Devil's Knock E-Book

Douglas Skelton

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 405

Beschreibung

The Davie McCall saga returns in Devil's Knock. Davie McCall has darkness inside him. A darkness that haunts him, but also helps him do despicable things to those trying to cause him and his friends harm. When Dickie Himes is killed in a club owned by the Jarvis clan, it sparks a chain of events that Davie knows can only lead to widespread gang war on the streets of mid- 90s Glasgow. The police are falling over themselves to solve the crime, but when justice is so easily bought or corrupted, Davie needs to take matters into his own hands. Davie has to contend with the ghosts of those he has failed, a persistent Hollywood actor and a scruffy dog with no name. When he finds a target on his back, will Davie be able to suppress the darkness inside him and refuse to kill... Or will the devil s knock be too tempting?

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS SKELTON is an established true crime author, penning eleven books including Glasgow’s Black Heart, Frightener and Dark Heart. He has appeared on a variety of documentaries and news programmes as an expert on Glasgow crime, most recently on ‘Glasgow’s Gangs’ for the Crime and Investigation Channel with Martin and Gary Kemp. His 2005 book Indian Peter was later adapted for a BBC Scotland radio documentary, which he presented. His first foray into crime fiction was the acclaimed Blood City, which introduced Davie McCall. The second in the series, Crow Bait, was published in 2014.

By the same author

Non-fiction

Blood on the Thistle

Frightener (with Lisa Brownlie)

No Final Solution

A Time to Kill

Devil’s Gallop

Deadlier than the Male

Bloody Valentine

Dark Heart

Indian Peter

Scotland’s Most Wanted

Glasgow’s Black Heart

Fiction

Blood City

Crow Bait

First published 2015

ISBN: 978-1-910324-51-6

The paper used in this book is recyclable. It is made from low chlorine pulps produced in a low energy, low emissions manner from renewable forests.

Printed and bound by

Bell & Bain Ltd., Glasgow

Typeset in 11 point Sabon

by 3btype.com

The author’s right to be identified as author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© Douglas Skelton 2015

Contents

January 1995

Author’s note

January 1995

FRIDAY

AS MUCH AS Dickie Himes wanted to get up and dance, his bladder told him it was not possible. He loved techno, and the DJ had been raising the roof all night. He was now giving the crowd a string of numbers from TTF. He’d begun with ‘Retribution’ and, like the rest of the half-cut clubbers, Dickie had joined in with the line ‘punish the guilty’ that ran right through the song. Dickie’s heart swelled when he heard the band’s tracks blast from the speakers. They were Scotland’s first techno band and the bloke who formed it was from Glasgow, too. Apart from that, he didn’t half fancy the female singer. Shame they’d stopped performing. Now ‘New Emotion’ was pounding through the club and Dickie really wanted to show his moves, but his heart wasn’t the only thing swelling.

He’d been drinking rum and coke all night and the mixer tended to run right through him. So he leaned in close to Skooshie Thompson’s ear and yelled over the thudding beat that he was going to siphon the python. His mate Skooshie dragged his eyes from the jiggling backside of the diminutive brunette he’d been checking out all night and nodded in acknowledgement. Dickie weaved his way through the pulsating crowd then glanced back to see his pal heading in the lassie’s direction, his shagtime grin on his face. He’d nip her. He always did. Skoosh case, that.

It was the last time he saw his mate.

As Dickie made his way to the Gents, he reflected on how much of a dump this place was. It looked okay at night, with the lights going and the beat belting. But he’d been in it during daylight, when the glamour was diluted, and calling it a shithole gave it class it didn’t deserve. The walls were black, all the better to hide the damp patches, and when it was rocking, as it was tonight, the heat generated a layer of condensation on the lowered ceiling which dripped down onto the crowd. They didn’t mind, though. Most of them were out of their head with drink, drugs or just high on the sounds. Despite that, Dickie loved the place. Even though, technically, he and Skoosh should not have been there. Big Rab would go off his nut if he found out.

The pressure on his bladder built as he pushed through the heavy double doors into the corridor and he hoped to Christ there wasn’t a queue in the toilet. There was nothing worse than waiting in line with the pish just about to flood your shoes. The doors swung shut behind him but he could still hear the music pulsing, as if it were part of the fabric of the rundown building. A quick jimmy, then back in there and he’d show them what dancing was all about. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he didn’t know he was drunk, so he held onto the rail as he stepped down the two flights of stairs to the toilet on the ground floor. He needed to get there fast, but not too fast.

He reached the Gents without suffering injury and shouldered his way through the first door, then the second one. He pondered, and not for the first time, why they always have two doors, like an airlock. With a mixture of despair and irritation, he saw that the six urinals on the far wall were all in use, while the three cubicles were all occupied. He was experiencing very real pain now, and if he didn’t get rid of some of this, there was going to be an accident. He tried to wait patiently, but found he couldn’t stand still as he watched the six backs lined up along the urinals like the rear view of an ID parade. He was seriously considering going in one of the sinks when a cubicle door opened. Dickie brushed past the bloke coming out, urgency now the name of the game, closed the door behind him, unzipped and let go. The sensation of the fluid erupting from his body was almost sexual, and a satisfied sigh slid through his smile. He heard the voices of the guys outside, laughter, the blow of the hand dryers, then the sound of the doors opening and closing. Then there was silence. It was cool in the toilet, which was also a pleasure, given the heat upstairs. He could still feel the music vibrating, although he couldn’t say what the song was. He gave himself a final shake and zipped up his trousers. Then he opened the door.

And stepped into hell.

There was only one guy left at the urinals, but that was not what worried Dickie. It was the other three blokes waiting outside the cubicle that made his balls shrivel. He knew the one in the middle well. Scrapper Jarvis was not tall, but he was powerfully built, thanks to years working in his father’s scrapyard, which was how he got his nickname. He lived up to it, too – his broad face bore the marks of his other activities, two scars down one cheek, left there during a fight in a pub owned by his mother, the formidable Maw Jarvis. He had taken exception to some drunk who had made the mistake of calling the Jarvis matriarch a scabby-faced auld harridan. It was a bit harsh, for Mrs Jarvis had been something of a looker in her day and still retained a certain appeal. However, the then 17-year-old Scrapper ended up with his face opened, as the drunk turned out to be pretty nifty with the razor he carried in his pocket. Two quick slices and Scrapper was bleeding all over the sawdust and the man was off into the night, never to be seen again. Some say he fled the city, for Maw Jarvis’s wrath was not something you wished to behold. Scrapper bore his battle scars with pride, for he had defended his family honour, which was a bedraggled thing, but still something the Jarvis clan guarded zealously. Now, ten years later, Scrapper had dished out many a scar of his own and, it was rumoured, put at least three men in the ground as his family clawed their way out of their council house by way of the veins and noses of the city’s drug users. Paw Jarvis had dropped of a heart attack in 1993, so it was Maw who took the family business onwards and upwards. They still lived up Possil, but their house was bought and paid for, even though it remained resolutely unostentatious. It was rumoured they had millions salted away in offshore bank accounts. It was also rumoured that one of those millions was the first pound Maw Jarvis ever earned, her not being exactly free with her cash.

And now here was Scrapper Jarvis standing in front of him with his two mates, who Dickie had seen around but couldn’t immediately put names to. It could only be bad news. Dickie looked past the three blokes, wondering if he could nip round them and away out the door, but that was a forlorn hope. There was a slapping coming his way, he could feel it in the air, which had turned from cool to clammy. He felt himself sobering up fast as he slipped his hand into his trousers pocket and wrapped his fingers round the flick knife he always carried with him.

Scrapper jerked his head towards the urinals and his two mates moved to stand on either side of the boy relieving himself. He had been studying his flow as if he had discovered the secret of life down there, but looked up when he became aware of their presence, then glanced over his shoulder to see Scrapper and Dickie facing each other. He understood there and then that he was surplus to requirements and he tried to stop peeing. But whatever it was that had opened was not for closing again. His body was determined to flush itself out and there was nothing he could do about it.

Dickie couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. He said, ‘Scrapper, give us a break, eh?’

Scrapper raised his finger to silence him and glared across at his two mates and said, ‘What the fuck, Marty?’ Marty Bonner, that was the tall one’s name, Dickie remembered now. His mate was Stewie Moore.

Bonner shrugged and said, ‘Fuckin Niagara Falls goin on here.’

‘Tell him to finish or I’ll finish it for him,’ said Scrapper in the curiously high-pitched voice that never ceased to surprise Dickie. Looking at him – at the scars, the broken nose, the puffy skin over the eyes where he had been punched once too often, at the muscles that bulged at the sleeves of his t-shirt – Dickie always expected him to have a voice as rough as a badger’s bum, but he was almost girlish when he spoke. Not that he – or anyone for that matter – would ever say that to his face.

The boy at the urinal finally finished and zipped up. He turned and, with a last look at the four of them, darted towards the door. Scrapper grinned at his pals and said, ‘Dirty bastard didn’t even wash his hands.’

His boys dutifully laughed, but fell silent as Scrapper’s own smile froze and he turned his attention back to Dickie. His eyes, though, were dancing, and it had nothing to do with the muffled beat pulsating upstairs. Dickie didn’t know what Scrapper was on, but he was certain it would make him even more unpredictable. More dangerous. Scrapper’s reedy voice was little more than a whisper when he spoke. ‘What have I told you McClymont boys about the Corvus?’

‘Scrapper, we’re only here for a night out…’

Scrapper raised his hand impatiently and repeated, ‘What have I told you?’

Dickie sighed and said quietly, ‘Not to come here.’

Scrapper leaned forward, his hand to his ear. ‘What? Can’t hear you, son.’

Dickie said louder, ‘You’ve told us not to come in here.’

‘Yeah. I’ve told you not to come in here, that’s right. And what did I say would happen next time one of you boys showed your face in Jarvis territory?’

‘You said there’d be trouble.’

Scrapper nodded like a teacher working with a none-too-bright pupil. ‘I said there’d be trouble. So, the question is, if you know that, if you know Club Corvus is off limits, what the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Scrapper, we’re no here for trouble, we’re only here for a drink and a dance.’

‘And to sell some gear as well, eh?’

‘Naw, we’re no workin the night, straight up. Just out for a night, you know?’

Scrapper’s eyes narrowed. ‘That right? That gen up, son? Just out for a night?’

‘On my mother’s life, Scrapper, mate…’

‘Just out for a drink and a dance?’

‘Aye, a bit of fun, an that…’

Scrapper smiled and Dickie thought maybe he would get out of this toilet in one piece after all. ‘A wee bit of fun, aye. Maybe pick up some fanny an all, eh?’

‘Aye, if we’re lucky.’

‘Oh, you’d get lucky, son, no doubt about it. Wall-to-wall fanny out there, fuckin muff carpeting we’ve got here, eh?’

Scrapper laughed and his boys laughed and Dickie joined in, but his was a nervous giggle. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. He would only relax once he was out of this cludgie and away from the club altogether.

Scrapper was still smiling when he spoke again. ‘So, okay, you and your mate, whatsisname again?’

‘Skooshie.’

‘Aye, Skooshie.’ He pulled a face at his sidekicks, ‘Stupid fuckin name, that. How’d he get it?’

‘Cos nothing ever puts him off, everything’s a “skoosh case” to him.’

‘That right? Well, we’ll see about that, eh?’ Scrapper jerked his head to Bonner, who pushed past Dickie and went out of the door. Only two with him now, the odds were levelling. Stewie was a hanger on, not a tough guy. Dickie took his hand out of his pocket, the flick knife hidden in his palm.

Scrapper was talking again, his tone even, his voice friendly, but Dickie wasn’t taken in by it at all. ‘See, here’s what puzzles me, Dickie, son. If you and your mate are just here for a night out, and you’re not puntin gear to my customers, how come we saw your mate Skooshie selling blaw to a coupla lassies? Eh?’

Dickie felt his skin chill, even though the atmosphere in the toilet had turned tropical. He had told Skooshie not to shift any gear, not in Jarvis territory. Even if Scrapper or one of his brothers didn’t find out, then Big Rab McClymont might have, and the last thing Big Rab wanted was trouble with Maw Jarvis and her clan. Relations between them were always edgy, but there was, for the moment, an uneasy truce that Big Rab didn’t wish to undermine. Dickie was not stupid, he knew what an entente cordiale was, but he knew that this particular entente was far from cordial. However, it was an entente all the same.

He thought Bonner had gone to fetch Skooshie, but he was back in seconds, dragging a skinny drink of water with the bleached-out look of a junkie. Dickie’s heart sank, not just because he’d missed his moment to make a break for it, but because he guessed what was coming.

‘And if puntin blaw wasn’t bad enough, Dickie son, your mate sold some gear to this guy here.’ Scrapper turned his head towards the lean-faced addict. ‘That right? You cop some gear off his mate?’

The junkie nodded and Dickie thought to himself, Skooshie, what have you got me into here?

Scrapper asked, ‘What’d you get off him?’

The junkie swallowed hard and said, ‘Some jellies.’

‘Some jellies? That right? What flavour?’

The addict looked blankly back at Scrapper, who was laughing at his own joke, his pals joining in. Dickie was thinking, Skooshie, we were told not to sell anything, and here you are selling Temazepam.

Scrapper’s face suddenly turned serious. ‘And did you see anyone else makin deals with him tonight?’

The junkie nodded again and Dickie knew his chances of escaping without some level of chastisement was unlikely.

A crowd of four laughing young men burst in and headed for the urinals. Irritation clouded Scrapper’s face and he jerked his head to his boys. Dickie felt a pair of hands grab him by the shoulders and he was propelled out of the toilet towards the emergency exit. His grip tightened on the blade. This might be a good thing, get outside, get a bit of room. Maybe he could buy himself some time, enough to leg it into the night.

Scrapper punched the bar to release the fire door and led them into a narrow lane that linked Buchanan Street to West Nile Street. Dickie knew it widened a few yards away into a tiny courtyard where grilled back doors led to the shops. They had brought the junkie with them and he was pushed across the lane to cower against a dirty brick wall opposite. The door swung shut behind them, but Dickie could hear the music throbbing above them. Another TTF track. He recognised the sound of ‘Real Love’. He wasn’t feeling much of that in the lane.

It was snowing heavily and lying thick on the ground. There was no light in the lane, but there was a tiny neon sign above the door leading back to the club, a flickering light in the shape of a crow. Its blinking gave the snow an intermittent red glow.

Dickie knew he would have to move first and it was now or never. His right hand shot up and the blade snapped out. He swung it towards Bonner, who was closer, and sliced a furrow from chin to ear. The boy screamed and staggered back, both hands covering the wound, blood streaming through his fingers. Dickie crouched, his attention more on Scrapper than Stewie, who was looking in horror at his pal. He’d been right, not a tough guy at all. Scrapper had produced a blade of his own and he was smiling as he waited for Dickie to make another move.

‘Scrapper, this doesn’t need to get any worse,’ said Dickie, his words trembling.

‘Dickie, son, this is going to get a whole hell of a lot worse, believe me,’ said Scrapper. ‘You cut one of my boys. Can’t let that pass, know what I’m saying? I mean, puntin gear in a Jarvis place is one thing, cuttin a Jarvis boy, that’s something else. Can’t be allowed.’

And then Scrapper lunged. Dickie swung his knife up, but Scrapper was an old hand at this and he easily blocked it with his free hand, stepped in closer and plunged his blade deep into Dickie’s belly. Dickie felt the white heat of the thrust and his lungs sucked in air sharply, his weapon tumbling from his nerveless fingers as he stumbled back a couple of steps. When he slumped to the ground, Scrapper followed him down, his knife darting in and out. Dickie felt the pressure of the hits but not the pain. He heard Bonner’s voice, thin with his own pain, yelling at Scrapper to stop, but there was no stopping him. Dickie couldn’t move now, all he could do was lie on the cold snow as Scrapper knelt over him and stuck him over and over again.

Then it was over and Scrapper was jerked away. Through layers of muffling, Dickie heard Bonner yell, ‘Fuck’s sake, Scrapper, that’s enough! We need to get the fuck away from here.’

Another voice, Dickie didn’t recognise it, then a scream, a girl, and Scrapper cursing. Another scream and the sound of feet slapping away through the snow but the sounds merely drifted around Dickie. He felt so very tired as he lay there and all he wanted to do was sleep, just sleep, that’s all. His eyes were open and he watched the flakes of snow floating towards him as if they had hidden parachutes. He felt their cold kiss on his cheeks, but he could not move to wipe them away. All he could feel was the chill penetrating from below and the soft caress of the snow from above. There was no pain, so maybe he wasn’t hurt that bad. He could feel the music now, a pulse, a beat, vibrating below him. He didn’t want to dance now. He was too tired. At one point he was aware of faces looming over him, then they, too, were gone. Somewhere a girl was sobbing, he didn’t know who. Didn’t matter, he was just going to have a wee nap and when he woke up, he’d see Big Rab and they’d talk about what was to be done about Scrapper Jarvis. After he’d had a wee nap he’d be fine.

And as he lay there, his life staining the snow red around him, he felt the music end.

Davie McCall could see the waiter looking at them in the reflective sheen of the metal doors, wondering just what the hell they were doing there. The guy had a small trolley with two trays on top. Delivering room service, Davie decided. He’d never had room service. Never stayed in a hotel, come to that. Unless you count Her Majesty’s Hotel Barlinnie, where room service was a piss pot in the corner. He couldn’t blame the guy for giving them the eye, because neither he nor his companion looked like the hotel’s regular clientele, who paid more for a manicure than Davie spent in a week. He saw the look in the bloke’s eye that said you don’t belong here, but he held the gaze. The guy looked away. Davie was unsurprised. They always did.

A bland, electronic version of ‘Moon River’ eased softly from hidden speakers, all life and charm squeezed out of it in the process. Lift music. Davie hated lift music. A sniff from his companion caused the waiter to shift position in order to study him in the door. Freddie Armstrong was a picture, right enough. He had a stocky, powerful frame, a broad face with skin so smooth it belied his 34 years and hair long and straggly, tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing a heavy parka to ward off the January cold and thick cargo pants, his booted feet leaving wet traces of snow on the lift’s plush carpet. That was not what was distinctive about him, though. It was the sniffing. He wasn’t making a wordless comment on the quality of the music. Winter or summer, he seemed to have a cold and constantly sniffed, snorted or blew. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his parka and Davie knew they would be filled with paper hankies. As if to emphasise the point, he treated the lift to a long, rattling inhalation that contorted his face, as if he was drawing the mucus right to the top of his head. It was for that reason they called him Kid Snot. Davie knew the man would have preferred Freddie the Ponytail, but he’d long ago given up trying to argue the point and now accepted the nickname with some degree of pride. In their crowd, it was good to have a nickname. It showed acceptance.

Davie McCall did not have a nickname. He didn’t require acceptance. Those who knew him well called him Davie, but that was a small group. Most everyone else called him McCall. Often preceded by the words ‘that bastard’.

The lift stopped on the fourth floor and Davie and Kid Snot eased past the trolley.

An arrow pointed in the direction of the room they sought, but they both turned the other way. When they heard the lift doors sliding shut again they reversed, walked wordlessly down the corridor and stopped in front of room 403. Kid Snot gave another long sniff and rattled his knuckles on the door. He took out a clean tissue and blew his nose. Davie wondered where he kept all the phlegm.

The door swung open to reveal a woman for whom the word gorgeous didn’t quite make the grade. She was in her mid-twenties, with cropped platinum-blonde hair, a slim frame wrapped in a voluminous sweatshirt, its wide neck slipping off one carefully burnished shoulder, and cut-off denim shorts showing off long, straight legs with good muscle tone. When she smiled, she revealed a dazzling array of perfect white teeth. Right away, Davie knew she wasn’t from around here.

‘Hi, guys, can I help you?’ she said in a voice that carried with it the sunshine and surf of Malibu.

‘Lester sent us,’ said Kid Snot, hastily thrusting his used tissue in a pocket and automatically straightening his stance as his free hand reached up to smooth down his hair. She smiled, used to that reaction from men, and switched her gaze to Davie. He didn’t react. She didn’t seem to mind. When a girl was that attractive, one guy being immune to her was no great tragedy.

‘Cool,’ she said and stepped to one side. ‘C’mon in, guys. Mickey’ll be right out.’

Davie didn’t know who Lester was, but he suspected it was some kind of code word. It wasn’t Lester who had sent Kid Snot but Big Rab McClymont, Davie being there for protection. Davie was not sent, or told, or instructed. He was asked. Rab didn’t order Davie around.

The suite was large and plush and probably bigger than Davie’s Sword Street flat, given that he could see two doors leading off the sitting room. He suspected they opened onto two bedrooms, each no doubt having their own en suite facilities. There was a large heap of muscle sitting at a glass-topped dining table, his body about to erupt from his white t-shirt. His head was shaved into the wood and his broad face was impassive as he regarded the newcomers. His skin was light brown and his features Hispanic. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to peg him as a bodyguard.

The blonde was walking ahead of them, giving the Kid the opportunity to appreciate her tanned thighs and pert behind. She turned. ‘Get you guys anything? A soda, maybe? Or a drink? We got wine, scotch, bourbon, beer.’

‘I’m fine, hen,’ said Kid. Davie merely shook his head when she looked in his direction.

‘Cool,’ she said again, treating them both to another wide smile before she threw herself onto a couch big enough to sleep a family of four and picked up a magazine. She crossed her legs, all the better for them to see her perfect tan. Kid Snot couldn’t take his eyes off them. Davie leaned against the wall beside the door, from which vantage point he could see the entire room and all entrances, while being ideally placed for a swift exit if needed. It wasn’t a conscious act, it was just something he did, like breathing.

There was a lull in which Davie was perfectly comfortable. Silence did not bother him. Kid Snot, though, was restive. He stood in the centre of the room, looking like a pile of clothes that had once been dumped there and forgotten about. He scanned the suite appreciatively.

‘Some place, this,’ he said, obviously feeling the need to fill the void.

The blonde looked up from her magazine and cast her eyes around her, as if for the first time. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it’s kinda cool. Don’t like your weather, though. I mean, how can it be so cold all the time?’

‘Welcome to Scotland, hen,’ said the Kid. ‘Where even the polar bears get frostbite.’

Her mouth twitched and she gazed at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Come on – you don’t have polar bears in Scotland.’

‘Too bloody cold for them, that’s why.’

One of the bedroom doors opened and Kid Snot’s eyes bulged as he recognised the man who walked in. Even Davie was impressed. Mickey, he thought, the girl said Mickey. He hadn’t expected Mickey to be Michael Lassiter. But then, why would he expect a Hollywood A-lister to appear in a Glasgow hotel room, even one as pricey as this?

Lassiter wasn’t as tall as he appeared on screen, but he was almost as good-looking. On set, make-up would have filled in the lines around his mouth and disguised the slight discolouration beneath his eyes. Like the girl, he had a deep tan, but his dark hair was beginning to go grey. Davie knew all about that, for his own hair was already turning. It looked good on the actor, just as it had on his father James, who had been a star from the 1960s and ’70s. But the flesh on his cheeks and jowls was puffy, as if the lifestyle that Davie had read about in the tabloids was taking its toll. Drink, drugs and women, the Hollywood cocktail.

‘You’re Michael Lassiter,’ Kid said, just in case the guy had forgotten who he was.

Lassiter was dressed in a long bathrobe and was drying his hands on a towel so thick it could be used as a mattress. He tossed it to one side and gave Kid Snot his best west coast grin. The girl rose from the couch – in the fluid way of someone who exercised regularly – to retrieve the towel from the floor. Davie guessed that was part of her duties. He wondered what else she did for her boss.

‘That’s right. Pleased to meet you,’ he moved to Kid Snot, his hand outstretched.

The Kid gave Davie a glance and a nervous smile, then shook the proffered hand. ‘Freddie Armstrong,’ he said, then felt the need to inhale some wayward slime. This acted as a reminder. ‘But they call me Kid Snot.’

Lassiter retracted his hand hastily and said, ‘No kidding.’ He looked across the room at Davie, expecting him to volunteer his name. Davie remained silent, so the Kid stepped into the void again. ‘That’s Davie, Davie McCall.’ Lassiter nodded in Davie’s direction. Davie nodded back. Lassiter stared at him for a second, a bemused smile on his lips, as if he expected some kind of verbal response. He was disappointed.

‘You got something for me?’ Lassiter asked.

The Kid unzipped his parka and fumbled around in an inside pocket to retrieve a plastic bag filled with white powder. ‘Your medicine, Mister Lassiter, right there.’

Lassiter took the bag and barely looked at it as he dropped it onto a low table in front of the couch. ‘Mannie’ll settle the tab,’ he said. Prompted, Mannie hauled himself to his feet and dug around in his trouser pocket before producing a wad of notes. He held them out, obviously not prepared to deliver. The Kid crossed the room and plucked the cash from Mannie’s large hand.

‘Cold out?’ Lassiter said to Davie, who had not moved from his position against the wall, hands in the pockets of his thigh-length woollen jacket, collar turned up. Davie nodded. Amusement crept into Lassiter’s eyes and he turned to the Kid, who was indelicately counting the notes. Starstruck he may have been, but if he went back to Rab a pound short there’d be hell to pay.

Lassiter jerked his head towards Davie. ‘He say much?’

Kid Snot stopped counting and looked first at the actor, then at Davie. He shrugged and returned to fingering the bills. ‘Not that you’d notice.’

‘Okay,’ said Lassiter, thoughtfully, studying Davie again. ‘Okay.’ Then he picked up the bag and turned to the bedroom door again. ‘Thanks for coming, guys. Have yourself a good night, okay? Coco will see you out.’

And then he was gone. The blonde, still holding the wet towel, led the Kid to the door, giving him another chance to enjoy the view. ‘Nice to meet you, guys,’ she said, giving them that smile again.

‘You too, hen,’ said the Kid, politeness itself, as he thrust the bundle of notes into his jacket and zipped it up again. Davie followed him through the door.

In the hallway, Kid Snot said, ‘Can you believe that? Can you fuckin believe that? Michael fuckin Lassiter! Fuckin hell, wait till I tell the lads. And did you see the size of that boy Mannie? I mean, c’mon to fuck, man! Tell you what, I wouldnae like to clean out his cage. You think he’s on steroids?’ The Kid didn’t wait for a response. ‘I think he’s on steroids. Stupid bastard. They’ll shrivel his winkle.’

Davie remained silent as he punched the button to summon the lift. The Kid wasn’t normally that excitable, but he was hopped up on star juice. ‘Hey, you know what? You kinda look like him, you know? Michael Lassiter, I mean, no Mannie Mountain. Same size, same build, hair’s kinda the same. You’ve both got blue eyes, fuck sake, you could be brothers. He hasn’t got that scar, though – you never did tell me how you got that.’

And I never will, Davie thought.

‘Don’t say anything about tonight, Kid,’ said Davie, flatly.

The Kid gave Davie a wide-eyed stare, unable to believe this. ‘What? How no?’

Davie sighed. ‘Not a word.’ If Davie had been one to explain things, he’d’ve told the Kid that the money tucked away in his jacket bought more than a bag of medicine, it also bought discretion. However, he doubted if the Kid even knew what discretion meant.

‘Don’t see how no, Davie. I mean, it’s Michael Lassiter. Did you ever see him in that picture? She was a cop, he was a male prostitute? Fuckin magic, so it was.’

‘Keep your mouth shut about it, Kid. I’m telling you.’

Kid Snot grumbled about it all the way down in the lift. For the first time in his life, Davie McCall was grateful for lift music.

Frank Donovan stood under the flashing light and surveyed the alley. The uniform keeping the incident log had told him it was a bloodbath, a killing ground. He was right.

Donovan’s churning stomach had nothing to do with the blood and death before him. He’d thrown up in the station toilet just before the shout came in and he could still taste the bitterness in his throat. He’d had a couple of drinks ahead of his shift, but that wasn’t what had caused him to speak to God on the big white phone. Mind you, it hadn’t helped. He had things on his mind, lots of things on his mind, and an extended period of disturbed sleep, fluttering nerves and too much drink had knocked his body out of whack. Now, with the young boy spread-eagled at his feet, he forced himself to focus.

His name was Dickie Himes, according to his pal, who was being interviewed in the club’s office. He was 19 years of age.

Just a kid, thought Donovan sadly. They’re all just kids.

Blood had seeped into the snow around the body like dark wings. Donovan could not tell how many wounds there were, the exact number would be determined at the post mortem, but whoever did this was in a frenzy. One of the wounds must have severed an artery, for there was a blood spray across the narrow alley. There was a series of deep gashes on Himes’ face, too, while his hands were lacerated with defensive wounds.

Donovan squatted closer to the body, being careful not to touch it, even though he was covered from head to toe in a white coverall, his hair encased in a plastic bonnet, his feet wrapped in disposable slip-overs. There was a time when detectives would have attended the scene in their overcoats, dropping fag ash and picking their noses all over the place. Donovan dredged up a quote about the past being a foreign country where they did things differently. That should be the motto of coppers everywhere, he thought, because change was a way of life in their business. Forensic was king, now. The scientists with their white coats and their microscopes and their major mass spectrometers, whatever the hell they were. Now detectives could look but not touch. Somewhere on this body there might be a contact trace, something that would link the victim to the killer. Hair, blood, saliva. The strictures extended to the scene, but the snow around the corpse was scuffed and slushy thanks to the combined trails of dozens of feet, so that wouldn’t be much use.

He studied the dead boy’s face, trying to place it but coming up blank. That did not mean anything in particular, except that their paths had never crossed. If the late Mister Himes had ever been in trouble with the law they would find a record, even if only a memory from a uniform somewhere.

‘Don’t think the kiss of life’s going to help that one, Frankie boy,’ said a voice behind him and Donovan sighed inwardly.

‘What you doing here, Jimmy?’ He didn’t turn. He didn’t want Jimmy Knight to see the look of distaste that had creased his face.

‘I was in the area, thought I’d drop by, see what was what.’

Donovan straightened and faced the big detective. Jimmy Knight, now a Detective Inspector with the Serious Crime Squad, working out of Force Headquarters at Pitt Street. His large, muscular frame was encased in an expensive black overcoat, his dark features framed by his thick black hair and a heavy shadow on his chin and jaws. No matter how close he shaved, Jimmy Knight could never lose that shadow. Some people thought that was why they called him the Black Knight, but Donovan knew better. The man standing before him with that cocky grin earned his nickname for being an out-and-out evil bastard who would as soon batter shite out of a suspect than interrogate him. The bosses loved him, though, because he brought in the bodies. That was why, despite them being on the Job for the same length of time, Knight was a DI with Serious Crime while Donovan was only a Detective Sergeant with Stewart Street CID. Some things hadn’t changed.

Knight kept his distance from the immediate area around the body, but Donovan could still see surprise flash across his face. ‘Jesus, Frankie boy,’ said Knight, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘You lost weight? You on the F-Plan diet?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Donovan, curtly. He’d been telling colleagues that he was on a diet, but it wasn’t true. However, he was not about to discuss his problems with Jimmy Knight.

‘Just as well. All that fibre makes you fart like a young thing, I’m told. I’d need to make sure I was standing upwind.’ Donovan didn’t register any emotion because he knew it would only encourage Knight to further conversation. He saw Knight shrug before giving the body a cursory once over. As he did so, he asked, ‘Where’s your gaffer?’

‘Inside.’

‘In out the cold, eh? Privileges of rank, eh, Frankie boy?’

Detective Chief Inspector Bolton was talking to the victim’s pal, but Donovan didn’t see any point in enlightening Knight.

‘Someone else copped it, too, I hear,’ Knight said as he gazed up the lane towards West Nile Street, where the second corpse lay. Two other CID officers were standing over it, just as Donovan and Knight were standing over Dickie. ‘Connected to this boy, you think?’

‘Don’t know. Doesn’t seem so, though,’ Donovan replied. ‘Way we hear it, the guy was out in the lane with a girl and got in the road when the scroats ran off.’

Knight smiled. ‘Was he gettin a wee feel? At least he went out with a smile on his face, eh? Got any clue who the scroats were?’

Donovan shook his head. ‘Junkie was out here when it happened, but he says he can’t identify anyone.’

‘Believe him?’

Donovan shrugged. ‘He’s a junkie, who the hell knows what’s the truth?’

‘Want me to talk to him?’

Donovan shook his head. The last thing they needed was Knight scaring the shit out of the already traumatised addict. ‘Nah, we’ve got it under control. What’s your interest here anyway, Jimmy? Thought you Serious Crime boys had more to do with your time than turn out for a stabbing.’

‘This place is on our list. The Corvus is a Jarvis set-up.’

That was news to Donovan. ‘Maw Jarvis owns it? I thought it was a George Fisher place.’

Knight shook his head. ‘Aye, Fisher’s name’s on the license and if you search the deeds you’d think it was his, but it’s Maw Jarvis’s club, lock, stock and beer barrels. So, when something like this goes down, it blips on our radar and we have to come out to see the score. Gentleman Jack insists on it.’

Jack Bannatyne used to be their old boss at Baird Street CID, now he was Detective Super at Serious Crime. Gentleman Jack, they called him, not so much because he was a dapper dresser, which he was, but because he reputedly kept his gloves on when he battered a suspect. That was in the old days, of course, when neds expected a good hiding while in custody, back when the beat cop used to fight petty crime with a firm slap across the back of the head, back when there were beat coppers. It was different now. Now the neds had human rights, no matter what they’d done. Someone forgot to tell the Black Knight about that, though. He was known for dishing out a slap or two. Sometimes more.

‘You got a name for the stiff?’ Knight asked, sensitive to a fault.

‘Dickie Himes, according to his mate.’

Knight searched his memory, accessing his encyclopaedic knowledge of Glasgow scroats, scruffs and scumbags. That vast database he carried around in his head was something Donovan envied. In any other cop it would be something to be admired, but Donovan sensed that Knight used it for activities that, if discovered, would have the rule book hurtling towards him at 100 miles per hour.

‘Nah,’ said Knight, ‘not ringing any bells. Who’s his mate?’

‘John Thompson.’

Knight’s eyebrows raised. ‘Skooshie Thompson?’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh, aye. Devious wee shite, punts anything that’ll make him a few quid – blaw, jellies, eggs, smack. You name it, if it gives you a buzz, gets you high or puts you in a fuckin coma, he’ll sell it. So this boy’s his mate? Interesting.’

‘Does Thompson work for the Jarvis clan?’

Knight shook his head and looked down at the body thoughtfully. ‘Nah.’ That was all he said, but Donovan sensed his mind clicking away. There was something the big cop had decided not to share. That was how he worked, keeping stuff to himself, for his own reasons – and sometimes not in the interests of justice, Donovan was certain. He had long thought Knight had his fingers in more pies than a bent baker, but no evidence. Even if he did, there was little he could do about it, for grassing was just not done in the Job.

However, Donovan could guess a little of what Knight was thinking – if Skooshie Thompson and Dickie Himes were selling drugs in the club and said enterprise was not sanctioned by Maw Jarvis, then that could be the motive for murder.

A second scenes-of-crime team pushed into the narrow confines of the lane, dressed in similar style to Donovan, making Knight stand out like a sore thumb in his made-to-measure suit and black coat. It was turning into quite a crowd scene, so Donovan and Knight left the experts to their photographs, swabs, smears and tags.

‘Who is your gaffer?’ asked Knight as they moved closer to the door to give the technicians room.

‘Scott Bolton.’ He was a good boss, straight as they come and thorough in his methods. Bannatyne had been the best boss Donovan had ever had, but DCI Bolton came a close second. Knight’s face wrinkled and with some satisfaction Donovan recalled there was little love lost between them.

‘Fuckin by-the-book Bolton. The only thing he does outside the envelope is write a fuckin address.’

Donovan covered a grin by sliding the covering from his head. He liked Bolton even more now.

Knight sighed. ‘Better go and see him, I suppose. You get on with him okay, Frankie boy?’

‘Aye, he’s a good boss.’

A thin smile flattened Knight’s lips. ‘Aye, but you never were one to push the envelope either, were you?’

‘Jimmy, there’s pushing the envelope and there’s ripping it apart.’

Knight’s face folded into a slight sneer. ‘That’s why I’m a DI and you’re still a DS, working CID. Sometimes the envelope gets in the way of good police work.’

‘Yeah,’ said Donovan, drily, just as the fire exit door behind them swung open and DCI Bolton appeared, talking to a uniformed inspector. When he caught sight of the Black Knight, Bolton’s face darkened. He finished his conversation and the inspector walked off towards the Buchanan Street end of the lane while Bolton stepped closer, his expression grim.

‘What you want here, Knight?’ He snapped.

‘Good to see you too, Scotty,’ said Knight with a grin. ‘How’s the wife?’

When Donovan saw his boss glare, he recalled a canteen whisper that Knight had gone out with the girl who later became Mrs Bolton. The fact that Knight was married himself did not stop him from going over the side more often than Jacques Cousteau. Apparently the break-up had not been pleasant, something to do with Knight’s inability to keep his trousers zipped and her catching him with a redhead at a send-off for a retiring officer. Donovan often wondered where he got the energy. Knight and Bolton had both been stationed in ‘C’ Division, after Knight got his promotion and left Serious Crime for a period. That must’ve been a fun time, Donovan thought.

‘I asked why you’re here, Knight,’ said Bolton, not rising to the bait. ‘This isn’t a Serious Crime Squad case.’

‘Au contraire, mon frère,’ said Knight. ‘In fact, it’s as au fuckin contraire as it’s possible to get.’

‘Apparently the Jarvis clan own the Corvus, boss,’ explained Donovan.

‘That right?’ Donovan knew Bolton was taking this in, giving the murders a new perspective. If the Jarvis family were involved, then this was no simple pub fight gone wrong.

‘And John Thompson’s a dealer, but not for them,’ added Donovan.

Bolton looked at Knight. ‘Who for, then?’

‘Beats the hell out of me,’ said Knight, his face blank.

Bolton grimaced. ‘Au contraire, mon frère,’ he said, ‘I think you do know and if you’re playing any stupid Serious Crime Squad games with me, Knight, think again. I’ve got two dead lads here and I want the bastards who killed them.’

Knight was unimpressed by Bolton’s show of authority. He looked past him to the second body being photographed, the dark lane illuminated by the flash like snatches of lightning. ‘You got a name for him yet?’

‘Aye, Ronald James Ross, an electrician with Glasgow City Council. He was out here with a lassie, winching, when three boys came piling out the exit there, did the first lad, then ran right into them. Young Mister Ross there ended up getting his carotid sliced open, bled out within minutes. Name mean anything to you?’

Knight shook his head. ‘What about the lassie, she give you a description?’

‘Nothing we can use. She’s in a bit of state. I’ve sent her home with a WPC.’

Knight’s head tilted towards the night sky. ‘Pretty dark out here, which makes it the ideal place for a kneetrembler. Not so good for making a description, though.’

Bolton grimaced. ‘Thanks, Sherlock, we wouldn’t have been able to work that out for ourselves, being mere plodding officers and not a super sleuth like you.’

Donovan suppressed a smile and Bolton went on, ‘So, unless you have any more stunning insights, Knight, or are willing to tell me what I’m certain you’re keeping to yourself, I suggest you bugger off and do whatever it is you and the Brylcream Boys at Serious Crime do and let us get on with the day-to-day slog of real police work.’

Knight gave him an easy smile. Despite his brutal nature, he was very slow to rile. ‘Always a pleasure, Detective Chief Inspector Bolton. Give my best to your wife. I know I did…’

Bolton lunged forward then, but Donovan stepped in the way. ‘Leave it, boss, it’s not worth the aggravation.’

Bolton hauled his gaze from Knight and glanced around him. The exchange had been witnessed by the team working the alley and a few of them had stopped what they were doing to watch. When they saw him looking their way they went back to work.

Knight’s smile broadened and he nodded to Donovan. ‘Frankie boy, always good to chew the fat,’ he said and then wandered off down the alleyway towards Buchanan Street. Bolton watched him go, his eyes burning, and Donovan sensed his body was tense. He knew how he felt. Knight affected him that way, too.

‘I don’t know what Jack Bannatyne sees in that bastard,’ said Bolton quietly.

‘He gets results, simple as that.’

‘Aye, but what else does he get? Off the books? You neighboured him, Frank, you know what he’s like.’

‘Aye, boss, but going for him in the middle of a locus isn’t recommended, not for by-the-book Bolton,’ said Donovan, despite his own worries feeling a smile growing. His boss knew what guys like Knight called him and treated it as a mark of respect. Donovan often ribbed him about it, though.

Bolton threw him a glance and said, ‘Fuck off, Sergeant.’ His face was set in stone but his eyes were smiling.

Donovan’s smile grew. ‘Fucking off, sir,’ he said before his attention was diverted by a shout from further down the lane, where a couple of uniforms were waving their arms and pointing at something out of sight. Donovan and Bolton joined them.

‘What’ve you got, Constable?’ Bolton asked the nearest uniform.

‘Up here, sir,’ said the cop, a fresh-faced youngster, eyes bright with excitement. Maybe he’s found the Holy Grail, Donovan thought, but instead the young PC