population between twelve and twenty-five.
Winter focused on the wound. It was almost big enough to reach inside and grab those punctured organs, enough room to get in and search for the spirit that was no longer there. The skin was split and smiling up at him, the treasures behind already starting to fester without the beat of life to sustain them.
Focus. Shoot. Every detail, from every angle. So tempting to lift the T-shirt and see the full extent of the damage but that was strictly forbidden. Look but don’t touch. Record but don’t interfere. Observe but don’t violate. Chronicle but don’t contaminate.
Designer trainers, at least?120 the pair. Hideous, flash shoes in black and gold. The Burberry cap that had tumbled off his lank, unkempt hair and lay by the side of his sleeping head. The navy-blue Ben Sherman jacket sprayed with his own blood and the Tag Heuer that was smashed on his wrist but still ticked even though his heart had stopped. It all said money. It all said bad taste. It all said trash with cash.
His blue-purple lips said no. His eyes said please. A rabbit caught in the headlights of his own destiny. Bastard child of greed and poverty.
All that was laid out in the broken body before him, writ large in the wound in his middle and on his freeze- frame face. Sammy was a picture all right.
This was why Winter took photographs. To show it how it was, every wart, every insult, every injury, because every city is defined just as much by its ugly wounds as its architecture. He’d always imagined that if you cut Glasgow’s gutterbelly, you’d see it run blue and green with bitterness but with as much hope as there was bile. It was a great city where terrible things happened, things that should never be ignored but should be captured for ever.
His job had taken him to dark places that most civilians never go, seeing bloody puddles where life used to be, recording the moment before the mourners descended. All life was there, sitting cosy right next to death.
That was the bit that always got to him, just how close they sit next to each other. A split second, a nanosecond, an angstrom from one to the next. And he was there to ensure that that precise moment, where life turns to death and hope turns to shit, is always recorded right there on their face. Recorded for ever by a Nikon FM2 and a Canon EOS-1D.
A thing of beauty really.
CHAPTER 2
‘If I remember right then Sammy boy is from Royston, east end somewhere for sure.’ The voice came from behind Winter and dragged him out of his dwam. It was Addison. ‘He’s thirty-two, thirty-three. Old to be still knocking it out on the street. Sure-fire sign he was going nowhere fast. Kind of bam that pushes out coke, heroin, jellies, ecstasy, dope, uppers, downers, steroids; whatever the junkies want, this cunt would stuff it down their throat, in their arm or up their nose. ’
Addison was angry and it was obvious in his voice. He’d seen way too much of this shit.
‘Just a foot soldier in Malky Quinn’s army,’ he went on. ‘Funny how Malky and his like never end up lying stabbed in the rain. It’s always the Sammy Ross’s that get it. One of Malky’s boys… brilliant. Means trouble for someone. Probably means trouble for everyone. Fuck’s sake, it’s not even eight o’clock and the day’s already turned to shit. I want a bacon roll.’
Winter had finished his photographs but hadn’t stopped looking. He was irritated at Addison for shaking him out of it but when he caught the look on Two Soups’s face he thought maybe it was just as well. The old sod looked fit to burst. Winter ignored his glare.
‘You ever stop thinking about your stomach, Addy,’ he said as he stood up. ‘No wonder you are such a fat bastard.’
The DI was six foot four and skinny as a rake, his height just making him look even thinner. He was just about to come back with a smart-arse remark of his own when his DS, a haunted-looking guy with dirty fair hair, name of Colin Monteith, wandered up towing a human skelf wearing trackies, a heavy white jacket and the obligatory baseball cap. Junkie ned. Monteith must have had the uniformed boys talking to the walking dead that were anywhere near the market at that time of the morning. Though if any of them had ever known anything, chances were they had already forgotten. Addison rolled his eyes as if to say, jeez, this better be good.
Monteith told the skelf to stay put and came up to where the pair were standing.
‘Might have a live one, Addy. This guy was dossing in the market but he actually knows what day it is, so I’d say he’s worth a wee word. Says he heard noises that sounded like it was our man meeting his maker.’
‘Knows what day it is?’ Winter butted in. ‘Does that qualify him for some award scheme? Junkie of the Month maybe.’
Monteith fired him a dark look.
‘I’ll have a word,’ said Addison with a sigh. ‘He might be as near to compos mentis as we are going to get from the zoomers round here. Bring him over.’
The inspector’s lanky frame towered over the undernourished user, leaving him in no doubt who was in charge. The skelf looked up at Addison uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.
‘So, you heard noises?’ It was as much a statement as a question. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘It’s like ah telt the other polis. Ah’d been sleeping. It was still dark o’clock. Know what I mean, man?’
Addison looked like he was resisting the temptation to tell him to get on with it but settled for a nod instead.
‘Aye well, it wis still pure dark an ah heard voices. Arguing, man. But no that loud. It went on for a bit then there wis this bit eh a mad scream that stopped quick an ah heard the guy hit the deck.’
‘What did you hear after that?’
‘Nothing, man.’
‘Nothing? Anyone walking away, anyone running? Anyone crying for help? A car starting, maybe a motorbike? Something hitting the ground after being thrown away?’
‘No. Well, aye. Someone walking away. I’d say he wisnae running, kinda slow like he was maybe dragging something. Naebody crying for help though. Would say he was well deid.’
‘And what did you do? Call the police like a good citizen?’
‘No way, man. Sorry but no way. I was jist laying low in case the guy came back. Nae point in me getting offed as well. I might have fell asleep again. No sure. Next thing I know the place is full of polis.’
‘Did you see the person that did it? Height, hair colour, anything?’
‘It wis dark, man, telt ye. Anyways, didnae lift ma heid tae look. Just listened.’
‘What did you mean when you said he was dragging something? Carrying something with him?’
‘Mibbes. Ah’ve nae idea. Carrying, dragging. Mibbes.’
Addison shook his head despairingly then nodded Monteith back in to take the junkie away and finish taking notes.
‘Tell him anything and everything you remember and don’t go booking any foreign holidays any time soon.’
‘Aye, very funny. Any chance of a few quid for coming forward?’
‘Sure. See the officer at the cash desk on your way back out the market. Mind and duck in case there are any pigs flying past.’
The skelf’s comeback about pigs died on his lips and he slunk off with Monteith’s meaty paw on his arm.
‘Sunday, bloody Sunday,’ moaned Addison. ‘Hurry up and finish photographing that muppet and bring your camera with you,’ he told Winter. ‘There’s a van down the street that does good grub even though most of the folk who go to it are too shit-faced to know the difference. You can photograph me eating two bacon rolls. Brown sauce on it and a cup of coffee. You’re paying.’
Winter didn’t bother asking why. Just as Addison didn’t bother asking why he’d been photographing the dealer’s body with his Canon EOS-1D as well as the standard issue Nikon FM2. The same reason Addison didn’t ask why Winter had sneaked a shot of the haunted look on the skelf’s face as he stared down at Sammy’s corpse. Addison was one of only two people who knew about Winter’s collection. He’d even said Winter should stage an exhibition but that was usually when he was pished.
