May God Forgive, page 12
PLEASE HELP US FIND OUR SON.
Skimmed the article. Had a feeling the journalist was only just managing to stop himself saying whatever the bastard gets he deserves it. Probably what most of the readers thought too. Was about to get ready to go when he heard a horn, looked through the window, and Wattie was sitting in an unmarked Viva waving him over. He left the paper on the table, Tom McCauley looking up at him, and walked out the cafe. Money could do lots of things, but it couldn’t keep your kids safe, no matter how much of it you had.
TWENTY-NINE
McCoy got in the car, still annoyed he hadn’t grabbed that last slice of bacon.
‘How was your breakfast?’ asked Wattie, starting the engine.
‘Didn’t have any,’ said McCoy. ‘Just watched Faulds eat his.’
‘Nae joy. How’s he getting on?’
‘Going to try and get an interview with Johnny Smart, see if he can press him about the fire.’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ said Wattie, turning off London Road.
‘Speaking of lucky, how come you escaped the grand inquisition?’
‘Murray started off, then he says to me, “I’m wasting my time here, Watson. You have neither the guile nor the gumption to leak anything to the bloody press.” Didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended.’
‘Both, I think. Where we off to?’
‘To see what Dessie’s boys have been up to. Didn’t take them long, we only left there an hour ago.’
Twenty minutes later they were standing opposite what was soon to be the Open Arms pub – until a few hours ago that was. Now it was a mess. The low one-storey building, due to open in a week, had only just been finished. Now, every shiny new window had been smashed, glass all over the car park. Black paint had been thrown all over the white roughcast walls. The door had been kicked in and was now hanging at an awkward angle. The gutters had been pulled down and strewn all over the street, the drainpipes lying beside them. And, in a finishing touch, the big sign saying Opening Soon! now had three big black words painted on: IS IT FUCK.
‘Nice to see vandals have a sense of humour these days,’ said McCoy.
‘Wasn’t all laughs,’ said Wattie. ‘Apparently Dessie knocked fuck out the two bar staff that were setting up the place. One of them’s in hospital with a cracked skull and the other got his face rubbed up and down the roughcast wall. Worked like a cheese grater apparently. He’s going to need skin grafts and all sorts.’
‘Let me guess, neither of them saw who just about killed them?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘They came up behind me, officer.’
A Jaguar pulled in and Murray got out, looking exasperated. ‘Sir,’ said Wattie, walking over to greet him. Was soon stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Any progress on your case yet?’ barked Murray. ‘Do we know who the girl is?’
‘Well,’ said Wattie looking flustered, ‘things are going a bit slower than I’d hoped, so—’
‘No is the answer. So what the fuck are you doing here? Go and make some bloody progress instead of wasting your time.’
Wattie scuttled off, Murray glowering after him.
‘Don’t need to ask what kind of mood you’re in then,’ said McCoy.
‘You surprised? Take it you heard about the leak?’ asked Murray.
McCoy nodded.
‘I swear to God, when I catch the bugger that did it, their life won’t be worth living.’
McCoy debated whether to say it. Quickly decided Murray’s mood couldn’t really get any worse. ‘I know it’s not my business, but it seems pretty obvious who it was.’
‘Who?’
‘Got to be Colin Stones,’ said McCoy. ‘You sacked him in front of all his pals. This is the perfect way to get revenge and some money at the same time, and he’s the type to do it.’
Murray didn’t say anything. Started looking for his pipe. ‘Not much you can do about it now though, if he did. He’s had his jotters already. Might as well call off the witch hunt.’
Murray couldn’t find his pipe in any of his pockets. Swore. Stopped looking. ‘I shouldn’t have done it, should I? Sacked them?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Maybe could have waited until you had the three of them alone.’
Murray looked round, walked over to the low wall surrounding the pub and sat down. McCoy sat down beside him. A few boys on bikes were circling, no doubt waiting for the opportunity to get through the smashed door and see what they could take.
‘Managed to make a good job of destroying the place,’ Murray said, nodding over. ‘Give us one of your bloody cigarettes.’ McCoy gave him one and he lit up. Grimaced. ‘These are bloody awful. I don’t know how you smoke them.’ He took another drag, dropped it on the ground and stamped it out. ‘It’s a lot of work. Running two stations, these bloody boys, trying to keep on top of everything.’
McCoy nodded.
‘Phyllis told me not to take the other station on.’ He smiled. ‘She was probably right. Appealed to my vanity, I suppose. Only I can sort things out. And look where we are now. Tobago Street’s in bloody mutiny, time is running out for those boys, I’m firing people left, right and centre, and now you’ve got me sitting in front of a wrecked pub in the back arse of Riddrie.’ He looked over at the pub. ‘So why am I here?’
McCoy pointed. ‘This pub belongs to Johnny Smart, not that you’ll find him anywhere near the paperwork. Him and Dessie Caine have been snapping at each other’s heels over who runs Haghill.’
‘Haghill?’ said Murray. ‘Really?’
‘I know. But territory is territory, I suppose. Anyway, turns out Dessie owns Dolly’s Salon.’
‘Does he now? That’s never come up.’
‘Well, just like Johnny Smart and this pub, his name’s nowhere near it, but it’s his. So, I’m thinking maybe all this – the fire, the dead women, the kidnapped boys – is all the beginning of another turf war.’
‘Christ,’ said Murray. ‘You sure Johnny Smart ordered the fire at the salon?’
‘Nope,’ said McCoy. ‘But if he did, maybe he thought it was going to be empty, didn’t mean to kill anyone. Then he finds out he’s got blood, a lot of blood, on his hands. Needs to move fast to stop everyone knowing he’s the bastard that did it and hanging him from the nearest lamppost. So he starts cleaning house. Getting rid of the boys before they could tell anyone why they did it. Makes it look like some vigilante revenge thing.’
Murray took his hat off, ran his hands through what was left of his reddish hair, put it back on. ‘All this to run fucking Haghill? All these people dead for that shithole?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Not everything does,’ said McCoy. ‘We spend our days trying to find out who did what, why they did it, what their motive was. Trying to tie everything up into neat little parcels. No unanswered questions, no loose ends. Sometimes things just aren’t that neat. We want the death of five people in an arson attack to mean something, to have a reason, to find the person that did it, get them jailed. It’s what we’re trained to do. But maybe it was just a stupid accident, maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
McCoy realised Murray was looking at him. ‘What?’
‘Since when did you turn into a bloody philosopher?’
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy. ‘Got a bit carried away.’
Murray looked serious. ‘Doesn’t matter why Johnny Smart did it. If he ordered the fire, he’s responsible for what happened, and if you’re right, he’s responsible for trying to cover it up as well. We got anyone on his payroll?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘He runs a tight ship. No leaks, no touts, as far as I know.’
‘Great,’ said Murray. ‘So we have to deal with his bloody Edinburgh lawyer. With no evidence to question him. Who’s your source about Dessie owning the salon?’
‘Stevie Cooper.’
‘Fuck sake!’ said Murray. ‘Not exactly what you’d call a reliable witness. Besides he’s got skin in the game. Seeing Johnny Smart go down would suit him just fine.’
‘I don’t think he’s making it up,’ said McCoy. ‘Spoke to a young guy who used to work for Dessie.’
‘Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Either way it doesn’t help us. We need corroboration, someone else who knows about the salon. You get me that and we’ll go after Johnny Smart all guns blazing.’ He waved over the uniform standing beside his car smoking. ‘Meanwhile I’ll get Faulds on Johnny Smart’s wee hidey-holes. His pubs and his lock-ups and his warehouses. Those two boys must be somewhere. You want a lift to the station?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Got to go and see someone for my sins. He’s a toerag but he might help us figure out who the girl is.’
‘Is Watson doing a decent job?’ asked Murray. ‘I worry about him.’
‘I know you do,’ said McCoy. ‘But he’s doing everything he’s supposed to be doing. It’s all a bit by the book, but that’s just inexperience. He’s getting there.’
Murray didn’t look convinced.
THIRTY
Equi was an Italian cafe on Sauchiehall Street. Bright blue sign on brown mosaic. Looked like it belonged in Naples rather than Glasgow. It sold pasta, ice cream and frothy coffee to students from the art school, shoppers and office workers. Single cups of tea to old women who took an hour to drink it, really just there to enjoy the warmth and the company.
McCoy pushed the door open and went inside. Ordered a coffee at the counter and made his way to the back where Sister Jimmy was sitting in his usual booth. He looked like he hadn’t been home yet. Jet-black hair in a Bryan Ferry quiff, silver jean jacket and chipped black nail varnish. He looked up, saw McCoy and let out an audible moan.
‘No the day, McCoy, please God. I’m hanging. Can you no see I’m dying here?’
McCoy could. Sister Jimmy had black bags under his eyes, reeked of booze and cigarettes, and his platform-booted foot was drumming on the lino floor. Wasn’t hard to picture the previous twenty-four hours.
McCoy sat down, took his jacket off and looked at him. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Spider’s black bombers. Enough rum and Coke to sink a battleship. Forty Regal. Couple of joints to try and calm down, which haven’t worked. The Muscular Arms then Vintners then Clouds then someone’s flat in the West End, then a couple of pints at the Empire Bar at eight this morning when it opened. How am I doing?’
Sister Jimmy put his head in his hands and groaned again. ‘Too bloody well. Don’t remind me. You tried they black bombers of Spider’s? He’s punting them cheap out the toilets in the Arms. Now I know why.’
‘Yep,’ said McCoy. ‘They blow your bloody head off. Made me leather some kid in the Broomie.’
The waitress approached with two coffees and a Coke. Sister Jimmy drank the juice down in one, burped and started ladling sugar into his coffee.
‘I think I’m going to puke,’ he said. ‘Don’t have any of they black bombers left, do you? Kill me or cure me.’
McCoy dug in his pocket and put the pills on the table. Sister Jimmy reached for them, but McCoy blocked his hand. ‘Not until you tell me what I need to know.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Sister Jimmy. ‘That’s pure torture. You should be ashamed of yourself.’ He lit up another Regal, blew the smoke in McCoy’s face. ‘If you don’t give me them, then you and I are going to fall out.’
‘I’ll live,’ said McCoy. He got the photo strip out and laid it next to the pills. ‘Boy in the bottom picture. Blond hair. You seen him around?’
Sister Jimmy looked at it, shook his head.
McCoy sighed. Really didn’t have time for this. ‘He’s a good-looking fifteen-year-old boy floating about town with no money and nowhere to stay. It’s got you written all over it. Now, where is he?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sister Jimmy with all the hauteur of an elderly dowager. ‘That boy swore to me he was eighteen. I was framed.’
‘That right?’ said McCoy. Tapped the picture. ‘I don’t give a fuck about that. Just tell me where he is.’
Sister Jimmy sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette, didn’t say anything.
‘Let me make this easier for you. He’s called Paul Cooper, as I’m sure you know. What you probably don’t know is he’s Stevie Cooper’s son and unless you start talking, I might have to forget myself and let slip to Cooper that you’ve been hanging about with him.’
McCoy didn’t think it was possible, but Sister Jimmy’s face suddenly went even whiter.
‘You wouldn’t do that.’
‘Yes, I would,’ said McCoy. ‘And you know it.’
Sister Jimmy sighed. ‘He’s staying at the Big House.’
‘What’s that?’
Sister Jimmy looked quite pleased with himself. ‘You don’t know? My, my, McCoy, you’re slipping. Used to be a time when you knew everything that was going on. It’s a squat in Garnethill Street. Hippies, Hare Krishnas.’ He sniffed. ‘Not exactly my scene but that’s where he is. All a bit dirty fingernails and mung bean stew for my liking, but they take anyone in. Well, that’s where he was . . .’
‘What does that mean?’ asked McCoy.
‘Doubt he’s still there. They were threatening to throw him out. Beat one of the hippies up. Not exactly peace and love. They were having a house meeting about it last night. Can you imagine? I’d rather be boiled in oil.’
‘And if he’s not there?’
Sister Jimmy shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. God knows he’s a good-looking boy, but he’s a bit wild even for me, and I like them rough, got the bruises to prove it. Makes sense now, Stevie Cooper being his dad. They’re not that different.’
‘What about the girl?’ asked McCoy. ‘Recognise her?’
Sister Jimmy looked at the picture again, shook his head. ‘I’m not very good with girls, not my area of interest, to be honest.’
‘You know Dirty Ally’s dead?’
Sister Jimmy raised his eyebrows.
‘Killed himself.’
‘That’s a shame. For a dirty old lech he wasn’t the worst.’
‘You ever supply him with models?’ asked McCoy.
More raised eyebrows. ‘Well, I may have steered a few aspiring young people his way. He paid good money, you know.’
‘The girl and Paul. Would he have been interested in them?’
‘You kidding?’ said Sister Jimmy. ‘Two lookers like that? He’d have been all over them like a cheap suit.’
McCoy pushed the two pills across the table. Sister Jimmy picked them up, swallowed them over with a gulp of his coffee.
‘Gracias,’ he said. ‘You’ve saved my life.’
McCoy stood up, went to go.
‘Harry?’ he said. ‘Don’t tell Cooper anything. Please. My life’s fucked up enough without him after me.’
McCoy nodded, headed out the cafe. Was still making his mind up.
THIRTY-ONE
Dolphin Place was in genteel Pollokshields. A wide road of red sandstone flats near Maxwell Park, which meant it had taken McCoy and Wattie far longer to find than it should have. The Southside was a mystery to both of them: wasn’t their patch, wasn’t where they lived, wasn’t somewhere they ever went.
McCoy pulled in by number 16. Took the key out the ignition and the engine died.
‘At long bloody last,’ said Wattie.
‘Stop your moaning,’ said McCoy. ‘You’re supposed to be the navigator.’
‘First I’ve heard,’ said Wattie. ‘And how the fuck would I know where it is? I’m from bloody Greenock.’
‘And you’ll be going back there if you keep up that insubordination. I’m your senior officer and I should be treated with respect.’
Wattie snorted and got out the car.
The close was wide and cool, ornate tiles halfway up the walls and curved wooden banisters. A cat was sitting on the first step. Wattie bent down to pet it and it started purring.
‘You know this is going to be a waste of time?’ he said. ‘Just like the cupboard at Paddy’s Market. Don’t know why you’re still so convinced the girl from the graveyard is going to be in some dirty pictures.’
‘Stop complaining,’ said McCoy as they started to climb the stairs. ‘We’ve got fuck all other leads and at least you’ll get another scud mag out of it.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Wattie. ‘Mary found the other one.’
‘Oops. Did she batter you with it?’
‘Worse. Gave me a bloody lecture about disrespecting women and exploitation and God knows what. Went on for about half an hour until the wee man started bawling. First time I’ve been glad he’s teething. This it?’
McCoy nodded. They’d arrived at a green-painted door with a stained-glass window depicting some sort of country scene. Half of it was covered by a board taped on from the inside. A brass name plate saying Drummond was on the wall next to the bell.
‘I thought he’d be living in some bedsit surrounded by scud mags and chip wrappers,’ said Wattie. ‘This is too posh for him.’
McCoy turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. First thing they saw was a grandfather clock ticking away, weight swinging back and forward. The next was books, loads and loads of books. The hall floor was covered in them. Open, shut, half ripped apart. The bookshelves lining the walls were empty. Dark rectangles on the walls showed where pictures had been pulled off and dumped on the floor. There was a dresser, drawers pulled out, and what looked like bed linen and tablecloths strewn everywhere.
‘Christ,’ said Wattie. ‘What a mess.’
They picked their way through the books, couldn’t avoid standing on a few, and McCoy pushed open a wooden door with another stained-glass scene. There was a round Victorian table in the window bay, huge crystal vase full of lilies smashed on the floor beside it. Two armchairs and a settee had been slashed over and over again, most of the stuffing joining more books on the floor. There was a piano at the other end of the room that looked as though someone had drawn a knife across it a few times, deep gouges in the shiny wood. Smashed Wally dugs in the fireplace, radiogram on its side, records and their sleeves everywhere.
