He laid both hands on her shoulders, kept her at bay. There was a time when he’d’ve taken her up on her offer, hell, there was a time he’d’ve just told her she was going to give him a seeing to. But not now. ‘You’re all right, Mary. I’ll pass.’
Her face fell. Knight wondered if the offer had been a way of boosting her self-esteem. Instead it had made her even more pitiful. He felt a wee bit sorry for her and he liked her but the idea of those diseased hands touching him gave him the boke.
6
IN THE DARKNESS
, the photo of his mother held loosely in both hands, Davie thought about his meeting back in 1982 with the man they called The Colonel.
Davie had fumed in the prison van on the way back from court, having listened stonily as people lied about him. Two years before it had been security guards who Jimmy Knight had put up to perjury, now it was that bastard Lomas and Donald Harris. The inmates in the other cubicles seemed to sense his cold rage, for they were unnaturally quiet. He had been called an animal in that court room, even though he had only defended himself. They had painted him as some kind of monster. Okay, if that’s what they wanted, that’s what they’d get. He’d show them what a monster really was.
But they were way ahead of him.
As soon as he arrived back in Barlinnie, he was told the Governor wanted to see him. Until then, Davie had only glimpsed the screws’ boss as he walked round ‘B’ Hall. He was a tall guy, his erect stance betraying his military background. He had a deep tan, suggesting long periods under foreign suns. You didn’t get that colour in Glasgow. According to prison rumour he was ex-
SAS
and could kill with the flick of a finger. Davie didn’t believe it but there was a power, a danger, that exuded from the man.
He was standing at a window behind his desk when Davie was shown into his office. He turned and motioned for him to sit down then told the two-man escort to leave them alone. There was no please or thank you, for this was a man used to giving orders and having them carried out with no questions asked. Davie sat in the wooden chair and wondered what the hell this was all about. He watched as he stepped away from the window and, still on his feet, flicked through a file on his desk. Davie guessed it was his prison record. They shared the room in silence for a full minute and Davie again noticed how straight and erect the guy was. No wonder they called him The Colonel.
The Colonel did not look up from the file as he said, ‘Am I going to have trouble with you, McCall?’
When Davie didn’t reply, the man’s eyes raised sharply and bored into him. ‘I asked you a question. I expect an answer.’ Davie shrugged and the man sighed. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
He sat down in his big leather chair and studied Davie across the desk. Finally he said, ‘What happened in that corridor, McCall?’
‘Ask your screw,’ said Davie.
‘I’m asking you.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll not believe me.’
‘Try me.’
Davie held his gaze, trying to gauge what the man was after. ‘Your man Lomas sent me to fetch a mop. Harris went for me with two blades and I took them off him.’
‘No weapons were found.’
‘Lomas took them.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Ask him.’
The Colonel did not reply. His face remained impassive as he glanced down at the file again. ‘You’d not been in trouble with us until then. In fact, you were a model prisoner.’
Davie remained silent. He did not know where this was leading.
‘So I’ll ask you again – are we going to have trouble with you?’
‘What do you think? I get another eight years in this shithole for defending myself…’
The Colonel’s eyes narrowed and he gave Davie a hard gaze. ‘Defending yourself? Harris has a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder and it’s only by the grace of providence that you didn’t fracture his skull.’
Davie stared straight back. ‘Him or me, that’s what it came down to.’
The man exhaled audibly through his nose and his mouth tightened. ‘Mister Lomas has been transferred from this prison. Harris, too. I insisted on it.’
Davie’s mind raced as he took this in. He believed the guy was trying to tell him that he knew what really happened in that corridor. He had no clue how the Colonel knew, and he doubted he would tell him if he asked, so he remained silent.
‘I can’t do anything about your sentence because it was handed down by the court and it’s our job to carry it out. But I will make a deal with you – if you go back to the way you were before this happened, I can guarantee there will be no further trouble from the system. If, however, you decide to be a hard man, then we’ll show you what hard really is. Do you understand?’
Davie simply stared at him, his face set in stone. ‘Your batter squad has already had a go at me…’
Irritation flicked across the Colonel’s face. ‘There are no batter squads in this prison, McCall…’
Tell that to my bruises, mate.
‘… and I will not stand for brutality on the part of my staff. If I hear of any such action, I will deal with the offenders decisively.’ The firm jut of the man’s jaw told Davie he meant what he said. But that didn’t mean some of the screws wouldn’t take matters into their own hands.
The Colonel sighed. ‘McCall, the next eight years will be unpleasant, there’s no getting away from it. Prison is not the holiday camp the press like to think it is. You called this place a shithole and that’s exactly what it is. It’s one hundred years old and constantly over-crowded with the scum of the streets. Have you seen
Star Wars
?’
Davie was surprised by the sudden change in tack and wondered where it was leading, but he nodded. The man opposite nodded back. ‘My grandson is nuts about those films.’
Davie was still mystified as to what this had to with him, but he listened all the same. He had nothing better to do.
‘There’s a line in the first film, Alec Guinness says it, about this town, or space station whatever. He says you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Whenever I hear that line I think of this prison. It’s brutal and it’s inhumane and sometimes it causes more problems than it cures. At its best it’s a shithole, as you say. At its worse it can be hell on earth. It’s up to you what end of that scale you serve out your time.’
Davie knew he was being warned off while at the same time being offered a lifeline. If he co-operated, word would be issued – no ‘special treatment’. If he chose not to co-operate, some of the screws would consider it their duty to make him wish he had never been born, or at least that his father had finished the job back in that small Oatlands flat. The Colonel would not condone it, he would not sanction it, but it would happen all the same.
Davie nodded in agreement. ‘Okay, I’ll do it your way.’
Warmth crept into the Colonel’s eyes then and there was the hint of a smile. ‘Wise choice, son. Let’s hope you and I have no cause for any further conversations of this type.’ He pressed a button on his desk and Davie heard the door behind him open. The interview was obviously over.
As Davie stood up, the prison governor lifted an envelope from the file and threw it across the desk. A letter: Davie was not surprised that it had already been opened. As Davie caught it, he felt something hard inside, like cardboard.
‘That came for you yesterday. She’s a pretty woman…’
Davie’s fingers tingled with shock as he slowly slid the photograph from the envelope. It was Mary McCall, his mother, in a shot taken on the day they went to the country. She was smiling straight at the camera because his dad had just said something funny. Davie felt something tighten in his gut as he stared at the snap, its faded colour raising old ghosts.
‘There was no note with it, just the picture,’ said the Colonel. ‘Who sent it?’
Davie shook his head as if he didn’t know. But he did know. He would have known instinctively even if he hadn’t recognised the writing on the envelope.
Danny McCall was reminding his son they had unfinished business.
7
JACK BANNATYNE HAD
been in and out of Luca’s Café
every few months since Joe’s death, ostensibly to sample the scones, baked by Luca’s wife. But Luca knew better. He knew the goddamned cop suspected who had really killed Joe the Tailor. He just couldn’t prove it. The visits had stopped three years before, when he was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and transferred to a station on the South Side. Then Luca heard he had stepped up another rung in the promotion ladder and had taken over the Serious Crime Squad, based in Strathclyde’s Pitt Street headquarters. That was bad news.
It was bad enough that Luca couldn’t shake off visions of Joe Klein, watching him, sometimes talking to him. Luca was not fanciful. He told himself it was no ghost, for ghosts didn’t exist. The visions were merely manifestations of guilt. And he did feel guilty. He had killed many men over the years, but Joe had been different. Luca had to do it – Joe was getting in the way of business and if there was one thing Luca had learned during his years with the New York mob, it was that nothing gets in the way of business – but that didn’t make him feel any better. So he grew used to seeing Joe sitting in his favourite booth in the Duke Street café and hearing his voice in his ear like a whisper on the wind.
But Bannatyne back in the picture was a pain in the ass. It forced Luca to be even more cautious in his dealings, more circumspect as Joe would’ve said, letting Big Rab McClymont take an ever more active role. Rab had someone on the inside who would let him know if eyes were turning in their direction. Occasionally an eager beaver would take it into his head to pay closer attention, but they were dealt with. If they were open to it, a deal was made and the cop walked away with some money in his pocket. If they were incorruptible, a body was given to them, an arrest, a sacrificial lamb, and the nosey cop went off to bigger and better things. Sometimes it was one of Rab’s boys who were given up, but more often than not they steered the law towards someone working for one of the other crews. So Luca felt as safe as he could.
Then Jack Bannatyne came back and slid into his usual seat, as if he had been there only yesterday. He looked the same, but then it had only been three years. His hair was perhaps a touch greyer, his face carrying a few more lines, but his eyes were still bright and sharp. And missed very little.
‘Inspector Bannatyne,’ said Luca, his smile broad as he moved from the counter to greet the man.
‘Detective Superintendent now, Luca,’ reminded Bannatyne as he held out his hand. The two men shook like old friends.
‘Ah,
si, si,’
said Luca, his free hand glancing against his forehead. ‘I forget. So what brings you to Duke Street – long time, no see, eh?’
‘Felt the need for one of your wife’s fruit scones, Luca. And a cup of your special coffee.’
Luca nodded, knowing full well that the real reason was yet to come. ‘Coming up.’
Enrico, the second-generation Italian who helped him in the kitchen, was washing up so Luca fetched the scone himself and poured the coffee from the pot he reserved for himself. His customers were happy with instant, but Luca liked his own special blend. So did Bannatyne. He carried the plate with two scones, two pats of butter and the coffee back to the table.
‘Enjoy,’ he said, and would have walked away had Bannatyne not touched him gently on the wrist.
‘Sit a moment, Luca. We’ve not talked for so long.’
Luca shrugged and sat down opposite the detective, who had begun to butter one of the scones. Luca waited as Bannatyne carefully smeared every part of its surface, then took a bite.
‘Perfection,’ said the cop. ‘Mrs Vizzini hasn’t lost her touch.’
Luca inclined his head. ‘I will pass on your good wishes.’
‘Please do.’
It was amazing how quickly they had slipped into their old routine. Even their dialogue had settled into a familiar pattern that they had used so often before.
Then Bannatyne went off script. ‘I hear Davie McCall’s getting out tomorrow.’
Luca tried not to let his surprise show. He had known it was soon, but the following day? His mind feverishly worked out the date and he realised that the day had come without his realising. How could he have forgotten? ‘That is good news,’ he said.
Bannatyne nodded. ‘Not for the person who killed Joe the Tailor.’
‘It was that boy Jazz who murdered my friend.’
Bannatyne smiled. ‘Luca, we’ve been over this before. We know Jazz didn’t kill Joe the Tailor. And you know it, too.’
Luca sighed. ‘You have me wrong. I am but a simple café owner…’
Bannatyne stopped chewing for a moment and gave Luca a hard stare. Then he swallowed the lump of scone and inclined his head. ‘Of course you are. But just let me remind you that Davie McCall isn’t like the rest of the neds. He was devoted to Joe and he’s not stupid. He’s going to know that a boy like Jazz couldn’t get to the old man. No, Joe was killed by someone close to him. McCall will work that out, if he’s not done so already. Plenty of time to think in the jail. And someone’s tried a few times to have him killed, I hear. He’s going to want to know who, I’ll bet.’