good pilgrim, for I am not lost.’
A path of damp stamped-down cardboard boxes led towards the far corner of the roof. There must have been ten or so people up here already, uniforms milling about, two technicians carrying the tent, even Wee Andy the photographer, almost lost in his duffle coat and a big woolly scarf. He could hear distant sirens; saw two ambulances crossing the river over to their side, blue lights spinning. Meant it wouldn’t be long until the press boys were here. Was hard enough to keep a murder quiet, never mind this one. A body found at the top of an unfinished office tower only a couple of minutes’ walk from the Record office? No chance.
‘Quite a view from up here,’ said Murray pointing. ‘Can see the cathedral. If it wasn’t pissing with rain you’d even be able to see the People’s Palace.’
‘Great,’ said McCoy. ‘Well worth climbing up fourteen bloody storeys for.’
Murray shook his head. ‘And here was me thinking leave might have changed you, but no, still the usual moaning-faced bastard that you are. How’d it go anyway? You go and see him?’
He had. Three two-hour sessions in a draughty back room in Pitt Street. Question after question.
How did you feel when you pushed him off the roof?
How did you feel when you saw the dead body?
How did you feel, really feel, inside at that point? Did you feel guilty?
What he’d really felt was an overwhelming desire to lean over the desk and punch the bastard in the face but he knew if he did he’d never get signed off so he sat there saying as little as possible, watching the clock. It was only when he got home he’d started thinking about the last thing the bloke had said to him.
Do you still feel happy being a policeman? Is it what you really want?
McCoy nodded. ‘Statutory three appointments all attended. Signed off. Psychologically fit for duty.’
Murray grunted. ‘How much did you have to bribe him?’ ‘So what have I missed?’ McCoy asked. ‘What’s the big news from—’
‘There’s the boy!’
They turned and Wattie was walking towards them, anorak, bobble hat and a pair of Arran wool mittens. He looked more like an enthusiastic toddler than a trainee detective.
He took a mitten off and pumped McCoy’s hand up and down. ‘Thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow?’
‘I’m not. Couldn’t keep away. Well, not when there’s some big bastard at your door telling you Murray needs you now.’
Wattie grinned. ‘Did you miss me? Because fuck me, I didn’t miss—’
‘Watson!’ Murray had had enough. ‘Get this crime scene secured now! Stop acting like a bloody schoolboy!’
Wattie saluted and walked back through the rain towards the lights being set up on the far corner of the roof.
‘How’s he getting on?’ asked McCoy, trying to fasten the top button of his coat, not easy with numb fingers.
Murray shook his head. ‘Bright enough, but he treats everything like a bloody game. Need you to knock some sense into him.’
‘What’s the story then?’ McCoy asked, looking round. ‘How come we’re freezing our balls off on the top of this building?’
‘You’ll see soon enough. C’mon,’ said Murray.
McCoy followed him along the cardboard path leading towards the other side of the roof. Three steps behind Murray again, just like always. Was like he’d never been away. Cardboard beneath his feet already starting to dissolve with the rain and the amount of people walking on it. Two uniforms were huddled over in the corner, big umbrellas being held over them not doing much to keep the water off. Both of them were fiddling with the battery packs, trying to connect them.
‘Fucking bastarding thing,’ said one, then noticed Murray. ‘Sorry, sir, just give us a minute.’ He grunted and finally managed to push a plug into the socket in the side. ‘Should be all right now,’ he said, putting his fingers into his mouth, trying to suck some feeling back into them.
‘Well then,’ said Murray. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The uniform nodded and clicked the switches down. Bright white light bounced back up off the wet roof. McCoy held his arm over his face, peered out through half-closed eyes. He’d never been good with the sight of blood, any blood, never mind this much. He took an involuntary step back. Edge of his vision was starting to blur, he felt dizzy. He shut his eyes, took deep breaths, tried to count to ten. He opened them again, saw the red everywhere, and turned his head away as fast as he could.
‘Christ! You could have warned me, Murray.’
‘Could have but I didn’t,’ said Murray. ‘Need to get over it. Told you a million bloody times.’ He looked over at the illuminated corner of the roof and grimaced. ‘Mind you, this is bloody hellish.’
It was. The blood was everywhere. Splattered up the half-finished walls, dripping from a flapping tarpaulin. Some of it had started to freeze already, red ice crystals glinting in the light from the big lamps. But most of it was still sticky and wet, giving off the familiar smell of copper pennies and butcher shops.
McCoy pulled his scarf across his mouth, told himself he was going to be okay and tried to concentrate. There wasn’t any way round it. To get any closer to the body he was going to have to step into the big puddle of blood. There was more cardboard laid down in it but it had half soaked up the blood, wasn’t going to make much of a difference. He put his foot down gingerly, felt the congealing blood tacky against the sole of his shoe. A tarpaulin snapped in the wind and he jumped, heartbeat going back to normal as he watched it break free and float off over the side of the building into the darkness.
He took a few deep breaths and stepped in, folded the edges of his coat over his knees and squatted. Tried to block out the cold and the rain, the sheer amount of blood, and tried to think about what he was looking at. It was a young man, late teens, early twenties. He’d been sat up against a pile of metal scaffolding poles, legs pointing out in front of him, arms hanging down by his sides. His left leg ending in a mess of tangled blood and bone, foot just attached.
Whatever he had been wearing had gone. All he was left with was a pair of underpants, pale skin of his legs and torso bluish in the bright lights. The words ‘BYE BYE’ had been cut into his chest, blood running down his torso.
McCoy counted down another ten like the doctor had told him and looked up into the man’s face. Despite everything, his hair was still combed into a neat side shed, raindrops on it glistening in the big lights. Below it, one of his eyes was completely gone, socket empty, some sort of vein emerging out of it, dried blood sticking it onto his cheek. His jaw was hanging slack, broken it looked like. There was something stuffed into his mouth. McCoy knew what it was going to be before he looked. He looked. Wasn’t wrong.
He stood up, ran for the side, feet sliding as he went, just made it to the edge before he was sick. When he’d finished he spat a few times, trying to clear his mouth of the taste of stomach acid and flat lager, watched it spiral down.
A
