Crow Bait

  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.

  By the same author:

  Non-fiction

  Blood on the Thistle

  Frightener: The Glasgow Ice Cream wars (with Lisa Brownlie)

  No Final Solution

  A Time to Kill

  Devil’s Gallop

  Deadlier than the Male

  Bloody Valentine

  Indian Peter

  Scotland’s Most Wanted

  Dark Heart

  Glasgow’s Black Heart

  Fiction

  Blood City

  Crow Bait

  DOUGLAS SKELTON

  Luath Press Limited

  EDINBURGH

  www.luath.co.uk

  First published 2014

  ISBN (PBK): 978-1-910021-29-3

  ISBN (EBK): 978-1-910324-31-8

  The publishers acknowledge the support of Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.

  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 2014

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  29

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Author’s Note

  Some other books published by LUATH PRESS

  Luath

  To the memories of

  Edward Boyd and Roddie McMillan.

  I never met them, but Daniel Pike showed me that a crime thriller did not need to be set in New York, la or London.

  Glasgow’s mean streets would do just fine.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to my ‘Reading Posse’ – Karin Stewart, Sandy Kilpatrick, Lucy Bryden and Alistair and Rachel Neil.

  To Big Stephen Wilkie, Joe Jackson and John Carroll for keeping me right. If I’ve made errors, they’re all mine.

  To Elizabeth and Gary McLaughlin for their unflagging support in getting the books publicised (here’s another one, guys – get cracking.) And Helena Morrow for keeping Canada supplied.

  To Margaret, for keeping me fed while I struggled with the rigours of writing.

  To Caron MacPherson and Michael J. Malone for their advice, Alex Gray for saying nice things, and Craig Robertson for the support.

  To my editor, Louise Hutcheson, and the team at Luath for making real what always begins as some vague notion as I walk the dogs.

  For certain background information on the drug scene in 1990, I am indebted to a series of articles in the Glasgow Evening Times during October of that year by Mike Hildrey and Ally McLaws.

  And thanks are due to the Steele boys, Jim and Joe.

  Prologue

  THE BOY IS running across a field, the long grass around him sighing softly as a warm breeze whispers through its stalks. He is running, yet he moves slowly, like a film being played back at half-speed.

  The boy is happy. It is a good day, the best day ever, and his young heart sings with its joy. They have taken him out of the city, away from the black buildings, away from the stench of the traffic, away from the constant roar of engines. A day in the country, where the sun didn’t need to burn through varying levels of grime to warm the land. His first day in the country and he revels in the feel of the soft grass caressing his legs as he runs.

  He can see them waiting for him at the far end of the field, the car his father has borrowed from his boss parked under trees behind them. They smile at him as he draws nearer and his father wraps his arm around his mother’s waist. He gives the boy a friendly wave. It is a tender moment and the boy is sorry the day has to end.

  But the air cools as the gap between them narrows and the field darkens as if a cloud has passed over the sun. The boy looks up, but the sun is still there, burning brightly in an unbroken blue sky. And yet, the day has shadowed and the grass has lost its colour. The green and sun-bleached yellow is gone, replaced by blacks and greys.

  The boy stops and looks to his parents for an explanation, but they are no longer there. In their place is a dark patch, a deep red crying out amid the now muted surroundings, and the boy knows what has caused it.

  ‘Dad, don’t…’ he hears himself say.

  ‘Dad, please don’t…’ he murmurs as he backs away, fearful of what he might see in that pool of crimson. His mother, he now knows, is gone, never to return. But he also knows his father is there, somewhere in the red-stained darkness, waiting, watching.

  So he backs away and he begins to turn, all the joy replaced by a deep-seated dread. He retreats, for all he wants to do now is get away from that corner of the field, and the sticky redness of the grass, so he turns to run, he turns to flee, he turns to hide.

  But when he turns he finds his father looming over him, the poker raised above his head, the love he had once seen in the man’s eyes gone and in its place something else, something the boy does not fully understand, but something he knows will haunt him for the rest of his life. Something deadly, something inhuman.

  And then his father brings the poker swinging down…

  * * *

  Barlinnie Prison

  One night in November, 1990

  Davie McCall woke with a start and for a moment he was unsure of his surroundings. Then, slowly, the grey outline of his cell, what he had come to call his peter, began to take shape and the night-time sounds of the prison filtered through his dream-fogged brain: Old Sammy snoring softly in his bed; the hollow echo of a screw walking the gallery; the coughs and occasional cries of other inmates as they struggled with their own terrors.

  He had not had the dream for years, but now it had returned. The field was real and he had run through it on just such a warm summer day when his mum and dad took him to the Campsie Hills to the north of Glasgow when he was eight. They had been happy then. They had been a family then. It ended seven years later.

  Danny McCall vanished when Davie was fifteen.

  But the son knew the father was still out there, somewhere.

  He had seen him, just once, little more than a fleeting glimpse, a blink and he was gone. It had been ten years before outside a Glasgow courthouse, just as Davie was being led away. He could not be sure for it was just a flash, but the more he replayed it in his mind, the clearer the face became, as if someone had tweaked the focus. It became a face he knew as well as his own, for the son was the image of the father. It bore a smile on the lips yet there was a coldness in the blue eyes.

  And then, just as Davie was pulled away, a wave. He had not registered it at the time but as the months passed and he replayed the scene in his mind, he became sure of it. A wave that said I’m back.

  1

  IT WAS A small room in a smal
l flat and the glow of the electric fire stained the walls blood red. They used to call these one-roomed flats single ends, but that was before the estate agents moved in. Now they were studio apartments, to make them more attractive to the upwardly mobile. Not that the yuppies would be interested in this one. An enthusiastic salesman might call it a fixer upper, but really the only thing that would fix this place up was a canister of petrol and a match. It was run down, on its uppers. If this room had been a person, it would be homeless.

  The wallpaper had been slapped on its walls back in the ’70s, when garish was good. Bright orange broken up by black wavy lines and the light radiating from the three bar electric fire made it look like the flames of hell. The furniture – what there was of it – would have given items thrown on a rubbish skip delusions of grandeur: a lumpy, stained two-seater settee, a matching armchair, the back bleeding stuffing, an old kitchen table, two wooden chairs, one lying on its side. A standard lamp, the bulb smashed, also on the floor. An ironing board, open and standing, a man’s shirt still hanging from the edge, the iron itself disconnected from the mains and discarded on the threadbare rug. There was a small kitchen area in the corner – a grime-encrusted cooker, a stained sink, a small fridge that looked incongruously new. The unmade single bed in the recess had clean, if rumpled linen, so someone was choosy about what they slept in.

  It wasn’t the decor that obsessed the men and women moving to and fro. It was the woman on her back behind the table. A heavy poker lay in a pool of blood beside her. There was more blood caked on the frayed carpet, spattered on the walls and streaked on the ceiling. The woman’s face was a pulpy mass of battered tissue.

  ‘For God’s sake, will someone turn off that bloody fire,’ Frank Donovan said. The heat was making him feel sick. A Scene of Crime technician reached out with a gloved hand to comply.

  Donovan looked at the body and sighed. The wounds were so ferocious that it was difficult to tell how old the victim was. They already knew she didn’t live here – the flat had been rented to a man called John Keen one month before. Neighbours had never seen him and they had no idea who the woman was. Donovan would have someone check with the letting agent, see if they could pull a description of the guy who signed the lease.

  A Detective Constable named Johnstone rifled through a handbag found beside the bed and removed a purse stuffed with five £10 notes and a Strathclyde University student matriculation card dated 1988 in the name of Virginia McTaggart. DC Johnstone handed the plastic card to Donovan, who studied the girl’s face. She’d be twenty-three now, he calculated, dark-haired, pretty in an unassuming way. She wasn’t pretty now, though. The bastard with the poker had seen to that.

  He looked up from the card, back to the body, then scanned the room again. Something about this crime scene bothered him, as if a memory had been prodded but had not come fully to life.

  ‘Frank.’ Donovan looked up to Johnstone, who was holding out a handful of condoms. ‘What do you think – working girl maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Donovan, looking back at the card. ‘Get someone to check this card out with Strathclyde Uni. See what we can find out about her.’

  Johnstone nodded and took the card back from Donovan. As the DC turned to the door he almost collided with Detective Superintendent Jack Bannatyne who, as ever, looked immaculate. Dark coat over a grey suit, crisp white shirt, muted red tie. Donovan, as usual, felt underdressed in his crumpled blue suit, lighter blue shirt and dark tie, all courtesy of messrs Marks and Spencer. Donovan was surprised to see his old boss here. He headed up Serious Crime now and a solitary murder up a close in Springburn wasn’t usually something that blipped on their radar.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Donovan,’ said Bannatyne, formal as ever in front of the foot soldiers, as he studied the corpse at their feet. ‘Bad one, this.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Battered with the poker?’

  ‘That’s what we think, at this stage. The PM will confirm.’

  Bannatyne nodded, his eyes flicking around the room. ‘Need a quick word. Can we step outside, away from this heat?’ Donovan hesitated, unwilling to refuse a request from a superior but just as unhappy about leaving a crime scene. Bannatyne caught his hesitation. ‘It’s alright, Sergeant, I checked with your DI downstairs. He’s happy to spare you for a minute.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Donovan, wondering what brought him to this murder scene. He followed Bannatyne down the winding staircase to Keppochill Road. Blue lights flashed in the night from the variety of police vehicles angled at the kerb while technicians and officers, both plainclothes and uniformed, moved between them and the closemouth. Bannatyne led Donovan a few feet away from the hubbub for some semblance of privacy.

  ‘Frank,’ he said, keeping his voice low, formality dropped now that they couldn’t be overheard. ‘You’ll’ve heard that Davie McCall is getting out in a couple of days?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Donovan hoped he didn’t sound guarded.

  ‘I need you to make contact with him, once he’s out.’

  ‘With McCall, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I think you have a…’ Bannatyne searched for the correct word, ‘connection with him.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, sir.’

  ‘You saved his girlfriend from being shot that night. If you hadn’t pulled her out of the way, Clem Boyle would’ve done her for sure. And you caught the bullet. He might think he owes you.’

  Donovan resisted the impulse to touch the scar on his chest. ‘Or he might think we’re even because he chased Boyle and helped bring him down.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’d like you to try anyway.’

  Doubts aside, there was no way Donovan could refuse. They both knew it. ‘What is it you need, sir?’

  ‘You were involved in the Joe Klein investigation. You know there were questions.’

  Joe Klein, the gangster they called Joe the Tailor, shot in his own home ten years before. The case was officially unsolved. ‘Yes, sir. But no evidence. As far as we know, it was Jazz Sinclair.’

  ‘He wasn’t capable of doing an old hand like Joe.’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Everybody gets lucky sometimes.’

  ‘Frank, someone else was there. I know it. I need you to find out what McCall thinks, what he knows. What he’s going to do about it. Joe was like a father to him and I don’t need him coming out like some lone avenger.’

  ‘That the only reason, sir?’

  Bannatyne looked away briefly, then gave Donovan a long stare. ‘I feel responsible.’

  Donovan frowned. ‘For Joe’s death?’

  ‘Yes. I told Johnny Jones that it was Joe who had put us on to him – remember we visited Jones in his flat that night?’ Donovan nodded. Jones had been credited with kick-starting the big time heroin market in Glasgow, back in 1980. He was shot later that year. Another unsolved killing. There was a lot of that about that year, Donovan recalled. Bannatyne went on, ‘I thought I was being clever but I think all it did was piss Jones off. He sent Jazz in that night but the boy wasn’t up to it. Someone else finished the job, I feel it in my water. I owe it to Joe to find out who.’

  Donovan shifted from one foot to the other. He felt he was out of line in saying what he was about to say, but he was going to say it anyway. ‘Joe was a crook, sir. What do you care about him?’

  Bannatyne gave him another of his long, hard looks then nodded, as if giving Donovan retrospective permission to ask the question. ‘He wasn’t a bad guy, not compared to what we have now – drug dealers, scumbags, thugs in shellsuits attacking innocent people. He had rules, he had standards. God help me for saying this, but he even had morals, of a sort. We’ll never see his like again.’

  Donovan nodded, understanding now. Bannatyne was old-fashioned, too. Tough, sometimes pulled strokes, but always basically honest and with a distinct lack of respect for desk-bound authority figures who had forgotten what police work was all a
bout. There would have been mutual respect between him and Joe the Tailor, even though they were on opposite sides of the fence.

  ‘I’ll see McCall as soon as I can, sir. I’ll let you know what he says, if anything. But if I remember rightly, he doesn’t say much.’

  Bannatyne nodded. ‘All we can do is try, Frank. I appreciate it.’ The DCI inclined his head towards the second floor window of the flat they’d just left. ‘You got a victim ID?’

  ‘Virginia McTaggart. Could be a tart, we’re not sure. It’s not her flat, so maybe her customer brought her back here. Flat’s rented out to a John Keen.’

  Bannatyne thought about this. ‘Want me to ask Jimmy Knight to speak to his touts? He’s got a few who work The Drag – maybe they know this lassie?’

  Donovan knew that Jimmy Knight had a number of informers among the prostitutes who worked ‘The Drag’, the grid of streets between Anderston Cross and Sauchiehall Street. He had often walked the rain-swept area with Knight in search of information. Donovan knew that Knight extracted more than intelligence from some of the girls, the big cop being physically unable to keep it in his pants. Normally he wouldn’t want Knight anywhere near an investigation, good and intuitive detective though he was, but as Bannatyne had asked, it would be churlish to refuse.

  ‘That’d be a good idea, sir, thanks.’

  Bannatyne patted him on the arm and walked to his car. Donovan made his way back to the murder room, his mind on Davie McCall. He had thought about the young man often over the past ten years, each memory accompanied by the dull ache in his chest where the bullet had caught him.

  Davie McCall.

  He was eighteen when he went in. He’d be a man now. He’d had a difficult time in prison, Donovan had heard, though jail was never easy. Donovan wondered how much it had changed him.

  2

  AROUND HIM THE night sounds of the prison continued. He had grown used to the coughs and the murmurs and the footsteps. He had even found comfort in them, just as he had in the routines of prison life.