LITMIR.BIZ

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service and good wine. Room was softly lit with candles on the tables, chandeliers above. Susan took McCoy’s hand and led him towards a table under the minstrels’ gallery. Other diners a mixture of well-dressed couples and groups of rich-looking businessmen. McCoy put a smile on his face as he passed them all, tried to look like he belonged here, like he belonged with Susan.

      They sat down. Waiter arrived with menus and a wine list which he opened with a flourish and gave to McCoy. He promptly handed it to Susan. No use pretending, he knew as much about wine as she did about being a polis. They were here for an early Valentine’s dinner. Susan was working Wednesday night so she’d arranged this.

      ‘Who is that guy anyway?’ asked Susan, reading the menu.

      No need to ask who she was talking about.

      ‘Told you. He was there in the house when Dunlop—’

      ‘I know that, but why was he there? What’s he to you?’

      The waiter appeared and they ordered. Steak for him, venison for her. Bottle of Malbec, whatever that was. Waited until he’d left until he replied.

      ‘Stevie? He’s an old pal. He’s a good guy underneath it all.’

      She looked at him. ‘Didn’t look like it. Looked like a right nasty piece of work. And who was Lurch?’

      ‘Jumbo. His pal.’

      ‘What happened to his finger?’ asked Susan, holding up her left hand.

      ‘Eh?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘Jumbo. He only had half of one finger.’

      ‘That right?’ said McCoy. ‘I never noticed.’

      The wine arrived. Susan tasted it and deemed it fine. Waiter poured them two glasses and McCoy made a start on it and the wee basket of bread rolls.

      ‘So how does he make his money, this Stevie?’ asked Susan, watching McCoy shoving most of a roll in his mouth.

      McCoy tried to chew it down, replied. ‘Does a bit of this and that. Why? Why are you so interested in Stevie Cooper all of a sudden? Thought we were supposed to be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, not talking about my pal.’

      Susan wasn’t going to be derailed easily. ‘Does he deal with prostitutes, run them?’

      ‘What?’ he asked, looking over at her. He wasn’t the only one; a middle-aged lady in pearls had heard her too. Looked somewhat surprised at the subject of the conversation.

      ‘Does he?’

      ‘Well, I suppose so—’

      ‘Good!’ Susan looked delighted. ‘Exactly the kind of person I need to talk to for my thesis.’ she said. ‘You could arrange it.’

      The thought of Susan and Stevie Cooper having a cosy chit-chat about the economics of sexual exploitation was more than he could cope with.

      ‘Don’t know if Cooper’d want to talk to you about something like that, to be honest,’ he said. ‘He’s not exactly what you’d call chatty.’

      ‘You can ask him, though?’ she asked.

      McCoy nodded. He’d worry about that later. There was something much more important on his mind right now. His steak had just arrived.

      He hadn’t been looking forward to the evening much – posh restaurants weren’t his natural habitat – but he enjoyed himself. Ate his steak, drank more than his fair share of red wine and played footsie with Susan under the table. They left about eleven, both pleasantly woozy, got back to the flat and McCoy opened the cigar box, sat on the end of the bed and started to roll a joint.

      ‘I could get used to places like that,’ he said, pushing his shoes off.

      ‘That right?’ said Susan.

      ‘Yep. Need to win the pools, mind you, but that could happen,’ he said. ‘I’m a lucky man.’

      ‘You’ve won the pools already, you’ve got me,’ she said, getting under the covers.

      He was down to his skivvies now. He handed her the joint and she lit it up.

      ‘Christ, is there any tobacco in this?’ asked Susan as she blew out a cloud of strong-smelling smoke.

      ‘Not much.’ He grinned, trying to find an ashtray amongst the wee plants and ornaments on Susan’s dressing table.

      ‘Are you getting in or are you just going to parade around the bedroom in your pants?’

      He turned round, waggled his bum at her. ‘I might just do that,’ said McCoy. ‘Why? Is it turning you on?’

      Susan looked at him. ‘Exactly how much brandy did you have?’

      ‘Same as you, three.’

      Susan shook her head. ‘I had one.’

      ‘Ah,’ said McCoy, stepping out his skivvies and getting into bed. ‘That might explain it.’ He snuggled in beside her. ‘Put that joint down.’

      ‘Or what?’

      ‘Or I’ll bloody burn myself when I jump on you. Give.’

      Susan smiled, handed the joint over and McCoy stubbed it out in the ashtray, put it on the bedside table.

      ‘Now, c’mere.’

      They rolled together, embraced. He moved down her body, kissing her, grinned up at her as he gently pushed her thighs apart. Did what she liked as she held onto him, fingers tightening as she got nearer. She was halfway there already when he moved up and in between her legs. They moved together, breathing getting heavier, faster. She had her hands round his waist, whispering in his ear, pulling him closer. ‘Come on, McCoy, come on . . .’

      She fell asleep quickly afterwards, like she always did. He lay there smoking a last cigarette, ashtray sitting on his chest, and did what he always did – let the events of the day run through his mind. Wondered how rich you’d have to be to eat at Malmaison every night. Wondered if Susan would forget about having a chat with Stevie Cooper. Wondered why Elaine Scobie was so sure Connolly wouldn’t hurt her.

      He was kidding himself, though; there was only one thing he was really thinking of, only one thing he couldn’t get out his mind. The folded newspaper cutting Stevie Cooper had shown him. The policeman smiling out in his dress uniform.

      He shut his eyes.

      Tried to let the wine and the brandy and the Red Leb do their work.

      Tried to sleep.

      Didn’t.

      12th February 1973

      NINE

      McCoy put his mug of tea on the pile of Phone Mary at the Record notes on his desk and sat down, yawned. He’d finally got to sleep about the back of three. Felt like an unmade bed. There was a dun-coloured folder sitting in the middle of the desk. McCoy recognised the neat fountain pen capitals. Gilroy the medical examiner had attached a note to the corner: Wasn’t quite sure who to give this to then remembered your sympathy for those fallen on hard times.

      McCoy shook his head. Care about one jakie and that’s you, tarred for life. He opened the autopsy report, started reading. So now he knew what the TRAGEDY IN CHURCH on the paper seller’s board was. One Paul Joseph Brady had hung himself in the Hopehill Road Chapel, St Columba’s. As far as McCoy could remember, killing yourself was a mortal sin. Doing it in a chapel just seemed to be taking the piss.

      He skimmed through the rest of it. Age approx 30–35. Death by broken neck caused by body weight. Body was undernourished, showed evidence of long-term alcohol abuse. Cirrhotic liver damage, scarring on lungs caused by smoking. Previous evidence of broken arm in childhood. Nothing unexpected, except that by looking at

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