Free Snapshot by Craig Robertson

Caldwell?’
    ‘Maybe. Seems the obvious thing. Need to go see what they are saying. Love you and leave you.’
    The L word hung awkwardly between them for a second until she pulled her top over her head and poked her tongue out at him.
    ‘Figure of speech. You be here when I get back?’
    ‘I was thinking I could come with you.’
    ‘Aye right. How are we going to explain that one, Einstein? You show up without Addy giving you a call. What you been doing, listening in to police scanners? That’s an offence, you know.’
    ‘Well . . .’ The thought that she could actually tell people that they had a relationship clearly wasn’t obvious to her at that moment. And maybe it wasn’t the time to discuss it.
    ‘Well, let me know what’s going on. Maybe see you when you get back, depends how long you will be.’
    Rachel planted a quick kiss on his lips, at the same time grabbing at his cock under the covers. With a fleeting grin she stood up and left, closing the door behind her.
    Cairns Caldwell. Malky Quinn. Either somebody had it in for the bad boys or they had it in for each other.
    The man they called the Mighty Quinn was an old school thug. Not renowned for his brains but well known for his ruthlessness, he and his family ruled the east end the hard way, breaking heads and legs as he saw fit. They had the bulk of the city’s heroin trade locked up through links to Turkish gangs, a dirty business that didn’t bother them for a second. What did it matter to them if anyone was stupid enough to inject that shit into their veins?
    Now Malky was lying somewhere in Kinnear Road in the east end, a hole in his head and blood on the pavement. Some lucky bastard would be photographing it, Winter thought. Probably some scene examiner who wouldn’t value it, wouldn’t see it for what it was. Would just be thinking evidence and court, dispassion and objectivity.
    He wanted to follow Rachel. Sneak out of the window like a teenager and head for Kinnear Road. No point though. He knew he’d already shat on his copybook enough for one day and, anyway, it was pitch black outside. The only way he’d get any worthwhile picture was to be standing right over the body. And Two Soups or whoever was on duty was never going to allow that.
    Pitch black. If a sniper took out Quinn in the dark then it was one serious motherfucker. If he took him out from the same kind of distance as they reckoned the shooter took Caldwell from then it was a professional motherfucker.
    Winter turned on both the television and the radio in search of news. Nothing.
    Cairns Caldwell and Malky Quinn. Even if this stopped right now it was enough to have the gutterbelly shitting golf balls for months. So much about it said it wouldn’t stop. Two of the biggest, hardest, most untouchable villains had been nailed in the most vengeful, macho-ridden city on the planet. It never stops there. There is always another one who wants his name above the door. An eye for an eye, a life for a life, somebody must die for the death of my strife. Someone else was going to be killed, he’d lay money on it.
    Never mind golf balls, there would be people all over Glasgow who would be shitting bowling balls at the thought of what might happen next.
    For an hour and a half he flipped between TV and radio, trying to find any mention of the shooting. It came in a trickle: police incident, reports of a shot being fired, man seriously injured. The media was way behind. His itch had subsided a bit, knowing that he’d missed the photograph and that there was nothing he could do about it, but he was still keen to know what had happened and why. Winter knew he’d get his balls in his hands if he phoned Rachel. Addison and the other cops whose names were in his phone were out too because he couldn’t explain or justify calling them. There was someone else who might know and could certainly find out though. He reached for his mobile and waited till a gravelly voice growled hello.
    ‘Hi,