LITMIR.BIZ

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dead. All the offices and shops shut up. Just the distant clang of St Aloysius’ bells as they walked up West George Street, past the RAC Club with its Union Jack flying, and into the square. Nothing grand, just a rectangle of grass with benches round it surrounded by wrought iron fencing.

      Was a funny place, Blythswood Square. Schizophrenic. During the day it was full of men in pinstripes and secretaries in wee business suits going in and out the offices, making deals, looking important. Soon as the offices shut and night fell everything changed. Became a different kind of square entirely. The girls started appearing. Old, young, didn’t matter, all of them dressed in mini skirts, high heels and jackets that were too flimsy for the weather. They stood on the corners, chatting, smoking, keeping one eye on the cars circling round and round. If one stopped it didn’t take long, they leant in the window, decided a price, then got in. Two different worlds separated by a couple of hours.

      Number 42 Blythswood Square was a three-storey building of grey stone, marble steps leading up to a smart black door. Murray rang the brass doorbell above the nameplate LOMAX & LOMAX and they waited. No reply. Murray pressed it again, muttering under his breath. Still nothing. He turned to McCoy.

      ‘Where is the prick? Sure it was ten he said?’

      McCoy looked at his watch, tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Only ten past, maybe he’s a wee bit late.’

      It was almost half past when he turned up. Murray’d just declared that he’d had enough and was going back to the shop when McCoy saw the car.

      ‘Sir,’ he said, nodding over.

      A gold Jag was turning into the square, exhaust billowing out behind it in the damp air. It circled round, then pulled in to the pavement in front of them. Door opened and out stepped Archie Lomax, looking immaculate as always. Chalk-stripe suit, polished black brogues, navy Crombie. No tie the only concession to the weekend. You didn’t get to be the highest paid criminal lawyer in Glasgow by turning up looking a mess.

      Murray got in first. ‘About bloody time, we’ve been standing here for half an hour.’

      Lomax held his hands up in apology. ‘Sorry, gents, roads blocked outside Bearsden. Some burn has burst its banks, had to go round the long way, couldn’t be avoided.’

      ‘Half a bloody hour,’ said Murray again.

      Hadn’t got his money’s worth from Lomax, he wasn’t contrite enough for his liking. Wasn’t going to get it, though. Lomax just ignored him, unlocked the big black door, pushed it open, held it wide for them. They followed him up the stairs, furnishings and fittings getting steadily more luxurious as they climbed. On the third floor Lomax unlocked a heavy glass door and they went in.

      ‘Welcome to the inner sanctum. Don’t usually have men of the constabulary in here but the boardroom is being redecorated so needs must.’

      Lomax’s office covered most of the top floor of the building. Carpets were dark green, dotted with faded oriental rugs, pale blue walls hung with gold-framed paintings of old sailing ships. His desk sat in front of the double windows looking out over the square, not so much a desk as a long slab of glass held up by spindly steel legs, leather swivel chair behind it. Only things sitting on it were a metal frame with a row of silver balls hanging from it by black threads, a notepad and a thick file. If the office was meant to be impressive, it was. He clicked a switch and warm air started blowing.

      ‘Drink?’ he asked, walking over to a large antique globe with legs. He flipped up the top half to reveal gleaming crystal glasses and expensive bottles. McCoy spied a bottle of Chivas, was about to say yes, but Murray got in before him.

      ‘As I’m sure you are aware, Mr Lomax, we’re on duty. Where’s Scobie?’

      ‘Please yourself,’ said Lomax, pouring a good measure of Johnnie Walker Black Label into a tumbler. He settled himself down behind the desk, pointed at two leather armchairs in front of it. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’

      They struggled out of their coats and scarves – room was heating up already – and sat down. Lomax took a heavy fountain pen from his inside pocket and unscrewed the top, wrote the date on the notepad in front of him.

      ‘Couple of things before we start, gents. My client has volunteered to come in here and speak to you. He only heard about the dreadful incident a few hours ago. Obviously he’s extremely upset so I’m sure you’ll appreciate how helpful he’s being coming here today. Secondly,’ he looked at each of them in turn, ‘this conversation is very much off the record, in the spirit of cooperation and the hope of bringing a swift conclusion to things. Understood?’

      Murray took his time, brushed a bit of lint off his trousers, moulded the crease on his trilby sitting on his lap before he spoke. ‘Your client is a piece of scum, Mr Lomax.’ He looked round at the paintings on the wall, the deep pile carpet, the Bang & Olufsen stereo system in the corner. ‘All these trappings that he’s no doubt paying through the nose for don’t change a thing. Jake Scobie is still scum. Always has been, always will be. The fact that he pays you means you may have to act like he’s a respectable businessman, but thankfully I don’t. Now where is he?’

      McCoy had to hand it to him; Murray was not one to be intimidated by anyone. Not even a big lawyer like Lomax.

      Lomax looked indignant, had just opened his mouth to reply, when the buzzer went. ‘Looks like my client is here,’ he said, getting up. He leant into Murray as he passed him on the way to open the door. ‘Keep your grandstanding under your hat if you please, Mr Murray. It’s not only tiresome, it’s pointless and, believe me, I’ve heard it all before.’

      ‘What’s he doing this for?’ asked McCoy after he’d gone. ‘Normally Scobie wouldn’t talk to us for love nor money, and now he’s volunteering for a little chat? After he’s got his pet hatchet man to kill his future son-in-law? I don’t get it.’

      ‘Me neither,’ said Murray. ‘Normally takes a week of going back and forward with Lomax until he’ll even admit Scobie is his client, never mind set up a meeting.’

      ‘Must be your way with words,’ said McCoy.

      Murray was about to answer when Scobie and Lomax appeared. Lomax pulled another chair round behind his side of the desk and they sat down.

      Scobie was dressed just like Lomax. Suit and a Crombie, shiny shoes, white shirt. On Lomax they looked like the clothes he was born to wear, on Scobie they looked more like a costume, dressing-up clothes. There was one other big difference between the two of them. Lomax, unlike Scobie, didn’t have a dirty big scar running from his ear down across his left cheek and into the side of his mouth. Looked like someone had tried to hack half his face off, which, knowing the people Scobie ran with, they probably had. He was a small man, Scobie, and like all the best hard men, slight too, built like a welterweight.

      ‘Morning, Jake,’ said Murray.

      ‘That’s Mr Scobie to you,’ he said, leaning forward.

      Lomax held his hand across him, a restraint. ‘As I said, gents, Mr Scobie has volunteered to come here. Some respect is in order.’

      Murray grunted.

      McCoy knew Scobie and Murray had too much water under the bridge for a civilised chat, so he thought he’d better step in. ‘What was it you wanted to see us about, Mr Scobie?’

      Murray didn’t look happy at him saying ‘Mr’. Grunted again.

      ‘It’s a delicate matter,’ said Lomax, shifting round in his seat towards McCoy, grateful for a more receptive audience. ‘Might be easier if I speak on Jake’s behalf.’

      Jake was looking at them with contempt, barely nodded. ‘Fire away,’ said McCoy. ‘We’re all ears.’

      Lomax looked relieved, sat back in his chair, settled down to tell the tale. ‘Mr Scobie has some information that may be pertinent to the unfortunate fate of Charlie Jackson. As you may know, Jackson was only months away from becoming Mr Scobie’s son-in-law. Consequently he’s very upset about

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