Free Snapshot by Craig Robertson Page A

Uncle Danny? It’s Tony.’
    ‘Jeezus, is it Christmas already?’
    ‘Aye, I know. Sorry it’s been so long since I called.’
    ‘Aye, that’s what you always say. Don’t worry about it, son. How you doing anyway? Still photographing the ones that can’t run away?’
    ‘It’s the only way I can get them to sit still, Dan.’
    ‘Very good. Okay, enough of the small talk. What do you want?’
    Winter laughed quietly.
    ‘That obvious, huh?’
    ‘Christ, son. It’s after two in the morning, you haven’t called for weeks and you sound like you’ve seen the ghost of Jinky Johnstone wearing a Rangers top. Aye, it’s that obvious.’
    Danny Neilson was ex-police. He was in the job for thirty years, man and boy, and could never quite stop being a cop. He never rose higher than a detective sergeant even though he had twice the brains of most of the men above him. Most of his career he was happy just catching crooks even though Auntie Janette was always on at him to go for a promotion. By the time she had finally convinced him of the idea, he was too old. Suited him fine though, he always said he was born a sergeant and would die one.
    These days he worked even though he didn’t have to. His police pension was better than a decent wage and Danny was kicking on to sixty-five but he couldn’t or wouldn’t sit on his arse and collect the money. He worked as a superintendent on the taxi rank at Central Station, keeping drunken wasters from jumping queues and battering lumps out of each other. Winter had given up asking Danny why he wanted to stand outside in the rain dealing with the arseholes of the morning hours. Too young to watch Coronation Street and drink milk was the only answer Uncle Danny ever gave him but they both knew it wasn’t the truth.
    ‘You’re right, Dan. There is something. I wanted to know if you’d heard about the shooting in the east end. Malky Quinn.’
    There was a slight pause and then a deadpan answer.
    ‘I heard.’
    ‘It’s not on the news. Not his name, anyway, so how did you . . .’
    ‘Fucksake, Tony. If you wanted to know what was on the news then you’d have put the fucking telly on rather than phoned me.’
    ‘Aye. True.’
    ‘So ask me what you want to ask for and stop dancing with me. I’m tired and you know I’ve no time for that shite.’
    Big Danny Neilson wasn’t much for small talk or ceremony and always made a point of calling a spade a shovel.
    ‘What have you heard, Dan? Has one of Caldwell’s boys shot Malky Quinn in retaliation for shooting their gaffer?’
    There was a long sigh on the other end of the phone before Neilson’s gruff tones responded.
    ‘Not from what I’m hearing, no. It could be. You couldn’t rule anything out with these cunts but it’s not looking that way right now.’
    ‘How come? It’s surely the most obvious thing?’
    ‘That’s right, Anthony. And how many times have I told you not to jump to the obvious conclusion?’
    ‘More than once. What are they saying, then?’
    ‘Mate of mine says that they are spooked by how similar it is to the Caldwell shooting. If Caldwell’s guys wanted to take out Quinn then there’s a hundred, a thousand ways they could have done it but this was near as dammit the same.’
    ‘Same guy, same gun?’
    ‘Fucksake, Tony. Did we not just have the jumping to conclusions conversation?’
    Winter ignored him and ploughed on regardless.
    ‘So what have we got then, Uncle Danny? Claim jumpers? Someone wanting to huckle these guys and move in on their operations?’
    ‘Christ. Do you know how long I was out in the pishing rain tonight, son? Do you know how tired my bones are? I finally get in and think I can get on the outside of a glass of Jura and listen to a bit of Dean Martin but instead I get one half of the Hardy Boys on the phone asking me all kinds of shite. How the fuck do I know, Tony? Eh? How the fuck do I know?’
    Because you always know more than you are letting on, Uncle Danny, Winter