Читать книгу Bloody January - Alan Parks - Страница 20

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‘Tommy Malone. That’s his name. Thomas Gerard Malone.’ The priest crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘You sure?’ asked Wattie.

He nodded. ‘Oh, I’m sure all right. I recognised the poor lad straight away.’

‘We’ll need you to do a formal identification.’

‘Least I can do, least I can do.’

And how did you know him, Mr . . .’

‘I’m not a mister, son – I’m a father. Father McClure. I take it you’re not of the Catholic faith?’

Wattie shook his head. ‘Church of Scotland.’

McClure nodded, smiled. ‘We can’t all be lucky enough to enjoy the blessings of the one true faith.’ Waited for some laughter that didn’t come. He leant forward, picked his glasses off the desk and peered at a file. ‘He was a resident here, Tommy was. With us for a while. Sixty-nine to seventy-two. Left us last year.’

‘And why was he here? Did he have a record?’

‘Nothing serious. Sure you lads won’t take a drink?’ He nodded over at the trolley by the bookcase. Bottles and decanters, crystal glasses. McCoy wanted a drink, really wanted a drink, but he shook his head. Wattie followed suit.

‘Not for me either, Father. Record? You were saying?’

Undeterred McClure got up from the desk and poured himself one. Half a crystal tumbler of Bell’s. Took a gulp disguised as a sip. ‘As I said, it was nothing serious, stole some cigarettes and a pint of milk from a shop when he was thirteen.’

‘What age is he now?’

He thought for a minute. ‘He’ll be eighteen in a couple of months. Well, he would have been . . .’ He trailed off.

McCoy couldn’t take his eyes off him. Watched his fat fingers drum on the file, the tapping of the well-polished shoe, Brylcreem-slicked hair, a bead of sweat on his forehead as the whisky went down. Reminded him of every other priest he’d known. It was the smell in the building as well, floor polish and incense. Sacred Heart on the wall, Jesus gazing down on them, arms open, blood in each palm.

Soon as he’d found out where they were going it had started. Sick feeling in his stomach, clammy hands. Tried the counting down like he’d been told. Tried to imagine a peaceful scene in his mind. Didn’t work. When Wattie stopped the car next to the chapel, McCoy thought he might just go, walk down onto Paisley Road West and find the nearest pub, leave him to it. Was sick of feeling like this. Didn’t want to go back to the doctor, knew he should.

‘He still at the home?’ asked Wattie.

‘No, no. He left almost a year ago.’

‘Did he have a family?’

‘None that I know of, part of the reason he was sent here. Mother died in childbirth, there was a father but . . .’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Mental problems. Not been here since St Anne’s took him in. It’s a sad story, right enough.’

‘And what was he like, Tommy Malone?’

Wattie had the bit between his teeth, notebook out, list of questions already written down in preparation. McCoy let him get on with it, glad he didn’t have to do the talking. Didn’t think he’d be able to, even if he wanted to. Kept looking at the priest’s hands. The bead of sweat rolling down from his hair.

The priest sat back in his chair with a squeak of leather and rested the crystal glass on his belly. Was used to being listened to, took his time. ‘He wasn’t the brightest lad, but he was a trier. Could be easily led, talked into things by the other boys. Believe me, we have some right menaces in here, some right menaces. Thought if he did what they said, made them laugh or whatnot, they’d all be pals. Not a canny lad, if you know what I mean. That’s why we were happy he got a placement at the estate. Assistant groundsman. Quiet there, no one to lead him astray. He had a room above the stables, was very thankful, happy as a sandboy he was.’

McCoy sat up in his chair. All this Bing Crosby shite had gone on long enough. Had to say something before he was too dizzy, while he could still think.

‘He can’t have been that happy. He shot a nineteen-year-old girl dead, then shot himself.’

The priest’s face changed. ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he said.

‘McCoy.’

‘Irish name, isn’t it? I trust you aren’t one of these Church of Scotland heathens.’ He smiled at Wattie. ‘Present company excepted.’

‘I gave up being a Catholic a long time ago, Mr McClure, so you can skip the “we’re all in this together” shite. Tommy Malone shot a girl, then he shot himself. Why would he do that?’

His kindly manner disappeared. McClure leant forward, eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Don’t know why Tommy would do such a wicked thing, why he would want to bring shame on himself and the good people that looked after him. When I think of all the effort we put into that boy, the care he got from me, from all the nuns here, it makes me heartsick. To think he could have turned away from us, from his caring family here, from the teachings of the Lord.’

McCoy stood up. His time was up. He had to get out. Couldn’t be in this hot wee office any more, couldn’t listen to another angry priest talking about the care of the nuns. He put his hand out, steadied himself on the desk, stood for a minute. Wattie looked up at him, didn’t know what was going on.

‘You okay, sir?’

He nodded. ‘You done?’

Wattie looked unsure, checked his notebook. ‘Near enough, I think.’

‘I’ll get you outside.’

He walked to the door, could hear McClure starting up already, complaining as he shut the door behind him. Didn’t want to listen to it. He headed up past the gym with its wall bars and yellow varnished floor and pushed open a door with ‘Boys Toilet’ painted on it. He ran the tap, stood there in front of the mirror, tried to calm himself down. He could walk out of here any time. No one was going to stop him, drag him back. He was thirty, a detective. He splashed his face with the cold water. Needed to a get a grip. Things were getting bad again. He took out his wallet. Wee card was still in there. The one the doctor had given him, the one he swore he wouldn’t put on his record. Fine blue copperplate writing: ‘Alison Horne MD MRCPsych’. In other words, the shrink.