Bloody January - Alan Parks A Harry McCoy Thriller

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looked for something to say, to redeem himself from the shame of being sick at a crime scene. ‘He was a poof, sir. Could be he fell out with one of his boyfriends? Or maybe he tried to get someone in the showers?’

      Murray looked over at McCoy. He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Whoever did it cut out his tongue, didn’t like what he’d been saying and wanted someone else to know. Howie Nairn was a big man in here, but there’s others. Others that would have done it to him for the money. Somebody outside probably paid for it or called in a favour.’

      ‘What? Because of what he told you?’

      ‘Good a chance as any. According to Mullen, other than getting me up here for his wee story he’s been a good boy. Quite happy doing nothing but parking his arse in front of The Magic Roundabout.’

      ‘Christ, you telling me that fucking animal was in the Special Unit? A murdering cunt like him gets a fucking colour TV and a vegetable patch after all he’s done? What about the people he slashed and killed? What do they get?’

      McCoy held up his hand, tried to stop the rant or they’d be here all day. ‘It’s Eastern’s patch, maybe they can find out something about who did it.’

      Murray grunted. ‘Eastern? You’re kidding yourself, aren’t you? Even if they weren’t worse than fucking useless they’ve no hope. Murder in a prison? About as much chance as winning the pools. You sure you’ve still no idea why he told you?’

      ‘I’m sick of telling you, Murray. No, I haven’t, and you know what? I wish he hadn’t fucking bothered. Right?’

      Murray held his hands up. ‘Don’t be so fucking touchy, McCoy, was only asking.’ He’d found his pipe and was now tapping the bowl off the edge of Mullen’s desk. ‘Boy’s dead, by the way. In the ambulance to the Royal.’

      McCoy walked over to the radiator and felt his trousers. Dry enough. He shook them out, stepped into them. Remembered sitting there, boy’s hand in his, eyes staring up into the sky. ‘He say anything?’

      ‘You saw him. He’d only half his fucking brain, what do you think?’

      ‘Fair enough. What about the girl?’

      ‘What about her? Dead as soon as the bullet hit. Whoever he was he was a fucking good shot. Bullet went straight into her heart.’

      McCoy was balancing on one leg, hopping about, trying to pull on a damp sock. ‘Who was she, then? What’s her story? Any connection with Nairn?’

      Murray shook his head. ‘Not so far. Came from Aberdeen. Only moved down six months ago and the parents haven’t heard from her since. Worked at Malmaison, on the verge of getting the boot it seems. Turning up late, general uselessness. Theory is she spent the night at her pal’s after a night at the dancing. We should get the pal in, see what she knows.’

      McCoy shook his head. ‘I’ll go to her. Get more out of her that way.’

      Murray nodded and stood up. ‘Up to you. And what about laughing boy in the showers?’

      McCoy finished tying his shoelaces. ‘Eastern’s problem now.’ He brushed himself down, trousers looked a mess but that was no great change. ‘Someone’ll have to tell Bobby, by the way.’

      ‘Bobby?’

      McCoy tapped his chest where Nairn’s tattoo had been. ‘His faithful other half.’

      Murray rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck sake.’

      ‘It’s the seventies, Murray. Legal now and everything. Should send a woman, not some old copper who’s going to sit there thinking he’s a nonce. Be more sympathetic. Get more out of him.’

      Murray started again on the Special Unit and fucking nonces and sympathy for the bloody victims. McCoy let it wash over him. Couldn’t help but think Murray was right. Had to be a reason Nairn had got him up here, had told him about Lorna Skirving. All he had to do was work out what it was.

      SIX

      The last time McCoy had been in Bedlay Street it was still a proper street, rows of tenements, a few shops, even a pub. He’d run Janey up, sat in the car while she went up to buy hash from some guy who’d been to Amsterdam. Was only a year or so ago, but now Bedlay Street was just a strip of cobbles running through mud. Same all over. The Springburn he remembered, the big locomotive works, rows of tenements crammed full of people, was long gone. The works had all been shut down, people moved out to the new schemes on the outskirts of town. Schemes that were already riddled with damp, if you believed the people sent there.

      Now Springburn was just motorways, half-demolished tenements with wallpapered rooms open to the sky and the odd pub left stranded in the middle of nowhere. Everything around it gone. Council may as well have firebombed the place, would have been quicker at least. He stood on the cobbles looking round, trying to get his bearings. Could see the big chimney at Pinkston, which meant he must be facing west, realised he must be standing across from where the baker’s had been.

      ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Wattie.

      He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just trying to work out where I am. I used to get sent to the baker’s up here. Saturday morning, get my dad’s rolls.’ He looked at the muddy patch of ground where Boland’s should have been. The Black Lion next door was gone too. Number of hours he’d had to spend waiting outside for his dad he could have happily knocked it down himself. He turned away.

      ‘What’s the pal’s name again?’

      Wattie fished his new polis notebook out his inside pocket. ‘Christine Nair,’ he said, snapping it shut and looking up at the windows. ‘Top floor.’

      ‘Where you from, then?’ McCoy asked as they walked into the close.

      ‘Greenock. Down near Scotts.’

      ‘Didnae fancy the shipbuilding, eh?’

      ‘Didnae fancy me. Most of them are shut down. My da’s been sitting at the kitchen table staring into space past couple of years.’

      The close was dark, bulb gone, graffiti everywhere. They trudged up, eventually got to the top landing. Stopped, caught their breath. Christine Nair’s door was surrounded by plastic bags full of rubbish, half of them burst, eggshells and soup cans spilling down the stairs.

      ‘What about you, then?’ Wattie asked. ‘Glasgow?’

      McCoy nodded. ‘Possil.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      He pointed behind him. ‘About five minutes down there. What’s left of it.’

      *

      Christine Nair answered the knock on the door in a shiny bomber jacket, big badge with ‘The Sweet’ pinned on it, yellow satin miniskirt, face all made up. Bored eyes stared out from under her feather cut. Didn’t look very happy to see them.

      ‘Off out?’ McCoy asked pleasantly.

      She looked the two of them up and down. ‘Aye, and I’m late. What’s it to you?’

      McCoy held out his police card. ‘We need to talk to you, hen, about Lorna.’

      She sighed, held the door open and they walked in. The Marc Bolan posters and the tie-dyed bedspread weren’t doing much to cheer up a single-end on its uppers. There were piles of dirty clothes on the floor, an overflowing bin in the corner, tap dripping on a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. The room smelt of joss sticks just like the shebeen. Wasn’t enough to cover the smell of damp, though. Big dark patch of it in the corner of the ceiling. She switched the radio off, the overhead light on and sat down on the bed. Didn’t take her jacket off.

      ‘What’s she done, then?’ she asked.

      ‘She’s no done anything, hen,’ said McCoy. ‘She’s been killed.’

      ‘She’s

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