Читать книгу Bloody January - Alan Parks - Страница 18

EIGHT

McCoy stepped out his close, yawned, looked up at the sky. Rain had gone off but it was foggy, could barely make out the cranes and the big granary by the river at the bottom of the hill. He’d lived in Gardner Street for a few years now. Everyone knew Gardner Street, was the steepest street in Glasgow – looked like something from The Streets of San Francisco – big drop down to the Dumbarton Road below.

They’d eventually managed to get rid of Wattie around nine, and him and Cowie ended up in a lock-in at the Doublet until way past midnight. Was paying for it now. His stomach rumbled. Maybe he needed something fried, could go to the wee cafe by Partick Station. He was about to cross the road when a silver Zephyr pulled up beside him. The window slid down and a head leant out.

‘Cooper wants to see you.’

He didn’t recognise the particular bloke driving the car, but he looked the same as all Cooper’s boys did. Bit too flash and a bit too thick. Feather cut, suit with big lapels, open beige shirt with pictures of Charlie Chaplin on it. The young hard man’s look of choice.

‘Now?’ he asked.

The driver nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’

McCoy sighed, he didn’t need this on top of a hangover and Murray doing his nut, expecting results in hours. Driver was chewing gum, waiting for him to get in. Cooper wasn’t going to go away, though. Maybe he’d be better getting it over with before Murray noticed he was missing. He opened the door of the big silver Zephyr and got in the back. The cafe would have to wait.

McCoy hated sitting in the back of cars, always made him feel a bit sick, especially after what he’d drunk last night. Had vague memories of a hamburger from some van on the way home, no wonder he felt ropey. The driver didn’t tell him where they were going but they ended up in Tollcross. It was in the East End, made Springburn look like a holiday resort. They stopped at the lights and McCoy watched the wrecking balls disappear in the clouds of dust as another big wall went down.

The driver muttered something about the dust ruining the finish of his motor and pulled the car in outside a pub called the Grapes. McCoy’d been in it once, when he’d first started, was still on the beat. Was a Friday night, packed full of punters, must have been fifty or sixty in there. Some bloke had got his face slashed twice while he was standing at the bar and nobody saw nothing. Not one witness, just Duncan Stewart sitting in the corner with his cronies, grin on his face. No one would say anything, too scared. The bloke’s girlfriend was screaming and crying while McCoy held a bar towel to the guy’s wounds, trying to stop the blood while everybody kept their eyes down, supped at their pints.

‘He in there, is he?’ McCoy asked, looking out the window.

Driver shook his head, pointed. ‘Next door.’

The Tropical Sauna consisted of a dingy-looking shopfront, cracked frosted glass windows with two palm trees etched into them. There was a handwritten sign taped to the window saying ‘New Girls’, just in case some passer-by was stupid enough to actually think it was a sauna.

‘Starting a bit early, isn’t he?’

Driver shrugged. ‘Don’t think he’s been to bed yet.’ He slumped down in his seat, closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be out here when you’re done, just chap on the window.’

The woman behind the counter looked up from her copy of Cosmopolitan with a big smile until she realised who she was looking at. Smile disappeared immediately. She pressed a buzzer under the counter and the door behind her clicked open.

‘He’s in the premier suite,’ she said, eyes back on her magazine. ‘Blue door at the back.’

Cooper wasn’t the only one starting early. Most of the cabin doors off the corridor were shut, moans and rhythmic squeaks coming from behind them. Tends to happen when you build cubicles out of plywood to save money, not exactly soundproof. He knocked on the blue door at the end and a voice boomed out immediately.

‘That you, McCoy?’

‘Yep.’

‘Well, get in here then, ya dozy prick!’

If this was the premier suite, he’d hate to see a normal one. The room was painted light blue, overheated, one of those paintings that Boots the Chemist sold by the bucketload of a naked girl on a beach hung above a wee table covered in bottles of lotion, faded towels and boxes of paper hankies. The window had a grille over it, only light coming from two fluorescent strips in the plasterboard ceiling. Cooper was sitting on the massage table in the middle of the room, legs dangling over the side, white towel round his waist not doing much to hide his obvious erection. He’d his arms wrapped round two girls, blonde on one side, brunette on the other. Both were topless, fancy knickers and high heels, Page Three come to life. Except Page Three girls didn’t normally look scared, or like they needed a bath.

McCoy took in the scene. ‘You want me to come back? Looks like you’re busy.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

Glasgow was a town of small men, wiry. Anyone over five foot eight tended to get called ‘Big Man’ but Cooper was the real deal. Well over six foot, built like a bear, as they say. Hair fashions had come and gone, but none of them had touched Cooper, blond hair cut into a short back and sides, side shed, just like he’d always had. Same as his clothes, unless it was a funeral or a wedding; he’d be wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and a red Harrington jacket. James Dean had a lot to answer for. He pushed the blonde girl off the table and smacked her on the arse. She winced; he’d hit her hard.

‘Away and warm each other up. I’ll no be long. And you, ya prick, come here. C’mon, what’s up? Gone all shy on me?’

McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m no in the mood, Stevie.’

Cooper didn’t say anything, just kept staring.

‘I mean it, Stevie. I’ve got a hangover, give us a break.’

Nothing. Just Cooper staring at him with a stupid grin on his face. He sighed. Nothing much ever changed between him and Cooper; he always got his own way eventually. One day twenty-odd years ago Cooper had decided McCoy was going to be his pal and that was that. There didn’t seem any real reason he’d picked him. He was just another one in the group of snotty, frightened boys in the playground, but for some reason Cooper had decided on him and McCoy’s life had never been the same. Nobody hit him, he was safe. Mess with him and you had Cooper to answer to. And nobody wanted that. Protection came with a price, though. Cooper cared about one thing and one thing only: loyalty. Jump over the gap between the roofs of two buildings, shoplift from Woolworths, wait outside Peter O’Hara’s house for four hours keeping Cooper company so he could batter him when he came out. Anything Cooper wanted you to do, you did.

He walked over reluctantly, knew what was going to happen, thought he may as well get it over with. Soon as he got near enough Cooper grabbed him, got him in a stranglehold.

‘Submit? Submit?’ said Cooper, rubbing his knuckles hard on the top of McCoy’s head.

McCoy tried to nod, head trapped under Cooper’s arm, throat being crushed.

Cooper pulled him round again, squeezed his arm tighter into his neck. ‘What? I cannae hear ye!’

‘I submit!’ McCoy managed to get out in a strangulated whisper. Cooper laughed, let him go and he stumbled, lost his balance, fell down hard on the lino floor.

The girls giggled. From down here on the floor he could see the bruises on their thighs, dirty feet squashed into stilettos. ‘Beat it!’ Cooper barked at them and they made for the door, tits wobbling. McCoy stayed down on the floor, rubbed at his neck.

‘You’re like a big bloody wean, Cooper. Give us a hand up.’

‘Fuck off.’ He yawned, stretched, scratched at the hair on his chest.

‘Long night, was it?’ asked McCoy, dusting himself off.

‘Could say that.’ Cooper seemed to have broken his nose again since the last time McCoy had seen him. Looked a right mess. ‘I hear you’re running with the big boys now.’

McCoy nodded. ‘Detective Harry McCoy of the Glasgow Police Force.’

‘Aye well, don’t forget who put you there.’

Cooper eased off the table, re-tucked the towel round his waist and padded over to where his clothes were hanging from a peg on the wall. He fished out his fags; shook the packet and a little wrap fell into his hand. He opened it up and carefully raised it to his nose, making sure it stayed level. He inhaled deeply, grimaced, then held it out to McCoy.

He shook his head. ‘Wee bit early for me. I’ve no even had my breakfast yet. So, what’s up?’

Cooper wiped the powder from his nostrils, rubbed it on his gums. ‘Need you to do me a favour.’

‘Me?’ asked McCoy.

‘Aye, you. Why the fuck not? You’re a polis, aren’t you? Solve crimes, that no the sketch? You know the Ben Duncan?’

McCoy nodded. Was one of Cooper’s pubs up in Lambhill. Funny-looking place. More like a big suburban bungalow plonked down by the road than a normal pub.

‘Got turned over last night. Clowns broke open the filing cabinet, took a couple of hundred quid in an envelope.’

‘No exactly crime of the century.’

‘That’s no what’s bothering me. They took something else as well.’

‘What?’

‘My book.’

McCoy whistled. Losing a tally book wasn’t good. Had the record of who owed what, who was behind on their payments. For a loan shark like Cooper it was the equivalent of the Bible.

‘It’ll be amateurs, daft boys. No pro would do over one of my pubs, wouldnae be that stupid.’ He dipped into the Agnew’s bag sitting in the corner and pulled out a can of McEwan’s. ‘No questions asked. I just want the book back.’

‘Why me? You’ve got loads of people—’

‘Because I say so. That a problem?’ Normally Cooper looked sleepy, even a wee bit dopey. Not now. His faced had changed instantly. McCoy knew not to argue when he was like that. Didn’t take much figuring out. Cooper was chucking his weight about. Even though you think you’re a big boy now, you’re still no as big as me. He didn’t mind really, seemed simple enough to ask around, and Cooper had helped him out a good few times.

‘Okay, just asking, that’s all.’

Cooper grinned at him, happy again. ‘That’s the boy.’ He sat back up on the table and took a long slug of his lager.

McCoy turned to go.

‘Heard you were in the shebeen the other night. Cashing in your chips, eh?’

‘I’m owed, aren’t I?’

Cooper took another slug of beer, swilled it round in his mouth. ‘Christ, that speed’s fucking strong.’ He wiped at his mouth. ‘You watch that wee Janey. She’s mad for the drugs. Dope, acid, any shite she can get.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Means she’s no your girlfriend, McCoy. She sucks men off for a living. She’s a whoor, a druggy wee whoor. I’d steer clear if I was you.’

‘This friendly advice or an order?’

Cooper held his hands out. ‘Up to you, pal, up to you.’

McCoy was just about to ask him what the fuck he meant when they heard banging and shouts coming from outside. The door swung open, blonde girl standing there, breathing heavy, looking panicked.

‘The polis are here. They’ve stoved in the door!’

Cooper looked at him and McCoy shook his head. ‘No way. Nothing to do with me.’

Couple of seconds later Raeburn appeared in the doorway, two other plainers behind him looking over his shoulder. Bernie Raeburn was a detective at Eastern, had been for years. First time they met, McCoy thought he was a prick and Raeburn thought he was a smart arse. Nothing much had changed since. Raeburn wandered into the room, looked the two of them up and down, Cooper in his towel, McCoy in his suit, and smirked.

‘Hand job for your boss, is it, McCoy? Always thought you two were queer for each other.’

McCoy didn’t say anything, seemed easier just to let Raeburn have his fun, and there was nothing a cunt like him could say would wind Cooper up. He was too fly for that, he’d just store it all up, bide his time. The two plainers were chuckling away like good yes-men should.

‘So, if you’ve finished wanking him off, you can beat it before I call Murray. Some of us have got work to do.’

McCoy looked at Cooper and raised his eyebrows. Cooper nodded towards the door.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Raeburn. ‘You got to ask his permission before you can wipe your arse? Go! Vanish! Vamonos! Fuck off!’

McCoy pushed past the plainers, one of them blowing him a kiss, and left them to it. Didn’t know why Raeburn bothered. Cooper’s lawyer would have him out in a couple of hours. And Raeburn was even stupider than he thought if he thought he’d find anything that connected Cooper to the sauna. He’d be just another customer enjoying a medicinal massage for a slipped disc, doctor’s note enclosed, once his lawyer was finished.

The corridor was full of girls in flimsy dressing gowns swearing at the uniforms, calling them everything under the sun. Two naked Indian men were standing in a cabin doorway looking terrified, hands cupped over their privates as a uniform tried to spell their names in his notebook. A uniform went to grab him and he held up his badge. A muttered, ‘Sorry, sir’, and the uniform backed away, looking sheepish. Usual shitshow from Eastern Division. If McCoy knew Cooper, the place would be open for business again by eight o’clock tonight.

Out in the street the receptionist and a couple of the girls were being hustled into the police van while a queue of old biddies waiting at the bus stop enjoyed the show. It wasn’t that far from Tollcross into town and the rain was still off, so McCoy thought he’d walk. The driver and his silver Zephyr were long gone anyway. He’d be late into the shop, Murray’d be looking for him, but he may as well be hung for an inch as a mile and get this tally book stuff of Cooper’s out the road.

Outside the Irn-Bru factory a man was selling the first edition of the Evening Times from an old pram. McCoy bought one, skimmed ‘CITY CENTRE SHOOTING HORROR’ on the front page and looked inside.

They’d managed to make the identikit of the boy look half decent. Actually looked like the person for once. Murray must be desperate, if he’d gone public this quick. Maybe rules get bent when you’ve no leads and you’ve got the Chief Super and the press breathing down your neck. There was a little picture of the crucifix the boy’d been wearing in the corner of the page. Looked the same as every other one he’d ever seen. Still, you never knew, might work. He tucked the paper under his arm and crossed the road to the City Bakeries. Stomach was still rumbling.