.
‘You don’t want to take on Norton. He may be old, but he’s still all that. It’s not worth it.’
‘That right?’ said Cooper. ‘So, who made you the boss all of a sudden?’
‘I just meant that—’
‘I know what you meant, don’t worry. And yet a few days ago you were telling Billy I had to make a splash, show people I was still in the game. Seems to me Norton is a good way to do it.’
McCoy was going to argue, but he knew there was no point. The old Cooper was back and the old Cooper would do exactly what he wanted, no matter what McCoy said.
‘Just be careful, eh?’
Cooper nodded, but McCoy could see he was miles away. Already thinking about how he could get his hands on Norton’s money.
When he came back with two more teas and two bacon rolls, Cooper was asleep, looked like he needed it, lying flat along three seats, shoes on the floor, snoring away. McCoy ate both rolls, then made his way back up to the deck. Could see the coast of Scotland in the distance, wouldn’t be long now until he was home.
After a few tries, he managed to light up in the wind, took a deep drag. What was he going back to? Another few days holiday. Raeburn on the warpath. Laura Murray needing somewhere to stay. Almost forgotten he’d given the Coke can to Tracey, would soon see what that would bring, see if Angela was lying or not. Almost felt like staying on the ferry and going back to Ireland, wasn’t much he was looking forward to in Glasgow. He flicked his cigarette butt into the sea. Went back downstairs to wake Cooper. They were due to land in twenty minutes.
FORTY-ONE
There was a big brown envelope pinned to his door when he got home. MR MCCOY was written on it in black felt pen. He pulled it off, opened the door. The flat was boiling, full of stale air. He wandered around, opening all the windows, put his bag down, sat at the kitchen table and opened the envelope.
There was a black and white photograph in it – big, ten by twelve maybe. It was of a wee boy, six or seven. He was filthy, clothes worn and tattered. He was standing in a back-court full of rubbish and washing hung out on lines. He was holding up a toy fire engine, showing it to the camera, biggest smile on his face. McCoy turned it over.
Thank you for Liam. Got some amazing photographs. Dinner to say thank you? Mila
He put the photograph on the table, looked at it again. The wee boy shining out. No matter how shitty his life was he had a fire engine and he was happy. For now. Decided he would get it framed, put it up in the flat somewhere. He looked around, trying to decide where he would put it. Now that he was looking at it for the first time in a while, he realised his flat looked bloody miserable.
Ironing that he hadn’t done piled on a chair. Worn armchair by the fire with a rip in the arm. Wallpaper he’d meant to change and still hadn’t. Thought back. Wasn’t like this when Angela was here. Then it seemed like home. Comfortable. Somewhere you would want to be. He looked around again. Not now. Maybe he’d have a go at a bit of decorating next weekend.
Half an hour later he was bathed, shaved, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of Levi’s and sitting in a cab heading for Stewart Street. Been five days: no way was Murray going to object to him popping in to say hello. Besides, the fingerprint results might be in by now.
*
‘Well, if it isn’t the Merry bloody Wanderer,’ said Billy the desk sergeant as he walked in. ‘You back?’
‘No yet,’ said McCoy. ‘Murray in?’
Billy nodded. ‘Unluckily for us. He’s been like a bloody bear with a sore head since he came back. Right pain in the arse. Ask Wattie. He’s had to deal with him.’
McCoy nodded, walked through to the office. Could see Wattie’s big blond head bent over a typewriter, occasional plonk as one finger hit a key.
He sneaked up behind him. Shouted ‘WATSON!’ Watched him jump.
‘For fuck sake!’ he said. ‘You could have given me a heart attack.’ He looked him up and down. ‘What are you doing here anyway? You should be in Rothesay or Blackpool, shouldn’t you?’
McCoy sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Came to check up on you, see how you were getting on.’
Wattie looked glum. ‘I’m not. No bloody sign of Finn Kelly anywhere. Alice came round eventually. I went with Murray to question her and, as predicted, she couldn’t remember a bloody thing. We’re as fucked as we were when you left.’
‘I didn’t leave,’ said McCoy ‘I was forced to step away for a few days because of my horrific injuries sustained in the line of duty.’
‘How you feeling?’ asked Wattie, rolling his eyes.
‘Fine, but unless Murray changes his mind I’ve got another two days of purgatory. Speaking of which . . .’ He stood up. ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Wattie. ‘Watch yourself.’
McCoy nodded, walked towards Murray’s door and knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
‘What?’ came a voice from behind the door.
McCoy pushed it open and stepped in. Murray was bent over his desk, writing something on a typed letter. He looked up. Didn’t exactly seem happy to see him.
‘McCoy. You’ve got another two sick days. What are you doing here?’
‘I was just passing, thought I’d come in and say hello.’
‘Shite you were.’ He pointed at the chair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down.’ He looked over McCoy’s shoulder and bellowed out the open door, ‘Tracey! Two teas!’
‘How are you getting on?’ asked McCoy innocently. ‘Any news on the Kelly stuff?’
‘Bugger all,’ said Murray. ‘He’s disappeared into bloody thin air. Touts know nothing either. Whoever did it was keeping their cards close to their chests.’
‘I hate to ask this,’ said McCoy, ‘but what about Wattie and Ronnie Elder?’
Murray shook his head. ‘Not much to report there either. Inquiry into Elder’s death is still going on. Wee birdie tells me Raeburn’s telling them him and Wattie were in it together. Saying he had to hold Wattie back, kept punching the boy, shouting at him. Overeager young officer stepping out of line.’
‘Christ,’ said McCoy.
‘Raeburn is fighting for his life, he’s going to say anything he thinks makes him look better. It’ll come down to who they believe: a two-year rookie or a twenty-year veteran.’ He looked serious. ‘I don’t think the boy will come out of this unscathed.’
‘But it wasn’t him!’ argued McCoy. ‘It was Raeburn! He was the one—’
Murray held his hand up. ‘I know that, and you know that, but a boy is dead. Dead in police custody. Blame has to be assigned and Raeburn is determined it’s not all going to be on him.’
Tracey appeared with a tray and put it down on the desk. Murray thanked her. She stopped on the way out. ‘Mr McCoy, nice to see you back,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Tracey. I’ll come and say hello on the way out.’
He turned and Murray was looking at him, eyebrows raised.
‘What?’ said McCoy, then realised. ‘Jesus, Murray, it’s nothing like that. She’s a smart girl, be good to see her get ahead, that’s all.’
‘Bloody better be,’ said Murray, shoving a digestive into his mouth.
McCoy picked up his tea, sipped it. Rotten.
Seemed the Kelly case was safely parked. Now it was time to ask about the other one. He picked up a biscuit, tried to sound nonchalant. ‘What about those robberies? How’s that going?’
‘It isn’t,’ said Murray. ‘At least they seem to have ground to a halt. You know what it’s like. First days of a case are the important ones, when the work really gets done. The robberies and Kelly happened when that clown Raeburn was at the helm. Think we’re fucked before we even start.’
So far so good.
‘Speaking of Raeburn, you seen him?’ asked McCoy.
Murray shook his head. ‘Still suspended. Spending his days in pubs, drinking in coppers’ bars and telling a
nyone that listens how you ruined his life.’ He reached for another digestive, munched it down. ‘He’s a vindictive bastard, Raeburn, so you watch yourself. Wouldn’t put it past him to try something stupid.’
He drank over the last of his tea, licked his finger and picked up some biscuit crumbs from the plate. ‘Now, if you’re happy enough with my report, away you go and let me do some work. I’ll see you in two days.’
McCoy stepped out of the office to see Tracey looking at him. She stood up. ‘I’m away to the shop – anyone want anything?’ she asked the office.
No response.
‘Don’t say I didn’t ask,’ she said and picked up her purse, headed for the door.
McCoy said goodbye to Wattie, said he’d see him on Tuesday, and followed her out.
Tracey was standing in the shadow of the awning of the newsagent’s down the road, waiting for him. Smiled as she saw him walking towards her. ‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘I heard you got hurt when they took Kelly.’
‘A bump on the head. I’m fine. The doctor and Murray are conspiring to keep me off.’
‘Lucky you. I could do with a few days off while the weather holds.’
She took out an envelope she’d slid down the back of her skirt and handed it to him.
‘Flatmate gave me this. It’s got the name of the fingerprints on the Coke can.’
She handed it to him.
He took it. Realised it was still sealed. ‘You didn’t have a look?’
She shook her head. ‘Not my business. Better get back. Take care of yourself, eh?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Thanks for this, Tracey.’
She smiled again. ‘Just remember it when I ask you for a reference for the sergeants’ exam.’
He watched her cross the street and disappear through the double doors of the station. Now that he had the result, he didn’t really want to know it. Was only going to cause more trouble. Bobby March was dead. What did it matter now?
He slipped his finger under the flap and tore the envelope open, took out the folded paper inside and unfolded it. Read the name.
He was right. More trouble and he only had himself to blame.
He screwed up the paper and the envelope and dropped them in a bin attached to the bus stop. Started walking.
FORTY-TWO
He had the address written on a bit of paper, but it wasn’t doing him much good. He was walking up and down London Road not finding what he was looking for.
‘It’s between the Braemar and the sweetie shop,’ Billy Weir had told him. ‘Cannae miss it. There’s a card by the bell.’
So here he was, pacing between the Braemar and Glickman’s, paper in hand. Was just about to give up when a guy walked out the Braemar, guitar case in his hand. McCoy ran over Charlotte Street, stopped him.
‘All right, pal, you know a rehearsal place about here? Mason Studios?’
The man nodded, ran his hand through his long, long beard, shaping it. He pointed up past Glickman’s. ‘One six five. Need to keep ringing, though, they never bloody hear you.’
McCoy thanked him, cursed Billy Weir and his useless directions, and walked up to 165. Pressed the bell. Was surprised when it was opened immediately. Was even more surprised by who opened it.
The wee guy – the Bobby March fan he’d given money to – was standing there. Looked as surprised as he was.
‘You the one that’s been spray painting everywhere? McCoy asked.
‘No,’ he said too quickly. ‘What you doing here?’
‘Same as you,’ said McCoy, stepping into the damp-smelling hallway. ‘Waiting for Angela.’
‘This way,’ said the boy. ‘You can wait with us.’ He walked up the hall, opened a heavy door like the sort you get in a submarine, an instant noise of guitars. He stood aside to let McCoy in. The room was tiny, boiling hot, walls seemed to be lined with underfelt, floor was a mess of different worn carpets. Three other guys about the same age as the boy were leaning on a big speaker thing, reading an article in Melody Maker. Looked up in surprise.
‘This guy—’
‘McCoy,’ said McCoy.
‘McCoy,’ he continued, ‘is waiting for Angela too.’
One of the boys, lanky, hair to his waist, purple vest and cords, looked him up and down. ‘You a manager, too?’ he asked.
‘Nope,’ said McCoy. Couldn’t think what else to say, so he said, ‘You’re a band, then?’
The lanky boy nodded. ‘Holy Fire.’
‘Are you the singer?’ McCoy asked the spray paint boy.
He nodded. ‘Jake Scott.’
They stood for a minute, neither of them quite sure what to do.
‘If you want to rehearse, go ahead. I’ll just stand over here,’ said McCoy.
Jake nodded and McCoy lit up as they fiddled with the knobs on the guitars and the pedals on the floor, tuned up. A low hum started coming from the speakers. Jake held onto the mic. ‘Ready? he asked.
The band seemed to be.
He leant into the mic. ‘This is “Introducing Mr Crowley”.’ He nodded, the drummer counted them in, and they were off.
McCoy was prepared for the usual amateur rehash of whoever was popular that week. What he wasn’t prepared for was what he heard. The band sounded tight as a drum, bit like the Spiders from Mars, but it was Jake who was the real surprise.
Looked nervous until he started to sing and then suddenly he was all swagger, twists and twirls. Voice sounded like a cross between Rod Stewart and someone he couldn’t put his finger on, the guy from Free maybe? The song was great too, repeated squealing riff, stop-start drums and a soaring vocal over it all.
He felt the door open behind him and Angela stepped in, smiled at him, leant against the wall. The band powered through an instrumental middle eight, repeated the last chorus, a screaming ending from Jake, and then it was over.
‘Good, aren’t they?’ said Angela.
‘They really are,’ said McCoy, trying not to sound too surprised.
Angela smiled. ‘Sounding good, boys, but Ewan?’ The drummer looked round from behind his cymbals. ‘You were late coming in on the third chorus. Again. Thought you were going to practise?’
The drummer looked guilty. Mumbled something about having to do shifts, said he’d get it next time.
Angela nodded. Got a fiver out her pocket, handed it to Jake. ‘Away you go and get some cans and some fish and chips. Be back in twenty minutes. Need to go through the whole set for tonight, okay? Think the blokes from London are going to be there, so make sure we are tight.’
The boys nodded, shuffled out one by one.
‘Manager?’ asked McCoy, looking at Angela. ‘When did that happen?’
‘When I saw Jake fronting a shitty band third on the bill at the Maryland. Been hard work to get them to this stage. Found the guitarist in some covers band, from Wishaw of all places.’
She stopped, looked at him. ‘What are you grinning at?’
‘You!’ said McCoy. ‘Mrs bloody showbiz.’
‘Why not?’ Angela asked.
‘Couldn’t agree more. You’ll be a great manager. Know music inside out, good organiser, don’t take any shit and the band are great.’
‘Well, thanks for your approval,’ said Angela.
‘Where they playing tonight?’ McCoy asked.
‘Electric Garden. Supporting some shit band called The Mob. Just needed a gig.’
‘Makes sense. Need to speak to you about something, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ said Angela.
He didn’t say anything.
She looked at him. ‘Christ, it must be. Fine, but let’s get out of here. Whole place stinks of sweat and teenage boys.’
They ended up sitting on the grass on Glasgow Green. McCoy went over to the ice-cream van and came back with two cans of Coke. Handed one to Angela, sat down beside her.
‘Uh-oh,’ she said, opening the can. ‘You’ve got that look on your face.’
‘What look?’ sai
d McCoy.
‘The “I’m sad that you’ve let me down again, Angela” look. Used to see it a lot when we were together.’
They watched as a toddler in a nappy escaped the clutches of his mum and started running, laughing all the way.
‘So, what have I done now?’ she asked.
Wasn’t an easy way to say it, so he just came out with it. ‘Bobby March,’ said McCoy. ‘Your fingerprints are on the syringe that killed him.’
Angela reached forward and picked up the packet of cigarettes and lighter she’d put down on the grass. Lit one.
‘I told you already, McCoy. He was fine when I left. I didn’t shoot him up.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said McCoy quietly.
‘That was the trouble, McCoy, you never did. Even when I was telling the truth. Always thought you knew better.’
She sighed, took off her leather jacket and rolled the left sleeve of her blouse up, held out her arm. Turned it so he could see the inside of it. The inside that was covered in puncture marks and bruises.
‘It was my works. I shot myself up, then left them for him to use. He had to leave his in America.’
She rolled her sleeve down, put her jacket back on. Looked out over the Green.
‘That wee guy’s off again,’ she said, as the toddler made another bid for freedom.
McCoy looked at her. ‘You want to tell me about it?’ he asked.
She turned to him, smiled, wiped the tear running down her cheek. ‘Not really,’ she said
‘Okay,’ said McCoy. ‘Up to you.’
‘Fuck it!’ She blew out a stream of smoke. ‘It’s hardly worth the telling. It’s just the same sad stupid story as everyone else’s. Ends with needle punctures in their arm.’ She smiled. ‘Was all fun until someone lost an eye. That not what they say? Well, I lost my eye around the same time as Stevie.’
‘How?’ asked McCoy. ‘You’ve been around more drugs than I have . . .’
‘Because I liked it.’ She picked a blade of grass, started fiddling with it. ‘When Ellie got together with Cooper, she didn’t know anyone here so we started hanging out. I like her, has life about her and she liked smack.’ She shrugged. ‘So I ended up giving it a go. Saw what the attraction was and that was that. Once a week became twice a week became every day and then it wasn’t that much fun any more.’