but he was actually left-footed is what I mean. Always scored with his left.’
‘Ah. That why he shot his left ankle, you think?’ asked Murray.
McCoy shrugged. ‘Could be. Mind you, not easy to play football with the back of your head blown off. Not sure a broken ankle’s gonnae make much of a difference.’
Murray sighed. ‘Someone’ll have to tell the boy’s family and quick. Every one of those uniforms up there’ll be racing to a phone box as soon as they get down, straight on to the Record for their tenner. If word of that thing on his chest gets out I’ll bloody hang for someone. Need that kept back to weed out the nutters. He a local boy, this Jackson?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Maryhill, I think.’
Murray took off his hat, scratched at what was left of his ginger hair. ‘So that’ll be me then. What a fucking mess.’
McCoy watched Murray get into the waiting squad car, drained the rest of his rotten tea, put the mug back on the counter. The queue outside Tiffany’s was starting to shuffle in. Groups of giggling women passing half-bottles of vodka. Boys in their leather and denim jackets getting soaking but trying to show they were too hard to worry about something like rain.
Jackson must have been about the same age as them. Nice-looking fiancée, great football player, good-looking boy. Had it all in front of him. McCoy lit up, took a deep drag, started walking into town. Not any more he didn’t.
*
Turned out Lomax beat him to it. By the time McCoy got back to the shop there was a note on his desk telling him to phone Mr Lomax at home as soon as he could. He cursed, crumpled it and threw it in the bin. Then he phoned the number. Posh Edinburgh voice answered, wasted no time.
‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning at my office. Mr Scobie wants to have a chat.’
McCoy put the receiver down, sat back in his chair and had a look around. Didn’t seem like much had changed in the three weeks he’d been off. Desks covered in papers, full ashtrays, files and dirty mugs. Wee plug-in radiator in the corner doing its best and failing to heat up the room. Apart from the desk sergeant he was the only one in. Saturday night was always their busiest night. Everyone out dealing with the usual shite. Fights and drunks, knives and crashed cars. Battered wives and slashed boys.
He took the two bacon rolls he’d bought on the way out their damp paper bag and started eating, realised he was starving.
He was so engrossed in the rolls and the copy of Titbits he’d found on Wattie’s desk he jumped when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.
‘Central. McCoy speaking.’
‘Harry, my wee darling! The very man. What you got to tell me about a certain young football—’
He hung up before she could get any further. Mary at the Record hot on the trail. Hadn’t taken her long. The phone rang again so he leant over and unplugged it at the wall, sat back up and that’s when he noticed it. Thomson’s corkboard. Been up there so long he’d stopped seeing it. Pictures of big-titted girls he’d cut out from the Sun or Men Only, a poster telling you to look out for Colorado Beetle in your potato plants, and a front page from a few weeks ago.
HERO COP FOILS KILLER ON ROOFTOP
He walked over and pulled it free of the drawing pins, took a closer look. God knows where the paper’d got the picture of him. He looked about ten years younger. Wouldn’t have looked bad at all if someone hadn’t drawn a moustache and a pair of wee glasses on his face and a speech bubble coming out his mouth – I’m shiteing it up here!
He shook his head, pinned it back up, and that’s when he noticed it, pinned in between a picture of George Best and a picture of Jinky Johnson. Charlie Jackson was running away from the goalmouth, green-and-white strip, hands held up, expression of utter joy on his face, teammates trying to catch up with him to celebrate. He looked ecstatic, not a care in the world. He unpinned the picture, put it in his wallet, walked back to his chair, plugged in the phone, called Susan, told her he’d be late.
11th February 1973
THREE
Most of the lawyers McCoy dealt with had offices down on the Saltmarket right beside the courts, all the better for picking up stray clients. Not Lomax, though, he was up in Blythswood Square, smack in the middle of the most expensive area of town, in amongst all the bankers and the corporate offices. Wasn’t that far from the shop and the rain had gone off so they decided to walk.
Sunday morning in this part of town was dead. All the offices and shops shut up. Just the distant clang of St Aloysius’ bells as they walked up West George Street, past the RAC Club with its Union Jack flying, and into the square. Nothing grand, just a rectangle of grass with benches round it surrounded by wrought iron fencing.
Was a funny place, Blythswood Square. Schizophrenic. During the day it was full of men in pinstripes and secretaries in wee business suits going in and out the offices, making deals, looking important. Soon as the offices shut and night fell everything changed. Became a different kind of square entirely. The girls started appearing. Old, young, didn’t matter, all of them dressed in mini skirts, high heels and jackets that were too flimsy for the weather. They stood on the corners, chatting, smoking, keeping one eye on the cars circling round and round. If one stopped it didn’t take long, they leant in the window, decided a price, then got in. Two different worlds separated by a couple of hours.
Number 42 Blythswood Square was a three-storey building of grey stone, marble steps leading up to a smart black door. Murray rang the brass doorbell above the nameplate LOMAX & LOMAX and they waited. No reply. Murray pressed it again, muttering under his breath. Still nothing. He turned to McCoy.
‘Where is the prick? Sure it was ten he said?’
McCoy looked at his watch, tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Only ten past, maybe he’s a wee bit late.’
It was almost half past when he turned up. Murray’d just declared that he’d had enough and was going back to the shop when McCoy saw the car.
‘Sir,’ he said, nodding over.
A gold Jag was turning into the square, exhaust billowing out behind it in the damp air. It circled round, then pulled in to the pavement in front of them. Door opened and out stepped Archie Lomax, looking immaculate as always. Chalk-stripe suit, polished black brogues, navy Crombie. No tie the only concession to the weekend. You didn’t get to be the highest paid criminal lawyer in Glasgow by turning up looking a mess.
Murray got in first. ‘About bloody time, we’ve been standing here for half an hour.’
Lomax held his hands up in apology. ‘Sorry, gents, roads blocked outside Bearsden. Some burn has burst its banks, had to go round the long way, couldn’t be avoided.’
‘Half a bloody hour,’ said Murray again.
Hadn’t got his money’s worth from Lomax, he wasn’t contrite enough for his liking. Wasn’t going to get it, though. Lomax just ignored him, unlocked the big black door, pushed it open, held it wide for them. They followed him up the stairs, furnishings and fittings getting steadily more luxurious as they climbed. On the third floor Lomax unlocked a heavy
