by Owen Mullen
‘Dubonnet. Always drink Dubonnet in here.’
‘Why? Nobody drinks Dubonnet.’
‘I do.’
‘You’re a strange man, anybody ever tell you that?
‘Gail tells me all the time. I prefer to think of myself as singular.’
‘And you’re a snob, I’d never have guessed.’
‘Don’t understand that word, never have.’
‘Means you’re a pretentious twat.’
‘Shut up and drink your Dubonnet.’
The Rogano crowd were a mixed bag; thirty-somethings plus a sprinkling of middle class middle-aged men and women; business types out on the weekend, and some fine looking females hanging on the arms of geeky guys. The guys had to have money. I brushed shoulders with a group of laughing women, their glasses filled with Champagne. I kept my drink out of sight. Sipping Dubonnet wouldn’t do much for my image. One of them smiled at me. I smiled back, then Fiona and the awful mess rushed in and wiped the smile away.
Patrick was at my shoulder. ‘The thinkin’ man’s fanny. Another reason to like it here.’
‘This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be doing this.’
He pulled me aside. I’d never seen him so serious. His face was inches from mine, close enough to smell the sweet scent of the aperitif on his breath. ‘Listen Charlie, really listen. What we’re doin’ tonight, there’s a point. You need it.’
The woman who’d been interested in me was watching. ‘You’re good at what you do. Very good. Except not this time, this time it’s too personal. Ian Selkirk was a pal and you’re in love with Fiona. That puts you at a disadvantage unless you sort your head out. So far you haven’t had a decent idea. Not one. Same with McNeil. Anybody could’ve done what you’ve done. Anybody.’
‘Cecelia McNeil says I’ve let her down.’
‘You have. And you’re lettin’ Fiona down too. You’ll get nowhere ‘til you start treatin’ it like any other case. While you’re worrin’ about Fiona you’re no use to her. You can’t think straight. Since you discovered Ian’s body you’ve tried to dump the McNeils. Anythin’ positive has come from the wife. We’ve been goin’ through the motions. Sure she’s disappointed. So am I. I told you I’d help and I will. But you’re the Man, Charlie. Tomorrow we sit down and figure it out. Right now we’re doin’ this – crawlin’ our way round Glasgow. Not to get drunk. Not to get lucky. To get free. Fiona needs you on the ball, Cecelia McNeil too. Know what I’m talkin’?’
I knew what he was saying. My mojo wasn’t working because my responses were emotional not analytical. By forcing me to face the uncomfortable truth about my efforts Patrick was doing me a favour.
The lady with the Champagne had moved on. ‘I hear you, Pat. And thanks.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right, Charlie. In the mornin’ we’ll start fresh on both cases. Now,’ he punched my shoulder the way mates do, ‘your shout.’
‘Another Dubonnet?’
He considered. ‘Make it a Guinness, get a chronic hangover from that French shite.’
Tonight Patrick was the leader. I followed. To the re-opened Clutha by the river, where a police helicopter had fallen from the sky one Friday night and destroyed the place – another disaster from out of the blue – to Heraghty’s bar on the south side, and a couple more bars only half remembered, until we fell into Babbity Bowser’s in Merchant City. The red-haired barmaid didn’t recognise him; about the only one who hadn’t. We hung around until she did. Three more drinks I could’ve done without. I was drunk. As far as I could tell he was unaffected.
Two whiskies appeared. ‘Supportin’ your old dad, Charlie. Like he needs the money.’
‘Japanese company own it now, and I’ve had it. No more.’
‘Oh well, happy birthday to me then. First today.’
He drank both of them.
Saturday had grown old and so had I. Getting wasted wasn’t the fun it had been when I was nineteen, laughing at Ian Selkirk’s craziness and lusting after Fiona. We waited on the pavement for a taxi. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder.
‘Time we were home, Charlie, you’re a wee bit over-refreshed.’
I almost didn’t see the car parked across High Street, a sinister reminder of another Glasgow, a Glasgow I’d be better off without.
Twenty-Six
NYB was empty. Jackie gave me a bright ‘Good morning.’ I tried to fake the same but my headache wouldn’t allow it. ‘Just coffee, please.’
‘No breakfast?
‘Coffee’s fine.’
I lifted the Herald and pretended to read. Words jumped from the page. The world was still a crazy place, nothing about it interested me. In the sports section the editor drooled over the prospect of the Old Firm meeting in the Scottish Cup on Easter Sunday, three weeks down the line. The day before, Celtic had lost at Inverness and Rangers got a last gasp winner against whoever they were playing. I couldn’t have cared less.
Andrew Geddes arrived. ‘You look rough. On the bevy were we?’
‘Should’ve been a detective, Andrew.’
He grinned. ‘That bad, eh? Thought a man of your experience would know better.’
‘Sod off, Geddes. Let me die in peace.’
He dropped a sheet of paper on the table. ‘Your pal didn’t leave much. Wasn’t intending to stay very long.’
‘Anything significant?’
His scowl said he wouldn’t be answering any questions. He walked away and sat down by himself. The coffee tasted awful. I downed the water that came with it and asked for another; Jackie’s continental innovation. I made a note to thank her then changed my mind. Once that door opened Christ knew where it might finish.
Andrew folded the Mail On Sunday, leaned back in his seat and called to me.
‘Any further forward on the other stuff?’ He meant Ian Selkirk. ‘Haven’t seen Platt around. How you getting on with him?’
‘Like brothers. What do you think?’
‘Yeah, he’s not an easy guy to like. Supposed to be good though, cracked some big cases down south.’
‘So why’s he here? Don’t see it as a career move, somehow.’
‘Wife died. New start, far as I know.’
‘He doesn’t like me, he thinks I’m involved.’
‘Well, are you?’
‘You’re a pal, Andrew, now sod off back to your paper.’
He laughed and gave it a rest. It was okay to noise-up someone with a hangover;
self-inflicted made it alright. It took an hour before I could even consider eating, and toast at that. Andrew Geddes dipping a bagel in his coffee didn’t help – my stomach turned.
Patrick Logue sailed in at a couple of minutes to twelve, the picture of health. He waved and came over.
‘Great night, wasn’t it?’
He pointed at the toast. ‘Need more than that to keep body and soul together. We’ve got work to do; have to be fit. Breakfast’s the most...’
‘Patrick, not now.’
‘Oh. Sorry, not feelin’ too hot? Good job we gave the Dubonnet a body swerve.’
‘Can we not talk about alcohol? Better still, can we not talk?’
‘You see,’ he said, ‘Gail wouldn’t put up with that. You’d be gettin’ told.’
‘About what?’
‘That tetchy thing you do, that man-on-the-edge crap.’
I couldn’t deal with him. ‘Look, I’ll meet you in the office at one. Beat it. Andrew Geddes’s over there, go and torment him.’
I got a glass of orange juice and took it upstairs. The office was cool. In the dark with my eyes closed, wishing I felt better, the thoughts booze had blocked out for a few hours returned. I pushed them aside and looked at the list. DS Geddes was right: beyond a change of clothes and some toiletries Ian hadn’t left anything.
Pat Logue came in holding two pints. I said, ‘Not for me, Patrick. Couldn’t face it.’
‘Not for you, you can get your own. For me. Saves runnin’ up and down.’
�
�Thought you didn’t drink on Sunday. Your golden rule.’
‘Important to stay flexible, Charlie. Did you see him?’
‘Who?’
‘The Big Issue guy. Poor bastard looks nearly as bad as you.’
I fought down nausea and took a breath. ‘Whenever you’re done, we’ll get started.’
‘Fire away, Charlie.’
‘The McNeil case. What’s driving Stephen McNeil? His wife feared her husband was a danger to himself because he ran out on her the day before their son’s funeral and took his guns. But he withdrew a substantial amount from the bank. Fifteen thousand pounds. A man thinking about ending it doesn’t need money.’
Patrick sipped his drink.
I said, ‘And Tesco. Shows he’s taking care of himself.’
‘Yeah, when the shock of the suicide passed shouldn’t he remember he left his wife to cope on her own?’
‘Unless he doesn’t want to go home.’
‘Runnin’ from the marriage?’
‘He packed in his job, stopped meeting his mates, and he’s okay on the cash front.’
It was beginning to make sense. I said,’ Stephen McNeil bailed on his whole life. He’s not coming back.’
‘Mrs McNeil’s a good woman.’
‘What if her husband got tired of living with a good woman? What if there’s somebody else and he’s starting again? Might be driving for another company.’
‘I’ll start checkin’ first thing in the mornin’. Go back to the El Cid. If there is a woman, somebody might’ve noticed them together.’
We sat in silence until Pat said, ‘Are we any closer, Charlie?’
I was coming round. ‘Yes we are, but we’re not seeing something. Probably right in front of us.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it always is. It’s about the boy. It’s about Christopher.’
‘We know that. The guy’s riddled with guilt and grief.’
‘So Cecelia McNeil says.’
Patrick wasn’t convinced. ‘But we saw how close the father and son were. Fishin’. Football. Wish my relationship with our two was that good.’
‘We saw pictures and heard a story. Everything we believe we believe because Mrs McNeil told us.’
‘Why lie?’
‘You asked why a seventeen year old boy would kill himself, remember? We’ve never answered that.’
‘Aye. Gail wants to kill Liam and Patrick, they’ve no notion of toppin’ themselves. At that age you believe you’ll live forever.’
‘Christopher McNeil didn’t. He locked the garage, turned on the ignition and went to sleep. Because he had a row with his father?’
‘Kid must’ve been unbalanced.’
‘Not something his mother would be keen to talk about. I’ll try her again.’ I stood. ‘Time out,’ I said. ‘I need to eat.’
We went downstairs. Patrick headed for another beer, I wolfed my way through two rolls and sausage and two espresso. Back in the office Pat Logue picked up the newspaper.
‘Nothin’ but bad news. Can’t depend on anythin’. Celtic lost to Inverness Cally. What’s the world comin’ to?’
‘Celtic.’
The word jumped from my mouth.
‘What?’
‘Stephen McNeil’s a Celtic supporter, he’ll be at Parkhead.’
The paper rustled. Patrick scanned the pages. ‘They’re at home against Motherwell next Saturday. If we can find him. It’s a big place.’
I called Rhona and told her to ask Andrew to join us. Pat Logue rose out of his chair.
‘Better I’m not here, Charlie. Your chum doesn’t fancy me.’
‘Sit down, we’re working together on this.’
‘The people I do business with wouldn’t like me associatin’ with the other side; my credibility will be shredded.’
‘Cool it, Andrew can help us. He isn’t interested in you, not today anyway.’
Andrew Geddes knocked and came in, nodded to me, ignored Patrick and took a seat.
‘What’s up, Charlie?’
‘Question for you, Andrew. If I wanted to know where a season ticket holder sat, could you get that information?
‘Which ground?’
‘Celtic Park.’
‘The Gyro-dome? Of course. Who’re you looking for now?’
‘Stephen McNeil.’
He made a face. ‘Still him. Has he broken the law yet?’
‘I’m almost certain he hasn’t.’
‘Then that’s all I can do without at least suspicion of a criminal act. As it is I wouldn’t like to explain why I was requesting access to confidential information. Believe it or not, because you asked isn’t a good enough reason.’
I gave him the address. ‘How’s the hangover?’
He shot a glance in Patrick’s direction that had blame written all over it.
‘Not like you to go overboard.’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Never again, right?’
I rubbed my head. ‘Absolutely. How soon will you know about McNeil?’
‘Beginning of the week, Tuesday at the latest. Good enough? That it?’
‘Has Ian’s mobile turned up?’
‘No.’
‘And there’s a Spaniard called Emil Rocha.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘DI Platt dropped the name, says Ian worked for him as some kind of courier. Probably the guy he robbed.’
‘I’ll see what turns up.’
When he’d gone Pat Logue spoke. ‘He’s after me. Pretends he’s not bothered but he is, sure of it.’
‘Then don’t do anything to attract his attention.’
‘Too late, Charlie.’
‘By Tuesday we’ll know Stephen McNeil’s seat. Have to be close so we can follow him when the game ends. I’ll stay outside; you’ll be in the ground. We’ll need a ticket in the same section. You manage that?’
‘Against Motherwell. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Good. Now, the Ian Selkirk case. Ian got killed because he took something that didn’t belong to him. Could be drugs. Money’s the favourite. Platt talked about five million. Since then, my flat’s been trashed. Fiona’s villa got the same treatment. She’s hiding and won’t tell me where. And every time I turn round one of Rafferty’s thugs is with me. They haven’t made a serious move because they’re depending on me to lead them to whatever Ian stole.’
‘You’re all they have.’
‘Then they have nothing, Patrick.’
‘They don’t know that.’
‘Even Platt believes I’m involved.’
‘You are, just not the way he thinks.’
The hangover made a come-back, my head ached and it wasn’t the booze. The thought of Fiona, alone and frightened, scared for me as well as herself, was too much.
‘I could go to Rafferty, tell him he’s wasting his time. Unless we get a break it might come to that.’
‘Not a good idea, Charlie. Gangsters don’t do reason. They want what they want, and they get it or somebody gets hurt. Wind-up in Loch Lomond same as your mate. How would that help Fiona? Forget the direct approach.’
Of course he was right. ‘So it’s back to the beginning,’ I said. ‘When Ian went AWOL before, he couldn’t resist cruising gay bars. Chances are he did the same this time. Loch Lomond isn’t far from Glasgow. He might’ve hooked-up with somebody.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Count me out. I’ll concentrate on McNeil.’
‘Homophobic? Who’d have guessed?’
‘Nothin’ against gays. Live and let live I always say. I’ll fit in more easily at the darts.’
‘All right I’ll take the bars.’
He winked. ‘Go easy on the drink. You know what you’re like when you get the taste.’
‘Don’t push it, Patrick.’
He grinned. ‘Tetchy, tetchy. Not good. Turns people off. Did Ian hang around with anybody apart from you and Fiona?’
‘No. It was the three
of us. Our little club.’
‘What a pain in the arse you must’ve been. Family?’
‘An aunt he used to joke about, in Lesmahagow, I think. Could be dead by now.’
I dredged my memory. ‘Aunt Jean. Ian stayed with her in the school holidays.’
‘Over twenty years ago. Good luck, Charlie. Any more contact from Fiona?’
‘No. I sent two texts, no reply.’
Mention of Fiona brought me down. My mood was already low; the previous night’s excess didn’t help. Our big powwow had produced some ideas. We’d made progress, just not enough for me, but it wasn’t too late to make it right. That meant putting aside distractions like love and old friendships and starting again.
‘Ian double-crossed Emil Rocha. How come a Glasgow heavy like Rafferty’s in the picture?’
Patrick said, ‘Could be Rafferty’s contracted.’
‘Hired help?’
‘Makes sense, a bunch of dagoes runnin’ about the town won’t get far.’
I lifted the sheet of paper Andrew Geddes had given me. ‘We’ve seen the list of personal effects. No key. That rules out safety deposit boxes and lock-ups. He could’ve used the old auntie; she might not even be aware of it.’
‘I’ll say this for you, Charlie,’ Patrick stretched, ‘you’re an optimistic guy. Parkhead’s an opportunity, unless McNeil’s dropped it the way he has everythin’ else, the rest is wishful thinkin’. Gay bars, ancient aunties. Tell the truth, it’s not much, is it?’
‘It’s what we’ve got. On Tuesday night you hit the darts. During the day find out if he’s driving for somebody else. I’ll do the pubs since you’re so prudish, and look for Jean Selkirk.’
‘That it?’
‘Till we know where McNeil sits.’
‘Celtic are a bad lot this season. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s given up on them.’
‘Let’s hope not.’
‘And I could use some cash.’
‘How much will a ticket be?’
‘No idea. Won’t matter, only need money when I’m dealin’ with strangers. Anybody else knows I’m good for it. Put in a word with Geddes, will you? I like NYB, it suits me, don’t want to drink somewhere else.’
‘Won’t help, Andrew’s a policeman.’
