Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  Christ, they’ve been digging around. ‘Sure, I’ve had a bad run, but that happens. It’s under control.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Oxford, his voice even, measured. ‘You’re a drowning man going down for the third time. And the Chief Constable doesn’t want you taking the Force with you.’

  ‘Look at you, Frank,’ said Bannatyne, ‘look at the state of you. You’ve lost weight, you’re like a walking corpse, for God’s sake. And now you’re into the Jarvises for almost two grand.’

  Donovan leaned forward. ‘The Jarvises?’

  ‘DS Donovan, please don’t treat us like idiots. Certainly we’ve only been aware of your problem for a day or two, but we’ve done a thorough job. We know how much you owe and to whom you owe it.’

  The Jarvis clan, thought Donovan. Shit – that’s who bought it over. And now he knew why. And two grand – they’d added interest.

  ‘I’m being set up,’ he said and that raised what passed as a smile from Oxford. ‘No, listen,’ said Donovan, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘I know it was Scrapper Jarvis who killed Himes and they want me out of the way.’

  Bolton said, ‘We’ve been through this already, Frank. There’s nothing to link Scrapper to the killing…’

  ‘Yeah, but they know I’m not going to stop until I find a link. They’re not taking any chances, boss.’

  Oxford exchanged glances with Bannatyne and Bolton. Donovan knew they weren’t buying it. Oxford exhaled heavily and closed the file. ‘As we said, this is an off-the-record chat. However, the Chief Constable does want you to take some time off, take some sick leave. You’ve been under some stress of late, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m okay…’

  ‘We need you off this, Frank,’ said Bolton. ‘We need you out of the building until the Himes case and all the rest is cleared. We can’t have you involved or in a position to contaminate the investigation.’

  Donovan stared at him. ‘Contaminate? That’s what I am now? Some kind of virus?’

  Bannatyne leaned forward. ‘As far as this case is concerned, yes. Look at it from our side, Frank – we’ve got an officer involved in a high profile murder investigation who owes a substantial sum of money to known criminals who also happen to be targets in that investigation. First Moore was, as you said, scared off from talking. Now, who told the Jarvises that the boy was thinking of talking?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘I’m not saying it was, I’m just saying how it looks. Then there’s this Scratchy individual. You knew we were looking for him, but someone got to him first.’

  ‘Everybody knew we were looking for him…’

  ‘Not everyone gets an anonymous tip to where he is lying injured.’

  ‘Jimmy Knight found him before I knew where he was.’

  Bolton sighed. ‘I don’t like Knight any more than you do – less, probably – but he phoned me immediately and told me where this individual was. I’d arranged for uniforms to swing by, but it all went down before they could get there, thanks to an urgent shout elsewhere.’

  Donovan shook his head. ‘This doesn’t make sense.’

  Oxford spoke. ‘We’re talking about how it looks, DS Donovan, and this situation could be made to look very bad for us. A half-­decent lawyer could create reasonable doubt without breaking a sweat. And there’s no getting away from the fact that you owe moneylenders cash. That’s a disciplinary offence right there. And you’ve been drinking a lot lately, people have seen you. And then there’s the gambling. It doesn’t look good, does it?’

  Donovan had to admit it didn’t look good at all. He felt dizzy, it was all happening so fast. He couldn’t believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to control the tremor in his fingers but couldn’t. He felt sick. He felt tired. He felt like he needed a

  drink.

  ‘See your doctor, DS Donovan,’ Oxford said, and Frank thought he heard something like sympathy in his voice. ‘Tell him you’ve been under a lot of pressure. Tell him you’ve been drinking too much, not sleeping. Tell him about the gambling if you feel you have to, but get him to sign you off on the sick.’

  ‘And then what?’ Frank didn’t like the sound of his own voice. It sounded dull, lifeless.

  ‘Then we discuss your future at a disciplinary level.’

  Donovan knew what that meant. He was finished. Everything would come out, because the Rubberheels were nothing if not thorough.

  Jerry Jarvis was numb as he looked down at his mother. They’d told him they’d done everything they could, but it was only a matter of time. She should have died in the car park, they said, but she was hanging on, as if there was something else she had to do. The doctor actually said that. As if she had something to do. The doctor spoke softly, as if she didn’t want to wake Maw up.

  Maw looked so frail in the hospital bed, a respirator helping her breathe, wires trailing from her arms, her chest, her head. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, sunken. She looked old. He’d seen her that morning and she looked the same – still in mourning, sure – but her face was full and her eyes lively. Scrapper hung back from the bed, as if he was scared to get too close. Useless wee fuck.

  Jerry touched her hand, expecting the flesh to be cold, but there was heat there. He slid his fingers through hers and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. He felt the pressure returned, just barely, but she knew they were there. She knew he was there.

  ‘We’re here, Maw,’ he said, his voice hoarse as he fought the tears. ‘Me and Scrapper, we’re here.’

  He felt her fingers twitch again and he saw her eyes move under her lids. Jerry couldn’t stand seeing her like this. She was his maw. She had always been the strongest of them all. And now she was lying in a scabby hospital bed, the life all but gone. He swallowed back the grief and the anger and said, ‘Can you hear me, Maw?’

  Her fingers closed on his hand. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked straight at him. He saw her mouth working, but the respirator prevented any words.

  ‘Don’t say nothing, maw,’ he said, ‘just take it easy. Rest.’

  Her eyes blazed, Jerry didn’t know with what. Her grip tightened on his as she stared at him. She was trying to tell him something. He struggled to understand what she wanted, thought about buzzing for a nurse, but knew in his heart this was not a medical issue. He felt tears sting at his eyes. This wasn’t his Maw, not this weak, wounded thing. This wasn’t her. He saw effort crease her face as she forced her fingers to tighten further on his. That old light burned brighter as she tried to convey her thoughts. He shook his head, ‘Maw, I don’t…’

  And then, in a blinding moment of clarity, he heard her voice in his head, clear as a bell, as if she was whole and healthy again and standing beside him. He leaned in until his mouth was at her ear. He said a few words and straightened. She nodded. He’d guessed correctly. He was her first born and there had always been something special between them. He knew there was nothing supernatural about what had happened, it was just another sign that they were on the same wavelength. Her fingers spasmed and fell away from his hand. Her eyes rolled to white before the lids slid over them. He thought she’d slipped away, but she was still breathing, a mucus-heavy rattle coming from her throat.

  Jerry let go of her hand and moved to Scrapper’s side. His younger brother said, ‘What did you say to her, Jerry?’

  Jerry took one last look at his mother and stiffened his shoulders, willing the bitter tears to dry. He was her son. He wouldn’t break, not yet. There was work to do.

  ‘Jerry?’ Scrapper again, his voice pitched even higher than usual. Jerry stared into his face, saw the fear there. Jerry felt no sympathy for him, for it was his weakness that had caused all this. But he was still his brother and he would look after him. That’s what Maw would’ve wanted, for she believed family was everything. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Time to finish it,’ he said.

  Lassiter listened to the phone ringing, his irritation growing with every ring. Jesus Chris
t, he’d paid the man good money for a service and now he was nowhere to be found. Goddamn it! He slammed the receiver down so hard that even Mannie jumped.

  ‘We’re going over there,’ he said.

  ‘You think you should, Mickey?’ Coco said. ‘Davie told you not to go there again.’

  ‘I’m his boss, for Christ’s sake,’ said Lassiter. ‘I tell him, he doesn’t tell me.’

  ‘Give it another day, huh? He’s maybe got something on. I mean, he is a criminal… maybe he’s been arrested or something.’

  Lassiter thought about that. She might have something. And if he went over there, what would he be walking into? On the other hand, he was having a meet with the screenwriter on Monday in London and he needed a few more notes from Davie. They were making progress, this project was shaping up to be everything he wanted it be – but now his special adviser had gone walkabout. He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, babes,’ he said. ‘It’ll be okay. I’ll just go there, speak to him or leave a note telling him I really need to see him, then I’ll be back.’ He saw the worried look in her eyes and he reached out and touched her cheek. Sometimes he really loved this chick. ‘Hey, Mannie’ll be with me. It’ll be in, out, no sweat.’

  She smiled but it was forced, he could tell. ‘Please, Mickey, just give it one more day. Another day can’t hurt.’

  He saw the plea in her eyes and he relented. ‘Okay, babe, sure. One more day.’

  ‘It’s over, Davie,’ said Rab, smiling. ‘Ding-dong, the witch is dead.’

  He was behind the bar of the The Black Bird, pouring himself a celebratory malt whisky. Davie looked at Stringer, sitting at a table nearby, a lager in front of him. He’d pulled the trigger on the woman, no doubt about it, just as he’d done Marko. The man’s broad face was neutral as he returned Davie’s gaze, giving nothing away. Choccie Barr and Fat Boy McGuire sat at another table. Fat Boy was smiling, Choccie was serious. Like Davie, he knew this wasn’t over.

  ‘I heard she’s hanging on.’

  Rab dismissed the thought as if it was a mere formality with a wave of a hand

  ‘Jerry Jarvis is still walking around,’ said Davie. ‘Even Scrapper.’

  Rab waved his hand again. ‘Jerry’s just a thug, nothing without his Maw. She was always the brains. As for Scrapper, there’s a village somewhere looking for its idiot. We’ll deal with them both, when the time’s right.’

  Davie knew Gentleman Jack Bannatyne himself had paid Rab a visit earlier that day. Rab, naturally, denied all knowledge of any unpleasantness – only what I read in the paper, Mister Bannatyne. I’m just a businessman, earning an honest crust. Bannatyne wouldn’t have believed a word of it, of course, but Rab was too clever to let any of the blood splash back on him. However, he’d pull back for a while, let the heat die. Davie wondered if Jerry Jarvis would do the same.

  ‘The Jarvis clan is finished now,’ said Rab. ‘What was theirs is now ours for the taking, know what I’m sayin?’

  To the victor goes the spoils, Rab was saying, but Davie wasn’t so sure. The Jarvis clan was down, but it wasn’t out. Jerry Jarvis was a sadistic sod and he was enough like his mother to carry on where she left off. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

  SUNDAY

  The pub was busy, but not with customers. Bernadette and Rab were in the office. The kids sat with Choccie and Fat Boy, young Joseph as serious as ever as he read a Spider-Man comic, Lucia working on a colouring book, helped by Fat Boy. She hummed a song Davie recognised but couldn’t put a title to. She broke off to tell Fat Boy that he had to stay inside the lines, silly, and he grinned and apologised. Davie smiled at the sight of Fat Boy’s fleshy hand trying to grip the slim crayon as he worked on the drawing, his face a picture of concentration.

  Sammy had also arrived and he sat at a table with Davie, stirring at a coffee. The dog lay under the table, gnawing on a rawhide chew.

  ‘The lawyer says there’s nothing much can be done,’ Sammy said, then looked towards the opaque glass facing onto Shettleston Road. Shadows passed outside, people walking by, ordinary people, going about their lives. The cough of buses expelling diesel fumes, cars, taxis and lorries edging from one set of traffic lights to another. Life went on in the city. And his grandson sat in his cell up in Barlinnie while the legal noose tightened. Finding Scratchy, getting him to talk, had been his only hope but the guy was too traumatised to say anything. They’d saved his life but it hadn’t been enough.

  ‘He may talk yet,’ Davie said.

  Sammy shook his head. ‘Your pal, that cop, said it – he’s too far gone. Mind’s snapped. If he saw anything he’ll never remember and even if he did some lawyer’d tie him up in rings. I saw Marty this morning, broke the news to him.’

  ‘How is he?’

  Sammy inclined his head. ‘Resigned. Knows the game’s a bogey. He’s pissed off, though, that Scrapper Jarvis is getting away scot-­fuckin-free.’

  Davie thought about Marko Jarvis and his mother, both dead or as near as damn it. Another brother facing heavy time. Scrapper himself may still be at liberty, but the family hardly got off scot-­free.

  Sammy gave Davie a wan smile. ‘Justice, eh?’

  Davie felt he had to give the old man something but couldn’t think what to say. In the end all he could say was, ‘Sometimes these things have a way of working out.’

  Mannie had bought the coat the day before because he needed something to ward off this country’s goddamn climate. It was a big, black waterproof and when he pulled it on, it looked like he had wings.

  ‘Jeez, Mannie,’ said Lassiter, smiling, ‘you’re like a goddamn crow in that coat.’

  Hurt flitted across the man’s big face as he looked down at the expensive slicker and Lassiter instantly felt sorry. He’d not meant anything by it, but sometimes he forgot how sensitive Mannie could be. He’d been with Lassiter for years, since he was in his late teens, when his dad had told him the big fella was going to be his new best friend, and there were times when Lassiter took him for granted.

  ‘Sorry, big guy,’ he said, patting Mannie on the shoulder, ‘it’s a great coat, really good for this place, this time of year.’

  Mannie’s pained look subsided and he smiled.

  The cab dropped them off right at the entrance to Davie’s building. Someone had cleared the snow away from the sidewalk, but they’d dumped it into the gutter and Lassiter’s foot sunk right in as he stepped out of the rear of the black taxi. He cursed and pulled his foot free as Mannie came round the rear of the hack. If he thought it funny that his boss was shaking snow from his shoe and the bottom of his trousers he didn’t show it.

  ‘Wait in the street, big guy, won’t be long,’ said Lassiter as the taxi rattled off. Mannie nodded and took up a position beside the doorway and Lassiter pushed the security door open. It was busted, he knew that from his first visit. He stamped the last of the snow from his foot as he made his way to the first flight of stairs. There were a lot of things he liked about this city, but jeez, it was cold. He was a California boy and he didn’t do the kind of cold that made your balls shrivel. He regretted the decision to shoot so early in the year but it was necessary to get the chill into the visuals that he wanted in the story. He wanted this to be a throwback to the ’70s style of movie. Thrillers today had very little grit, they were all MTV flash and no substance. He wanted a harsh, grainy feel and he knew he’d find that in a Glasgow winter.

  The few meetings Davie had taken had proved invaluable to Lassiter’s vision. The guy was a real find. He’d helped Lassiter turn an okay script into something special. He hadn’t written a word, but his insights into the mind of the character were illuminating, even if he didn’t see it himself. The character – Connolly – was becoming fully-rounded now, at least in Lassiter’s mind. He knew how he was going to play him, what nuances he would bring into his performance. He’d be based very much on Davie McCall, his mannerisms, his stillness. Shit, if he did this right, he could be in line for an Academy Award. Wouldn’t
that be something? It’d make his dad and his brother sit up. It was a pity the character died at the end of the movie, Lassiter had a real feel for him now. Maybe they could rewrite the ending, have him survive. Maybe get a franchise out of it. No more than three movies, though – wouldn’t want to milk it. What was it they said here? Rip the arse out of it? Yeah, rip the arse out of it, sure. He had too much respect for the character to do that. A trilogy. That’d be about right. He’d talk to the writer about it when he got down to –

  They say you don’t hear the one that gets you, but Lassiter did. He heard the crack of the pistol just as he crested the flight of stairs on the second floor. He was turning towards McCall’s door when the bullet caught him. He felt something strike him on the shoulder, something hot, something heavy, and it threw him to his left to slam into the wall. Another punched him on the chest and he felt fresh heat sear through him. His legs buckled and he slid down into a sitting position. He didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t understand. He saw a man stepping down the stairs from the next landing, a gun stretched out ahead of him, and Lassiter knew then he’d been shot. He dropped his head to his chest, saw the blood seeping through his coat. This wasn’t happening, he thought. He tried to raise his head, but it wouldn’t move. A pair of feet appeared in front of him and he knew the guy was looking at him. Lassiter tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He heard the guy swear and then he was running down the stairs. Lassiter tried to call out after him, to ask him why, but all he could manage was a croak. The pain was lessening now, which was something, but he knew that wasn’t a good thing. He hoped some­one had dialled 911. But it wasn’t 911 here, was it? It was 999. Three nines. Triple-niner. Whatever the fuck it was, he hoped someone was punching it in right now. He willed his legs to move, to strengthen, to help him rise but he couldn’t move any part of his body. All he could do was sit there and wait.