Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  He pointed to the TV. ‘That could’ve been your head.’

  ‘The Samaritans must’ve cried when you packed them in, eh Patrick?’

  ‘They were gutted. Same as you’ll be if you don’t fix this.’

  I picked up the leg of the coffee table and put it down again. ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Try harder.’ He took my arm and pulled me to my feet. ‘C’mon, the pubs are open. Your shout.’

  ‘I can’t leave the place like this.’

  ‘This is heehaw. I’ll make a call.’

  He strolled round the room, whispering into his mobile, giving instructions to people I would never meet, his footsteps crisp sounds, like walking on fresh snow.

  ‘It’s done.’ He clapped his hands and studied my face. ‘We need to get you to the nearest barman. Pronto.’

  Patrick was being a friend. I appreciated it, glad he was there. We walked, a fair hike, all the way to Ashton Lane and Bar Brel. A guy with a ponytail polished glasses. We were the only customers apart from an old man at the end, gazing at his reflection in the mirror behind the gantry, stroking his unshaved jaw with a nicotine-stained finger. One of my father’s bottles hung upside down between Teachers and Smirnoff. The clock on the wall said ten past eleven – usually too early for me. Not today.

  Pat said, ‘What’re we after?’

  His enthusiasm might’ve been because I was buying. I preferred to believe it was an animated act for my benefit.

  ‘Gin. Large. Soda and ice.’

  ‘I’ll stick to the national drink.’

  I gave him a twenty. He came back with the spirits and a half pint of lager. No mention of any change. It was going to be an expensive session.

  ‘That old boy was in the merchant navy. Dunkirk, he was there. His son lives down south. Since his wife died he spends his time here, waiting to join her. Doin’ all right for ninety-two. I bought him a pint.’

  ‘How do you know all this? You were only gone a minute.’

  ‘Doesn’t take long if you’re interested. Got to be interested in people. Now ponytail there, he’s a waste of space. Not a word out of him. Wouldn’t last ten minutes if I owned this shop.’

  ‘You’re amazing, Patrick, you really are.’

  He picked up his whisky. I put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘“First today.” You always say “first today.”’

  ‘No I don’t. And it isn’t, you gave me one.’

  ‘I gave you two.’

  ‘Who’s countin’?’

  Our positions had reversed – my head felt heavy – I wanted to sleep. Pat Logue was bright eyed. He seemed to have forgotten his troubles. ‘Go to a hotel Charlie. Tomorrow all you’ll need is a new telly.’

  I bought a toothbrush and booked two rooms at the Malmaison off Blythswood Square. During the day accountants and lawyers peddled their wares in the former town houses surrounding it; at night it was one of the city’s red light areas. The irony wasn’t difficult to spot.

  The mini bar was filled with the usual over-priced booze. I settled for a coke.

  Bang on cue my phone rang, Cecelia McNeil’s name appeared on the screen. I took the call although it was the last thing I fancied. I represented the flimsy thread of hope she clung to. With my head filled with Ian Selkirk and Jimmy Rafferty that thread was more fragile than ever she imagined. I intended to sound upbeat but I didn’t get the chance.

  ‘Stephen’s alive. He’s alive.’

  ‘How do you know? Has he contacted you?’

  ‘He used his Visa card last Tuesday.’

  Mrs McNeil was still doing my job for me. Thank God somebody was.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Tesco in Shettleston. Fifty three pounds fifty seven. That means he hasn’t done anything stupid, not yet.’

  In lieu of something better I said, ‘Good news.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he’s still in Glasgow. I went to mass this morning - I’m going every morning again - and lit a candle to St Anthony. I mean, now you can find him, can’t you, Mr Cameron?’

  ‘I’ll try, Mrs McNeil. Don’t give up hope whatever you do.’

  ‘Oh, I never would, that’s the sin of despair. You haven’t answered my calls. I suppose I’m a terrible nuisance.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I worked to convince her.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t walk away. I worried you had.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I lied with the ease of an adulterer. ‘I’ll think about the Visa card and get back to you.’

  ‘You’re very kind. The important thing is Stephen’s alive and close by. I’ll sleep better tonight.’

  The beginning of a headache throbbed in my temple. I massaged my eyes, overwhelmed with guilt. What was I going to do? My own life was in danger; so was Fiona’s. Ian Selkirk’s murder hung like a weight. Cecelia McNeil expected more from me and so did I. Shopping at Tesco wasn’t the action of a man on the edge of suicide. Stephen McNeil had a car so the location might not be relevant. Then again, the situation was far from normal. A Glasgow gangster was after me. Wrecking the flat put the ball in my court. I was starting to sound like Patrick Logue. My energy and whatever talent I was reckoned to have were required to keep me from joining my friend in the cold waters of the loch. Mrs McNeil had a belief system to fall back on. I wondered if it wasn’t too late to join; perhaps St Anthony would toss something my way.

  From day one I had been off form on the McNeil investigation. With Jimmy Rafferty on my case I couldn’t think clearly enough to help anybody. Thank god Fiona was in Spain.

  It was my night to call, which suited me, it meant I didn’t have to be at the flat. Fiona sounded tired. I asked if anything was wrong. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Too many things to do, that’s all. Making any progress on Ian?’

  I kept it vague which wasn’t difficult. ‘They found his car?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He booked into the Lomond Inn for three nights, he only stayed two.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about the man following us?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I’ve a better chance of discovering whatever Ian stole if I keep away from the police.’

  ‘But it’s dangerous. Those people are killers.’

  I told her to scare her and keep her in Spain. A mistake.

  ‘The flat got burgled. The police think kids did it.’

  Her shock travelled down the line. For half a minute neither of us spoke then Fiona said. ‘This is all my fault. I dragged you into it. I’m sorry, Charlie. You have to get out of Glasgow. You have to get away.’

  The anxiety in her voice brought a strange kind of pleasure. I tried to sound confident. ‘I’ll be careful. I’ve got plenty to live for. And don’t put yourself under pressure; take your time. You’re not welcome in my bed ’til this is over.’

  She wasn’t listening. ‘Leave Glasgow, Charlie. Tonight.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Fiona. Not possible.’

  ‘Well, tell the police. Ask for protection.’

  ‘Against what? A couple of teenagers out of their heads on glue?’

  ‘Tell them about the guy at Daldowie and New York Blue.’

  ‘Fiona, calm down. The police aren’t the answer, not at this stage.’

  ‘That pal of yours, the DS. Tell him.’

  ‘I’ll consider it. I promise. It will be all right. By now they must know I don’t have anything.’

  She kept pleading with me to run. When the conversation ended Fiona was crying. I waited for her text – it never came.

  The next call added to my misery: my father with more bad news. No hello how are you, Charlie? Straight in.

  ‘Mum’s not well.’

  I sat to attention. ‘What kind of not well?’

  ‘She’s had a stroke. Just a small one. But it’s shaken her.’

  ‘When did this happen? Why wasn’t I told?’

  The silence at the other
end of the line told me he was choosing his words. He needn’t have bothered. ‘You’re not exactly a constant visitor, are you, Charlie?’

  Not much I could say; he was right.

  ‘So how bad is it? What does the doctor say?’

  ‘They thought it was a severe inner-ear infection at first. Then last Saturday night she collapsed. She was in hospital for a week.’

  ‘And I’m hearing about it now?’

  That was too much for him. ‘Oh please, spare me the righteous indignation. Look, I’m bringing you up to speed. After that it’s over to you. Your mother’s recovering from a stroke. Visit her don’t visit her. Just leave out the no-one-tells-me-anything stuff.’

  The line went dead. I stared at it for a long time. What he’d said hurt because it was true: my mother had suffered because of my relationship – my non-relationship – with my father. For years we hadn’t got on and, though things were better now, George Archibald Cameron had the unique ability of making me feel I was a failure. No one in the world affected me like he did.

  The knock at the door made me jump. It was Patrick.

  I said, ‘Late for a social call, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just checkin’ you’re okay. The flat’s clean. We can go back tomorrow.’

  I thanked him. He breezed past me into the room. ‘My offer still holds,’ he said. ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Pat.’

  ‘Try tellin’ Gail.’

  ‘When I see her I will. There’s something I need you to do. Mrs McNeil’s husband used his credit card in Tesco in Shettleston last Tuesday so he may well be living local. He likes a drink and he likes darts. Do a pub crawl for two or three nights. You never know.’

  ‘Pub crawl. I’ll try.’

  He opened the mini-bar, took out a can of Stella and popped the top.

  ‘Helluva price they charge for this stuff. I wouldn’t give them it.’

  Apparently I would.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘First today.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  The man fixing the lock didn’t notice me. Inside the flat a woman was waiting: brunette, forties, not pretty. Business-like but empathetic. ‘Best we could manage,’ she said. ‘They made a right mess.’

  I might’ve been looking at the aftermath of a teenage party gone wrong, though nothing like as bad as it had been. The TV, the coffee table, everything damaged or broken had been removed, and the carpet had lost its gravel crunch.

  She gestured to an assortment in the corner. ‘We saved what we could. Anything personal’s there.’

  I followed her through to a bedroom. Order had been restored, a cover was spread on the bed under matching pillows. She pulled a drawer open; socks lay in neat rows.

  ‘You’ve done a great job. What do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re a friend of Patrick’s. That’s good enough.’

  Before she left she made me a coffee and handed me new door keys.

  The lounge was still a shambles. I felt anger at the needless destruction and let it pass; holding on wouldn’t change things.

  A voice said, ‘Make a note of what you want. Here in two days. Cash customers only.’

  Patrick stood in the doorway leaning against the facing.

  ‘Seriously. Whatever you need. Got a telly comin’ later. Same as the one they tanked. Throw in a new iMac if you like.’

  It was a well-intended offer I had to refuse. For me there was more at stake.

  ‘Appreciate it, but I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘Who would know?’

  ‘I’d know. Fiona’s telling me to leave the city.’

  ‘Not a bad idea for a day or so. Longer’s just runnin’ away. Can’t run from your own life.’

  I could have reminded him he was running away.

  ‘I’m going to work. See you later, Patrick. And thank you for what you did here.’

  Downtown NYB was enjoying a mid-morning rush. Jackie was at a table at the back interviewing two guys. One wore a black t-shirt with Gay Power on the front; the other had buck teeth and hung on Jackie’s every word. Behind the bar a handsome man I hadn’t seen before was making espresso with a practised hand. Dark eyes flashed in a suntanned face. Across the counter the waitress adored him. Jackie was at my elbow.

  ‘New starts. Those two on the floor and Roberto.’

  ‘Where did your other barman go?’

  ‘He quit. This morning. His girlfriend called. Roberto was available.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Tons of experience, you can see it.’

  I had to admit he was impressive. A latte, an espresso and two cappuccinos appeared in quick time, along with four glasses of water.

  ‘Serving water now, are you? Very continental.’

  ‘They do it for a reason, Charlie. It makes sense. It dilutes the harshness of the coffee and rehydrates. We underestimate the importance of water.’

  ‘Do we?’

  I waited. She didn’t disappoint.

  ‘Gary says water’s the single most essential substance for the body, apart from oxygen. Gary says sixty percent of illness can be cured by drinking more water. Incredible, or what?’

  ‘Can I have coffee, please? Just coffee.’ I drew her towards me and whispered. ‘Gary doesn’t need to know.’

  She glared. ‘I’ll send it up.’

  The exchange with Jackie had amused me but alone in the office my mood fell. I pulled paper from the printer; it was time to assess where I was going, or if there was anywhere to go. I cross-checked my notes and started to write. Dover/Glasgow Airport, the Lomond Inn to the autopsy report. The same unanswered questions taunted me. Where was Ian Selkirk in the forty-eight hours prior to his death?

  I called Andrew. ‘Has Ian Selkirk’s mobile been found?’

  ‘No. Probably at the bottom of the loch.’

  ‘Can I have a look at his effects?’

  He took his time answering me. ‘No you can’t, but I’ll get a list of what he left over to you.’

  The people tailing us must have seen me at the airport and at the loch. They would know I was in the dark, yet they still trashed the flat. They must have sussed I didn’t have it, whatever it was. Maybe it was over?

  Meantime Loch Lomond was the key. The car was found at Duck Bay, Ian was a few miles further on at the Lomond Inn, and his body was fished from the water at Luss.

  I hadn’t been to Duck Bay Marina since my student days. In my memory it was a place to pull good-looking women. On my way out Jackie was leaning on the bar chatting to Antonio Banderas, charmed out of her socks. Gary had a rival. I wondered what he’d have to say about that. I turned towards High Street. White clouds hid the sun; still, the weather was warming up.

  He was standing on the corner of Glassford Street. Not the same man. Just the same type – heavy set, self-contained, unsmiling. Albion Street wasn’t a shortcut, I took it anyway.

  A minute later so did he. It wasn’t over. Not for them. Not for me.

  Eighteen

  The overnight express got me to London at an ungodly hour on Monday morning. Jimmy Rafferty’s thug turning into Albion Street convinced me I’d be better off away from Glasgow. Trashing the flat hadn’t satisfied them. My father’s call gave me somewhere to go.

  When the steward came with tea and biscuits he knocked on the door and my heart jumped in my chest. Fear had travelled with me, and Pat Logue got it right, I was running.

  Outside on Euston Road the working week had begun; the distant growl of traffic carried into the station. Soon it would be nose to tail from Marylebone Road, and the growl would become a roar. The journey on the Tube reminded me why I hadn’t chosen to live in the capital: sullen faces inches apart, tension and resentment on every one. For all its compensations it could never be my home.

  A second train and a taxi brought me to the house and another planet, one with manicured lawns and late flowering daffodils, a place of order and calm,
on the surface at least. My last visit to Buckinghamshire had been with Kate Calder; we had made love in the bedroom that had been mine when I was home for the holidays. Not long after our affair ended, Kate was finally persuaded to join North Wind. Now she was on tour in the Far East, wowing them in Tokyo or Kuala Lumpur with her incredible talent. If I’d asked her to stay with me she would have. I didn’t ask and lost her. Then, out of the blue, Fiona had come back into my life.

  This house had few associations for me. My parents moved here from Edinburgh. Conservatives were all but extinct north of the border thanks to the Scottish National Party. My father’s political duties insisted he be nearer London. As it was he stayed in town during the week leaving my mother alone here. They were an odd twosome: him animated, full of bluster, her quiet and precise. One fierce, the other demure; the attraction of opposites I supposed.

  Although my visit was unannounced my mother didn’t look surprised to see me. I kissed her. She put her arm in mine and led me to the sitting-room. Underneath her Cashmere twinset she had lost weight, her cheeks were pinched and her eyes lacked her usual confidence. Her hair had been blonde but now it was white.

  She said, ‘The jungle drums.’

  ‘Dad called, yes. Why didn’t you let me know you’d been ill?’

  ‘What would be the point, Charles? You’d worry, you know you would. Then come chasing down here away from something important.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re more like him than you imagine.’

  ‘And how is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘Your father doesn’t change. Up to his ears. The Party’s in trouble according to the opinion polls; reading them makes him angry.’

  ‘Everything makes him angry.’

  She rapped my knuckles with a word. ‘Unfair. When the Japs bought Cameron’s he was left in limbo. Being on the board isn’t the same as running the damned thing. Selling was the correct decision but he felt responsible. The offer from the Party came at the right moment. Your father’s a doer, used to being at the centre. He has so much to offer. The downside is he doesn’t pace himself – it’s one hundred and ten percent or nothing.’