May God Forgive, page 13
‘I know it’s a fucking mess now but how did Dirty Ally afford this kind of place?’ asked Wattie. ‘And if he had all this, what the fuck was he doing selling old scud mags at Paddy’s Market?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said McCoy. ‘Not what I was expecting at all.’
They went through the rest of the flat and it was all much the same. What once had been a beautifully furnished and cared-for home was now in ruins. Everything that could have been smashed had been. Every cupboard and drawer emptied onto the floor. Whatever it was the men who had broken in had been looking for, they had to have found it. McCoy had never seen anywhere so comprehensively turned over in his life.
They sat down at a table in the kitchen, the room with the least damage. McCoy noticed a miraculously intact half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on top of the fridge.
‘Don’t think Ally would grudge us,’ he said. Picked up two cups from the floor, gave them a rinse and poured a good measure into each.
‘Don’t think there’s going to be many photo sets of randy housewives here,’ said Wattie, taking a gulp.
‘Nope,’ said McCoy. ‘Here and Paddy’s Market. It’s like two different worlds. Doesn’t make any sense at all.’ They sat for a minute listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Stripes of sunlight across the kitchen wall. ‘There’s no way his Paddy’s business paid for all this. So what did?’
‘Family money?’ said Wattie.
McCoy shook his head. ‘His sister was as surprised he lived here as we were. Needs to be something much bigger.’
‘And illegal, no doubt,’ said Wattie. ‘Maybe that’s why he kept the Paddy’s Market stuff going. So no one would suspect.’
‘That, Watson,’ said McCoy, ‘is a very good point.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to take one more poke about. Care to join me?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie. ‘I’ll just sit here enjoying this whisky I’ll never be able to afford in this flat I’ll never be able to afford because I’m a fucking polis and not a scud bookseller.’
McCoy opened the door to Ally’s bedroom. He sat on the bed and looked at the few books remaining on the bookshelf in front of him: André Gide, Ford Madox Ford. Kept scanning along until he found an author he knew. Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son. Had heard of Charles Dickens, but not that book.
He stood up, walked over to the desk on a carpet of hard-backs, righted the chair and sat on it. There was a picture in a silver frame. Smashed glass. He peered at it, made out a sunny garden, two little kids squinting in the sun, looked like Ally and his sister. McCoy looked through the open desk drawer. A selection of fountain pens, Ally’s passport, a bottle of pills, a certificate of graduation rolled up in a tube. Alistair Drummond, First Class Honours in English Literature, University of Glasgow, 1954. He rolled it up, put it back in the tube. Wasn’t getting anywhere.
He looked under the bed. Nothing. Opened the wardrobe. Cord trousers, tweed suits, Tattersall shirts. Stuck his hands in the suit pockets, found a fiver, pocketed it. Sat back on the bed. If Ally had anything to hide, where would he hide it? Could hear Wattie pouring himself another drink in the kitchen. Could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock.
McCoy stood up again and walked through to the hall. Stopped in front of the clock. He opened the glass-panelled door and the ticking got louder. He put his hand out to stop the weight and the ticking stopped. He felt behind the weight. Right down at the bottom he could feel something like a rolled-up bit of leather. He pushed his hand in, and pulled it out. It was about a foot long, and it felt like there was something metal inside. A gun? He unrolled it and two spare clock weights fell out onto the carpet.
McCoy swore, rolled them back up and put the leather bundle back in the clock case. He realised he was standing on a copy of Ally’s own book, The Love Chamber. Picture of an angst-ridden young man on the front, what looked like a mansion in the background. He picked it up and felt something shift inside. Had to pull hard to open it, seemed the front cover had been glued to the pages. Managed to get it open and realised why.
The pages of the book had been hollowed out and in the cavity was a large key with a square hoop of metal at the top and two other little keys attached to heavy oblongs of plastic by a circle of wire. The oblongs were orange with black writing. One said Happiness Hotel, Room 1. The other, Happiness Hotel, Room 2. McCoy put the three keys in his pocket and dropped the book. Called through to Wattie, told him they were going.
THIRTY-TWO
‘I don’t get it,’ said Wattie. ‘He was staying at a hotel as well as the Great Northern?’
‘Maybe,’ said McCoy. ‘But why two rooms?’ He looked up from his desk. ‘You heard of the Happiness Hotel?’
‘Nope,’ said Wattie. ‘Hang on.’ He walked over to the filing cabinet next to Thomson’s empty desk and came back with a Yellow Pages. He put it down on McCoy’s desk and started flipping through.
‘There’s a Hazelbank Hotel, a Hillview guesthouse.’ Looked up. ‘That’s about it. Maybe it’s just a souvenir thing he brought back from his holidays.’
‘But why hide it in a book? And what’s the other key for?’
‘Fuck knows. Whatever they are, they’re no helping us.’
McCoy lit up. Wattie was right, they were getting precisely nowhere. Still no Paul Cooper, still no idea who the girl was. Wondered how Faulds and Murray were getting on with Johnny Smart and his Edinburgh lawyers. Johnny Smart was a weird one, had almost made it into being legit. Had garages, a taxi company, accountants to cover his tracks. The gangster’s dream. Trouble was you had to spend as much time maintaining the lie as it took you to get there. Would he really want to get involved in a turf war at this point? Probably. Just like all the others, he couldn’t quite let it go. People like Johnny Smart never really went legit, just spent a lot of time and money trying to pretend that they had.
Just then Faulds came through the office door.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said McCoy. ‘How’d you get on?’ Faulds came over and sat down. Didn’t look good, looked tired and downtrodden. McCoy had forgotten how much being on the front line of a big investigation took out of you. No sleep, constant pressure. Worse when you weren’t getting any results. ‘You want a cup of tea?’
Faulds nodded.
‘No worries. Wattie, three teas, please.’
Wattie swore and wandered over to the kitchen.
‘How’d it go with Johnny Smart?’
‘Lawyers wouldn’t let us see him. Said we didn’t have adequate reason for an interview. The bugger’s right.’
‘Christ,’ said McCoy.
‘That’s not all. Sent us away with a flea in our ear. Made it perfectly clear if we mention any kind of connection between his client and the salon fire, he will sue us for all he’s worth. Defamation.’
Wattie appeared a few minutes later with the teas, put them down. ‘Billy’s eaten all the biscuits.’
Faulds yawned, took a sip of his tea.
‘How’s Murray?’ asked McCoy.
Faulds shook his head.
‘That bad?’
‘Left him marching up and down outside Pitt Street trying to calm down before he goes in.’ He pulled an Evening Times from his jacket pocket. ‘And this isn’t exactly helping.’
McCoy unfolded the paper. Front page. Big black headline.
WHERE ARE THEY?
He skimmed through the article. Usual rehash of the salon fire then a gory description of what had happened to Colin Turnbull and questions as to why the police hadn’t yet found the other two boys.
‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘Always nice to have the press on your side.’
Faulds put his mug on the desk, looked like he was about to fall asleep.
‘Look, Hughie, you’re dead on your feet. Away home and get a couple of hours.’
Faulds nodded, yawned again. Went to make for the door.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Wattie. ‘Need to go and get fags.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘You want anything?’
McCoy shook his head. Thought. Called after them.
‘Get me a bar of Fruit & Nut!’
Chocolate and Rich Tea biscuits were about the only things he could eat these days. He’d soon be putting the weight back on, at least. He flicked through the rest of Faulds’s paper. More bombs in Belfast. A wee toerag whose picture he recognised jailed for robbing a pensioner. Bruce Forsyth opening a supermarket in Kilmarnock. Poor bugger. Stopped. There was a picture in the top half of page five. Home news.
Three men standing behind a table with a model of a chapel that looked like a bunker. Read the caption. Diocese announce new chapel in Royston. Father Samuel McKenna and leader of the fundraising committee Desmond Caine discuss plans with the architect.
And there he was. Dessie looking sweaty in a new suit, smiling at the camera. McCoy read through the article. Father Samuel McKenna, soon to be crowned Archbishop of Glasgow, acknowledging Mr Caine’s sterling fundraising actions and his determination that Royston should have a new chapel. A quote from the architect blabbering on about modern places of worship for a modern city and Dessie thanking all his donors.
McCoy sat back in his chair. Dessie was becoming a Holy Roller right enough. And just like Johnny Smart, he was going to have a job of making sure the mask didn’t slip. Especially now he was big pals with McKenna.
Glasgow was changing. All the old boys were scrambling about, desperate to get legit. One minute you’re slicing someone’s nose off with an open razor, next minute you’re in the Knights of St Columba, eating Chicken Balmoral at a charity dinner and exchanging chit-chat with the Archbishop.
The stakes were getting raised. Everything they wanted now, Johnny Smart and Dessie Caine, depended on one thing. Staying out of trouble, or, more accurately, making sure they couldn’t be connected to trouble. McCoy stood up, picked up his cigarettes and headed for the door. Wondered exactly how far they would go to make sure that didn’t happen.
This wasn’t about taking over a rival’s pub or getting one up on each other any more. It was way past that. McCoy had a feeling that there wasn’t much either of them wouldn’t do now. Didn’t matter if it was to each other or to anyone else who got in the way. This was about survival.
24th May 1974
THIRTY-THREE
The call had been made half an hour ago, at six forty-five. A milkman this time. Just finishing his round when he saw a car pull up and dump what he thought was a rolled-up carpet on the pavement. Went to have a look. Threw up when he realised what it really was.
The body had been left outside 18 Wellshot Road, a main-door flat opposite Tollcross Park. McCoy was just about to ask one of the uniforms if they’d seen Murray when the door of the flat opened. A young woman being supported by a female police officer appeared. She’d blonde hair poking out a headscarf, head was down, crying, looked like she was holding onto the officer for dear life. The female officer was shushing her, arms around her, telling her it would be all right. She didn’t look like anything would ever be all right again.
‘Who is she?’
Wattie looked at his notebook. ‘Helen Glen, aged twenty-eight, works at Frasers in town, make-up counter. Lives by herself.’
‘So why did they dump the boy here?’ asked McCoy.
‘Her sister’s funeral is today.’
They turned and Murray was standing there, empty pipe in his mouth. ‘The funeral is supposed to leave from here this afternoon. And instead of offering our sympathies we’re standing here looking at another dead boy taken on our watch.’
‘You tried,’ said McCoy.
‘Not hard enough,’ said Murray. ‘Imagine that was your son. You think “you tried” would satisfy you? Not even a bloody trial to decide whether they did it or not, just a vigilante mob and a dead body dumped in the street.’
McCoy looked over at the tent that had been erected over the boy’s body. Could see Phyllis changing into her overalls, uniforms setting up rope barriers around the front of the house. Tried not to look at the blood pooled on the street.
‘So is this some sort of reward thing? Here’s the boy who killed your sister?’
Murray took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Looks like it. They knew what was going to happen today. Everybody does. Picked their moment. This funeral is going to be huge. They had to move it to the cathedral to try and accommodate all the mourners and they’re still expecting thousands more outside. Archbishop is doing the service, last one before he retires.’ He nodded over at a line of bored men. ‘Press boys tell me all the big papers are sending people up from London.’
‘Which one of them is it?’ asked McCoy.
‘Danny Walsh,’ said Murray. ‘What’s left of him.’
‘Was there a note like before? A tape?’ asked McCoy.
‘Note said, “Two down, one to go”, same biblical thing as last time and another yellow cassette. In the boy’s mouth this time.’
‘And the boy? What happened to him?’
‘You’d know if you went and had a bloody look.’
‘Come on, Murray, give me a break.’
‘Same as the last one. Battered and burned and knifed, except this time they decided to cut some of his fingers off. He’s only got six left. Rest are in the pockets of his jeans.’
McCoy’s stomach lurched. He turned away, tried to breathe slowly.
‘Phyllis is going to take the body back to the morgue as soon as she can. I want you to be there when she does her report.’
McCoy was about to object, saw the look on Murray’s face, didn’t.
‘Watson?’ said Murray.
‘Sir?’
‘Make yourself useful. Go and check how the door-to-doors are getting on. See if anyone saw them dump the body.’
Wattie nodded, set off towards the flats. ‘She didn’t look too pleased about what had happened,’ said McCoy. ‘The sister.’
‘No,’ said Murray. ‘That’s one good thing. Last thing we need is her saying justice has been done and congratulating whoever did it. Would send the mob into a bloody frenzy.’
‘Might still come,’ said McCoy. ‘Once she gets over the shock. And the press gets hold of her.’
‘That’s why I’m off to see the Archbishop. Going to ask him to make his speech about he who casts the first stone et cetera. Hopefully quieten the crowd down.’
‘You met him before?’ asked McCoy.
‘Civil dinners, charity things. Usual bloody roundabout of civic nonsense.’
‘You met the new one?’
‘Father McKenna? Couple of times. Very much the coming man, I believe, on the fast track. Archbishop of Glasgow just another stepping stone. Why?’
‘Saw a picture of him in the paper the other day. With Dessie Caine.’
Murray rolled his eyes. ‘Ah. The sainted bloody Dessie. You know they tried to sit him next to me at a Knights of St Columba dinner once? I told them exactly where to shove that idea, made sure he heard me too.’
‘You not buying his transformation into model citizen then?’
Murray snorted. ‘Not a bit of it. He’s an evil bastard, always has been, always will be.’
McCoy got his cigarettes out, started counting on his fingers. ‘First body was dumped on Wednesday. Today’s Friday. I bet the next one will be dumped on Sunday. One every two days.’
‘Christ.’
‘We’ve got forty-eight hours to find Malcom McCauley. And we’ve got no fucking clue where to look.’
A uniform walked over from the tent. Brown paper evidence bag in hand. Gave it to Murray.
‘What’s that?’ asked McCoy.
‘The tape,’ said Murray. ‘You, me and Faulds are going to go and listen to it. No transcripts this time. Not making that mistake again. You ready?’
McCoy nodded. Never been less ready for anything in his life. Between the body, the tape and the morgue, today was turning into a very bad day.
THIRTY-FOUR
It was the sound of the boy’s second finger being cut off that did it. The slice of the garden shears followed by half a second of silence then the worst screaming McCoy had ever heard. He grabbed the metal wastebasket, held his head over it. He retched a few times, hadn’t eaten enough to actually throw up, and tried to calm down, tried to breathe.
Murray was shaking his head. ‘Finished with the bloody histrionics?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Come on, Murray,’ said Faulds. ‘It’s fucking brutal. Feel a bit queasy myself.’
‘That’s no excuse. We’re police officers, no bloody school-children. You ready?’
Faulds nodded and Murray pressed play again.
The scream died out, replaced by sobbing and whimpering. And then the voice of Danny Walsh.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, please, please, please don’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t . . .’
He dissolved into sobs. Noise of someone laughing in the background. Then something that sounded like music in the background.
‘Can you play that bit again?’ asked McCoy.
Faulds rewound the tape.
‘Can you make out what it is?’ asked McCoy.
‘Sounds like “Danny Boy”,’ said Faulds.
‘Eh?’ asked Murray. ‘You sure?’
Faulds shook his head. ‘Too faint to be sure. The boy’s crying too loud.’
Tape kept going. Sound of someone scissoring the garden shears open and closed. High-pitched scream from Danny Walsh, broken, terrified, no doubt knowing how this was going to end. McCoy looked at Faulds. He was suffering too. His normally ruddy face was grey, and when he brought his cigarette up to his mouth, his hand was shaking. Tape kept going, spinning round on the little wheels.
Another voice. ‘Say it.’
Danny Walsh again.
‘Johnny Smart gave us money to set fire to the hairdresser’s. Said he wanted to get at Dessie Caine.’
Distant sound of traffic and air brakes. Sound of someone walking away from the microphone, a door opening and closing. Then Danny Walsh again.
