Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Was he close to Christopher?’

  ‘He taught my son for two years. Christopher was neglecting his practice. I thought it would be good for him. There never seemed to be enough time; he was always going somewhere. Music takes commitment, Mr Cameron. Talent by itself won’t do.’

  The mugs of tea were props, thanks to George they were unnecessary. I returned to the reason for my visit. ‘I’m sorry to say my efforts at tracing your husband haven’t been successful.’

  ‘But it’s only been days, please don’t give up so soon. Please.’

  I winced at her desperation and hoped she’d understand. ‘There’s nothing to go on. Stephen covered his tracks. I can’t take your money. It wouldn’t be right to make positive noises with what we’ve got. On the other hand he doesn’t appear to have come to harm. Maybe he just needs space.’

  She took my hands in hers, near to tears. ‘Please, please Mr Cameron, I have to find him, it’s all that’s left. Keep on. In my heart of hearts I believe God sent you, you will succeed. Don’t stop, you’re my last hope.’

  Letting go is never easy, especially when someone is pleading. It took a strong character, stronger than I would ever be.

  ‘How about this? I’ll keep looking. Off the clock. When I get a break I’ll follow it. If your husband comes back let me know. No promises, except I won’t walk away.’

  She broke down and cried. I’d told Cecelia McNeil what she wanted to hear, her reprieve was temporary, her gratitude misplaced. When days became weeks and then months she would realise as I already realised. And I’d be kept at the door like George, not blamed, but no longer welcome.

  The case was closed.

  Thirteen

  The Raffertys had messed up big time. Stealing from the thief had been Kevin’s idea, he’d seen a chance to make easy money. Stupid. There was no such thing. “Our friend in the sun”, as Jimmy called him, was more powerful than the Glasgow family would ever be. Kevin paced the floor like his father had in the years before the stroke. Sean wanted to laugh. It was a performance for Jimmy, meant to impress. But only one son impressed the old man and he was in the ground.

  ‘She turned up over a week ago, they met at a bar. Used three hotels in a few days, and she looks different from her photograph, short hair.’

  ‘Did she go out?’

  ‘Only when she changed hotels. The guy is Charlie Cameron. Father’s a big shot. Cameron’s whisky? And get this, chairman of the Conservative Party. Hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary, but a detective inspector paid him a visit, so the cops must think he’s involved. It was Cameron who ID’d the body. Then him and her went to Skye, one night and back again.’

  ‘Skye? What’s that about?’

  ‘No idea. Could be they spotted us and got out of the city. On Saturday she moved in to his flat. Sunday they went to Kelvingrove.’

  ‘The museum? What’re they up to?’

  ‘Yesterday we followed them from the crematorium to the Italian Centre where Cameron has his office.’

  The information was presented as Kevin’s work. No mention of his brother’s contribution although it was Sean who had done most of it. Jimmy Rafferty leaned on his stick; his skin had a grey tinge, he looked ill. ‘We know about her, where does he fit? Could be they intended to cut the thief out.’

  ‘They’re very pally. If he’s with her...’ Kevin let his father draw his own conclusion and searched his face for the approval that never came.

  ‘They still together?’

  ‘They were shacked up at his place until this morning. Now they’ve split, she’s on the move.’

  Jimmy said, ‘Tell me we know where she is.’

  Sean answered. ‘We know. We’ve got them both.’

  Kevin resented the interruption. He fingered the scar on his face. Thanks to his mother he’d survived a childhood under the same roof as a monster, but at a cost. He was beaten, many times, often without knowing what he’d done wrong. His father admired intelligence and the eldest Rafferty boy wasn’t bright. As he grew, violence, often beyond his control, was his default response. It was all he’d ever known. At Loch Lomond it got away from him. He’d been terrified to report the thief was dead and that they were no wiser.

  Jimmy Rafferty was a cruel complicated father, incapable of love. He despised his eldest son for reasons even he didn’t understand. Sean he ignored, too much of his mother in him for Jimmy’s liking. Paul, the youngest brother, was the exception. His death affected Rafferty like nothing ever had. He drifted into depression. His interests needed a strong leader but for months they didn’t have one. Rivals on the south side saw the vacuum and seized the opportunity to launch a series of attacks to test the strength of the east end team: a late night drinking den owned by the Raffertys was wrecked, two bag men were clubbed and robbed in broad daylight, and every trader in Dennistoun was put on notice that the area would soon be under new management.

  The opening shots in what those behind the grab expected would be a brief struggle, for without the figurehead who would oppose them?

  They expected wrong. Jimmy Rafferty was far from finished. Every week for a month bodies were dragged from the Clyde.

  Then it was over.

  Kevin would have kept on killing – why he could never be trusted to lead. His old man knew better. The point had been made.

  This time it was different. Emil Rocha, “our friend in the sun”, played in a higher league. He was immensely wealthy; forty percent of the cocaine that found its way into Europe came through Spain, much of it supplied by him. His Latin mentality would demand he wage war and he had the resources to do it. Sean had seen them with his own eyes.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  The aircraft banked and made its decent. Sean Rafferty gazed at the whitewashed buildings crowded along the shore and the Mediterranean, sparkling blue and inviting in the brilliant sunshine. His father sat beside him staring straight ahead. Jimmy Rafferty didn’t like flying. Sean was surprised when he found out he was on the trip – he had assumed Kevin would go. Of course Paul would have been their father’s first choice. But Paul was dead.

  Sean watched Jimmy grip the armrest so tightly his knuckles stretched the skin. Few things would have induced him to make the journey. He had no choice: there was too much at stake. They were on their way to meet their future partner and if it went well, they would be the most powerful underworld family in Scotland. And the richest.

  Their host didn’t deal with strangers. He insisted on meeting everyone he supplied, partly to assess them, partly to intimidate them. There would be no contracts, nothing written down, a handshake would seal it, honour would do the rest. The Spaniard chose his associates carefully. He could work with whoever he wished because he had what everyone wanted.

  Outside the airport a chauffeur stood beside a limousine. The Raffertys got in. They had no bags; they wouldn’t be staying. The drive into the hills above Marbella took almost an hour. At the end of it they were frisked before being allowed to enter the compound. On the other side Emil Rocha was waiting. He smiled. The men behind him were expressionless. They weren’t there to smile. Sean saw them, at the gate, in the courtyard, high on the terraces, and realised he was looking at an army. The villa was a fortress.

  Rocha greeted them like long lost friends. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘A necessary formality. You understand.’

  He was closer to Sean’s age than Jimmy’s, lean and tanned, but his eyes were old. He led them to a courtyard in the shade of an orange tree, offered iced tea and flattered his guests, claiming to have heard how well ordered things were in Scotland’s second city, congratulating them on their operation. He sounded sincere.

  The Spaniard did most of the talking. Jimmy lacked his social skills; he had never needed them. Emil Rocha’s came easily. He was polished; courteous and charming. After a while they went to the library to discuss the deal. Sean was left alone. He walked in the garden between palm trees and jacar
anda until he came to the swimming pool, deserted except for a dark haired female sunbathing topless on a lounger, her body slicked with oil, face hidden behind out-sized shades. Sean Rafferty knew she’d be a looker. And there would be plenty like her. He felt aroused. And envious. This was what real money could buy. Emil Rocha was a fortunate man.

  At the villa Jimmy and the Spaniard were back; it hadn’t taken long.

  ‘Your father drives a hard bargain,’ Rocha said.

  ‘Always.’

  Jimmy didn’t speak.

  They toasted in Champagne. His guests could have whatever they wished, Rocha told them. They only had to ask and it was theirs. Sean wondered if that included the woman. He would have been happy to stay on but his father wouldn’t hear of it; he preferred to get home. Rocha had been a gentleman, though charm hadn’t got him where he was. The sophisticated veneer disguised a man no one dared displease.

  Their plane touched down in Scotland under a sky heavy with rain. When they were in the car Jimmy said, ‘What did you think of him?’

  His son’s answer was accurate and honest. ‘Dangerous.’

  For a day or two Kevin sulked because Jimmy had taken his brother instead of him. He believed he’d missed out and he was right. Not going to Spain meant he’d failed to appreciate what they were up against. None of the family met or even spoke with Emil Rocha again. He kept his distance, others acted on his behalf, but Sean remembered him.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  Kevin Rafferty acted as if he had uncovered the information. ‘And something else about Charlie boy, he’s a private investigator.’

  Sean said, ‘This guy isn’t short of a few bob. His family is loaded, he doesn’t need the money.’

  ‘Yeah, but he isn’t loaded. Besides, everybody needs the money, especially if it’s five mil.’

  ‘So why don’t they just take it and run?’

  Kevin felt his grip on the meeting slipping away. ‘You’re wrong, Sean, he’s waiting for things to cool down.’

  Jimmy said, ‘Is he any good?’

  Sean answered. ‘He’s particular about what he takes on. No divorce evidence, nothing like that. Concentrates on missing persons.’

  ‘Just the guy we need. He can find what we’re looking for.’

  Kevin wouldn’t give up. ‘They’re both involved.’

  ‘Then he’ll lead us to it, or she will.’

  ‘What’s the woman up to?’

  ‘Good question. Either she knows what the thief did with the money and she’s keeping her head down, or she’s using this guy to get it for her. Something doesn’t...’

  Kevin sensed his brother was taking over again and cut him off.

  ‘Why wait? I say we do her, Jimmy.’

  Sean couldn’t disguise his impatience. Thanks to Kevin their problem had doubled. He cursed him under his breath for dropping them in the crap. And the way he sucked up to his father made him sick. He was a walking liability. Jimmy was an impotent semi-invalid, thundering away, pretending to still be the man he’d been. Between them they’d get them all killed.

  Jimmy said, ‘Don’t let them out of your sight. And Kevin, first they talk then they die, got it?’

  Fourteen

  Give Jackie her due, she shared joy and misery in equal measure. Right now joy was on a roll. I got a big hello. ‘Your friend not with you today?’

  ‘She was only here for the funeral.’

  ‘You two seemed pretty tight.’ She was fishing.

  ‘Old friends.’

  ‘The best friends, so they say. Pat Logue was looking for you.’

  The perfume she was wearing drifted my way, cool and green and feminine. The scent, the smiles, the friendly enquiries? Of course, Jackie had a new man. The last one had been the drummer in Big River, NYB’s resident band. I’d liked him a lot and was surprised when it ended. Impossible to guess which relationships would survive and which wouldn’t. My affair with Kate Calder proved it. We’d lived together, even talked about marriage, but it didn’t go the distance.

  I said, ‘Don’t see much of you in the morning, how come?’

  ‘Alex lets me go to the gym before I start.’

  This was a development. ‘You into all that workout stuff?’

  ‘Gary says looking after your body is an investment for the future, just like pensions and savings.’

  And there it was: “Gary says”.

  From experience I could expect to be hearing a lot more of what Gary said. Jackie was an independent lady but every time a new guy came into her life she morphed into a likeness of them. By the sounds of it Gary was a fitness fanatic.

  ‘Is he good looking?’

  ‘Great body.’

  Too much information.

  The conversation was off in the wrong direction. Patrick Logue strolled through the door at the right moment. He sat down across from me, waited for his drink to arrive, took a sip and gave an appreciative sigh. ‘First today,’ he said. ‘You’re attracting the attention of the wrong people, Charlie. Might have to change my boozer.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The guy you asked me to find out about is Sean Rafferty, one of Jimmy Rafferty’s sons. What’s the connection?’

  ‘No idea.’

  He was unconvinced. ‘Turns up at the funeral, then here. That’s an awful lot of interest for you to be in the dark. Don’t want people like him in your universe.’

  I had never met Jimmy Rafferty and never wanted to. He’d been at the centre of two high-profile trials, I recalled television pictures of him on the steps of the High Court. In the first case he was accused of ordering the execution of Joseph Doland, a small-time crook who worked for him. Rafferty hired the finest lawyer dirty money could buy. Frank Rossi had an awesome reputation and a long history of successfully defending the guilty. His tactic was always the same. Establish an alibi. Rossi called two men and three women who straight-faced told the jury they were ten miles away having dinner with Rafferty in the Bothwell Bridge Hotel at the time it was believed Doland was murdered. Nobody could remember the gangster ever speak badly about the dead man, let alone sanction his demise, although it was common knowledge Doland was skimming off the top; supplementing his wages he called it and boasted about it in the pub when he’d had a few too many. Stupid of him. The prosecution’s hopes rested with the testimony of their star witness, Robert Small, Doland’s brother-in-law. Whatever Small told the police in the days after the murder changed on the stand. Under oath he swore Rafferty had treated Joe like a member of the family and revealed the accused had paid for Doland’s funeral out of his own pocket.

  Rossi milked that admission dry and although it was a fairy story, it wasn’t easily disproved. The jury was back in less than an hour. The verdict surprised no one.

  It was a bad day for the police, the procurator fiscal’s office and for justice. But it underlined the power of Jimmy Rafferty in the city.

  The second trial was even harder to credit. Rafferty appeared for the prosecution when one of his sons was gunned down in Shettleston Road. His role on this occasion was the grieving father, unable to understand or explain how Paul, described as a quiet lad who hadn’t an enemy in the world, came by a bullet in his head.

  Paul Rafferty had been a thug. Rossi did a breathtaking job of turning him into a saint. Billy Lyle got twenty years. He should’ve been so lucky; four months into his sentence he bled to death in the showers at Barlinnie.

  What the hell had Ian got mixed up in?

  At Loch Lomond, according to Andrew Geddes, there was no attempt to conceal the crime; the killer had left the body to drift ashore. It was a message, a warning to others not to cross whatever line Ian Selkirk had crossed. So why wait in the car park at Daldowie and follow us back to NYB? They were after something they thought we had. Drugs, money, it didn’t matter. Our old pal Ian had landed us in deep shit. Rafferty wouldn’t give up until he got what he wanted. For Fiona, Spain was safer. In Glasgow she wa
s in danger; we both were. Ian paid with his life for whatever he had. I needed to find it and give it back.

  Patrick watched my reaction. ‘You know what I’m sayin’, Charlie? I’m talkin’ serious bad guys. Don’t get in their way.’

  ‘Seems like I’ve got some more work for you, Patrick.’

  He raised his hands. ‘Hold that result. Leave me on the bench, the boys have a father, Gail’s got a husband, that’s how it has to stay.’

  ‘Gail’s chucking you out, you told me yourself.’

  He dismissed my reminder. ‘She’ll come round. Good men are hard to find.’

  I assumed he was kidding.

  ‘Feel rotten about leaving you on your own. This is heavy duty. I’m a lover not a fighter.’ He sank the pint. ‘Anything else, just shout. Take my advice, whatever it is sort it. Rafferty’s not a guy you’d want to run into on a dark night. He’s an animal. King of the jungle. You’re a pussy cat same as me.’

  Patrick was afraid for me. I was afraid for Fiona.

  I climbed the stairs to my office, expecting some knifeman to be waiting behind the door. The room was empty. I decided to confront my fears and Googled Jimmy Rafferty. Bad idea. The photograph on the right hand side of the screen wasn’t recent and showed a man in his fifties staring straight at the camera beside a biography that was a litany of criminal activity but with no convictions. His sons were in there too, same eyes different faces, one with a scar. Pat Logue was correct. I wouldn’t want to run into them, on a dark night or any night.

  After that I was spooked enough to consider calling Andrew, laying it out and getting his opinion. DI Platt was the official option. He was the senior investigating officer; it could take his case in a new direction.

  In the end I didn’t telephone anybody. Instead I rolled back time to when there was no threat from a Glasgow gangster and Fiona was still the girl that got away, to the days and weeks and years before Ian noised-up the wrong people. Drugs, money, a missing husband; what was the difference? I began as I always began. I made a list, crossed it out and made another list. That gave me an outline. And a hundred questions beginning with how Ian Selkirk came to be at Loch Lomond.