Читать книгу February's Son - Alan Parks - Страница 12

TWO

‘Seriously? You don’t know who he is?’ asked McCoy.

‘Why would I? Never been to a football match in my life,’ said Murray.

‘Not even seen him in the paper? On the TV? Charlie Jackson?’

‘Two teas. One wi’ sugar?’

The woman was leaning out the caravan hatch, two chipped mugs held out in front of her. McCoy took the one with sugar, handed the other one to Murray. The tea van was parked outside Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street, prime position to catch people coming out the dancing. Van had been there for years, selling teas, coffees, rolls and sausage. McCoy remembered stopping at it on his first night on the beat. He took a sip of the tea. As rotten as it was then. Still, at least the mug was warm.

‘So who does he play for then, this boy?’ asked Murray.

McCoy shook his head, didn’t believe what he was hearing. Half suspected Murray was just doing it to annoy him. ‘Celtic. He probably played today. Draw with Partick Thistle.’

‘Today?’ asked Murray.

‘Aye, at Parkhead. He made the first team a year or so ago, never been out it since. Very talented boy. When he’s on he’s fucking magic, reads the ball better than anyone I’ve seen. Probably be off soon, or he would have been I should say. Liverpool would have got him, Clough, someone like that.’ He looked at Murray again, still not quite believing him. ‘C’mon, you must have heard of him.’

Murray shook his head, patted his jacket looking for his tobacco. ‘No. Bloody game should be banned. Just another excuse we don’t need for the idiots in this town to knock lumps out each other.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s quarter past nine now. Was called in at seven. So when did this game finish?’

‘Usual. Quarter to five,’ said McCoy.

‘Not much time to do that,’ said Murray, nodding up at the office building. ‘Must have got hold of him just after the match.’

‘Poor bugger,’ said McCoy. He thought for a minute. ‘You know something? I just don’t get it. Why would anyone want to shoot Charlie Jackson, carve some shite into his chest? What’s he ever done to anyone? He’s what, twenty-two? All he’s ever done is kick a ball.’

They moved into the side of the caravan to let a group of girls clattering through the puddles in platform boots pass by. They had skimpy wee dresses on, halter tops, coats held over their heads to keep the rain off their hair. Even if it was pissing down and freezing it was still Saturday night. Bit of weather wasn’t going to stop a Glasgow Saturday night.

‘That photographer boy Andy seemed to know a bit about him,’ said Murray, watching the girls joining the end of the queue already forming outside Tiffany’s.

McCoy looked surprised. ‘Andy? What’d that wee prick have to say about it?’

‘Said he’d taken pictures of Jackson for the sports pages, chatty young lad apparently. Told him all about his fiancée, plans for the big day.’

McCoy dimly remembered a picture of Charlie Jackson and a girl in the paper, some big charity do. ‘A dark-haired lassie? Good-looking? That her?’

Murray put his mug up on the counter. ‘That’s her, and, according to young Andy, she’s Jake Scobie’s daughter.’

McCoy had brought his cigarette up to his mouth, was about to take a drag. Stopped. ‘You’re having me on.’

Murray shook his head. ‘Need to get it checked out but he seems certain.’

‘Charlie Jackson is Jake Scobie’s future son-in-law?’ McCoy shook his head. ‘How the fuck did I not know that?’

Murray shrugged. ‘What? Harry McCoy’s not as clever as he likes to think? Wonders will never cease.’

‘Very funny,’ said McCoy.

‘Maybe the boy didn’t know what he was letting himself in for.’

‘How could he not? Can’t be anyone in Glasgow who doesn’t know who Jake Scobie is.’ Something dawned. ‘That’s got to be why he’s been killed. Maybe Charlie Jackson was playing away, if you’ll pardon the expression, and Scobie found out. Maybe he—’

‘Maybe’s the bloody word! I don’t know what happened and you certainly don’t know what happened. That’s what we need to find out. It’s called being a polis.’

McCoy was on a roll.

‘Makes you wonder what Jackson did to his daughter. Must have been something bad. Maybe he got another lassie pregnant, that might explain the cock-in-mouth scenario.’

Murray looked exasperated. ‘I’m talking to my fucking self here. We don’t know who did it. Got that?’

McCoy nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘First principles, not bloody fantasies. Okay?’

McCoy nodded again.

Murray seemed temporarily satisfied. Had managed to locate his pipe, now came the process of getting it lit. He knocked the barrel on the heel of his shoe. ‘How d’you think he got him up there?’

‘Arrange to meet him nearby? Put a gun in his back and march him up the stairs? But why go all the way up there? Doesn’t make any sense, too much chance of him getting away, even with a gun. Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kill him in his flat?’

They looked up at the half-built building. ‘No one to see you up there,’ said Murray. ‘Or hear the gun. All the time you want to do what you want. That’s why.’

The crime scene lights at the top of the building were still on, shining out in the rain like some kind of lighthouse. McCoy didn’t want to think about what had gone on up there, how many of Jackson’s screams went unheard, how much pleading there had been, how much pain. Still, didn’t see how the office building made sense. Why not some waste ground or an empty house? Plenty of those around here. Be a lot easier.

‘Maybe the office block is one of Scobie’s jobs? He runs a security firm, doesn’t he?’

Murray nodded. ‘Amongst other things.’

‘He could have cancelled the guards, made sure there was no one around to see what was going on.’

‘Get Wattie to check, give him something to bloody do,’ said Murray.

‘Will do. Shooting someone in the head, that’s like an execution.’

‘Something a hit man would do,’ said Murray.

‘Okay, and don’t go nuts again but Scobie’s got one of those,’ said McCoy.

Murray unclipped his bow tie, opened the top button of his dress shirt. ‘That’s better. I can bloody breathe now.’

He looked at McCoy. ‘Kevin Connolly.’

McCoy nodded. ‘Don’t know that much about him apart from he does Scobie’s dirty work.’

‘Well, I do,’ said Murray, finally getting his pipe lit. ‘He’s a right nasty piece of work is our Connolly.’

‘Nasty enough to do that to Charlie Jackson?’

‘Oh aye. Something like that’s not a problem for Connolly. Was at one of his trials, prosecution lawyer described him as “a truly evil man”. Way he grinned when he said it, Connolly seemed to take it as some sort of compliment.’

‘Did he get done?’ asked McCoy.

Murray shook his head. ‘Too many witnesses who suddenly forgot their testimonies and Archie Lomax in his corner. Archie Lomax is many things, but he’s also a bloody good lawyer. Don’t think Connolly’s done jail time for anything serious for years. Scobie needs him around, happy to pay Lomax to make sure he is.’

He looked back up at the building. ‘What we really need to find out is how he got to the top of that bloody building.’

‘Hang on,’ said McCoy.

He left Murray standing there and hurried across the road. The paper seller outside the Variety Bar was packing up for the night, pulling the headline paper from under the crossed wires on the wooden board in front of him – TRAGEDY IN CHURCH – and crunching it into a ball. Luckily he had one Sports Times left. McCoy gave him the four pence, flicked through it on the way back. Found what he was looking for by the time he got back to Murray.

‘Jackson was on the bench. Didn’t play. Need to find out what happened between the end of the match and . . . you know. You going into the shop now?’

Murray shook his head. ‘Pitt Street. Need to do a report for the Super getting in.’

McCoy nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll go back to the shop, see if I can get hold of Scobie or his daughter. Quite looking forward to disturbing Archie Lomax’s peaceful Saturday night. You know Jackson was a left-footer?’

‘A Catholic?’ asked Murray.

‘Jesus! No, well, I don’t know, maybe he was, probably was if he played for Celtic, but he was actually left-footed is what I mean. Always scored with his left.’

‘Ah. That why he shot his left ankle, you think?’ asked Murray.

McCoy shrugged. ‘Could be. Mind you, not easy to play football with the back of your head blown off. Not sure a broken ankle’s gonnae make much of a difference.’

Murray sighed. ‘Someone’ll have to tell the boy’s family and quick. Every one of those uniforms up there’ll be racing to a phone box as soon as they get down, straight on to the Record for their tenner. If word of that thing on his chest gets out I’ll bloody hang for someone. Need that kept back to weed out the nutters. He a local boy, this Jackson?’

McCoy nodded. ‘Maryhill, I think.’

Murray took off his hat, scratched at what was left of his ginger hair. ‘So that’ll be me then. What a fucking mess.’

McCoy watched Murray get into the waiting squad car, drained the rest of his rotten tea, put the mug back on the counter. The queue outside Tiffany’s was starting to shuffle in. Groups of giggling women passing half-bottles of vodka. Boys in their leather and denim jackets getting soaking but trying to show they were too hard to worry about something like rain.

Jackson must have been about the same age as them. Nice-looking fiancée, great football player, good-looking boy. Had it all in front of him. McCoy lit up, took a deep drag, started walking into town. Not any more he didn’t.

*

Turned out Lomax beat him to it. By the time McCoy got back to the shop there was a note on his desk telling him to phone Mr Lomax at home as soon as he could. He cursed, crumpled it and threw it in the bin. Then he phoned the number. Posh Edinburgh voice answered, wasted no time.

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning at my office. Mr Scobie wants to have a chat.’

McCoy put the receiver down, sat back in his chair and had a look around. Didn’t seem like much had changed in the three weeks he’d been off. Desks covered in papers, full ashtrays, files and dirty mugs. Wee plug-in radiator in the corner doing its best and failing to heat up the room. Apart from the desk sergeant he was the only one in. Saturday night was always their busiest night. Everyone out dealing with the usual shite. Fights and drunks, knives and crashed cars. Battered wives and slashed boys.

He took the two bacon rolls he’d bought on the way out their damp paper bag and started eating, realised he was starving.

He was so engrossed in the rolls and the copy of Titbits he’d found on Wattie’s desk he jumped when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.

‘Central. McCoy speaking.’

‘Harry, my wee darling! The very man. What you got to tell me about a certain young football—’

He hung up before she could get any further. Mary at the Record hot on the trail. Hadn’t taken her long. The phone rang again so he leant over and unplugged it at the wall, sat back up and that’s when he noticed it. Thomson’s corkboard. Been up there so long he’d stopped seeing it. Pictures of big-titted girls he’d cut out from the Sun or Men Only, a poster telling you to look out for Colorado Beetle in your potato plants, and a front page from a few weeks ago.

HERO COP FOILS KILLER ON ROOFTOP

He walked over and pulled it free of the drawing pins, took a closer look. God knows where the paper’d got the picture of him. He looked about ten years younger. Wouldn’t have looked bad at all if someone hadn’t drawn a moustache and a pair of wee glasses on his face and a speech bubble coming out his mouth – I’m shiteing it up here!

He shook his head, pinned it back up, and that’s when he noticed it, pinned in between a picture of George Best and a picture of Jinky Johnson. Charlie Jackson was running away from the goalmouth, green-and-white strip, hands held up, expression of utter joy on his face, teammates trying to catch up with him to celebrate. He looked ecstatic, not a care in the world. He unpinned the picture, put it in his wallet, walked back to his chair, plugged in the phone, called Susan, told her he’d be late.