LITMIR.BIZ

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men shut away with nothing to do could be. They became resourceful, turned their hands to making things out of nothing. Things like a murder weapon made out of a toothbrush, some insulation tape and a sharpened bit of glass. McCoy watched it spinning round in the water next to Nairn’s outstretched hand. Whoever made it had done a good job; Nairn’s throat was sliced right through, open sides of the wound moving in the current like a fish’s gills. Gash must have been six inches long, neatly bisecting the old scars on his neck. A red string of blood was emerging from it, spinning and turning like ink dropped into a glass of water. Nairn’s head was back, mouth and chin just breaking the surface. His mouth was full of blood that was turning black, starting to congeal.

      McCoy was doing his breathing. Ten, nine, eight . . . trying to stop the dizziness, missed what Mullen was saying to him. Another couple of breaths, in through the nose out through the mouth just like the doctor said. ‘Think yourself calm. You are in control.’ It was working. He started to feel a bit less like he couldn’t get a breath, but he made sure he kept his eyes fixed a couple of feet above the body.

      ‘What’d you say?’ he asked.

      ‘You deaf? I told you,’ said Mullen, ‘somebody wasnae happy wi’ him.’

      McCoy risked a look down. Wave of nausea, straight back up. ‘Not wrong there. When did you find him?’

      ‘Hour or so ago. B Wing landing came in for their shower and there he was.’

      McCoy went to get his cigarettes out, realised he was never going to be able to light one in the damp atmosphere, stuffed them back in his pocket. Threes it was, right enough. A young girl shot dead, a boy just hanging on and Howie Nairn lying dead in a pool of water and blood.

      One of the ambulance men was looking around. ‘Probably be here somewhere.’ He scanned the room, saw something floating by the far wall and waded over. ‘There it is.’ He fished in the water, picked something up, looked like a worn nub of soap. He held it up between his finger and his thumb, showed it to everyone.

      ‘His tongue. They cut it off.’

      McCoy heard a retch and the splatter of sick hitting the water behind him. He turned and Wattie was bent over, hand up, trying to say sorry. McCoy was just happy it wasn’t him for a change. Wattie retched again, thin stream of vomit hitting the water. Ambulance man shook his head.

      ‘Great. That’s all I fucking need. Wandering around knee deep in water, blood and now fucking puke.’

      McCoy felt a bit better, risked another look down at Nairn. He’d been one of those men Glasgow turns out all too often. Men in a permanent rage at the world and everyone in it. He’d been hitting out at everything since he was born and now, for once, for the first time maybe, he looked peaceful. He was naked, arms outstretched, red hair fanned out behind him. McCoy could just make out a tattoo through the water and the thick ginger fuzz covering his chest. A heart, blue scroll beneath it with a name in it.

      ‘Who’s Bobby?’ he asked.

      ‘His boyfriend,’ said Mullen. ‘Came to see him every fortnight, never missed.’

      ‘His boyfriend?’ said Wattie, wiping his mouth with a hanky. ‘You’re no telling me Howie Nairn was a poof?’

      Mullen nodded. ‘Queer as a three-bob bit and didnae care who knew. Man with a reputation like his, nobody was going to pull him up for it, were they?’

      ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’ asked McCoy. ‘Thought he was in the Special Unit?’

      ‘He is. But they’ve nae showers over there. Complained to the governor, got allowed over here twice a week. Said he was being discriminated against.’

      ‘That what this was about then?’ asked Wattie. ‘He try it on with someone on his weekly visit? Lovers tiff?’

      Mullen shrugged. ‘Could be.’

      ‘Any witnesses we can talk to?’ asked Wattie.

      Mullen and McCoy looked at each other. ‘He just started, has he?’ asked Mullen.

      McCoy nodded. ‘Go easy. Rule number one, Mr Watson. Never any witnesses in prison, never are, never will be. We’re on our own.’ He loosened his tie, opened the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Christ, it’s like a fucking oven in here.’

      ‘Plumber’s on his way,’ said Mullen.

      ‘Aye, so’s Christmas,’ said McCoy. He stepped back from the body, tried to get nearer the door and the fresh air. Tried to think. ‘I can’t see some bloke Nairn’s had a go at in the showers doing this, can you? Nairn was an animal. He asked you to touch your toes you’d do it, say thanks afterwards.’

      ‘Speak for yourself,’ said one of the ambulance men, looking disgusted.

      ‘You’d have to be as much of a cunt as he was to do this. So who does that leave us with then? Martin Walsh still in?’

      Mullen nodded. ‘Another couple of years to go. Martin Walsh definitely. Maybe Tommy MacLean? You know the suspects as well as I do. But if it’s some jealous boyfriend, then fuck knows, bets are off. That sort play their cards close to their chests in here. Don’t want it getting back to the wife or the boys in the pub who’s tucking them in at night.’

      One of the ambulance men moved forward, causing a wave in the water that broke against McCoy’s trouser legs. ‘You want him moved?’ he asked.

      McCoy shook his head. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No way. Barlinnie’s in Eastern’s territory. They’ll be here soon, they can sort it out. You okay now?’

      Wattie was leaning against the tiled wall, still deathly white. He nodded, looked sheepish.

      ‘I’ve got to get out of here, I’m fucking melting. All right if we use your office for a bit, Tommy? Think the High Heid Yin’s on his way. I promise I’ll no let Wattie here be sick in it.’

      Tommy’s office was right at the back of the prison, hidden away. He’d done it up over the years, tried to make it homely. It was a room not much bigger than a cupboard, strip of carpet on the floor, various pictures of him holding up fish, waders on, stuck on the wall. He’d a kettle on a tray, two cracked mugs and a bag of sugar full of brown clumps sitting next to it. McCoy sat on the chair, started to undo his shoelaces. They were wet, couldn’t get the knot to come loose. He stuck his half-bitten nails in and pulled, eventually came free. He nodded to the kettle.

      ‘Penance for boaking your load. You can make the tea. Think you’ll manage that?’

      Wattie nodded, plugged it in and pressed the red switch. ‘You ever seen anything like that before?’ he asked.

      ‘Like what? Somebody with their throat cut or with their tongue cut out?’

      ‘Don’t know. Whole thing, I suppose. All that blood in the water, him lying there.’

      McCoy pushed the other shoe off with his foot, couldn’t be arsed with the laces. ‘Nope. But I’ve seen different and I’ve seen worse. Think yourself lucky you didn’t want to be a fireman. That’s the real gruesome stuff. Bodies mangled in car accidents, kids burned in their beds, all sorts of shite. No sugar for me.’

      McCoy had just finished his tea and was lighting up a fag when he heard Murray shouting at somebody, as usual. He didn’t care if they were a polis who worked for him or not, he was happy to shout at anyone. The door opened and he took in the scene. Face clouded over immediately.

      ‘What the fuck’s going on here then?’ he said, looking at the two of them sitting there drinking tea in their shirts and skivvies.

      McCoy nodded over at their socks and trousers steaming on the radiator. ‘We got soaked, sir, just trying to dry off.’

      Murray shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Fucking pair of clowns. You see Nairn yet? What’s he got to say for himself?’

      ‘Not much,’ said McCoy. ‘You want a cup of tea?’

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