TEN

McCoy walked back into the office, swallowing two aspirin with a gulp from a bottle of Irn-Bru. He stopped a second, put it and the Marks bag down on his desk, and burped loudly. Felt better. Rolled the six notes from the desk sergeant telling him to call Mary at the Record into a ball and threw it twenty feet towards the bin beside Wattie’s desk, raised his hands in triumph as it went straight in.

‘No bother!’ he said. ‘You see that?’

Wattie looked up from his paperwork. ‘Marvellous.’

McCoy took off his jacket, started to pull his tie loose. ‘Christ, what’s up with you?’ he asked and immediately wished he hadn’t as Wattie started his rant.

‘I’ll tell you what’s up with me. Every fucking thing that nobody wants gets dumped on my desk. Look!’

He stood up, spread his arms wide. McCoy had to admit he had a point. His desk was covered in all sorts of shite.

He went on. ‘Files that nobody’s put back, phone messages for every cunt in here, the tea kitty tin, Thomson’s fucking requisition forms! I’m supposed to be a junior detective, supposed to be learning things, not the bloody office junior!’

McCoy pulled his shirt from his trousers, started unbuttoning it. ‘Finished?’

Wattie sat back down, looking glum. ‘And while you’ve been out bloody shopping I’ve spent the last two hours phoning every bloody B&B and boarding house in Glasgow.’

McCoy pretended to step on something, bent down to pick it up, held out his hand to Wattie. ‘Your dummy. Think you must have spat it out.’

Despite himself, Wattie laughed. ‘Arse.’

‘Detective Arse to you, Watson.’ He got his shirt off, started to unwrap the new one. Wolf-whistle from across the room. Thomson grinning at him.

‘Thomson! You’ve finally realised you’re working with a sex bomb?’

‘Seen more muscles on a bloody worm,’ said Thomson.

McCoy was trying to get the tin of Elastoplast open. Eventually managed to prise a nail under the lid and pop it up. He got a couple out, started the equally difficult process of getting them out their wee wrappers. Noticed a large brown paper bag on Wattie’s desk. ‘What’s that?’

‘More shite. Why are you in such a good mood anyway?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said, sticking a big plaster on one of the cuts on his chest. ‘But it doesn’t happen often so you better make the most of it.’

He really wasn’t sure why he was in such a good mood. Adrenaline from the confrontation with Scobie probably. Plus Murray had taken him aside after, told him he had done a good job diffusing the situation, the right thing. Golden boy, right enough.

‘Okay, gonnae take this then?’ Wattie held out the brown paper bag. ‘Remember that guy that hanged himself in the church—’

‘Chapel,’ said McCoy. ‘What about him?’

‘This is his personal effects. What am I supposed to do with the bloody things?’

‘Here,’ said McCoy, sticking the other plaster over the cut above his left nipple. ‘Give us them.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ve got the autopsy report. I’ll put it with them and dump it all on Thomson’s desk when he goes out.’

Wattie handed the bag over, went back to trying to clear his desk. ‘Thomson!’ he shouted. ‘How about moving your shite off my desk?’

Thomson held his hands up. ‘I didn’t bloody put anything on your desk.’

McCoy left them arguing, sat back down, looked at his old shirt, decided it was beyond saving and put it in the bin, buttoned up his new one. The bag Wattie had given him was pretty light for a man’s final possessions. He opened it. Folded suit and shirt smelling of sweat and fags. Least his underwear and socks weren’t in there. His wallet was sitting on the top. McCoy got it out. Opened it.

A pawn ticket for a watch, a wee prayer card. St Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Hadn’t done much for this poor bugger. He turned it over. The back of it was covered in Bible verse references written in neat ballpoint pen. Usual ones: Corinthians 13.4, John 3.16, Matthew 11.28. He’d had the Bible rammed down his throat for so many years at the schools and the homes that he knew most of them by heart.

Pulled out a cracked photograph of a woman standing in front of a garden fence, baby in her arms. Him and his mum by the look of the clothes, looked like it was taken in the ’40s. A wee card with times and places of AA meetings on it. Least the poor bugger had tried, he supposed. Bit of folded newspaper. McCoy unfolded it, wondered why he’d kept an article about planting bulbs early for spring, realised he was looking at the wrong side and turned it over. A function room in a hotel. Three businessmen and a policeman in a dress uniform.

POLICE CHIEF RETIREMENT DINNER

Immediately felt dizzy, sick. Looked up. Thomson reluctantly picking up folders from Wattie’s desk. Murray talking to some big guy in uniform about the Melrose score. He tried to breathe, to take slow breaths, stop the spinning in his head.

He looked back down at it, the picture. Looked closer. The policeman in the dress uniform had something written above his head, blue ballpoint pen capitals.

PSALMS 56.4

One he didn’t know. He shouted over to Thomson, ‘We still got those Bibles?’

Thomson dropped the files on his desk, nodded. ‘Pile of them still in the storeroom.’

McCoy hurried off, got one, came back and sat at his desk. They’d been bought for the Bible John case. Put away when the trail went cold. He flicked through, found Psalms, nineteenth book of the Bible between Job and Proverbs. Could still recite them after all these years. Found chapter 56. Found verse 4. Read it.

‘In God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.’

Sat back in his chair. Could hear Thomson yelling at Wattie, telling him it wasn’t his bloody stuff on his desk anyway, the radio in the background going through tomorrow’s weather. Himself breathing.

He read it again.

Told Wattie his chest was sore and he was taking an early one. Made sure no one was looking and put the wallet into his pocket, the autopsy report under his coat and walked out the door.

*

McCoy stood outside the chapel door for a while, smoking, trying not to turn around, go back to the shop and bury himself in Kevin Connolly and Elaine Scobie and Wattie and Thomson grumbling at each other. Didn’t really like being in the office but somehow the thought of it felt comforting now, somewhere safe. But eventually he did what he always knew he was going to do. Dropped his cigarette onto the red gravel, ground it out. Pulled the heavy chapel door open.

Been a long time since McCoy’d been in a chapel but the smell was still the same. Hit him as soon as he walked in. Floor polish, candles and a faint trace of incense. The chapels he remembered going to when he was a wee boy were dark and cold, designed to instil fear and obedience. At least this one looked a bit friendlier than that.

Interior wasn’t the usual dark stone; was white plaster and wood, roof shaped like an upturned ship, high windows letting in the last of the afternoon light. There were two big vases of flowers on either side of the altar, some sort of tapestry embroidery thing up on the wall, all bright colours and rainbows, ‘HEAR THE WORD OF THE LORD’ in big multicoloured letters.

Some things hadn’t changed. There was still a dirty big crucifix on the back wall. Jesus looking down on them all, plaster face wrought with agony and disappointment. He could remember being battered in front of a crucifix just like this one. Sister Helen was her name. Hitting him and hitting him with a leather belt, grabbing him by the hair, making him look up into the eternally disappointed face of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Telling him he was worthless, that his mother and father had abandoned him because he was wicked. Telling him he better change his attitude or this would happen every day. Telling him that he was less than a dog in the street. Funny thing, realised now that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen, twenty. Wondered how she’d manage to get so much hate into herself in such a short life.

He sat down on a pew, tried not to cross himself automatically. The priest was up at the altar arranging the chalice and all the rest of the stuff whose names he couldn’t remember. He was a young guy, tall, late twenties, black suit, ginger hair. He looked up, saw McCoy and smiled, went to walk back through to the chapel house.

‘Need a word,’ said McCoy, voice sounding very loud in the empty chapel.

The priest stopped, turned and walked back towards him. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, holding out his hand to shake. ‘Father Monaghan.’

McCoy held out his police identity card. ‘Need a word about Paul Brady,’ he said.

The priest dropped his hand, sat down in the pew in front of him. Looked like he knew this was coming.

‘Did you know him?’ asked McCoy.

‘Not as well as I should have.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Not enough to really help him.’

McCoy looked round. ‘This where he did it then?’

The priest nodded, pointed over McCoy’s head. ‘Attached a rope to a pew in the balcony and lowered himself over the edge. I found him when I opened up for six o’clock mass.’ He crossed himself. ‘Was too late to do anything, he was dead already.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Quiet. I tried to talk to him but he seemed very shy. I got the impression he was living rough; looked better on some days than others. I gave him our leaflet about soup kitchens and hostels and told him to come and have a chat any time he wanted.’ He smiled again. ‘Wasn’t enough really, was it?’

‘How often did he come in?’

‘Couple of times a week maybe, always early mass, sat near the back. Last time was a couple of weeks ago, when we had that really cold spell. He seemed in a bit of a state, half frozen, came in the chapel just to warm up, I think. It was quiet so I made him a cup of tea, sat with him for a while.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I tried to get him to go to the Simon Community down at Clydeside. I knew they had a few spaces, told them I would call them, make sure they were expecting him. He said he would go, but to be honest he wasn’t making an awful lot of sense. Not sure it really went in.’

He thought for a minute.

‘I don’t think he was drunk, maybe just confused, a bit mixed up about times, where he was. He said something about not being allowed to go to his mother’s funeral, how someone at the Great Eastern had stolen some money from him and did I know where it was. I let him talk on, seemed like he just wanted someone to listen to him. He said he’d seen one of his uncles—’

McCoy sat forward. ‘What?’

‘Said he’d seen an uncle. He was so mixed up I wasn’t sure if it was recently or a long time ago. I can’t remember what he said his name was—’

‘Kenny?’ said McCoy.

The priest looked surprised. ‘How do you know that? Yes, it was. Did you know him?’

McCoy shook his head. ‘What did he say about Uncle Kenny?’

‘As I said, he wasn’t making an awful lot of sense. He just said he’d seen him. I said to him that maybe his uncle could help him out, take him in for a bit, maybe?’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘He laughed. And then he started crying.’

The big front doors behind them opened; a blast of cold air and two boys came rolling in. They were laughing, pushing and shoving each other. Immediately stopped when they saw the priest. Knelt and crossed themselves.

‘Go and get ready, boys. I’ll be through in a minute,’ said the priest.

They nodded and hurried off behind the altar.

‘Wasn’t so long ago I was an altar boy myself.’ He smiled. ‘Some of the older members of our congregation still treat me like I am.’

‘Did he ever come into confession?’ asked McCoy.

‘Once. He only came in once.’

‘When?’

The priest didn’t reply.

‘When?’ repeated McCoy.

The priest looked up, eyes red. ‘The night before. The night before he did it.’

‘And what did he talk about?’

The priest shook his head. ‘You know I can’t say anything about that.’ He looked behind him at the altar. ‘I’m sorry, I should get ready.’

He went to stand up and McCoy grabbed his arm.

‘He hung himself in your fucking chapel. Tell me!’

The priest tried to pull his arm away but McCoy held tighter. He needed to know. ‘Doesn’t make any difference now. The poor bastard’s dead. So you tell me what he said to you.’

The priest squirmed, tried to get away.

‘Fucking tell me!’

McCoy didn’t realise he was shouting until he heard his voice echoing around the chapel.

The priest looked at him, open-mouthed. ‘You know what Brady said, don’t you? I can tell by your face.’

McCoy dropped his arm and started to back away.

‘Hold on!’ said the priest. ‘Please! We should talk. Maybe I can help—’

McCoy got up, started walking towards the door, walking quickly, needing to get out as soon as he could. He could hear the priest calling to him, asking him to come back, voice echoing in the empty chapel. He ignored it, kept walking. Priest called him again, was saying something about the need to unburden, about the strength of prayer.

McCoy pushed the heavy doors open and stepped out into the cold clean air. The door banged shut behind him. No more priest, just the noise of the evening traffic on the Garscube Road. Sounded good. He leant against the wall of the chapel. Realised he was crying.

*

McCoy walked down Renfield Street trying to work out what he was doing. Who was he kidding? He knew fine well what he was doing. He was lighting the fire. He’d been doing that since he walked into the chapel and now he was about to pour petrol on it. No going back after this. The streets were empty, a cold Monday night in February. He passed Forsyth’s windows, full of suits he couldn’t afford to buy, and stopped outside the entrance to the restaurant.

This was it, last chance to stop the train. Knew if he went in, there was no going back. He thought of Brady hanging in the chapel, of all the other boys who might have done the same thing, and the ones like him and Stevie who had managed to keep going. He owed them. He dropped his cigarette on the pavement, stood on it and opened the door of the Jade Sea.

He walked up the stairs, wondering why Chinese restaurants were always on the first floor, pushed the door open and went in. The restaurant was decorated like some kind of oriental garden: wee pagoda roofs over the booths, plants and fish tanks, a brightly painted wooden dragon hanging from the ceiling. Effect somewhat lessened by the brown swirly-pattered carpet on the floor.

A smiling waiter in a dickie bow approached, menu in hand. McCoy pointed over at a booth in the corner. Cooper and his second-in-command Billy Weir deep in conversation with some guy with black slicked-back hair and a long leather coat on. He went to walk over and Jumbo appeared out of nowhere, stood in front of him.

‘Sorry, Mr McCoy. Private conversation.’

He looked over and Cooper held up five fingers. Mouthed ‘five minutes’.

McCoy sat down at a table, Jumbo sat down beside him, tried to slide a copy of a wee Battle comic under the table before McCoy could see it. Too late.

‘Gott im Himmel!’ said McCoy nodding at it. ‘Name of a dog!’

Jumbo looked a bit puzzled. ‘I’ve got this because Mr Cooper says I have to practise my reading.’

‘Fair enough. Not a bad idea.’

McCoy lit up, dropped his match in the ashtray. Jumbo watched him, face blank as usual, huge hand holding the comic. Couldn’t have been older than seventeen, eighteen. More like a giant kid than anything else. But the muscles under his jumper and the sheer fucking size of him meant he was sitting here keeping guard over Cooper.

‘So what’s it like then, working for Stevie?’ asked McCoy.

Jumbo smiled, face lit up. ‘I like it. Mr Cooper’s a good man to work for.’

‘That right?’ asked McCoy. ‘How’s the hand?’

Jumbo looked flustered. Held it out. One finger half gone, one mangled.

‘I had to do it, you know,’ said McCoy. ‘If I didn’t things would be worse. I didn’t want to.’

Jumbo nodded. ‘I know. If you hadn’t come he would have killed me.’

It wasn’t a phrase or an exaggeration, just a simple truth. Cooper would have killed him just like he’d killed his mate. And all for stealing a tally book.

McCoy shook his head. ‘You sure you’re okay with all this, Jumbo?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve got a job, somewhere to stay. I’m lucky.’

McCoy nodded. Maybe he was. What else was a guy like Jumbo going to do with his life? He’d never get a proper job, maybe day labourer if he was lucky. He nodded at the comic.

‘Okay, let’s hear you,’ he said.

Jumbo opened it up. Started. ‘“Darn signal came through stren, stren-G?”’

He looked up.

‘Strength,’ said McCoy. ‘You say strength. The G is silent.’

Jumbo looked at him in puzzlement.

‘I know,’ said McCoy. ‘Don’t ask me, just the way it is.’

Jumbo carried on. ‘“Strength three, but I got the gist—”’

‘Not gist, jist. You pronounce the—’

‘FUCK!’

They both turned, looked over to the other side of the restaurant. Cooper had a knife in his hand, well, the handle, to be precise. The blade was deep in the guy with the leather coat’s hand, pinning it to the table. He was sobbing, nodding, agreeing with whatever Cooper was hissing into his ear, face twisted in pain.

From what he could see through the foliage Billy was trying to reason with Cooper, get him to calm down. He didn’t seem to be having much luck. Opposite effect in fact. Cooper told him to fuck off and drove the knife further into the guy’s hand. Another scream.

‘Christ,’ said McCoy wincing. ‘What’s going on over there?’

Jumbo looked over, shrugged. Kept going with his reading.

‘“It’s urgent. You better get over to the old man.”’

McCoy sat back in his chair. Wondered why he was still friends with Cooper. Wondered why he didn’t just do what Murray kept telling him. Keep away. Jumbo was still reading. Paying no attention to what was happening across the other side of the room. Must be inured by now.

Cooper pulled the knife out and the man slumped against Billy. Billy wrapped his hand in a linen napkin, pulled him out the booth and dragged him towards the door.

‘Okay, Harry? Give us a minute,’ he said cheerily as he huckled the terrified man past them.

Jumbo kept droning on. ‘“Okay, mate. I will send a message to the front—”’

‘How’s it going?’ Billy Weir was back, standing there with his hand out. They shook. McCoy liked Billy. Far as he was concerned he was the only one of Cooper’s boys who had any sense. Billy grinned. He was young too, early twenties if that, black hair cut short, little splatter of blood on the cuff of his shirt.

‘Had to get rid of that tosser before he started annoying the boss any more. Stupid arse wouldnae be telt. More fool him.’

He bowed theatrically. ‘His Majesty will see you now.’ Tapped Jumbo on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, pal, let’s go for a walk, buy some fags. Mr Cooper wants some peace.’

They left and McCoy wandered over to the booth, waited as the waiter wrapped up the bloody tablecloth, dropped it in a bucket and laid out a fresh one.

‘You again?’ said Cooper mildly. ‘Want some dinner?’

McCoy nodded. Cooper told the waiter to start the food coming. He never ordered anything, just left them to decide what was good that day.

‘What was all that about?’ asked McCoy.

‘My business,’ said Cooper, wiping the bloody blade of the knife on another napkin and putting it in his jeans pocket.

McCoy put the autopsy file down on the table, wallet on top of it.

Cooper pulled them over to his side, opened the file, skimmed it. ‘Some bloke’s hung himself.’ He grinned. ‘Well, at least they cannae pin that one on me.’

McCoy tapped the name. Cooper read it again.

‘Paul Joseph Brady. So? Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘Joey. He’s Joey,’ said McCoy.

Cooper looked up at him. ‘What? Wee Joey? Naw.’ He looked at the photo stapled to the front again. ‘You sure?’

McCoy nodded.

‘Poor bugger,’ said Cooper. ‘Never did have much going for him.’

McCoy opened the wallet, took out the clipping from the paper, flattened it out. Cooper looked at it, raised his eyebrows.

‘He had this on him when he hung himself. He must have recognised him too.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Cooper, pointing at the writing above the policeman’s head.

‘Biblical quote. “In God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.”’

A waiter appeared, started laying plates on the table. Cooper sat back, let him fuss, arranging the food, side plates and bowls, cutlery. Kept his eyes on McCoy. Eventually the table was to the waiter’s satisfaction. He bowed and walked off.

‘Uncle Kenny,’ said Cooper.

‘Uncle Kenny,’ said McCoy. ‘Give me a day or so, I’ll have a look in the files. Find out where he lives.’

‘And then we beat the living fuck out him,’ said Cooper.

McCoy nodded. ‘And then we beat the living fuck out of him.’

Cooper grinned. ‘Why don’t you just do what I say when I say it, McCoy? Save time.’

‘Because I’m an arsehole. That right?’

‘Indeed it is.’ Cooper picked up a spare rib, started gnawing at it. ‘Got some good news today. Billy phoned from Hong Kong. Supply line back up and running.’

‘So the great plan’s taking shape?’

Cooper nodded. ‘Things are going to change, Harry, change big-time. What you doing the night?’

‘Nothing planned,’ said McCoy.

‘Good,’ said Cooper, dropping the rib bone back onto his plate. ‘We’ve no been out for ages. You can come fishing with me.’

*

To be honest, he didn’t have much else to do, couldn’t think of a real reason to say no, so here he was, sitting beside Jumbo in the back of a Zephyr listening to Cooper and Billy Weir discuss how many more boys they were going to need. Verdict seemed to be five or six. That decided, Billy turned the radio up, started to sing along to ‘My Sweet Lord’. Badly.

Luckily he didn’t have to endure it for too long; they weren’t going far, just along Argyle Street to the Gallowgate. The Land Bar to be exact, although being that exact about the Land Bar wasn’t easy; it seemed to change its name every five minutes. Last time McCoy had been in it, it was called the Civic. Something else before that. Reid’s maybe?

Cooper leaned over the back of the seat, handed McCoy a half-bottle of vodka. McCoy took it, took a swig. Held it out to Jumbo who shook his head.

‘What exactly is it we’re doing again?’ McCoy asked.

‘Finding new blood,’ said Cooper. ‘Way things are going we’re going to need it. Some guy that leads off one of the shitey wee gangs over this way’s supposed to be no bad. He’s got a couple of mates too. Comes recommended.’

McCoy took another drink of the vodka, grimaced, wondered what kind of person found up-and-coming gang members to recommend. They pulled up at the lights at the High Street. Watched a woman pushing a pram and dragging two weans struggle across the road. Rain was still pouring down, wet streets reflecting the car headlights. Jumbo humming to himself, drawing smiley faces on the condensation on his window.

‘These guys know we’re coming?’ asked McCoy as they set off again.

Billy looked at him in the mirror, grinned. ‘Not exactly.’

The Land was just like every other shitey pub in Glasgow. Worn-out lino, few tables and chairs, two dirty wee windows and a couple of striplights in the ceiling illuminating the faded wallpaper and the line of no-hopers lined up at the bar. They shuffled in, found a table while Jumbo went up to the bar.

The back area was filled with young guys, obviously their patch. Long hair, denims, the occasional leather coat. All of them smoking, all of them staring at Billy and Cooper. All trying to work out what the fuck Stevie Cooper was doing in their bar, all of them desperately trying to look like they didn’t care.

‘So that’ll be the gang then?’ said McCoy as Jumbo put the drinks down on the table.

‘Look like a bunch of cunts,’ said Cooper mildly.

‘Am I going to get my head kicked in here?’ asked McCoy. ‘Because if I am, can we get it over with and go somewhere else for a drink? This place is bloody miserable.’

‘No, you’re no, so shut it,’ said Cooper. ‘You can just sit there and watch.’

‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘What a night out. Glad there was nothing on the telly.’

Billy stood up, drained his pint. ‘May as well get this show on the road.’

Cooper nodded.

Billy walked over to the bunch of lads. There was a shuffling, a changing of positions, couple of hands went into pockets, gripped chibs. Defiant stares from the braver ones.

‘Which one of youse is Tony Reid?’ he asked.

A tall red-haired guy stepped out the pack. Denims, white granddad shirt, Fair Isle tank top. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked.

‘Me, ya prick. C’mon,’ said Billy. ‘Someone wants a word.’

He turned to walk back towards Cooper but Reid didn’t move, just stood there.

‘Christ,’ said Billy. ‘Gonnae be like that, is it?’

‘Looks like it,’ said Reid.

Billy muttered something under his breath about not having enough time for this, stepped forward and headbutted Reid in the face. He dropped, Billy grabbed his hair before he hit the ground and started dragging him along the floor towards Cooper.

The group of lads stepped back, started looking anywhere but at Billy dragging Reid across the filthy floor.

Billy hauled him up, sat him on a chair opposite Cooper. Reid looked dazed, blood streaming from his nose. All bravado gone.

‘You know who I am?’ asked Cooper.

Reid nodded.

‘Someone recommended you. Said you could handle yourself. That right?’

Reid nodded again.

‘Well, in that case this is your lucky day. Need you and two others. You work for me, deal with Billy.’

Reid looked at Billy doubtfully. Billy smiled at him, winked.

‘All good?’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, Mr Cooper.’

‘That’s the boy. Billy’ll fill you in, me and my business associate are going along the road for a drink.’

Cooper stood up, looked at McCoy.

‘Oh me?’ said McCoy, surprised. ‘Sorry, didn’t know who you meant. Great.’

Cooper shook his head.

They walked back along Gallowgate into town, Jumbo following a few steps behind. Rain was getting worse so McCoy pointed up ahead to the Tolbooth. Couldn’t face walking any further, he was soaked already. Besides he liked it, the Tolbooth, well-run pub, good beer. Cooper didn’t seem quite so sure. Grumbled about there never being any women in it, just bloody old men. But it was warm and it was near. McCoy won out.

They settled down near the fire, started to dry out. Jumbo happy with his Coca-Cola and some coppers for the one-armed bandit. They were a good few pints in, been through where Cooper was going to find another couple of lads, why Billy was a good number two, how shite the Scotland team were, before Cooper started talking about what they were really there for.

‘Wasn’t only that cunt Uncle Kenny I was thinking about when I was in that bloody hospital,’ he said. ‘Started thinking about the future.’

‘Sounds serious,’ said McCoy.

‘It is. What am I? Thirty-two? Getting too old for the shite I’ve been doing. No more street fights, no more fucking tally books.’

‘You like fighting, though,’ said McCoy.

Cooper nodded. ‘Doesn’t like me so much any more.’ He glanced at McCoy. ‘Tell anyone this and I’ll fucking bust you, okay?’

McCoy saluted.

‘Seems my back’s a bit fucked. Major muscle damage. That cunt with the sword really did a fucking number on me.’

The news wasn’t a surprise to McCoy, he’d seen the way Cooper moved now. The surprise was he was admitting it.

‘It’s no that bad, is it?’

Cooper shrugged. ‘Might be. I’ve to go back in a couple of months, see some specialist. Anyway, whatever the fuck happens with it, it’s time for me to move up, been fucking about for too long. Things are changing, starting to fall into place: me, you, Billy Weir, Billy Chan’s on board.’

‘Me?’ asked McCoy.

‘Aye, you.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Keep your head down, get promoted.’ Cooper grinned. ‘I might need a friend in high places one day.’

McCoy ignored that one; no matter how friendly him and Cooper were there was no way he was becoming his pet bloody policeman.

‘So, the new boys? The plans for world domination? When’s it all kick off then?’

‘Soon enough,’ said Cooper. ‘Just need another couple of pieces to fall into place and we’re off to the races.’ He stood up. ‘Meanwhile, let’s get pissed.’

A couple of drinks later they were getting there. Billy Weir had come and gone, came to tell Cooper he had picked up another few decent lads at the Land to join the cause. He’d also dropped off a couple of grams of speed – passed them under the table.

McCoy came out the toilets wiping his nose. Knew starting doing speed at eight o’clock on a Monday night was a bad idea but couldn’t stop himself, especially after a few pints. He sat down by Cooper, felt the familiar chemical taste dripping down the back of his throat and took a big slug from his pint.

Cooper was surveying the bar, eyes wide. Didn’t look happy. ‘Told you this place was full of old bloody men.’

He had a point. The two of them and Jumbo seemed to be the only punters under sixty.

‘Where’d you fancy going?’ asked McCoy.

Cooper turned to him, grinned. ‘Funny you should ask.’

*

Half an hour later they were sitting in the Gay Gordon’s in Royal Exchange Square, drinks in front of them. They had a bit of trouble getting in. Doorman took one look at Jumbo and told them it was regulars only. Cooper had smiled, told him to go and get Chan before he punched his fucking face in.

Seemed to work. Chan the manager appeared at the door all smiles and handshakes and drinks tickets and guided them in. Was like walking into some giant shortbread tin. The carpet was tartan, the walls were tartan, pictures of stags and Highland warriors on the walls. He walked them through the back to a booth in the cocktail bar, sent a waitress wearing a mini kilt over to take their order.

Wasn’t the first place McCoy would have wanted to go but Cooper seemed happy, smiling at the waitresses, making wisecracks, knocking back the drinks.

‘Any particular reason we’re here?’ asked McCoy.

‘You’ll see,’ said Cooper. ‘Just hold your fucking horses.’

Speed was making McCoy want to talk, that and the drink giving him enough confidence to ask the question.

‘Remember in Memel Street?’

‘What?’ Cooper turned distractedly, had been eyeing up two girls sitting at another booth.

‘You said Murray was dirty, on the take.’

Cooper was looking at him, listening properly now.

‘Is he?’ McCoy asked.

The waitress appeared with another tray of pints and whiskies. Coke for Jumbo. Placed them down on the table carefully. Winked at Cooper and wandered back to the bar.

‘No. I made it up because you were annoying me. Happy now?’

‘Did you really?’

‘Fuck sake, McCoy, I just told you, didn’t I!’

He was about to ask him again when the lights dimmed and the James Bond theme started thundering over the speakers.

Cooper leant over, shouted in his ear. ‘This is why we’re here.’

A voice boomed over the music. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Bryan Marley Dancers!’

Six girls emerged from the dry ice flooding the stage, stepped into the spotlight. All wearing bikinis, all carrying revolvers. Music switched to Shirley Bassey belting out ‘Goldfinger’ and they starting dancing, pointing the guns at the audience as they moved round the stage.

McCoy sat back in the booth, sipped his whisky, watched as the girls started winding themselves round the columns holding the ceiling up, legs up, stilettos pointing. Wasn’t sure if Cooper was lying now or then.

Had the feeling that was exactly what he wanted.