TWENTY

Elaine Scobie had a flat in Princes Terrace. After some pressure from Murray, Lomax had reluctantly given them the address. As the crow flies it wasn’t that far from McCoy’s flat in Gardner Street but it was miles away in terms of cost and status. Princes Terrace was a prime piece of Hyndland after all. Quiet roads and huge red sandstone flats, well-maintained communal gardens and old money.

McCoy and Wattie were waiting outside number 5 when the patrol car with Murray in the back drew up. He got out, smoothed down his car coat and what was left of his hair, and walked over.

‘This better be worth my bloody while,’ he growled.

‘Nice to see you too, sir,’ said McCoy. He pointed up at the windows of Elaine’s flat. ‘Connolly’s drug dealer, the Wizard—’

‘The what? What kind of name is that? Jesus Christ.’ Murray shook his head. ‘Bloody drug dealers should be locked up, not giving you bloody—’

‘Told us Connolly told him he was “watching his lady”,’ said McCoy, trying to stop the rant before Murray got started. ‘The only places Elaine’s regularly at are her shop and here. Doubt he would want to hang about Union Street, too easy to notice staring in the window, so I think he’s watching her here in her flat. Told the Wiz – the dealer – she was acting all sexy for him.’

‘What?’ said Murray.

‘Think he probably means he could see her when she was getting changed for bed or something like that. Chances are he’s deluded enough to think she’s taking her clothes off just to give him a show.’

McCoy turned round, looked out over the big gardens in front of Elaine’s flat. ‘Unless he’s living up a tree he couldn’t see in the front windows. Has to be looking in the back, which means—’

Wattie held up an A to Z. ‘He must be watching the back of the flat from somewhere in Crown Gardens.’

McCoy nodded. ‘So all we need to do is check all the flats in Crown Gardens that overlook number 5 and hopefully we’ll find him.’

Murray looked up at the windows of Elaine’s flat. ‘Christ, let’s hope it’s that easy.’

They walked round the back of the flats into Crown Gardens and had a look around. Was quiet. Not many cars in the streets, just a man walking a wee Scottie dog and a fish van discreetly peeping his horn to let everyone know he had arrived.

‘I wouldn’t mind living round here,’ said Wattie.

‘Aye, and I wouldn’t mind a night with Sandie Shaw but that’s not gonnae happen either,’ said McCoy.

He pointed up at number 19. ‘Got to be the best bet. Directly behind Elaine’s flat, no trees in the way.’

Murray nodded. ‘Let’s try it.’

There were three bells, McCoy pushed the bottom one. SNEDDON. A woman’s voice answered. He told her it was the police and she buzzed them in.

She met them in the hall, her front door half open revealing a riot of plants and antimacassared furniture, small black cat mewing and wrapping itself round her legs. She was a tiny woman, wearing some sort of kimono thing, halo of wispy red hair and make-up that looked like she’d applied it with a trowel. She asked for each of their identity cards, examined them thoroughly. Identified Murray as the boss and addressed herself to him.

‘My name is Veronica Sneddon. How can I help?’ she asked, staring at Murray’s hat long enough for him to get the message.

He took it off. Smiled. ‘Just making some enquiries, Miss Sneddon,’ he said.

‘It’s Mrs,’ she said. ‘I’m a widow of thirty-one years. El Alamein.’

Murray nodded. ‘Sorry to hear that. We were wondering if you’ve noticed anything unusual lately, any comings and goings?’

‘Quite the opposite,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’ asked Murray.

‘There’s me in here, Mrs Campbell on the first floor and Mr Mitchell on the second. Mrs Campbell is in Australia, visiting her daughter I believe. As for Mr Mitchell, goodness knows.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked McCoy.

‘I’ve had to take in his milk and his papers, must have gone away on holiday and forgotten to cancel them. Very annoying and a complete waste if you ask me—’

Wattie was already talking into his radio, calling for backup.