He knew something was up the minute he turned the corner into Stewart Street. There were four or five pandas outside the station, doors open, lights lazily spinning. He could see Larry Kerr from the Evening Times, Jamie Forsyth from The Citizen, a couple of other reporters he didn’t recognise. All of them, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, fags in mouths, grim expressions. Billy the desk sergeant was outside too, standing talking to them, hat held in his hand, bald head already red from the sun.
McCoy’s heart sank. Only one reason they’d all be there. Billy and the reporters nodded hello as he approached. Billy held out his packet of Regal and McCoy took one.
‘Where’d they find her?’ he asked.
‘They didn’t,’ said Billy. ‘Not yet anyway. But they arrested a guy a few hours ago.’ He nodded back at the station. ‘He’s in there now. Seems like the fucker all right. Raeburn’s got him in the interrogation room.’
‘Anyone we know?’ asked McCoy.
Billy shook his head. ‘Young guy, can’t be more than sixteen, seventeen. Lives in the same close apparently.’
‘Bloody nonce,’ said Forsyth. ‘Least he can do is hurry up and tell them where the body is.’
‘How’d they get him?’ asked McCoy, ignoring Forsyth as he always did.
‘Seems one of the neighbours was away at her sister’s for the weekend,’ said Billy. ‘Came back and read the paper.’
‘The Citizen?’ asked Forsyth hopefully.
Billy ignored him. ‘So she goes into the Woodside and tells Raeburn she’s seen the boy with Alice Kelly. Not for the first time either.’ He flicked his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Seems the dirty bugger’s got a record as well. Indecent exposure. Wouldn’t you know it.’
McCoy turned to go into the station and Forsyth called after him. ‘By the way, Harry, anything on Bobby March? Editor’s on my bloody back. Need an angle.’
McCoy shook his head. Whatever he thought about what had happened to Bobby March, the last person he’d tell would be Jamie bloody Forsyth. One step up from pond life, as far as he was concerned.
‘Any sexy groupies hanging about?’ He grinned. ‘Anyone I could talk to?’
‘Nope. Think his dad’s still around. Try him.’
Forsyth nodded and McCoy walked into the station, hoped Forsyth would traipse over to the Tradewinds and experience the joys of Wullie March. He pulled the double doors to the office open and walked in. The atmosphere was the same as it always was when a big case was breaking. Everyone standing around, leaning on desks, nobody doing any real work, eyes flicking to the corridor that led to the interrogation rooms every five seconds, waiting for a result. McCoy hung his jacket over his chair, went over to Thomson.
‘Got someone, I hear,’ he said.
Thomson nodded. ‘Raeburn’s in there with him now. Him and Wattie. Been at it for a few hours.’
‘Wattie?’ asked McCoy, surprised.
Thomson nodded. ‘Thick as thieves those two these days.’
McCoy nodded. Felt even more out in the cold than usual. Knew he should be in there, not out here waiting, knowing nothing. He sat at his desk, tried to pretend he was interested in rearranging his files but he was just like all the rest of them. Glancing over every five seconds. Waiting.
An hour passed. Nothing happening, just the office getting hotter and hotter. McCoy looked at his watch for about the twentieth time. Decided he couldn’t just sit here and wait. And yet that was exactly what he ended up doing, the same as everybody else.
He got up, yawned. ‘How long’s that now?’ he asked.
Thomson looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Going on four hours.’
‘Christ. Hope it’s worth it.’ He unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his tie. ‘It’s bad enough out here; must be a hundred bloody degrees in that interrogation room.’
Thomson nodded. ‘It’s a bloody sweathole at the best of times.’
A cup of tea later McCoy had had enough. He was dying of the heat and needed some air. He stood up, told Thomson he’d be back in an hour or so. Thomson nodded, didn’t pay much attention, knew that whatever McCoy was doing these days didn’t matter much.
He stepped out the station, wondering what the noise was. Soon found out. The reporters had been joined by thirty or so assorted lunatics. Some of them had signs – ‘BRING BACK HANGING’ – some of them just had a look of blind hate in their eyes. They were milling about behind a rope cordon. One of them, a woman the size of a house, even had a picture of Alice from the paper pinned onto her dress. She was holding up a framed picture of the Sacred Heart, reciting the rosary.
A man with shorts and a vest got up to the front of the crowd, shouted at McCoy as he passed. ‘Took you long enough!’
McCoy just ignored him.
‘You one of the useless articles that let her die?’ he shouted again.
The crowd started moving, pressing against the rope. He’d got them agitated.
McCoy left Billy trying to get them under control and started walking up the road. Was like a bloody lynch mob in a cowboy film. God knows what would happen if they got a hold of the boy in the interrogation room.
Half an hour and a pint in the Eskimo later, McCoy was back at his desk. Crowd outside the station had got even bigger, more nutters, more press. Had to fight his way through them to get in. He looked over at Thomson and he just shook his head. No news. He couldn’t believe it. They were still in the interrogation room.
‘How long is that now?’ he asked.
Thomson looked up at the electric clock on the wall. ‘Five hours and nine minutes.’
‘Fuck sake,’ said McCoy.
He got out Wattie’s robbery files, pretended to read them while he had a think. There was something about this whole Laura Murray thing that was beginning to bother him. Hadn’t really noticed it at the time, but both Murray and his brother hadn’t exactly seemed panic-stricken that Laura had run away, or even that surprised. Was more like they were expecting it somehow.
He got out his fags and realised he’d only a couple left. He lit up and just as he did the door to the corridor burst open and Raeburn was standing there. Everyone went silent, everyone turning to him in expectation. Raeburn’s sleeves were rolled up, hair and shirt wet with sweat, looked exhausted. He waited a couple of seconds, slowly looked round the room at the waiting faces then grinned, raised his hands above his head.
‘He’s coughed,’ he said. ‘Full fucking confession!’
The change was immediate. All the tension went out the room and suddenly there were shouts, whistles. Thomson started clapping, uniforms and plainclothes gathered round Raeburn, slapping him on the back, congratulating him. Jacobs got a bottle of whisky out from the drawer in his desk, started splashing it into paper cups.
McCoy took one, drank it over, needed it if he was going to do the right thing. He went up to Raeburn, held his hand out to shake.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
Raeburn shook it. Nodded. A temporary truce.
‘Got there in the end. Thank God that woman came back from her sister’s!’ he said, grinning.
‘You did a good job, Raeburn. Case closed in three days. That takes some doing.’
Raeburn smiled. ‘Just good police work, McCoy, that’s what it always comes down to.’
And that was about as much as McCoy could take. He said congratulations again, then turned back to his seat before he said something he would regret. Was hard to believe, but Raeburn’s false modesty was even worse than his usual blow-hard attitude. He sat at his desk, took another cup of whisky when Jacobs brought the tray around, tried to look like he was happy.
The problem was that Raeburn really had done well, no doubt about it. So well they might give him the job permanently, move Murray up the ladder to Pitt Street when he came back. McCoy could maybe manage another few months of Raeburn pissing on him from a great height but there was no way he could take it for much longer than that. He swallowed over the last of the whisky, crumpled the paper cup, threw it in the bin and went off to find Wattie.
Billy told him he’d seen him going round the back, so he took the long way round, couldn’t face pasting a smile on and walking through Raeburn’s celebrations again. He walked down by the garages and saw Wattie sitting on one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out into the sun.
‘Congratulations are in order, I believe. You and the bold Raeburn did well.’ He held out his hand to shake.
Wattie didn’t take it. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.
‘What’s up?’ asked McCoy. ‘Why the long face, as the farmer said to the horse. Shouldn’t you be celebrating? It’s no often that—’
‘Not here,’ Wattie said, standing up. ‘Come on.’
Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco
‘He’s coming down over from Berkeley, probably got stuck in traffic.’
Bobby nodded. Was probably true, but it wasn’t helping his paranoia. ‘You sure he’s going to turn up?’ he asked.
Cathy nodded. ‘Just got to be patient.’ Handed him a lit joint.
Bobby took a drag, hoped it would take the edge off. Wondered how long he’d spent in the past couple of months waiting for dealers to turn up. He walked over to the window. Could see the limo waiting outside, engine running. Could see Rusty the tour manager pacing up and down the street, hotel canopy obscuring him every now and then.
They were supposed to have left two hours ago. Headed to Monterey. Any minute now Rusty was going to get the lift upstairs, start knocking on the hotel room door telling him they had to go.
‘You got works?’ he asked Cathy.
She nodded absently, sat on the bed and flicked through a magazine, silent TV playing behind her. Helicopters and burning jungles.
‘Owsley’s going to be there. Sheri said he’s bringing Grade A liquid acid for the musicians.’
Bobby nodded, had a feeling his days of acid were long gone.
‘Bobby, he’ll be here. I promise.’
He nodded, looked back out the window. Swore. Rusty was nowhere to be seen. He took another drag of the joint, pinched the end, put it in the pocket of his jacket. Didn’t have to wait long, couple of minutes at most, then the knocking started.
Cathy looked up at him. ‘Told you he’d be here,’ she said, ran to the door.
Rusty was standing there. He took one look at Cathy in her underwear, Bobby’s half-packed case on the floor, shook his head. ‘For fuck sake, man, we should be on the road by now!’
Bobby mumbled, ‘Sorry.’ Started stuffing shirts into his case.
As Rusty stepped into the room, there he was, right behind him. Jackson. Standing in the doorway, big grin on his face.
‘Traffic was a bitch, man.’
Bobby shut the door, locked it. Shouted through, ‘Be five minutes, Rusty! Take the bags down!’
He turned to Jackson, grinned. Then he felt under the sink for his other washbag, opened it, took out a spoon and a length of rubber tube.
‘Well, somebody’s an eager beaver.’ Jackson dug in his pocket, took out a small glassine bag, held it up.
Bobby grabbed it.