Bobby March Will Live Forever Page 9

  Three-quarters of an hour, three fags and a mug of tea later he had made his way through four other files. Five robberies in all. All the same scenario. Two armed guys, a driver, in and out as quick as possible. All over Glasgow as well. A Royal Bank in Townhead, a Savings Bank in Carntyne, a wages office in a factory in Barmulloch

  He’d left the best one until last. A post office in Westray Circus. He knew Westray Circus well. A row of shops in the Milton where the buses turned around before they went back into town. Far as he remembered a friend of his mum’s used to work in the post office there. He read through the file. Looked like she still did. Margery Royce had been interviewed by Wattie. He skimmed through it, nothing much, basic description of what happened. Security van turned up at nine, unloaded the cash. Soon as the van left, two blokes burst in. McCoy smiled. Apparently ‘one was a right wee smout’, according to Margery. Threatened the two women with a sawn-off shotgun and a pistol, gave them two sports bags to fill up and were away within two or three minutes. He flicked through the file. As predicted, a stolen Corsair found later, this time abandoned by the train tracks at Whitehill.

  The fact that the robbers turned up within a few minutes of the money delivery meant they must have been watching the post office for a while, making sure it came at the same time each week. He flicked back. Wattie had asked the women if they’d noticed anyone suspicious hanging around. They hadn’t. Wasn’t surprised. The post office was always busy, all the pensioners that came in for their money liked a chat. Christ knows, was probably the only conversation most of them had all week. Looked at his watch. Maybe he would go and see what else Margery might have remembered. Wasn’t exactly the best idea he’d ever had, but to be honest it was the only thing he could think of. Besides, the Woodside Inn was on the way back. Sort of.

  *

  McCoy got a pool car brought round. Eddie, one of the mechanics, pulled it in front of the shop, got out and gave him the keys.

  ‘Sorry, Harry. It’s a pile of shite, but they’re all out, up at the Woodside.’

  McCoy looked at the car. A Viva on its last legs. Great.

  ‘Should be all right,’ said Eddie. ‘Might stall a few times, but just pull the choke out if the bugger does. I wound the windows down, but it’s still like a bloody oven in there.’

  McCoy got in. Eddie wasn’t lying. The car was stifling, smelt of sick too. No doubt some jakey had thrown up in it last time it was out. He was just about to drive away when he saw Billy the desk sergeant and a middle-aged man coming out the station doors. Billy pointed over at him and the man nodded. Wasn’t hard to work out who he was. Looked exactly like Murray, except about ten years and a good few stone lighter. McCoy sighed, turned the engine off, got out the car.

  John Murray walked towards him, looking less than happy. McCoy held his hand out to shake but he didn’t take it.

  ‘Are you the one that’s supposed to be looking for my daughter?’ he asked.

  McCoy nodded, back already up.

  ‘Well? How are you getting on?’ he asked.

  ‘Getting there,’ said McCoy. ‘Hopefully have a meeting with her tonight.’

  Murray’s face clouded over. ‘A meeting?’ he asked. ‘Why do you need to have a meeting? Just get her home. I need her home quick, didn’t my brother tell you that?’

  McCoy reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, took his time lighting up. Far as he was concerned he was doing John Murray a favour. Didn’t like being treated like a bloody errand boy.

  ‘Your brother told me lots of things,’ he said. ‘You’re some sort of councillor, that right?’

  Murray correctly took it as the insult it was. Got even less friendly. ‘If you mean that my job is deputy head of the Glasgow District Council, then yes, I am some sort of councillor.’

  ‘Good at it, are you?’ said McCoy, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Murray’s general direction.

  Murray looked McCoy up and down. ‘I’m not entirely sure what that has to do with you, but yes, I’m very good at it.’

  ‘Good,’ said McCoy. ‘Because you know what? My job is being a polis and I’m very fucking good at it. And instead of doing it I’m working off the books to help you and your brother out. All my time spent just so there are no wee surprises in the paper to scupper your chances of being an MP.’ He stopped, dropped his cigarette and stood on it. ‘So if you’d like to get back to issuing dog licences, or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re good at, and leave me the fuck alone to get on with it, then maybe your daughter’ll be home sooner than you think.’

  He opened the car door, got in and drove off. Looked in the rear-view mirror. Murray standing there looking like he’s had a bucket of cold water thrown over him. Served the wanker right.

  The streets were quiet – so quiet he could hear the distant clanging of church bells as he pulled away from Stewart Street and that was about it. No traffic, no one around. Anyone who hadn’t gone away would be in one of the parks already or in their back garden lying on a towel reading the Sunday papers.

  He drove north up past the Royal and headed for the Milton. Mind you, if Margery heard him calling where she lived the Milton he’d be in big trouble. According to her, she lived in Parkhouse and she made sure everyone knew it. Parkhouse was supposed to be the posh bit of the Milton, posh meaning it was on the other side of Ashgill Road. Apart from that McCoy was at a bit of a loss as to why it was different. Same flats and houses, same empty streets, same council estate as far as he could see.

  He stopped at the lights at Atlas Road, looked over. Passenger in the car next to him had her head deep in The Citizen. Banner headline: ‘ALICE: BIGGEST MANHUNT IN GLASGOW HISTORY’.

  To McCoy, it was already looking like a lost cause. Chances are Alice had been dead within a couple of hours after she went missing, murdered by someone she knew. Reminded himself to ask Wattie if he’d asked about the mum having a boyfriend. Much as the idea terrified the public and gave the papers a chance to scare everyone, in reality kids being snatched away by strangers hardly ever happened. Truth was, it was usually a relative, a neighbour, some shopkeeper who served them sweets every day. Someone they trusted. Someone they knew.

  Lights changed and he got going. All he could do was the same as everyone else in Glasgow. Just wait for the inevitable.

  The Milton was enjoying the sunshine. Kids were out in the streets, girls playing ropes, boys playing kerby, adults sitting in chairs in their gardens, constant noise of ice-cream-van chimes, general air of holidays about the place. Margery lived on Crowhill Street. He turned in and pulled up by her house. The next-door neighbours had a paddling pool in the garden, toddler in a swimsuit, big nappy under it, splashing away as her mum and dad sat on kitchen chairs, both of them eating ice poles. He walked up the path and chapped on Margery’s door. Couple of seconds later it opened and Margery was standing there in a flowery dress, hat, holding a shiny handbag the size of a small suitcase.

  ‘Harry!’ she said. ‘What you doing here? I was just on the way to Mass. They’re having a prayer vigil for that wee girl that’s missing.’

  ‘No problem,’ said McCoy. ‘I’ll walk you up.’

  Margery smiled, closed the door behind her and they set off up the path, Margery waving at the couple next door.

  ‘Least they’re no bloody shouting at each other for once,’ she said to McCoy under her breath.

  They were only a few hundred yards up the street to St Augustine’s when Harry remembered what it was about Margery that drove him bonkers. She never shut up. Ever. Talked constantly, didn’t even seem to pause for breath. He nodded periodically as she blabbered on, let it wash over him. Thought about the photos. What were they for? To show to someone like Naismith? Persuade them Cooper was an easy target? He’d always trusted Billy, but maybe when he saw Cooper developing a habit he let it happen, saw his chance. He hadn’t come and told him about it, after all. Didn’t quite believe it, though. Billy was a born right-hand man. Liked the perks and the status but
didn’t want the danger of being in the firing line.

  He tuned back in. Margery was still going strong.

  ‘So, when she died, God rest her soul, Father Martin says to me, “Margery, how would you feel about doing the flowers, now Teresa’s gone?” So I says I’d love to, Father, and I could see Agnes McConnel out the corner of my eye as I said it. The face on her! Pure beeling. Looked like she was chewing a wasp. Couldn’t help myself, laid it on thick. It’s such an honour to be chosen, Father, I says, a real privilege, and Mary McConnel turns and walks away, cheap bloody heels she always wears tapping on the tiles. Stupid cow. So that’s me now. I get there two hours earlier, get all the flowers sorted. Have to say, Harry, I really enjoy it. Wasn’t sure I would, to be honest. I was just delighted to do it to shove it up Mary McConnel’s hole. But I’m loving it now, even thinking of taking it up professionally, you know, weddings and that. How’s your maw?’

  No space for an answer before she started again.

  ‘I went up to see her the other week, seemed a bit brighter, she was sitting in the garden, got a bit of colour on her face. Only good thing about that bloody place, that garden. I don’t know who does it, but they keep it lovely. It’s like a—’

  McCoy had stopped walking. Margery stopped too, looked at him. Was just about to start again, so he jumped in quick.

  ‘I’m here as a polis, Margery. Need to talk to you about the raid.’

  Was like she’d been deflated like a balloon. Suddenly looked scared, like a fragile old woman.

  He nodded over at a bench. ‘Come and sit down.’

  She did, took a packet of Rothmans out her bag, leant in as Harry lit his lighter for her. ‘It was horrible, son,’ she said. ‘Really horrible. I was terrified.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said McCoy. ‘The two guys. Anything about them you remember?’

  She shook her head. ‘No really. I already told the other policeman, big lad, blond hair.’

  ‘Wattie.’

  ‘Watson, aye, that was his name. Very polite. Lovely suit too, must have cost a good few bob. I said to him, where would you get a suit like—’

  ‘Margery . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘One was big and one was wee. I mean really wee for a man. Five foot maybe. Other one was about the height of you. They had balaclavas on, jeans, blue shirts, nothing special. Sandshoes, both dressed the same.’

  ‘They say anything?’ asked McCoy.

  She shook her head. ‘Not much, and it was only the wee one. He said it was a raid, chucked a holdall thing at me, told me to fill it up. The big one didn’t say anything but the wee one kept looking at him like he was the one in charge.’

  ‘He have an accent, the wee one?’

  ‘Naw, just sounded like Glasgow, like you or me.’

  McCoy realised her hands were shaking. Took one in his. She smiled.

  ‘The post office said they’d send me and Doris on a holiday. Recover, you know? I said naw, rather be here, got the flowers to do now and I feel safe here, even though it happened here. People I know all around me. I could chap any door, go in for a cup of tea. Know what I mean?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘You know who they are?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  Margery smiled. ‘Away up to Liddesdale Street and ask Mr Norton. He was a bank robber, wasn’t he?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘A long time ago he was. A big one. He got done for it, was in for a few years. Think he’s a bit old for it now. Haven’t heard much about him for ages.’

  ‘Well, he’s no short of a bob or two, I’ll tell you that. Always turned out smart, picked up in big cars, gives money to the weans in the street. Thinks he’s Daddy bloody Warbucks.’

  McCoy stood up. ‘I’ll have a think about it. You take care of yourself, Margery. Remember, anything else, you let me know.’

  She nodded. ‘Will do. I’ll see you, son. I’ll tell your maw you were asking for her.’

  McCoy left her there on the bench finishing her cigarette. Not sure he’d really heard much that could help. One thing maybe. He’d forgotten all about William Norton. If anyone knew about bank robberies, it was him. Besides, he really didn’t want to go back to the office on a day like this. Maybe he’d just take a walk and see if Mr Norton was home.

  FOURTEEN

  Liddesdale Drive was in deepest Milton, no illusions of Parkhouse here. He parked the car behind a VW Beetle up on bricks and got out. Had a look around. Like all the streets round here, it was wide and empty, no other cars. Just a few dogs and kids milling about, a smartly dressed elderly couple on their way back from church. Flats were four storeys high, balconies with rusting wrought-iron railings across them. Some people had obviously decided tipping things off them was quicker than carrying them down. Front gardens were dotted with old mattresses, even a gas cooker in one.

  ‘Look after your car, mister?’

  He turned and a boy, nine or ten, shorts, stripy T-shirt and scabby knees, was looking up at him, holding his hand out.

  ‘Just ten pence, that’s all I ask. If I’m guarding it, stops it getting tanned. Every bugger round here knows not to mess with Georgie Buchan, if you know what I mean.’ Winked.

  ‘Problem is it’s no my car and it’s on its last legs anyway. So I don’t care if it gets tanned or not.’

  The junior Al Capone’s face fell. McCoy dug in his pocket and found a ten pence. Held it out. ‘Which close is Mr Norton’s?’

  Georgie pointed across the street. ‘That one.’

  He held his hand out again and McCoy dropped the coin into it. ‘And that includes looking after the car,’ he added.

  Georgie nodded, saluted. Climbed up and sat on the car bonnet, scanned the street side to side like a lookout on a tank.

  McCoy crossed over, was just about at Norton’s close when two things happened. A dark blue Jag pulled up behind him and William Norton appeared in the doorway. Norton was late fifties, dressed in a navy double-breasted blazer with brass buttons, grey slacks, open white shirt, hair slicked back. Like he was en route to his golf club for an afternoon round. He stopped and looked at McCoy, took him a couple of seconds to realise who he was.

  ‘Well, well. McCoy, what you doing here?’

  Meanwhile the driver had got out the car, was hovering somewhere behind McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy turned, saw who it was. Duncan Stewart. Checked suit and shoulder-length red hair set off by two livid scars on his cheek, cold smile on his face. McCoy had run into him a few times. Was a right bastard. As evil as they came.

  ‘Want to step back a bit, Stewart?’ said McCoy. ‘Your breath is giving me the boak.’

  Duncan’s smile got even colder and he stepped back two paces.

  McCoy turned back to Norton. ‘Came to have a wee word. That okay?’

  ‘Did you now?’ said Norton. He looked up at the sky, sun on his face. ‘Lovely day,’ he said. Looked back at McCoy. ‘You going to spoil it for me?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Unofficial. Just need some advice.’

  Norton pointed at the car. ‘In that case, in you get.’

  McCoy had the in with Norton because of his son-in-law Danny, one of the Blue Angels. A driver in a Cortina hadn’t seen Danny’s bike and had pulled out a side street into Garscube Road. Danny went straight into the side of the car, then went flying over it. McCoy had just come out the tobacconist’s across the road and had seen the whole thing. Fact that he told the court it was the driver’s fault meant he was ‘decent for a copper’ in Danny’s and hence Norton’s eyes. That and a bit of flattery had got him his ride in the car.

  He got in the back of the Jag and Norton eased in beside him, nodded at Stewart and they pulled away. Inside, the car was a cool cocoon of dark leather and new car smell. Norton rolled down his window, lit up a Rothmans.

  ‘Need to ask you about some bank robberies,’ said McCoy.

  Norton laughed. ‘Thought you weren’t going to spoil my day,’ he sai
d.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know you’re retired. It’s not about you,’ said McCoy. ‘Just need a bit of help.’

  ‘Let me guess . . .’ began Norton, looking annoyed. ‘Westray Circus? Bloody cheek of it. On my patch as well.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘That and the Southern General. Couple of others. Any ideas?’

  Norton looked at him. Dark eyes narrowed. ‘Even if I knew anything about them, which I don’t, why would I tell you? Picking Danny up after he’s had a smash buys you some common courtesy and a shot in my big motor. Not a grass in your pocket.’

  ‘I’m no asking you to grass,’ said McCoy, trying to get him back on an even keel. ‘I’m no that stupid. I’m supposed to be investigating these armed robberies and I know bugger all about them or any other ones, come to that. So, any tips?’

  Norton laughed. ‘I’ll say one thing for you, McCoy, you’ve got some bloody cheek.’

  The car pulled up at the lights at the bottom of Bilsland Drive.

  Norton tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Duncan? Away and get me some fags, eh?’

  Stewart nodded in the rear-view mirror, turned into Maryhill Road, pulled in by Millie’s Motors and got out.

  Norton waited until he was in the newsagent’s, then turned to McCoy. ‘Two pieces of advice for you, son. It’s a nice day, the sun’s shining and I’m in a good mood, so listen because this is the best advice you’re ever going to get. You don’t catch bank robbers, they get themselves caught. One of them always feels he’s being shortchanged or he can get away with fucking the other ones over. They fight amongst themselves, make noise, buy stupid stuff, get noticed.’

  McCoy nodded, made sense. ‘And two?’

  Norton smiled. ‘Two’s simple. If you’re not out this car by the time Stewart gets back with my fags, I’m going to do something I regret involving the razor in my jacket pocket.’ He leant in to McCoy, smell of aftershave and cigarettes. ‘A joke’s a joke, son, but if you ever treat me like some grass again it’ll be the last thing you do. Now get out my car.’

  McCoy watched the Jag pull away. Wasn’t sure he’d learnt much about bank robberies. Knew one thing, though. Even if Norton was retired, he was still someone not to be messed with.