Читать книгу Bloody January - Alan Parks - Страница 13

FOUR

He was sitting back on the bench by the Royston bay, smoking, when Murray turned up. Needed some time away from the blood and the uniforms bustling about and Wattie asking him questions every two seconds.

The ambulances had arrived first. The ambulance man had put his hand on his shoulder, told him they would take over. McCoy had tried to stand up but the boy’s fingers kept squeezing his. He knew it was a spasm but couldn’t let go, needed to feel he was some comfort for the boy. Ambulance man had eased his hand free. He stood there looking down at the boy until another one ushered him away.

Police cars had come next, then the vans with the uniforms in them, then the unmarked cars, then the lorries with the crash barriers. Now the place was bedlam, shouts, sirens, people crying and the tannoy still blaring out.

The line of uniforms that was blocking the entrance parted and a black Rover drove through the cordon and weaved its way through the maze of abandoned buses crowding the forecourt. Soon as it stopped a uniform scuttled over, opened the back door and Murray stepped out. Senior officers were around him in seconds, pointing over at the bodies, explaining what had happened. Murray listened for a while then held his hand up, silencing them. He pointed at the crowd gathered behind the rope cordon and sent one of them over there, barked orders at the others and they rushed off double-time towards the entrance.

McCoy watched as he strode over to where the bodies were, lifted the rope and went through. Uniforms and ambulance men stepped back, getting out his way. Wattie was standing there trying to look like he knew what he was doing. Even had his wee notebook out. Murray nodded a greeting at him, knelt down and carefully lifted the green sheet off the girl’s body. Although the boy’s body was surrounded by doctors and ambulance men, it didn’t stop him pushing them aside to have a look at him too. He asked Wattie something and he looked around, eyes finding McCoy, and he pointed over. Murray gave out some more instructions, sent Wattie scurrying off, and made his way across the forecourt. Snow was still falling but Murray had no coat, just the usual tweed jacket stretched tight over his shoulders, trilby stuck on his head. He was a big man, Murray, six-foot odds, ginger hair fading to grey, moustache on a ruddy face. Looked like a prop forward gone to fat, which he was. McCoy wasn’t sure why they got on; they had nothing in common as far as he could see. Maybe everyone else was just too scared of him to have a normal conversation.

‘You all right?’ he asked, coming in under the shelter, taking his trilby off and shaking it.

McCoy nodded. ‘I’m fine. Unlike those two.’

‘Right fucking mess,’ he said and sat down beside him. ‘Wattie said you came up here looking for the girl before anything happened. Didn’t tell him why. That right, is it?’

McCoy nodded.

‘How come?’ said Murray quietly, just the last remnants of his Borders accent remaining. He only had two speeds, Murray. Shouting, which meant he was annoyed, and talking quietly, which meant he was about to get annoyed.

McCoy sighed, knew he was in for it. ‘It was Nairn, Howie Nairn. That’s what the phone call was about, got me up to Barlinnie last night. Told me a girl was going to get killed today, wanted me to stop it.’

Murray was padding his jacket, looking for his pipe. Suddenly noticed two plain clothes had followed him over, were standing off to the side waiting. ‘What the fuck are you two doing? Standing there like spare pricks at a wedding. Fuck off and get this site properly secured, now!’

The two of them looked terrified, hurried off. Murray’d finally found his pipe, stuck it in his mouth, sat back on the bench and pointed over.

‘See that over there, McCoy? Those crashed buses, the blood, the bodies, the weans crying and the crowds of fucking gawpers trying to get past the barriers. That’s what’s known as a right royal shiteshow. A right royal shiteshow that I’m going to have to sort out. So why don’t you just start again and tell me what the fuck went on here and what the fuck it’s got to do with you.’

McCoy dropped his cigarette onto the ground, watched it fizzle out, started his story. ‘Howie Nairn got me up to Barlinnie last night, he’d got the warden to call the shop. So I get there and he tells me there is a girl called Lorna who works at Malmaison or Whitehall’s. No second name. Said she was going to get killed today. I thought he was playing games but I checked it and there is – was – a girl who worked at Malmaison, Lorna Skirving.’ He nodded over at the body. ‘Wasn’t at home this morning so we came here to meet her, except she didn’t come in on the Royston bus, so we missed her. Can’t have stayed at home last night. First thing we know that bloke’s standing there with a gun, and then she’s on the ground.’

‘And what’s she got to do with Nairn?’

McCoy shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t say.’

‘He wouldn’t say? Well, fancy that. Maybe you should have fucking asked then!’

‘I did . . .’ He started to protest, but Murray was having none of it.

‘Didn’t ask him hard enough, then, did you? Might have stopped this fucking disaster happening. And, by the way, how come that cunt Nairn is suddenly telling you all his secrets?’

‘Don’t ask me. Call came in to the station last night, so I went, thought it would be something about Garvie. I hardly even know him. He was Brody’s deal, no mine.’

Murray tapped the pipe stem off his top teeth, shook his head. ‘Nope. You’re not telling me something.’

‘Eh?’

‘Had to be a reason Nairn wanted to speak to you. What is it?’

McCoy looked at him, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What? You think I’m holding out on you, that it? That’s shite, Murray. Why would I do that?’

‘You tell me,’ he said evenly.

‘Fuck off, Murray, you’re way out of order.’

Murray’s face clouded over. ‘So are you, son. You remember who you’re talking to.’

‘Aye well, you too. You really think I’d fuck you about?’

Murray rubbed at the stubble coming through on his chin, shook his head. ‘No. But there’s a reason it was you he wanted to speak to. You might not know it, but he does.’

McCoy stood up and watched two uniforms push a row of photographers back behind a rope line. Ambulances were backing up to the bodies, doors open.

‘Where you going?’ asked Murray.

‘The boy still alive?’

‘Barely. If you can call it alive. Half his fucking head’s gone. Who is he? Nairn let you in on that one?’

McCoy ignored him. ‘He’s nobody. According to Wattie, he’s got nothing on him. No ID at all, no house keys, no wallet, no money, scars, tattoos. He’s the invisible fucking man. Gold crucifix round his neck. That’s it.’

Murray gave a half smile. ‘Well, we know one thing then. He’s one of your lot.’

McCoy ignored that too. ‘So what happens now?’

‘I walk back over there and try and get this mess sorted out. Try and get everything done and the place re-opened before the rush hour tonight. City centre’s at a fucking standstill already. Buses backed up all the way from here to fucking Paisley.’ He stood up. ‘And you, away you go to Barlinnie and find out what the fuck Nairn’s up to. And get some fucking answers this time. I mean it. He’s an accessory at least. Lean on the cunt.’

‘Here’s done already. The bloke shot the girl then shot himself. What is there to find out?’

‘What’s to find out is what this has got to do with that cunt Nairn. This isn’t bloody Chicago, we don’t have shootings in the bloody bus station. Find out what Nairn knows and what it’s got to do with him.’

McCoy sighed. Would have to try again later, no point when Murray was in this kind of mood.

‘I’m sick of telling you. Get up to fucking Barlinnie now!’

McCoy held his hand up in surrender and walked up towards the row of unmarked Vivas parked near the entrance.

‘And McCoy . . .’ He turned and Murray nodded over at Wattie, standing on the other side of the forecourt watching them. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’