Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘What the hell is going on, Frank?’ He could see the tears in her eyes, hear the strain in her voice. He couldn’t answer. He just stared at her. ‘This says we’re behind in the Council Tax,’ she said. ‘The Council Tax, Frank. What the hell is going on?’

  He opened his mouth, about to say that he’d sort it, but the words wouldn’t form. The truth was, he couldn’t sort it, not this time. It had gone too far. He was still reeling from the revelation that his debt had been bought out. Now this. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t cope.

  That was when his mobile rang. Marie’s eyes dropped to his coat pocket, where she knew the phone nestled, then raised back to his face. Her mouth was set in an angry line, her eyes glistened with moisture and rage and confusion. The ringing didn’t stop, but Frank still did not move.

  ‘You’d better get that,’ Marie said, her voice flat. ‘Maybe they’ll get something out of you, because God knows I can’t.’

  She turned away, her shoulders hunched, and walked into the living room. Frank watched her go, the phone still ringing, then turned into the kitchen. He took the mobile from his pocket, clicked the green button. ‘Hello.’

  ‘We’ve found him.’

  Frank Donovan hadn’t expected Davie and Sammy to find Scratchy at all, let alone this fast. But then, as they’d said, they had access to sources closed to the police. He’d given Davie his personal mobile number, feeling it was best not to have contact through the Force’s phones. He’d thought it was a good idea then, now he thought it was a great one, for it had got him away from the accusing eyes that had cut through him like lasers.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Abandoned church in Roystonhill.’ Donovan had worked Baird Street for a few years, he knew the church. ‘Frank,’ said Davie, ‘he’s in a bad way. Jerry Jarvis got to him first. You’d better call an ambulance.’

  Donovan understood immediately. Davie and his friends couldn’t call the services because that would leave them open to questioning. ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’

  He left without a word to Marie. There was nothing he could say.

  Davie got back to his flat in the early hours of the morning. They’d waited a distance down the road from the church until the ambulance arrived, closely followed by a police patrol car with two uniforms. Donovan finally pitched up about ten minutes later. They gave him a rundown of what had happened and then they left. There was nothing more they could do here and they knew Donovan would keep their names out of it.

  There was a message waiting for Davie on his machine. An impatient Lassiter, wondering where the hell he was. Davie realised he hadn’t seen him that day, then resolved to call him tomorrow. He was tired and he needed sleep. He glanced at the dog, who was already curled up on his duvet in the living room. Davie left him there, went into his bedroom, dropped fully clothed onto the bed and closed his eyes.

  Five minutes later, he heard the dog padding into the room and felt his weight landing on the bottom of the bed.

  SATURDAY

  Maw Jarvis was, to an extent, a creature of habit. Her boys knew there were certain constants in her life. One was that they always – always – had chicken for Sunday dinner. They longed for the occasional bit of roast beef or lamb, but no, she liked chicken on a Sunday. Wednesday night was pasta night, Friday, a Chinese carry-out. Similarly, every Christmas she baked a clootie dumpling, just like her mum and her gran had. The heavy fruitcake would last well into January and they’d be expected to eat it as dessert, as a snack and even fried with their breakfast. Her habits extended to her own routine. She had her hair done on the first Tuesday of every month. She put flowers on her dead husband’s grave every Saturday afternoon.

  And every Saturday she went to Safeway for the weekly shopping.

  Jerry had asked her not to go, but she was damned if she was going to let Big Rab have the satisfaction of upsetting her life. She had done this every week, except when they were away in Spain on holiday, and she would do it this week.

  She had a couple of boys waiting in the car, because she wasn’t stupid, but the shopping she did on her own. She doubted if anyone would try anything in the supermarket. She hated anyone trailing along behind her as she pushed her trolley up and down each and every aisle. She had a list of what she needed, but she also kept her eyes open for something new or on offer. It was one of the few moments she had to herself, so she took her time doing it. Living in a house full of men was tiring for her, but this day she wished she had company. Marko was dead, Andy was on remand, Scrapper still confined to the house. Only Jerry was out there – and he had screwed up last night. He should’ve done that tramp no problem, but he had to be creative about it.

  He was her eldest and she loved him, but he worried her. Maybe it was her fault – she had overlooked his nature since he was a boy, when she found him torturing a kitten with a lighter. Paw had said he’d grow out of it so she had let it go, but part of her knew that it wasn’t true. There was something not right in Jerry’s head. Oh, he hid it well and occasionally it was useful to put the fear of God into someone, but Maw knew Jerry was a banana short of full bunch. But he was her son and she loved him, just as she loved them all. Still, he should’ve done that Scratchy fella clean. Now the police had him and God knows what he’s saying. Jerry said not to worry, he had that covered, but she still worried. That’s what mothers did.

  The girl on the checkout looked familiar, but Maw couldn’t place her. Her badge said her name was KIRSTY but it didn’t ring any bells. But the girl knew her, for as Maw paid for her messages she said she was sorry for her loss. Maw thanked her, it was nice of her after all, and wheeled her trolley away from the checkout, still trying to figure out how she knew the lassie. Maybe she just knew who she was and was just paying her respects. Maw Jarvis was hardly unknown between Maryhill and Springburn, after all. A few other folk nodded to her as she left, more faces she knew, and she nodded back. She did not smile, for she didn’t have one in her. Her Marko was dead, murdered by that bastard McClymont. She wouldn’t smile until he was in the ground.

  And that was in hand.

  The two boys were waiting beside the car, a black Ford, the motor running. One sprung the boot, then helped the other load the plastic bags inside. Maw supervised, making sure they packed the things away correctly. If she got home and found any of the eggs cracked or smashed, there’d be trouble. It was cold in the big car park, no snow, but there had been plenty the night before and sections of the car park were still blanketed. The sky was gun metal grey, the air ear-bitingly sharp, so they moved fast, eager to return to the heat of the car.

  They should have been paying closer attention to their surroundings, but they weren’t. They shouldn’t have both helped with the storage, or Maw should’ve kept watch, but they didn’t. So they didn’t see the men coming towards them from three directions, faces hidden under dark ski masks, each of them armed, each of them blasting from a few feet. One of her men was hit right away, a bullet ripping away part of his shoulder. He spun away from the car and another battered into his spine. He went down, his legs twitching. The other boy sprinted for cover and they let him go. He wasn’t about to turn and fight, they could tell by the frightened scream as he ran and also by the way he tossed his gun away as soon as the shooting started.

  That left Maw Jarvis.

  She saw her man fall and the other one turn tail. She’d heard the bullets thud into the bodywork of the car and shatter windows. But none of them hit her. Running was not an option – they’d come for her and wouldn’t let her go. Even if she got into the car, there was really nowhere to hide. She didn’t have a gun, wouldn’t know what to do with it even if she had. She’d never liked guns, abhorred the need for them in The Life these days, so she’d left them to Jerry and his lads.

  After the first volley of shots, the silence was a relief. The three men stood very still, staring at her, as if waiting for something. Their guns were trained on her but she didn’t feel fear, which surprised her. She knew
she was going to die, right here in this cold, snowy car park, but she felt nothing. She did feel the chill, though, so she pulled her black coat tighter to her neck.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘what the fuck you waiting for?’

  One of the men, squat but muscular, she could tell even under his thick parka, stepped forward, his gun held at arm’s length.

  ‘What’s the delay, eh?’ She said to him. ‘No wantin to shoot an unarmed woman? That it? No thought this through? Eh? Come on, mastermind, you’ve started, so get it fuckin finished.’

  The man was immobile as he stared at her through the slits in the mask. She wondered who he was, what he was thinking. She wondered if he would go through with it. Shooting at her boys was one thing, but this was a different, this was cold-blooded.

  The bullet hit her before she even registered the report of the gun. It burrowed through her left cheek and shattered teeth as it carried on out the back of her neck. She felt the sharp pain as it entered and then something like a blow to her head as it exited. She slumped back against the rear of the car and the man fired again, twice, the first one exploding into her chest, the second tearing off a slice of her thigh. She slid to her left, coming to rest against the rear bumper. The agony raged through her body and she felt her left hand jerking, but she couldn’t do anything to stop it. She tried to talk, but all she could produce was a gurgle as blood filled her mouth and drowned her tongue. She saw the gunman standing over her, his weapon at his side now, his head cocked to one side as he watched her. She heard sirens, far off still but coming. She slithered further down until she was on her side and the world went sideways. Then, like someone using a dimmer switch, the sirens faded into silence and the chill, grey day eased into black.

  Jack Bannatyne knew he should’ve stepped into the investigation before now, but he hadn’t wanted to tread on Scott Bolton’s toes. But with the murder of Marko Jarvis and now the shooting in the supermarket car park, he had little choice. Scott would still lead the investigation, but now he had the full support of the Serious Crime Squad. It was bigger than the murder of some small-time pusher in a city nightclub. This had erupted into a full-scale gang war, something Bannatyne had feared for years.

  He sat beside Scott Bolton in the briefing room at Stewart Street police station, a mixture of his own men and the local strength seated at tables in front of them. He saw Frank Donovan at the back, a pale shadow of the man he’d known years before. And there was Jimmy Knight, right at the front, a cigarillo smouldering between his teeth. Jimmy had passed Donovan as he walked in, clapping him on the back. If looks could kill, the one Donovan shot Knight would’ve had the undertaker getting out his tape measure. Bannatyne knew something grated between those two but now it had developed into unmasked hatred on Donovan’s part. He wondered if it was something to do with what they were going to discuss with him later.

  When Bolton stood, the steady murmur of conversation stilled. Every face turned to him as he took up a position in front of three white boards covered in photographs and notes. Dickie Himes’ picture was there, as were mug shots of Kid Snot, Marty Bonner and Stewie Moore, Andy Jarvis, Marko Jarvis and now their mother.

  Bolton took a deep breath then said, ‘You’ll have seen that DCS Bannatyne is here and you’ll know why. Serious Crime Squad are now on board with our investigation, thanks to the escalation of violence. Sir?’

  Bannatyne nodded and rose. ‘Things are out of hand,’ he said, deciding to get straight to the point. ‘And we need to put a stop to it.’ He moved to the first white board and tapped the shot of Dickie Himes. ‘What started out as a typical Friday night knifing has blown up into the kind of gang war we’ve not seen here for years. I won’t have that, not in my city. And I want it stopped. I want you out there, in the streets, tapping every tout, tart and toe-rag you know. I want stones turned over and anything we find wriggling underneath poked with a stick. I want these gunmen in the cells before Monday morning. I want Strathclyde Police to be able to tell the taxpayers that we’re on the case. Because right now Mr and Mrs Public are wondering just what the hell we’re doing with ourselves. These morons are running around the streets, firing off guns and we’re sitting in the station with our thumbs firmly up our backsides. That ends now. If I don’t see the will to crack down on this bloodshed then it’ll be my boot up your arses and not your thumbs, understood?’

  Bannatyne waited a moment, flicking from face to face to make sure his message had sunk home, then he sat down again. Bolton stepped forward again. ‘So what have we got so far?’ He turned to the white boards and provided a verbal rundown of what had happened since the previous Friday night, tapping each picture in turn as he mentioned their names. When he turned and mentioned Scratchy’s name, he asked, ‘How is he, DS Donovan?’

  Frank cleared his throat and said, ‘Not good, virtually catatonic. Docs say it’s shock.’

  ‘So he’s saying nothing, right?’

  ‘Nothing you’d understand.’

  Bolton sighed. ‘So, no eyewitnesses, just blood, DNA and Bonner’s wound. It’ll do to put him and his pal away for a long time.’

  ‘I don’t think they did it, boss,’ said Donovan.

  Bolton looked irritated, but it was Jimmy Knight who stood up. ‘They did it, Frank. I’d bet my pension on it.’

  Bannatyne saw Donovan fire off that dark and deadly look again, but his voice was calm when he spoke. ‘They were there, but I don’t think they did Dickie Himes. I almost had Moore talking…’

  ‘But he’s not, is he?’ Knight gave the rest of the room a big grin.

  Donovan paused, his teeth clenching. He was holding something in, Bannatyne could tell. ‘No, someone got to him, put the fear of death into him. I wonder how they found out he was talking to us, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy Knight caught the tone and turned round to face Donovan across the room. The smile was still there, but something frosty crept into his tone. ‘You got any ideas about that, Frankie boy?’

  Donovan held Knight’s eyes with his own. ‘A couple.’

  There was a silence then, as if everyone was holding their breath. The antipathy Bannatyne had sensed was now out in the open and they all knew it. It was Bolton who broke the spell.

  ‘Then until we get some firm evidence, Bonner and Moore it is. But that’s not the immediate problem. As DCS Bannatyne said, this is out of hand. It’s up to us to stop it. You all know what to do. Hit the streets, bring us something that will lead to convictions.’ The collection of cops stared back at him, expecting him to say more. He waited until they realised there was nothing further to be said and they began to file out. Knight gave Bannatyne and Bolton a nod and sauntered towards the back of the room. Bannatyne had often thought the big cop was the only person who could swagger while sitting down. Knight stopped as Donovan rose to meet him, his body language that of a man with a mind to take something further. Bolton saw it, too, because he shouted, ‘DS Donovan, can we see you for a moment?’

  Donovan tore his eyes from Knight’s grinning face and looked towards Bannatyne and Bolton. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Knight gave Donovan a grin, lodged his cigarillo between his teeth again and stepped round him. Donovan swivelled his head to watch him leave, and saw a sharp-suited man with the look of a Pitt Street smoothie walking towards him, a slim but expensive briefcase in his hand. He stopped and gave Donovan a nod, waving a hand in front of him.

  ‘After you, DS Donovan,’ he said, his voice strong and cultured. Cologne wafted from him like a calling card and his tan was deep, even and not the product of a sunbed. Donovan preceded him down the aisle to where Bannatyne and Bolton waited.

  Bannatyne kept his seat while Bolton gave the white boards another look, then perched on the edge of the table. Donovan took a seat in the front row, the newcomer did the same, but on the other side of the aisle. Donovan waited for someone to speak.

  ‘DS Donovan,’ Bolton began, then tried to adopt a less formal tone. ‘Frank, we’ve had some… erm… disappointing i
nformation steered towards us.’ Bolton paused. ‘About you.’

  Donovan shifted slightly in his chair. ‘What kind of information?’

  Bolton coughed, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. It was the suit to Donovan’s right who spoke next. ‘Personal information, Detective Sergeant Donovan. You owe people money.’

  Donovan said nothing, but he felt his breath freeze in his chest. He looked at Bolton then at Bannatyne and saw concern on their faces. Then he looked at the third man and saw nothing but business. Right then, he pegged him as being from Complaints and Discipline.

  ‘This is DCI Oxford,’ said Bannatyne.

  ‘The Rubberheels?’ The words were out before Donovan knew it. He saw a flicker of annoyance on Oxford’s face, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Donovan regretted his lack of control. This was no time to poke the bear.

  Oxford said, ‘We’ve been made aware of your situation and are extremely concerned.’

  ‘Who made you aware?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that we know.’

  Donovan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He paused. ‘Do I need a federation rep here?’

  ‘This is off the record, Frank,’ said Bolton. ‘Between us.’

  ‘For now,’ said Oxford, and Donovan caught the heavy tone. This was serious. Oxford got right to it, pulling a file from his briefcase like a rabbit from a hat. ‘It appears you have a gambling problem, DS Donovan, and thanks to that you owe money to the wrong kind of people. People you should be putting away.’

  Donovan blinked rapidly, licked his lips, swallowed. ‘I like a punt now and then, sure…’

  ‘It’s more than that, I think,’ said Oxford, looking at the file. ‘You play the horses, you play poker, you play the gaming tables at the Corinthian Casino. And you lose heavily at them all.’