Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘A lot going on this afternoon. Have to wonder why I didn’t get a call to photograph any of it.’

‘Oh fuck off. You will get to do your dirty little thing with whatever that twat does next but this is fall-out from it and you’ll just have to get used to someone else pushing the buttons. Cool your jets.’

Addison’s eyes were flashing the way they did when he was pissed off and Winter admitted to himself that he had a point. Much as he wanted to capture every bit of grisly shit that went on in the city, he knew he couldn’t. There was just too much of it.

‘So what happened when you got back to Harthill?’ he asked the DI.

‘The lovely Ms Fitzpatrick said that Strathie and Sturrock had had the shit kicked out of them professionally. Nothing obvious at first sight but abrasions and contusions to the neck, knees and chest. A few blows but well chosen. Lesions to the wrists, duct tape marks on their faces. They’d been bound up good and tight.

‘The bullets are at the lab and we’ll have a match in the morning. They will be from the same gun though. No doubt about it. Be the same with the rounds they found at George Square. The Temple had everyone jumping through hoops. He called for every bit of CCTV he could, on the motorway and in the services. The Harthill cameras picked up the pair running and falling so we were able to work out the direction of the shots and have crawled over every inch in a straight line but got nothing. They’re going to try again tomorrow.’

‘What about the motorway cameras?’

‘Bits and pieces. They’ve got the white van at different times along the road and at a couple of places in town. No shot of it going into Livingstone Tower though.’

‘So have they got any kind of pictures of the driver?’

‘I can’t really say.’

‘What do you mean? You don’t know?’

‘No, I mean I can’t say. Won’t say, if you prefer it that way.’

‘You are fucking kidding me. I’m on the team.’

‘Nope,’ Addison corrected him. ‘You are with the team. Big difference. If you don’t like it you can go back to photographing broken windaes.’

‘Fucksake, Addy. I don’t like it but I don’t suppose I’ve got much choice.’

‘You don’t. I’ll tell you some stuff, some stuff I won’t. Time you went and got those pies.’

‘Wanker.’

‘That’s Detective Inspector Wanker to you. Get me a burger as well, I’m starving.’

Winter told him what he could do with his burger but they both knew he’d buy it even though he was pissed off at him. Winter wanted every bit of info he could get and Addison was his best chance of it. Shit, he thought, if he was going to be this much hard work then Rachel was going to be a fucking nightmare. She was so wrapped up in the secrecy about them being together that she was paranoid about the need-to-know shit. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t need to know. Addison was just enjoying pulling his chain.

Winter made it back before the second half started, his hands filled with two pies, a burger and a couple of Cokes. Addison enthusiastically helped lighten his load.

‘So were you winding me up when you said you couldn’t tell me about having pictures of the van driver?’ Winter asked him.

‘Maybe.’

‘So are you going to tell me?’

‘Nope.’

‘Okay, so what’s his game then?’

‘Eh?’

‘You said you knew what the fucker’s game was.’

‘Oh aye, that.’

‘Aye, you know?’

‘Aye. ’

‘Aye, you’re going to tell me?’

‘Naw. That also falls into the category of stuff I’m not going to tell you. Not yet anyhow. I’m sure I know what his game is but I still don’t know what it means. But I will. I fucking will.’

Winter looked at him for an age but knew he was getting nothing more. As if to make sure of it, the teams ran back out and another deafening chorus of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ swept them up into the noisiest of silences.

Celtic scored twice more in the second half and the stadium emptied happy and bouncing. Addison and Winter made their way down the stairs and out onto the concourse.

‘Pint?’ Winter asked.

Addison looked at his watch with an exaggerated stare.

‘Just a couple. It’s getting late.’

‘What?’

Winter looked at his own watch and saw that it was quarter to ten.

‘What’s up? You turn into a pumpkin at eleven?’ he guessed.

‘No, but I’ll be pumping something by twenty past,’ he grinned. ‘She finishes shift at the hospital at eleven and will be naked by the time I get there.’

‘Spare me the details.’

‘You couldn’t handle the truth, wee man.’

‘I’m not sure you can handle her with the amount of drink you’ll have put down your neck tonight. She might be disappointed.’

‘Nae chance. The Addison Express runs well on firewater. The overnight train with no sleeper. I’m going to hit every station.’

‘Mind when I said, spare me the details?’

‘At least I haven’t turned gay. Not that I’m prejudiced, Winter, each to their own. Whatever floats your boat and all that.’

He bristled but knew Rachel wouldn’t thank him for blurting out a retort that used her as ammunition.

‘Oh just fuck off, will you,’ he settled for. ‘Some of us don’t feel the need to broadcast our conquests.’

Addison roared with laughter.

‘Conquests? How is life in Elizabethan England? Are you ready to plight your troth or hoist your petard?’

‘I’ll hoist your fucking petard in a minute.’

‘Temper, temper, wee man. Too easy.’

‘Aye? Tell me, how many of these easy rides is it going to take before you find some measure of self-esteem?’

Addison’s eyes flashed with anger and Winter knew that his jibe had stung. He glared at Winter for a second before the grin emerged again.

‘How many? Let’s see… so far this month there has been Alison, Helen, Denise, Ali and… what was the blonde’s name… oh aye, Moira. How could I forget? All Babes. Thank goodness for Bacardi. Another few should do it for September.’

Addison was beaming all over his face but it quickly disappeared when his mobile rang. He answered with a series of nods and shakes of his head and monosyllabic answers.

‘Fucksake,’ Addison growled as he finished the call. ‘There’s no fucking end to it.’

‘Another shooting?’

Winter realized he’d said it almost as much in hope as anything else and that Addison had heard it in his voice.

‘Don’t get excited, wee man. No, that was from Monteith. Some muppet has firebombed Terry Gilmartin’s place. His five-year-old son was right in the firing line and he’s in intensive care. They don’t think he’s going to make it.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Probably not. More likely to be the Quinns. Colin’s pulled overtime and is on the case so we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight. Well, you can sleep. I’ve got other things in mind.’

‘You’re a nightmare, Addison.’

‘Thanks.’

Addison threw three pints down his neck in the forty minutes that they were in the Oak, the place buzzing around them with post-match post-mortems. Winter could see that he was on edge, full of jokes and bravado but he was under strain. His drinking levels had stepped up big time and something was weighing heavily on his mind.

They squeezed their way out of the pub and tumbled back onto the street where the two taxis they had ordered were waiting for them. Addison was heading for the nurse’s bed and Winter said that he was going home. Except that he wasn’t going home, of course, he was going to Rachel’s flat on Highburgh Road.

As both cars were ready to move off, Winter wound down the window in the back of his cab and beckoned for Addison to do the same.