LITMIR.BIZ

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on. He was a bit thinner but looked much the same as last time McCoy had seen him. Was one thing hadn’t changed: still had the raised criss-cross of scars running across his neck, disappearing down into the collar of his T-shirt.

      ‘Get that screw to fuck,’ Nairn said, eyes not leaving the TV. ‘He’s no allowed to be in here.’

      ‘Suit yourself,’ said Mullen. ‘McCoy?’

      He nodded an okay and Mullen backed out the door. ‘I’ll leave you boys to it, give us a shout when you’re done.’

      McCoy sat down on the arm of the couch, put a packet of Regal on the wee tile-covered coffee table. Waited. Was sure he could smell dope from somewhere. Wouldn’t surprise him. Nothing about here could any more. Nairn didn’t say anything, eyes stayed firmly fixed on the TV. Up to him then.

      ‘I got the message. Supposed to be honoured, am I?’

      Nairn grunted. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, McCoy. You were the only fucking polis whose name I could remember.’

      McCoy looked at the posters taped up on the wall. Not the usual girls with their legs apart, not in here. A map of Middle Earth, picture of Chairman Mao. Books on the shelf were as bad. The autobiography of Malcolm X. Stranger in a Strange Land. The Bhagavad Gita.

      ‘All this hippie stuff working, is it?’ he asked. ‘No feeling the need to open the warden’s face any more?’ No response. He sighed, tried again. ‘So is this about Garvie, then?’

      Nairn finally looked away from Zebedee and Dougal. ‘Who?’

      ‘Stan Garvie. Stuffed in a tea chest and chucked in the Clyde with some iron weights for company. Believe it was your doing. Staying in this holiday home made you want to confess all, that it?’

      Nairn smiled, looked very pleased with himself. ‘So that was the cunt’s name, was it?’ He shook his head. ‘Naw, don’t know nothing about that, Detective McCoy.’

      McCoy raised his eyebrows. ‘News travels fast.’

      Nairn sat up, stuffed his hand down his jeans, scratched at his balls then sniffed his hand. ‘Aye well, I’ve got some more news for you. Someone’s gonnae get killed tomorrow.’

      ‘What, you going to knife someone in the showers? Giving me a heads-up?’

      Nairn smiled again, revealing a row of small yellow teeth. ‘Always think you’re the funny cunt, McCoy. About as funny as fucking cancer. Up the town, girl called Lorna.’

      McCoy waited but nothing else was forthcoming. He realised he was going to have to play along. ‘Who’s going to kill this Lorna, then?’

      Nairn looked disgusted. ‘Fuck off. I’m no a grass.’

      McCoy laughed. ‘You’re no a grass? Fuck am I doing sitting here, then?’

      ‘You’re sitting here because I’m stuck in this shitehole. I cannae do anything about it so you’re gonnae have to.’

      ‘How am I going to do that, then? Get on the radio and tell every girl called Lorna to stay in her bed all day? Away and shite, Nairn, you’re wasting my time.’

      He stood up. He’d been on since five this morning, was tired, wasn’t in the mood. All he wanted was a pint and to be as far away from this prison and from Howie Nairn and his shite as possible. He leant forward to pick the cigarettes up off the table and Nairn’s hand shot out, grabbed his arm. He pulled him close, face leaning into his.

      ‘You start paying attention to what I’m telling you, McCoy, or you’re going to make me awful fucking angry. Right?’

      McCoy looked down at Nairn’s tattooed fingers wrapped round his arm, knuckles white already. He was a prisoner and McCoy was a polis. There were lines and he’d just crossed them. Game was off.

      ‘Get your fucking hand off me, Nairn,’ he said quietly. ‘Now. And don’t you ever fucking touch me again. Got it?’

      Nairn held on for another few seconds, then let McCoy’s arm go, pushed it back towards him. McCoy sat back down. ‘Either you start talking sense or I’m off. Last chance.’ He waited. Nairn stared back at him, watery blue eyes fixed on his. If he was trying to intimidate him, it wasn’t working. He’d been stared at by far worse than him. He shrugged and stood up. ‘Time over.’

      He walked over to the door, shouted on Mullen. He heard his boots coming down the corridor, segs clicking against the lino floor. Voice came from behind him.

      ‘She’s called Lorna, don’t know her second name. Works in town. One of they posh restaurants. Malmaison or Whitehall’s. Don’t know who, but someone’s gonnae do her tomorrow.’

      McCoy turned. ‘That it?’

      Nairn was staring at the TV again. ‘That’s enough.’

      ‘Just say I believe you and just say I stop it. You’ll tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?’

      Nairn nodded. ‘Now get to fuck. You’re stinking up my living room.’

      *

      ‘What was all that about, then?’ asked Mullen when they were back in the main building. Lock-up was starting. McCoy had to raise his voice to be heard over the catcalls and clanging cell doors.

      ‘Fuck knows. Telling me someone’s going to get murdered tomorrow.’

      ‘No in here?’

      McCoy shook his head. ‘The town.’

      Mullen looked relieved. ‘Thank fuck for that. I’m on tomorrow. How come laughing boy knows about it anyway?’

      ‘Christ knows. Think he’s just pulling my string.’

      They waited as a prisoner with a black eye and a bleeding lip was walked past them; hands cuffed behind his back, officer either side, still shouting the odds.

      ‘That’s the funny thing,’ continued McCoy. ‘I was there when he got done, but it was Brody’s deal, no mine. Don’t know why he wanted to speak to me.’

      ‘Brody. Christ, nae cunt would want to speak to him. He fit him up?’

      He shook his head. ‘Nope, whole thing was straight for once. Nairn was as guilty as they come. Caught with a hold-all with three sawn-off shotguns in it.’

      Mullen left him at reception, told him he’d let him know where his leaving do was. McCoy liked Mullen well enough but no way was he spending a night in the pub with a load of moaning-faced prison officers telling war stories.

      A girl called Lorna. Maybe he would call the restaurants just in case. Couldn’t be that many Lornas working there. Still couldn’t think why Nairn had told him, he’d barely looked at him when he was arrested, too busy trying to kick out at Brody, calling him every filthy name in the book. His eyes drifted up to the calendar on the back wall of the turnkey’s wee office, topless girl draped over a car trying to look like she was fulfilling her life’s desire to hold a big spanner. Didn’t realise it was Thursday. Maybe he wouldn’t bother with Nairn’s shite; maybe he’d go and see Janey instead. He was owed after all. The buzzer went and the lock shifted back with a loud clang. The turnkey opened the door, held on to it as the wind rattled it in its runners. McCoy peered out at the trees surrounding the car park whipping back and forth.

      Turnkey grimaced. ‘Rather you than me, pal. Rather you than me.’

      He made a run for it, got in the unmarked Viva and slammed the door. He started the engine up and the radio came on. ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ suddenly filling the steamed-up car. He swore, turned the dial, Rod Stewart, ‘Maggie May’. Much better. He jammed the heater to full and pulled out onto Cumbernauld Road, heading for town. If he was going to see Janey, he needed to go and see Robbie first.

      TWO

      ‘How long have we

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