the BYE BYE on his chest,’ said McCoy.
Lomax nodded.
‘Nasty,’ said McCoy. ‘Imagine that. A nutter like Connolly taking a fancy to your daughter.’
Lomax carried on. ‘You may have read recently that Charlie was injured – hamstring trouble. Couldn’t play for a couple of weeks. In reality he’d been attacked by an associate of Connolly. He tried to break his shin with a hammer. Luckily his aim wasn’t too good and he only inflicted a rather nasty flesh wound. The club and ourselves thought it better it didn’t become common knowledge. Shortly after that incident Connolly disappeared, cut off all communication with the Scobie family.’
‘Did you look for him?’ asked McCoy.
Scobie answered before Lomax could stop him. ‘Oh, I looked for the cunt all right, looked everywhere. Nobody hurts my family and gets away with it. When I find him I’m going to splatter him from here to—’
Lomax’s hand went up again. ‘Jake,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’
Scobie didn’t look happy but he sat back, hands gripping the arms of the chair. He reached into his pocket, took out a packet of Regal and lit up.
‘Okay?’ asked Lomax.
Scobie nodded.
Order restored, he went on. ‘It seems that Mr Connolly is a very hard man to find. He has a habit of staying in short-rent flats, hotels, boarding houses, moving around a lot.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps a wise move for a man like that. The Scobies eventually gave up, hoped he had moved on, gone to London, somewhere like that.’
‘Until this morning,’ said McCoy.
‘Until this morning,’ said Lomax.
McCoy sat back on his chair. Time to throw the grenade. ‘That’s a lovely wee story, Mr Lomax. But I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, eh? Maybe Mr Scobie there just wasn’t too keen on his future son-in-law and got Connolly to take care of it. That’s what he usually does for you, isn’t it, Mr Scobie? Takes care of nasty wee problems, makes them go away, weeds in your roses, that sort of thing.’
Lomax’s hand came up again, but Scobie was having none of it this time and pushed it away, stood up before Lomax could stop him.
‘Who the fuck are you, you prick? You calling me a fucking liar?’
McCoy was the picture of innocence. ‘I didn’t say that.’ He turned to Murray. ‘Did I say that?’
Scobie was red-faced, spat through clenched teeth, ‘That boy was like a son to me. Understand that? That going in your head, is it? If I get—’
‘Jake! Please!’
Scobie looked at Lomax, took a second, then nodded and sat down. Suddenly he seemed deflated, confused, almost as if he was going to cry. All of this seemed like it was new to him. Not used to not being the one calling the shots, running the show. Was new for McCoy too. The only emotion he’d ever seen on Scobie’s face before was anger. Never seen him look like he did now, like a man who was hurting.
‘Well, Mr Scobie, I’m sorry to hear of your loss,’ said Murray, standing up. ‘From the look of it, Connolly may well be responsible. However, what the motive was and who was involved remains to be seen.’
Lomax screwed the lid of his pen back on. ‘Be assured, Mr Murray, my client is telling the truth.’
Murray smiled, put his hat back on. ‘Who knows, Mr Lomax? Maybe he is. Always a first time for everything. Isn’t that what they say? We’ll be in touch.’
*
‘You buy all that?’ McCoy asked. They were back on the pavement in Blythswood Square, stamping their feet, waiting for a squad car to turn up.
Murray shrugged, turned his collar up against the wind. ‘Don’t see why not. If Scobie had just wanted rid of that boy he’d have been a lot less obvious about it.’
‘Unless he did something to his daughter, something he wasn’t happy about.’
‘Could be. We’ll get her in, see what she’s got to say for herself.’
‘Can’t see Lomax letting that happen without a fight. Or him being there,’ said McCoy. ‘But I’ll give it a try.’
A patrol car turned into the square, started the one-way circuit.
‘How were the parents?’ asked McCoy.
‘Them? They were great. Only son shot in the fucking face then chopped to fuck? They opened a bloody bottle of champagne. How do you think they were?’
‘Sorry,’ said McCoy, feeling like an idiot.
The car pulled up, uniform got out and came round to open the passenger door. ‘At long bloody last,’ Murray growled at him, turned to McCoy. ‘You call Lomax when we get back, tell him we want Elaine Scobie in the station tomorrow morning. Rattle his cage.’ He went to get in the car, realised McCoy wasn’t following.
‘You not coming back?’
‘I’ll walk. It’s only ten minutes.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Clears the head,’ said McCoy.
Murray shook his and got in the car.
No offence to Murray but McCoy needed a break. Couldn’t face being stuck in the back of a stuffy squad car while Murray ranted and raved about what scum Scobie was and how Lomax should be struck off for defending scum like him. Besides, McCoy liked walking, gave him the chance to think without the noise and distractions of the shop. So he buttoned up his raincoat, started walking down the hill back towards town.
When Scobie had come into the office McCoy had thought he’d be intimidated, impressed maybe. The great Jake Scobie close up. But he wasn’t, far from it. All the things that made up Scobie – the clothes, the scar, the temper – were beginning to feel wrong, dated. Was like Scobie was stranded back in the days when he’d come up through the ranks, still living in the time of the razor kings and honour amongst thieves. Would have been as well wearing spats and talking like George Raft. Scobie in the North, Ronnie Naismith in the Southside, McCready in Govan. Suddenly they seemed old, like kings who could be toppled.
McCoy handed the money over, pocketed the wee red notebook, stepped out of R. S. McColl’s and back onto Sauchiehall Street. New case, new jotter. Force of habit. He peeled the price ticket off the front and put it in his pocket. Realised he didn’t have a pencil, should have bought a new one of those as well. Was a mystery to him where everything he had disappeared to. They all went. Pens, fags, gloves, house keys more than a few times.
He was nearly at Treron’s when he noticed him. Charlie the Pram. McCoy didn’t know his real name but he’d seen him around town for years, wandering around, talking to himself. Just another lost soul amongst the many. Charlie’d found an old Silver Cross pram somewhere – hence the name – and, as always, it was full of wire, ginger bottles, anything he could try and make some money from. Charlie had good days and bad days. Never knew if he’d talk to you or just stare through you.
