May God Forgive, page 10
McCoy sat back in his chair, tried to breathe slowly. Could feel his stomach doubling over itself.
‘You okay?’
He nodded. ‘Yep.’ Lied. ‘Anything on the body to tell us where this happened?’
‘Not so far. There was some matter on the bottom of his shoe. I’ll send that off to be analysed. There was blood under his fingernails but I suspect that will all be his own. Didn’t look to be anything unusual on the underpants or sock. Hair is full of dust and fibres, as if he’s been lying on a carpet or been wrapped up in one at some point. We’ll do what we can do but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
McCoy said goodbye to Phyllis and stepped out the door of the morgue onto the Saltmarket. Rain had stopped, was even a rainbow in the sky over Glasgow Green. Wondered what the last thing Colin Turnbull had seen was. The faces of his torturers? The lights in the ceiling as he lay dying? Whatever it had been, it was nothing a eighteen-year-old boy should have to see, no matter what he had done. Could only hope they would find the other two before they had to look at the same thing.
TWENTY-FOUR
McCoy had never seen the station so busy. The usual cloud of cigarette smoke was thicker than ever, didn’t even need to light up, could just breathe it in. All the Stewart Street lads were gathered on one side of the room, the Tobago Street lads on the other. Both sides looking shifty, sticking to themselves. All of them waiting for Murray to come and put them out their misery.
‘It’s like being back at school doing Scottish country dancing,’ said Wattie. ‘Boys one side, girls the other.’
‘Anything happen with the picture of the girl in the paper?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Not yet. It’s like she never existed. You have any luck finding Cooper Junior?’
‘Nope. He’s done a runner from his flat.’
‘Christ, we’re doing well. Any idea what we do next? Maybe we—’
‘Gents.’
Murray had come to stand at the far end of the office, Faulds at his side. Murray looked round the room, made sure everyone was quiet, all attention on him. He started talking slowly and deliberately, wanted every word to be understood.
‘This morning the body of Colin Turnbull was dumped in the street outside Dolly’s Salon on Royston Road. He had been severely tortured, kept alive so he could suffer, before being killed by two knife wounds to the heart. As you know, he was one of the three boys charged with the murder of the women and girls at the salon. With him was a note saying, “One down, two to go”. I don’t have to tell you what that means.’
He stopped, let it sink in.
‘Vigilantism is never acceptable. It’s part of the very reason we have a police force, the reason why we strive to do our jobs to the best of our abilities. Vigilantism is just mob rule. People with no authority deciding to set themselves up as judge, jury and executioner. Whoever did this to Colin Turnbull may try to use retribution as an excuse or a reason but it’s not. What happened to Colin Turnbull is murder, plain and simple. And it’s up to us to stop it happening again. As of today, we—’
Murray stopped, stared at the Tobago Street side of the room. Pointed. ‘You,’ he said. ‘What did you just say?’
The whole room turned to look.
‘Who’s he talking to?’ asked McCoy, trying to see.
‘Alec Stones,’ said Wattie. ‘Detective at Tobago Street. A wanker’s wanker.’
Stones, an untidy-looking guy in a white shirt with faint brown sweat stains under the armpits, shook his head.
‘I asked you what you fucking said, officer,’ said Murray, voice slow and menacing. ‘Answer me.’
Stones stood up. Looked belligerent. ‘Just said what we’re all thinking. That wee bastard deserved it.’
There was silence, everyone’s eyes on Murray. The terrible thing was that what Stones said had a grain of truth in it, as far as McCoy was concerned. He knew that at least half the coppers in the room felt the same. Justice was being done. An eye for an eye. Who cared how it came about?
‘Anyone else feel like Mr Stones?’ asked Murray, looking round.
Low murmurs. Two other guys from Tobago Street stood up. Dunbar and some guy whose name McCoy couldn’t remember.
‘You’ve seen the pictures, they women and they wee lassies,’ said Dunbar. ‘And we’re supposed to feel sorry for the wee fucker who did it? Far as I’m concerned whoever did him over did us a favour.’
Murray nodded. Even from the back of the room McCoy could see his ears going red. Knew what that meant. An explosion. But it was worse. Murray was too angry to even shout.
He spoke quietly, trying to restrain himself. ‘You three excuses for police officers get the fuck out this office before I do something I shouldn’t. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. You’re fired. And if you’re still in this station when I finish this briefing, I won’t be held responsible for what I’ll do to you.’
The room was still, everyone tense, waiting.
Then Murray roared, ‘Are you fucking deaf? Now, I said!’
The three of them hustled out, Stones trying to look defiant, the other two just shell-shocked.
‘Anyone else want to join them?’ He looked at every individual in the room, made sure he caught their eye. ‘Now, if I hear anything like that from any of you at any time on this investigation, you’ll be gone. The motto of this police force is “Semper Vigilo” – Always Vigilant – and that is what we do. Irrespective of who those people are and what they may or may not have done, we keep people safe. That’s our job. It’s not for us to decide who is guilty and who is innocent. That’s the job of the judiciary. We leave that up to them. Understand?’
A few mumbles of ‘yes’.
‘I said, do you understand?’
A chorus of ‘yes, sir’.
‘Right. Let’s get on with our fucking jobs. We need to find those boys as quickly as possible. Faulds here is going to take you through how we’re going to do that and how the work will be divided. I’m going to say one final thing. Whoever did this to Colin Turnbull is going to pay for it. No one is getting away with cold-blooded murder on our patch. Don’t let me down.’
And with that, Murray exited the room. Faulds took over, left with the task of telling everyone what they were supposed to be doing, and who with. Didn’t take long for McCoy to drift off as Faulds ran through everyone’s assignments. McCoy was pinning all his hopes on Cooper, was all he had to contribute. Wasn’t going to see him until this evening, which left this afternoon to worry about Wattie’s case and the girl. Only real lead they had about who she was was Paul Cooper, and nobody had any idea where he had disappeared to.
Kids disappeared all the time in Glasgow. Ran away from home to the big city or from Borstal or from wherever they didn’t want to be, had to go somewhere. He tried to remember some of the stories from when he was in the home. They were probably out of date by now but the same principle applied. Teenage kids with no money and nowhere to go only had one thing that was of any value. Themselves.
Realised Faulds was winding up his briefing. Nudged a half-asleep Wattie. ‘Come on, you. We need to get to Paddy’s Market.’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Do you think there are rats round here?’ asked Wattie.
‘This near the river? Absolutely.’ McCoy realised Wattie was looking glum. ‘You’re not worried about rats, are you? You must have seen plenty of them when you were doing beat duty?’
‘They were Greenock rats though. Different thing. They eat grain and stuff like that.’
McCoy looked at him. ‘Sometimes you amaze me, Wattie. And sometimes I think you’re just two pennies short of a shilling.’
They were at Paddy’s Market. Not at the market itself, but right up the back where the stall holders stored their stock. If the smell at the outdoor part was distinctive, way back here, deep under the railway arches, you could just about taste it. Old clothes that hadn’t been washed, the smell of stale fat used to fry dodgy burgers, and the walls wet from leakage from the river.
McCoy dug in his pocket for the key to Dirty Ally’s cupboard.
‘What are we looking for exactly?’
‘Fucking thing,’ said McCoy. Couldn’t get the key to turn in the lock of the big wooden cupboard. Was scared to push it in too hard in case it snapped in the lock. Tried again. ‘Fucking fucker.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Wattie. ‘Give it to me before you break the bloody thing.’
McCoy handed the key over and sat down on a metal office chair with a ripped foam seat. Had a look around. Piles of junk everywhere: old bikes, car engine parts, boxes of ‘Quality Dog Food’. A pile of cardboard boxes full of Vim sink cleaner sat beside him. By the look of the labels, they had been manufactured in the fifties. Probably been dumped there then and never looked at again. Least he knew now where to hide the body if he ever killed someone.
‘You listen to the tape?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie. ‘I couldn’t face it. I read the transcript that the woman from the university did though. Poor bastard.’
‘Any idea where it could have taken place?’
‘Could be anywhere,’ said Wattie, fiddling with the key. ‘Traffic in the background, people breathing, not much to go on. There you go.’ He pulled the door open. ‘Fuck me.’
They were looking at piles and piles of scud mags. Must have been thousands of them. Each cover more lurid than the one before.
Wattie pulled one out. New Swedish Erotica. Had a flick through. ‘Is this stuff legal?’
‘Not sure,’ said McCoy. ‘Anyway, that’s the vice squad’s problem, not ours. We’re looking for photo sets. The home-made stuff.’
‘That what turns you on, is it?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy ignored him and pulled a cardboard box down from the top shelf. Put it down on the chair. ‘Think this is what we want,’ he said.
The box was full of brown hardback envelopes. He picked one out. ‘Lusty Wives’ written on it in ballpoint pen. Inside were a dozen black-and-white photos of a middle-aged woman at the beach, legs akimbo, wearing nothing but a smile and a black lacy bra. Next one was entitled ‘Naughty Schoolgirl Gets The Cane’. It was exactly what McCoy imagined it would be. Girl looked about the same age as the girl in the graveyard, but it wasn’t her.
‘You really think this is what happens to kids with nowhere else to go?’ said Wattie. ‘End up letting dirty old men take their pictures?’
McCoy nodded. ‘No other way to earn money.’
‘Come on, there’s lots of other ways,’ said Wattie.
McCoy looked at him. ‘That right? Know much about being a thirteen-year-old kid on the streets with nothing and nobody, do you? No money, not even any food or anywhere to stay the night? What were you doing when you were thirteen? Going to school, having your dinner, worrying if Mary in the maths class liked you?’
‘All right, all right. What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing. Keep looking,’ said McCoy, handing him a pile of photo sets.
Wattie started looking through them, kept quiet. McCoy did the same. Trying to keep the peace.
‘If I say this, don’t go mental,’ said Wattie. ‘You gave me a row the other day for automatically thinking the girl in Sighthill Cemetery was a working girl. You don’t think you’re being just as bad?’
‘What?’ asked McCoy, starting to get angry. ‘What do you mean?’
Wattie looked at him nervously. ‘Well. You grew up in a certain way, children’s homes and that. Lot of kids there end up in bad situations. Maybe that makes you always think the worst things that can happen to people always do. That they’ll end up in Blythswood Square or in these bloody photos. I don’t think that’s always what happens to runaway kids. Most of them end up going home after a while or just getting a job in a different town.’
McCoy put the box down, sat on the chair. Maybe he was as closed-minded as the rest of the polis in Glasgow, just in a different way. Had never really thought about it.
‘Let’s say you’ve got a point,’ he said. ‘And I’m not saying you have, but if you were a runaway, what would you do?’
‘I’d try and get a job. Any kind of job. Potman in a bar, picking up stock at the fruit market, sell papers, that sort of thing. Maybe join the army.’
‘And if you were a girl?’
‘Maybe work in a shop, waitress in a cafe, a baker’s, something like that.’
McCoy took his cigarettes out, lit up. Smell of the market was starting to get to him. ‘Wouldn’t someone miss you if you disappeared from a job like that, call the polis?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Wattie, picking up another pile of buff envelopes. ‘You’ve run away once, maybe they’d just think you’d done it again.’
McCoy looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said McCoy. ‘Just wondering how someone so stupid-looking could suddenly say something that made sense. You’re right. But we’re here now so just indulge me and let’s look at all these bloody photos, eh?’
Half an hour later the box was empty. McCoy sighed, started gathering up the envelopes.
Wattie sat on the chair and watched him. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen so many candlewick bedspreads in my life. Not sure I’ll ever look at a cucumber the same way again either.’
‘But no girl from Sighthill,’ said McCoy.
‘Nope,’ said Wattie. Looked at McCoy.
‘You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?’
‘Too right.’
‘I was wrong. You were right. That’s us even. Happy?’
‘Yep,’ said Wattie. ‘Let’s get out of here. Smell of this place is giving me the boak.’
McCoy agreed, put the box back in the cupboard, and locked it. They started walking through the boarded-up stalls and the storage boxes heading for the outside and the fresh air. Was only when they stepped out into the light that McCoy noticed the magazine in Wattie’s back pocket.
‘What have you got that for?’
‘What do you think?’ said Wattie.
‘Dirty bugger.’
‘I wish,’ said Wattie. ‘Between a teething baby keeping me up all night and a hormonal wife who works all the bloody time, this magazine’s going to be the closest I’ll get to a sex life in the next few weeks.’ He yawned, stretched. ‘Where you off to now?’
‘Going to see Stevie Cooper, see if he’s found anything out about the fire.’
‘Let’s hope so. I’m away home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Magazine burning a hole in your pocket, is it?’
Wattie grinned. ‘If I leave now, I’ll get home a good twenty minutes before the wife and the wee man. More than enough time.’
TWENTY-SIX
McCoy sat in a deckchair at the side of the pool watching Cooper power his way up and down. He’d stopped counting how many lengths he’d done at twenty, must be on thirty-odd by now. McCoy pulled at his tie, undid his top button. Atmosphere was hot and humid, stink of chlorine and bleach. The rain was drumming on the row of skylights above the pool, and it made him think of the one holiday he could remember being on when he was wee. A caravan in Arbroath for the weekend. Rained every day.
Arlington Baths was in Woodlands, mostly full of old boys in the sunroom reading the paper. Retired professors and doctors, this was a private club after all. God knows how Cooper had managed to wangle a membership. Better not to ask.
‘Fifty!’ Cooper pulled himself out the pool, breathing hard. He walked over, towel in hand. ‘I try and do fifty a day,’ he said. ‘Good exercise.’
McCoy nodded. Noticed a new addition to Cooper’s collection of scars. Pointed. ‘What’s that?’
Cooper looked down at his torso. There was a cut, stitches still in, stretching up out his swimming trunks. ‘My business,’ he said.
McCoy shrugged, stood up. ‘You find anything out about the fire?’
Cooper rubbed at his hair with the towel. ‘Might have, might not. We’ll have to see. Need to go to the Bells and find out.’
An hour later McCoy was sheltering in the entranceway to the Bells watching the rain fall. Water from a blocked drain was gushing like a river down the middle of Springburn Road, wobbly reflections of streetlights and shop signs shining up at him. McCoy had to confess he was quite enjoying the downpour. He liked it when the weather was something – torrential rain, snow, a heatwave. Was better than the usual dull Glasgow drizzle.
He’d come out the pub to get some fresh air. The fact he hadn’t really drunk anything for a month was hitting him hard. Two pints of Guinness and he was half cut. Stomach seemed to be behaving itself so far, just the occasional grumble.
He could see Jumbo sitting in the driver’s seat of a Zephyr parked across the road. Must be reading something, head was down, mouthing the words. Couldn’t imagine Jumbo had a driver’s licence but that wouldn’t matter much to Cooper. He’d run them both up from the baths, driven well enough. At least Cooper was smart enough to have someone with him all the time now. He was getting to the age and status where some up-and-coming wide boy might have a go, try and make his mark. He knew Cooper could take care of himself, but he was glad he had the build of a Jumbo to back him up. Might help if he was looking around for them rather than reading a comic though.
He was just about to open the pub door and go back in when it swung open and the man himself was standing there.
‘What the fuck are you doing out here?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said McCoy. ‘Just getting a bit of fresh air. That okay with you?’
‘Christ, that ulcer’s changed you, McCoy,’ said Cooper. ‘Got any fags?’
McCoy gave him one.
Cooper dug in his pocket and got his lighter out, was just raising it up to his mouth when he stopped, took the cigarette out his mouth. ‘All right, Deke?’
McCoy looked up, and the boy from the Red Road Flats edged into the doorway beside them.
‘It’s like a bloody monsoon,’ Deke said. ‘Never seen anything like it.’
