Billy to make it the first of the night. She didn’t see why she should go and see the police on her own time. It was News business anyway.
It occurred to her that they might want to talk to Billy as well, he’d been there after all. If anyone had seen the money change hands it would be him.
“By the way,” she said, trying to be kind, hoping he would be if they asked him about it, “I told McVie about young Willie and the Partick Thistle tryout.”
“Oh, right, yeah. What did he say?”
“Said the Jags are shite.”
Billy smiled fondly at the road and looked at her in the mirror. “I like that.”
“I think he misses you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we’ll get engaged.”
They were traveling west, passing the gothic university perched high on the hill. They took Dumbarton Road, a broad thoroughfare that cut through the west of the city. At one point the fast road became Partick high street. Billy called it the shooting gallery because the pedestrians would throw themselves across the road, defying buses and cars. It was deserted tonight, the only bright shop light from a chip shop window.
Billy pulled into a side street and drew up outside Partick Marine. The building looked like a mock-Georgian office block. The pale blue door was wide and rounded at the top, with a row of matching windows to the left. On the right side of the door, a blank wall was topped by a stone balustrade interspersed with wild shrubs and stringy tufts of grass. Behind, visible only now because it was so dark in the street, tired yellow lights leaked from tiny barred windows.
The Marine was once the busiest police station in Glasgow. It was a base for policing the river back when Partick and next door Anderston were stop-offs for fishermen from the north and the world community of sailors. Immigrants from the highlands and islands had settled in Partick. The older policemen tended to be from among them because, in the not too distant past, it had been an important skill for a Partick officer to be able to break up a fight between Gaelic-speaking sailors and immigrants.
Now the river had died and the Marine was separated from it by a motorway. The shipyards lay empty, rotting back into the river they had grown out of. The Partick Marine was a landlocked anomaly, a drunk tank for students from Glasgow University.
It looked quiet tonight. Lights from the tall arched windows glinted on the wet street.
Paddy opened her door. “Come and get me if anything comes over the radio, eh?”
“Sure thing.”
Paddy held her leather coat closed against the rain and ran across the deserted street to the door of the police station. She pushed it open and found herself in a noisy bacchanalian crowd of drunks in shiny suits and best dresses. She looked around, bewildered by the press of people waiting to be booked by the three uniformed officers working the wooden front desk. Then she saw the carnations in the buttonholes.
She pushed her way to the front of the queue and caught the attention of Murdo McCloud, a neat white-haired man with a soft highland accent. The rostrum he sat on night after night was a long wooden desk on a three-foot-high platform, built so that the officers could oversee the waiting room. Behind the desk the platform developed into a series of glassless windows. A corridor ran behind it, where efficient ghosts scuttled along on their nightly journeys. On a quiet night Paddy could hear footsteps and wooden creaks in the waiting room.
“Good evening.”
“Miss Meehan, how are you this very fine evening?” He burred his r’s in a way that made the tip of Paddy’s tongue tingle.
“Is this someone’s wedding?”
He nodded solemnly. “The Curse of the Free Bar.”
Next to her a drunk man in gray pleated trousers, skinny leather tie, and wedge haircut was swaying wildly in the arms of a small, elderly woman, possibly his mother. She hoped it was his mother.
“Someone from this station phoned the paper and asked me to
It occurred to her that they might want to talk to Billy as well, he’d been there after all. If anyone had seen the money change hands it would be him.
“By the way,” she said, trying to be kind, hoping he would be if they asked him about it, “I told McVie about young Willie and the Partick Thistle tryout.”
“Oh, right, yeah. What did he say?”
“Said the Jags are shite.”
Billy smiled fondly at the road and looked at her in the mirror. “I like that.”
“I think he misses you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we’ll get engaged.”
They were traveling west, passing the gothic university perched high on the hill. They took Dumbarton Road, a broad thoroughfare that cut through the west of the city. At one point the fast road became Partick high street. Billy called it the shooting gallery because the pedestrians would throw themselves across the road, defying buses and cars. It was deserted tonight, the only bright shop light from a chip shop window.
Billy pulled into a side street and drew up outside Partick Marine. The building looked like a mock-Georgian office block. The pale blue door was wide and rounded at the top, with a row of matching windows to the left. On the right side of the door, a blank wall was topped by a stone balustrade interspersed with wild shrubs and stringy tufts of grass. Behind, visible only now because it was so dark in the street, tired yellow lights leaked from tiny barred windows.
The Marine was once the busiest police station in Glasgow. It was a base for policing the river back when Partick and next door Anderston were stop-offs for fishermen from the north and the world community of sailors. Immigrants from the highlands and islands had settled in Partick. The older policemen tended to be from among them because, in the not too distant past, it had been an important skill for a Partick officer to be able to break up a fight between Gaelic-speaking sailors and immigrants.
Now the river had died and the Marine was separated from it by a motorway. The shipyards lay empty, rotting back into the river they had grown out of. The Partick Marine was a landlocked anomaly, a drunk tank for students from Glasgow University.
It looked quiet tonight. Lights from the tall arched windows glinted on the wet street.
Paddy opened her door. “Come and get me if anything comes over the radio, eh?”
“Sure thing.”
Paddy held her leather coat closed against the rain and ran across the deserted street to the door of the police station. She pushed it open and found herself in a noisy bacchanalian crowd of drunks in shiny suits and best dresses. She looked around, bewildered by the press of people waiting to be booked by the three uniformed officers working the wooden front desk. Then she saw the carnations in the buttonholes.
She pushed her way to the front of the queue and caught the attention of Murdo McCloud, a neat white-haired man with a soft highland accent. The rostrum he sat on night after night was a long wooden desk on a three-foot-high platform, built so that the officers could oversee the waiting room. Behind the desk the platform developed into a series of glassless windows. A corridor ran behind it, where efficient ghosts scuttled along on their nightly journeys. On a quiet night Paddy could hear footsteps and wooden creaks in the waiting room.
“Good evening.”
“Miss Meehan, how are you this very fine evening?” He burred his r’s in a way that made the tip of Paddy’s tongue tingle.
“Is this someone’s wedding?”
He nodded solemnly. “The Curse of the Free Bar.”
Next to her a drunk man in gray pleated trousers, skinny leather tie, and wedge haircut was swaying wildly in the arms of a small, elderly woman, possibly his mother. She hoped it was his mother.
“Someone from this station phoned the paper and asked me to
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