The Last Days of Disco (26 page)

‘Only me and Dennis. He'll keep quiet. He's a good lad. Auchinleck Masons he is!'

Don McAllister's detective team had done their job well. In fact, the whole Masonic network had kicked into gear, just as it should. The fire chief knew Charlie and had called him first, even before they realised someone had been in the building. The fireman knew an insurance fire when he saw one and later reckoned that, if the guy in the cupboard was the unfortunate arsonist, there was a fair chance that someone in the police department would want to manage that information.

‘There's also
this
, Don,' said Charlie, handing his boss a boxed cassette. Mickey had just installed a new camera-recording system in the pub. He had been testing it in the run-up to the opening. It was state-of-the-art technology, but Don had something similar at his home and he knew how to view it.

‘Anybody seen
this
, Charlie?' enquired Don.

‘Naw, Don. No even me,' replied Charlie. ‘It wasnae burnt cos' he had it in his office – the wan room in the building wi' concrete walls and a solid-core metal door. Ah hud tae break in tae get it, mind.'

Don would have to repay Charlie. A promotion could well be on its way. He was an old-school copper, as loyal as the day was long. It would be important to keep him close. Dennis would also benefit.

‘Right mate, cheers. Ah'm away oot tae the hospital. Try and track doon Doc Martin. You'll need tae dae that interview, but Martin kens the score. You're in charge though. Ah'll let ye ken once we've goat the identity ae the deid guy.'

‘Right, boss. See ye later,' said Charlie.

19

LUCA BRASI SLEEPS WITH THE FISHES

The headstone was warm to the touch. It faced east and had been basking in the direct sunshine for two hours. It was a beautiful Ayrshire morning; another in a long line that seemed to stretch back until April. There had been miserable days, but since they had been unseasonably outnumbered by days like today, no-one could really remember them. For Guardsman Gary Cassidy, though, days like this still seemed like gifts. The nightmares remained as prolonged and as vivid. Restorative sleep was a distant memory for Gary, but at least the difficult hours of darkness were relatively short. The heat of the sun on his face felt wondrous. The inevitable descent into winter held real fears for him, but for now the sunshine helped him to forget the chaos.

Gary sat next to the new headstone and drew his fingers across its carved indents. He touched each letter, tracing his fingers over them one-by-one, as if reading Braille. He dwelt over the name ‘HAROLD JAMES CASSIDY’. He ran a forefinger over the words ‘BELOVED HUSBAND TO ETHEL’. His other fingers stroked the letters of ‘MUCH LOVED FATHER TO HEATHER, ROBERT & GARY’. His whole hand underlined the numbers ‘1933–1982’.

‘Thought ah’d find ye here.’

‘Are ye goin’ tae arrest me, Mr McAllister?’ asked Gary, without turning around.

‘Ah’ve told ye son, it’s
Don
.’ Don looked around. The nearest people were tending the flowers of a grave about a hundred yards away. ‘Why would ah want tae arrest ye, Gary?’

‘Thanks for sorting out the funeral, an’ for gettin’ the stone so quickly. Hettie really appreciates it.’

‘The least ah could dae, son. Yer dad was a good man.’

‘How’s ma mum?’

‘She’s no great, son. But yer Aunt Mary’s lookin’ after her an’ the home help’s keeping her stable.’ Don dropped down to his haunches. His knees weren’t great, and he immediately regretted it, but it seemed important to him to be closer to Gary’s eye level. Worse come to it, he’d simply have to kneel. The turfed grass of the grave was dry and full, so at least his favourite Ralph Lauren suit wouldn’t get dirty.

‘How come wi’ kent nothin’ about ye till he was deid?’ asked Gary.

‘Ach Gary, just stupid fuckin’ family stuff. We aw fell out ower somethin’ daft that happened before you were even born. Seemed important at the time but now ah canny even remember whit. Time went by an’ it got harder an’ harder for each ae us tae back down. An’ ye ken yer dad could be a stubborn bugger. Well, ah was just as bad.’ Gary sighed. Don decided to change tack. ‘How’s Hettie?’ he asked.

‘She’ll be a’right. She wants me to go back tae London, but ah canny.’

‘Ah think ye should as well. Ye need tae go and see somebody. Get some help, son.’

‘You sound like ma dad.’

‘Ah’m only tellin’ ye whit
he
would, if he was here. Yer better back wi’ folk that ken whit yer goin’ through.’

‘Ye
ken
why ah canny go back.’

‘Naw, actually ah don’t. Ye made somethin’ ae yerself in the
Army. Ah ken it canny be easy for ye tae confront whit happened at the Falklands but ye did a great thing. Ye saved yer mate’s life. Ye
deserve
the medals.’

‘Ah killed somebody here. Ah took somebody’s life. A complete fuckin’ stranger, an’ for nothin’. A total fuckin’ misunderstanding.’

‘Gary, son … ye didnae start that fire.’

‘Ah fuckin’ did!’

‘Naw, ye didnae … an’ if ye’ll shut up fur a minute, ah’ll tell ye whit happened.’

‘The version accordin’ tae Don McAllister?’

‘If ye like, aye.’ Don adjusted his posture to shift the weight onto his better left knee. This
was
his favourite suit after all. ‘Wullie Blair caused the fire. He’d been working doonstairs and he’d left a lit fag next tae a tin of varnish.’ Gary started slowly shaking his head. ‘He left the place unlocked, and went up the car park stairs to his van on level four where he slept through the fire being put out. He’d been drinkin’ heavily. He was totally unaware that there was an individual sleepin’ rough in a back store cupboard of the club. The victim, Robert Dale, was known to Wullie Blair, but had separately broken into the club with keys stolen from Francis Duncan.’

‘Aw sounds very official. Well done!’

‘That was
his
statement, son.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Naw,
accident
!’

‘It was me that
set that
fire, Mr McAllister.’

‘Look, Gary! Listen tae me. Ah don’t ken how ye got it intae yer heid that Martin thumped yer dad, an’ it disnae matter now. Aw that’s in the past. Ah canny turn the clock back, but for yer dad’s sake, ah’m no prepared tae see ye mess up yer life completely.’

‘How can ye ignore the evidence? That poor bastard’s lawyer’ll no just accept your version ae events.’

‘Ther’s
nae
evidence. No any more!’

‘Fur fuck’s sake …’

‘The only evidence left is Wullie Blair bein’ the last guy oot
before the place went up. Him leavin’ the scene after fallin’ asleep pished in his van upstairs. Open tins ae paint and varnish, and him admitting he was smokin’. Seems pretty fuckin’ cut and dried tae me.’

‘Ah killed a guy …’

‘Ah ken ye did. Ye were servin’ yer country when it happened. An’ they gied ye a medal for it. Ye’ve been strugglin’ wi’ aw this since ye came back, ah can vouch for that. Who widnae be a mess after everythin’ you’ve been through? Aw that
yompin
’!’

Gary sneered.

‘Whit?’ asked Don.

‘Everythin’ that happened, aw that carnage … an’ aw any cunt wants tae talk aboot is fuckin’
yompin
’!’

Don allowed himself a smile. ‘Look, apart fae Bob Dale obviously – an’ naebody even kent he was there! – it’s no a total disaster. It did Doc Martin a favour. He had committed tae an opening date he could never have made. He didn’t have any ae the building consents or the licences in place, an’ he would never have got them. His backers will get their money back; he’ll reopen it in about six months an’ it’ll be better.’

‘So everybody’s a winner then?’

‘Life’s no a case ae winnin’, mate. For folk like us, it’s more about scraping a score draw wi’ the last kick ae the gemme.’ Don stood up. ‘Go down tae London, son. Get help, sort yerself oot an’ get back intae the job. Phone that lassie Hettie was tellin’ me about.’ Gary stood up. ‘On ye go, son. Ye deserve another chance, an’ ah owe it tae yer dad tae help gie ye it. We’ll look after yer mum, an’ ah’ll keep an eye out for Hettie and yer brother as well.’ Don held out his hand. It hung there for a few seconds. Eventually Gary reciprocated and shook it. He noted the power and the unusual grip of Don’s handshake.

‘Aw the best, son,’ said Don. ‘See ye sometime.’

‘Heat Wave’

The Jam

(Written by Holland-Dozier-Holland)

Available on Polydor Records, 1979

‘Ghost Town’

The Specials

(Written by Jerry Dammers)

Available on 2-Tone Records, 1981

‘The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash on the Wheels of Steel’

Grandmaster Flash

(Produced by Sylvia Robinson and Joey Robinson, Jr)

Available on Sugarhill Records, 1981

‘Heart of Glass’

Blondie

(Written by Debbie Harry and Chris Stein)

Available on Chrysalis Records, 1981

‘Don’t You Want Me’

The Human League

(Written by Phil Oakey, Jo Callis and Philip Adrian Wright)

Available on Virgin Records, 1981

‘Up the Junction’

Squeeze

(Written by Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook)

Available on A&M Records, 1979

‘Maybe Tomorrow’

The Chords

(Written by Chris Pope)

Available on Polydor Records, 1980

‘Plan B’

Dexy’s Midnight Runners

(Written by Kevin Rowland and James Paterson)

Available on EMI Records, 1981

‘Party Fears Two’

The Associates

(Written by Billy MacKenzie and Alan Rankine)

Available on WEA Records, 1982

‘Big Bird’

Eddie Floyd

(Written by Eddie Floyd)

Available on Stax Records, 1967

‘Get Out My Life, Woman’

Lee Dorsey

(Written by Allen Toussaint)

Available on Bell Records, 1965

‘Picture Me Gone’

Madeline Bell

(Written by Taylor and Gorgoni)

Available on Philips Records, 1968

‘The Magnificent Seven’

The Clash

(Written by The Clash)

Available on CBS Records, 1981

‘Good Times’

Chic

(Written by Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers)

Available on Atlantic Records, 1979

‘Inside Out’

Odyssey

(Written by Jesse Rae)

Available on RCA Records, 1982

‘Best of My Love’

The Emotions

(Written by Maurice White and Al McKay)

Available on Columbia Records, 1977

‘Rocket Man’

Elton John

(Written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin)

Available on DJM Records, 1972

‘Shipbuilding’

Robert Wyatt

(Written by Elvis Costello and Clive Langer)

Available on Rough Trade Records, 1982

‘The Story of the Blues’

The Mighty Wah!

(Written by Pete Wylie)

Available on Warner Brothers Records, 1982

Writing this book began as a personal dream, the day after my fortieth birthday, along with running the New York Marathon and playing for Glasgow Rangers.

I’ve all but given up on the other two. They just seem to require far too much training and personal dedication – or a time machine. Maybe someday, who knows?

I’m grateful to my family and friends for encouragement, but especially to Elaine, for her love and support.

Also thanks to Mark Stanton (Stan) for advice and assistance. I’m indebted to Kevin Toner for his countless re-reads. I also thank my lucky stars that I had the very good fortune to meet the effervescent Karen Sullivan, who gave me belief and kept me on track.

Finally, and although he’ll probably never be aware of it, I’m grateful to Paul Weller for continuing inspiration. Anyone who reads this book, and then listens to the
Setting Sons
LP will be immediately aware of the place it has in my heart.

Joey Miller will return in
The Man Who Loved Islands.