LITMIR.BIZ

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the courts, something like that. In the picture he looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Nice open features, half a smile on his face. You can’t really be charging me with anything, can you?

      Murray continued. ‘For those of you who have been living under a rock and our more junior colleagues’ – Wattie stood up and bowed to general catcalls – ‘Jake Scobie started out as a tally man, collecting debts. Worked his way up – mainly by taking out his employer Robbie Craig with a machete – to be the boss in around ’62. Past few years he’s been trying to clean up his act, investing in property, keeping a good distance from the illegal stuff, just another Glasgow businessman.’ He paused. ‘Except he’s not. He can hide behind Lomax and his charity dinners and his suits from Forsyth’s but be assured he’s still running his rackets. Now, since Mr McCoy has finally managed to come back from his holidays’ – more catcalls – ‘I’ll let him run through the situation with Scobie and Connolly. McCoy?’

      McCoy stood up, made his way to the blackboard. Ran them through this morning’s meeting. Told them about Connolly, his falling out with Scobie, his previous attack on Charlie Jackson and his obsession with Elaine Scobie. Sat back down.

      Murray took over. ‘Charlie Jackson. Twenty-two years old. Good son, good friend, shining career, about to get married.’ He pointed to the picture of the footballer. ‘Kevin Connolly is our primary suspect. There is only one thing we have to do.’ He paused, looked out at the assembled team. ‘Find him before Scobie does. I am not giving that bastard the satisfaction of getting to Connolly before we do.’ He clapped his hands. ‘So! Previous addresses checked, known associates interviewed, get round the touts, someone must know where he is. I want him found and quick. Understood?’

      A few mumbles.

      ‘I said understood?’

      Chorus of ‘yes, sir’.

      Murray nodded, satisfied, walked back towards his office shouting ‘McCoy! Watson!’ over his shoulder.

      They followed him into the office, sat down. McCoy looked around. Murray’s office hadn’t changed in years, no reason why it would have changed in the past three weeks. Same old pictures of him looking young in a rugby strip, signed rugby ball on his desk. Stink of pipe tobacco and Ralgex. Piles of folders and files covering most of the available space. Murray rifled through the big pile in front of him, found what he was looking for and pushed a bit of paper across the desk.

      ‘Lomax called. Connolly’s last known address, he got it from Scobie,’ he said.

      ‘Lomax called?’ asked McCoy. ‘He’s getting very helpful all of a sudden.’

      Wattie picked it up, read it. ‘Stronsay Street? Where’s that?’

      ‘Just off the Royston Road, I think,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Where’s the Royston Road?’ asked Wattie.

      McCoy rolled his eyes. ‘I keep forgetting you’re from Greenock. They got actual streets there or is it just one big shitehole?’

      Murray banged his fist on the desk. The two of them shut up, looked at him guiltily.

      ‘McCoy! You’re supposed to be helping Wattie here do his papers, teaching him how to be a detective, not scoring bloody points. Holiday’s over, McCoy. Start concentrating!’

      McCoy muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.’

      ‘Right. You two away and have a look at the flat, see what you can see. Hopefully you can pick up an idea of where he’s gone.’

      ‘Any luck with getting the daughter in for an interview?’ asked McCoy. ‘Lomax stonewalled me.’

      Murray’s face darkened.

      ‘Apparently she is “too distressed to speak to us”. Lomax buying time until he gets her story straight, more like. We’ll try again tomorrow. If it’s the same again I’m going to make him get an official medical certificate for her or I’ll arrest her for perverting the course of justice.’

      ‘What did he say about bringing her into protective custody?’ asked McCoy.

      ‘That got nixed too. Apparently the bold Elaine told Lomax that Connolly would never harm her and she was fine where she was,’ said Murray.

      ‘More fool her,’ said Wattie. ‘Does she know what he did to her boyfriend?’

      Murray rummaged through the papers on his desk again, came up with a copy of the Sunday Mail. Picture of Charlie Jackson on the front.

       CELTIC PLAYER SLAUGHTERED!

      ‘Well, if she didn’t, she bloody does now. Her and every other bugger in the city.’

      ‘Some uniform called in and got their tenner then,’ said McCoy.

      ‘Aye, and if I find out who it is, his feet won’t touch the fucking ground. At least the carving on his chest still seems secret. Better bloody stay that way. Let me know how you get on at Connolly’s. Oh and . . .’ He looked through the papers on his desk. Again. Found the one he was looking for and handed it over. ‘Charlie Jackson’s flatmate, another football player apparently, plays for Celtic as well—’

      ‘Nae luck,’ muttered Wattie.

      ‘You say something, Watson?’ barked Murray.

      ‘No, sir!’ said Wattie smartly.

      ‘Go and see this flatmate. See what he knows about Jackson and Connolly, if Jackson ever talked about him. And find out if he saw him after the match. Club are saying Jackson left the ground at half five as per usual. Nothing out the ordinary. Need to track his movements.’

      They stood up to go. ‘McCoy, you stay here a minute,’ said Murray.

      He sat back down. Murray waited until Wattie shut the door behind him, leant back in his seat.

      ‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘I can leave you here on a desk for a while.’

      ‘I’m fine. I’ve had three weeks pottering around the house, going to the appointments. Any more time off and I’ll be climbing the walls. Need to get working again.’

      ‘You sure? No shame in—’

      ‘I’m fine, Murray! Honest.’

      Murray held his hands up. ‘Fine! Christ . . . Don’t know what I’m asking this for but how’s your pal, Cooper?’

      ‘Okay, I think. I heard he got out the hospital,’ said McCoy.

      ‘You keep away from that thug,’ said Murray. ‘He may have helped you out—’

      ‘He did more than help out. He was in the bloody hospital for three weeks because he tried to help me out.’

      ‘Aye well, that was his choice. You keep clear of him. You hear me? I’ve told you once and I’m no telling you again.’

      McCoy nodded. Didn’t have the energy to argue. ‘I will.’ He stood up. ‘By the way. Connolly? I’m sure I recognise him from somewhere, sure I’ve seen him before.’

      ‘He’s been in and out of here and Pitt Street for years. Must have seen him then,’ said Murray.

      ‘Must have.’

      He shut Murray’s office door behind him. Shouted on Wattie to go and get the car. He didn’t know where he’d seen Connolly but one thing he did know. Wasn’t in the shop or Pitt Street.

      FIVE

      ‘The manager of Jackson’s club Glasgow Celtic, Jock Stein, has issued a statement. “On behalf of myself and everyone associated with the club, we wish to express our shock and dismay at the untimely death of Charles Jackson. Not only was he an excellent football player, he was a fine young man and our thoughts are with his family at this time.” Two men were injured in Belfast today as a bomb they were—’

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