One Last Dram Before Midnight Page 20

  ‘Your folks don’t live far away, do they?’ enquired Ella cordially.

  ‘No, just up on the hill. Nice to have them close by, especially when Jim’s on nights. It can get lonely, so I’m glad I can just nip up to mum and dad’s and get spoiled.’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure,’ replied Ella, glancing at her husband who was draining another glass of prosecco.

  ‘Come on, let’s do the tour, Ella,’ said Liz.

  As the women climbed the stair, Daley looked at Scott. He was half cut, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked ragged somehow – in a way Daley hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Any mair o’ this fizzy wine, Jimmy? I’ve never been much o’ a wine fan, but this stuff is going doon a treat.’

  ‘You’re on form with the bevy tonight, right enough, Brian,’ replied Daley, refilling his glass. ‘Be careful though, that stuff can catch up on you. Think you’re fine, then the room starts to spin. Happened to me one of the first times I went to Liz’s parents. Her brother-in-law kept topping up my glass. I was gibbering before I knew it.’

  ‘That’s the accountant guy, Henderson, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mark. Bit of a prick. Still, you can’t choose your family.’

  ‘Oh, I widnae say you’re doing too bad, Jimmy. Nice lass like Liz tae keep you warm at nights, this hoose – fair beats anything me an’ Ella can manage.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Brian, know what I mean?’ Daley sighed and turned to look at a photograph of Liz’s stern father on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Oh aye, I know all aboot stuff coming at a price, Jimmy.’ Scott’s face sank.

  ‘How are you getting on with . . . well, you know, what we talked about?’

  ‘Getting there, getting there. I’ll no’ forget what you did, mind. Fair pulled me oot a hole,’ said Scott, knowing that in reality the hole was still being dug.

  ‘What’s done’s done, Brian. I’ve been in the job long enough now to know how things work. It’s not ideal, but maybe it won’t stay that way. Always new blood like us coming through the ranks. Until then we’ll just have to be pragmatic.’

  ‘No’ all o’ it good, by the way. The new blood, I mean.’ Scott emptied his wine glass.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re getting a new DS, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bugger. I meant tae tell you yesterday. All this going on fair put it oot my mind.’

  ‘Who is it? You know him – or her?’

  ‘Oh aye, and you know him tae.’

  Daley hesitated, then his expression changed. ‘You’re kidding, Brian.’

  ‘Nope, he starts wae us next week.’

  ‘But he got sent to Motherwell when he got out of uniform. What happened there?’

  ‘Back by special request, so they say. One o’ the bosses had got him marked oot for great things, apparently. Because o’ his special knowledge o’ the division.’

  ‘We are talking about the same man, aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh yes. DC James Daley, meet DS John Donald. It’ll just be like old times, eh, Jimmy?’

  Daley felt his mood darken. Of all the cops in Strathclyde Police CID, the man he didn’t want as his sergeant was one John Donald.

  ‘Here, Jimmy, boy. Any chance o’ another yin? An’ dae me a favour, gie me a bigger tumbler, will you? These wee ones are gone before you know it.’ He hiccupped as Daley went off to find a larger glass.

  Ella Scott peered into the darkness and switched on the windscreen wipers, as they negotiated a narrow country road near the motorway junction in Paisley.

  Her passenger was swaying in his seat, humming an old Sinatra song.

  ‘Will you shut up and put on the wireless. I’m no’ listening tae that cats’ choir a’ the way hame.’

  ‘You cannae beat the King o’ the Board – Auld Blue Eyes. What’s wrong wae your coupon anyway? You’ve got a face like a long weekend.’

  ‘You mean, apart from the fact my husband’s a soak, and I’ve got tae go back tae my council flat, after getting a tour roon the palace? Aye, apart fae that, nothing at all, Brian.’

  ‘Aw, come on, darling. It might no’ be much, but it’s still hame.’ He stifled a hiccup.

  ‘The bog doesnae flush right, there’s a leak in the fridge, and damp in oor bedroom. Hame, sweet hame, right enough.’

  ‘You forgot aboot that smell in the lobby press.’

  ‘Go ahead, cheer me up, why don’t you? I’d kill for a dado like hers.’ Ella shook her head.

  ‘Really?’ Scott studied his wife carefully, one eye closed to help him focus. ‘I widnae thought she’d need something like that wae the big man aboot. You don’t need tae use anything wae batteries tae get satisfaction . . . no . . . no’ wae me on hand, Ella, and that’s a fact.’ He burped.

  ‘Dado, as in dado rail, Brian.’ She shook her head. ‘Though the state you’re in, I’ll no’ be troubled by any conjugal rights the night.’

  Instead of a reply, her husband’s head slipped gently down the passenger window. DC Brain Scott was fast asleep.

  V

  The Western Winds was a forbidding-looking pub in the middle of a row of boarded-up shops. Empty shells, their windows were either smashed in or bore the distinctive graffiti tags of Glasgow’s street gangs.

  The neighbourhood of the Gallowgate, doorway to the East End of the city, was run down. Many of the old tenements had been demolished, the scars left behind awaiting beautification by visionary town planners and architects. It reminded Scott of the old bombsites he used to play on as a child, decades after the war had ended.

  Sure, Glasgow was changing for the better, but the tendrils of those changes had yet to wend their way to the environs of the Western Winds.

  He lit a cigarette as he lingered across the road, eyeing the grimy pub. The sound of singing and laughter drifted into the street from its single window, a narrow barred affair set high up in the wall. Like many of the old pubs in the city, windows were frowned upon; the business of drinking – and whatever else went on under their roofs – was considered secret, not for prying eyes. The windows were there to help dispel the fug of cigarette smoke and allow just enough light in to enable the customers to, roughly, orient themselves as to the time of day.

  Scott stubbed out his cigarette and took a deep breath. Reluctantly he crossed the street, hesitated for a second, then pushed open the heavy swing doors of the Western Winds.

  The hot stench of booze and fags hit him like a baseball bat across the head. The hearty laughter of men and the more screeching variety that came from their womenfolk launched him straight back to his childhood and the many Christening knees-ups he’d attended. Despite the scene of conviviality and celebration, he felt as though he was caught in the undertow of a spring tide that might suck him back from all he’d become, back into the darkness of his past.

  At a table at the very back of the bar, a large man tapped his companion on the shoulder and nodded towards the door. The seated man looked across the bar and slowly got to his feet.

  Scott felt his mouth go dry. His heart was pumping in his chest as the pair made their way towards him. One man was well over six feet, with muscular shoulders and a bull neck; the other of average height like Scott himself, but with a coiled, wiry athletic quality. His dark hair was shorter on top than the back, where it hung down almost to the shoulders of his shiny blue suit. His eyes were pale blue, and pierced more and more through Scott the nearer he came.

  When they were almost toe to toe, the smaller man stopped and held up his hand to halt the progress of his companion, a couple of paces behind. The music from the jukebox happened to fade away, and Scott felt as though he’d walked straight into the set of a bad Western. All eyes were now fixed on him. The gales of laughter and murmur of conversation had diminished to such a level that the chink of ice in a whisky glass sounded ear-splitting. Near him, a little girl, sensing tension in the air, began to cry before running towards the safety of her mother’s
lap.

  The man with the mullet haircut took a step nearer. They were almost exactly the same height, and his eyes bored straight into those of the detective, who, despite himself, felt his right leg begin to shake.

  ‘Well, well, looks like you chose the wrong pub tae slake your thirst, Scooty.’ Though his lips curled into a smile, the man’s eyes remained unflinching.

  ‘Frank, eh, how you doin’?’

  ‘Better than you’ll be in just two minutes when I let big Gerry here loose on you, ya pig bastard!’ Frank MacDougall’s final words left everyone in no doubt as to what Brian Scott did for a living. Lips pursed and heads shook as this information was assimilated by the rest of the company.

  ‘I need tae have a word wae you, Frank,’ croaked Scott.

  MacDougall turned to his companion. ‘Take him through the back, Gerry.’ Then, to the barman, he said, ‘Gie us a bottle o’ Whyte an’ MacKay, Bobby. Least we can do for a last request.’

  Scott felt powerful hands on his collar as he was dragged, stumbling, through the sea of hostile faces, along a short corridor and into a dark room, suddenly illuminated by a striplight that buzzed its way into life.

  A long table sat in the middle of the room, with a few chairs around it. MacDougall took his seat at the head of the table as his companion Gerry pulled out a chair and pushed Scott onto it.

  The nervous barman appeared at the door, bearing a tray on which sat one bottle of whisky and three small glasses.

  MacDougall studied the detective for a moment or two, his face expressionless.

  ‘You’re a right lucky bastard, Brian. Right lucky and fucking stupid.’

  ‘I-I need tae speak tae you, Frank. Something’s . . . something’s come up, you know.’

  ‘See if big JayMac was here, you’d a’ready be floating doon the Clyde wae your bollocks for supper, know what I mean?’

  ‘It’s aboot your saunas in the toon centre,’ blurted Scott, desperately trying to avoid any more speculation as to what James Machie would do – or have done to him – if he happened to be in the vicinity.

  MacDougall reached for the whisky bottle and poured out two glasses.

  ‘You’ve had enough, Gerry. Anyhow, away and take a look oot in the street, make sure nae mair o’ Scooty’s buddies have turned up tae help him pass on this message.’

  Wordlessly, Gerry left, leaving the two old neighbours alone in the room, the only noise the restored hubbub of the bar down the corridor and the drone of the striplight.

  For the first time MacDougall smiled warmly. ‘Why did you come tae see me this way, Brian? For fuck’s sake, it’s no’ as though the filth don’t know where I am. It’s good tae see you, buddy, even if you are a pig bastard.’ He slid a glass of whisky down the table in Scott’s direction. ‘Drink that. You definitely need it, man. I thought you were going tae pish yoursel’ oot there. Bad form turning up like this, Scooty, know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m no’ here, Frank, if you know what I mean. Things are no’ going well for me in the cops. Bunch o’ dodgy bastards,’ said Scott, more at ease now he had a glass in his hand, but still watchful. The man sitting at the table was his old friend, yes, but he was also the under boss of Glasgow’s most feared criminal gang, with a well-earned reputation for brutality and ruthlessness.

  ‘Have you just realised that? Bugger me, Brian, I knew you were a daft bastard, but I never thought you were stupid. The polis have always been dodgy bastards. I know for a fact – cos I pay some o’ them,’ he said grinning.

  ‘I just want oot. Och, they’re aboot tae gie me the order o’ the boot anyhow. Best I go before I’m pushed.’ He hesitated. ‘But I’ll still need tae pay the bills, Frank.’

  MacDougall looked at him levelly. ‘So, you’ve just scored the winner for the ’Tic in the cup final, now you want tae put on a blue jersey – just like that. Aye, you’re some man, Brian.’

  ‘I can help yous oot. I know stuff. That’s how I can tell you aboot they saunas. It’s a peace offering, Frank.’

  MacDougall took a gulp of his whisky, draining his glass, and poured himself another dram, topping up Scott’s glass once he’d finished. ‘Do you know what it felt like, man?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My auld mate – the guy I grew up wae – joining the pigs. I felt like you’d kicked me in the bollocks, Scooty.’

  ‘Had tae dae something, didn’t I?’ Scott was desperate to say the right thing. He knew MacDougall wasn’t just all about beatings and extortion. In another world, he’d have been heading up the corporate ladder – one of these yuppies he kept hearing about with their flash cars, model wives and piles of cash. But then, Scott considered, MacDougall had all that anyway, just didn’t pay too much tax on it.

  ‘So you joined up, and then what?’

  ‘Bastards just used me. Knew I’d grown up wae you and JayMac. Thought I’d just rat yous oot. Which, you’ll note, I didnae.’

  ‘Well, at least that was one clever move, Scooty. We wouldn’t want your Ella in widow’s weeds now, would we?’ He took out a packet of expensive Russian cigarettes and handed one to Scott. ‘Ever tried these? Sobranie Black Russians. Slip doon a treat, man.’

  Scott took the black cigarette with the gold tip and lit it tentatively. Sure enough, he couldn’t feel the smoke drag into his lungs, but the buzz was keen.

  ‘Tell you what, Scooty. You tell me aboot these saunas, then I’ll see what I can dae for you. I’m making nae promises, mind. You’ll know fine oor boy won’t be well disposed towards you. That’ll take some persuasion. But, let’s go wae what we’ve got just noo.’

  ‘Nae bother, Francis, man,’ said Scott. He knocked back his whisky in one gulp. ‘It’s good tae be back hame,’ he lied.

  Ronnie Wiley was still half asleep. He’d spent the afternoon with his brother in the pub near his home in Shettleston and was still feeling the after-effects of the tonic wine he’d consumed.

  The tip-off had come out of the blue, but from a reliable source. As a young journalist, he had to make his mark, or so he kept telling himself as he stood in the cold doorway of the boarded-up shop opposite the Western Winds.

  He fiddled with the expensive camera and the heavy lens. This wasn’t his speciality, but he was adept enough to capture a decent enough photograph. In any case, he was too junior to warrant the services of a duty photographer. This, he thought, was an advantage, in a way. This scoop would be his, and his alone.

  He stamped his feet to keep warm and banish the fug of booze from his head, and moved back into the shadows.

  VI

  Scott awoke in a strange room. Strange, not only because he didn’t recognise it, but because the walls, furniture and carpet were all black. Even the television was encased in black, not like the cheap wood effect he was used to.

  He was lying on a large comfortable settee, still fully dressed, with a duvet flung over him. Shafts of light were peeping through a chink in the black curtains, so he got up and staggered towards the window.

  He had little or no recollection of how he’d arrived in this black room. However, if his banging head and parched mouth were anything to go by, he at least had enjoyed himself the night before.

  It was then that reality slowly dawned, and he remembered where he’d begun the evening.

  He pulled back the curtains frantically and was mildly relieved to note the rear of a large Georgian mansion facing him across a well-tended garden. His presence in this obviously well-to-do neighbourhood puzzled him though, as he struggled to recall the events that had brought him here.

  He looked at his watch: almost eight thirty. Shit, it was Monday morning, and wherever he was, he was going to be late for work.

  It was then he heard movement from outside the room. The black door swung open to reveal a man in a red silk dressing gown, hair wet and slicked back, with a towel over his shoulders, fresh from his ablutions.

  ‘Scooty, man. Mair like Sleeping Beauty, eh?’ Frank MacDougall walked towards him across the
thick pile of the black carpet. ‘Hey, what dae you think o’ my room? The wife says it’s shite, but what does she know? I’ve always wanted a black room, and now I’ve got one.’

  ‘Aye, Frank,’ replied Scott, as fragmented memories of the night before began to piece themselves together. ‘Original, very original.’

  ‘A bit different tae what me and you was used tae, eh? Nae fungus growing oot the walls here, and no’ sharing a toilet wae the rest o’ the close neither. Happy days, man, happy days.’

  ‘Glad tae see yours are much improved, bud. Dae you have anything tae drink? Coffee, I mean, I’m fair parched.’

  MacDougall laughed and led Scott into a bright hallway. Red carpet and abstract paintings on the white walls. They reached an oak door which MacDougall pushed open to reveal an enormous kitchen: black tiled floor, pine fitted cabinets, an Aga and two Belfast sinks, deep enough to bath a toddler in.

  He padded across the floor, filled a kettle and put it on to boil.

  ‘Tried tae get you up the stairs tae one o’ the bedrooms last night, but even big Gerry couldn’t move you. Deid tae the world you were.’

  ‘Big Gerry? Your mate, right?’

  ‘Gerry Dowie, the hardest man ever fae Paisley.’ MacDougall laughed. ‘Good man tae have on your side, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh aye, I can imagine that, buddy.’

  ‘Never knew you was such a fan o’ the old Charlie, eh, Brian. You’re certainly no’ the average copper.’

  In a flash of horror, Scott remembered being offered cocaine and, after much persuasion, snorting it, just to keep those in his company happy. No wonder he felt so terrible.

  ‘Listen, Frank, I need tae get moving, you know. Got tae get tae work.’

  ‘Why are you so bothered? No’ as though you’ve much o’ a future. Chill oot, man.’

  ‘No, no, I’ve got tae play the game fir now. You know what I mean? It’s no’ over till it’s over. I can be mair help tae you boys in the time I’ve left than sitting on my arse looking oot the window at hame,’ Scott said, pleased with this conceit.