Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  Donovan shook his head. ‘Junkie was out here when it happened, but he says he can’t identify anyone.’

  ‘Believe him?’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘He’s a junkie, who the hell knows what’s the truth?’

  ‘Want me to talk to him?’

  Donovan shook his head. The last thing they needed was Knight scaring the shit out of the already traumatised addict. ‘Nah, we’ve got it under control. What’s your interest here anyway, Jimmy? Thought you Serious Crime boys had more to do with your time than turn out for a stabbing.’

  ‘This place is on our list. The Corvus is a Jarvis set-up.’

  That was news to Donovan. ‘Maw Jarvis owns it? I thought it was a George Fisher place.’

  Knight shook his head. ‘Aye, Fisher’s name’s on the license and if you search the deeds you’d think it was his, but it’s Maw Jarvis’s club, lock, stock and beer barrels. So, when something like this goes down, it blips on our radar and we have to come out to see the score. Gentleman Jack insists on it.’

  Jack Bannatyne used to be their old boss at Baird Street CID, now he was Detective Super at Serious Crime. Gentleman Jack, they called him, not so much because he was a dapper dresser, which he was, but because he reputedly kept his gloves on when he battered a suspect. That was in the old days, of course, when neds expected a good hiding while in custody, back when the beat cop used to fight petty crime with a firm slap across the back of the head, back when there were beat coppers. It was different now. Now the neds had human rights, no matter what they’d done. Someone forgot to tell the Black Knight about that, though. He was known for dishing out a slap or two. Sometimes more.

  ‘You got a name for the stiff?’ Knight asked, sensitive to a fault.

  ‘Dickie Himes, according to his mate.’

  Knight searched his memory, accessing his encyclopaedic knowledge of Glasgow scroats, scruffs and scumbags. That vast database he carried around in his head was something Donovan envied. In any other cop it would be something to be admired, but Donovan sensed that Knight used it for activities that, if discovered, would have the rule book hurtling towards him at 100 miles per hour.

  ‘Nah,’ said Knight, ‘not ringing any bells. Who’s his mate?’

  ‘John Thompson.’

  Knight’s eyebrows raised. ‘Skooshie Thompson?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Devious wee shite, punts anything that’ll make him a few quid – blaw, jellies, eggs, smack. You name it, if it gives you a buzz, gets you high or puts you in a fuckin coma, he’ll sell it. So this boy’s his mate? Interesting.’

  ‘Does Thompson work for the Jarvis clan?’

  Knight shook his head and looked down at the body thoughtfully. ‘Nah.’ That was all he said, but Donovan sensed his mind clicking away. There was something the big cop had decided not to share. That was how he worked, keeping stuff to himself, for his own reasons – and sometimes not in the interests of justice, Donovan was certain. He had long thought Knight had his fingers in more pies than a bent baker, but no evidence. Even if he did, there was little he could do about it, for grassing was just not done in the Job.

  However, Donovan could guess a little of what Knight was thinking – if Skooshie Thompson and Dickie Himes were selling drugs in the club and said enterprise was not sanctioned by Maw Jarvis, then that could be the motive for murder.

  A second scenes-of-crime team pushed into the narrow confines of the lane, dressed in similar style to Donovan, making Knight stand out like a sore thumb in his made-to-measure suit and black coat. It was turning into quite a crowd scene, so Donovan and Knight left the experts to their photographs, swabs, smears and tags.

  ‘Who is your gaffer?’ asked Knight as they moved closer to the door to give the technicians room.

  ‘Scott Bolton.’ He was a good boss, straight as they come and thorough in his methods. Bannatyne had been the best boss Donovan had ever had, but DCI Bolton came a close second. Knight’s face wrinkled and with some satisfaction Donovan recalled there was little love lost between them.

  ‘Fuckin by-the-book Bolton. The only thing he does outside the envelope is write a fuckin address.’

  Donovan covered a grin by sliding the covering from his head. He liked Bolton even more now.

  Knight sighed. ‘Better go and see him, I suppose. You get on with him okay, Frankie boy?’

  ‘Aye, he’s a good boss.’

  A thin smile flattened Knight’s lips. ‘Aye, but you never were one to push the envelope either, were you?’

  ‘Jimmy, there’s pushing the envelope and there’s ripping it apart.’

  Knight’s face folded into a slight sneer. ‘That’s why I’m a DI and you’re still a DS, working CID. Sometimes the envelope gets in the way of good police work.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Donovan, drily, just as the fire exit door behind them swung open and DCI Bolton appeared, talking to a uniformed inspector. When he caught sight of the Black Knight, Bolton’s face darkened. He finished his conversation and the inspector walked off towards the Buchanan Street end of the lane while Bolton stepped closer, his expression grim.

  ‘What you want here, Knight?’ He snapped.

  ‘Good to see you too, Scotty,’ said Knight with a grin. ‘How’s the wife?’

  When Donovan saw his boss glare, he recalled a canteen whisper that Knight had gone out with the girl who later became Mrs Bolton. The fact that Knight was married himself did not stop him from going over the side more often than Jacques Cousteau. Apparently the break-up had not been pleasant, something to do with Knight’s inability to keep his trousers zipped and her catching him with a redhead at a send-off for a retiring officer. Donovan often wondered where he got the energy. Knight and Bolton had both been stationed in ‘C’ Division, after Knight got his promotion and left Serious Crime for a period. That must’ve been a fun time, Donovan thought.

  ‘I asked why you’re here, Knight,’ said Bolton, not rising to the bait. ‘This isn’t a Serious Crime Squad case.’

  ‘Au contraire, mon frère,’ said Knight. ‘In fact, it’s as au fuckin contraire as it’s possible to get.’

  ‘Apparently the Jarvis clan own the Corvus, boss,’ explained Donovan.

  ‘That right?’ Donovan knew Bolton was taking this in, giving the murders a new perspective. If the Jarvis family were involved, then this was no simple pub fight gone wrong.

  ‘And John Thompson’s a dealer, but not for them,’ added Donovan.

  Bolton looked at Knight. ‘Who for, then?’

  ‘Beats the hell out of me,’ said Knight, his face blank.

  Bolton grimaced. ‘Au contraire, mon frère,’ he said, ‘I think you do know and if you’re playing any stupid Serious Crime Squad games with me, Knight, think again. I’ve got two dead lads here and I want the bastards who killed them.’

  Knight was unimpressed by Bolton’s show of authority. He looked past him to the second body being photographed, the dark lane illuminated by the flash like snatches of lightning. ‘You got a name for him yet?’

  ‘Aye, Ronald James Ross, an electrician with Glasgow City Council. He was out here with a lassie, winching, when three boys came piling out the exit there, did the first lad, then ran right into them. Young Mister Ross there ended up getting his carotid sliced open, bled out within minutes. Name mean anything to you?’

  Knight shook his head. ‘What about the lassie, she give you a description?’

  ‘Nothing we can use. She’s in a bit of state. I’ve sent her home with a WPC.’

  Knight’s head tilted towards the night sky. ‘Pretty dark out here, which makes it the ideal place for a kneetrembler. Not so good for making a description, though.’

  Bolton grimaced. ‘Thanks, Sherlock, we wouldn’t have been able to work that out for ourselves, being mere plodding officers and not a super sleuth like you.’

  Donovan suppressed a smile and Bolton went on, ‘So, unless you have any more stunning insights, Knight, or are willing to tell
me what I’m certain you’re keeping to yourself, I suggest you bugger off and do whatever it is you and the Brylcream Boys at Serious Crime do and let us get on with the day-to-day slog of real police work.’

  Knight gave him an easy smile. Despite his brutal nature, he was very slow to rile. ‘Always a pleasure, Detective Chief Inspector Bolton. Give my best to your wife. I know I did…’

  Bolton lunged forward then, but Donovan stepped in the way. ‘Leave it, boss, it’s not worth the aggravation.’

  Bolton hauled his gaze from Knight and glanced around him. The exchange had been witnessed by the team working the alley and a few of them had stopped what they were doing to watch. When they saw him looking their way they went back to work.

  Knight’s smile broadened and he nodded to Donovan. ‘Frankie boy, always good to chew the fat,’ he said and then wandered off down the alleyway towards Buchanan Street. Bolton watched him go, his eyes burning, and Donovan sensed his body was tense. He knew how he felt. Knight affected him that way, too.

  ‘I don’t know what Jack Bannatyne sees in that bastard,’ said Bolton quietly.

  ‘He gets results, simple as that.’

  ‘Aye, but what else does he get? Off the books? You neighboured him, Frank, you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Aye, boss, but going for him in the middle of a locus isn’t recommended, not for by-the-book Bolton,’ said Donovan, despite his own worries feeling a smile growing. His boss knew what guys like Knight called him and treated it as a mark of respect. Donovan often ribbed him about it, though.

  Bolton threw him a glance and said, ‘Fuck off, Sergeant.’ His face was set in stone but his eyes were smiling.

  Donovan’s smile grew. ‘Fucking off, sir,’ he said before his atten­tion was diverted by a shout from further down the lane, where a couple of uniforms were waving their arms and pointing at some­thing out of sight. Donovan and Bolton joined them.

  ‘What’ve you got, Constable?’ Bolton asked the nearest uniform.

  ‘Up here, sir,’ said the cop, a fresh-faced youngster, eyes bright with excitement. Maybe he’s found the Holy Grail, Donovan thought, but instead the young PC led them into a small square that jutted off the lane. There were large rubbish bins here alongside a couple of skips and between two of them and the wall of the building was a collection of a cardboard boxes, old bits of carpet and felt, and even some tarred paper to keep out the rain. ‘Somebody’s been skippering here, sir. Been here for a while by the looks. He’s nested.’

  Donovan stuck his head into the crude doorway and looked around. It wasn’t much, but it was better than dossing in the street. A ratty sleeping bag stretched out on top of a thick stack of flattened cardboard boxes, a wooden crate with a cracked saucer and a candle fixed in place by its own melted wax. Health and safety was clearly not a concern for whoever slept here.

  Bolton also took a look inside then said, ‘I want every office and shop in these buildings contacted and asked if they know who built this shelter. Somebody must have given whoever’s sleeping here permission, or at least turned a blind eye – it’s been here for a while. Chances are this dosser saw something, or heard something, or knows something. We need him found and we need him questioned, understood?’ Bolton jabbed his finger at the two PCs. ‘You two go and check now. Never know, there may be someone in somewhere.’

  They nodded and sprinted down the lane. Bolton smiled. ‘Remember when you were young and green, Frank?’

  ‘I’m still young and green, boss.’

  Bolton laughed, stepped from the small square and stared back at the crime scene. His voice turned sombre. ‘This is going to be a bad one, Frank. I can feel it in my bones. The Jarvis clan’s a nasty bunch. This is the sort of thing that can get out of hand faster than the speed of light. We need a result. And we need it sharpish.’

  ‘We’ll sort it,’ said Donovan, confidently.

  Bolton looked sceptical. ‘I hope you’re right, Frank, I really do.’

  Scratchy wanted to run, but he didn’t. Scratchy contented himself with scuffing through the snow as fast as he could. Scratchy didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions. But he had to get away, far away, keep moving, put distance between him and the lane. Maybe if Scratchy could get far enough away he’d forget what he saw.

  He knew that boy, Scrapper, they called him. He was a bad one, right enough. Scrapper hadn’t seen Scratchy, he’d been too busy with what he was doing, but Scratchy thought one of the other boys might’ve. Or maybe they’d been too busy trying to stop Scrapper from doing what he did. He saw them trying to hold him back, but Scrapper kept plunging and plunging.

  Scratchy closed his eyes, trying to blot out the memory of what he’d seen. He pulled his threadbare coat tighter into his skinny frame, arms folded to ward off the cold that had settled in his bones. But it had nothing to do with the weather. He knew that, Scratchy knew he could withstand the Glasgow winter, he’d done it for years, so he had, but this was something different. This was a cold that nothing could keep out.

  Scratchy had to keep moving, maybe that would melt the ice in his belly. Keep moving, get away, tell no-one what he’d seen.

  He muttered to himself as he walked alone through the night and he barely noticed the snow as it began to fall once more.

  Knight had told the Detective Constable driving the motor that he was going to walk back to Pitt Street because it was a nice night for a stroll. The young DC looked at the flecks of snow but said nothing. He was used to the DI’s ways and he knew better than to question him. Knight ensured he was well away from the carnival that was the murder investigation before he slid the mobile from his pocket. The brick-shaped black phone tended to weigh his coat down, spoiling the line of its expensive cut, but the growth of mobile communication had proved to be a godsend to him. He stepped into the shadow of a shop opening where Buchanan Street met Bath Street and punched in a number he knew by heart. He had phoned it often. It took a few rings but then he heard a sleepy voice answer.

  ‘Whit?’ said Rab McClymont, his voice made ever rougher by having been awakened. Always a charmer, Knight thought.

  ‘Sorry for disturbing your beauty sleep, big man.’

  There was a slight pause and Knight knew McClymont’s sleep-fogged brain was processing the sound of his voice. ‘Knight? Fuck’s sake, do you have to phone in the middle of the fuckin night?’

  ‘No,’ Knight said, ‘it’s just more fun. You sound so cute when you’ve just been woken up.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Rab, then broke into a barking cough.

  ‘You need to lay off the Woodbines, big man,’ said Knight. ‘They’ll be the death of you.’

  ‘Gave up smoking,’ said Rab and Knight recalled that there was a new kiddie on the way in the McClymont household and his wife had insisted he give up the fags. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You’ve got trouble. Right here in River City.’

  He heard a woman’s voice and knew it would be Bernadette, because Rab was a one gal guy. Knight had only seen her once, never been formally introduced, but she was an attractive piece. Knight wouldn’t have minded a go at her, but she was well out of bounds. Rab’s voice muffled as he held his hand over the phone, telling her to go back to sleep, then became clearer as he said to Knight, ‘Hang on till I go in the other room.’

  Knight smiled, knowing he had grasped the man’s attention. He lit up a small cigar and blew a cloud of smoke at the flakes of snow drifting past the shop doorway. He listened to the rustle of movement and associated grunts and visualised the big guy hauling himself out of bed and padding across the room. He wondered what McClymont wore at night, his smile broadening at the notion of his thick black hair tousled, his chin – like Knight’s own – stained by a permanent five o’clock shadow, and his powerful frame enclosed in an old-fashioned nightgown. If that was the case, he’d love to get a photograph. What would happen to your tough guy image, then, big man?

  ‘Right, what’s up?’ he heard Rab say.

/>   ‘You know a boy called Dickie Himes?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He’s pan bread.’ Pronounced ‘breid’, as in ‘deid’. Dickie was a ghost.

  There was silence broken only by the sound of Rab breathing heavily through his mouth. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ended up on the wrong end of a blade. He’s lying in a lane right now behind the Corvus.’

  ‘The Corvus? What the fuck was he doing there?’

  ‘Don’t know, but whatever he was doing it looks like the Jarvis clan caught him doing it. He was there with Skooshie Thompson.’

  There was small groan on the other hand, then Rab said, ‘I told that wee bastard to stay away from there.’

  ‘Well, maybe you need to keep your people in line, ‘cos the boys from Stewart Street have Thompson. He likely to burst?’

  ‘Skooshie? Nah, he’s brand new that way. No worries on that score.’

  Knight nodded, satisfied. ‘This going to be the start of some­thing between you and the Jarvis clan?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rab and fell silent again. Knight could hear the gears working in the big man’s brain, even if he was away over in his fancy house in Bothwell, far to the east. Rab McClymont had learned a lot from his mentors Joe Klein and Luca Vizzini, one of them being the need for respect from your peers. Mind you, that didn’t help them much, for both ended up shot to death, neither murder solved. However, if you didn’t have respect in The Life, you had nothing. The Jarvis clan bumping off one of Rab’s boys was not exactly a tug of the old forelock towards Big Rab. Something like this could tip the delicate balance between his team and the Possil crew. Not that Knight cared – as long as he kept getting his cut from Rab, they could fire nuclear warheads at each other.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Knight, ‘thought I’d give you a heads up.’

  ‘Aye, right – thanks,’ Rab still sounded thoughtful.

  The connection went dead in Knight’s ear and he returned the phone to his coat pocket. He sauntered up Bath Street slowly, savouring the chill night air and allowing the cigar smoke to billow around his mouth before he drew it into his lungs. There was not a soul on the street at this hour and that was the way he liked it. The snow was really coming down now, but it didn’t bother him. As he walked back towards Pitt Street, Knight realised how much he loved this city and these streets. Hail, rain or shine, this was his town and he was master of all he surveyed. There used to be a music hall performer who did a drunk act, used to sing that Glasgow belonged to him. The old bastard was wrong.