May God Forgive, page 23
He stopped in the street. Maybe that was the trouble. Maybe the reason the hairdresser’s had been set on fire was nothing to do with a turf war and the fire had been set for another reason. What was it Una had said? That it was only Carole who was supposed to be there that night. Carole the cleaner, who they had all ignored, was she something to do with it? It was worth following up and he was here now anyway. May as well. Started walking again, dug some money out his pocket.
Una was working behind the counter at Galbraith’s. Blue nylon tabard on. Faraway look on her face. Rang up his packet of Rich Tea biscuits and pint of milk before she realised it was him.
‘Sorry, miles away. You back again?’
‘Just passing through,’ said McCoy.
‘I saw you found that boy,’ she said. ‘May he rot in hell like the other two.’
Wasn’t what McCoy was expecting. Maybe he should have known better.
‘The girl Carole, that died in the fire? She lived with her mum you said?’ he asked.
Una crossed herself. ‘Her maw’s dead, Mr McCoy. They think she had a heart attack from the strain of it all and fell down the stairs in her close.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago,’ said Una. ‘God will never forgive me for saying this, but I’m half glad. She lived for that girl, looking after her was her whole life. When she found out she was dead, well, I’ve never heard anything like it, hope I never will again. Was the sound of someone dying inside, a terrible thing to hear. She’s better where she is now, back with Carole.’
McCoy left Una at the counter, walked out the shop and crossed Royston Road. Sat on the wall by Glenconner Park. He pulled the foil lid off the pint of milk and drank half of it back, opened his biscuits and ate one after the other.
Thought about Carole, thought about her mum. Wondered what the fire was really for. Started to think they might have had the whole thing wrong from the start.
SIXTY-SIX
Phyllis was weighing something horrible when he got to the morgue. McCoy looked away quickly, asked her how long she would be.
‘Twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Away and sit on your steps.’
Suited him fine.
McCoy sat down on the steps of the High Court next door and lit up. He’d spent more time on these steps than he had in the morgue itself. Anything to avoid seeing stuff like whatever was on those scales Phyllis had been using.
She appeared at the morgue door just as McCoy was finishing his cigarette. She looked up into the sky, scowled and put her umbrella up. Rain was on again. She came over and stood under the court entranceway.
‘If you think I’m sitting on wet stone in this coat, you are very much mistaken,’ she said. ‘You can buy me a drink or a cup of tea. Your choice.’
He plumped for the drink. The Whistling Kirk was across the road, but he hated the place, a coppers’ pub. The Empire was only five minutes up Saltmarket. Much more his style. ‘C’mon,’ he said, getting up. ‘I know a great place.’
‘I rather think I would have been better sitting on the wet steps than these chairs,’ said Phyllis, looking round.
‘It’s a great wee pub,’ said McCoy. ‘Full of character.’
Phyllis took in the collection of lowlife that made up the Empire Bar’s afternoon clientele. Men with bookies’ slips in front of them. An old woman in the corner having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there.
‘Full of something anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
McCoy went to the bar, ordered a pint and Phyllis’s drink. His pint came followed by a tumbler with half an inch of oily liquid in it and a wee bottle of tonic that wasn’t Schweppes plonked on the counter. Knew he was on to a loser, but he had to try.
‘Got any ice and lemon?’
The barman looked at him. Pot belly straining his dirty shirt. Smeary aviator glasses and a comb-over. ‘Where you think you are, son? Rogano’s?’
‘Fair enough,’ said McCoy, and scooped up the drinks.
Phyllis looked at hers with resignation, poured the tonic and took a sip, didn’t look happy.
‘So, Harry, what can I help you with?’ she asked, putting her drink back down and pushing it away.
‘Was that Moira Lownie’s autopsy you were just doing?’
Phyllis looked surprised. ‘It was. Why do you ask?’
‘Did she have a heart attack?’
Phyllis shook her head. ‘No. She broke her neck when she fell downstairs. Why do you ask?’
‘Could she have been pushed?’
Phyllis didn’t reply, just looked at him.
‘What?’
‘Until you tell me why we are sitting here discussing the unfortunate demise of Moira Lownie, I’m not answering any questions.’
‘Moira Lownie was the mother of Carole Lownie who was killed in the salon fire.’
‘Ah,’ said Phyllis. ‘And?’
‘Could she have been pushed?’ asked McCoy again.
Phyllis looked pained. ‘Well, I suppose so. There’s no evidence to suggest that, but short of someone seeing it happen, I’m not sure there would be. But she was a frail sixty-nine-year-old woman with emphysema who walked with a stick. It’s not difficult to imagine she tripped, or became dizzy and fell. Besides, who would want to push her?’
‘Not sure,’ said McCoy.
‘I know you, Harry, I can see the wheels turning behind your eyes. What’s going on?’
A man holding a carrier bag came into the pub, started walking round the tables, showing the people what was in it. Arrived in front of Phyllis. He held the bag open to reveal five or six blocks of cheese, Ferguson’s label and price sticker still on them.
‘Cheese, hen?’ he asked. ‘Good stuff.’
Phyllis looked puzzled. ‘I don’t quite understand. What—’
‘Move on, pal,’ said McCoy.
The guy closed the bag and shuffled off.
‘Was he selling that?’ asked Phyllis. ‘Stolen cheese?’
McCoy nodded.
Phyllis shook her head and McCoy carried on. ‘I’m wondering if one of the women was the intended victim of the fire, that it wasn’t all a horrible accident. Only Carole Lownie was supposed to be working that night. The others were there by coincidence. Maybe someone wanted to kill Carole Lownie.’
‘Then killed her mother?’ asked Phyllis. ‘Why?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Haven’t got that far yet. Anything weird in Carole’s autopsy?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Phyllis. ‘I didn’t do it. Gilchrist did it. We needed to get them all done as soon as possible so we split them between us.’
‘Can you look at his report? Check it?’
Phyllis shook her head. ‘Harry, Robert Gilchrist has been doing autopsies longer than I have. Carole died of smoke inhalation like the others.’
‘Just have a wee look, eh?’
Phyllis sighed.
‘Thanks,’ said McCoy. ‘I owe you.’
‘You always owe me. How’s Mr Murray?’
‘Frustrated like the rest of us. How does he seem to you?’
‘A bit distant, preoccupied. To be expected, I suppose. I’ll be glad when this is all over and I can persuade him to take a holiday.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said McCoy, standing up.
‘Where are you off to now?’
‘Royston.’
‘Royston. The Empire Bar. Stolen cheese. It’s a glamorous life you lead,’ said Phyllis.
McCoy grinned. ‘Want to come?’
‘Normally I would be delighted,’ said Phyllis. ‘But I have to go and check an autopsy report written by the senior medical examiner, apparently. Call me in the morning.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
McCoy opened the door of the Big Glen and walked through into the welcome dry of the lounge. The shop women were sitting at their usual table, deep in a cloud of cigarette smoke and hairspray. He bought himself a pint, walked over and sat at the table next to them.
‘The polis are back,’ said one of the women and they all turned to look at him.
‘Was looking for Una,’ he said. ‘She around?’
There was a moment of silence. An atmosphere he didn’t understand.
‘Don’t think we’ll be seeing her in here for a while.’ It was the woman with the perm from the butcher’s.
‘Why’s that?’ he asked.
Another moment of silence, some of the women started fiddling with their lighters, polishing their specs on their jumpers.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked McCoy.
Tom Jones was singing ‘Delilah’ in the background, pools man going round the tables collecting money.
Eventually one of the other women spoke. ‘She’s showing.’
It took McCoy a moment to realise what she meant. She’d been behind the counter when he’d seen her this afternoon.
‘You hadn’t noticed?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘You’re not the only one,’ said a woman in a pink fluffy jumper. Was meant to be whisper but she made sure it was loud enough for everyone to hear. Something about the women had definitely changed. Whatever Una had done, she’d stepped over some line. She wasn’t one of them any more.
The woman with the perm lit up a cigarette, waited for her audience’s total attention. ‘You no get it, son? She’s single, hasn’t got a pot to piss in. No sign of a wedding ring, or even an engagement ring.’
‘Ah,’ said McCoy, beginning to understand. ‘That’s not ideal.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said the woman. ‘Understatement of the century.’
‘Okay, since Una isn’t here maybe you ladies can help me.’ Looked round the table, none of them appeared to be in a particularly helpful mood. Decided to just carry on. ‘How did Carole get the job in the salon? From what I understand she was a bit . . .’
‘Simple,’ said one of the women. ‘She wasn’t quite right. Nice girl but not the full shilling.’
‘So how did she get the job? Did Dolly feel sorry for her?’
‘Wasn’t Dolly,’ said the one with the perm. ‘Her maw was never out the bloody chapel. Father McKenna fixed it up for her. Went to see Dolly and said she’d be doing everyone a great favour if she gave Carole a job. So she did.’
‘She have any pals I could talk to?’
The woman shook her head. ‘She just had her maw.’
McCoy left them there, had the feeling he’d got as much as he was going to from them. The ranks had closed. Una was on her own. Wondered who the father was. Some guy she’d met at the dancing probably. Good Catholic like Una wouldn’t be on the pill. Poor cow was paying for it now.
He started walking back into town. Not sure if he’d got any further. A mentally handicapped girl who lived with her mum, why would anyone want to kill her? Like just about everything else with this case, it didn’t make any sense. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree. Maybe nobody had wanted to kill Carole Lownie after all.
Realised he was back outside the Great Northern. The door opened and the man that had been with his dad stepped out.
‘Thought that was you coming down the road,’ he said. ‘Was watching out the window.’
The man was dressed in a pair of skanky jeans and a donkey jacket, brutal crew cut revealing a couple of scars on the back of his head.
McCoy went to walk on.
‘He knew it was you.’
McCoy stopped, looked at him, heart thumping. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your da’s no great, son. Got hit by a car a year or so ago. Hit his head on the road. Not really been the same since. Got a cig?’
McCoy dug in his pocket, handed the packet over, realised his hand was shaking. ‘Is he okay?’
The man lit up, shrugged. ‘Good days and bad days. Started telling me about his son, how he was high up in the polis. Said he was too ashamed to say who he was, wasn’t happy you’d seen him begging. Telling me how proud he was of how you were getting on.’
McCoy’s stomach felt like he’d been knifed, hand went to his pocket to get his Pepto-Bismol, realised he didn’t have any with him. Felt dizzy. ‘Where is he now?’
The man shrugged again. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Might turn up before they shut the doors, might not. Says this place is like hell’s waiting room. Hates it.’
‘Can I trust you?’ asked McCoy.
The man nodded.
McCoy dug in his pocket, pulled out a tenner, handed it to him. ‘Give him this, but get him to buy some food before he gets started on the drink, eh? Chips at least. And to get himself some new clothes.’
The man put the money in his pocket. ‘Will do. You all right, son? You’ve gone pure white.’
‘I’m fine.’ McCoy saw a cab coming along Royston Road. Hailed it and got in. Told the driver to take him home to Gardner Street. Didn’t answer when the driver asked him why he was crying.
27th May 1974
SIXTY-EIGHT
Tom McCauley had a large raw steak held up to his eye. He was standing over the brick fireplace in his front room, his wife fussing around him and a tubby Labrador sitting at his feet, staring at the steak.
‘He punched me right in the bloody eye,’ he said. ‘Soon wished he hadn’t, I’ll tell you that.’
McCoy forgot and sat down on the orange leather immediately sank into it, struggled to stay upright. Wattie decided to stay standing.
‘So what happened exactly?’ asked McCoy.
‘When you get to my age,’ said McCauley, ‘you get up to pee in the night. Just a fact. So I get up about half three and I’m standing there pissing—’
‘Tom!’ said his wife.
‘Sorry. I’m in the toilet and I hear a noise coming from Malcom’s room.’
His wife stood up. ‘I can’t hear this again, I’ll away and make some tea.’
‘So I open the door and some guy is standing there, window wide open behind him. He looks at me, and before I can say anything, the bastard punches me right in the eye. Hurt like fuck and it made me angry. So I hit him.’
McCoy looked at the builder’s big hand holding the steak.
‘You did more than hit him,’ said McCoy. ‘You knocked him unconscious.’
‘Aye, well, I was a boxer when I was young, made some extra money when I was working on the sites. Never goes away.’
The man Tom McCauley had hit was still out, lying on Malcolm’s bed being attended to by an ambulanceman.
‘So I hit him and then I called the polis.’
‘Maybe just as well you knocked him out,’ said McCoy. ‘Did you see what he had on him?’
McCauley nodded. ‘The policeman showed me. Dirty big knife.’
‘A dirty big knife and a cosh, to be precise,’ said McCoy. ‘Wattie, go and see if you recognise the bugger.’
Wattie headed for the bedroom.
McCauley took the steak off his eye, sat down on the leather armchair. ‘If it wasn’t for you, Malcolm would be dead. I don’t know how to thank you.’
McCoy shrugged. ‘We got lucky. How is he?’
McCauley shook his head. ‘Not good. Doesn’t seem to know where he is or what’s going on most of the time. He’s—’
‘Boss?’
McCoy looked up and Wattie gestured him into the hall.
‘Need you to have a look, I think it’s Sandy Gilmour.’
McCoy stuck his head round the bedroom door. Seemed to have been untouched. Poster of a racing car, Scotland team picture, the inside bit from The Dark Side Of The Moon. On the bed was a large man being sick into a paper bowl being held by the ambulanceman. He looked up when McCoy came in. Was Sandy Gilmour right enough. Was about to say something when he threw up again, missed the bowl.
McCoy moved back into the hall. ‘It’s him all right. Big bastard that he is.’
‘Sandy Gilmour doesn’t do anything unless there’s money involved,’ said Wattie. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘Trying to find Malcolm McCauley, I think,’ said McCoy. ‘Hence the knife and the cosh.’
‘Who’s paid him?’ asked Wattie.
‘Not sure,’ said McCoy. ‘But he’s never going to tell us. No doubt he’ll say it was an innocent breaking and entering and he forgot the knife was in his pocket.’
‘He work for Johnny Smart?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Trouble is, he works for everyone else as well.’
Back in the living room, McCauley had given up and handed the steak over. The Labrador was now in the corner of the room chewing away.
‘Where is Malcom?’ asked McCoy.
McCauley looked at him. ‘I’m not supposed to say. For his own safety.’
‘Okay,’ said McCoy.
‘But since it’s you, he’s in the locked unit at Leverndale.’
Leverndale was a large mental hospital on the Southside. Things were starting to make sense now. Whoever had been after him hadn’t been able to find him in the prison system. Thought he might be at home and if he wasn’t? The big knife would help his parents tell him where he was.
‘They’re assessing him,’ said McCauley. ‘Seeing if he’s fit to stand trial.’
‘Doesn’t sound like he is,’ said McCoy.
McCauley shook his head. ‘He’s not right.’ He looked up at McCoy. ‘I don’t know if this means anything, but I got to see him yesterday, half an hour.’ He smiled. ‘Took him twenty minutes to realise who I was. Anyway, when I was leaving, he said, “I’m sorry, Dad. If only she’d never given us the money.”’
SIXTY-NINE
‘She?’ asked Wattie as they drove back into Glasgow.
‘Probably just rambling,’ said McCoy, watching a man trying to get a dog to stop jumping up on him. Lights changed and they moved off again. ‘The boy’s head is scrambled. Like his dad said, he doesn’t know where he is half the time.’ He yawned. ‘Can you drop me off at Springburn?’
Didn’t want Wattie there when he told Cooper his suspicions about Paul. Had no idea how he was going to react. Less likely to go nuts if it was just him. Or so he hoped.
‘Where you off to?’ asked Wattie.
‘Need to see a man about a dog,’ said McCoy.
