May God Forgive, page 27
‘What if that’s not enough?’ asked McCoy.
‘It has to be,’ said Murray. ‘We’re polis. We obey the law. End of story. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you realise you can’t win every time. No matter how much you want to. You move on, hope you get another chance to nail someone like Dessie Caine to the wall.’
McCoy left Murray’s office, sat back down at his desk. Hurt him to admit it but Murray was right. They had failed. Failed to do their jobs, failed to get a conviction. Let the women and the kids down. Even let the two boys down. He picked the bottle of Pepto-Bismol up off his desk and swallowed some over. He might have been smart or lucky enough to figure out what had happened, but it wasn’t going to do any good.
He thought about Chrissie lying drunk on the floor of her living room, Jesus with his back turned to her. No matter how much she drunk, she’d never be able to forget what she’d done. Seemed like she was in hell already. No Jesus any more, no Mass, no hope for the afterlife. Maybe that was all McCoy and Murray were going to get. That her life would never be happy, that she’d drink herself to death in a cycle of guilt and self-loathing, thinking about the fire every day.
‘Penny for them.’ Wattie was standing next to his desk, carrier bag in his hand. ‘How did it go with Murray?’
‘Not enough evidence,’ said McCoy.
‘Christ,’ said Wattie. ‘So what happens now?’
McCoy shrugged. Couldn’t bring himself to tell Wattie it was already done. That the fire was becoming the past, something they’d shake their head about and move on from.
‘What about the relatives? What are they supposed to think?’
‘Same as us all,’ said McCoy. ‘Three bad boys and a horrible accident.’
Wattie sat down. Put the bag on the desk, an orange furry head sticking out of it. ‘Billy on the desk told me to give you a message. Some bloke called Lachy phoned, said he had something for you.’
McCoy stood up. He needed a drink and going to see Lachy was the perfect excuse.
‘Want me to come with you?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy shook his head. ‘You’re all right. Away home and give Wee Duggie his new monkey.’
EIGHTY-ONE
Paddy’s Market was packing up for the day by the time McCoy got there. Stallholders already starting to clear away everything they were selling. He walked towards the back of the market, past the cafe and its smell of stale grease and towards Lachy’s pitch. He sold just about anything connected with electrics. Stall was piled high with a jumble of wire, batteries, soldering irons, toasters he’d fixed, radios he was working on.
‘You looking for me, Lachy?’
Lachy looked up from some electronics magazine he was reading. Looked completely blank.
‘It’s me, McCoy. Polis man.’
Memory kicked in. ‘So it is, son. You got my message then? I phoned the station, didn’t know what else to do.’
McCoy nodded. ‘Got it all right. That’s why I’m here.’
Lachy carefully folded the top corner of the page of the magazine he was reading, closed it. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’ve been better, Lachy. How about you?’
‘Bit the same. Funny thing is, I miss him. Ally. He was a crotchety old bugger, but he was a pal and I don’t have many left. Getting old, I suppose.’
‘You ever want to go back home?’
‘To Lewis?’ Lachy shook his head. ‘I’d like to see it again before I die but I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ He smiled. ‘Can hardly walk from here to the bloody Empire Bar any more, never mind make it all the way up there.’
‘So what have you got for me?’ asked McCoy.
‘Well, the owners want to rent out Ally’s stall, asked me to clear anything that was left in it. Did that, then remembered he had a box, kept it under the floorboards underneath his stall. It’s where he kept the bad stuff.’
Lachy looked a bit uncertain, rooted around in the carrier bags at his feet. Came out with a slim envelope file. Handed it over. McCoy took it.
‘On the top,’ said Lachy. ‘The first one.’
McCoy felt queasy, didn’t want to look, but he had to. He opened the file, took out the envelope on the top. Had a look. A couple of words in faded blue ballpoint pen that sent his stomach turning.
Harry 3/7/55. Full set.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ said Lachy. ‘I had to have a look, make sure it was you.’
McCoy felt dizzy, like he was looking at blood. ‘Ally told you?’
Lachy nodded. ‘You okay?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Going to get a drink. Come along to the Empire when you’re packed up. On me.’
‘Thanks, son.’
McCoy folded the file over, managed to stuff it into his jacket pocket, turned to go. Stopped. Looked back at Lachy’s mess of a stall. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked.
‘That?’ said Lachy. ‘It was under Ally’s stall as well. You can record over them, you know, use them more than once, I think. Someone’ll buy it.’
‘Can I have it?’ asked McCoy.
‘Sure, son,’ said Lachy. ‘I’ll get a plastic bag for you.’
Lachy disappeared behind the stall and McCoy picked up the big round reel-to-reel tape. There was a label on it. Same writing that was on the envelopes in his pocket.
Room 1
EIGHTY-TWO
McCoy sat at a table in the back of the Empire, pint and a whisky in front of him. He downed the whisky in one, took a slug of the pint, and pulled the file out his pocket with shaking hands.
Remembered now why Ian Barrett had seemed familiar when he’d seen him lying in Glenconner Park. He had met him before. A long time ago.
July, 1955. He’d been thirteen. Him and his dad were living in a single end in Shettleston. Damp on the walls, an outside toilet that was always broken. Two cushions his dad had got out the midden as a bed. Rats that came out the cracks in the wall as soon as it got dark. His dad had gone out on the Friday night for ‘a wee drink’, still hadn’t come home by Monday afternoon. McCoy had had no idea where he was. Could have been in hospital, jail, in some flat still drinking. He’d had two slices of bread on the Friday night for his tea. Since then, nothing. He was starving and he was scared.
He’d left the flat, wandered into town. Found himself in Hope Street looking in the window of a cafe. Was so hungry his stomach hurt. Noticed a man sitting in the window was looking at him, waving him inside. He went in, smell of the hamburgers and chips more than he could stand.
‘You look hungry, son,’ said the man.
McCoy nodded, could feel the saliva filling up his mouth.
‘Why don’t you sit down and we’ll get you something to eat,’ he said. ‘Have a wee chat . . .’
McCoy took another drink of his pint and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope. He reached inside, pulled out a set of negatives in a glassine bag. He took a strip out, held it up to the light in the ceiling. Looked at himself. Wiped his eyes, forced himself to look at all the photos. The ones Ian Barrett had taken that day to sell to Ally. Couldn’t look at them for long. Put them back in the envelope.
There were seven other envelopes in the file.
Elaine 12/2/60
Robert 15/7/59
Bobby 24/9/64
Jimmy 4/5/61
Samantha 20/10/68
Neil 23/8/70
Angela 8/7/70
And him. Harry 3/7/55. Just another victim. Just like the other names on the envelopes. Just like Carole Lownie and the girls in the salon and poor dead Trisha O’Hara lying dead in Sighthill Cemetery. He was sick of it, so sick of it. All the damaged people he’d seen, all the dead ones, or the ones lost to drink, desperately trying to obliterate their lives.
He wasn’t sure he could look at any more of them. Maybe he’d done it, reached his limit. Seen as much as he could stand. Time to stand aside and let someone else fight the good fight. Trouble was, there didn’t seem to be anyone else. He put the envelopes back, got up, ordered another pint and a whisky. Sat back down.
Maybe that’s what Chrissie Caine was now. Just another victim. He was sure she hadn’t meant to kill all those women. Just the one Dessie had got pregnant. All that damage for fucking Dessie Caine. The Dessie Caine that had tortured and killed those boys, tried to blame it on Johnny Smart. That wasn’t some accident. Dessie knew exactly what he was doing and where he was doing it. Killing them in a pub Johnny Smart probably didn’t even know he owned. Owner too terrified to say anything in case he got another razor across his face.
Dessie Caine knew exactly how much cutting off a finger would hurt. Exactly how much force it would take to squeeze the life out of Trisha O’Hara. Exactly how little people would care when someone like Ian Barrett was found dead. Exactly how thankful Father McKenna would be. Exactly how much he would be in his debt.
He drained his whisky.
And he was going to get away with it.
Drank half the pint.
Looked down at the plastic carrier bag by his feet.
Or maybe he wasn’t.
Lachy was walking towards him. ‘Took longer to pack up than I thought. You been watching the telly?’ Nodded over at the silent black-and-white set bolted to the wall in the corner.
‘Aye, something like that,’ said McCoy. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.’
McCoy sat there for the next couple of hours getting quietly drunk with Lachy. Content to just listen to his tales of his dad’s fishing boat, about coming to Glasgow in the thirties, about his son killed in the war. Was happy just to have the company.
He got the last round, proposed a toast. He held up his glass, as did Lachy.
‘To all the people that fell through the cracks,’ he said. ‘Gone but not forgotten.’
And by the time he and Lachy rolled out of there at closing time and McCoy put him in a taxi, he had a plan.
‘For all the people who fell through the cracks,’ he said to himself.
McCoy walked down towards the Clyde, to the back of Paddy’s. Didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. Three men and a woman passing a bottle, sitting round a metal barrel with a fire blazing in it.
He smiled at them, took a drink from the bottle when it was offered. Got the file out his pocket and fed the envelopes into the fire one by one. Last one was his. He watched the envelope catch, then a blue flame as the negatives caught fire. Watched it burn.
‘For all the ones who fell through the cracks,’ he said to himself, took another slug from the bottle. ‘For them.’
29th May 1974
EIGHTY-THREE
‘Five hundred quid,’ said McCoy.
Dessie Caine sat back in his chair and looked at him. They were sitting in the back of the Big Glen, Dessie’s heavy boys up at the bar keeping an eye on proceedings. Dessie had a couple of empty pint glasses on the table on front of him. Hadn’t started the real drinking yet. This wasn’t the Dessie he’d seen in the garage. This was the Dessie that ran Royston. In control.
‘Not much for what it is,’ said McCoy. ‘It’s what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? That’s why you broke into Ally’s flat.’
‘Might be,’ said Dessie.
‘Don’t give us it, Dessie. I don’t have time for you trying to play it cool. Thanks to your clean-up operation, that tape is the only thing left connecting McKenna to Trisha O’Hara. You have that, and McKenna’s right back in your pocket. New chapel gets built, you’re Saint Dessie again.’
Jukebox whirled and ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ started up.
‘Where did you get it?’ asked Dessie, nodding over to his lads to bring him another pint.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said McCoy. ‘Point is, I’ve got it. One-time offer. Five hundred quid. You in?’
Dessie lit up, cigarette held in tobacco-stained fingers. ‘Didn’t take you for the type, McCoy.’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I came to my senses. Not getting any younger. Need to look after number one these days.’
A man built like a wrestler delicately placed a pint down in front of Dessie, picked the empties off the table, took them back to the bar.
‘Tomorrow. Just you and me. No heavy lads like that clown. Right?’
‘Where?’ asked Dessie.
‘How about where it all happened? The Happiness Hotel. Room 1. Midday.’
Dessie took a slug of his pint, looked at McCoy over the glass. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Just ask your pal, McKenna,’ said McCoy. ‘He knows where it is.’ He stood up. ‘Remember, five hundred cash. Just you and me.’
Dessie nodded.
McCoy walked past the two heavies and out the pub. Leant against the wall, took his Pepto-Bismol out and drank half the bottle down. If Dessie Caine didn’t kill him, his stomach would. He put the lid back on the bottle, started walking down the road. Turned his collar up against the rain. Shoe was still leaking.
He’d done it. Put his plan in action. If Dessie turned up at the hotel tomorrow, it was all the proof he needed. Meant McKenna had told him where it was. Meant McKenna had definitely been the man in Room 1, the one who’d been following Trisha O’Hara, the one who got Dessie to kill her. Only twenty-four hours to find out.
30th May 1974
EIGHTY-FOUR
McCoy sat on the edge of the bed, chewed at his thumbnail. Had been up since six, couldn’t sleep. He’d called in sick, said his stomach was playing up and he was going to spend the day in bed. He looked round Room 1. Didn’t want to be here any longer than he needed to be.
‘For all the people that fell through the cracks,’ he said to himself. Had been saying it to himself over and over all day. Making himself believe it. He was just getting his fags out his pocket when there was a knock on the front door. Felt his stomach turn over, stood up, went down the stairs and opened the door.
Dessie Caine was standing there, suit and tie, still reeking of last night’s beer, fag in hand.
‘You by yourself?’ asked McCoy.
Dessie nodded and McCoy held the door open. ‘Come in.’
Dessie followed McCoy up the stairs to the hallway, looked about.
‘McKenna tell you where it was then?’
‘Aye.’
‘Chapel back on?’
Dessie smiled. ‘Let’s just say things are looking that way. Where is it then?’
‘In there,’ said McCoy, pointing to Room 1. Held his hand out and Dessie stepped by him and into the room. As soon as he did, McCoy pulled the door shut, turned the key in the lock. Breathed out. Could hear Dessie shouting, asking what was going on. He stepped away from the door as Dessie started pounding it. Tried to keep calm.
He knocked on the door of Room 2. It opened, and Stevie Cooper stepped out. He was down to his vest and trousers, covered in blood from head to toe. He’d a bloody bayonet in one hand, a bloody hammer in the other. He wiped at the blood on his face with his arm and left clean space around his eyes.
McCoy could hardly bear to look at him. ‘You done?’
‘One down, one to go, isn’t that what they say?’
McCoy looked round his shoulder into the room. Could see Deke on the floor, or, rather, what was left of Deke. He was lying in a pool of blood, so much of it McCoy could smell it. Was splashed up the walls too. He looked away.
‘He in there?’ asked Cooper.
McCoy nodded.
Cooper moved into McCoy. Looked him in the eye. ‘Want you to remember something, McCoy. No matter what wee game of setting the world to rights you’re playing, I’m here for one reason.’ He looked at Room 1. ‘That cunt in there sent the cunt I’ve just done to kill my son. And for that he’s going to die. Got me?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Now get the fuck out of here. I’ve got work to do.’
McCoy turned to go as Cooper opened the door. Heard Dessie say ‘what the fuck’ before the door shut again. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the screams. Started to run.
Three months later
EIGHTY-FIVE
McCoy stood under the trees in Glenconner Park, trying to stay out the sunshine. There was a crowd of a couple of hundred gathered round the building site. Little platform in front of it. Bunting, photographer from the local paper.
‘You’re never going to tell me, are you?’ asked Wattie.
‘Tell you what?’ asked McCoy. ‘I don’t know anything about it. I was in bed sick that day.’
‘Aye, and I could flap my arms and fly to the moon.’
Something was happening over at the platform. The crowd parted and Archbishop McKenna climbed up the stairs and stood there in the sunshine. Waited for the noise to die down.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ground-breaking ceremony of the new St Roch’s Chapel. As you know, the road here has been a difficult one, but today, finally, we can start building our new chapel.’ He smiled, waited for the clapping to subside. ‘There is one person I really need to thank for that, and that is Chrissie Caine.’
He clapped, and Chrissie climbed up onto the platform, baby in her arms. She was wearing a black coat and a black hat. Baby dressed in pale blue, fast asleep on her hip.
‘Without her incredibly generous donation from her late husband’s estate we wouldn’t be standing here. The diocese, and most particularly myself, wish to thank her for her remarkable generosity.’ More applause. An altar boy handed a wee silver spade up to Archbishop McKenna. ‘And now it’s my great pleasure to turn the first sod. To the new St Roch’s!’
Archbishop McKenna helped Chrissie down from the platform and they made their way over to the building site.
‘We don’t have to stay for all this shite, do we?’ asked Wattie.
‘Just another ten minutes,’ said McCoy. ‘Away and buy us some ice lollies. I’m boiling.’
Wattie nodded, wandered off towards the shops on Royston Road. McCoy stood under the tree and waited for the crowd to disperse. Didn’t take long. He started walking towards the building site.
