the warren of streets until I was far enough away to feel safe hailing a cab. I had him take me to The Rock at the top end of Hyndland Road. Hardy and Newman would be looking for me, and I didn't want to make it too hard on them-I knew the conversation with them had been coming all day-Tommy's death just brought it closer.
I knew my prints were all over Tommy's shop. I could have gone back in, tried to wipe them clean, but I had been blundering around all over the place. Besides, I didn't particularly want to come face to face with whatever had attacked Tommy.
I also remembered giving him my card. And Mandy would remember me. She hadn't looked that bright, but her memory had to be good for at least a couple of hours. I got to The Rock and ordered a whisky. Suddenly I felt sober, and I determined to rectify that situation as soon as possible.
* * *
I'd chosen The Rock for a reason. Newman and Hardy knew it was my local. I'd been going in there for more than twenty years now. I was in there the night the Falkland War broke out and four of the locals signed up for the army. I was there the night the one-armed man won the eight-ball pool competition, and I was there the night they started tearing the old pub down to 'modernize' the interior. I hadn't been back as often since then-it sold food now, and let kids in-but it was still one of the places I always ended up when someone needed to find me.
I was near the end of my fourth or fifth whisky when I felt the hand of the law on my shoulder.
"Mr. Adams," Hardy said. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away," I said.
The man next to me made a mistake.
"Leave the man alone, why can't you? He's just having a drink," he said, then backed away fast as Newman appeared at his side.
"Do you have a problem wi' cops, wee man?" the policeman said.
"No. No... I didnae ken ye were the police....I...."
Newman left him alone and turned his attentions on me.
"Down the station, please," he said.
I drained my whisky in one-it looked like it would my last one for a while-and went with them.
We got out into the fresh air, and my legs started to buckle. The day finally caught up with me.
Hardy grabbed me by the arm and hauled me upwards, but the movement was too fast. I gagged, and out it came-a partially digested fish supper, a couple of pints of beer, and four whiskies. Most of it went over my own trousers, but some caught Newman, almost covering the left foot of his black, shiny, shoes-only they weren't shiny any more.
"You dirty wee bastard," one of them said. By that stage I wasn't sure who. I saw the fist coming, but wasn't able to roll away from it. It knocked me to the ground, and the last thing I saw before everything went black was the toe of a shoe heading for my head.
* * *
I woke up in the drunk cell at Maryhill Police Station. It hadn't changed much since my last visit some twelve years before-it still stank of piss and vomit, and the graffiti was still graphic, if crudely done. My head felt like someone had stepped on it, and when I touched it just above my ear I felt the lump of a developing bruise.
I had been stripped to my underpants, and given a coarse sheet to wrap around myself. My clothes were not in the cell. My cigarettes were at the foot of the bench I'd been lying on, with a box of safety matches-I obviously wasn't to be trusted with the Zippo.
My hands shook as I lit a cigarette, and not just from the cold. I was about as miserable as I could get, and it wasn't over yet; I still had 'Stan and Ollie' to face.
They made me wait, though. I had smoked five cigarettes before someone came for me. A young policeman that I didn't know led me to Interview Room One.
It had changed. They'd installed a wall-mounted tape recorder since my last visit, but I doubted if Newman and Hardy ever switched it on. They were waiting, the two of them on the same side of the desk. I sat down opposite them and lit up another Camel.
"Do I get a phone call?" I
I knew my prints were all over Tommy's shop. I could have gone back in, tried to wipe them clean, but I had been blundering around all over the place. Besides, I didn't particularly want to come face to face with whatever had attacked Tommy.
I also remembered giving him my card. And Mandy would remember me. She hadn't looked that bright, but her memory had to be good for at least a couple of hours. I got to The Rock and ordered a whisky. Suddenly I felt sober, and I determined to rectify that situation as soon as possible.
* * *
I'd chosen The Rock for a reason. Newman and Hardy knew it was my local. I'd been going in there for more than twenty years now. I was in there the night the Falkland War broke out and four of the locals signed up for the army. I was there the night the one-armed man won the eight-ball pool competition, and I was there the night they started tearing the old pub down to 'modernize' the interior. I hadn't been back as often since then-it sold food now, and let kids in-but it was still one of the places I always ended up when someone needed to find me.
I was near the end of my fourth or fifth whisky when I felt the hand of the law on my shoulder.
"Mr. Adams," Hardy said. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away," I said.
The man next to me made a mistake.
"Leave the man alone, why can't you? He's just having a drink," he said, then backed away fast as Newman appeared at his side.
"Do you have a problem wi' cops, wee man?" the policeman said.
"No. No... I didnae ken ye were the police....I...."
Newman left him alone and turned his attentions on me.
"Down the station, please," he said.
I drained my whisky in one-it looked like it would my last one for a while-and went with them.
We got out into the fresh air, and my legs started to buckle. The day finally caught up with me.
Hardy grabbed me by the arm and hauled me upwards, but the movement was too fast. I gagged, and out it came-a partially digested fish supper, a couple of pints of beer, and four whiskies. Most of it went over my own trousers, but some caught Newman, almost covering the left foot of his black, shiny, shoes-only they weren't shiny any more.
"You dirty wee bastard," one of them said. By that stage I wasn't sure who. I saw the fist coming, but wasn't able to roll away from it. It knocked me to the ground, and the last thing I saw before everything went black was the toe of a shoe heading for my head.
* * *
I woke up in the drunk cell at Maryhill Police Station. It hadn't changed much since my last visit some twelve years before-it still stank of piss and vomit, and the graffiti was still graphic, if crudely done. My head felt like someone had stepped on it, and when I touched it just above my ear I felt the lump of a developing bruise.
I had been stripped to my underpants, and given a coarse sheet to wrap around myself. My clothes were not in the cell. My cigarettes were at the foot of the bench I'd been lying on, with a box of safety matches-I obviously wasn't to be trusted with the Zippo.
My hands shook as I lit a cigarette, and not just from the cold. I was about as miserable as I could get, and it wasn't over yet; I still had 'Stan and Ollie' to face.
They made me wait, though. I had smoked five cigarettes before someone came for me. A young policeman that I didn't know led me to Interview Room One.
It had changed. They'd installed a wall-mounted tape recorder since my last visit, but I doubted if Newman and Hardy ever switched it on. They were waiting, the two of them on the same side of the desk. I sat down opposite them and lit up another Camel.
"Do I get a phone call?" I
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