LITMIR.BIZ

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do with the report. Shove it in his drawer in case anyone ever came looking for it, he supposed. He checked it again, no mention of any next of kin.

      He got out his fags, lit one up, inhaled, coughed, inhaled again. Why would you kill yourself in a chapel? For someone like Brady the way out was standard. Fill yourself with paracetamol and cheap vodka and jump off a bridge over the Clyde. He looked at the picture again. Paul Joseph Brady. Had to be a Catholic. Maybe he just wanted to be nearer his God to thee when he checked out.

      McCoy sat back in his chair, looked round the office. Usual noise of chatter, people on the phone, a uniform waiting to see somebody, hat on his lap. Thomson wandering round with the Racing Post collecting lines to go to the bookies. Robertson collecting mugs off everyone’s desk, his day to make the teas. Wattie was the exception, working hard, receiver jammed into his neck, list of hotels and B&Bs in front of him. Looking for Connolly.

      Wasn’t quite sure why, but one of the questions the psychologist had asked him kept going round and round in his mind. Do you still feel you want to be a detective?

      Did he? Truth was he’d never really thought about it, not for years anyway. Joined up straight after he’d left school and just kept his head down and kept working. What else would he be if he wasn’t a polis? That’s what he was, as much part of him now as the colour of his hair or the scar on his eyebrow he’d got from Jamie Gibbs.

      He yawned again, took a sip of his tea, gave himself a shake. He opened the red jotter. Wrote

       Charlie Jackson

       Connolly

      ‘That it?’

      He looked up and Murray was standing over him.

      ‘We can call off the troops now, McCoy’s on the case.’

      ‘Very funny,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Get Watson. We’ve had a tip-off,’ said Murray. ‘Sounds kosher.’

      *

      The St Enoch’s Hotel was right in the centre of town, a huge Victorian building above St Enoch Station. Up until a few years ago, the station had been the main route south but it was closed now, all the lines moved to Central. They’d cemented over the long platforms and tracks and turned them into a huge car park. The glass-and-iron roof of the station was still there, full of broken panes and nesting pigeons. No more steam trains and Flying Scotsman to shelter, just the parked cars of Glasgow’s shoppers.

      The hotel itself was still open. Just. What had once been an ornate red sandstone frontage was now black with soot and neglect, chicken wire wrapped round the more fragile carvings in case they fell off and hit someone. A couple of the upper floors were permanently closed, curtains in all the rooms shut, windows stained with pigeon droppings and grime. The whole building looked like it was hanging on for dear life. Incessant rain wasn’t helping the picture look any prettier. Low grey clouds looked like they were only yards above the building’s spires and towers.

      McCoy and Wattie drove the unmarked Cortina up the ramp past the open sign and parked outside the front entrance. McCoy got out, yawned and stretched, still knackered, and walked over to where Murray was standing under the awning. He was looking up at the hotel, empty pipe clamped in his teeth. Took it out, used it to point at the windows on the top floors.

      ‘Spent the first night of my honeymoon in there. Look at it now, fucking shithole.’

      ‘Where’d you spend the rest?’ asked McCoy, lighting up.

      ‘Eh? Oh, Whitley Bay.’

      ‘That any better?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘Not much,’ said Murray, looking round. ‘Where’s Watson?’

      ‘Here, sir,’ said Wattie, locking the car. He wandered over, joined them, looked up. ‘What a dump. Cannae believe it’s still actually open.’

      ‘Used to be something in its day. I can remember it,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Certainly was,’ said Murray. ‘Honeymoon suite cost me a bloody fortune.’

      ‘Connolly’s flat was a waste of time,’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing there. But the flatmate told us Charlie Jackson thought Elaine was seeing someone else.’

      ‘Did he now,’ said Murray. ‘Connolly, you think?’

      McCoy shrugged. ‘He didn’t know. Could be.’ He looked up at the hotel. ‘So what’s the story here?’

      ‘We got a tip from a bloke that works at the front desk,’ said Murray. ‘One of Billy’s touts. Says he’s sure Connolly’s here. Not using his own name, calling himself Mr McLean, but he fits the description. Been here for a couple of days, he says.’

      McCoy was still looking up at the building; clouds of sparrows were whirling round the roof, looking for somewhere to land.

      ‘He in there just now, is he?’ he asked, turning to Murray.

      He nodded. ‘Bloke thinks so. He tends to come and go via different doors, must be about twenty of them in this dump. They should have knocked it down when they closed the bloody station.’

      ‘Scobie and his cronies can’t have been looking that bloody hard,’ said Wattie. ‘Great big hotel right in the city centre. He’s no exactly keeping a low profile, is he?’

      ‘Would you stay in here?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘Nobody would,’ said Murray. ‘Probably why he’s here.’

      A single-decker coach drew up at the entrance, Caledonian Tours and a big Lion Rampant painted on the side of it. The driver honked the horn and they moved to the side to let it park.

      Murray pointed one way then the next. ‘There’s pairs of uniforms at every exit door and these two clowns’ – he nodded at a pair of big constables – ‘are covering the front. We go up and chap Connolly’s door, see if he’s home.’

      McCoy waited for the rest of the plan. Didn’t come. ‘Is that it?’

      ‘Is that what?’ said Murray.

      ‘That’s the plan? The bloke’s a bloody nutter! And we’re going to chap his door and see if he wants to come for a wee hurl in a polis car?’

      Murray looked unimpressed. ‘He’s a villain like every other, no bloody Superman. Get a grip on yourself, McCoy. Now, c’mon.’

      The hotel lobby was vast, an ugly and worn-out combination of pea-green carpet and beige walls. A group of pensioners with wee suitcases were milling around, making their way out towards the coach and the next stop on their tour of Scotland’s most miserable hotels. The restaurant was through glass doors, white cloth-covered tables stretched for miles, waiting for diners who were never going to appear.

      The bar was next door. Tartan carpet and a few Highland landscapes on the walls. Barman wearing tartan waistcoat and an expression that would turn milk. Looked like the kind of place you would go to have a last drink before topping yourself. A fat man with a gold piped uniform sitting at the reception desk looked up and gave them a nod.

      ‘It’s the second floor,’ said Murray. ‘Two one four.’

      They started up the big marble stairway. Wattie looked as nervous as McCoy felt.

      ‘You sure that’s it, sir? We just chap the door?’ McCoy asked.

      ‘What else do you suggest?’ said Murray. ‘Machine-gunning the cunt through it?’

      ‘Fair enough.’ He decided to shut up. Couldn’t help but remember what Charlie Jackson had looked like, eye and the back of his head gone, blood seeping into the puddles around him.

      On the second-floor landing, two corridors of yellowing doors stretched off either way. Half the bulbs were missing in the overhead globes, stained carpets, occasional tray of congealing food outside a door. Looked more like a marginally more

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