by Owen Mullen
Tumelty asked Fulton to drive. Fulton gave him a mouthful. The useless bastard had slept all night. Now he expected a ride home. Thirty minutes beyond Fort William, Fulton took out his mobile and dialled. Sean Rafferty answered.
‘They’re on their way back.’
‘Already, they only just got there? What happened?’
‘Christ knows. Cleared out in a helluva hurry.’
Fulton recounted the strange scene on the shore in the middle of the night and the hasty departure. Sean said, ‘What was that about?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did they meet anybody up there?’
‘Nobody. Only time they went out was to the restaurant next door. I took a chance and asked reception if there had been any messages for them, a letter or a package maybe. The girl didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘All right. Keep on their tail. Let’s see where they go from here.’
Fulton held back from complaining about Tumelty; it wasn’t the right time. Sean wasn’t happy, he sounded uptight. He was reckoned to be the quiet one, not crazy like Kevin or as hard as his old man, but it was worth remembering, at the end of the day he was a Rafferty.
Twelve
We made good time to Glasgow. The anxiety of the wee small hours faded with the night and the talk was about tomorrow, the future: us. I drove straight to the airport.
‘From now on you’re staying with me. No more hotels.’
‘Assertive. I love it.’
We bought fish and chips in Byres Road and wine from Oddbins. Fiona tried to drag me round a supermarket for ‘essentials’. I held my ground. My only concession was a butcher where the sausages were so outstanding they won awards. We loaded up with them and other good things. At the flat she unpacked and settled next to me. ‘I’m happy,’ she said. ‘Really happy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Thanks, Charlie, without you I’d be out there by myself.’
‘Then that would make two of us.’
I waited for her to bring Ian into the conversation. She didn’t. Not that night.
She came to me naked and I was ready. I cupped her buttocks, she moved under me, matching every thrust with one of her own until her breathing pounded in my ear like waves breaking against the shore and we were in Thailand again, on the beach. The years apart, the wasted years, melted away. Loving her was the easiest thing I had ever done.
My cleaner arrived around ten. Fiona stayed in the bedroom, I pretended a hangover. We didn’t fool anybody. Mrs McCall knew what was going on. It was afternoon when we got out of bed. Fiona went to the shops and came back with more wine, prawns, peppers and onions, noodles and a jar of sweet and sour sauce. Later we curled on the sofa and watched some old horror movie, relishing every corny second. She lifted my mobile and fiddled with it.
‘What you doing?’
‘Setting a ringtone so when I text you’ll know it’s me.’
She chose an upbeat snatch of bubblegum pop. ‘Like it?’
‘My favourite. How have I survived without it? Do you text a lot?’
‘All the time. It’s a girl thing.’
On Sunday we made love again, slowly, and I cooked a fry up: the works; sausage, bacon, black pudding and egg; tomato, mushrooms and tattie scones.
‘Of all the things to miss about Scotland tattie scones is a definite top five.’
‘Along with Iron Bru, square sausage, Gregg’s pies and...’
‘...tandoori chicken drumsticks?’
From nowhere Ian Selkirk burst in. ‘Sorry,’ Fiona said, ‘I didn’t mean to...’
‘That’s all right, you’re allowed to remember; we both are.’
‘Yes but I have to let it be. This is an important point for us, I don’t want always to be spoiling it the way I did in Skye.’
‘You didn’t. Skye was wonderful, and so are you. How are you about the funeral?’
‘I just want it over.’
‘Let’s just enjoy each other.’
‘Sure. I over-reacted. There’s so much to decide, it freaks me out. First big decision. What will we do today, any suggestions?’
‘Why don’t we do what millions of people do?’
She grinned. ‘Thought we’d done that?’
‘I mean go to Kelvingrove.’
‘I haven’t been there for years. Old Masters and stuffed animals. A perfect combination.’
At Kelvingrove the Old Masters were there, so were the stuffed animals. We wandered, Fiona put her arm in mine, I acted as if it was the most normal thing in the world and pretended not to notice. On the first floor, Dali’s Christ of St John of the Cross was smaller than I remembered. A middle-aged female guide gave its controversial history to a group of earnest Japanese. Fiona and I tagged on.
‘Painted in 1951 the picture was inspired by a dream Dali had. It was bought in the early fifties for eight thousand two hundred pounds...’
I said, ‘It was vandalised, wasn’t it?’
She sniffed and gave me a look. I’d stolen her thunder. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m coming to that.’ I’d been admonished. ‘A man threw a brick at the canvas in 1961 because he objected to the interpretation. Spain is rumoured to have offered one hundred and twenty million for it. The offer was rejected and it remains here in Glasgow.’
We left her - not sorry to see me go - and sat in the cafe discussing what was around us. I said, ‘Museums have a hard time in the modern world. Objects in glass cases don’t impress youngsters used to electronic magic in their own homes.’
‘True, except what museums offer is unique. The real thing. The Magna Carta, the death mask of Tutankhamen, the Mona Lisa. Not some facsimile. Not Hollywood special effects.’
‘Had enough of the real thing yet?’
‘Almost. Another ten minutes. We ought to get an early night, be fresh for tomorrow.’ Fiona always was practical, one of the reasons Ian had clung to her.
‘And listen,’ I said, ‘it’ll soon be over.’
‘Will it, Charlie, will it really?’
I held her close. ‘Yes. Soon. Very soon.’
* * *
-------
* * *
Daldowie Crematorium had the aesthetics of a concentration camp; down a winding road with the hum of the motorway in our ears, through gates and along a country lane until the trees gave way to car parks and grass. Off to the right a collection of stone buildings, stark and unlovely, waited for us. Signs advised which chapel those paying their respects should go to. The sky was cloudy, rain wasn’t far away and a cold wind coloured our faces.
Fiona was subdued at the flat. I hadn’t expected anything else and respected her mood. We arrived at eight minutes to eleven. A service had just ended; another would follow ours in a parade of tears and regret. Mourners gathered outside in groups, talking, shaking hands with the principals, ready for the next part of the ritual, the funeral meal in a local hotel. We wouldn’t be needing hospitality; the only people present at Ian Selkirk’s funeral were Fiona Ramsay and me.
Fiona cried when the curtains closed and the casket was drawn behind it to the flames. I put an arm round her. A small man with a bald head crouched at the organ, glancing at the music, playing the same tune in an endless cycle. Beautiful Dreamer. Over and over. It was the most soulless occasion I ever attended.
Outside a smell hung in the air, an unpleasant reminder of what we’d witnessed. Another party arrived; no doubt their service would be more personal than ours. With the coming and going I almost missed the silver VW at the far end of the car park. I was sure the man behind the wheel hadn’t been in the first group; he made no move to join those arriving for the next cremation, and he hadn’t been with us.
‘It’s sad,’ Fiona said. ‘Ian was so popular, yet no one was here. He wasn’t bad, Charlie, whatever went wrong he wasn’t that.’
I wasn’t listening, my eyes were on the stranger.
‘Fiona, I lost touch with him years ago. I couldn’t tell you who he was.’
She bridled. ‘He was a good guy. A great guy.’
Her memory was selective. It left out his character defects. Saint Ian was being created.
‘He’d do anything to help, always willing...’
I interrupted. ‘Don’t turn round. Somebody’s watching us.’
She tensed. ‘Who is it?’
‘Nobody I recognise.’
The Volkswagen came alive, reversed and swept away, too far to get the registration or a description of the driver.
Fiona stepped closer. ‘Who was that, Charlie?’
‘Whoever it was he took a good long look.’
Fiona shivered. I guessed it had nothing to do with the weather. The rain arrived to complete a rotten morning, a drizzle that would last into the night. As we headed off more vehicles were arriving. Death was a good business to be in. I loosened my black tie.
Fiona said, ‘Who do you think that was?’
‘Probably one of Platt’s men. It’s common practice for the police to check out the funeral. Apparently some crazies like to be there. It wasn’t anybody you know, was it?’
She shrugged rain from her hair. ‘Scotland’s a foreign country to me now. I’m a stranger here.’
It was an answer, just not to my question. She sighed. ‘Well that’s that. What now?’
‘Back to NYB and coffee.’
Pat Logue was at the bar, where else? He said, ‘Funeral? Got a good day for it’ and grinned. But he was faking, Patrick wasn’t a happy bunny. ‘Anything in yet, Charlie? The fans are askin’.’
I was getting good at ignoring him, he was giving me plenty of practice. Jackie Mallon had had a renaissance; I heard her chirping away with customers. When she came to us she asked what people always ask. ‘How did it go?’
‘All right. Glad it’s behind us. Just coffee I think, Jackie. We’re not hungry.’
Fiona pulled off her gloves. ‘What’s your relationship with her?’
‘We’re friends.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘Apart from that we’re friends.’
‘That all?’
‘Absolutely. I’m not her type.’
Fiona was sinking, the strain was getting to her and I was the nearest target. ‘Because if I found out you were at it I’d cut your balls off. I’m not joking, Charlie. Don’t mess me about.’
Her face was lined and hard; the Fiona I’d seen at Bangkok airport.
‘Fiona, I’ve waited long enough. I’m hardly going to blow it, am I?’
She changed the subject, not for the better. ‘What’re we going to do about Ian?’
‘Tomorrow I have to catch up. After that I’ll start working on it.’
‘Then I’ll take the first flight I can get.’
‘You’re leaving? What about us?’
‘I’m coming back. Give me four weeks to sort things over there. Wind up the business. Speak to Sebastian. Put my villa on the market and say goodbye to people.’
‘Okay, four weeks, no longer. Then it’s me and you. This time I’m holding on. Is there anyone you know who might have a clue what Ian was doing for the past three years?’
‘I doubt it, I’ll ask. He could’ve been in Glasgow. There’s nothing to say he wasn’t.’
‘There’s nothing full stop. DI Platt might have had some luck.’ I tugged her sleeve. ‘The guy at the table in the window. He look familiar?’
A minute passed before she let her eyes go to him. ‘No. Why?’
‘He reminds me of someone, that’s all. Excuse me.’
I walked over to Patrick and told him what I needed without saying why. The fans could stop asking.
Fiona said, ‘Is everything okay?’
‘You’re keen to get started on Ian, well I’ve started.’
That night when we made love neither of us wanted it to end. We were two halves of the same being. We fitted. And there was a lot to discuss. Fiona couldn’t just quit her life in Spain. It didn’t suit me but she had to put her affairs in order.
She was fortunate. She got a seat on an early flight. I offered to run her to the airport; she refused. Of course it wasn’t necessary; she had her hire car to return. I had a premonition I’d never see her again. She put her arms round me and kissed my lips.
‘Next time I’ll be here to stay.’
‘Promise.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Don’t say that, Fiona.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll call you tonight. Nine o’clock your time.’
‘Text or call?’
‘Both. Find out who killed Ian. Do that for us, Charlie. Old friends and new beginnings, remember?’
How could I forget?
* * *
-------
* * *
I didn’t feel good about Cecelia McNeil; she hadn’t had a fair shake. It wasn’t the Enigma Code she was asking me to crack. All she wanted was somebody who cared enough to find her husband. Usually that would be me. Ian Selkirk had got in the way. No excuses, her case deserved more of a priority than I’d given it. At least it had roots; discovering who killed my old friend was a long shot.
Andrew called to tell me the car hadn’t been involved in any traffic violations. My last line petered out. In my honest injun speech I’d promised to tell her if I felt she was better off without me. That time was now.
She answered after the first ring. I got the impression she was sitting beside the phone, waiting to hear from me. I said, ‘I have to see you.’
Her response was breathless. ‘Have you found him?’
‘That’s what I want to talk about.’
Jackie and I had changed roles: she was animated, bright and cheerful today. Almost girlish. I was under a cloud. Pat Logue caught it and kept his distance; he buried his face in the Daily Record. I was on my own.
Cecelia McNeil was in her garden. She waved to me and peeled off her gloves. ‘I’m too old for this,’ she said. ‘I’d be better off in a flat. Come inside, Mr Cameron. It isn’t good news, is it?’
‘No it’s not I’m afraid.’
The room was the same suffocating collection of nothing very much. As it had been, with one exception: the plant was gone. A photograph sat in its place. Christopher McNeil was eleven or twelve when the camera captured him squinting into the sun, older than the boy with the fishing rod, and even more his mother’s child.
‘That’s new, when was it taken?’
‘A school trip six years ago. One of the teachers gave it to me. It was a good day, Christopher came home happy. I’ll get some tea.’
Tea was the last thing I wanted but she needed to be busy and I needed to let her, the least I could do. I studied the room again. On my previous visit the lack of family pictures struck a dissonant chord. Now, even with the image of young Christopher McNeil on top of the piano, I sensed I was missing something. The kettle rumbled to the boil; moments later she joined me. No china this time, two mugs, no biscuits either. The facade of normality was fading. I marvelled it had lasted so long.
She repeated her question. ‘It isn’t good news, is it, Mr Cameron?’
‘Mrs McNeil, it isn’t any news. Your husband hasn’t left a trail. I’m assuming no purchases have been made on his credit card and there have been no more bank withdrawals.’ Her silence told me I was right. ‘The usual avenues have dead ended. No trace on the car. If Newlands have information on where Stephen is they’re keeping it to themselves. We went to the El Cid last night; his friends were there, your husband wasn’t.’
Her eyes gave her away.
‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’
She straightened her skirt, guilt on her face. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the first week I tried to find him myself. Newlands were…unhelpful. I went to the Cid and saw the others. They didn’t see me. They were laughing as if nothing had changed. Of course for them nothing had. It wasn’t their son who’d killed himself. It wasn’t their…’
A knock at the door broke into her confe
ssion. She got up to answer it. Muffled voices filtered through. Cecelia McNeil returned with a man I hadn’t met. The set of her shoulders and her lips drawn tight said she was less than pleased to see him. I stood. She introduced us. ‘George Lang, Charlie Cameron. George was Christopher’s piano tutor.’
Lang nodded, we didn’t shake hands. He was mid-thirties, slightly built, not tall. His features were too fine to be handsome, against pale skin. The black three piece suit hadn’t been in vogue recently; neither the cloth nor the cut were expensive, and the colour wasn’t right for him. There was a reserve. I might have guessed he was a piano teacher. My presence may have thrown him off balance because he had only just arrived yet seemed anxious to leave. He spoke to Cecelia McNeil, his voice a quiet well-articulated sound.
‘I said I’d keep in touch. If there’s anything…you know…’
‘Very good of you, George. I’m fine.’
It sounded hostile.
‘I’ll be moving soon. I was just saying, wasn’t I, Mr Cameron?’
She took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected to be included. ‘Yes you were.’
The conversation, what I’d heard of it, had been short. Now it was over. George Lang backed towards the door. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So long as you’re sure.’
She handed him an envelope and didn’t escort him out. When the door closed she faced me. ‘Nobody writes letters anymore. I always do. I would’ve been at home with the Victorians. Texting, email and the like are beyond me. I haven’t the first idea how to scan the net.’
I didn’t correct her. I said, ‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Do you blame him in some way?’
She folded her arms round herself and stared past me. ‘No, I don’t blame George. I’d rather not see him that’s all. He reminds me of things I’m trying to forget.’
