May God Forgive, page 26
‘How long did this go on for?’ asked McCoy.
‘Six months or so. Then I told him I was pregnant, and everything changed.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He didn’t say much. Then his wife turned up at my door the next day. Have you met her?’
McCoy nodded.
‘I can’t read her. She’s all Legion of Mary but she must know what Dessie does for a living.’
‘Some people are good at not seeing what they don’t want to see.’
‘Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say I was terrified. She comes in and sits down, looks round the flat and says. “You are a gift from God.” Not what I was expecting, I can tell you. She sits beside me on the couch, takes my hands, stares right into my eyes. Tells me she and Dessie have been trying for kids for years, can’t have any. Says she’s barren. Horrible word, that is . . .’
‘Then?’ asked McCoy.
Una took another sip of her drink. ‘Then she tells me I’m a single woman living in a bedsit who works in a shop. There’s no way I can bring up a baby. She and Dessie are going to bring it up.’
‘Fuck,’ said McCoy.
‘She didn’t ask me. She told me. She’d take me to Ireland to have the baby and I was to stay there for a year. She’ll take the baby as soon as it’s born and come back to Glasgow.’
‘What did you say to that?’
Una shrugged, pulled a wee embroidered hanky out the sleeve of her jumper, wiped her eyes. ‘I didn’t know what to say. Half of me agreed with her. I wasn’t sure I could look after a baby by myself. She made it sound like she was doing me a favour, the baby wouldn’t want for anything.’
‘But?’
‘But the next week, Dessie takes me out again, some hotel near Loch Lomond. We have our dinner, and we go upstairs and . . .’ She stopped talking, wiped at her eyes again.
‘I meant it, Una,’ said McCoy. ‘You don’t have to tell me all this.’
‘I want to,’ she said. ‘I want someone to know. So after we’ve, you know, he sits up in bed, big grin on his face says, “I’m on a roll.” I ask him what he means and he says he’s got Carole pregnant too. I couldn’t believe it. He’s all proud of himself, thinks he’s some sort of big daddy. I thought I was going to be sick. I says, but Carole’s not right, she’s like a child, and he says, “I know, that’s why it was so easy.”’
She stared up at the ceiling, tried to stop the tears coming, but she couldn’t. Started crying, looked at McCoy. ‘And he’s going to be the father of my child. A man who could do something like that and boast about it.’
McCoy put his arm around her shoulder, let her cry it out for a bit. ‘Look, the baby’s yours. You don’t have to give it to Dessie and his wife.’
Una tried to smile, didn’t quite make it. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said. ‘The last thing his wife said to me before she left was that if I didn’t hand the baby over, she was going to find me and she was going to set Dessie’s boys on me. That they were going to rape me over and over, then they were going to cut me and then they were going to kill me.’
SEVENTY-SEVEN
McCoy sat back on the kitchen chair, took a sip from the McEwan’s can. Wattie had finally got Wee Duggie off to sleep after a long battle.
‘His bloody teeth better turn up soon,’ he said, opening a can. ‘This is murder.’
‘They will do,’ said McCoy. ‘What happened to Paul Cooper? Did you hear?’
Wattie nodded. ‘He’s in the Royal. Police guard on him. Your pal Stevie went up to see him, wasn’t happy about it. Shouting and bawling at every bugger.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said McCoy. ‘He going to be okay?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘They don’t think he’s going to make it through the night. He’s lost so much blood.’
‘Christ. Does Stevie know what happened at Equi? With Deke?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Wattie. ‘He saw Paul, but I don’t know if Paul was able to speak. He’ll find out though. He’s your pal, you know there’s no way he’ll let what happened lie.’ He reached behind himself and got another two cans off the counter. ‘Not sure I understand the whole story myself.’
‘Paul Cooper was the last one standing. Whoever killed Trisha O’Hara and Barrett wanted him dead.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Not sure, maybe McKenna.’
‘What? Father McKenna? Are you sure?’
‘Nope. And he wouldn’t soil his lily-white hands. Think he might have got Dessie to organise it all for him.’
Wattie screwed his face up. ‘Don’t know about that.’
‘Me neither, still trying to stick the whole thing together.’
‘So that guy Deke was working for Dessie all along?’ asked Wattie.
‘Looks like it, a spy in the camp. Just waiting for the right time to get to Paul. If I was Deke, you wouldn’t see me for dust.’
‘You really think Dessie killed Trisha and Barrett just because McKenna asked him to?’
‘Maybe,’ said McCoy. ‘Works for both of them. McKenna gets to be archbishop with no worries at getting exposed. Dessie has an archbishop in his pocket.’
‘And what about the fire? Who did that? And who killed the boys?’
‘Might be able to tell you tomorrow,’ said McCoy. ‘Have to go and see someone first.’
‘Who?’
McCoy tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling.’
Wattie shook his head. ‘You really can be a dick, McCoy. You know that, don’t you?’
‘You’re not the first to let me know, doubt you’ll be the last.’
They both turned as a wail came from the bedroom.
‘Penance,’ said Wattie. ‘Away and see to your godson while I tan the rest of these cans. Least you can do.’
28th May 1974
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Leverndale Hospital was on the south side of Glasgow. A grim Victorian building surrounded by huge grounds. McCoy yawned as he drove up the road to the front entrance. Wee Duggie had gone back to sleep eventually and the cans had got tanned, along with half a bottle of whisky.
He parked the car beside a Rover and got out. Stretched, took a swig of Pepto-Bismol and walked into the entrance. There was a reception desk just beyond the front door. He flashed his police card, looked as serious as possible, and told her he was here to see Malcom McCauley.
The lady behind the desk picked up the phone and called. Two minutes later a big lad with a set of keys the size of his fist appeared. Held his hand out. ‘Zebedee,’ he said.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ said McCoy.
‘No. My mum and dad are Plymouth Brethren and I’ve heard all the jokes, believe me. This way.’
After what seemed like half a mile of corridors they arrived at the locked unit. Zebedee started opening the three doors it took them to get inside.
‘How is he?’ asked McCoy. ‘Malcolm.’
‘He’s what I call a radio,’ said Zebedee. ‘Sometimes he’s tuned into our world, sometimes he’s tuned into a world of his own. You just have to get lucky when you speak to him.’
Malcolm McCauley was sitting on an armchair in the day room, blanket over his legs, half-eaten slice of toast on a plate on the arm of the chair. He was looking out at the grounds, seemed to be talking to himself.
‘Malcolm,’ said Zebedee. ‘Man here to see you. Wants to have a wee chat, okay?’
Malcolm didn’t respond.
Zebedee picked up the plate, shrugged. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
McCoy sat down next to Malcolm. Waited for a bit, wasn’t quite sure what to do. Realised Malcom had turned and was looking at him.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ said Malcolm. ‘But I don’t know where from. Were you in my class at school?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m a detective. I found you at the pub. Do you remember?’
Malcolm’s face clouded. ‘There were rats in that pub,’ he said. ‘I could hear them. In the walls.’
‘So you said.’ McCoy wasn’t sure this was his best idea but decided to keep going. ‘Your dad told me you said, “I wish she’d never given us the money.” Do you remember saying that?’
Malcom nodded, reached his hand up to rub his eye, and McCoy saw the bandage on his wrists emerge from the sleeve of his pyjamas. Suicide watch couldn’t have been working too well.
‘Why did you say that, Malcolm? Did you mean a woman gave you money to start the fire?’
Malcolm looked out onto the grounds again. A gardener with shears was walking towards a clump of rose bushes. ‘That’s what they used to cut Danny’s fingers off.’ Turned to McCoy. ‘Do you think they fed them to the rats?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘I thought I was set,’ he said. ‘Do something like that and I was in.’
‘In?’ asked McCoy.
‘In with the bad boys.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what I wanted to be. A bad boy.’
‘Why would you be in with the bad boys?’
Malcolm looked at him like he was stupid. ‘She was Dessie Caine’s wife. We were set.’
McCoy walked back to the car, lit up on the way. Tried not to think about the bandages on Malcolm’s wrists and whether he’d ever get out of there. He got in the car, turned the key. Took the key out again. The engine died and he sat there for a while. Watched the gardener. Tried to ignore the pain in his stomach. Tried to think.
SEVENTY-NINE
No lads at the front gate this time. McCoy walked up the path and knocked on the front door. Stood for a minute, waited. Was just about to turn and go when the door opened.
Chrissie Caine was standing there.
She saw him. Went to close the door.
McCoy stuck his foot in the gap and pushed his way in.
The big living room was empty. No one in Dessie’s seat, no Tosh sitting at the table, no heavies hovering in the background, no dog. He looked around, couldn’t believe it. All the pictures of Jesus had been turned to the wall. Every one of them. Statues of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece were facing the wall too.
Chrissie stood by the fireplace. Was only then McCoy realised she was swaying. Drunk.
‘What’s happened here?’ he asked.
She looked round at the walls. McCoy noticed the crucifix around her neck had gone too.
‘Maybe I don’t want to look at Jesus any more.’ She laughed. ‘Or maybe he doesn’t want to look at me.’
‘Where’s Dessie?’
‘You tell me. You saw the state he was in yesterday. Probably back in the garage.’
‘Been shopping, have you, Chrissie? Mate of mine saw you in Mothercare.’
The colour drained from her face. She pulled a chair out from the dining table and sat down. Leant over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. Splashed a good measure into her glass.
‘No shortbread and tea on a tray this time?’
Chrissie didn’t say anything, just sat staring into space.
McCoy went to move towards the table. Stepped back in fright. The dog that had growled at him last time was lying by the couch, half-eaten bowl of food by its head, dead eyes staring up at him.
‘What’s happened there?’
‘Rat poison,’ said Chrissie, not looking at him.
McCoy pulled out a chair, sat down at the table. ‘I know about Una. And the baby.’
‘You don’t know a fucking thing,’ said Chrissie. She grabbed the bottle, almost knocked it over, splashed more vodka into her glass. Drank it back.
‘What don’t I know?’ asked McCoy.
Was like she was talking to herself, just above a whisper. ‘What it feels like to live in hell.’ She took another glass off the sideboard, poured a good measure, handed it to McCoy. Was the last thing he wanted but he took it. She sat back on the chair.
‘Why are you in hell?’ asked McCoy.
She shook her head.
McCoy suddenly realised she was even drunker than he thought she was. She looked at him. She was having difficulty focusing, kept blinking, shaking her head.
‘You don’t know what it feels like every time you go to the shops you walk past babies in prams, wee toddlers holding their mum’s hand. Sixteen-year-olds with weans they don’t even want. And each time that pain gets worse and worse. So don’t you fucking dare tell me you know anything about me. You know fuck all about me.’
Chrissie took another swig, some of the vodka dribbling down her chin. Didn’t seem to care.
‘I put up with it all. With Dessie coming home covered in blood, with him pawing all over me stinking of beer and sweat. With him fucking everything that moved. Telling me I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I put up with this house, my house, being a fucking zoo, full of his boys drinking and talking filth and that fucking dog barking all day.’ She looked at McCoy. ‘I put up with it all because I wanted a baby. That’s all I ever wanted.’ She sniffed, wiped at her nose with her sleeve. ‘That baby’s Dessie’s, and we’re going to raise it, give it the home it deserves.’ She held up her glass. ‘Lucky me, all my dreams have finally come true.’
‘You don’t seem that happy about it.’
‘Don’t I? What the fuck do you care?’
‘I don’t,’ said McCoy. ‘I care about Carole Lownie though.’
Was like an electric current had gone through Chrissie’s body. Suddenly she was alert. Eyes focused.
‘Must have been a shock,’ he said. ‘To find out—’
‘That your husband had been fucking someone else?’ said Chrissie. ‘He’s been doing that for years, I told you—’
‘About the baby.’
Chrissie’s glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
‘How much did you pay the boys again?’ asked McCoy. ‘Twenty quid? That’s not much. All to get rid of one poor simple woman that your Dessie got pregnant. How’s that feel, Chrissie? That why you’re in hell?’
Chrissie’s head was down. She mumbled something under her breath.
‘What?’ asked McCoy. ‘Can’t hear you.’
She looked up at him, venom on her face. ‘It was sorted! It was all fixed, and then he got that stupid fucking girl pregnant. There’s no way Dessie’s having some halfwit kid trailing about after him. How do you think that looks? People laughing in the street. Dessie Caine fucked a retard and look what he got.’
Chrissie was shouting now, spittle flying out her mouth. She stood up, weaved her way to the sideboard, tried to get a cigarette out of an onyx box sitting on top of it. Couldn’t manage it. Turned, started to walk towards McCoy’s cigarettes on the table, stumbled, fell to her knees.
‘Get out my fucking house,’ she said. Tried to get herself up, couldn’t.
‘Five people died in that fire,’ said McCoy. ‘Two more boys to cover it up. Seven fucking people, Chrissie. All to keep Dessie’s reputation as a big man and so you could play happy families. Was it worth it?’
Chrissie looked up at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘Now get the fuck out my house.’
EIGHTY
Murray stopped making notes in the pad on his desk. Put his pen down. Sighed.
‘Let me get this straight. Malcolm McCauley, a boy whose mind has completely gone, tells you that Colin Turnbull, who’s now dead, told him it was Dessie Caine’s wife who paid them to set fire to Dolly’s Salon.’
McCoy didn’t like where this was going.
Murray continued. ‘And then, added to that, we have the drunken ramblings of Chrissie Caine, all relayed to you with no witnesses present. Correct?’
McCoy nodded.
Murray sat back in his chair. Looked tired, worn out by it all. ‘That’s not even enough to get her in for a formal interview, never mind charge her with anything. Have you got any evidence of Dessie kidnapping and killing the boys? Anything concrete at all?’
McCoy shook his head.
‘So what you are really telling me is that we’ve got nothing,’ said Murray.
‘Come on,’ said McCoy. ‘We’ve got to be able to—’
‘To what?’ Suddenly Murray was shouting. ‘You think I’ve decided not to proceed to annoy you? That it’s all about Harry bloody McCoy!’
‘No, it’s just that—’
Murray slammed his fist down on the table. Leant forward. ‘It’s just that we have no fucking evidence. We’ve failed to do our jobs. You may know what happened, but it means fuck all unless we can prove it. And we can’t. Do you understand that? Is that going in?’
McCoy nodded.
‘You want to put these people in jail? Then get me provable facts. Stop pouting and sulking because you think you’re so fucking clever and we’re letting you down. You hear me?’
McCoy could feel his neck going red. Murray wasn’t wrong. He’d been too quick to act the big man, tell him he’d solved the whole thing.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Aye, well, so you should be.’ Murray started fumbling for his pipe. Looked like the storm might have blown over.
‘So what happens now?’
Murray sighed. Sat back. ‘Three bad boys set fire to a hair salon for a lark. It should have been empty but unfortunately there were people in there. The boys get taken by vigilantes who kill two of them. We can’t find the vigilantes, but you know what? Most people think they deserved it so they don’t really care. No one has any appetite to charge the third one, so he stays in Leverndale all his days or until he manages to finally kill himself. Case closed. Everyone moves on and looks forward to the next grisly story to fill up the newspaper. That’s what happens.’
Murray finally found his pipe, lit up and disappeared into a cloud of smoke, waved it out the way. Continued. ‘It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again. So we bide our time and we get Dessie Caine for something else and we make sure the judge goes for the longest possible sentence and we have a quiet drink in the pub that night and kid ourselves that that makes it all okay.’
