LITMIR.BIZ

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like Scobie was stranded back in the days when he’d come up through the ranks, still living in the time of the razor kings and honour amongst thieves. Would have been as well wearing spats and talking like George Raft. Scobie in the North, Ronnie Naismith in the Southside, McCready in Govan. Suddenly they seemed old, like kings who could be toppled.

      McCoy handed the money over, pocketed the wee red notebook, stepped out of R. S. McColl’s and back onto Sauchiehall Street. New case, new jotter. Force of habit. He peeled the price ticket off the front and put it in his pocket. Realised he didn’t have a pencil, should have bought a new one of those as well. Was a mystery to him where everything he had disappeared to. They all went. Pens, fags, gloves, house keys more than a few times.

      He was nearly at Treron’s when he noticed him. Charlie the Pram. McCoy didn’t know his real name but he’d seen him around town for years, wandering around, talking to himself. Just another lost soul amongst the many. Charlie’d found an old Silver Cross pram somewhere – hence the name – and, as always, it was full of wire, ginger bottles, anything he could try and make some money from. Charlie had good days and bad days. Never knew if he’d talk to you or just stare through you.

      ‘You all right, Charlie?’ asked McCoy.

      Charlie turned, nodded. A good day then. He tapped the window of Dunn & Co. ‘I’d a coat like that once. Good tweed coat.’

      ‘That right? What happened to it?’

      ‘It’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door,’ he said, as if it was obvious.

      McCoy dug in his coat pocket, found a pound note and handed it to him, told him to get a hot breakfast. Charlie took it and slipped it between the folds of the filthy tartan rug he had wrapped around him.

      ‘Can I tell you something?’ he said.

      McCoy nodded, tried to look at his watch without Charlie seeing. Was already slightly regretting stopping.

      ‘Sure. Fire away.’

      ‘I had a house once, an old manse, lovely it was. Three boys at school, pretty wife.’ He pinched the skin on his forehead, a habit; it was covered in small cuts and scabs. ‘Was all mine. Until they found out.’ He looked at McCoy, eyes panicked. ‘They found out and they tried to drown me but I got away. That’s what they do if they catch you. They boil you in tanks of dirty water and bleach until the skin peels off you.’ And then he started to cry.

      McCoy patted his shoulder. ‘C’mon, Charlie. Not going to happen anytime soon. Get yourself a hot breakfast, eh? Make you feel better.’

      Charlie nodded, wiped his nose with his sleeve, went back to staring at the tweed coat, pinching his forehead, blood starting to run into his eyes.

      McCoy left him there, kept walking down the hill towards Stewart Street. He did what he could. Gave them some money, listened to their stories, tried to treat them like human beings. Maybe it was a kind of bribe. Guys like Charlie wandered all over the city without anyone noticing them, they saw things. Guys like Charlie had given him information more than once. Information worth a lot more than a couple of bob for a cup of tea. At least that’s what he told people he did it for anyway.

      He stopped at the zebra crossing, waited. If Scobie was telling the truth, if he was out to get Connolly, which seemed more likely than not, Connolly was fucked. Either Scobie found him and killed him or the polis found him, put him in jail and Scobie got someone to do the same thing in there. If he was Connolly he’d be gone already, further than London – as far as he could go.

      The rain was back on, turning into sleet, grey clouds scudding across the sky. McCoy stood in the doorway of Grandfare for a minute, lit up. The news about Charlie Jackson should be in the paper and on the radio this morning. Mary from the Record wasn’t going to give up easy, not on a story like this. The shot in the eye, shot to the ankle, carving in the chest. Did that mean something, the places he’d aimed for? Or was it just Connolly getting his kicks? And the bloody pictures he’d taken for later? Proof of the job done, maybe, to send to Scobie. He finished his fag, flicked it out into the road, turned his coat collar up and ran through the sleet towards the doors of Central.

      FOUR

      McCoy tried to walk in without Billy the desk sergeant clocking him. Thought he’d managed it. Billy’s head was down, News of the World spread out in front of him. No chance. Billy had a sixth sense. Looked up, fat face already clouding over.

      ‘At long bloody last! C’mere, you!’ he said.

      McCoy sighed, walked over to the desk. ‘How’s things Billy? No seen you for a—’

      ‘Fuck up,’ said Billy. ‘Here.’

      Handed McCoy a pile of notes all with the same message on them. Call Mary at the Record ASAP.

      ‘Daft cow’s been phoning all bloody morning, right cheeky article she is too. “Why don’t I know where he is?” Do me a favour, McCoy, and call the daft bint, because if you don’t, next time she calls I’m going to come and get you and drag you here to this bloody phone. Got it?’

      McCoy nodded, lied. Said he’d call her soon as he could and walked through to the office. Murray was already standing in front of the big blackboard so he slipped in behind his desk like some schoolboy late for class, tried to shrug his wet coat off. Wattie winked at him as he sat down, tapped at his watch. Mouthed ‘you’re late’.

      He was. Most of the squad were already there, sitting on the edge of desks, notepads out, serious faces. Murray must have put the fear of God into them already. Room smelt of fags and wet wool coats drying in the heat of the radiators. He sat at his desk, slid the copy of Titbits into the bin, got his wee red jotter out, found a ballpoint pen in one of his drawers. Tried to look like he was all ears.

      There was a picture up on the board, blown-up mug shot of Connolly. He looked late thirties, balding, pleasant face. Kind of guy you wouldn’t remember passing in the street, somebody’s neighbour, somebody’s brother-in-law. There was something familiar about it though. McCoy felt like he’d seen him somewhere, couldn’t think where.

      Murray took the empty pipe out of his mouth, pointed at the picture. ‘Kevin Connolly. Date of birth eleventh February 1943. Multiple—’

      ‘Birthday boy,’ said Wattie.

      ‘What?’ asked Murray, looking exasperated.

      ‘His date of birth. He’s thirty today.’

      ‘Finished?’ asked Murray. Few sniggers from round the room. ‘Can I get on with my bloody job now?’

      Wattie nodded, looked down at his notepad, back of his neck going red.

      Murray carried on. ‘Multiple arrests for assault, one attempted murder charge, one charge of kidnapping, one charge of serious sexual assault. A very dangerous and a very violent man. Hard to estimate how much damage he’s inflicted over the years.’ He shook his head. ‘But, thanks to Jake Scobie and his money, Archie Lomax has managed to get him off with almost all of it.’

      ‘What’s the connection exactly?’ asked Wattie, attempting to redeem himself.

      McCoy smiled to himself. Wasn’t so long ago Wattie had stayed at the back of the room during briefings, too scared to speak. Now he was leaning on Thomson’s desk, chewing a pencil, making notes and asking questions. Supposed it was progress. Even if he still looked too young to even be in the force, never mind in a briefing like this.

      ‘Connolly and Scobie have been joined at the hip since Connolly started working for him,’ said Murray. ‘They come from the same street in the Calton. Means a lot to someone like Scobie. Their maws knew each other. People say Scobie’s the brains and Connolly’s the brawn but it’s not as simple as that. Scobie’s more than able to take care of himself so Connolly gets reserved for the really nasty jobs. Nastier the better as far as he’s concerned. Enjoys hurting people. Was convicted of aggravated assault in’ – he checked the file

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