The address was in Thornliebank, right on the edge of Glasgow. So on the edge that McCoy wasn’t sure if it still was Glasgow any more. Might be Paisley? East Renfrewshire? What he did know was that it was bloody miles away.
He managed to purloin a uniform who was headed to the Paisley Station for a game of five-a-side to give him a lift, persuaded him it was on the way. Jamie was his name, some big Highlander with sandy hair and hands the size of shovels. There were fewer of them now, those big Highland lads. There were loads when McCoy started in the force: big gruff guys from up north, took no shit. Half the force seemed to have been made up of them. Police force loved recruiting them. They thought if they didn’t have connections to anyone in Glasgow they were less likely to be compromised or have some cousin doing housebreaking that they would turn a blind eye to. Thought that they had ‘good moral character’ too. Wee Frees, half of them. God-fearing men. There was still some detective over in Western, McCormack, something like that, couldn’t remember. Lived up the road from him, funnily enough. Came from Ballachulish. Quiet sort, kept himself to himself. Good reputation, mind you.
Jamie drove slowly and didn’t say much. Suited McCoy fine. He rolled the window down, let the breeze fill the car. Smell of cut grass, car exhausts, parched earth. Summer.
‘You no boiling with that uniform on?’ he asked.
Jamie nodded. ‘Melting.’
And that was that. Didn’t say another word until he dropped him off. Probably realised how much out his way McCoy had taken him.
Like most of the streets in Thornliebank, Arden Avenue was a long road of pebbledash four-in-a-block flats, neat wee gardens at the front, kids on bikes and roller skates zooming round. He walked up past a man watering his garden with a hosepipe and stopped outside number 23. Wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say to Wullie March. Maybe he just wanted to talk to someone who knew exactly what had happened to his son. A courtesy call, really. Kind of thing he used to do when he was a uniform. He sighed, rang the doorbell and waited.
‘You looking for Wullie?’
McCoy looked round, realised the voice was coming from the next-door garden. A middle-aged man in a vest, shorts and black socks was sitting in a velvet-covered armchair in the middle of a sun-parched lawn. Wee table beside him with a can of lager and an open paperback copy of Papillon on it.
He caught McCoy looking at the armchair. ‘I dragged it out this morning, couldn’t find the key for the bloody hut.’
McCoy nodded, none the wiser.
‘Deckchairs are in the hut,’ he explained.
‘Ah,’ said McCoy. ‘Wullie March, aye. You seen him? Said he’d be in this afternoon.’
The man smiled. ‘Did he? Stupid bugger. He’s never in. He’ll be where he always is.’ He pointed at the back of a large building just across the street.
McCoy walked round onto Barrhead Road and stood there for a minute looking at THE TRADEWINDS HOTEL as it proudly proclaimed itself via a big wrought-iron sign sitting on a big wrought-iron boat. The front of the building was white, clean lines – supposed the idea was that it looked like a yacht club or something, effect somewhat spoiled by the graffiti on the side.
‘HOLE IN THE WALL GANG COUNTRY!’
Somebody with a spray can had obviously been watching too many cowboy pictures. There were a lot of places like the Tradewinds around Glasgow. Hotels, not pubs. Didn’t think anyone ever stayed in them, but if they had a couple of bedrooms upstairs it meant they could apply for a hotel license and sell drink on a Sunday. And that was the day they made all their money, people coming from everywhere. He pushed the door open and went inside.
The lounge was huge, big booths, rows of seats, rows of one-arm bandits, and a stage at the end, smoke and dust whirling in the light from the big windows along the side. It was more like the kind of place you got at Butlin’s or Pontins holiday camp than a pub. The difference was holiday camps tended to be busy, happy places, full of people having a good time. The Tradewinds was anything but. Sheer size made the five or six wee groups dotted around look even more miserable. All of them elderly men, all of them nursing pints, all of them smoking for Scotland.
He walked up to the bar and ordered a Coke and a pint. Drank the Coke over quickly in one slug and handed the glass back to the barman.
‘Must have been thirsty,’ he said.
‘I was,’ said McCoy. ‘Still bloody boiling out there.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘You know Wullie March?’
The barman nodded, pointed over at an elderly man sitting by himself at the window. Even in this heat, he had a bunnet and a cardigan on. And even at this distance, McCoy could see his hand shaking as he raised his pint up to his mouth.
‘Give us a double whisky,’ said McCoy to the barman. ‘What kind does he drink?’
Barman snorted. ‘He’s no that fussy, believe me. Old bugger stops just short of turps.’ He pressed a glass into the Bell’s optic twice, handed it over. ‘Gie him that. He’ll think his ship’s come in.’
McCoy took it and walked over to the table. Big picture window behind Wullie March affording a view of a newsagent, a butcher’s, a parked Viva and a queue of people waiting at a bus stop. Cowes it was not.
‘Mr March? You called the station, spoke to me? Detective McCoy.’
Wullie March’s wee rheumy eyes took McCoy in. Then they took in the glass of whisky in his hand.
McCoy held it out. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
March nodded, shaking hand reached out for the whisky and he swallowed it over. Instant look of relief on his face.
‘Sorry about what’s happened,’ said McCoy. ‘He was a young man. Must have been a shock.’
March nodded. Now the distraction of the whisky was out the way he was looking at McCoy properly. So McCoy did the same. March was probably only fifty odds but the drink had taken its toll, burst blood vessels on his cheeks and nose, eyes red-ringed and watery. Tremor in his hands. Suit trousers shiny, white nylon shirt beneath the cardigan yellowing around the collar.
‘It was. You the polis that dealt with my son?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ said McCoy.
‘Where’s his bag? You got it?’ said March.
McCoy looked blank. ‘What bag?’
March’s face crumpled, looked genuinely upset.
‘Sorry, was it a sentimental thing?’ asked McCoy. ‘Did he have something in it? Photos?’
The upset face turned angry in a second. March spat out the words. ‘I knew it, some bastard’s stolen it. I fucking knew it.’
He looked up at McCoy, anger now becoming fury. Pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. ‘Was it you? You take it, did you?’
‘Me?’ said McCoy. ‘No! I’m a polis.’
‘Think that makes a difference, do you?’ said March. ‘I’ve known more bent polis than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Fair enough,’ said McCoy. ‘Not arguing with you there, but I’m not one and there wasn’t a bag in his room. I would have seen it.’
March’s hands had formed into fists, face going red. ‘Well, someone’s had it and I want it, should be mine. I should get it, shouldn’t I?’
McCoy nodded. Started to wonder exactly how much of a toll the drink had taken on Wullie March.
‘What kind of bag was it?’ he asked, trying to get him back on track.
March shook his head in disgust. ‘Some bloody hippy-looking thing. Cloth, long strap, wore it over his shoulder. Got it in Greece. Sandy-coloured. Had it for years, never went anywhere without it.’
‘And what was in it?’ asked McCoy.
March’s face lit up. ‘Money, there’d be money in it, wouldn’t there? My boy did well, should have had money.’
He looked at McCoy, horrible smile on his face. ‘And that money’s mine now. It’s owed. I’m his next of kin.’
McCoy nodded. Thought about Bobby March lying dead on his bed. Thought about how his father hadn’t asked anything about him. Just all about the bloody bag and the hope of some easy money for more drink. More than likely the bag was where he kept his drugs and his fags rather than the wads of cash March was imagining.
‘He still have pals back here?’ asked McCoy. ‘Girlfriends? Anyone he would see?’
March shook his head. Looked at the empty whisky glass. McCoy wasn’t biting. Yet.
‘No. Didnae even come and see me. Hated Glasgow. Couldn’t wait to get out of it. Went to London when he was seventeen. Some band he was in. I had to sign his record contract because he was so bloody young. Never came back here, if he could help it. Hated it.’
He seemed to drift off, stared out the window at the queue of people at the bus stop across the street. Snapped back, looked at McCoy. ‘Will you find the bastard that’s taken it? It’s a crime. They’ve got it and they’ve got my money. I haven’t worked for years. I need it. I’m entitled.’
McCoy held his hands up. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Okay?’
March nodded, shaking hands took a ready-made roll-up out his baccy tin.
‘Why’d he hate Glasgow so much?’ asked McCoy.
March shook his head. ‘No idea. It was his home.’ He looked at him as if something had just dawned. ‘You know any newspaper reporters? They’d pay for my story, wouldn’t they? Could tell them all about Bobby, everything they want to know. Got pictures from when he was a wee boy. A gold record, too. How much that be worth, you reckon?’
McCoy shook his head. ‘I’m a polis. Don’t know anything about newspapers or gold records.’
March looked at the empty whisky glass. Tried to look like he was about to cry. ‘My poor boy, my poor wee boy.’ Took a filthy hanky out his cardigan pocket and blew his nose into it.
McCoy knew he was laying it on thick, had to be daft not to, but he gave in. His son was dead after all, so he bought him another whisky and left him to it. Told him he’d be in touch as soon as he found out anything.