LITMIR.BIZ

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wood panelled, hushed waiters going back and forwards with silver service trays and bottles of wine. Other clientele were all businessmen, stuffed with well-done steaks and prawn cocktails, after-dinner cigars plugging their fat faces.

      Agnotti took McCoy into his office, asked to see his badge before he would answer any questions. Wasn’t happy about being interviewed. Turned out they did have one girl called Lorna working there, an under-waitress, whatever that was. He wrote out an address on a wee card and handed it over.

      ‘May I enquire what this is about?’ he asked.

      McCoy smiled at him, couldn’t help himself. ‘No,’ he said.

      A kitchen porter was coming in as he was leaving, chaining up his bike outside. He pointed at a picture on the staff notice-board in the corridor when he asked him if he knew Lorna Skirving. It had been taken at some staff night out. Four women sat round a table in a pub all dressed up, glasses held high, big smiles. Lorna Skirving was the one at the end. Nineteen, low-cut dress, dyed blonde hair, good-looking. He took it off the wall and pocketed it. Had to be who Nairn meant. He’d already been to Whitehall’s and they didn’t have anyone called Lorna working there: two Laura’s but no Lorna.

      According to the kitchen porter she’d no phone, so he called the shop, got them to send a panda up to her address to bring her in. He waited in the kitchen, was the warmest place, and watched them setting up the lunch service. Big pans of potatoes and carrots coming to the boil, trays of meat coming out the cold store. An Italian guy with no English appeared from the back and handed him a tiny wee cup of strong coffee. He said ‘Gracias’ thinking he was clever, was only when the guy walked away looking a bit puzzled he realised he wasn’t. The shop called back fifteen minutes later. Uniforms had been on the radio, no answer at her door. Must have left for work already. He sighed, nothing else for it, and called Wattie from the payphone. This was going to be more than a one-man job.

      The Golden Egg cafe was a right dump, like a Wimpy without the Wimpy name. Even had a menu with pictures on it – pictures that must have been taken somewhere else, if his bacon and eggs were anything to go by. But it had one virtue: it was right opposite the bus station. So close he could even hear the announcements from the station tannoy over the chat of the other customers and the orders being shouted through to the back kitchen. He rubbed at the condensation on the window and peered out. Eight o’clock and it wasn’t even properly light yet, streetlights still on, snow getting worse, lying now. Cars and buses nose to tail as they queued at the big junction to Buchanan Street. Lorna Skirving’s address was in Royston; all the buses from there came into the city via the bus station. She had to come in this way. Now all he had to do was spot her in the crowd before she got to work and some bloke who didn’t like last night’s lobster thermidor stabbed her to death.

      ‘What time does she start?’

      McCoy turned, had almost forgotten he was there. Wattie. Old mucker of Murray’s at the Greenock shop had called him, said he had a bright boy, too bright for Greenock, should be up in Glasgow playing with the big boys. The bright boy was sitting in his chair ramrod straight, surveying the crowd outside like some sentry on guard duty. McCoy’d argued with Murray, tried to get out of it, tried to pass him on to Richards, Wilson, anyone but him, but Murray was adamant. He’d done three months in the shop answering the phones, making the tea. Was time for him to shadow someone for a few months. Murray got round him the usual way. Flattery. Bright boy needs watching, can’t give him to some plodder like Richards. Didn’t know why Murray was so keen, you’d think he’d have learnt his lesson by now. He’d had the complaints before, was sure he was going to get them again. Last secondment had gone back crying to Murray. ‘He doesn’t tell me what’s going on, doesn’t speak to me, blah blah blah.’ But here the new one was, blond hair wetted down and neatly combed, big open face, dark suit and shined shoes. Twenty-six and he looked about fifteen. About as green as they come.

      ‘Half eight, supposed to be,’ said McCoy, yawning widely.

      ‘Can I see the photo again?’ asked Wattie.

      He handed it over. Looking at Wattie was like looking at himself five years ago. Been a long time since he’d been as bright-eyed and enthusiastic. Been a long time since he’d come to work with his shoes shined and his shirt ironed too. He took a look at his reflection in the window, didn’t look good. He needed a haircut and a suit that didn’t look like he’d slept in it.

      He stood up, looked outside. A layer of white settling on the tarmac. ‘We’ll head over there, see if we can catch her coming in.’

      The bus station sat at the top of the town, hemmed in by the high flats at Dobbies Loan at one side and the new motorway that had destroyed the old Garscube Road on the other. It was a huge asphalt rectangle, must have been half an acre, lined with slanted bays for the buses to park. Shelters and benches ran round the outside, a cafe that made the Golden Egg look like Malmaison near the entrance. Buses came in from everywhere – housing estates on the edge of town, rich suburbs, even from the coast, Ardrossan and Largs. And the bus to London went from here, one every morning, always a big queue waiting for that one. The chance of a new life for a five-bob bus ticket.

      A fat bloke with a hat and a whistle told them the Royston buses came in at bays 21 to 24 and pointed them up to the far corner. An old woman sitting on the bench by bay 22 gave McCoy a dirty look as he sat down, sniffed and moved herself and her plastic bags up a couple of feet. He watched Wattie pace up and down, stamping his feet to keep warm, flicking the top of his lighter open and shut, humming something under his breath. At least he was quiet; the last one had never bloody shut up. Some twat from Edinburgh with a science degree, in the accelerated promotion fast track, as he told you every five minutes. Went back to Edinburgh with his tail between his legs after he tried to arrest two women fighting outside the Barrowlands and got a broken nose and a black eye for his trouble.

      A double-decker spun round the asphalt and pulled into the bay in front of them. McCoy stood up. The bus door hissed and folded back. A couple of old men muttering about the snow stepped down, followed by a bloke in a boiler suit with his piece in a loaf wrapper tucked under his arm, then a group of school kids all shouting and pushing each other. No Lorna Skirving.

      She wasn’t on the next one either. Wattie eventually got tired of pacing, sat down on the bench and pushed his heels out in front of him, stretched his legs, yawned loudly. McCoy sat, watched an old man throwing crumbs onto the wet ground, sparrows flying in from nowhere.

      Another bus came and went, still no Lorna. He was beginning to think Nairn had been taking the piss after all when he saw the crowd across the other side of the station scattering. Shouts, a man falling backwards as he tried to run. A woman screamed.

      McCoy started running. He was halfway across the forecourt when a reversing bus almost hit him. He jumped out the way, stumbled, looked up and saw what the crowd was backing away from. He was young, couldn’t have been more than a teenager, anorak, jeans. His left arm was out in front of him, gun gripped tightly in his hand.

      ‘Police!’ shouted McCoy. ‘Drop it!’

      Clatter of heavy shoes and Wattie was beside him, breath coming out in clouds, eyes darting everywhere. McCoy grabbed his shoulder, pointed over at the crowd. ‘Get them down and back. Now!’

      Wattie nodded, ran off looking terrified. He didn’t have time to worry about him, though. Had to get to the gun before the boy decided to fire it. He took a deep breath and started walking towards him. He tried to sound calm, wasn’t easy, he could feel his heart going like a hammer in his chest.

      ‘Just put it down, pal. No harm done, eh?’

      His voice made him sound like he was trying too hard, being too nice, nothing he could do about that. The boy didn’t even look at him, just kept moving his head from right to left, scanning the crowd, looking for someone. He could hear Wattie shouting behind him, trying to get the crowd out the firing line. A woman was crying, some wee kid screaming, more shouts. He tried to block the noise out. Just him and the boy with the gun, that’s all that mattered. He kept walking towards him, going slow, hands held up, getting closer, keeping in between him and the crowd.

      ‘C’mon,

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