February's Son - Alan Parks A Harry McCoy Thriller

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of the head. There is another gunshot wound to the left ankle which seems to be post-mortem. Other than that he’s been knocked around a bit, scratches and scrapes and cuts. And of course, the amputation of the . . .’

      She hesitated for a second.

      ‘The penis.’ Carried on. ‘The words on his chest look post-mortem too but I’ll have to double-check . . .’

      ‘Why no clothes?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘That, Mr McCoy, is a question for you rather than me, I fear. However, were I to conjecture I’d say he wanted the BYE BYE on the chest to be on display, first thing one would see, but as I said it’s only conjecture. Now, if Hector will give us the go ahead I’ll get the ambulance boys to start packing him up?’

      Murray nodded, and she walked off across the roof, gesturing to the ambulance men that they were good to go.

      McCoy watched her go, looked at Murray and grinned. ‘Hector is it now? Didn’t know you and the esteemed Madame Gilroy were so pally.’

      ‘Secret weapon. She’s perfect for fending off the top brass. She’s cleverer, richer and posher than the lot of them put together. I just hide behind her and smile. Stops them pressuring me about Central.’

      McCoy blew into his hands. He was freezing, driving rain had pretty much soaked him through. Icy wind blowing round the top of the building wasn’t helping much either. ‘Do we know who he is? Nightwatchman, something like that, maybe?’

      Murray held up a clear plastic bag with a bloody wallet in it. ‘Don’t know, but this was sitting next to the body. Whoever did it wanted him identified quickly.’

      McCoy took the bag off him, fished out the wallet, trying not to get too much blood on his fingers. He flipped it open, managed to read the name on the driving licence.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘No way.’

      He dug further in the wallet, found a folded-up bit of newspaper. He unfolded it. Read it. Couldn’t believe it.

      ‘Christ, it is. It’s him.’

      He held up the newspaper. Murray peered at it, too dark for him to read. Got his torch out, pointed it at the clipping. Illuminated the headline.

       DREAM DEBUT FOR NEW CELTIC SIGNING

      TWO

      ‘Seriously? You don’t know who he is?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘Why would I? Never been to a football match in my life,’ said Murray.

      ‘Not even seen him in the paper? On the TV? Charlie Jackson?’

      ‘Two teas. One wi’ sugar?’

      The woman was leaning out the caravan hatch, two chipped mugs held out in front of her. McCoy took the one with sugar, handed the other one to Murray. The tea van was parked outside Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street, prime position to catch people coming out the dancing. Van had been there for years, selling teas, coffees, rolls and sausage. McCoy remembered stopping at it on his first night on the beat. He took a sip of the tea. As rotten as it was then. Still, at least the mug was warm.

      ‘So who does he play for then, this boy?’ asked Murray.

      McCoy shook his head, didn’t believe what he was hearing. Half suspected Murray was just doing it to annoy him. ‘Celtic. He probably played today. Draw with Partick Thistle.’

      ‘Today?’ asked Murray.

      ‘Aye, at Parkhead. He made the first team a year or so ago, never been out it since. Very talented boy. When he’s on he’s fucking magic, reads the ball better than anyone I’ve seen. Probably be off soon, or he would have been I should say. Liverpool would have got him, Clough, someone like that.’ He looked at Murray again, still not quite believing him. ‘C’mon, you must have heard of him.’

      Murray shook his head, patted his jacket looking for his tobacco. ‘No. Bloody game should be banned. Just another excuse we don’t need for the idiots in this town to knock lumps out each other.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s quarter past nine now. Was called in at seven. So when did this game finish?’

      ‘Usual. Quarter to five,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Not much time to do that,’ said Murray, nodding up at the office building. ‘Must have got hold of him just after the match.’

      ‘Poor bugger,’ said McCoy. He thought for a minute. ‘You know something? I just don’t get it. Why would anyone want to shoot Charlie Jackson, carve some shite into his chest? What’s he ever done to anyone? He’s what, twenty-two? All he’s ever done is kick a ball.’

      They moved into the side of the caravan to let a group of girls clattering through the puddles in platform boots pass by. They had skimpy wee dresses on, halter tops, coats held over their heads to keep the rain off their hair. Even if it was pissing down and freezing it was still Saturday night. Bit of weather wasn’t going to stop a Glasgow Saturday night.

      ‘That photographer boy Andy seemed to know a bit about him,’ said Murray, watching the girls joining the end of the queue already forming outside Tiffany’s.

      McCoy looked surprised. ‘Andy? What’d that wee prick have to say about it?’

      ‘Said he’d taken pictures of Jackson for the sports pages, chatty young lad apparently. Told him all about his fiancée, plans for the big day.’

      McCoy dimly remembered a picture of Charlie Jackson and a girl in the paper, some big charity do. ‘A dark-haired lassie? Good-looking? That her?’

      Murray put his mug up on the counter. ‘That’s her, and, according to young Andy, she’s Jake Scobie’s daughter.’

      McCoy had brought his cigarette up to his mouth, was about to take a drag. Stopped. ‘You’re having me on.’

      Murray shook his head. ‘Need to get it checked out but he seems certain.’

      ‘Charlie Jackson is Jake Scobie’s future son-in-law?’ McCoy shook his head. ‘How the fuck did I not know that?’

      Murray shrugged. ‘What? Harry McCoy’s not as clever as he likes to think? Wonders will never cease.’

      ‘Very funny,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Maybe the boy didn’t know what he was letting himself in for.’

      ‘How could he not? Can’t be anyone in Glasgow who doesn’t know who Jake Scobie is.’ Something dawned. ‘That’s got to be why he’s been killed. Maybe Charlie Jackson was playing away, if you’ll pardon the expression, and Scobie found out. Maybe he—’

      ‘Maybe’s the bloody word! I don’t know what happened and you certainly don’t know what happened. That’s what we need to find out. It’s called being a polis.’

      McCoy was on a roll.

      ‘Makes you wonder what Jackson did to his daughter. Must have been something bad. Maybe he got another lassie pregnant, that might explain the cock-in-mouth scenario.’

      Murray looked exasperated. ‘I’m talking to my fucking self here. We don’t know who did it. Got that?’

      McCoy nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘First principles, not bloody fantasies. Okay?’

      McCoy nodded again.

      Murray seemed temporarily satisfied. Had managed to locate his pipe, now came the process of getting it lit. He knocked the barrel on the heel of his shoe. ‘How d’you think he got him up there?’

      ‘Arrange to meet him nearby? Put a gun in his back and march him up the stairs? But why go all the way up there? Doesn’t make any sense, too much chance of him getting away, even with a gun. Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kill him in his flat?’

      They looked up at

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