Bloody January - Alan Parks A Harry McCoy Thriller

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wouldn’t say? Well, fancy that. Maybe you should have fucking asked then!’

      ‘I did . . .’ He started to protest, but Murray was having none of it.

      ‘Didn’t ask him hard enough, then, did you? Might have stopped this fucking disaster happening. And, by the way, how come that cunt Nairn is suddenly telling you all his secrets?’

      ‘Don’t ask me. Call came in to the station last night, so I went, thought it would be something about Garvie. I hardly even know him. He was Brody’s deal, no mine.’

      Murray tapped the pipe stem off his top teeth, shook his head. ‘Nope. You’re not telling me something.’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Had to be a reason Nairn wanted to speak to you. What is it?’

      McCoy looked at him, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What? You think I’m holding out on you, that it? That’s shite, Murray. Why would I do that?’

      ‘You tell me,’ he said evenly.

      ‘Fuck off, Murray, you’re way out of order.’

      Murray’s face clouded over. ‘So are you, son. You remember who you’re talking to.’

      ‘Aye well, you too. You really think I’d fuck you about?’

      Murray rubbed at the stubble coming through on his chin, shook his head. ‘No. But there’s a reason it was you he wanted to speak to. You might not know it, but he does.’

      McCoy stood up and watched two uniforms push a row of photographers back behind a rope line. Ambulances were backing up to the bodies, doors open.

      ‘Where you going?’ asked Murray.

      ‘The boy still alive?’

      ‘Barely. If you can call it alive. Half his fucking head’s gone. Who is he? Nairn let you in on that one?’

      McCoy ignored him. ‘He’s nobody. According to Wattie, he’s got nothing on him. No ID at all, no house keys, no wallet, no money, scars, tattoos. He’s the invisible fucking man. Gold crucifix round his neck. That’s it.’

      Murray gave a half smile. ‘Well, we know one thing then. He’s one of your lot.’

      McCoy ignored that too. ‘So what happens now?’

      ‘I walk back over there and try and get this mess sorted out. Try and get everything done and the place re-opened before the rush hour tonight. City centre’s at a fucking standstill already. Buses backed up all the way from here to fucking Paisley.’ He stood up. ‘And you, away you go to Barlinnie and find out what the fuck Nairn’s up to. And get some fucking answers this time. I mean it. He’s an accessory at least. Lean on the cunt.’

      ‘Here’s done already. The bloke shot the girl then shot himself. What is there to find out?’

      ‘What’s to find out is what this has got to do with that cunt Nairn. This isn’t bloody Chicago, we don’t have shootings in the bloody bus station. Find out what Nairn knows and what it’s got to do with him.’

      McCoy sighed. Would have to try again later, no point when Murray was in this kind of mood.

      ‘I’m sick of telling you. Get up to fucking Barlinnie now!’

      McCoy held his hand up in surrender and walked up towards the row of unmarked Vivas parked near the entrance.

      ‘And McCoy . . .’ He turned and Murray nodded over at Wattie, standing on the other side of the forecourt watching them. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’

      FIVE

      Wattie hadn’t said much since they’d got in the car. McCoy didn’t blame him; he didn’t feel like saying much either. Fuck of a first day on the job. Still, he hadn’t done too badly with the crowd at the bus station, did what he was told, didn’t panic. Rarer than you’d think.

      ‘You all right?’ he asked.

      Wattie nodded; he didn’t look it though. His face was pale, tiny spots of blood across his cheek that he’d missed when they went to clean themselves up back at the shop. He was fiddling with his lighter again, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Wasn’t working.

      ‘Look, it’s not always like this. Fact it’s never like this. Could be months before you see another body, never mind another shooting.’

      Wattie nodded again, didn’t say anything, just stared out the car window at the afternoon traffic on Riddrie Road. McCoy gave up. Maybe he was just a quiet bugger after all. They continued north through the city in relative silence. Suited him, only noise the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers fighting the sleet. The road to Barlinnie took them through Royston, then Provanmill. Long rows of dirty black tenements lined the way interrupted by empty sites full of mud and piles of old tiles and bricks, any metal or lead from the roofs long gone. Driving through the north of Glasgow, a place he’d known since he was a boy, was like driving through a different city now. All the landmarks were gone, couldn’t find his way any more. Garscube Road was gone, all that was left of Parliamentary Road was a few rows of tenements. Motorways and shitty high flats. The New Glasgow.

      McCoy turned the steering wheel and his shirt cuff emerged from under his jacket. It was soaked in blood, cloth turned hard. Didn’t know if it was the boy’s or the girl’s. Didn’t matter much, he supposed. He was peering down into the footwell to see if he’d managed to get all the blood off his shoes when someone behind him sat on the horn. He sat up quickly, looked in the mirror. Ambulance. He held his hand up in apology, pulled over and it raced past them up the middle of the two lanes of traffic, lights and siren going full pelt.

      Maybe he should have guessed then. Bad things did come in threes, after all. Then he wouldn’t have been surprised when they pulled into the prison car park and the same ambulance was sitting there, lights slowly revolving, back doors open.

      ‘What’s that doing here?’ asked Wattie.

      McCoy shrugged, opened his door. ‘Only one way to find out.’

      They slammed the car doors shut behind them and made a run for the entrance, splashing through the puddles on the cracked tarmac. McCoy leant on the buzzer, trying to stand in under the awning out of the rain. He held his card up to the window and the big metal door rumbled back slowly. Tommy Mullen was standing there.

      ‘What’s going on?’ asked McCoy, nodding at the ambulance.

      Mullen looked surprised. ‘That no why you’re here? It’s your pal, Nairn. He’s been annoying somebody.’

      They shook themselves off and followed Mullen along the corridor and up the stairs towards the wash block. Wattie wrinkled his nose, but McCoy was used to it. Barlinnie smelt the same as every other prison he’d ever been in. ‘Sweat, shit and spunk’, as Murray had memorably described it. Corridor got warmer the nearer they got to the showers, feel of moisture in the air. Mullen pushed the thick plastic door open.

      ‘After you.’

      The floor of the showers was swimming in water, covering the cracked and broken ceramic tiles. Steam was so thick it was hard to see what was going on; took a minute or so for their eyes to adjust. Mullen pointed over to the last shower in a row of ten or so. There was no sprinkler head on it, just an open pipe gushing boiling water in a big arc.

      ‘Fucking thing’s kaput,’ said Mullen over the noise. ‘Cannae get it turned off. Fact he’s lying on the bloody drain’s no helping either. Didnae want to move him.’ McCoy nodded, still not sure what he was talking about. Mullen pointed into the mist. ‘He’s over there.’

      Nothing for it, they splashed in. McCoy stupidly reminded of walking through the disinfectant footbath at the swimming baths, Wattie looking a bit peeved at the idea of getting his good suit wet. At least the water was warm. As they got closer two ambulance men emerged out the steam, dark stains seeping

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