Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  The old line about déjà vu all over again jumped into my head. His angry eyes dared me to keep the routine going. I cut it short. ‘His wife.’

  ‘He’s not here. He asked for his cards a couple of weeks back.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged and started writing.

  ‘Any idea where he went?’

  ‘Nope?’

  ‘No forwarding address?’

  ‘Nope?’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  He gave me his attention one last time. ‘McNeil worked here,’ he said. ‘Now he doesn’t. Anything else?’

  I chanced my arm a little further. ‘You play darts with him?’

  He didn’t answer. He was done with me.

  Newlands was an unpleasant place to earn your corn, unless you were one of the gang, in with the bricks. In the darts team.

  I should’ve brought Pat Logue with me. He would’ve got more. When I arrived at NYB, Patrick was at the bar nursing the dregs of his drink. He smiled when he saw me, though not his 100% chancer smile. He gave me his pleased-to-see-you-how-can-you-help-me expression; a grin on the edge of defeat. I smelled continued domestic disharmony.

  ‘You look like you could use another likeness of Her Majesty.’

  A light came on behind his eyes. ‘Who d’you want me to kill?’

  I laid it out. ‘A boy takes his own life. The father can’t handle it and leaves the mother the day before the funeral. According to her he blamed himself because their relationship soured. Christopher was the apple of his eye. They went to Celtic Park together.’ I handed him the photograph Mrs McNeil had given me. ‘Sometimes they fished. One day the boy announced he didn’t want to go with his father anymore. Maybe he outgrew the arrangement. He was a teenager; it happens. Things became difficult and the mother got caught in the middle. Two males butting heads, a familiar story. Then Christopher snapped.

  ‘The day before the funeral the husband packed in his job, took the car, lifted money and disappeared. His wife’s worried he’s having a breakdown and wants him found. He’s big on sports, all kinds. He liked to hunt, took his guns with him. She thinks he might do something stupid. Straightforward. Except it isn’t. McNeil doesn’t want to be found. He travelled light. A few clothes. No mobile phone. It isn’t a crime to quit your marriage or your job. He’s done nothing to interest the authorities. This was two weeks ago. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Did the boy leave a note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Juice. Maybe the guy stopped for petrol. We could try the nearest stations, somebody might remember him. We have the car reg, that’s a link. You’ve got connections who could keep an eye out.’

  He meant DS Geddes. Patrick and Andrew had been coming to NYB since the beginning. They were from different sides of the fence, spoke only when it couldn’t be avoided and gave each other a wide berth the rest of the time.

  Patrick was warming up. ‘His last conversation with his wife, what did he say?’

  ‘She doesn’t recall any final conversation, they were about to bury their son, they were in shock. But well done, you’ve got the scent. We need to know more about the suicide.’

  ‘I threaten to put my boys out of the house every other day, ungrateful young tykes. Liam especially. It’s the age they’re at. How serious does it have to be for a teenager to top himself?’

  Good question.

  Nine

  For once he didn’t do his trick with the bagel; he ate it like a normal human being. Today he was DS Geddes, not my pal Andrew. And he wasn’t enjoying himself. It was the middle of the afternoon, we were in NYB, Andrew stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into the cup of black liquid. ‘The autopsy,’ he said. ‘I’ve read the report.’

  I waited.

  ‘Good news and bad news.’

  ‘What’s the good news?’

  Andrew sipped his coffee. ‘Your friend was out of it. Heroin. Did you know he was a junkie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As high as the moon.’

  ‘What’s the bad news?’

  ‘He didn’t drown. No water in the lungs. He was dead when he went into the loch. Somebody stabbed him. Just once, through the heart. The body was dumped in the drink. No attempt to hide it. Tortured. A professional job. Cigarette burns on the torso and genitals and five fingers missing from the right hand.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘The officer in charge is DI Nigel Platt, haven’t run into him, transferred from the Met, rubbed a few people up the wrong way already. Word is he’s a bastard. Keep your guard high, he doesn’t like civilians.’

  ‘Not much I can tell. I hadn’t seen Ian Selkirk in years.’

  ‘Then tell him that.’ He drained his cup and stood. ‘Double shift for me, the divorce is costing a bomb. Next incarnation I’m coming back as a lawyer.’

  ‘A scum-sucking bottom-feeder.’

  He laughed. ‘DS in the CID, I’m halfway there. I gave Platt your number, expect his call.’

  ‘Will do, Andrew, I appreciate you taking the time. Nothing on the car reg yet?’

  ‘Not so far.’ He towered above me and put a hand on my shoulder. I thought he was about to commiserate about Ian. Not so. Andrew Geddes was as wrapped up in himself as everyone else, even when he was telling me a friend had been murdered.

  He said, ‘Do yourself a favour, Charlie, never get married. It’s a mugs game.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Do that.’

  From then on I was in big demand: DI Platt called to say he was on his way. I guessed he was a policeman before he spoke or showed his card. Not as tall as Andrew or as well built, nevertheless he carried himself like a man used to being listened to. His eyes were grey, alert and disapproving, the intelligence behind them clear. He introduced himself and his colleague and sat down. ‘It’s in connection with a suspicious death. DS Geddes tells me you’re aware of the case. At the moment we have nothing to go on. Can I ask you a few questions?’

  One of those requests that wasn’t.

  ‘The man you recognised at the city morgue, what was his name?’

  ‘Ian Selkirk.’

  ‘How did you know him?’

  ‘We were friends from university.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘The nineties.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘A dozen years, easy. We lost touch.’

  ‘I thought you were friends?’

  ‘We were. For a while.’

  ‘Any idea what he’d been doing since then?’

  ‘None, last I heard he was abroad. It was a shock to see him like that.’

  ‘Is there anybody else, friends, family, business associates who may be able to tell us more?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry. We hadn’t spoken in a long time.’

  ‘I’ll need you to identify the body, this afternoon if possible.’

  ‘I can be there at four.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘my colleague will meet you.’

  The moment the door closed behind them Pat Logue was at my shoulder. ‘Haven’t got in over your head, have you, Charlie?’

  ‘That’s you you’re thinking about, Patrick. Beat it back to the bar will you?’

  The procession ended with Fiona.

  What I had to tell her stuck in my throat, and there was no easy way. Tension pulled at her features, black smudges darkened the skin at the corners of her eyes. She took the chair opposite, the one DI Platt had occupied. I tried to be light. ‘How’s the new digs?’

  ‘Better. Have they released the report yet?’

  This was the hard part. ‘Unfortunately they have. It isn’t what we want to hear, Fiona.’ She leaned towards me, braced against the pain that was surely coming. ‘Ian was murdered.’

  She gasped and slumped forward. What blood was in her cheeks drained away. She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh God! Oh God! Poor Ian.’ Then tears came, quiet sobs rocking her shoulders in
a silent rhythm. I didn’t interfere; crying would be good for her. Better than any words of mine. Her voice was hoarse with sorrow. ‘How? How did he die?’

  ‘His killer doped him up, enough to leave him helpless, and stabbed him. We were right, he was too good a swimmer to drown.’

  She used a tissue on her eyes. ‘He was crazy, a mad fool, but he didn’t deserve that.’

  She hesitated, on the point of saying she’d come with me to identify the body. I cut in.

  ‘Stay here ‘til I get back. Jackie will look after you.’ There was no need for Fiona to know all of it. It wouldn’t enrich her life.

  On form Jackie Mallon was hard to beat: she could manage staff, had an eye for detail and she understood people. That Jackie hadn’t been around lately. Now she was at my elbow, zeroed in on the problem, ready to be a friend. I left them together and headed for the morgue.

  DI Platt’s colleague was waiting for me. No sign of the attendant. Everything was as before: the waiting room with its un-used chairs and hospital smell, the television in the wall and the feeling of being witness to something unhappy. When the screen came on, Ian Selkirk’s eyes were still closed in death. I nodded without having to be prompted and confirmed his identity. The detective thanked me.

  I had a question. ‘When will you release the body?’

  ‘Procurator Fiscal’s decision. I expect we’ve got all we need.’

  Saltmarket was busy; people hurrying on their way to who knew where. A man with a boozy face bustled out of the Empire bar deep in conversation with himself while vehicles collected at the traffic lights, raced to the Albert Bridge and across the river Clyde to the south side. Tomorrow would be no different. Or the day after. For our friend, Ian, it was over. But for the rest of us life went on.

  Fiona was calm; she didn’t ask how I had got on. Jackie gave a nod that told me things were better. I was glad she’d been around. We sat for a while not talking, uncertain what should happen next. Sadness dominated every sigh, every gesture, every lonely glance. In the awful reality words were inadequate.

  Fiona said, ‘I’ll organise the funeral.’

  ‘Sure you’re up to it?’

  ‘What else is there to do? I owe it to him.’

  That statement was a clue. Fiona Ramsay was blaming herself for events beyond her control. Emotion twisted reason into guilt. I’d been there. ‘I can’t recall him ever mentioning family, can you?’

  ‘No, Ian was on his own in the world. We were closer to him than anyone.’

  I corrected her. ‘You were closer. It was you he leaned on.’

  It was a foolish comment, bad timing, she broke down again. ‘Well that was his mistake. I pushed him away.’ Her eyes were wild with remorse. ‘He didn’t want to go, he needed help. I was afraid Sebastian would see the state he’d got into. Ian’s welfare never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Who’s Sebastian?’

  ‘The contractor. We depend on his business.’

  ‘So he’s a client?’

  ‘More like a partner. The money Ian lost belonged to him. That time he let us pay it back. There wouldn’t be a second chance. You don’t know him. He isn’t a guy to cross. We’re talking big money. Big money. It was only a matter of time before Ian messed up again, so I sacked him.’

  Fiona was in pain. ‘You should’ve seen his face, Charlie, like a child who doesn’t understand why everyone’s angry with him. I almost changed my mind.’

  She grabbed my wrist. ‘Don’t you see? I was supposed to be his friend but when it mattered, when it really mattered, I let him down.’

  Ian Selkirk had come to me too. I said, ‘It wasn’t just you, we both let him down. It wouldn’t have mattered how much help he got, he was always going to need more.’

  She drew away, exhausted. ‘I’ll organise the funeral.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  She lifted her head and stared into the past. ‘No, Charlie, I’ll do it, I’d feel better.’

  Arguing wasn’t an option. ‘I’ll find out when they’ll release the body.’

  She got up. ‘Call me when you know.’

  We shook hands; in a strange day nothing was stranger than that.

  ‘I don’t mean to brush you aside,’ she said. ‘This is the last thing I’ll ever do for him, can you understand?’

  ‘Of course. He meant a lot to you. Old friends are the best friends. You told me that.’

  ‘Did I? I’d forgotten.’

  Cecelia McNeil telephoned again. I hadn’t thought much about her or her husband since my first visit to the city mortuary. We’d spoken that morning when she told me about the fifteen grand. I asked her about Stephen McNeil’s friends, maybe he’d talked about changing jobs, and cut the connection with a promise to myself to give her the attention she deserved.

  I’d seen the cost of dereliction, real or imagined, in Fiona Ramsay’s haunted expression. It was a price I couldn’t meet.

  Ten

  The house was off Maryhill Road, a neat 1930’s building with a well-kept garden in front. I guessed Cecelia McNeil was responsible. The garage where Christopher died was closed.

  She was waiting for us, peeking from behind net curtains like a nosy neighbour. I brought Patrick along; he had two teenage sons and might spot something. He was quiet on the way over, not his jaunty self. I assumed his weekend hadn’t gone well. When she saw him she smiled and offered her hand. I introduced them. He raised his game and went into his Everyman act.

  The room had the feel of ordered clutter, ornaments crowded on top of the fireplace beside furniture you might inherit from your parents when they passed on. We sat on a sofa that had seen better days. Mrs McNeil poured tea into china cups that could have belonged to her grandmother and probably had. A plate of biscuits went untouched.

  She was smaller than I remembered, as fragile as the crockery.

  ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,’ she said. ‘You’re very efficient.’

  ‘We haven’t located your husband yet I’m afraid. That’s why we’re here. I asked you about friends or mention of a new job. Has anything come to you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We need to understand more about Stephen. There’s a photograph on the wall at Newlands. Darts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Stephen started the team not long after he went to work there.’

  ‘When do they play?’

  ‘Tuesday nights at the El Cid.’

  ‘Christopher ever go?’

  ‘No, darts was Stephen’s thing. Christopher wouldn’t have been interested, it was…’

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘I’m thinking of moving. In fact I’ve made the decision. This house. Too many memories. I don’t think I can ever be happy here.’

  The tragedy had stolen her resolve; she was resigned to losing her son and her husband. I tried to give her hope. ‘It’s early days, wait ‘til we locate Stephen or he gets in touch. We won’t give up.’

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She said, ‘He’s not coming back.’

  Husband or son? I couldn’t tell which one she was talking about.

  ‘You don’t know, he could be on his way right now.’

  Empty words. All I had.

  ‘He won’t, Mr Cameron.’ Her sadness weighed her down. Patrick made eye contact with me. Cecelia McNeil’s lip trembled. She cried, more like whimpered. If it had happened to me I’d cry too.

  An old upright piano stood against one wall. The green leaves of a plant drooped from a pot with a strange design, half stone, half tin, a memento of a trip, flanked by statues of the Child of Prague on one side and Christ the Redeemer on the other. Above them a crucifix leaned into the room. And a memory of my childhood, a display cabinet; dolls from around the world dressed in national costume, plates and saucers, a fan from Spain, a couple of yellowing spoons, and a tiny sack of earth from the Holy Land; the kind of stuff it took a lifetime to gather, priceless to the collector, meaningless to anyone else.r />
  With the exception of a flat screen TV in the corner, incongruent as an alien craft, nothing was even close to being new. Mrs McNeil read my mind. ‘Stephen bought it,’ she said. ‘I told him it was too big, he wouldn’t listen.’

  Someone else might have described the decor as busy. The adjective in my head was less kind. It was a strange scene, out of time, at odds with the modern world. No sign a teenager had lived here.

  ‘It would be helpful to understand more about your son. Can Patrick take a look at his room? The garage too, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  I reassured her. ‘It’s about building a picture, trying to understand. It’s how we work.’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘I suppose so. I’ve left it exactly the way it was.’

  Patrick took that as a yes and got up.

  ‘The door to the right at the top of the stairs. Just don’t touch anything.’

  Cecelia McNeil picked up where she’d left off, ‘I don’t watch television, too much violence. Can’t they find nice things to put on?’

  ‘Nice doesn’t sell, Mrs McNeil.’

  Then something I hadn’t noticed. Although the room was full of personal touches there wasn’t a single photograph. The son was close to his father, the apple of his eye she’d said, sharing a musical talent with his mother. Why was there nothing of him?

  ‘Do you have a more recent picture of your husband? In the one you gave me Christopher’s only nine or ten.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, no. We hardly ever took photographs. Such a bother.’

  I didn’t believe her. In most families an only child is the centre of the universe, every occasion, every achievement marked and celebrated. And photographed.

  ‘Where did you and your husband go on holiday? Did he have a favourite place?’

  ‘Stephen wouldn’t go abroad. He didn’t like planes and he couldn’t be sure what he was eating in a foreign country. We stuck to Scotland. Fife. He liked the east coast. Pittenweem.’

  ‘Beautiful part of the world. Has he got relations he might go to?’

  ‘No, there’s no one. Just me.’

  ‘No friends, other truckers he met on the road?’