Читать книгу February's Son - Alan Parks - Страница 15

FOUR

McCoy tried to walk in without Billy the desk sergeant clocking him. Thought he’d managed it. Billy’s head was down, News of the World spread out in front of him. No chance. Billy had a sixth sense. Looked up, fat face already clouding over.

‘At long bloody last! C’mere, you!’ he said.

McCoy sighed, walked over to the desk. ‘How’s things Billy? No seen you for a—’

‘Fuck up,’ said Billy. ‘Here.’

Handed McCoy a pile of notes all with the same message on them. Call Mary at the Record ASAP.

‘Daft cow’s been phoning all bloody morning, right cheeky article she is too. “Why don’t I know where he is?” Do me a favour, McCoy, and call the daft bint, because if you don’t, next time she calls I’m going to come and get you and drag you here to this bloody phone. Got it?’

McCoy nodded, lied. Said he’d call her soon as he could and walked through to the office. Murray was already standing in front of the big blackboard so he slipped in behind his desk like some schoolboy late for class, tried to shrug his wet coat off. Wattie winked at him as he sat down, tapped at his watch. Mouthed ‘you’re late’.

He was. Most of the squad were already there, sitting on the edge of desks, notepads out, serious faces. Murray must have put the fear of God into them already. Room smelt of fags and wet wool coats drying in the heat of the radiators. He sat at his desk, slid the copy of Titbits into the bin, got his wee red jotter out, found a ballpoint pen in one of his drawers. Tried to look like he was all ears.

There was a picture up on the board, blown-up mug shot of Connolly. He looked late thirties, balding, pleasant face. Kind of guy you wouldn’t remember passing in the street, somebody’s neighbour, somebody’s brother-in-law. There was something familiar about it though. McCoy felt like he’d seen him somewhere, couldn’t think where.

Murray took the empty pipe out of his mouth, pointed at the picture. ‘Kevin Connolly. Date of birth eleventh February 1943. Multiple—’

‘Birthday boy,’ said Wattie.

‘What?’ asked Murray, looking exasperated.

‘His date of birth. He’s thirty today.’

‘Finished?’ asked Murray. Few sniggers from round the room. ‘Can I get on with my bloody job now?’

Wattie nodded, looked down at his notepad, back of his neck going red.

Murray carried on. ‘Multiple arrests for assault, one attempted murder charge, one charge of kidnapping, one charge of serious sexual assault. A very dangerous and a very violent man. Hard to estimate how much damage he’s inflicted over the years.’ He shook his head. ‘But, thanks to Jake Scobie and his money, Archie Lomax has managed to get him off with almost all of it.’

‘What’s the connection exactly?’ asked Wattie, attempting to redeem himself.

McCoy smiled to himself. Wasn’t so long ago Wattie had stayed at the back of the room during briefings, too scared to speak. Now he was leaning on Thomson’s desk, chewing a pencil, making notes and asking questions. Supposed it was progress. Even if he still looked too young to even be in the force, never mind in a briefing like this.

‘Connolly and Scobie have been joined at the hip since Connolly started working for him,’ said Murray. ‘They come from the same street in the Calton. Means a lot to someone like Scobie. Their maws knew each other. People say Scobie’s the brains and Connolly’s the brawn but it’s not as simple as that. Scobie’s more than able to take care of himself so Connolly gets reserved for the really nasty jobs. Nastier the better as far as he’s concerned. Enjoys hurting people. Was convicted of aggravated assault in’ – he checked the file he was holding – ‘October ’71, spent five months in Barlinnie. Other than that, our Mr Connolly has mostly led a charmed life, sorting out Jake Scobie’s problems, making them go away and getting away with it.’

McCoy looked up at the picture again. Must have seen him in the shop or at the courts, something like that. In the picture he looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Nice open features, half a smile on his face. You can’t really be charging me with anything, can you?

Murray continued. ‘For those of you who have been living under a rock and our more junior colleagues’ – Wattie stood up and bowed to general catcalls – ‘Jake Scobie started out as a tally man, collecting debts. Worked his way up – mainly by taking out his employer Robbie Craig with a machete – to be the boss in around ’62. Past few years he’s been trying to clean up his act, investing in property, keeping a good distance from the illegal stuff, just another Glasgow businessman.’ He paused. ‘Except he’s not. He can hide behind Lomax and his charity dinners and his suits from Forsyth’s but be assured he’s still running his rackets. Now, since Mr McCoy has finally managed to come back from his holidays’ – more catcalls – ‘I’ll let him run through the situation with Scobie and Connolly. McCoy?’

McCoy stood up, made his way to the blackboard. Ran them through this morning’s meeting. Told them about Connolly, his falling out with Scobie, his previous attack on Charlie Jackson and his obsession with Elaine Scobie. Sat back down.

Murray took over. ‘Charlie Jackson. Twenty-two years old. Good son, good friend, shining career, about to get married.’ He pointed to the picture of the footballer. ‘Kevin Connolly is our primary suspect. There is only one thing we have to do.’ He paused, looked out at the assembled team. ‘Find him before Scobie does. I am not giving that bastard the satisfaction of getting to Connolly before we do.’ He clapped his hands. ‘So! Previous addresses checked, known associates interviewed, get round the touts, someone must know where he is. I want him found and quick. Understood?’

A few mumbles.

‘I said understood?’

Chorus of ‘yes, sir’.

Murray nodded, satisfied, walked back towards his office shouting ‘McCoy! Watson!’ over his shoulder.

They followed him into the office, sat down. McCoy looked around. Murray’s office hadn’t changed in years, no reason why it would have changed in the past three weeks. Same old pictures of him looking young in a rugby strip, signed rugby ball on his desk. Stink of pipe tobacco and Ralgex. Piles of folders and files covering most of the available space. Murray rifled through the big pile in front of him, found what he was looking for and pushed a bit of paper across the desk.

‘Lomax called. Connolly’s last known address, he got it from Scobie,’ he said.

‘Lomax called?’ asked McCoy. ‘He’s getting very helpful all of a sudden.’

Wattie picked it up, read it. ‘Stronsay Street? Where’s that?’

‘Just off the Royston Road, I think,’ said McCoy.

‘Where’s the Royston Road?’ asked Wattie.

McCoy rolled his eyes. ‘I keep forgetting you’re from Greenock. They got actual streets there or is it just one big shitehole?’

Murray banged his fist on the desk. The two of them shut up, looked at him guiltily.

‘McCoy! You’re supposed to be helping Wattie here do his papers, teaching him how to be a detective, not scoring bloody points. Holiday’s over, McCoy. Start concentrating!’

McCoy muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Right. You two away and have a look at the flat, see what you can see. Hopefully you can pick up an idea of where he’s gone.’

‘Any luck with getting the daughter in for an interview?’ asked McCoy. ‘Lomax stonewalled me.’

Murray’s face darkened.

‘Apparently she is “too distressed to speak to us”. Lomax buying time until he gets her story straight, more like. We’ll try again tomorrow. If it’s the same again I’m going to make him get an official medical certificate for her or I’ll arrest her for perverting the course of justice.’

‘What did he say about bringing her into protective custody?’ asked McCoy.

‘That got nixed too. Apparently the bold Elaine told Lomax that Connolly would never harm her and she was fine where she was,’ said Murray.

‘More fool her,’ said Wattie. ‘Does she know what he did to her boyfriend?’

Murray rummaged through the papers on his desk again, came up with a copy of the Sunday Mail. Picture of Charlie Jackson on the front.

CELTIC PLAYER SLAUGHTERED!

‘Well, if she didn’t, she bloody does now. Her and every other bugger in the city.’

‘Some uniform called in and got their tenner then,’ said McCoy.

‘Aye, and if I find out who it is, his feet won’t touch the fucking ground. At least the carving on his chest still seems secret. Better bloody stay that way. Let me know how you get on at Connolly’s. Oh and . . .’ He looked through the papers on his desk. Again. Found the one he was looking for and handed it over. ‘Charlie Jackson’s flatmate, another football player apparently, plays for Celtic as well—’

‘Nae luck,’ muttered Wattie.

‘You say something, Watson?’ barked Murray.

‘No, sir!’ said Wattie smartly.

‘Go and see this flatmate. See what he knows about Jackson and Connolly, if Jackson ever talked about him. And find out if he saw him after the match. Club are saying Jackson left the ground at half five as per usual. Nothing out the ordinary. Need to track his movements.’

They stood up to go. ‘McCoy, you stay here a minute,’ said Murray.

He sat back down. Murray waited until Wattie shut the door behind him, leant back in his seat.

‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘I can leave you here on a desk for a while.’

‘I’m fine. I’ve had three weeks pottering around the house, going to the appointments. Any more time off and I’ll be climbing the walls. Need to get working again.’

‘You sure? No shame in—’

‘I’m fine, Murray! Honest.’

Murray held his hands up. ‘Fine! Christ . . . Don’t know what I’m asking this for but how’s your pal, Cooper?’

‘Okay, I think. I heard he got out the hospital,’ said McCoy.

‘You keep away from that thug,’ said Murray. ‘He may have helped you out—’

‘He did more than help out. He was in the bloody hospital for three weeks because he tried to help me out.’

‘Aye well, that was his choice. You keep clear of him. You hear me? I’ve told you once and I’m no telling you again.’

McCoy nodded. Didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘I will.’ He stood up. ‘By the way. Connolly? I’m sure I recognise him from somewhere, sure I’ve seen him before.’

‘He’s been in and out of here and Pitt Street for years. Must have seen him then,’ said Murray.

‘Must have.’

He shut Murray’s office door behind him. Shouted on Wattie to go and get the car. He didn’t know where he’d seen Connolly but one thing he did know. Wasn’t in the shop or Pitt Street.