Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  The thought was shattered by the bullet that ploughed through his brain from behind.

  Frozen by the explosion of the gunshot, his pals could only watch as Marko folded to the ground and the stocky figure in biker leathers and dark helmet emerged from the shadows of the tenement door beside the café. He stepped over the body quickly, straddled his bike, revved up and zoomed into the traffic.

  There was a time when Detective Superintendent Jack Bannatyne thought Jimmy Knight was the best cop he’d ever met, bar none. He had believed he was a dedicated thief taker, a copper’s cop who did the groundwork and brought in the bodies. Certainly he cut a few corners here and there, but so had Bannatyne, over the years. No decent cop could exist by sticking rigidly to the letter of the law.

  Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

  Bannatyne knew that cops and crooks alike called the man in front of him the Black Knight. It suited him, for he was a big fellow – dark hair, dark shadow on his chin. He had dark moods too, or so he’d heard, for Bannatyne was never a boss who grew too chummy with his officers. There had been stories of Knight stepping over a line or two here and there – a slap, a punch, some­times worse. The manipulation of evidence when needed, a verbal – putting words into the mouths of suspects – when necessary. Nothing major and always merited in the interests of banging up the right person. Justice was blind and sometimes it needed a helping hand to get where it needed to be. Occasionally a complaint was levelled, but none ever went anywhere. Knight was always clever enough to leave himself with wiggle room. So it was overlooked because he dug up the evidence and he made the arrests.

  For Bannatyne, that was no longer enough.

  The gilt had begun to wear off the gingerbread when Knight told a young cop his wife was having an affair with a known criminal. It turned out not to be true, the woman had merely pissed Knight off, but it resulted in her death and the cop losing his job after gunning a man down. That the man needed to be put down was not in dispute, but the young cop used an unauthorised weapon and should never have been there in the first place. Bannatyne had been unhappy with Knight’s part in the tragedy. After that, he trusted him less.

  But the Black Knight continued to get results. He was promoted to Detective Inspector and sent to ‘C’ Division on the city’s North West for a couple of years. Now he was back in Serious Crime and again under Bannatyne’s command. Knight’s promotion had made him even more arrogant, even more of a maverick than before, something that Bannatyne had pulled him up for on more than one occasion, but it never seemed to take. The problem was, Knight digging away on his own, and often on his own time, seemed to unearth more intelligence and arrests than the rest of the squad on a full shift.

  ‘I hear you’ve been unofficially assisting ‘A’ Division with a murder inquiry,’ said Bannatyne. He was behind his desk in Pitt Street headquarters, the strip lights in the suspended ceiling burning for the grey sunlight beyond the large window looking towards Charing Cross barely illuminated the office. The weather girl on the BBC news that morning could not rule out the possibility of further snow, maybe even a blizzard, in the following few days.

  Knight sat in a chair opposite, perfectly relaxed. ‘On my own time, boss. Just giving them a wee hand.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know me, boss – always willing to help out. And I get kinda fidgety when I’ve nothing to do. Plus it involved the Jarvises.’

  Bannatyne nodded. He knew what the case was and who it involved. ‘DCI Bolton is peeved.’

  Knight dismissed any consideration of DCI Bolton’s happiness with a shrug. ‘I brought him his only lead.’

  ‘I understand it was Frank Donovan who brought those boys in.’

  ‘After I took him by the hand.’

  Bannatyne looked down at the notes he’d scribbled on a pad earlier that morning. ‘Anonymous tip, right?’

  ‘Through a tout of mine.’

  ‘Must be a good tout.’

  ‘Never let me down in the past, boss.’

  Bannatyne pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, idly tapping his pen on the pad. He wanted to know who this tout was, but knew Knight would not tell him. He guarded his army of informants like a father protecting his daughter’s virtue. ‘This victim, Himes, he work for Rab McClymont?’

  ‘Dunno, boss, but his mate, Skooshie, does. Reasonable to assume Himes did, too.’

  Bannatyne agreed it seemed reasonable. ‘And now we’ve got Marko Jarvis down.’ The news had come in an hour ago.

  ‘No great loss to the world there.’

  ‘No, but it also seems reasonable to assume that the two deaths are connected. Tit for tat. And I don’t like a bunch of tits tatting about with firearms, not in my streets. With that in mind, we’re now officially taking an interest in these matters. Fingerprints on the knife match the victim, two blood types found – one the victim, the other matches this Martin Bonner. DNA will take a bit longer, but I’m betting it’ll match, too.’

  ‘That’s good news, boss.’

  ‘You’re already up to speed, so I’m leaving you on it. For now.’ Bannatyne knew that Scott Bolton would be furious, but it made sense. And if anyone could guide him and Frank Donovan through the labyrinth of criminal families in Glasgow, it was Knight. He may not be the blue-eyed boy he once was, but he knew his way around the city’s pond scum like no other.

  ‘Glad to hear it, boss.’ Knight was smiling.

  ‘I don’t want this turning into a full-scale war, understand? It’s been nice and quiet for years. I don’t want a repeat of 1980.’ There had been a lot of killing in the city that year, most of it unsolved. ‘Get this wrapped up, nice and neat.’

  Knight stood up.

  ‘Oh, and as for DCI Bolton? You’re working with him, he’s not working for you. And don’t forget he’s a DCI. Find a way to play nice.’

  Marty and Stewie appeared in the Sheriff Court that morning and were charged with Dickie Himes’ murder. The blood on the knife matched Marty’s type. He had an obvious wound that had been left by a similar blade, Dickie’s prints were found on it, Stewie had admitted he’d been with Marty all night – it was enough to bang them up on remand while the cops dug out more. It was a simple, quick procedure. Neither of them said anything as they stood side-­by-side in the small courtroom. They each had a solicitor, no plea was made. It was little more than a means of completing paperwork.

  Marty was aware of Stewie trembling beside him, though. He’d never been in trouble before, but he’d promised Marty he’d told the cops nothing during his interview. Marty believed him. But he didn’t know how long he could go without cracking. ‘Take it easy, Stewie,’ he whispered.

  ‘Quiet, you,’ said the cop at his side. The Sheriff looked up. He was a stern-faced guy with thin grey hair and tiny rectangular glasses.

  ‘You have something to say, Mister...’ he glanced down at the sheet before him, ‘Mister Bonner?’

  Marty glanced at his solicitor, who shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Then please remain silent.’ The Sheriff gave Marty a look that warned him to behave, then went back to his form-­filling.

  Marty could feel his granddad’s eyes on him. He was behind them, in the tiered benches that made up the small public gallery. His brother Jimsy was there, too. Marty didn’t turn round, for he knew there would be another rebuke coming his way if he did. But he didn’t want to meet the old man’s gaze, either. He couldn’t take the disappointment he knew would be swimming there.

  They were taken down to the cells below the court complex on the southern bank of the River Clyde, from where they would be placed on the first available van to carry them through the city to Barlinnie in the east. After a brief word with their solicitors, they were led to a large lock-up, crammed with other guys waiting to either go with them or for their appearance in the courts above. It was a soulless area, filled with smoke and swearing and tension. Marty and Stewie found an empty space on a bench and sat together. Ma
rty could feel the terror seeping out of his pal’s pores.

  ‘We’re gonnae be okay, Stewie,’ he said, his tone soothing, even though the stress was also building within him.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Marty, we’re up for murder.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But we didnae do it. We didnae plunge that boy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They cannae do us for murder. No when we didnae dae it, surely?’

  ‘They have.’

  Stewie shook his head. ‘It’s no right, Marty. We never did that boy, it was Scr–’

  Marty nudged his pal sharply in the ribs. ‘Shut it, Stewie!’ He looked around, but no-one seemed to be paying attention. However, Marty was wise enough to know that there were grasses everywhere and all it took was one boy to overhear them and tell tales to help reduce his own sentence. Stewie fell silent. He’d been dry-­washing his hands in his lap and he looked at them as if inspecting them for dirt. Or blood.

  There was nothing Marty could say that would ease Stewie’s stress. No, they hadn’t killed Dickie, but they’d been there, it was as simple as that. They were just as guilty. It had happened to his grand­dad, the very same thing. He’d been on a job that went pear-­shaped and an old boy ended up dead. His granddad didn’t pull the trigger, but he’d been there. He’d tried to get Marty to leave The Life behind, had hoped Sonya would lead him out of it. He wished he’d listened to the old man. He wished a lot of things. But here he was, sitting in a scabby holding area in the Sheriff Court, waiting to be taken to the Bar-L.

  It was a reasonably short ride to the jail. Marty didn’t know what route the van took because the windows were opaque. They and half a dozen other boys were led into the reception area of the Victorian jail and processed.

  And then they were placed in the dog boxes.

  Officially they were ‘holding cubicles’, a way-station where prisoners were stored until their documentation was processed and they could be taken to one of the Halls. They could be an ordeal for experienced lags, but for Marty and Stewie, the experience was terrifying. They were jammed into what was little more than a cupboard with a bench at the far end, where an older man already sat. Stewie’s face was ashen and his eyes swam with terror. Marty wondered if that was how he looked, too.

  The older man sat on the bench smoking a roll-up as if he was waiting for a bus. The dog boxes were clearly not a new experience for him. His dirty grey hair was swept back from his face into a sharp widow’s peak and a deep scar ploughed a furrow down his left cheek. He appeared relaxed as he drew deeply on his cigarette and regarded them with an amused expression.

  ‘You new meat, eh?’ He asked, his voice as scarred as his face.

  Marty nodded and the man flicked a tube of ash onto a floor strewn with fag butts and bits of discarded food. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said the man. ‘It’s no all as bad as the dog boxes, believe me.’ He took another drag on his cigarette, then added. ‘Bad enough, though.’

  Marty turned round in the confined space and pressed his face against the toughened glass of the observation window in the door. It felt cool and helped soothe him a little. He saw the rest of the new intake being guided and prodded through the process, the yelling penetrating even the thick glass. Many of the prisoners knew what to do before they were told, others – obviously ‘new meat’ – moved dully and leadenly. One or two young men were crying, but no-one cared much. Maybe they would be weeded out at the medical as suicide risks, Marty did not know.

  He heard the man croak behind him, ‘You both on remand?’

  Marty turned back and nodded. Stewie had seated himself on the bench beside the man and was cramming himself tightly in the corner against the wall. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around his body, as if he had a stomach ache.

  ‘What you charged with?’

  Marty paused. He was not inclined to say too much to a complete stranger but he saw no reason not to reply. ‘Murder.’

  The man’s eyebrows shot up then bobbed his head, as if impressed. He looked at Stewie. ‘What about you, son?’

  Stewie gave him a scared look but did not answer. He unwrapped his arms and shoved his hands under his buttocks to keep them from shaking, but there was nothing he could do about his arms, which trembled as if someone was running an electrical current through them. ‘We’re together,’ Marty said.

  ‘Pair of desperados I’ve got here.’

  ‘We’re innocent,’ said Stewie, his voice as scared as he looked.

  The man smiled and took a final draw on his roll-up before dropping the butt on the floor and pressing a foot on it. ‘We’re all innocent, pal. Jail’s full of innocent men.’

  The boy asked, ‘What about you? What you in for?’

  The man smiled, his teeth showing the result of years of smoking unfiltered tobacco. ‘The way the PF has it, I banjoed a guy for taking liberties.’

  ‘What sort of liberties?’

  The smile broadened. ‘They say that he didn’t want to give me the bag of cash he was carrying into the bookies. If it was true – which it’s no – that woulda been a fuckin liberty. So who’d you kill?’

  ‘We didn’t kill anyone,’ said Marty.

  ‘Aye, right – sorry. Forgot. You’re both innocent.’

  ‘Like you.’

  He smiled again. ‘Aye, like me. So, who was it you didnae kill?’

  ‘Just a guy.’

  ‘Just a guy,’ the man repeated. He looked at Stewie again. ‘And you didnae do it, right? But you were there, eh? I’ll bet you were there.’

  Marty began to grow suspicious and he manoeuvred himself around again to watch the activity outside. Behind him he heard Stewie sobbing and the older man tutting in disgust. Marty turned back to find Stewie hiding his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving as he wept. A dark stain spread through his crotch and a trickle of urine seeped from the hem of his jeans to form a puddle on the floor. The man pressed himself harder against the wall and jerked his feet away before they could be contaminated by the spreading piss. Marty looked at his friend, but did not move to comfort him. There was nothing he could do or say to make him feel better. The truth was, he felt like crying himself.

  Marty said nothing more to the older man, though he continued to prod. Eventually he gave up, rolled himself another fag and sat back to enjoy it. Stewie didn’t say anything either. He cried some more. He shook some more. Every now and then, Marty gave him a worried look. He knew Stewie couldn’t take to life inside, even on remand. He knew Stewie could crack.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Maw Jarvis took the news of her son’s death silently, which was unnerving, even for Jerry. She had simply turned, disappeared into her bedroom and didn’t emerge for two hours. And when she did come back downstairs, she was dressed from head to toe in black. The last time Jerry had seen that outfit was when his dad died.

  Jerry felt the loss of his brother, but he couldn’t help but condemn Marko’s stupidity. What the hell was he thinking, vanishing after a run? He should’ve come straight home after Liverpool. He’d gone to East Kilbride after some burd, that was all his mates knew. Jerry would sniff around, but he didn’t think he’d find her – Marko had women tucked away all over the place. It was something he’d always envied in his younger brother, his skill with women. It seemed so easy for him, whereas Jerry never had much luck there. Where Marko had inherited his mother’s dark looks and had a powerful frame, Jerry was pale and slim, his weak eyes needing thick glasses. He made up for it in other ways, though – ways that were more helpful to the business, which Marko’s shagging around never was.

  ‘They’ve gone too far,’ she said. ‘We need to hit back.’

  He gave her a thin smile. He hadn’t been idle while she was upstairs. A call had been made. ‘I’ve spoken to my man over there. I’ve got a name for you.’

  Bernadette was grateful Rab did not invite Stringer into their home. She was not a fan, something she shared with Davie,
although she didn’t know that. He stood at the front door, talking with Rab in hushed tones, and she wondered if she should put her husband’s dinner under the grill to keep warm. The children barely noticed, kept eating, because their dad often had to go and do something at meal times – answer the door, talk on the phone, see some men in the kitchen. Bernadette laid her own knife and fork beside her plate and waited.

  She knew why Stringer was there. She knew things had gone according to plan. But she waited at the table because no-one apart from Rab knew how involved she was in the business. Not even Davie McCall knew that Bernadette was privy to every move, every plan, every step Rab took.

  Rab came back to the dining room table and took his place. He gave her a quick nod to tell her everything had gone to plan.

  She smiled and resumed eating. It would all kick off now. She looked at young Joseph and little Lucia and then thought of her unborn child. What was about to happen would not be pleasant, but it was necessary. What Rab was doing – what they were both doing – was for their children. Family was important. Her father back in Belfast always said it – keep the family close, keep it tight, for when it came down to it, family was all you had. You could trust family. And her father had survived sixty years of hard-nosed crime in a city riven by criminal and sectarian rivalries simply by putting his faith in family – her brothers, her uncles, her cousins. Close-knit, faithful. Loyal.

  Stringer wasn’t family, but he was useful. If not fully trusted.

  Davie was the closest thing Rab had to family, but Bernadette had no trust for him either. She didn’t believe Davie would ever turn grass, but she knew that Rab had held a secret from him for fifteen years. For it had been Rab who had turned Davie in for robbery, had to do it to keep the peace. He’d feared Davie would go on a revenge-fueled rampage for the murder of Joe the Tailor, the man who was mentor to both of them. Rab had agonised over it, for Davie was his best friend, but in the end it had been necessary, for the good of the business. Davie had ultimately spent ten years inside, six years more than he should have. He’d had some trouble in prison, had been attacked by another inmate, and Davie McCall did what Davie McCall did. He’d hurt the man badly and was given extra time. He never really knew why he’d gone for him.