SEVENTEEN

If you were sick and needed cheering up, the hospital canteen wasn’t the place to go. Striplights in yellowing ceiling tiles, beige walls, old burgundy lino and various burnt offerings curling up under heat lamps. McCoy and Murray were sitting by the window, half-empty cups of tea in front of them, half-eaten pineapple cake in front of Murray.

Murray’d wanted to see Wattie so McCoy had stuck around until he turned up. Doctor’d told them he’d be out by the morning, no permanent damage done. Now the two of them were silent, glum, looking over at the far side of the room and the only other occupied table.

It was too far to hear anything but it wasn’t hard to work out what was happening. The doctor approached the table looking serious, told them something. Elaine Scobie burst into tears and Lomax put his arm around her.

‘Must have died,’ said McCoy.

‘Looks like it. Can’t say I’m too sorry to hear it,’ said Murray, sipping at his tea.

Elaine’s sobs were becoming louder, or if McCoy was being unkind, more theatrical. The woman behind the counter put down her cloth, crossed herself.

‘We should go over there,’ said Murray. ‘Offer our condolences.’

‘You should go over there,’ said McCoy. ‘I doubt she’ll be happy to see me. She asked me last night to put a tail on her dad. She was worried about him being hurt.’

‘Oh aye, and what did you say?’ asked Murray.

‘I told her where to go.’

‘Quite right.’

Lomax had produced a hanky from his coat pocket and Elaine was wiping her eyes with it.

Murray stood up, drained his mug. ‘Nothing ventured.’

McCoy sat back in his chair, watched the bulk of Murray weave between the Formica tables. He stood in front of Elaine and Lomax, started talking. Elaine looked at him with contempt and Lomax looked at him with something like pity. Elaine stood up, finger prodding Murray’s chest, face full of fury. McCoy was glad he couldn’t hear what she was saying; didn’t need to, he could guess well enough. Murray stood there stoic, took it all while Lomax tried to quieten her down. She was having none of it, still prodding, still shouting.

And then she saw McCoy. Her eyes narrowed and she started walking towards him. Lomax grabbed at her but she got past him.

He stood up as she approached. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about—’

Apology cut off by a slap across his face.

He stood there, face stinging.

‘You may as well have killed him yourself. I told you, I fucking told you, and all you did was laugh at me.’

‘I didn’t laugh at—’

Another slap. McCoy took the decision to just ride it out, no point arguing.

‘You told me I was stupid, that he wasn’t in any danger. Have you seen him? Have you seen what that animal did to him? Have you?’

He nodded.

‘And you still stand there telling me how sorry you are? You did this to him!’

She was spitting the words out now, tears and snot running from her nose. She drew her sleeve across it. ‘I hope you have somewhere else to go, McCoy, because you’re not going to be a detective much longer. Not after this, not after Lomax is done with you. Shame on you. Shame on you!’

And then she spat in his face.

He went to wipe it off and she did it again, eyes daring him to make her do it again. He stood there with her spit sliding down his cheek, watched her walk out the door, Lomax hurrying after her.

He sat down.

Murray appeared, handed him a serviette. ‘Charming,’ he said.

McCoy wiped at his face. ‘She’s kind of got a point.’

‘No, she bloody hasn’t,’ said Murray. ‘Jake Scobie reaped what he fucking sowed. I hope he died in agony. Things that animal has done to people he fucking deserved everything he got. And Madam has had her fun. I’m getting a bit tired of her routine now. We’ll get her in tomorrow. That girl knows much more than she’s letting on, and if Lomax says no we’ll arrest her as an accessory, make sure the press knows all about it.’

McCoy looked up at him. ‘You know something, Murray?’

Murray shook his head.

‘I’m glad we’re on the same fucking side.’