Blood City

  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 STV’s In Search of Bible John. His 2005 book Indian Peter was later adapted for a BBC Scotland radio documentary which he presented. Blood City is his first foray into fiction.

  http://bookbanter.co.uk/douglasskelton/

  Blood City

  Douglas Skelton

  Luath Press Limited

  EDINBURGH

  www.luath.co.uk

  First published 2013

  ISBN (print): 978-1-908373-71-1

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-53-3

  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

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Epilogue

  Enjoyed Blood City?

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to John Abernethy, who first suggested I go back to how these guys began. Also to my reading committee, Karin, Elizabeth and Gary. Kate and Joe Jackson provided some information, as did Big Stephen Wilkie. Anything I’ve got wrong was either intentional or my fault.

  Thanks to Helena for the white suit and the Vauxhall Chevette. To my wife Margaret, who is still providing the cups of tea as I pound the keyboard.

  Finally, huge thanks to Louise Hutcheson at Luath for spotting the manuscript as well as Gavin, Kirsten and the team for their help, support and confidence.

  Prologue

  OCTOBER 1977

  ...voices, floating...

  ...rising, falling...

  ...ebbing, flowing...

  When Davie McCall bobbed to the surface of consciousness, he was aware of the voices drifting around him. Hushed voices, and he did not recognise any of them. His vision swam as he opened his eyes and he didn’t know at first where he was. There was a blue curtain around him, darker lines waving as if he was seeing them through water. And there were other sounds; the squeak of shoes on polished surfaces, sometimes the clink of cutlery on a plate and even, faintly, the harsh sound of laughter on a television. But then he would be dragged back down into the depths, unconsciousness washing over him and sweeping the sounds away once more.

  And each time he was back in that dingy room where the firelight guttered and the stench of blood hung in the air. Back in that room with his father standing over him, the heavy poker wet and glistening in his hand, his face frozen in rage, his eyes cold, distant points of blue ice.

  And Davie again felt the pain in his arm and the ache in his head, and tasted the blood from his scalp as it trickled down his face to his lips.

  And he felt the fear as his father turned those dead blue eyes on him.

  Then, mercifully, the deep claimed him again and he was carried away from that place with its pain, and its terror, and its blood. Not his blood, of course. It was not his blood that clung to the memory of that dark room. Not his blood. Not his.

  1

  WHEN AT LAST Davie fully burst through the silky surface of consciousness, he knew immediately that he was in a hospital. His previous surges back to the world had been brief affairs, when he had registered the sounds but not the smells. Now he knew he was in a hospital ward, for not only did he recognise the squeak of nurses’ shoes on the floor and the muted conversation of the other patients on the ward, but also the smell of disinfectant and, for some reason, boiled cabbage. As he lay on his back he opened his eyes and saw the cracked plaster in the cream ceiling high above his bed. Pale, watery daylight leaked through a window to his left. Surrounding him he saw the light blue curtain with its ragged darker lines and finally the unmistakeable figure of Joe the Tailor beside his bed. Immaculate as always; the trademark deep navy coat, unbuttoned to reveal his blue suit, white shirt and dark red tie. Davie couldn’t see it but he knew the Tailor’s grey Homburg would not be far away. The old man sat straight-backed in the foldaway wooden chair, one knee crooked over the other, his perfectly manicured hands clasped on top. He might have been praying, but Davie knew he had given that up a long time ago. He also knew, without asking, that the man had been sitting there for a long time.

  Joe Klein smiled gently when he saw the boy’s eyes snap open.

  ‘Glad to see you are returned,’ he said, his voice carrying the faint echoes of a Polish childhood. ‘You are in the Royal Infirmary. Do you know why?’ Davie tried to pull himself up, but found his body unwilling to obey. The Tailor reached out and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘It is best that you remain as you are,’ he said. Davie looked at the hand, at the ring that sparkled on the pinkie, and beyond that his own right arm, encased in plaster. He raised his left hand to his forehead and felt the bandages encasing the top of his head.

  ‘We almost lost you,’ said Joe, settling back again. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’ Davie’s voice rasped and for the first time he realised how dry his lips were. He tried to lick them but his tongue was cracked and barren of moisture. The Tailor nodded and leaned forward with a glass of amber fluid with a straw. He placed the straw between Davie’s lips and said, ‘You must drink. They have left water but this is better.’ The delicate scent of the old man’s cologne was comforting as Davie sucked on the straw and felt the fizzy liquid bite at his tongue and throat. ‘The Irn-Bru,’ said Joe, smiling again. ‘The bringer of life.’ Davie drained a strawfull. Joe replaced the glass on the cabinet and sat down again. He shook the folds of his coat until they hung correctly then draped his leg over his knee once more before letting his hands resume their clasped position.

  ‘Where is he?’ Joe didn’t need to ask who Davie meant, for he had expected the question.

  ‘They do not know,’ he replied. ‘He has vanished.’ Davie nodded, knowing instinctively that his father would not have allowed himself to be caught. ‘He came to me, after,’ said Joe. ‘I phoned the police myself. That kind of behaviour must not be tolerated. They will catch him, or we will, sooner or later.’ Davie knew the old man meant what he said, but doubted that his father would ever allow himself to be caught. He knew Danny McCall too well. A madman he may have been – Davie still recalled something not of this world glinting in his father’s eye that night – but Danny McCall would have been aware that he had crossed a line. It wasn’t just the Law that sought him now, but Joe ‘The Tailor’ Klein as well, for he had broken one of his cardinal rules. Thou Shalt Not Harm a Woman. There was enough of the father in the son to make him certain that Danny McCall would move heaven and hell to ensure he was not found. Joe Klein was a bad man to cross.

  ‘The police will wish to talk,’ said the Tailor. ‘You must assist them.’ This, Davie knew, was an order and there was no possibility of him not obeying. He nodded his agreement as the curtain behind the old man flipped back and the hulking form of Rab McClymont loomed over the bed, two small white cups of tea gripped in his big hands. He was only 21 – just six years older than Davie – but he looked far more mature, thanks to his size and the heavy beard darkening his cheeks. His wide jaw and shock of black hair made him look like a live acti
on version of Desperate Dan.

  ‘This is the best I could do, boss,’ Rab offered before realising that Davie’s eyes were open. ‘Fuck – Sleeping Beauty has woken up!’

  Joe frowned as he eased the cup from Rab’s hand. ‘You must moderate your language, Robert. You are not on the street now.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe,’ Rab sounded chastened but when he winked at Davie he seemed anything but. All Joe’s boys knew that the boss loathed foul language, but it never stopped Rab and Davie sometimes suspected he did it on purpose to goad the old man. ‘You’ve been out of it for days, Davie son. You want a cuppa tea?’

  Davie shook his head. ‘Give us that glass down, though,’ he said.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Rab and wrapped his fist around the glass. ‘What’s in it? Medicine?’

  ‘It is the amber nectar of the gods,’ said the Tailor with a smile.

  ‘That right?’ Rab raised the glass to his face and sucked on the straw. ‘Fuck me – it’s fuckin Irn-Bru!’

  The old man winced. ‘Robert, you are incorrigible. Give the glass to David before he dies of thirst.’

  ‘Sorry, mate – here.’ Rab handed over the glass and Davie took it with his good hand. He struggled to sit up and Rab put his own cup on the cabinet top in order to give him surprisingly gentle assistance. Davie nodded his thanks before he drained some more of the liquid and looked at the Tailor.

  ‘Where do I go from here?’

  ‘You will remain here until the doctors say you are fit to leave,’ Joe answered. ‘Your arm is broken, your skull fractured.’

  ‘Aye, you’re well fucked up, Davie,’ said Rab, then turned to the old man who was glaring at him from the chair. ‘Sorry, Joe.’

  ‘And then...?’ Davie asked.

  ‘Your auntie – your mother’s sister. With her you will stay. But you are my responsibility now.’

  Davie nodded, drank a little more and said, ‘When?’

  ‘A little while only. You must get better.’

  Davie lay back on the pillows Rab had helped prop up and looked out of the window, its surface speckled with rain. The dark grey city stretched out beneath an iron sky. Cars moved down Castle Street towards High Street and further on he could see the top of the Tollbooth Steeple at Glasgow Cross. He stared at the serrated edge of the city skyline etched against the dark clouds. The Tailor had said he must get better, but Davie seriously doubted he ever would. At only 15 years old, Davie McCall knew there was darkness within him with which he would have to come to terms. And that prospect scared the hell out of him.

  2

  JANUARY 1978

  Frank Donovan felt the cold seeping first through his black coat, then his thick uniform and finally his flesh to settle in his bones. They had only been here 15 minutes but already the Glasgow winter night was beginning to bite. Jack Frost wasn’t just nipping at his nose, he was bloody well gnawing. Donovan’s ears were burning, a phenomenon that had always struck him as rather strange. How could you be cold, but feel as if someone was holding a match to your ear? He would have pondered this conundrum further, but he was too damn frozen to bother. Behind him he could hear the dark waters of the canal lapping against the stone walls, but he knew the sub-zero air would soon choke the life from the sound and still the surface to ice. From where they stood beside the Forth and Clyde Canal they could look across the dark sprawl of Firhill and Maryhill. A thick frost floated over the city streets, making a white carpet of the tenement roofs and sparkling diamonds of the street lights. The grass at their feet was just beginning to whiten. But the girl lying on it was already white.

  His eyes flicked involuntarily to the broken corpse lying just off the towpath. She lay on her back, her arms outstretched, one leg bent under the other. Her skirt was tucked up around her waist, the remnants of her ripped underwear lying beneath her. Her blouse had been torn open and her bra wrenched away to reveal her breasts. Donovan wanted to reach down and cover her, to preserve at least some of her dignity, but knew that would be a cardinal sin. Instead he looked away.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s freezing,’ said Jimmy Knight, stamping his feet on the cold-hardened pathway beside him. ‘When they gonnae get this show on the road?’

  ‘No be long,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Better fuckin no be, ‘cos soon they’ll have another two stiffs to work wi if they don’t get their arses in gear.’

  PC Jimmy Knight stepped closer to the girl’s body, rubbing his gloved hands together to create some semblance of heat.

  ‘D’you know what the tragedy of this is?’ Donovan remained silent, knowing his neighbour’s question was rhetorical. ‘D’you know what the cold, hard, heart-fuckin-wrenching tragedy of this is? It’s that she wasnae a bad bit of stuff, the lassie. I mean, if she was a pig it would be sad, but she’s no pig. That’s the tragedy of it.’ He bent lower over the corpse, studying her face. ‘How old, do you think? 17, 18?’

  Donovan didn’t answer. What he wanted to say was that she was too young to die, but he knew it was best to keep his mouth shut. Jimmy Knight disdained sentiment; it was a feeble show of weakness. Jimmy Knight didn’t do sentiment and he didn’t do weakness.

  ‘Aye, she’s no a bad bit of stuff,’ Knight went on, his gaze crawling down the girl’s body. ‘Nice set of tits on her, so she has. Good pair o pins. Wouldnae’ve minded a wee go at her myself.’

  ‘You’ve got time now, Jimmy, if that’s what you want,’ Donovan said, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘They’ll no be here for another ten minutes or so. I’ll turn away if you want some privacy.’

  Knight straightened up and for a second Donovan actually believed he was considering it. Then he shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘I’ll pass, thanks.’ He turned back to Donovan and sniffed. ‘Don’t want to be guddlin about in another guy’s pond, know what I mean?’

  Donovan looked away, the other man missing the disgust that flashed across his face. He hated being neighboured with Knight. God knows Donovan was no prude, but Knight was little more than an animal. Everyone knew there was a bit of sexual action on offer to uniforms, but Knight abused the privilege. He didn’t care if the offer came from a working lass, a suspect or a victim – if it was up for grabs, he was game. Donovan also had some concerns over the other man’s honesty, suspecting for some time that Knight was involved in darker stuff. He was a good cop, though; a cop’s cop – a cop who brought in the bodies, who notched up the arrests.

  Then, as if to underline Donovan’s thoughts, Knight spoke. ‘Boy that did her’s got some marks on him, by the looks of it.’ He glanced back at Donovan and explained, ‘Blood on her fingers, round the nails. She’s been strangled, no visible wounds. She scratched the bastard during the struggle.’

  Well done, hen, Donovan thought.

  A movement on the towpath, just a slight shifting in the darkness, caught Donovan’s eye.

  ‘Jimmy,’ he said, and the other officer looked back towards him. Donovan nodded up the path and Knight followed his gaze, his eyes squinting against the gloom.

  He murmured, ‘Someone up there?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Donovan, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Is it the murder team?’

  ‘No, just one person, he’s stopped dead still. Doesn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ said Knight and took a couple of steps along the path, his torch in his hand now. He clicked it on and swung the beam along the towpath, the light picking out the frost hanging in the air like mist. ‘Come on, pal, don’t be messin about. Let’s see ye.’

  There was a slight pause before the figure stepped into the beam. A young man, still a teenager, his hair long and straggly, his body encased in a blue anorak and blue jeans. There was a white scarf at his throat to ward off the cold. He moved hesitantly towards them.

  Knight asked, ‘What you doing here, pal?’

  ‘Just walking,’ said the youth, still moving towards them. ‘Then I saw you standing there and I thought there was some
thing wrong.’

  He was well-spoken and Donovan immediately pegged him as coming from the smarter part of the West End and not the immediate Maryhill vicinity – Kelvinside, Hyndland, maybe even Bearsden up the road. The question was, what the hell was he doing walking along the banks of the Forth and Clyde past midnight? The 200 year old waterway was not the place for a moonlight stroll.

  ‘Well, you thought right,’ said Knight. ‘What’s your name?’

  The young man came to a halt about three feet away from them. He suddenly looked nervous. He glanced from one officer to the other, his eyes widening behind a pair of round, John Lennon glasses. There was a slight catch in his voice as he asked, ‘Why do you want to know my name?’

  Knight shrugged. ‘Just routine, pal, nothing to worry about. You can see we’ve got a situation here...’ he gestured at the corpse of the girl, but the youth barely looked at her. Knight went on, ‘Now you come strolling along here like you’re out for a Sunday walk in the park. So what’s your name?’

  ‘William. William Lowry. Like the painter.’

  ‘Well, William Lowry like the painter, what you doing here at this time of night?’

  ‘I’m...’ he began, but paused, and Donovan knew there was a lie coming. ‘I’m going home after a party.’

  ‘Aye? And where’s home?’

  ‘Woodside.’

  ‘And where was the party?’

  ‘A flat on Maryhill Road. It’s a pal’s place but I’d really not like to get him involved in this.’

  Donovan thought, involved in what? But he let Knight control the interview. He knew to let the other cop follow his own line of questioning.

  Knight asked, ‘You a student, then?’

  The boy nodded and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. ‘Yes. The College of Art.’

  ‘So he’s really going to be like Lowry the painter,’ Knight smiled and turned to Donovan, his back momentarily to the boy so he could tap two fingers to his throat without being seen. Donovan nodded, looked back at the youth and saw what Knight had already noticed, a smear of blood just at the fold of the white scarf where it touched his neck.