LITMIR.BIZ

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my dad could see me now,’ muttered Wattie glumly as he walked through the double doors of the offices at the front of the stadium.

      ‘He’d turn in his grave,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Naw,’ said Wattie. ‘He’s still alive, he’d give me a punch in the chops.’ A woman behind the reception desk told them Peter would be down in the changing rooms, pointed them to a stairway.

      The changing rooms were deserted, their feet loud on the tiled floor as they walked in. A young man was sitting on a bench by an open locker folding up a tracksuit. He looked up.

      ‘Mr Simpson?’ asked McCoy. ‘Said you’d be down here.’

      He nodded, stood up. They introduced themselves, he shook their hands. Simpson was tall, blond, zipped-up tracksuit, sandshoes. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘Just call me Peter. Mr Simpson’s my da’s name.’

      McCoy took out his wee red jotter. ‘Fair enough. Maybe we can just start with yesterday. Could you tell us what happened after the game?’

      He nodded to a bench and they all sat down. ‘We finished up here about the back of five. Charlie was on the bench and I was just here watching so didn’t take long to get ready. Didn’t have to have showers or a debrief, anything like that.

      ‘We got home about half five or so. Watched the end of World of Sport. Charlie made some toasted cheese. We ate it, he ironed a shirt, said he had to get ready.’

      ‘Ready for what?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘He didn’t say exactly. I just thought he must be meeting Elaine. Usually did on a Saturday night. He got changed, a taxi peeped his horn outside, he shouted cheerio from the hall and that was it.’

      ‘And that was it?’

      Simpson nodded, still looked a bit shell-shocked. ‘That was it until I heard it on the news this morning. Still cannae believe it.’

      He shook his head, eyes started to tear up. He rubbed at them.

      ‘So what’s she like then, this Elaine?’ asked Wattie.

      ‘Wears the pants, but I think he quite liked that. Told him where to be and when. Even bought his clothes for him. Got him all the trendy gear. Didn’t see so much of him once they started going out.’

      Simpson stood up, opened the locker door. There wasn’t much inside: a couple of pairs of football boots, a tin of Brut talc, balled-up socks. The remnants of someone’s life.

      ‘Just packing his stuff up for his maw,’ he said.

      Somehow it was always that kind of stuff that stuck in McCoy’s mind. The blood spatter on the ‘Souvenir of Blackpool’ plate hanging on the kitchen wall. The scrapes round the lock on the inside of the cellar door. The discarded socks at the bottom of the locker. Was the kind of stuff he thought about when he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. The damage done.

      ‘McCoy?’

      He turned and Wattie was looking at him.

      ‘Sorry, he ever mention a man called Connolly?’ asked McCoy.

      Simpson sniffed, tried to settle himself. He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Who’s he?’

      ‘He works for Elaine’s dad,’ said McCoy.

      ‘The famous Jake Scobie,’ said Simpson. ‘Thought the sun shone out of Charlie’s arse, he did. Wanted to be his big pal.’

      ‘And what did Charlie think about that?’ asked McCoy.

      Simpson hesitated. ‘He didn’t really like him. But he was a bit scared of him, didn’t want to offend him.’

      ‘Why didn’t he like him?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘Jake used to take him out for a drink. Supposed to be just Jake and him, but when they got to the pub all Jake’s mates would mysteriously turn up. Jake would kind of parade him about – look at me with my Celtic player son-in-law, that sort of thing. Charlie is a shy guy really, he didn’t like it.’

      ‘How did a shy guy end up going out with someone like Elaine?’ asked Wattie.

      ‘Easy. He was in the first team. Good-looking. Going places. Women were always coming on to him. Elaine set her cap at him and that was that. It happens.’

      ‘Happen to you?’ asked Wattie, grinning.

      Simpson smiled. ‘Not yet. Hopefully one day.’

      McCoy and Wattie stood up to go. ‘Anything else occurs to you, let us know, eh?’

      They were halfway across the changing room when Simpson spoke.

      ‘There was one thing,’ he said. ‘He was a bit drunk couple of weeks ago. We’d been to some club dinner thing, were coming back in the taxi. He said he thought maybe Elaine was seeing someone else.’

      ‘Did he say who?’ asked McCoy.

      Simpson shook his head. ‘He didn’t know who it was, just had the feeling she was getting a bit tired of him. As if she was busy with someone else. Someone new.’

       He’s ordered a tea and a scone. Smiled at the waitress, made some small talk about the bad weather. He can do these things. Shift. Shift what he is, what people think he is. He fingers the pictures in his pocket. Remembered the first time he’d heard about a Polaroid camera. Couldn’t believe it. Meant that finally he could take the kind of pictures he wanted.

       He looks round. Treron’s tearoom. Third floor of the department store on Sauchiehall Street. Him and a sea of ladies in hats and gloves. He looks like a dutiful son awaiting his elderly mother, like a loving husband meeting his wife after a day of shopping.

       Sometimes he can see it, he thinks, in the half-light, in the gloom of a darkened bedroom, the beam of a torchlight shining in someone’s terrified eyes. What he is. The dried and flaking blood on his hands and clothes. The skull shining through the skin. But when he blinks it goes. What he is.

       He can see himself sitting here with her. Her showing him something she’s bought downstairs, him smiling and saying it looks nice. He forces his finger down onto the hard plastic corner of the Polaroid in his pocket, pushes harder until he feels it burst through the skin. Blood on blood.

       He stood up, needed to get to Jessops before it closed. Wanted to buy three more packets of film. After all, he was going to need it . . .

      SEVEN

      McCoy trudged up the steps to Susan’s flat. Could feel his socks squelching inside his shoes. Wondered why everyone he knew lived on the bloody top floor. The wee boy who lived downstairs was sitting on a step wrapped up in an Arran jumper and a balaclava, surrounded by Matchbox cars, McCoy stepped over him, patted his head.

      ‘You all right, Bobby?’ he asked.

      Bobby nodded. Wasn’t one to talk much.

      He reached the top landing, pressed the bell. Even though he was spending most nights there now, they were still at the stage where he didn’t have a key. Heard footsteps then the door was pulled back quickly and Susan stepped out the flat, closing the door behind her. Didn’t look happy.

      ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

      She’d a pair of faded jeans on, T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it, long cardigan, hair tied up in a scarf. Even when she wasn’t trying she still looked great. She pushed some strands of hair behind her ear.

      ‘Who exactly is Stevie bloody Cooper?’ she said.

      He wasn’t expecting that. ‘What?’

      ‘Him, whoever he is, and some giant thug have been in the bloody flat for half an hour. Sarah was round for a cup of tea, was so awkward she left.

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