by Owen Mullen
Kevin let the criticism pass and waited until they’d gone. He hunkered beside the woman. ‘So,’ he said, ‘Selkirk told Cameron, that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?’
She nodded, desperate to be believed. ‘Yes, yes. Ian told Charlie not me. ’
Rafferty stroked the ugly line on his face with the knife. ‘In that case we don’t need you, do we?’
Fiona vomited on the floor. It was no dream.
* * *
-------
* * *
The woman had started something all right. Jimmy Rafferty was witnessing a power struggle. The surprise was Sean, the quiet man. Not so quiet now. Kevin would have his work cut out keeping him in line. If they joined forces they would be a formidable team. Except that was unlikely. As children they kept their distance from one another; as adults it was hard even for Jimmy to believe they were brothers: Kevin, vicious, impetuous, an easy man to fear, essential in their business, and Sean. What about Sean? The boy was a stranger to his father; always hanging back, listening not speaking. Until recently. This thing with Rocha had brought him out of his shell.
Kevin said, ‘Cameron’s back. Got him covered night and day, we should pull him. See the look on his face when he discovers it was his girlfriend who put him in the frame.’
Sean said, ‘She was lying to save herself.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Does he act like he’s sitting on five million? Either he’s in the dark or he’s the coolest guy on the planet.’
‘So let’s give him some encouragement, find out how cool he really is. Forget softly softly.’
Sean Rafferty lost it. Is that what we’ve been doing? Fuck’s sake, Selkirk and the woman are out of it. We have nothing. Nothing! Charlie Cameron’s all that’s left. We’re in deep shit, or haven’t you noticed? Any day Rocha will get fed-up waiting for us to do what we were supposed to and come here himself. He’ll discover what happened to the thief, put two and two together, and we’ll be face down in the river with our throats cut. We should never have taken him on.’
‘But if she was telling the truth...’
‘No Kevin. Once we go down that road there’s no turning back, we’ve proved it twice already. Cameron’s all that’s between us and Emil Rocha. We lift him and we’re fucked. No, we use the woman.’
Kevin barked at him. ‘How?’
Sean brought Fiona Ramsay’s mobile from his pocket. ‘Who says the dead can’t speak?’
Twenty-Four
The Big Issue guy ignored me again.
He thought he had problems – he should try mine.
NYB was empty except for a couple of young women at the bar basking in Roberto’s smile. Jackie had gone home. I went to the office to check the ansaphone and mail. Nothing. That couldn’t be right. If Rafferty had Fiona why were they still interested in me? And if she had got away why hadn’t she called? There should’ve been contact by now.
Until recently Cleveden Drive in the west end had been a good place to live. I stood in the lounge trying to see it the way it was before somebody took an axe to it. Patrick read my mind and repeated his offer. ‘Just tell me what to get. Cash buys anythin’. And by the way, you’re not landed with me. I’ll find somewhere else to doss.’
I sat down. ‘No, don’t. Stay as long as you like.’
‘Thanks, Charlie. Options aren’t too impressive right now. Wonderin’ if I need to get myself a lawyer.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘You reckon?’
He didn’t believe me. Neither did I.
‘Gail keeps movin’ the goalposts. Just about had it with her. Says I have to give up the drink. Apparently I’m a bad role model for the boys. What’s she talkin’ about? I like a drink, never denied it. But it doesn’t affect our marriage.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No. Money’s always there. Nearly always. If I stay in she complains I’m makin’ the place look untidy. I’ll tell you, Charlie, I’m this close to blowin’ the whistle on the whole thing.’ He was building up steam. ‘And when I’m offski, I’m offski for good.’
‘Give her time. Gail loves you.’
‘Tell her that. A month ago everythin’ was fine. All of a sudden it’s not workin’. Women. I don’t understand them.’
‘Join the club, Patrick.’
‘You and Fiona okay?’
The story poured out of me.
‘Somebody got there before me, her villa was wrecked.’
‘Rafferty?’
‘Can’t be sure. Had to involve the police.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘As little as I could get away with.’
‘If Rafferty has Fiona, why were they waitin’ for us at Newcastle?’
‘I’ve been trying to work that out. I can’t.’
‘Because they don’t have her. She’s out of sight. You’re all they’ve got.’
I hoped he was right.
‘One more thing. The TV. It has to go back, Patrick. I can’t accept stolen goods.’
‘Think it’s stolen?’
‘Okay, goods of unknown origin.’
The knock at the door made us jump. Patrick answered it. He said, ‘Somebody for you, Charlie’ and left. The detective smiled his grim smile.
‘Mr Cameron. Charlie. Is it all right to call you Charlie? You’re a hard man to track down.’ He swept the room with his eyes. ‘Looks like you’ve upset somebody, did they take much?’
I didn’t reply.
‘May I sit down?’ He made a deal of getting comfortable. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘Must’ve been nice. You’ve been on holiday, I hear. Got into a spot of bother too.’ He tutted. ‘My, my, you do live an interesting life.’
‘Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?’
‘Well I really don’t know. The Spanish authorities contacted us about a missing woman. Fiona Ramsay, another old chum I believe.’
‘Fiona and I know each other. I went over to see her. Friends do that kind of thing.’
‘Do they?’
He was enjoying himself, wagging a finger like he was amused.
‘You’re a dark horse, Charlie. Your pal, Ian, led a colourful existence. Before it was cut short. Ever heard the name Emil Rocha? No? Quite a character. He’s French, or Catalan, or a bit of both, depending on who you listen to. Spain’s been after him for two decades. A friend of a friend of yours. Small world, isn’t it? We’re sure Selkirk worked for him. Over the last three years he was in and out of this country every eight or nine weeks.’
‘Could be visiting someone?’
‘Then they were short visits. In one day, out the next or the day after.’
‘So?’
‘An odd way to behave, don’t you think?’
‘I really couldn’t comment. Ian was as much a stranger to me as you are, Inspector. I keep telling you it was long ago. You keep expecting god knows what from me. For the last time, yes, I knew the guy, once. And no, I haven’t seen him.’
My irritation bounced off him. ‘You see, when you were talking to the police in Porto Estuto you left out a couple of details. Loch Lomond for one.’
‘What had that to do with anything? I was there to see Fiona.’
‘Of course, but when this place got turned-over, then the villa in Spain...I’ve seen the pictures, a terrible mess...I asked myself where was the connection. It wasn’t difficult.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Really, it’s always a mistake to think you’re smarter than everyone else, Charlie. I advised you not to try your amateur powers on with me. Now my advice is different. Don’t get clever because I know.’
I called his bluff. ‘What? What do you know, Inspector?’
‘Selkirk and Ramsay and you. Thick as thieves. He’s dead, she’s missing and you’re right in front of me.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Good decision not to go into politics, by the way. Not nearly sharp enough,
I’m afraid.’ He leaned towards me. ‘The sale of illegal narcotics in Spain is split between five people. Emil Rocha runs the south east, from Valencia to Cadiz. Selkirk was one of his bag men. Something went wrong, he ends up dead. Not so unusual, it’s a dangerous trade to be in, but why run to Scotland, he hasn’t stayed here in years? And his old friends, suddenly they’re not safe in their own homes. Innocent people...except they’re not innocent.’
He got to his feet. ‘This isn’t about getting some old lady’s cat out of a tree or whatever it is you normally do, Charlie. Emil Rocha’s a player. I think your friend stole from Rocha and I think you’re involved. You and Fiona Ramsay. Rocha thinks so too. Next time it won’t be your fancy flat. If he has the woman you can forget about seeing her again. When he’s finished with her you wouldn’t want to.’
He saved his final chilling comments until he was at the door. ‘A Spanish police informant says the word on the streets puts it at five million pounds, give or take. Selkirk’s dead, Ramsay too probably, that just leaves you.’
‘I’m not a part of anything. Neither is Fiona.’
His pupils were flinty and dark. I got Patrick’s rat eyes thing.
‘Tell it to Emil Rocha, let’s hope he believes you. I don’t.’
-------
* * *
I wasn’t in the mood to work, all I could think about was Fiona. I passed through NYB with my head down, hoping nobody stopped me to talk.
Mrs McNeil was the last person I wanted to see. Since I'd found Ian Selkirk’s dead body at the city mortuary on Ash Wednesday, her calls and letters, the whole case, had been an annoyance to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it on. Easy to think that now.
The door opened and there she stood, not gentle and trusting; angry. She hadn’t come to thank me; her face was set hard, the lips drawn in a line, resentment alive in her eyes. ‘You’re here,’ she said. ‘Good. I wondered how you spend the day.’
‘Mrs McNeil, come in.’
‘You were just about to call me, is that what you were going to say?’
‘Come in. Please. I understand how you feel.’
‘No you don’t. To you I’m a sad woman whose husband walked out on her after her son committed suicide. You pity me. Not enough to stick to your word, mind, just enough to convince yourself you haven’t done anything too bad. You promised. You promised me.’
The slender fingers I’d admired clenched at her side.
‘Please sit down. You’re right.’
She preferred to stand, deaf to excuses. ‘I put my faith in you. I was foolish. Finding Stephen is all that’s left. There’s nothing else to live for.’
‘Stephen doesn’t want to be found, Mrs McNeil.’
‘What about the credit card? If you’d tried harder I might know where he is.’
‘My guess is he won’t use the card again. As long as the money lasts he won’t need to. He may’ve had a breakdown. None of the things he’s done suggest he’s a danger to himself.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re so plausible, aren’t you? Talking as if you know, as if you care. My Christopher’s dead, Stephen’s out there and you haven’t tried to find him. You said you’d give it your best shot, remember?’
Charlie Cameron, honest injun.
‘We have tried, Mrs McNeil. I went to Newlands yard, the El Cid, even the mortuary; a friend on the Force put a trace on the car, and my colleague spent three nights trawling the pubs around Tesco in Shettleston. Nothing doing.’
‘And is that your best? I mean, aren’t there other things you could try? It is what you do after all. I expected more.’
I didn’t tell her so did I.
‘I promised I wouldn’t give up and I won’t. We need your husband to show himself, otherwise we’re in the dark.’
She mellowed, a little. ‘Tell me the truth Mr Cameron. Do you think you can find Stephen? Don’t lie to me, it’s too important.’
‘I can’t answer that, I’m sorry, if we get something to work with, of course, if not...’
‘I haven’t been sleeping well, my nerves, I expect you’re doing all you can, it’s just that...it’s hard to keep believing. Stephen used to say I was neurotic. Maybe he was right. Phoning you every five minutes, sending notes.’
‘I like the notes.’
Cecelia McNeil backed towards the door, now the fire was spent she was the timid, good-living lady I’d met on Ash Wednesday. ‘I was very rude just now, forgive me. Please keep looking, Mr Cameron.’
‘I will, I promise I will, and when I have anything I’ll be in touch.’
No sooner had she gone than my mobile sang its bright little tune. I had a message. I read it and my heart stopped.
Twenty-Five
Glasgow was Sunday morning quiet. In a few hours that would change. The Sabbath wasn’t a day of rest any more. I drove carefully. If the police breathalysed me my license was a goner. I’d let Patrick talk me into the pub crawl, now I was paying the price.
The message from Fiona had rocked my world.
SAFE FOR NOW
DONT KNOW FOR HOW LONG
WHERE IS IT
FI x
Every time I closed my eyes the text was waiting for me. I called her number, the mobile was turned off. But she was okay, though not knowing where she was meant I couldn’t protect her. I studied the words again and again, willing them to tell me more.
I texted.
WHERE ARE U
I WANT TO PROTECT U
A minute later she replied.
BETTER U DONT KNOW JUST GET THEM WHAT THEY WANT
A feeling of powerlessness took hold; my head went down.
Pat Logue didn’t stay at the flat on Friday night. It was Saturday evening before I shared the news with him. He was pragmatic. ‘At least she’s safe Charlie, that’s somethin’.’
‘But why won’t she tell me where she is?’
‘If you don’t know Rafferty can’t get it out of you. And hold your horses, Fiona got away, it’s a start. She’s contacted you once, she’ll be in touch again, meantime we keep lookin’. But not tonight, tonight we’re out for a few jars. You and me.’
I started to object. Patrick would have none of it. ‘Stand on your uncle Pat, you need to chill. Havin’ a heart attack won’t make it better. We’re goin’.’
He was right. By myself I’d sit around and worry, and a night with Patrick Logue wouldn’t be dull, that was for sure. ‘Won’t be much fun with me. You’d do better on your own.’
‘Not happenin’, Charlie. Not a skinful, just a few. Nothin’ over the top.’
In his world over the top was a relative term. His advice was a warning of what was to come. ‘We need somethin’ in our bellies before we go anywhere. I’ll dive out for fish and chips, you get the plates. And drink milk, puts a linin’ on your stomach.’
‘I don’t like milk.’
‘Doesn’t matter what you like, drink it.’
He switched off his mobile and insisted I do the same. ‘No interruptions,’ he said. ‘Tonight we’re free as birds.’
We began in Cottier’s in the West End. Patrick ordered and gave me the history.
‘Daniel Cottier worked on this church. A conservation trust is tryin’ to save the building. They’ve turned the interior into a theatre. There’s a restaurant upstairs.’
He was enjoying himself. It hadn’t occurred to him I might already know all this. He passed a lager to me and eyed the glass. ‘Get that down your neck.’
I sipped it; it was good. Pat gulped down a third of his without trying. ‘First today.’
‘So why Cottier’s?’
‘I like the place. The crowd’s a bit young but I appreciate their energy.’
One of the barmaids – a brunette, small waist and big brown eyes – smiled and shouted ‘Hiya, Pat!’ and I realised his restoration-patron chat was bullshit.
‘You’re a well known gun here, Patrick.’
He turned away. ‘Moira’s all right. Her brother
was in my class at school.’
People left. We slipped into the booth they’d been in. Pat said, ‘Listen Charlie, I can only guess how you’re feelin’. If it was me I’d be off my nut. Treat this wee jaunt as a battery recharge. Your problems will wait. Guaranteed.’ He stopped speaking. ‘There’s our man at the bottom of the bar. Sticks out like a sore thumb.’
I took a look and found myself in a staring contest with a thickset skinhead in a black donkey jacket.
‘I don’t get this, Patrick. Why doesn’t Rafferty order his thugs to pull me in and beat what they want out of me. They tortured Ian, why not me?’
‘If Jimmy Rafferty wanted it that’s how it would be. So he doesn’t. They’re usin’ you.’
‘Using me for what?’
‘To find Fiona.’
‘Then why trash the flat?’
‘Makin’ sure. Always pays to be sure.’
‘But I’ve no idea where Fiona is.’
‘She knows where you are, that’s enough. Yesterday you thought Rafferty had lifted her in Spain; thanks to her text you’re certain she’s safe. For now. Got to be reassured with that. The game’s still going and we’re still on the park. Finish your pint, it’s Saturday night. Places to go.’
We made our way to Lauder’s on the corner of Sauchiehall Street. It wasn’t busy. Patrick sat at a table. ‘Your shout,’ he said.
When I brought the drinks he wasn’t happy. ‘They’ve ruined this pub. Look at it.’ He shook his head. ‘No heart, no soul. Space Invaders and a kiddies menu. Shame. C’mon, can’t stay here, too sad.’
And I learned something about him – it wasn’t just about the alcohol. I followed him out, down West Nile, across Buchanan Street into Exchange Square and a surprising choice. The Rogano.
‘Now this,’ he said, ‘is a place.’
I agreed, the Rogano was a favourite of mine. He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Art Deco.’
‘I know.’
‘Rennie Macintosh influence.’
‘I know, Patrick.’
The Oyster Bar was crowded. Pat got served right away, just like always. He handed me a small glass of claret-coloured liquid. ‘What’s this?’
