he said. ‘He’s not exactly what you’d call chatty.’
‘You can ask him, though?’ she asked.
McCoy nodded. He’d worry about that later. There was something much more important on his mind right now. His steak had just arrived.
He hadn’t been looking forward to the evening much – posh restaurants weren’t his natural habitat – but he enjoyed himself. Ate his steak, drank more than his fair share of red wine and played footsie with Susan under the table. They left about eleven, both pleasantly woozy, got back to the flat and McCoy opened the cigar box, sat on the end of the bed and started to roll a joint.
‘I could get used to places like that,’ he said, pushing his shoes off.
‘That right?’ said Susan.
‘Yep. Need to win the pools, mind you, but that could happen,’ he said. ‘I’m a lucky man.’
‘You’ve won the pools already, you’ve got me,’ she said, getting under the covers.
He was down to his skivvies now. He handed her the joint and she lit it up.
‘Christ, is there any tobacco in this?’ asked Susan as she blew out a cloud of strong-smelling smoke.
‘Not much.’ He grinned, trying to find an ashtray amongst the wee plants and ornaments on Susan’s dressing table.
‘Are you getting in or are you just going to parade around the bedroom in your pants?’
He turned round, waggled his bum at her. ‘I might just do that,’ said McCoy. ‘Why? Is it turning you on?’
Susan looked at him. ‘Exactly how much brandy did you have?’
‘Same as you, three.’
Susan shook her head. ‘I had one.’
‘Ah,’ said McCoy, stepping out his skivvies and getting into bed. ‘That might explain it.’ He snuggled in beside her. ‘Put that joint down.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll bloody burn myself when I jump on you. Give.’
Susan smiled, handed the joint over and McCoy stubbed it out in the ashtray, put it on the bedside table.
‘Now, c’mere.’
They rolled together, embraced. He moved down her body, kissing her, grinned up at her as he gently pushed her thighs apart. Did what she liked as she held onto him, fingers tightening as she got nearer. She was halfway there already when he moved up and in between her legs. They moved together, breathing getting heavier, faster. She had her hands round his waist, whispering in his ear, pulling him closer. ‘Come on, McCoy, come on . . .’
She fell asleep quickly afterwards, like she always did. He lay there smoking a last cigarette, ashtray sitting on his chest, and did what he always did – let the events of the day run through his mind. Wondered how rich you’d have to be to eat at Malmaison every night. Wondered if Susan would forget about having a chat with Stevie Cooper. Wondered why Elaine Scobie was so sure Connolly wouldn’t hurt her.
He was kidding himself, though; there was only one thing he was really thinking of, only one thing he couldn’t get out his mind. The folded newspaper cutting Stevie Cooper had shown him. The policeman smiling out in his dress uniform.
He shut his eyes.
Tried to let the wine and the brandy and the Red Leb do their work.
Tried to sleep.
Didn’t.
12th February 1973
NINE
McCoy put his mug of tea on the pile of Phone Mary at the Record notes on his desk and sat down, yawned. He’d finally got to sleep about the back of three. Felt like an unmade bed. There was a dun-coloured folder sitting in the middle of the desk. McCoy recognised the neat fountain pen capitals. Gilroy the medical examiner had attached a note to the corner: Wasn’t quite sure who to give this to then remembered your sympathy for those fallen on hard times.
McCoy shook his head. Care about one jakie and that’s you, tarred for life. He opened the autopsy report, started reading. So now he knew what the TRAGEDY IN CHURCH on the paper seller’s board was. One Paul Joseph Brady had hung himself in the Hopehill Road Chapel, St Columba’s. As far as McCoy could remember, killing yourself was a mortal sin. Doing it in a chapel just seemed to be taking the piss.
He skimmed through the rest of it. Age approx 30–35. Death by broken neck caused by body weight. Body was undernourished, showed evidence of long-term alcohol abuse. Cirrhotic liver damage, scarring on lungs caused by smoking. Previous evidence of broken arm in childhood. Nothing unexpected, except that by looking at his picture McCoy would have said the man looked nearer fifty. Life on the street takes its toll, right enough.
He closed it over. Hanging yourself wasn’t a crime. Wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with the report. Shove it in his drawer in case anyone ever came looking for it, he supposed. He checked it again, no mention of any next of kin.
He got out his fags, lit one up, inhaled, coughed, inhaled again. Why would you kill yourself in a chapel? For someone like Brady the way out was standard. Fill yourself with paracetamol and cheap vodka and jump off a bridge over the Clyde. He looked at the picture again. Paul Joseph Brady. Had to be a Catholic. Maybe he just wanted to be nearer his God to thee when he checked out.
McCoy sat back in his chair, looked round the office. Usual noise of chatter, people on the phone, a uniform waiting to see somebody, hat on his lap. Thomson wandering round with the Racing Post collecting lines to go to the bookies. Robertson collecting mugs off everyone’s desk, his day to make the teas. Wattie was the exception, working hard, receiver jammed into his neck, list of hotels and B&Bs in front of him. Looking for Connolly.
Wasn’t quite sure why, but one of the questions the psychologist had asked him kept going round and round in his mind. Do you still feel you want to be a detective?
Did he? Truth was he’d never really thought about it, not for years anyway. Joined up straight after he’d left school and just kept his head down and kept working. What else would he be if he wasn’t a polis? That’s what he was, as much part of him now as the colour of his hair or the scar on his eyebrow he’d got from Jamie Gibbs.
He yawned again, took a sip of his tea, gave himself a shake. He opened the red jotter. Wrote
Charlie Jackson
Connolly
‘That it?’
He looked up and Murray was standing over him.
‘We can call off the troops now, McCoy’s on the case.’
‘Very funny,’ said McCoy.
‘Get Watson. We’ve had a tip-off,’ said Murray. ‘Sounds kosher.’
*
