May God Forgive, page 11
‘Is this who we were waiting for?’ asked McCoy.
‘New recruit,’ said Cooper. Seeing McCoy’s puzzlement, he added, ‘Need to build things up again.’
‘So that’s what you stayed behind for the other night?’ asked McCoy.
Deke grinned. ‘Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’
McCoy smiled, not sure poaching one of Dessie Caine’s young lads was Cooper’s best idea, but he’d done it now.
Cooper flicked his cigarette into the gutter, and it was immediately whisked away on the stream of water. ‘Let’s get a drink and see what Deke here’s got to say for himself.’
Back inside the Bells, McCoy and Cooper sat down and Deke went up to get the drinks. McCoy watched him go, supposed Cooper had a point. He was young, seemed capable, obviously wanted to move on. And Cooper needed someone to replace Billy.
‘How’s Jumbo taking to the new recruit?’
‘Deke bought him two Commando comics he didn’t have. Jumbo was made up. He’s his best pal now.’
Deke appeared with the drinks and sat down. ‘Dessie Caine owns Dolly’s Salon,’ he said. ‘He’s nowhere on the books but it’s his all right.’
‘You sure?’ asked McCoy, surprised. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Nobody does. Owns most of that strip in Royston. The butcher’s. The fruit shop. Only place he doesn’t own is the Galbraith’s.’
It was all starting to make sense to McCoy.
‘So that’s why the salon got torched then? Johnny Smart did it?’
‘That’s your job to find out, not mine,’ said Cooper. ‘Him and Johnny Smart have been firing guns across each other’s bows for a month or so. Looks like Johnny decided to up the ante. And you know what Johnny’s like.’
‘A nutter,’ said McCoy.
‘That’s one word for him,’ said Cooper. ‘He’s a piece of work, Johnny Smart. Soon as he gets angry, all bets are off, you’ve no idea what he’ll do. Looks all nice and respectable with his suits on, but I’ve seen him slice someone’s ear off, stuff it in the guy’s mouth and make him eat it.’
‘Lovely,’ said McCoy. ‘But would he up the ante that much? Four people dead. That’s a big up.’
‘I told you. Nothing about Johnny Smart would surprise me.’
‘Dessie’s not that much better. He’s not going to let this go unanswered, is he?’
Deke shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t think so.’
‘Christ, if those two really go at each other all hell will break loose. It’ll be a war.’ Realised Cooper didn’t look that interested. ‘You not bothered?’
‘Me?’ asked Cooper, putting his pint down. ‘Why would I be? If the two of them start knocking fuck out each other, then it’s all the better for me.’
McCoy sat back, watched as Cooper and Deke got up to play the puggy. There was no way Johnny Smart would ever admit to starting the fire. If he did, he’d be public enemy number one, never live it down. And now he was making sure the boys weren’t able to talk to anyone about who had put them up to it. Making it look like some nutter vigilantes had got hold of them. He was clearing house and quick. Trying to make the whole thing go away before it connected back to him.
He looked up at the sound of coins pouring out the puggy, Deke trying to gather them up from the tray and the floor.
Wasn’t sure there was much point going to see Johnny Smart. He was famous for hiding behind his big lawyers, saying nothing to no one, least of all the police. Even if McCoy tried to see him, the lawyers would be all over him asking for a reason for the interview request, and Stevie Cooper telling tales wasn’t something he was able to tell them or anywhere near good enough.
Cooper had got a pint glass from the bar and they were filling it up with the fifty pences from the machine. Had to go back and get another glass, they’d won so much.
Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. If Johnny Smart was a dead end, maybe he should be going to see Dessie Caine, see what he had to say about it. Maybe he’d be angry enough to get the boys back, make sure they testified that Johnny had asked them to set the fire. Was a bit of a longshot, but it was all he could think of to keep things moving forward. Wasn’t holding out much hope of Murray and Faulds finding them. Not in time anyway.
Cooper dumped the two beer glasses full of money on the table. ‘Don’t think that thing’s paid out since 1969. We’re going to go and spend it at the casino. Fancy it?’
McCoy shook his head. The two drinks he’d had were causing his stomach distress, didn’t want to risk any more. ‘I’ll leave you boys to spend your ill-gotten gains.’ He stood up. ‘Dessie still at Forge Street?’
‘Far as I know,’ said Cooper.
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow. Shake his tree.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Cooper. ‘I mean it, Harry. He comes across all holy these days, but Dessie Caine is still Dessie Caine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You no know about him?’ asked Cooper, stuffing the coins into his pockets.
McCoy shook his head.
‘Thought you polis were supposed to be all over these guys,’ said Cooper. ‘You’re bloody useless. When he was nineteen, twenty, he waded into the Cumbie, in Gallowgate, and slashed five men in one night. The place was running with blood. And that was just the beginning. He’s a fucking animal, Harry. Watch yourself.’
23rd May 1974
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dessie Caine lived at the corner of Forge Street and Stroma Street, a four in a block at the top of a hill. He could look out his front window and survey his domain of Royston below. They had been stopped by two lads in the garden, sullen fuckers who’d blocked their way, asked what they were doing there. Two police badges and an assurance they would lift them if they didn’t fuck off later, they were knocking on the door.
It was answered by a woman in a black dress with a small crucifix around her neck. She was probably only late thirties but the dress and her scraped-back hair made her look older. She stood in the doorway for a second, looked surprised to see anyone there.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Remains of a southern Irish accent.
‘I’m Detective McCoy and this is my colleague Watson. We’d like a word with your husband if we could, Mrs Caine.’
She nodded. If it wasn’t nine in the morning, McCoy would swear she was holding onto the door frame to stop herself swaying. ‘Dessie, you mean. Everyone calls him Dessie. Come away in.’
She pulled the door open, pointed at the holy water font on the wall. McCoy dipped his fingers in, crossed himself. Wattie copied him. No real idea what he was doing.
‘Splendid,’ she said, assured they were of the one true faith. ‘Now come away upstairs.’
They followed her up a set of carpeted stairs to the top landing. That’s where things got strange. There were too many rooms, too many big rooms for a cottage flat. Took McCoy a minute to work out why. The top two flats had been combined, the dividing wall knocked through. There was what looked like an office off to one side, a dapperly dressed wee man spreading out blueprints of a building onto a table. He looked up and smiled as they passed. McCoy had the vague feeling he’d met him before, couldn’t work out where.
Mrs Caine ushered them through into the double-sized living room, a row of windows looking down onto Glenconner Park and the Charles Street flats in the distance. Shouldn’t have been surprised Dolly’s Salon was Dessie’s, could just about see it from here. The room bore more than a passing resemblance to a gift shop at Lourdes or Carfin. The walls were lined with various pictures of Jesus and Mary. Jesus with his bleeding heart. Mary with the infant Jesus. Jesus on the cross. Mary with the bleeding Jesus across her lap. In between these were representations of various saints and pictures of Dessie trussed up in a suit and tie standing beside different priests at functions. Charity auctions, Knights of St Columba dinners, keystone ceremonies for various chapels.
At a table by the widow, Tosh and some other young heavy were sitting, full ashtray and empty breakfast plates in front of them. Tosh looked at McCoy, belched loudly, started picking his teeth with a matchstick. There was a dog under the table, big, angry-looking thing, kept its eyes on Wattie and McCoy, growled.
The young heavy was counting money, a mound of pound notes and fivers, putting them into piles then wrapping elastic bands round them. Noticed McCoy watching. ‘Fuck you looking at?’ he said.
McCoy turned away, looked down towards the end of the room. Dessie Caine was sitting in an armchair wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms, slippers and a vest. Thick greyish hair covered his shoulders and sprouted from the back of his vest. He was a heavy-set man, not fat, just heavy, muscle that had settled in an older man’s body. He had a plate in his hand, strips of fatty, barely cooked bacon on it, and he was lowering them into his mouth one by one. Didn’t look like he was going to acknowledge McCoy and Wattie’s existence until his breakfast was done.
‘He’ll not be long,’ said Mrs Caine. ‘Doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s eating.’ She seemed at a loss, looked at them. ‘Can I get you a tea?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ said McCoy. ‘Very kind of you.’
She stood there for a second. McCoy smiled at her.
‘Sit yourself down,’ she said. ‘I’ll not be a minute.’
They lowered themselves into antimacassar-covered armchairs along from Dessie, who was still ignoring them, still lowering the fatty bacon into his gullet.
A man appeared at the door. ‘Blueprints?’
‘Have to deal with this first. Twenty minutes?’
‘No problem,’ said the man. Disappeared.
‘Who’s that?’ asked McCoy.
Dessie finally looked at them. ‘Not know him? Man’s a genius. Designing our new chapel for us.’
‘Us?’
‘Royston Diocese. I help with the charity drive.’
‘Very noble,’ said McCoy. ‘Do a lot of charity work do you, Mr Caine?’
Dessie finished his last rasher and sat back in his chair. ‘Something I can do for you two gentlemen?’
‘We’re investigating the fire at Dolly’s Salon down the road,’ said McCoy.
‘A terrible tragedy,’ said Dessie and crossed himself. ‘Those poor women.’
‘Must have been especially difficult for you too,’ said McCoy. ‘You owning the salon and all.’
‘Here we are!’
Mrs Caine wobbled in, carrying a tray with a teapot, three cups and matching saucers, and a plate of biscuits. Wattie stood up and took the tray as she approached, must have noticed the state of her too. There was silence as she dished the tea things out, cups and saucers rattling as she handed them over with shaky hands. She finished arranging and pouring and eventually left again.
Dessie picked up a small china cup with flowers on it. ‘Right. So what the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy, picking up a biscuit. ‘We understood you owned the premises. Are we wrong?’
Dessie sipped his tea, put the cup down on the arm of his chair. ‘Now why would you think something like that?’
‘Sources,’ said McCoy. ‘Anonymous sources. This shortbread is great by the way. Homemade?’
‘Maybe you should tell your sources to get to fuck,’ said Dessie. ‘I don’t own any hairdresser’s.’
‘Really?’ asked McCoy. ‘Not sure Johnny Smart sees it that way.’
And that was that.
Dessie bellowed, and Tosh and the other guy were up and at them, dog barking and baring his teeth.
‘Get these cunts out of here,’ said Dessie. ‘Now!’
Tosh went to grab them and McCoy held his hands up to stop him. ‘We can manage ourselves,’ he said, turning back to Dessie. ‘Johnny Smart’s got those boys hidden God knows where. He’s going to make sure no one knows why they attacked the hairdresser’s. Make sure nobody knows he was going at you. You happy with that?’
McCoy just managed to step back before Dessie jumped up from his chair, meaty fists flying. He stood there glowering.
‘Thanks for the tea, Dessie,’ said McCoy. ‘See you around, eh?’
They left before Dessie could have another go.
Back in the garden, the two lads threw them dirty looks as they stepped aside. McCoy stood by the car, got his cigarettes out. Lit up, threw the match into the gutter.
‘Was it my imagination,’ said Wattie, ‘or was Mrs Caine completely pissed?’
‘She was definitely something. Not there half the time.’ He pulled the car door open. ‘Not sure I blame her either. Living in a house like that would be enough to send you to the nuthouse.’
‘Or the off-licence,’ said Wattie. He opened the door. ‘Where now?’
‘Can you drop me at Tobago Street?’
Wattie nodded, got in the car. ‘Rather you than me.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
McCoy watched Faulds push the last bit of toast into his mouth and start chewing. Was getting a bit tired of watching people eat their breakfasts. ‘That all you ever eat, fry-ups? Northern Irish thing, is it?’
Faulds crossed his cutlery on the empty plate in front of him. Sighed. ‘It’s breakfast time. That’s why I’m eating it. Now are you supposed to be briefing me or criticising my eating habits?’
They were in the Milk Churn on London Road, not too far from Tobago Street. A dairy owned by two sisters that did breakfasts and soup all day. Rain was running down the front window, turning the street outside into a blurry mess of green-and-yellow buses as they went past heading into town. They’d arranged to meet there: neutral ground. No way was McCoy setting foot in Tobago Street if he could help it.
‘Word is Dessie Caine owns Dolly’s Salon,’ he said, eyeing an uneaten bit of bacon on Faulds’s plate.
Faulds thought for a minute. ‘Makes sense, it’s on his patch. How do you know?’
‘Wee birdie told me,’ said McCoy. ‘Not common knowledge at all. And him and Johnny Smart have been squabbling. The both of them want Haghill. Christ knows why, mind you, it’s a dump.’
‘That all, gents?’ Linda, one of the sisters, had come over, picked up Faulds’s plate before McCoy had a chance to nab the bacon.
‘Two coffees, please, Linda,’ said Faulds as McCoy watched Linda and the bacon disappear into the back shop.
‘You think Johnny set the fire then?’ said Faulds.
‘If he did, all of Glasgow will be after him. So he’ll be making sure nobody knows, hence the boys disappearing.’
‘Christ,’ said Faulds. ‘Does Murray know about this?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Was leaving that pleasure to you. I saw the paper this morning. Has he killed anyone yet?’
‘Not yet, but I’d give it until lunchtime. He was absolutely fucking beeling this morning. I got out of there as fast as I could.’
‘Don’t blame you. It’s a leak, is it?’
‘Yep. It’s the transcript you got that woman to do pretty much verbatim.’ Faulds held up his paper. ‘And now it’s splattered all over the front page of the Daily Record.’
McCoy winced. ‘So it definitely came from us?’
‘Had to. It’ll be like the bloody Spanish Inquisition over there the day.’
Coffees arrived. McCoy had a sip and put it back down. Instant twinge. He got the bottle of Pepto-Bismol out his pocket and took a swig.
‘Thought you were all better?’
‘I am,’ said McCoy. ‘Just developed a taste for it, that’s all.’
‘My arse,’ said Faulds. ‘I’ll try and set up an interview with Johnny Smart, see if I can make it through the lawyers.’
‘Good luck,’ said McCoy. ‘But I don’t think you’ll get anywhere near him.’
‘Probably not. But I have to try. Is it still Lomax?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Not any more. Now it all goes through some advocate in Edinburgh, offices in the New Town and “sir” in front of his name. Must be costing a fucking fortune, but Johnny’s got the money, I suppose.’
Faulds drew a cheque in the air and Linda nodded. ‘What you doing today?’
‘I was going to go into the office but fuck that for a game of soldiers. I’m not getting the third degree from Murray. I’m going to go and have a think. I’m getting nowhere with Wattie’s case. Really need a breakthrough.’ He sighed. ‘So, back to the beginning, see if we missed anything. Where would a runaway fifteen-year-old kid with no money go? Our only lead has disappeared off the face of the earth.’
Faulds took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. ‘Cold,’ he said. ‘You tried Sister Jimmy?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Not sure I can face it.’
‘Might be worth it. If anyone is going to know, it’ll be him.’
‘Where is he these days?’
Faulds looked at his watch. ‘This time of the day, God only knows, but he usually turns up in Equi about lunchtime and tries to drown his hangover in coffee. Assuming he’s got up by then, that is.’
McCoy got out his cigarettes and lit up. More stomach pain. Brought up the subject the both of them had been avoiding. ‘You think you’re going to find the boys before . . . you know?’
Faulds’s face clouded. He shrugged. ‘I hope so, but to be honest, Harry, we’ve got fuck all. We’re running out of time. Doesn’t look good.’ He shook his head. ‘And you know the worst thing? Plenty of people in this town are happy for it to happen, just waiting for the next boy to be dumped fuck knows where. You heard the wee girl died last night?’
‘Shite,’ said McCoy.
‘More fuel to the fire if you’ll pardon the expression. She’ll be front page of the afternoon papers. They’ll go over it all again. Killed as she got ready for a party, Communion photo, the works. For a lot of people that’s even less motivation to help us find the boys. Far as they’re concerned, the fuckers deserve what’s coming to them.’
Faulds stood up. ‘Better get going.’ He put his coat on, paid the bill and left.
McCoy sat for a bit, stirring the spoon in his cold coffee. Picked up Faulds’s paper. The transcript story went all the way through to page seven. Turned it over. Picture of Tom McCauley and his wife pictured in front of their nice big house.
