THIRTY-ONE
‘You never saw Connolly after you left Barlinnie?’ asked Murray.
They were in the interview room. Too small, too hot, stink of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes. They’d sent a couple of uniforms to pick him up before he went out on his daily walk with his sign. Didn’t want to come in, didn’t see why he should. He may have been disbarred and a borderline nutcase but he was still a psychiatrist, a learned professional, not used to being treated with disrespect.
Abrahams shook his head, looked like he was enduring the most tiresome morning of his life. ‘I already told your colleague all this. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve been dragged in here this morning to go over it all again.’
‘Never prescribed him any medication?’ asked McCoy.
Abrahams sighed. ‘How could I? As you are so keen on reminding me, I’m no longer a practising doctor. Even you must realise that means I’m not able to prescribe anything any more.’
‘Come on, Abrahams,’ said McCoy, sitting forward. ‘I’m sure you’ve still got some prescription pads lying about, samples from drug companies, stuff you stockpiled when you knew you were going to get struck off.’
Abrahams gave a weak smile. ‘For a policeman you really do have a very vivid imagination.’ He sat back in his chair, looked round the interview room with a mixture of distaste and curiosity, looked at his watch. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Any idea where Connolly is now?’ asked McCoy.
‘No.’
‘He’s kidnapped a young woman.’
Abrahams looked alert all of a sudden, practised boredom gone. ‘Ah well, that is unfortunate, very unfortunate.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Murray. ‘Of course it’s bloody unfortunate!’
Abrahams took his wee round glasses off, started to polish them with his jumper, suddenly looked older, vulnerable. ‘It’s not good because it probably means that he’s entering his final stage.’
He put his glasses back on. Looked at the two of them. ‘Even psychopaths have a sense of self-preservation. They want to keep doing what they’re doing. If he has taken this girl the chances are he’s not much concerned with his fate any more, or indeed the fate of the girl.’
‘You mean he’s going to kill her?’ asked McCoy.
‘When was she taken?’ asked Abrahams.
McCoy looked at Murray.
He shrugged, didn’t seem any point in keeping it secret. ‘Yesterday afternoon.’
Abrahams sighed. ‘In that case I imagine he already has.’
*
They let him go. Didn’t have any reason to hold him, or to think he wasn’t telling the truth. McCoy knew they were clutching at straws, didn’t know what else to do. Murray was going to Pitt Street to give them a progress report, didn’t look very happy about it. He wasn’t surprised. What was he supposed to tell them? No progress whatsoever since the last time he spoke to them and by the way, Elaine Scobie is missing?
He walked back into the office, sat back down at his desk, felt useless. Even with all the extra staff, the phonelines, the door-to-door, the alerts on the TV and the radio, he had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen next. Soon, probably tomorrow, someone would call 999, say they’d found a body. They would rush there, sirens going, lights flashing, and they would find out what they already knew, that the body was Elaine.
Elaine, as dead as she would have been if they’d spent the time since her disappearance sitting on their arses playing dominos. Whatever they were doing to try and find Connolly, it wasn’t working. Maybe Murray would get pulled after all. Maybe that’s what they really wanted him at Pitt Street for. He hated to say it, but maybe that’s what the case needed. Someone new to look at things, to make new connections.
He looked up and Wattie was standing in front of him.
‘What are you doing staring into space like some loony?’ he asked.
‘Thinking,’ said McCoy.
‘Aye right. Catching flies, my mum used to call it. Any luck with the Abrahams interview? Stupid old bastard left a pile of his pamphlets on the duty desk.’
McCoy shook his head. ‘Waste of time. Which is what I’m doing sitting here.’ He stood up. ‘Get a pool car, eh? If I sit here any longer doing nothing I’m going to go mental.’
‘A car? Why? Where are we going?’
‘Springburn. Time for you to meet the big boys.’
Wattie shook his head, walked off to get the car.
*
He wasn’t at Memel Street, was only the young lassie there. She told them he’d gone somewhere with Billy but she didn’t know where. Offered them a cup of tea, line of speed. McCoy was tempted but the disapproving look on Wattie’s face was enough to put him off. They walked back out the close, headed for the car.
‘Where now?’ asked Wattie.
‘Let’s try Billy Chan’s.’
Wattie stopped. ‘The China Sea? You’re kidding? All the way back into town?’
‘You got something better to do, Sergeant Watson?’
‘No.’
‘Well, shut the fuck up then.’
They walked on. The scrubby lawns and broken-down fences in front of the tenements were covered in a thin layer of snow. McCoy stepped over a bent pram wheel.
‘You think the fact she’s a girl’ll make any difference? He’s killed three guys, tortured them, even cut bloody words into them. You think he would do that to a woman?’
‘Not sure,’ said McCoy.
Wattie got the car key out his pocket. ‘Maybe she is alive. Maybe he just wanted to talk to her, try and convince her that he’s the man for her. Might not hurt her at all.’
McCoy blew into his hands. ‘That, Wattie, is not the most stupid thing you’ve ever said. And if it’s true, at least it gives us more time to find her before he changes his mind and decides to carve her up. Either way we need to find the bugger, and while we’re clutching at straws we may as well clutch at them all, hence the search for Stevie Cooper.’
‘Was he going out with her? That the sketch?’ asked Wattie, unlocking the Viva.
‘Not quite sure. Might have been more of a business arrangement. Now hurry up and open the bloody door. I’m freezing!’
Wattie did, and they got into the car. Wasn’t much warmer than standing on the pavement.
‘Either way, Cooper’s been talking to her. She might have said something to him about Connolly, something that helps.’
‘You’ve not told Murray, have you?’ said Wattie, starting the car.
‘Do I look stupid? The name Cooper is like lighting the bloody touch paper. He just rants, doesn’t get us anywhere. Let’s see if I can find anything out, then I’ll worry about Murray.’
They’d just driven out onto Hawthorn Street when McCoy spotted one of Cooper’s boys coming out the baker’s across the street, carrying a big cardboard box with steam coming off it. Recognised the Rod Stewart feather cut and the leather jacket. Couldn’t remember his name. He’d come to pick him up in Cooper’s Zephyr once. John? James?’
Told Wattie to pull over beside him. He rolled the window down. ‘Get in, they’ll get cold. John, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Jamie,’ he said, looking uncertain. ‘I’m fine, I can—’
‘I wasn’t actually asking, son. Now, get in the bloody car.’
Jamie reluctantly got in the back, put the cardboard box down beside him. Smell filled the car.
McCoy leant over the seat. ‘Scotch pies?’
Jamie nodded.
‘So,’ asked McCoy cheerily, ‘where we off to?’
The Viking was on the corner of Maryhill Road and Ruchill Street. About ten minutes away via Bilsland Drive. McCoy had the occasional look at Jamie in the rear-view mirror as they drove there.
He looked worried, chewing on his bottom lip. No doubt trying to work out how Cooper would react to him telling the polis where he was. Not well, probably.
‘Any of these pies going spare?’ asked Wattie. ‘I’m starving.’
Jamie rustled about in the box, handed one over.
Wattie bit into it, swore as hot fat poured out the bottom of it and splashed onto his shirt and tie. ‘For fuck sake!’
Jamie handed over one of the papers they were wrapped in and Wattie proceeded to scrub away at his front, spreading the stain everywhere.
‘Many’s in there?’ asked McCoy, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.
‘Twenty,’ said Jamie unhappily. ‘Well, nineteen now.’
‘Cooper must be awful hungry, eh?’
Jamie didn’t say anything. Just looked out the window, chewed his lip.