Читать книгу Bloody January - Alan Parks - Страница 14

FIVE

Wattie hadn’t said much since they’d got in the car. McCoy didn’t blame him; he didn’t feel like saying much either. Fuck of a first day on the job. Still, he hadn’t done too badly with the crowd at the bus station, did what he was told, didn’t panic. Rarer than you’d think.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

Wattie nodded; he didn’t look it though. His face was pale, tiny spots of blood across his cheek that he’d missed when they went to clean themselves up back at the shop. He was fiddling with his lighter again, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Wasn’t working.

‘Look, it’s not always like this. Fact it’s never like this. Could be months before you see another body, never mind another shooting.’

Wattie nodded again, didn’t say anything, just stared out the car window at the afternoon traffic on Riddrie Road. McCoy gave up. Maybe he was just a quiet bugger after all. They continued north through the city in relative silence. Suited him, only noise the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers fighting the sleet. The road to Barlinnie took them through Royston, then Provanmill. Long rows of dirty black tenements lined the way interrupted by empty sites full of mud and piles of old tiles and bricks, any metal or lead from the roofs long gone. Driving through the north of Glasgow, a place he’d known since he was a boy, was like driving through a different city now. All the landmarks were gone, couldn’t find his way any more. Garscube Road was gone, all that was left of Parliamentary Road was a few rows of tenements. Motorways and shitty high flats. The New Glasgow.

McCoy turned the steering wheel and his shirt cuff emerged from under his jacket. It was soaked in blood, cloth turned hard. Didn’t know if it was the boy’s or the girl’s. Didn’t matter much, he supposed. He was peering down into the footwell to see if he’d managed to get all the blood off his shoes when someone behind him sat on the horn. He sat up quickly, looked in the mirror. Ambulance. He held his hand up in apology, pulled over and it raced past them up the middle of the two lanes of traffic, lights and siren going full pelt.

Maybe he should have guessed then. Bad things did come in threes, after all. Then he wouldn’t have been surprised when they pulled into the prison car park and the same ambulance was sitting there, lights slowly revolving, back doors open.

‘What’s that doing here?’ asked Wattie.

McCoy shrugged, opened his door. ‘Only one way to find out.’

They slammed the car doors shut behind them and made a run for the entrance, splashing through the puddles on the cracked tarmac. McCoy leant on the buzzer, trying to stand in under the awning out of the rain. He held his card up to the window and the big metal door rumbled back slowly. Tommy Mullen was standing there.

‘What’s going on?’ asked McCoy, nodding at the ambulance.

Mullen looked surprised. ‘That no why you’re here? It’s your pal, Nairn. He’s been annoying somebody.’

They shook themselves off and followed Mullen along the corridor and up the stairs towards the wash block. Wattie wrinkled his nose, but McCoy was used to it. Barlinnie smelt the same as every other prison he’d ever been in. ‘Sweat, shit and spunk’, as Murray had memorably described it. Corridor got warmer the nearer they got to the showers, feel of moisture in the air. Mullen pushed the thick plastic door open.

‘After you.’

The floor of the showers was swimming in water, covering the cracked and broken ceramic tiles. Steam was so thick it was hard to see what was going on; took a minute or so for their eyes to adjust. Mullen pointed over to the last shower in a row of ten or so. There was no sprinkler head on it, just an open pipe gushing boiling water in a big arc.

‘Fucking thing’s kaput,’ said Mullen over the noise. ‘Cannae get it turned off. Fact he’s lying on the bloody drain’s no helping either. Didnae want to move him.’ McCoy nodded, still not sure what he was talking about. Mullen pointed into the mist. ‘He’s over there.’

Nothing for it, they splashed in. McCoy stupidly reminded of walking through the disinfectant footbath at the swimming baths, Wattie looking a bit peeved at the idea of getting his good suit wet. At least the water was warm. As they got closer two ambulance men emerged out the steam, dark stains seeping halfway up the legs of their grey flannel uniforms. They seemed to be standing over something. Stood aside to let them see. McCoy and Wattie sloshed their way towards them and had a look.

It never ceased to amaze McCoy how inventive men shut away with nothing to do could be. They became resourceful, turned their hands to making things out of nothing. Things like a murder weapon made out of a toothbrush, some insulation tape and a sharpened bit of glass. McCoy watched it spinning round in the water next to Nairn’s outstretched hand. Whoever made it had done a good job; Nairn’s throat was sliced right through, open sides of the wound moving in the current like a fish’s gills. Gash must have been six inches long, neatly bisecting the old scars on his neck. A red string of blood was emerging from it, spinning and turning like ink dropped into a glass of water. Nairn’s head was back, mouth and chin just breaking the surface. His mouth was full of blood that was turning black, starting to congeal.

McCoy was doing his breathing. Ten, nine, eight . . . trying to stop the dizziness, missed what Mullen was saying to him. Another couple of breaths, in through the nose out through the mouth just like the doctor said. ‘Think yourself calm. You are in control.’ It was working. He started to feel a bit less like he couldn’t get a breath, but he made sure he kept his eyes fixed a couple of feet above the body.

‘What’d you say?’ he asked.

‘You deaf? I told you,’ said Mullen, ‘somebody wasnae happy wi’ him.’

McCoy risked a look down. Wave of nausea, straight back up. ‘Not wrong there. When did you find him?’

‘Hour or so ago. B Wing landing came in for their shower and there he was.’

McCoy went to get his cigarettes out, realised he was never going to be able to light one in the damp atmosphere, stuffed them back in his pocket. Threes it was, right enough. A young girl shot dead, a boy just hanging on and Howie Nairn lying dead in a pool of water and blood.

One of the ambulance men was looking around. ‘Probably be here somewhere.’ He scanned the room, saw something floating by the far wall and waded over. ‘There it is.’ He fished in the water, picked something up, looked like a worn nub of soap. He held it up between his finger and his thumb, showed it to everyone.

‘His tongue. They cut it off.’

McCoy heard a retch and the splatter of sick hitting the water behind him. He turned and Wattie was bent over, hand up, trying to say sorry. McCoy was just happy it wasn’t him for a change. Wattie retched again, thin stream of vomit hitting the water. Ambulance man shook his head.

‘Great. That’s all I fucking need. Wandering around knee deep in water, blood and now fucking puke.’

McCoy felt a bit better, risked another look down at Nairn. He’d been one of those men Glasgow turns out all too often. Men in a permanent rage at the world and everyone in it. He’d been hitting out at everything since he was born and now, for once, for the first time maybe, he looked peaceful. He was naked, arms outstretched, red hair fanned out behind him. McCoy could just make out a tattoo through the water and the thick ginger fuzz covering his chest. A heart, blue scroll beneath it with a name in it.

‘Who’s Bobby?’ he asked.

‘His boyfriend,’ said Mullen. ‘Came to see him every fortnight, never missed.’

‘His boyfriend?’ said Wattie, wiping his mouth with a hanky. ‘You’re no telling me Howie Nairn was a poof?’

Mullen nodded. ‘Queer as a three-bob bit and didnae care who knew. Man with a reputation like his, nobody was going to pull him up for it, were they?’

‘What’s he doing here anyway?’ asked McCoy. ‘Thought he was in the Special Unit?’

‘He is. But they’ve nae showers over there. Complained to the governor, got allowed over here twice a week. Said he was being discriminated against.’

‘That what this was about then?’ asked Wattie. ‘He try it on with someone on his weekly visit? Lovers tiff?’

Mullen shrugged. ‘Could be.’

‘Any witnesses we can talk to?’ asked Wattie.

Mullen and McCoy looked at each other. ‘He just started, has he?’ asked Mullen.

McCoy nodded. ‘Go easy. Rule number one, Mr Watson. Never any witnesses in prison, never are, never will be. We’re on our own.’ He loosened his tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Christ, it’s like a fucking oven in here.’

‘Plumber’s on his way,’ said Mullen.

‘Aye, so’s Christmas,’ said McCoy. He stepped back from the body, tried to get nearer the door and the fresh air. Tried to think. ‘I can’t see some bloke Nairn’s had a go at in the showers doing this, can you? Nairn was an animal. He asked you to touch your toes you’d do it, say thanks afterwards.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said one of the ambulance men, looking disgusted.

‘You’d have to be as much of a cunt as he was to do this. So who does that leave us with then? Martin Walsh still in?’

Mullen nodded. ‘Another couple of years to go. Martin Walsh definitely. Maybe Tommy MacLean? You know the suspects as well as I do. But if it’s some jealous boyfriend, then fuck knows, bets are off. That sort play their cards close to their chests in here. Don’t want it getting back to the wife or the boys in the pub who’s tucking them in at night.’

One of the ambulance men moved forward, causing a wave in the water that broke against McCoy’s trouser legs. ‘You want him moved?’ he asked.

McCoy shook his head. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No way. Barlinnie’s in Eastern’s territory. They’ll be here soon, they can sort it out. You okay now?’

Wattie was leaning against the tiled wall, still deathly white. He nodded, looked sheepish.

‘I’ve got to get out of here, I’m fucking melting. All right if we use your office for a bit, Tommy? Think the High Heid Yin’s on his way. I promise I’ll no let Wattie here be sick in it.’

Tommy’s office was right at the back of the prison, hidden away. He’d done it up over the years, tried to make it homely. It was a room not much bigger than a cupboard, strip of carpet on the floor, various pictures of him holding up fish, waders on, stuck on the wall. He’d a kettle on a tray, two cracked mugs and a bag of sugar full of brown clumps sitting next to it. McCoy sat on the chair, started to undo his shoelaces. They were wet, couldn’t get the knot to come loose. He stuck his half-bitten nails in and pulled, eventually came free. He nodded to the kettle.

‘Penance for boaking your load. You can make the tea. Think you’ll manage that?’

Wattie nodded, plugged it in and pressed the red switch. ‘You ever seen anything like that before?’ he asked.

‘Like what? Somebody with their throat cut or with their tongue cut out?’

‘Don’t know. Whole thing, I suppose. All that blood in the water, him lying there.’

McCoy pushed the other shoe off with his foot, couldn’t be arsed with the laces. ‘Nope. But I’ve seen different and I’ve seen worse. Think yourself lucky you didn’t want to be a fireman. That’s the real gruesome stuff. Bodies mangled in car accidents, kids burned in their beds, all sorts of shite. No sugar for me.’

McCoy had just finished his tea and was lighting up a fag when he heard Murray shouting at somebody, as usual. He didn’t care if they were a polis who worked for him or not, he was happy to shout at anyone. The door opened and he took in the scene. Face clouded over immediately.

‘What the fuck’s going on here then?’ he said, looking at the two of them sitting there drinking tea in their shirts and skivvies.

McCoy nodded over at their socks and trousers steaming on the radiator. ‘We got soaked, sir, just trying to dry off.’

Murray shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Fucking pair of clowns. You see Nairn yet? What’s he got to say for himself?’

‘Not much,’ said McCoy. ‘You want a cup of tea?’

Wattie made him one while McCoy explained how they’d got so wet. Murray sighed, sat down on the edge of the desk and started padding his jacket. ‘I don’t even know why I’m asking this, but I will. Coincidence?’ he said hopefully.

Wattie looked for something to say, to redeem himself from the shame of being sick at a crime scene. ‘He was a poof, sir. Could be he fell out with one of his boyfriends? Or maybe he tried to get someone in the showers?’

Murray looked over at McCoy. He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Whoever did it cut out his tongue, didn’t like what he’d been saying and wanted someone else to know. Howie Nairn was a big man in here, but there’s others. Others that would have done it to him for the money. Somebody outside probably paid for it or called in a favour.’

‘What? Because of what he told you?’

‘Good a chance as any. According to Mullen, other than getting me up here for his wee story he’s been a good boy. Quite happy doing nothing but parking his arse in front of The Magic Roundabout.’

‘Christ, you telling me that fucking animal was in the Special Unit? A murdering cunt like him gets a fucking colour TV and a vegetable patch after all he’s done? What about the people he slashed and killed? What do they get?’

McCoy held up his hand, tried to stop the rant or they’d be here all day. ‘It’s Eastern’s patch, maybe they can find out something about who did it.’

Murray grunted. ‘Eastern? You’re kidding yourself, aren’t you? Even if they weren’t worse than fucking useless they’ve no hope. Murder in a prison? About as much chance as winning the pools. You sure you’ve still no idea why he told you?’

‘I’m sick of telling you, Murray. No, I haven’t, and you know what? I wish he hadn’t fucking bothered. Right?’

Murray held his hands up. ‘Don’t be so fucking touchy, McCoy, was only asking.’ He’d found his pipe and was now tapping the bowl off the edge of Mullen’s desk. ‘Boy’s dead, by the way. In the ambulance to the Royal.’

McCoy walked over to the radiator and felt his trousers. Dry enough. He shook them out, stepped into them. Remembered sitting there, boy’s hand in his, eyes staring up into the sky. ‘He say anything?’

‘You saw him. He’d only half his fucking brain, what do you think?’

‘Fair enough. What about the girl?’

‘What about her? Dead as soon as the bullet hit. Whoever he was he was a fucking good shot. Bullet went straight into her heart.’

McCoy was balancing on one leg, hopping about, trying to pull on a damp sock. ‘Who was she, then? What’s her story? Any connection with Nairn?’

Murray shook his head. ‘Not so far. Came from Aberdeen. Only moved down six months ago and the parents haven’t heard from her since. Worked at Malmaison, on the verge of getting the boot it seems. Turning up late, general uselessness. Theory is she spent the night at her pal’s after a night at the dancing. We should get the pal in, see what she knows.’

McCoy shook his head. ‘I’ll go to her. Get more out of her that way.’

Murray nodded and stood up. ‘Up to you. And what about laughing boy in the showers?’

McCoy finished tying his shoelaces. ‘Eastern’s problem now.’ He brushed himself down, trousers looked a mess but that was no great change. ‘Someone’ll have to tell Bobby, by the way.’

‘Bobby?’

McCoy tapped his chest where Nairn’s tattoo had been. ‘His faithful other half.’

Murray rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck sake.’

‘It’s the seventies, Murray. Legal now and everything. Should send a woman, not some old copper who’s going to sit there thinking he’s a nonce. Be more sympathetic. Get more out of him.’

Murray started again on the Special Unit and fucking nonces and sympathy for the bloody victims. McCoy let it wash over him. Couldn’t help but think Murray was right. Had to be a reason Nairn had got him up here, had told him about Lorna Skirving. All he had to do was work out what it was.