FORTY

McCoy sat down at his desk. Looked at the clock. Half past seven. Chest hurt like fuck. Kept thinking about being on that table, not able to move, Connolly with the scalpel. No wonder he felt like a drink. Usually, after a case like this, with someone like Connolly in custody, there would be a big piss-up. Murray putting thirty quid behind the bar at the Eskimo, everyone ending up merry with the drink and flushed with the success of getting the bastard.

Not this time. Nobody really had the heart for it. Least of all him. Connolly was downstairs in the cells but it wasn’t really him that was there. Was like he’d escaped his body somehow, had the last laugh. Pulled a fast one on them. No trial, no prison sentence, just a lifetime spent staring at a wall in somewhere like Woodilee, vacant smile on his face.

Elaine Scobie was gone. Whisked away by some auntie, was at her house in Lenzie, it seemed. Auntie wasn’t stupid. Elaine was a very wealthy young woman, her father’s death had seen to that. Whoever was in charge of her welfare would get their hands on it soon enough.

Wattie appeared beside him. ‘You okay?’

McCoy nodded. Wasn’t. Was still thinking about bloody Crammond.

‘Heard Murray had a right go at you.’

‘I deserved it.’

‘How’s the stitches?’

‘Sore. I’ll live.’

‘The forensic boys are dismantling his wee torture chamber now, seeing if they can find any trace of him doing it to anybody else.’

‘Don’t think he did,’ said McCoy. ‘Wee bastard was so proud of himself he’d have told us.’

‘Probably right.’ Wattie pulled the chair from his desk over, sat opposite McCoy. Looked round to make sure no one was listening. ‘It’s started,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The Viking. Stevie Cooper. Heard it on the radio. Waller and Tommy Simons are in an ambulance on the way to the Royal. Waller’s not expected to make it.’

‘Christ,’ said McCoy.

With all that had happened today he’d forgotten about Cooper’s plans.

‘That’s not all. The Silver Bells is on fire, so’re two houses in Bishopbriggs and there’s about twenty troops in A&E waiting to get stitched up.’ He sat back. ‘Looks like your pal’s the new boss of the Northside.’

‘Does Murray know?’

‘Will do in about ten minutes. Thomson’s just checking everything before he goes in to tell him. Wouldn’t want to be Thomson for all the bloody tea in China. He’ll go fucking mental.’

McCoy stood up.

‘Where you off to?’ asked Wattie, looking surprised.

‘Need to go and see Cooper. And need to get the fuck out of here before Thomson breaks the news.’

Wattie grinned. ‘You off to congratulate him?’

‘No. To give him the news. Let him know his girlfriend’s a fucking vegetable. You stay here. No matter what anybody says, you and I were never in the Viking, right?’

Wattie nodded.

‘I mean it, Wattie. Not a fucking word or both of us are fucking toast.’ Chances were he was toast already but he didn’t need Wattie knowing about that.

Wattie held his hands up. ‘Okay. Okay. Christ . . . calm down.’ He thought a minute. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’

McCoy shrugged. ‘Abrahams will be dead within the week. Can tell you that for a fact.’

‘Fuck.’

Thomson was getting up from his desk, couple of pages of foolscap in his hand, heading for Murray’s closed door. McCoy picked up his coat from the back of his chair and hurried towards the door as Thomson started knocking.