by Owen Mullen
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* * *
Platt wanted to interview me again. I told him it was pointless. He ignored me, hoping I could give him something. Turned out it was the other way round. His visit brought a piece of information I didn’t have. I got the impression the inspector was off duty.
I said, ‘Did you have a man at the funeral?’
He seemed surprised. ‘Of course not. Why would we?’
‘Isn’t it standard practice to observe who attends?’
‘In case the killer shows? Hollywood has a sin to answer for.’
He gazed round, unimpressed by what he saw, his feelings crystal clear. ‘You do some investigating yourself, Mr Cameron. With some success, I believe.’
I didn’t reply.
‘Aren’t thinking of going it alone on this, are you? I understand, he was a friend, but I wouldn’t advise it. Better leave it to the professionals. No offence.’
‘All right. Have the professionals made any progress?’
‘As a matter of fact we have. His car. Abandoned at Duck Bay.’
‘What tells you it’s his?’
He gave a smug grimace. ‘His signature on the hire agreement for one. Ian Selkirk hired a Honda Civic at Glasgow airport.’
‘So how did he get from Duck Bay to Luss?’
The smile faded. ‘We don’t know that yet. You had no contact with him, is that right?’
I anticipated his question. ‘I wouldn’t expect to hear from him if he was in Scotland.’
‘Did he have any other friends?’
I shrugged. Fiona was staying out of this. ‘I really couldn’t say.’
DI Platt brushed imaginary dust from his lap and stood. ‘Thank you for your time. Remember what I said, Mr Cameron. If anything occurs to you please share it with me, will you? ’
At the door he paused. ‘Who you know won’t always be enough. I’d bear that in mind.’
Who I knew? What did that mean?
Tomorrow I’d go out to the airport, find the car hire firm and speak to them. The detective inspector had gifted me a starting point, his little chat, the superior air and the condescending praise, had irked. In the normal run I didn’t indulge in petty rivalry. Ian was an exception when I thought Fiona was his girlfriend. Platt was another. An old friend had died a violent death. Stepping on the detective’s toes was the least of my concerns. If he didn’t like it he could lump it. What did it matter who found Ian’s killer, so long as somebody did? It wasn’t a pissing contest, or if it was, to borrow one of Patrick’s phrases: Game on.
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A knife had been driven through Ian Selkirk’s chest and punctured his aorta. His fingers had been torn from his hand; he would’ve been unable to defend himself, powerless to prevent his death. Jimmy Rafferty’s interest told me he had lost his life but kept his secret.
Fiona called at nine. The line was so clear she might’ve been in the next room.
‘Charlie, it’s me. Only a day and I’m missing you already.’
‘You sound good. How was the flight?’
‘No problems, in and out on time. Slept most of the way. What about you?’
I paused, this was the hard part. ‘There’s been a development.’
‘Tell me!’ Excitement gave her a schoolgirl voice.
‘We were followed. Not one of Platt’s men. Jimmy Rafferty’s taken an interest in us.’
‘Who’s Jimmy Rafferty?’
‘You don’t know him.’
She hesitated. ‘Who is he? Why was he watching us?’
‘Not him personally.’
‘But why?’
‘Because Ian had something. They didn’t find it.’
Silence at the other end of the phone.
‘You haven’t told me the truth, Fiona. You sacked him. Why did you sack him? What was he involved in?’
No reply.
‘This is too serious to keep me in the dark. I need to know. We may be in danger.’
She let me wait, then said. ‘Drugs. Not just smoke. Real drugs. Cocaine, heroin, stuff like that. And he was using. I couldn’t have him around.’
‘When did this start?’
Her answer shocked me. ‘Thailand. That was one of Ian’s cons. He sold me the idea of living free. I bought it too, but it was always about drugs. Do you remember how freaked he was at Bangkok airport?’
‘Yes I do, you had to calm him down.’
‘He saw the sniffer dogs and those signs.’
‘We had only just arrived, hadn’t even been out of the airport, how could he be carrying?’
‘He wasn’t, not then. He knew he would be though. He had the money on him to make the buy when the time was right.’
‘And this was the plan from the start?’ Anger grew in me. The stupid bastard had put the three of us at risk. ‘Was I the only one who wasn’t in on it?’
‘Don’t get on your high horse, Charlie, I wasn’t in on it either. He told me when he panicked. I tore a strip off him and warned him to keep his dirty business away from us.’
‘I do remember.’
‘We weren’t close after that. He took off at night to do whatever he did. You and I fell in love and he became addicted.’
Rain tapped against the window. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘That was why, when you proposed, I put you off. The thought of leaving him in a country where the penalty for what he was doing was death was too much. In many ways he was a child. Spain was my way of getting him out of Asia and away from all that.’
‘Who gave him the cash he took to Thailand?’
‘No idea. In Spain we worked hard, built the business. Losing the money should’ve told me he was still at it. He must’ve been out of his head even then. Did he seem okay when he came to you?’
‘No, I don’t suppose he did. He was in trouble, now we’re in trouble.’
‘Charlie, you’re frightening me.’
‘Good because you’re staying where you are, it’s safer.’
‘What about us?’
‘We’ll be fine, but until this goes away, Scotland’s out. Ian had something Rafferty wants. I’m going to help him get it.’
‘How?’
‘Find it and give it to him.’
‘And if you can’t, what then?’
‘Sell real estate in Spain?’ I forced a laugh. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.’
‘Can I call you?’
‘On my mobile. Don’t know who might be listening.’
She whispered, ‘I love you, Charlie.’
I said, ‘I love you too, Fiona,’ and hung up.
Two minutes later a text arrived:
I LOVE U MORE.
FI x
I stared at it, sorry for myself, wishing she was with me. Brave talk for Fiona was easy, it wasn’t how I felt.
Fifteen
Morning. My eyes opened and closed. I was wiped out, hung over, not ready to chase shadows. The face in the bathroom mirror told the tale of a troubled night: dark hollows and fresh lines, bloodshot streaks and flaking skin. I stared. The old man stared back, neither of us happy with what we were seeing. Yesterday I had fallen on the information DI Platt used to remind me of my amateur status like a big cat bringing down a gazelle. Today was a different story. Game on. That was a laugh.
Three envelopes lay behind the door: an electricity bill, an offer from American Express, and a note from Cecelia McNeil thanking me for agreeing to keep looking for her husband.
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Dear Mr Cameron,
I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for taking my case. Finding Stephen means more than I can say. When my hopes fade I think of you and know you’ll be successful. God will guide you, I’m certain.
I am already in your debt.
Yours, Cecelia McNeil.
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I admired her old fashioned sense of politeness and envied her faith. I ke
pt the electricity bill; the others went in the bin.
A car hired at the airport left some work to do. It was Ian’s steps I was following, I could expect his moves to have been bold and lazy. I imagined myself coming off a plane and took it from there. Alba Rentals jumped out at me. A pageboy blonde called Anthea smiled a dazzling smile. ‘How can I help you?’ she said. Her accent marked her as east coast.
‘A friend of mine hired a car from you, he thinks his keys must have slipped between the seats. Was anything handed in?’
Her brow furrowed. ‘I doubt it. How long ago?’
I guessed. ‘Three weeks.’
‘Mmmm. Name?’
‘Selkirk.’
She pulled open a grey filing cabinet, flicking through agreements with the skill of a bank-teller, plucked one out and cross-checked the registration against a whiteboard on the wall. ‘Blue Civic. It’s been serviced, I’m afraid.’
A yellow post-it stuck to the top sheet. She read it and the smile disappeared.
‘Your friend didn’t return the vehicle, the police did.’
My cover story had lasted less than forty seconds. ‘I know, I’m trying to find out what happened. We arranged to meet, he didn’t show up. Sorry.’
Her directness caught me off balance. ‘Is it serious?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘The police wouldn’t give any information. The detective in charge was very abrupt, I didn’t like him.’
‘Platt. I don’t like him much either. Do you recall the hire?’
She gestured to the whiteboard. ‘We send out dozens of cars every week so if there’s damage I tend to remember. The ones that stay in my brain are the difficult customers. This friend of yours was odd.’
‘How?’
Anthea leaned towards me. ‘I saw him give the Hertz guy keys. Next thing he strolls over here and hires another car.’
Bold and lazy, typical Ian.
‘I wondered why anyone would do that and asked Ronnie at Hertz about him. I was right, he was handing them back.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’
A shadow darkened her eyes. ‘No, I didn’t, as I said, the detective rubbed me up the wrong way. Should I have?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. One more thing, what was the date?’
Anthea consulted the paperwork. ‘February, twenty-sixth.’
‘And how long was it expected to be out?’
‘Seven days. Should’ve been back on the fifth.’
I thanked her. ‘If only Hertz are as helpful.’
‘Ronnie’s okay. What do you want to know?’
I told her. Two minutes later she was back. ‘Vauxhall Vectra hired in Dover on the twenty fourth. One way to Glasgow Airport.’
A time line was taking shape. I had come across the body by chance on the ninth of March, Ash Wednesday, when I was looking for Stephen McNeil. It had been in the city mortuary four days by then. The autopsy established it was in the water one or two days. Death occurred on the third or fourth of the month. Ian hired the Honda on the twenty sixth of February. That meant he was in or around Glasgow for four days before he was killed. And why come back to Scotland? What was here for him?
At my desk above NYB I considered what I had. Ian’s car journey in the U.K. began in Dover. He drove north; was that when he started getting creative? Changing vehicles at the airport was a ruse to make it seem like he’d taken a flight out of the country. Covering his tracks. Pity he hadn’t made a better job of it. Smarter to hold on to the Honda. The moment Hertz had their car back, whoever he was escaping had a fix on him.
During the next four days they caught up, filled him with drugs and put a blade in his heart. I believed Anthea’s dislike of DI Platt put me a step ahead. In fact it hadn’t. I had nothing of value, no information that took me nearer to discovering who murdered Ian Selkirk or why.
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Investigation is grunt work. A morning spent calling every Glasgow hotel in Yellow Pages produced zero. Not conclusive, he may have used another name. I tried to keep in mind who I was searching for. Ian was an in-your-face kind of guy. Hiding in a cottage in the middle of nowhere wasn’t his style. Duck Bay, where the car was found, was Platt’s other little gem thrown carelessly away. Cameron House Hotel sat next door. I dismissed it as obvious, even for an irresponsible fool like Ian.
From Balloch to Tarbet there were guest houses; out of season visitors would be welcomed and left to themselves. The Tourist Information Centre in George Square gave me a brochure packed with spectacular photographs and lists of accommodation. Another telephone job. Two hours later, close to giving up, the next call made me forget the rest. A male voice, gruff and impatient, was replaced by a woman’s.
‘The police have already been.’
Adrenalin coursed through me. ‘Can I have a few words with you?’
‘There isn’t anything to tell.’
‘Please, he was a friend, it would be appreciated.’
I heard the man grumbling in the background when she agreed.
The Lomond Inn was a cottage extended to accommodate guests during summer and the Christmas and New Year holidays. Scotland invented Hogmanay. Getting drunk and teary nostalgia were mandatory. It was a marketing fantasy the world bought into, and Edinburgh capitalised on the myth. At midnight Princes Street flooded with teenagers, pissed on imported lager, rocking the old year out and the new one in. Ninety miles away the Lomond Inn played the same game with melancholy songs and a ceilidh band.
She didn’t introduce herself and kept me at the door. ‘He was a friend of yours you say?’ She tutted. ‘The loch may look benign – don’t be deceived – people have lost their life in it.’
‘He was with you...?’
‘Just the two nights. My husband is still angry because he didn’t pay his bill. Miserable old bugger. What does that matter when a young man has been drowned?’
‘Do you have his luggage?’
‘The police asked the same thing. There wasn’t any.’
‘May I see his room?’
She blanched. ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate. The police have examined it, and of course it’s been cleaned since your friend was here.’
‘I’d still like to see. I’m prepared to pay whatever’s outstanding.’
That swung it. I followed her through an empty bar with the obligatory tartan carpet, down a corridor and up some steps, still in the old building. She opened the door and waited. I wanted more for my money.
‘Has anybody else asked about him?’
‘No, I didn’t make the connection between the man in the water and your friend until the police arrived. He went out one day and didn’t come back at night.’
‘Did he say how long he intended to stay?’
‘He wasn’t sure. I think he was waiting for someone.’
‘Could I have some time by myself, please?’
‘All right. I’ll make up the bill.’
The room was no more than functional: the bed old the fittings older. The one redeeming feature was the view, unobstructed, clear across the water. DI Platt was in the lead on this one; my hopes weren’t high. What I was after might be a key, a letter or a suitcase. I poked around but my heart wasn’t in it: the wardrobe, the mattress, inside the cistern; if this was the movies a sheet of paper would be taped underneath a drawer.
It wasn’t the movies.
I was certain Ian’s killer had already visited the Lomond Inn. Before Platt. Before me. Nobody went anywhere without some baggage. The murderer had taken it. He’d known what he was searching for and didn’t find it, otherwise why would a Glasgow hard man be having us watched?
In the bar she handed me an envelope. Ian’s bill. I put it in my pocket unopened. She told me the amount and I paid. It was more than I expected.
‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ she said. ‘I liked him. The loch’s a dangerous place. I never go near it myself.’
‘Oh dear, she said, ‘that ought to have been wiped up. Send us the cleaning bill.’
A beer stain on my jacket didn’t concern me, other things did. ‘Who hires out boats at this time of the year?’
She folded my money and slipped it in her apron. ‘It’s a bit early yet. In summer they sit at Luss pier. I believe somebody in Balloch might. Further up the loch Alan Walker used to. He’s old now. I don’t know if he still does.’
Fewer than I imagined.
‘Traffic on the water isn’t encouraged. The residents don’t want Loch Lomond turning into the Lake District. What a mess that is. I’d try Alan, four miles along the shore. His cottage is down off the road. If he’s at home the chimney will be going. Be warned, he doesn’t like strangers. Since his wife died he’s a recluse. Sorry again about your friend. And your jacket.’
I pulled the car to the side and walked down a broad gravelled path to a brown stone cottage surrounded by a wooden fence that could use shellacking. The ruin of a garden lay on the other side, flowers, wild and blown, poked through. Once this had been someone’s pride and joy. Above, grey smoke rose in a steady ribbon to the overcast sky. At the front a short jetty stretched above the dark water, paint peeling from the boat tied to it.
I knocked the door and got no reply. I tried again, and again. The curtain moved. Behind it Alan Walker was deciding whether to answer. I called his name to encourage him.
‘Mr Walker! The Lomond Inn told me to speak to you. It’s about the body washed up at Luss.’
The door opened, only a little. An eye, yellow where white should be, stared without blinking. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, Mr Walker. Can we have a chat about your boat?’
