Now here he was, on his tod, legging it down Balveny Street, jingle bells playing in his trouser pockets, trying to catch up with the fleet-footed wee bastard up ahead. Or at least keep him in sight. As he puffed and gasped in his wake, Donovan couldn’t help but think of the
Roadrunner
cartoons. Mo was the Roadrunner, which made him Wile. E. Coyote. Any minute now an anvil with the Acme trademark would land on his head. That might actually be welcome because, truth be told, he was feeling none-too-clever. The beer slopping around his guts was making him feel decidedly seedy, and those bloody ten pence pieces were banging and rubbing against his thighs as if he had testicles like an elephant.
Mo veered into Findochty Street, but Donovan kept after him. Donovan knew he couldn’t keep this pace up much longer – there was a pain in his chest now, which was worrying. He was only in his mid-thirties, for God’s sake – too young for a heart attack. He hoped it was just wind. He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out his radio, flicked the ‘Send’ switch and held it close to his mouth as he ran.
‘
DS
Donovan…’ His breath wheezed with the words, ‘… in pursuit of suspect Mo Morris on Findochty Street. Need assistance… over.’
‘Units in vicinity,’ a voice crackled back, ‘stay with suspect. Over.’
Stay with suspect? Easy for you to say, mate, sitting in a control room and issuing bloody instructions into a microphone. Probably even got a nice cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake beside you.
And I know units are in the vicinity
, he thought,
just not my immediate vicinity, and that’s where I need them because my legs are about to give up the ghost
and this pain in my chest is really beginning to worry me.
But he kept on going, the radio clutched in his right hand, struggling to keep Mo’s white t-shirt in his sights, that damned change rattling around like a miser’s wet dream. He saw Mo glance over his shoulder and Donovan hoped that was a sign he was flagging. No such luck, for the wee man actually picked up his pace when he saw he was still hanging on behind him. Donovan felt the hope sink in his chest, swallowed up by the agony spreading across his ribs.
That’s it
, he promised himself,
no more Scotch Pies at lunchtime
.
But that glance back proved to be Mo’s undoing, because he failed to notice the dark-coloured Vauxhall zoom out of Craigievar Street and come to a halt just ahead of him. The driver’s door opened and a large man shot out, moving faster than his size might suggest. Donovan knew who it was and knew him to be a fit sod. Mo turned forward again only to run right into the swing of an extendable baton. Donovan winced when he heard the weapon crack against Mo’s chest.
That’ll leave a welt,
he thought. Mo went down hard on his back and Donovan slowed to a halt, bending forward with his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. And not to throw up. He looked up into the grinning face of Detective Sergeant Jimmy Knight. He never thought he’d be glad to see that face…
‘Frankie, boy!’ said Knight, his voice booming down the street as he retracted the baton. ‘I think you need to be getting to a gym. Disgraceful state to be in.’
Donovan didn’t have the breath in him for any sort of clever response, so with a shaking hand he raised two fingers at the big cop. Knight laughed. ‘Witty as ever, Frankie boy.’ He looked down at the young man beginning to stir at his feet. ‘Heard there was a wee bit of excitement and I was passing. Thought I’d lend a hand. Who’ve we got here then?’
‘Mo Morris,’ said Donovan, swallowing hard, his chest pain receding now.
‘And what did Mister Morris do that he’s exercised Strathclyde’s finest this day?’
‘Robbed an old biddy in Carntyne. Left her for dead.’
‘Really?’ Knight looked at the prone young man with renewed interest. ‘What did you go and do that for?’ Mo didn’t reply, prompting Knight to stamp his foot on his chest with some force. The young man cried out. ‘I’m speaking to you, ya wee shitehawk. Why’d you hurt that old lady?’
‘Didn’t mean to,’ wailed Mo. ‘Just happened.’
Knight bent down, grabbed the little man by a handful of hair and dragged him to his feet. There was a wicked gleam in Knight’s eye that Donovan had seen before, but he wasn’t about to let anything happen here. ‘Jimmy,’ he warned, ‘take it easy. We’re in the street here.’
Knight ignored him and peered into Mo’s eyes. The big cop’s face was impassive, but Donovan knew that meant nothing. Donovan looked around, saw no-one, but that didn’t mean eyes weren’t upon them.
‘Just happened? Just happened? Pounding a little old lady until she passes out doesn’t
just happen
, does it?’
Mo made the mistake of not responding and Knight shook him by the hair.
‘Does it, you pile of steaming shit? Does it?’
‘No!’ yelled Mo, crying now.
‘No, it does not.’ Knight glanced at Donovan and went on, ‘Know what, Frank, we should start beating on this guy, see what
just happens
. What do you think? Want first go?’
‘Jimmy,’ said Donovan again, ‘we’re in the street.’
‘We could say he resisted arrest. I’ll even let him take a poke at me, just to make it look good. Or if he’s no man enough you can do it, Frankie boy. You’d like that, eh?’
Donovan couldn’t deny he would like the chance to lay one on Knight, but this wasn’t the time or the place. ‘Jimmy, just cuff him and we’ll take him in.’
‘Oh, I’ll cuff him alright. Cuff him about the ears.’ Knight was staring into Mo’s face once more. The young man was weeping openly now, saying he was sorry over and over again and even Donovan began to pity him, but Knight remained expressionless. He looked at Mo as if he was some sort of curious specimen, his head tilted to one side, his dark eyes probing every feature of the boy’s face. Then Knight sneered and with a flick of his arm propelled the little man towards Donovan.
‘Take him, Frankie boy. He’s no worth the paperwork.’
Donovan trapped Morris before he could do another runner, pinned his hands behind his back then snapped the handcuffs on. Two uniforms came steaming along the road towards them, hats in their hand as they ran.
Better late than never
. Knight climbed back into his car and slipped on his seatbelt. He lit up a cigarillo and blew smoke through the open window as Donovan handed the young man over to the boys in blue.
‘Glad I bumped into you. Got some news, Frankie boy,’ Knight said as the uniforms led the still weeping Morris away. Donovan waited as Knight took a long draw on the small cigar and exhaled another cloud of smoke. Knight was a Detective Sergeant, just like him, but he had a knack for making Donovan feel like an inferior. And now that he was with the Serious Crime Squad he was even worse. ‘Got some info on your dead tart.’
Jimmy Knight, sensitive as ever. ‘Okay.’
‘Seems she was pretty active, but she only had one regular. Bloke named John…’
‘John Keen was the guy who rented the flat she was found in.’ That was all Donovan knew about the guy, his name. No-one had seen him in the close, the arrangements had been made with the letting agent by phone and post, with the cash for the deposit and the first month’s rent delivered by a young girl who didn’t leave a name. Christ, could’ve been Virginia, for all Donovan knew. And no-one had heard anything on the night of the murder – the flat next door was empty, the one upstairs inhabited by an old spinster who was hard of hearing, while the couple downstairs had been out cold all night after a two-day bender. Donovan couldn’t shake off the feeling that this guy Keen had chosen the site carefully. And that meant he’d been planning the murder.
Knight blew smoke into the air. ‘That’ll be him, then. None of the other lassies saw him too clearly – he used to pick her up in a car – but one did meet him, briefly.’
‘Can she describe him?’
‘No much to go on. Glasgow accent, dark hair, flecked with grey, average height, good-looking, which begs the question why he needed to go with tarts.’
Donovan thought,
you should know
, but he kept it to himself. ‘Maybe he had special demands.’
‘Aye, maybe. He also had blue eyes. That’s what she remembers most, his blue eyes.’
Donovan thought about this. There was something about the murder scene that had sparked a memory, but no matter how much he stretched for it, it remained just out of reach. ‘It’s not much, is it?’
‘More than you had five minutes ago.’
That was true. ‘Where’d you get all this?’
‘Plooky Mary, so it’s dependable.’
‘You still running her as a tout?’
‘Aye, don’t know how long for, right enough. She’s got the virus.’
‘AIDS?’
‘Aye.’ Knight didn’t sound terribly upset, even though he’d been using the girl as an informant for years. ‘Stupid cow started using heroin a while back, shared needles with her junkie pals. She didn’t listen to John Hurt on those telly ads when he told her not to die of ignorance.’
‘You’re all heart, Jimmy,’ said Donovan.
‘Cry me a river, Frankie Boy. She was only a tout, for fuck’s sake.’
Donovan was neither shocked nor surprised by Knight’s callous attitude. He had always known Jimmy Knight doesn’t do sentiment. Knight flicked the ignition and jammed his cigarillo between his teeth. ‘I hear that Davie McCall’s getting out today,’ he said.
‘Heard that too,’ said Donovan.
Knight stared at him for a second and Donovan had the impression he was waiting for him to say something else. Perhaps the big cop had heard that Gentleman Jack had asked him to make contact and expected to be kept in the loop. Donovan remained silent, so Knight nodded and said, ‘Got a feeling in my pish that we’re in for some interesting times again, Frankie boy.’
Donovan shrugged and began to walk back to where he had abandoned his car when he’d spotted wee Mo. He heard Knight’s car pull away and he watched it move past him. He thought about the murder room, he thought about blue-eyed John Keen, he thought about Davie McCall.
He couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was all linked.
12
IT FELT STRANGE
being out.
Davie didn’t think freedom would have affected him so much.
It began when the big door slammed closed behind him and he was outside Barlinnie Prison for the first time in ten years. He was a free man. It was the same air he’d breathed in the exercise yard, but today it seemed fresher, sweeter. He stood still for a second to listen to the birds singing in the trees. He had heard them from the yard, too, but this morning their song sounded cheerier, as if they were glad to see him.
The screws had taken their own sweet time processing his release papers, a move Davie put down to a final show of authority. He should have been through the door in the big gate to the right of public reception earlier in the day, but bureaucracy would not be hurried. He sat around, his impatience growing, but refused to let them see it. He knew it had to end eventually so he sat calmly in the processing area and waited it out.
It was Bobby’s blond hair that Davie saw first, then the smile as wide as the Clyde. Bobby had been a good-looking bastard when they were young, and he had improved with the years. The hair was shorter now than it had been ten years before, but he still looked like a young Robert Redford. He was standing beside the small car park to Davie’s right. The larger car park to his left was already filled with vehicles.
‘Thought you’d maybe banjoe’d somebody and they were keeping you in,’ said Bobby as he shook Davie’s hand.
‘Crossed my mind, Bobby,’ said Davie. ‘Controlled myself though.’
‘Had to move the motor about ten times,’ said Bobby, pointing the way to a double-parked Blue Montego. Then he clapped Davie on the back. ‘So – how does it feel to be a free man at last?’
‘Good,’ said Davie, but it was an understatement. Ten years was a long time and he still expected the harsh bellow of a screw telling him to get back into the gallery, to get a move on, to move his skinny arse before he put a boot to it. He wondered how long he would feel that way.
He breathed in a lungful of the cold November air before he settled into the passenger seat and strapped on the seatbelt. Even that felt unusual.
‘Aye, you’ll find a lot of things have changed in the old town,’ said Bobby as he backed out of the space. ‘City of Culture and all that this year. Sinatra played Ibrox, you know that? Joe woulda loved that.’
Bobby fell silent for a few moments and Davie felt his friend regretting his mention of Joe Klein. Davie nodded, letting him know it was fine. ‘Aye, opera and ballet for masses,’ Bobby went on. ‘You didn’t see Pavarotti out in the schemes, though. Some streets, the only culture they’ve got is what’s growin on the bottom of their dirty dishes.’
Bobby steered the car down the drive away from the prison and Davie looked in the side mirror to see its grey bulk diminish. He never wanted to go inside again and he vowed he never would. Rab was right – losing your liberty is hellish, and Davie fully understood why even a visit gave him cold sweats.
‘Course, the schemes are changing, right enough,’ Bobby went on. ‘Gettin done up an’ that, you’ll no recognise some of them, Davie, neither you will.’