The Bad Fire by Campbell Armstrong Page B

said, ‘Your grapevine’s working.’
    â€˜We like to keep our feelers out,’ Tay said. He smiled now, but without enthusiasm. He had a small mouth and tiny teeth. His hands were granite things, enormous, like industrial sculptures. He had the watchful eyes of a prizefighter. ‘I’m in charge of your father’s murder investigation.’
    Interested suddenly, Eddie leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘How far along are you? Have you identified the shooter –’
    â€˜So far,’ Tay said, ‘no, no shooter. All I can tell you is your father was killed by a person unknown using a fortycalibre handgun. He was sitting in the back seat of his car – a 1998 Mazda – when he was shot. We’ve ruled out robbery. Your father’s wallet was in his pocket. He had a wad of money. Eight hundred and twenty pounds, give or take. The man who was his driver, a longtime acquaintance by the name of Matthew Bones, AKA Matty, has vanished. Nobody knows where. He hasn’t been seen.’
    â€˜Is he a suspect?’ Eddie asked.
    â€˜He’d been in your father’s company for several hours before the murder, and now he’s disappeared, so let’s just say we’d like to talk to him.’ Tay spoke slowly. He appeared to weigh his sentences for possible ambiguities. His pauses were finely calibrated.
    Perlman spoke now. His voice was gruff but sympathetic, although his accent was thick and hard for Eddie to follow. ‘We’re looking for him, Mr Mallon. You may be sure. We’re checking all his usual haunts.’ Aw his yewshall hawntz .
    Matty Bones: Eddie Mallon searched his memory. He thought he saw a shadow more than thirty years old, that of a very small man with callused hands – had he encountered Bones in the company of his father a couple of times? But so many men had drifted into his father’s orbit, men who drank bottled beer in the sitting room of the house in Onslow Drive and filled the room with laughter and cigarette smoke. Bones could have been one of those men.
    Tay said, ‘You’re a policeman in Manhattan.’
    Eddie said yes, he was.
    Tay looked at Scullion. ‘The Big Apple, Scullion. Kojak and such. I was there once. Didn’t like the place. New Yorkers think they live at the centre of the universe. Everything else in the world is crude and unsophisticated. Including police activity. Let me say this. We don’t get as much gun-play in this country as you do. So we do our policing a wee bit different here, Mallon.’
    â€˜I’m sure you do,’ Eddie said. Three cops, he thought. Quite a welcoming committee.
    Tay said, ‘Some people in your situation – especially in your occupation – might fly into Glasgow gung-ho about finding their father’s killer. That kind of stuff makes it hard for me to stay focused. And so I get cranky. Right, Sandy?’
    Scullion, Tay’s foil, said, ‘Very. Worse than cranky.’
    Tay said, ‘So let’s understand each other, shall we?’
    â€˜I don’t intend to make a nuisance of myself,’ Eddie said. ‘All I ask is you keep me posted if anything develops.’
    Tay said, ‘No problem. We’ll keep you up to date. A simple courtesy.’
    Eddie said thanks, but he wasn’t sure how deep the sincerity ran here. This could be the soft-shoe brush-off, the old we’ll-call-you routine.
    Tay asked, ‘When are you leaving?’
    â€˜After the funeral.’
    â€˜And the funeral’s …?’
    â€˜Friday,’ Eddie said. The subtext here was unspoken, but it wasn’t subtle, he thought. Finding Jackie Mallon’s killer isn’t your concern, Eddie, old chap. It’s the business of the Strathclyde Police. No outsiders need apply.
    Tay consulted a typewritten paper on the desk. ‘You’re staying with your sister Joyce in Ingleby Drive, Dennistoun. So if I need you for anything, I