handed the flask back and Murray looked at him disapprovingly.
‘Give us a break, Murray. That your idea of fun, eh? Switch the big fucking lights on when I turn up? Christ, they’ve even stuck his cock in his mouth.’
‘Aye, that’s right, McCoy. This whole murder scene’s been arranged just to give you a fright.’
McCoy nodded over at the body. ‘How did we know he was here?’
‘Anonymous phone call into Central,’ said Murray.
‘From whoever did it?’
Murray nodded. ‘Who else? No other bugger would know he was up here.’
‘Sir?’
They turned. Wattie was standing there with a clear evidence bag. ‘One of the uniform boys found these.’ He handed the bag to Murray.
Murray took out his torch, switched it on and pointed it into the bag. Three used flashcubes, bulbs fizzled and spent, and two Polaroid backs, the cardboard left when you peel the picture off. He turned the bag and they could see the ghost photo on them. Reverse images of the man’s destroyed face.
‘Christ,’ said McCoy. ‘Pictures for later. Lovely. Might be fingerprints on them?’
Murray nodded.
‘What do you mean for later?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy made a wanking gesture. Wattie groaned.
‘Mr McCoy, nice to see you back.’
He turned and Phyllis Gilroy the police pathologist was standing there. Seemed to have some sort of tiara thing on under her Rainmate, pearls round her neck, bottom of a pink chiffon dress poking out beneath her black rain slicker.
‘North British?’ asked McCoy.
She nodded. ‘Mrs Murray was indisposed so Hector kindly invited me along as his partner. Unfortunately we didn’t get to stay very long. Had to leave before the turn. Moira Anderson. Pity, she has an excellent voice, I think.’
‘You look very . . .’ McCoy searched for the word. ‘Dressed up.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said, ‘of sorts.’
‘Did you have a look?’ asked Murray.
‘Indeed I did.’
‘And?’
‘Provisionally?’ she asked. As always.
Murray sighed. As always. ‘Provisionally.’
‘Gunshot to the front of the head, specifically the left eye. As you will have noticed, that had the effect of pretty much removing the back of the head. There is another gunshot wound to the left ankle which seems to be post-mortem. Other than that he’s been knocked around a bit, scratches and scrapes and cuts. And of course, the amputation of the . . .’
She hesitated for a second.
‘The penis.’ Carried on. ‘The words on his chest look post-mortem too but I’ll have to double-check . . .’
‘Why no clothes?’ asked McCoy.
‘That, Mr McCoy, is a question for you rather than me, I fear. However, were I to conjecture I’d say he wanted the BYE BYE on the chest to be on display, first thing one would see, but as I said it’s only conjecture. Now, if Hector will give us the go ahead I’ll get the ambulance boys to start packing him up?’
Murray nodded, and she walked off across the roof, gesturing to the ambulance men that they were good to go.
McCoy watched her go, looked at Murray and grinned. ‘Hector is it now? Didn’t know you and the esteemed Madame Gilroy were so pally.’
‘Secret weapon. She’s perfect for fending off the top brass. She’s cleverer, richer and posher than the lot of them put together. I just hide behind her and smile. Stops them pressuring me about Central.’
McCoy blew into his hands. He was freezing, driving rain had pretty much soaked him through. Icy wind blowing round the top of the building wasn’t helping much either. ‘Do we know who he is? Nightwatchman, something like that, maybe?’
Murray held up a clear plastic bag with a bloody wallet in it. ‘Don’t know, but this was sitting next to the body. Whoever did it wanted him identified quickly.’
McCoy took the bag off him, fished out the wallet, trying not to get too much blood on his fingers. He flipped it open, managed to read the name on the driving licence.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No way.’
He dug further in the wallet, found a folded-up bit of newspaper. He unfolded it. Read it. Couldn’t believe it.
‘Christ, it is. It’s him.’
He held up the newspaper. Murray peered at it, too dark for him to read. Got his torch out, pointed it at the clipping. Illuminated the headline.
DREAM DEBUT FOR NEW CELTIC SIGNING
TWO
‘Seriously? You don’t know who he is?’ asked McCoy.
‘Why would I? Never been to a football match in my life,’ said Murray.
‘Not even seen him in the paper? On the TV? Charlie Jackson?’
‘Two teas. One wi’ sugar?’
The woman was leaning out the caravan hatch, two chipped mugs held out in front of her. McCoy took the one with sugar, handed the other one to Murray. The tea van was parked outside Tiffany’s in Sauchiehall Street, prime position to catch people coming out the dancing. Van had been there for years, selling teas, coffees, rolls and sausage. McCoy remembered stopping at it on his first night on the beat. He took a sip of the tea. As rotten as it was then. Still, at least the mug was warm.
‘So who does he play for then, this boy?’ asked Murray.
McCoy shook his head, didn’t believe what he was hearing. Half suspected Murray was just doing it to annoy him. ‘Celtic. He probably played today. Draw with Partick Thistle.’
‘Today?’ asked Murray.
‘Aye, at Parkhead. He made the first team a year or so ago, never been out it since. Very talented boy. When he’s on he’s fucking magic, reads the ball better than anyone I’ve seen. Probably be off soon, or he would have been I should say. Liverpool would have got him, Clough, someone like that.’ He looked at Murray again, still not quite believing him. ‘C’mon, you must have heard of him.’
Murray shook his head, patted his jacket looking for his tobacco. ‘No. Bloody game should be banned. Just another excuse we don’t need for the idiots in this town to knock lumps out each other.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s quarter past nine now. Was called in at seven. So when did this game finish?’
‘Usual.
