The Quaker. Liam McIlvanney
Quaker. You could, for all she knows.’
‘Spent an evening with him,’ Goldie said. ‘She was in his company. Shared a taxi.’
‘Poured into the taxi. Pished, by all accounts. Hers included. You said it yourself, for fuck sake. You said it to Cochrane.’
‘She was there!’ Goldie threw an arm up and his cue caught the lampshade, sent it swinging. His face danced in and out of the yellow glare. ‘She saw him. She spoke to him. What – we just fucking ignore her?’
McCormack reached out to steady the shade. ‘I don’t think she’s feeling ignored, exactly. Anyway, at this stage it hardly matters.’
‘Because you’re shutting us down.’
‘Cause you’re not fucking catching him.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because he’s dead, Detective.’ McCormack swirled the last of the black in his glass, skulled it. ‘He’s dead or else he’s gone, he’s left the city. It’s seven months since the last one. You think he’s biding his time? It’s finished. You had your window, you never took it. We playing pool here or what?’
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