by Alan Parks
He’d just finished his Heinz tomato soup when there was a knock on the door. For a second he thought it might be Raeburn, but no way was he going to knock so politely. He opened the front door and Jumbo was standing there.
‘Mr Cooper would like to see you,’ he said.
Jumbo seemed to have acquired a new set of duds. A light-blue shirt, new jeans, white sandshoes.
‘Looking very spiffy,’ said McCoy.
Jumbo looked embarrassed. ‘Billy bought them for me, said I needed to stop looking like someone’s mental wee brother.’
‘Well, thought that counts, eh?’ said McCoy. ‘Give us a minute.’
*
They walked up the hill and over into Hyndland Road, heading for Cooper’s.
Jumbo looked up at the sky. ‘Storm coming,’ he said.
McCoy nodded. ‘You slash that Wee Tam lad, Jumbo?’ he asked.
Jumbo looked flustered. ‘Billy said I had to, need to start earning my keep, he said.’
‘And how’d you feel about that?’ asked McCoy.
‘I didn’t like it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to do it.’
‘He’s right, though, Jumbo. That’s the business they’re in, it’s not nice.’
Was obvious Jumbo didn’t want to talk about it. Walked on in silence for a few minutes.
‘I’ve been doing the garden,’ he said. ‘I like that.’
‘So I hear. Good at it, too.’
‘Angela told me I could get a job with the council, in the Parks. Do you think that’s right?’ asked Jumbo.
‘I’m not sure, Jumbo. You’d need to apply, fill out a form. Maybe have an interview. Don’t think you’d need exams, but you never know.’
‘What would Mr Cooper say?’ he asked. ‘Would he be angry?’
McCoy didn’t answer him. Far as he knew, no one left Cooper voluntarily. He took that sort of thing as an insult, had an idea he wouldn’t be happy if Jumbo tried it.
‘Tell you what, the summer’s almost over, Jumbo. Why don’t we leave it until next spring? That’s when they’ll really be wanting people, when all the planting goes on. And it’ll give you a chance to get better at your reading and writing, eh?’
Jumbo nodded. Seemed happy enough with that idea. They turned into Hamilton Park Road. If Jumbo made it to spring in one piece and out of jail, McCoy swore to himself he’d talk to Cooper, make it all right. The least he could do. Jumbo got a key out his pocket, carefully placed it in the lock, tongue out, opened the big front door.
McCoy walked through the house: seemed a bit empty and quiet now, no moaning Iris to fill it up.
‘Don’t think you’ll be sitting out here much longer,’ said McCoy, walking into the garden.
Cooper was sitting at the table, ashtray and a brown envelope in front of him. He looked up. ‘Eh?’
McCoy pointed up to the sky. Grey clouds sitting low in the sky.
‘Oh, right. Sit down,’ said Cooper. He was back to the usual look, short-sleeve shirt, denims, hair in a James Dean-style quiff.
‘What’s up with you?’ asked McCoy, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘You’ve got a face like a wet Wednesday.’
‘Angela’s gone,’ said Cooper.
‘She’s what?’ asked McCoy. ‘I saw her last night.’
‘Aye well, she’s gone now. Vamoosed. Disappeared. Fucked off. And she’s taken fifteen fucking grand of my money with her.’
McCoy tried to take it in. ‘She’s what?’ he asked. ‘Gone where?’
‘America, I think,’ said Cooper. ‘She’s with that cow Ellie, no doubt.’
‘You sure,’ asked McCoy. ‘It doesn’t seem like—’
Cooper slammed his fist on the table. ‘Of course I’m sure. Left me a nice wee note telling me, and telling me not to try and find her because if I did, these’ – he pushed the brown envelope towards McCoy – ‘would be going to half the bloody bosses in Glasgow.’
McCoy picked up the envelope, opened it. Took out two eight by ten photographs. One of Cooper shooting up and one of him passed out on the bed. The photos Ally had developed. The photos he said he’d no copies of.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Fuck is right,’ said Cooper. ‘She’s fucked me right over.’
McCoy picked up Cooper’s packet of Embassy. Lit up. ‘I didn’t think she had it in her.’
‘Didn’t you? You lived with her, had a kid with her. Love is blind, eh?’
‘Did you?’ asked McCoy.
‘Yep,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s why I employed her. Better her pissing out that pissing in. Didn’t think she’d do this, though.’
‘Would she leave Glasgow, burn her bridges, all for fifteen grand? I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but is it worth it for that?’ asked McCoy.
‘She say anything to you?’ asked Cooper.
‘Me?’ said McCoy. ‘No! Come on, Stevie.’
Decided to leave the story about the expensive place in New York out of it.
‘Can you afford to lose it?’ he asked. ‘The money, I mean?’
Cooper shook his head. ‘I’m doing well, but not that well. She’s cleared most of me out.’
‘What are you going to do?’
He shrugged. ‘I can always make more money. I can’t fix my reputation if these photos get out. Just have to do what she says. Leave her alone. And wait, bide my time. No fucking way she’s getting away scot-free.’ He looked straight at McCoy. ‘No matter how long it takes, I’m going to get her,’ he said. ‘No one does something like this to me and gets away with it.’
McCoy had no reason to disbelieve him. Only hoped Angela was safely on a jumbo jet, miles away from the reach of Stevie Cooper.
He left him there, brooding, and walked back through the house. Said goodbye to Jumbo, head deep in his Broons annual, and walked up the path. Just as he shut the gate behind him a green Daimler turned into the road, pulled up outside Cooper’s. The passenger door opened and William Norton stepped out. Blazer, slacks and shiny shoes as usual.
He looked up at the sky. ‘Looks like this fine weather is going to break,’ he said. Turned to McCoy. ‘Thought you’d still be making your way out that bloody field.’
‘Nope,’ said McCoy. ‘Back here. No thanks to you.’
A young guy, looked like a heavyweight boxer, stepped out the driver seat. ‘Everything okay, Mr Norton?’
‘Fine, Jackie,’ he said. ‘Away for a birl in the motor, twenty minutes.’
The guy stepped back into the car, drove off.
‘That the new one, is it?’ asked McCoy. ‘Didn’t take long. You got a production line somewhere?’
Norton smiled. ‘Lots of young lads desperate to join my organisation, get ahead in life.’
‘Well, let’s just hope that this one isn’t a nonce, eh?’ said McCoy.
The smile disappeared from Norton’s face.
‘Don’t worry,’ said McCoy. ‘I don’t go back on my promises. What are you doing here anyway?’
‘Didn’t realise you were Cooper’s gatekeeper,’ he said. ‘Mind you, dirty cops seem to get everywhere.’
‘Just for the record, I’m not his gatekeeper and I’m not dirty. I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?’
Norton moved into McCoy, pushed his face into his. ‘That’s my business, son. Now get out of the way before I decide to take offence.’
McCoy stood for a couple of seconds, both of them eye to eye, then he stepped aside, let Norton up the garden path.
He walked down the street, heading for Great Western Road. Whatever it was Norton and Cooper were cooking up, he didn’t want to know.
FORTY-FIVE
‘Lucky you’re still signed off,’ Murray growled, staring at McCoy, or more accurately McCoy’s outfit.
‘What’s up?’ McCoy looked down at his clothes. ‘No like it?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. A man your age shouldn’t be wearing bloody denim jeans,’ said Murray.
McCoy sat down. ‘I’m thirty, Murray,
no bloody fifty. Give us a break.’
Murray sat back in his chair. ‘Still too old for jeans, you’re not a bloody teenager. Anyway, to what do I owe this early visit?’
‘You know me,’ said McCoy. ‘Couldn’t keep away. You seen Raeburn?’
Murray shook his head. ‘The clown’s suspended. Why would I?’
‘He’s been following me around, talking shite, threatening all sorts.’
Murray looked exasperated. ‘Christ, if that man’s not in enough of a hole. Does he not know?’
‘Oh, he knows all right. That’s why he’s doing it. Thinks he’s going to get bounced out, no pension.’
Murray looked down at his papers, rearranged them.
‘That’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it?’ asked McCoy.
No response.
‘Murray?’
Murray started the search for his pipe. ‘Not exactly.’
‘So what exactly?’ asked McCoy, beginning to suspect. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’
Murray found the pipe under a copy of The Herald. Started going at the bowl with a penknife, old tobacco falling into the ashtray. ‘There are certain people who don’t want Raeburn treated too harshly.’
‘His bloody Masonic mates?’ asked McCoy.
Murray nodded. ‘He’s pulling in every favour he can. And unfortunately I think it’s going to work.’
‘For fuck sake, Murray! He hounded a sixteen-year-old boy to his death. That not count for anything? Charged him with murder while the girl was still alive. If he hadn’t done that, the boy’d still be here today.’
‘Watch it, McCoy. Remember who I bloody am.’
McCoy nodded, just wanted to hear how lightly Raeburn was going to be treated.
‘Now, before you start shouting, this isn’t me talking. Right?’
McCoy just looked at him. Couldn’t bring himself to answer.
‘Right?’ asked Murray.
McCoy nodded again.
‘Raeburn is twenty-three years in. Has friends in high places in the force and the lodge – and before you start, that isn’t always the same thing – who don’t care that much that a nonce hanged himself in the cells. One less of them on the streets, that’s how they look at it. Raeburn didn’t cover himself in glory in the investigation, but it was a difficult case on inexperienced shoulders. He did his best and they don’t think that one mistake in a long career is enough to send him to the lions. So they won’t.’
‘Does he know?’ asked McCoy wearily.
‘He will do tomorrow,’ said Murray. ‘He’ll be suspended without pay for a month or so, told to keep his head down, retire the minute he can.’
‘With a full pension?’ asked McCoy.
Murray nodded.
‘And what about Wattie?’ asked McCoy. ‘What happens to him?’
‘A slap on the wrist. Written warning. Nothing to worry about.’
Murray sat back, waited for McCoy to explode. ‘Go on, say your bit, get it out your system.’
He didn’t. He just shrugged, looked past Murray at his framed citations on the wall, his awards, the picture of him and the Queen at the Garden Party. The framed back page of a newspaper with a younger Murray holding up a cup: ‘HAWICK TAKE TITLE!’
‘Why do you want me to care when no one else does? What’s the point?’ he asked.
‘Come on, McCoy, you can’t take it personally.’
‘Can’t I? Why not? You going to tell his maw that? Sorry, love, we killed your boy but don’t take it personally. It’s just that one of our boys got out of hand, not going to do anything about it, though, because, you know what? He’s in the Super’s lodge, drinks in the same pubs as us. He’s one of our own.’
‘Come on, McCoy, that’s not—’
McCoy shook his head and Murray fell silent. ‘I’m not going to make you feel better because I rant and rave. You’re as responsible for this as they are, Murray. Look at all that stuff on the wall behind you. You can’t have it both ways. You know what’s happening and you’re going to wring your hands for a day or two and then, you know what? You’re going to do fuck all about it. That boy’s blood is on your hands as much as it’s on Raeburn’s. Don’t use me to wash it off.’
‘You listen to me, Detective—’
‘No,’ said McCoy quietly. ‘Not this time. I’m done listening to you. I just don’t have the fight in me any more.’ He smiled. ‘Looks like the City of Glasgow Police have finally managed to knock it out of me.’
He stood up and walked out of the office.
‘McCoy!’ shouted Murray. ‘You get back in here now!’
He didn’t turn around.
FORTY-SIX
His hands had stopped shaking after the second pint. He ordered another one, tried to work out if he’d just resigned from his job. Trouble was he didn’t much care if he had. Far as he was concerned the one man he trusted had crossed the line. And if he’d crossed the line, then the battle was lost. May as well just give up. If Murray had crossed the line, then soon enough the police would just be all Raeburns. Ignorant arseholes, chucking their weight about, lining their own pockets, bending the law whichever way suited them. And if that was the case he didn’t want to be part of it.
Ronnie Elder was just another nonce, so why bother? Not worth a jot compared to the fine Raeburn. He could hear them now, all those bastards in the lodge deciding what was right and what was wrong. He was fed up fighting them. He’d given it his best shot but – what was it they said? – ‘You can’t fight City Hall.’ The ones in power will always win in the end. Even if that included washing their hands of poor, dumb Ronnie Elder. Could still see the boy’s face – blue, swollen, dead.
He swallowed over the rest of his pint, decided it was time to go. Two pints in the Eskimo was as much as he could stand, the last place he wanted to be was a polis pub. Was time to head for the Victoria, sit in the corner, drink himself to sleep or not caring, whatever came first. He’d just stood up when the pub door opened and Wattie was standing there, big grin on his face, packet of cigars in his hand.
He saw McCoy, hurried over. Handed him a cigar. ‘Guess what?’ he shouted, and half the pub turned to look at him, grin was so broad it looked like it was about to split his face.
‘You’re going to be a daddy,’ said McCoy, smiling despite himself.
Wattie grabbed him, hugged him, started jumping up and down. Wouldn’t let McCoy go. Suddenly all the punters in the pub were smiling, couple at the back shouted, ‘Congratulations!’
‘Can you believe it?’ he asked. ‘Me, a dad?’
McCoy managed to extricate himself, slapped him on the back. ‘Congratulations. Can’t think of a better man to be somebody’s dad.’
Wattie looked at him, a bit tearful suddenly. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
‘Course I don’t,’ said McCoy, grinning. ‘Just thought I better say something nice. Now have a seat and calm the fuck down and I’ll get you a drink.’
McCoy walked over to the bar, ordered the drinks. The last thing he needed was a jolly chat and drink with Wattie, but he was going to do it if it killed him. The boy deserved it, deserved to celebrate without McCoy’s mood hanging over him like a wet weekend. The barman gave him two pints and two whiskies on the house and McCoy carried the drinks back, set them down on the table.
Wattie looked a bit dazed. ‘I still can’t believe it. Nearly bloody fell over when she told me.’
‘Who?’ asked McCoy.
‘Mary, who else . . .’ Realised. ‘Very funny, McCoy. Very funny. Need to ask you something. We had a chat, Mary and me.’
‘Oh aye, sounds worrying.’
‘Will you be the godfather?’ he asked.
Now it was McCoy’s turn to feel a bit tearful. Disguised it by trying to light up one of the cigars. Coughed as he inhaled, tried to recover. ‘I’d be honoured,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Wattie beamed, too
k another packet of cigars out his pocket and started handing them round the pub.
McCoy sank his whisky, had another go at the cigar, coughed some more, then gave up. ‘Enough of this nicey-nicey pish,’ he said. ‘Drink up and let’s go somewhere that isn’t this shithole. Get pissed, properly pissed.’
Wattie went for a pee and McCoy walked towards the door, thought he heard a rumble of thunder outside. He went to pull the handle and the door almost opened in his face. He stepped back and Big Tam was standing there, dark circles under his eyes, the stink of stale alcohol and sweat coming off him.
‘You all right, Tam?’ McCoy asked.
Tam didn’t even pretend, just shook his head and stood there looking like a whipped dog. ‘Bloke on the desk said you might be here,’ he said
Wattie appeared beside them, buttoning up his flies.
Tam looked over at him nervously. ‘Can I have a word with you in private, Harry?’ he asked quietly.
McCoy wasn’t in the mood for accommodating Tam, not by a long shot. ‘Anything you’ve got to say, you can say it to Wattie as well. Up to you.’
Tam looked at him, nodded.
They walked back to the table and what was left of their drinks. McCoy pulled out a chair for him and Tam sat down wearily.
‘Looks like we’re staying. I’ll go to the bar,’ said Wattie.
‘What’s the matter, Tam?’ asked McCoy. ‘What d’you want to see me for?’
Had a feeling that whatever Tam was about to say he didn’t want to hear it. Someone had put money in the jukebox. Frank Sinatra came on. ‘New York, New York’.
‘It’s Wee Tam,’ he said, staring at the floor. ‘I think he’s going to do himself in.’
McCoy sat back in his chair. Wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. ‘And what makes you think that?’ he asked.
Tam took a half bottle of Laing’s out his jacket and took a slug. He put the cap back on, slowly twisting it round.
‘May made it up,’ he said quietly. ‘She lied. She wasn’t with him on the day the girl got beat up. Wasn’t with him when that Page boy got done.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re only realising that now, Tam? For fuck sake!’
Tam was shaking his head. Looked up at him. ‘I swear, Harry, on my life, I didn’t know, I didn’t fucking know. I believed her.’