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nose told me he liked his beer and whisky. So did his lunchtime visits to the Imperial Bar.
    He lived an easy fifteen-minute drive from his shop, a big semi in Whiteinch with garden front and back. His wife was a faded woman with hard-worked hair, nicotine skin and 1980s clothes. I twice saw two guys who were probably grown-up kids that had flown the coop.
    I watched him get into his car to drive to the shop.
    I watched him walk from his shop to the bank and saw him stop fully five times to chat with this person or that.
    Billy Hutchison knew everyone in the street and they all knew him. He had a joke for most, a quiet word for others. For every one of them he had a breezy smile. He tousled kids’ hair, he patted dogs and he waved at passing cars. Chances are he would have helped old ladies across the road if any of them needed it. He was Santa, offering 2–1 the field.
    It didn’t make any difference. His was the name at the end of my finger and that was all that mattered. Carr had made it easy for me by being a total fanny but that wasn’t the point. Random is random.
    I slipped into the pub and watched Billy. I was much more comfortable in the Imperial than I had been in the Corinthian. The beer, bunnets and bandits hid me better than champagne and chandeliers. No one looked twice.
    Billy held court at a table in the corner. He sat with cronies and there was a lot of laughing and waving of hands. They all enjoyed the craic but Billy was king. No doubt about it.
    The bunnets – whether they wore them or not – knew their place. They could have a pop at Billy, make a joke at his expense, didn’t matter. When Billy spoke they listened and laughed. He was the money man and that bought him stature.
    I watched him knock back a pint of special and a large whisky. He wolfed down a plate of lasagne and chips. Chips with lasagne? Christ, the ‘chef’ deserved killing.
    He had another pint and two more double whiskies. He chased the lasagne and chips salad down with apple pie and cream.
    He had lasagne on his shirt, spots of cream on his collar and a mix of the whole mess on his face. To celebrate, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and burped. It was more than a rift. It was an open-mouth belch that he exaggerated by making it roar from his belly.
    Billy the bookie sat back to let everyone marvel at his talent and his mates duly paid homage by all laughing with him.
    I guess you can find a reason to kill anyone if you look hard enough. Billy Hutchison – nice old guy, burping slob – had just signed his warrant. I finished my drink, left the pub and went home.
    It was fully two weeks until I went back to Maryhill and went into Billy’s shop. I’d seen him go into the Imperial just after twelve and the first race was the 2.00 at Sandown. Billy would be back in the bookies by 1.30 so that gave him nearly an hour and a half to fill his belly and display his manners.
    I walked and waited – I didn’t need to watch him eat again. Walking when you have nowhere to go and no wish to be noticed is a strange thing. You can’t just look aimless, there has to be a direction about you. Pick a spot in front of you and walk quick enough, not too quick. No eye contact, keep in the shadows, be casual. Walk as if you are whistling without actually doing so.
    I got far enough, checked my watch, looked around as if I was a bit lost and making my mind up. No idea if anyone was actually watching me. Checked my watch again, puffed out my cheeks and turned around.
    Back to Billy’s.
    It was ten past two, the first race was over and the place should have filled up a bit. More customers, more cover.
    I had one worry though and there was no way I could think of to test it except by going in. Suck it and see, no other way to go. CCTV. The bane of my frigging life. Well, my new life.
    I had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Pros. Cons. There were no pros. I would say that I lost sleep over it but I didn’t sleep much anyway.