Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘Really? Keep on passing then, Sergeant. We’ve got this under control.’

Aye, it fucking looks like it, she thought.

At Harthill Services, word about the bizarre scenes in George Square had filtered back to those still meticulously poring over the scene in search of evidence. Shirley and Baxter had both demanded that their officers concentrate on the job in hand and not let their minds wander to the city centre.

Numbered yellow photo evidence markers dotted the scene showing where Winter had started the process and, following the news of the white van and the cocaine, the crime scene examiners had finished it. The examination was structured and sequential, by the book, and they would gather every available piece of physical and trace evidence.

Amidst the scrupulously organized fury of the examination, no one noticed Jan McConachie edge quietly to the perimeter of the crime scene to take the phone call that had been buzzing angrily in her pocket for several minutes. She had already seen the name on the phone’s screen and there was no way she could take that call within earshot of anyone else. Not that she wanted to take the call at all. There were four missed calls by the time she was safely out of anyone’s range. She could imagine his rage rising with every failed attempt to talk to her and knew that could never be a good thing.

‘About fucking time,’ he shouted at her when she picked up. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve called you?’

‘Yes, I know,’ she answered quietly. ‘There’s been another two shootings. Well, three. Two of Quinn’s guys, Stevie Strathie and Mark Sturrock plus an old boy who just happened to get in the way. I’m at the scene now.’

‘Fucking hell.’

Jan could hear the shock in his voice and was relieved to hear that he hadn’t known about the killings. That was at least one weight off her mind.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he continued. ‘I’ve been watching Sky News and some fucker has just blown a shitload of cocaine up in the middle of George Square.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘That’s not much fucking good to me, Sergeant. I don’t pay you to know things that I already know. I pay you to tell me things that I don’t know. Who’s doing this? And more to the point, who the fuck is he intending to knock off next?’

She hesitated. She had nothing to tell him.

‘I don’t know,’ she finally admitted. ‘We don’t know.’

‘That’s no fucking use,’ he raged. ‘Things are crazy out there right now and I need to know who’s behind this. I’m shedding no tears for Quinn or Caldwell, far from it, but this is all bad for business. Do I need to remind you of our arrangement?’

‘No, you don’t. All I can tell you right now is that it was the same gun that killed both of them. It was almost certainly the same person who shot the three in Harthill today. When I get more I’ll tell you.’

‘Immediately.’

‘Immediately,’ she agreed.

He hung up and she closed her eyes and made a silent prayer for all this to go away. Right at that moment, there was nothing that Jan wanted more than to be at home with the door locked and she and Amy safely behind it watching cartoons on television. Her mind raced to school finishing time and she prayed again, this time for Amy to be standing safely inside the school gate when she went to collect her.

Winter was in his seat at Celtic Park by twenty past seven, kick-off still twenty-five minutes away. The old place was pretty full already and the atmosphere was building up nicely. That familiar sense of expectation and togetherness was buzzing through the ground and he liked to be in there in plenty of time to soak it up.

Not Addison though. His mate was doubtless still supping in the Oak, the nearest pub to the stadium and guaranteed to be wall-to-wall packed with sweating bodies trying to fuel themselves for what was to come. The Oak faithful would stream in at the last minute or beyond, pushing apologetically past people in the middle of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, ducking under scarves and stepping on feet. It was always the same and unless Winter dragged him into the Lisbon Lions Lower early then Addison would be one of those guys.

Winter loved European nights at Parkhead and always had. Ever since his Uncle Danny first led him by the hand through crowds of giant drunks to watch Celtic draw 2-2 with Ajax in 1982. McStay, McGrain, Burns, Nicholas, McGarvey, these were his first heroes. Them and Uncle Danny.

It was a couple of minutes before kick-off and everyone was on their feet as the teams trooped out onto the pitch. At the end of the row, fans began stepping back reluctantly as someone pushed by them towards his seat. With a huge grin and regular apologies, he edged along until Winter could feel Addison’s beery breath on his face just as the team went into their pre-match huddle and a huge roar erupted around them.

‘About time,’ Winter remarked.

‘Hey, this is early for me, wee man. Anyway, I’ve had a busy day in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘You and me both. So what happened this afternoon?’

The referee blew his whistle for the start of the game and another huge, extended shout drowned out any reply that Addison could have made. Instead, he shook his head and leaned in towards Winter as they both sat down.

‘Later. One thing though, I know what this fucker’s game is.’

‘Aye? So what’s that then?’ Winter shouted back, trying to be heard above the noise of the crowd.

The DI just looked down at him, winking and tapping the side of his nose, and then turned back to the game as Celtic immediately launched into an attack down the right wing. People were on their feet around them and the pair were forced to stand as well. Winter was bursting to ask more but knew he wasn’t getting anything until Addison was ready.

There was wave after wave of attacks on the Bulgarian side’s goal but Celtic didn’t manage to score until five minutes before half-time. A cross from the left was met by a header down in front of them and when the ball hit the back of the net, Celtic Park erupted. Everyone was on their feet, Winter and Addison hugged each other and were clapped and bumped into by those around them. Songs soared round the old stadium and minor chaos ruled. The place was still jumping five minutes later when the half-time whistle blew, another mighty roar filling the night sky, and fans began streaming towards the toilets or the food outlets.

There was suddenly a bit of space round them and both men knew they could now talk without having to shout at each other.

‘So what’s happening?’ Winter asked.

Addison hugged himself into his jacket before answering in as low a voice as he could get away with.

‘Nothing good. Is it not your turn to go and get the pies?’

‘Forget your stomach for a minute,’ Winter countered. ‘What’s going on?’

‘If I tell you, then you’ll go for food?’

‘Aye, okay. Spill.’

Addison looked around and moved closer.

‘Looks like the killings at Harthill have made the natives restless and the pantomime on George Square obviously hasn’t helped. Jo-Jo Johnstone’s wee brother Jason was found with both his legs broken and Jo-Jo is spitting blood about it. Two of Tookie Cochrane’s boys were hit by a car and are in the Royal. One of them is in a coma. There’s also a guy supposedly gone missing named Harvey Houston who works at Ally Riddle’s scrapyard. Riddle’s saying he knows nothing but Shirley’s pulling him in tomorrow for a chat.’

‘Christ. Sounds like it’s getting crazy.’

‘Those are just the ones we know about. Fuck knows what else is happening. My guess is that there’s much more that the bastards have swept under the carpet.’