by Owen Mullen
‘Supposed to be on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘Not sure he sees it like that.’
‘Speak to him anyway. Got enough on my plate.’
I doubted anything I said would alter Andrew’s opinion. Downstairs Patrick’s nemesis had gone. He took his place at the bar content to let Sunday afternoon roll on by. In the corner Jackie shared a table with a guy, both of them wearing track suit bottoms and sweat shirts. She waved me over. With her hair tied back she looked younger, fresher. Jackie Mallon was happy. She said, ‘Charlie, this is Gary.’
His bald head reminded me of an over-sized baby. He probably carried ID to prove he was old enough to be served. Gary held out a confident hand. ‘Hi. Jackie’s told me about you.’
She jumped in before he could say any more. ‘We’ve been to the gym. Get those endorphins going.’
Gary said. ‘Best drug on the market.’ He ran his eyes over me. ‘Work out much yourself, Charlie? Any day you want a partner to pump some iron with let me know.’
‘Thanks, Gary, doubt you’ll be hearing from me. Whenever I feel like exercising I lie down in a darkened room until the notion passes.’
I left them feeling smug and good about themselves.
Twenty-Seven
At ten minutes to two on Monday my mobile played its annoying jingle, a fanfare to the worst night of my life.
TELL ME YOUVE FOUND IT.
IM SCARED CHARLIE
A stake through my heart.
I read and reread; it didn’t get any better. My reply was frantic, my fingers stumbled over the keypad.
STILL LOOKING COME BACK 2 HEADS BETTER THAN ONE
Nothing.
Next door Patrick snored. I wanted to wake him and share my pain. Instead I made coffee and sat alone in the kitchen with the lights out. How long I stayed like that I had no idea. Pat found me slumped across the table, neither awake nor asleep, in a place I’d never been. He brewed more coffee and began the rebuilding process. When I showed him the message his reply was gentle, wise beyond anything I expected. He touched my arm, waiting for my attention. ‘Charlie’ he said. ‘Nothin’s changed. Nothin’ at all.’
And I knew he was right.
Later he pointed me towards the shower. The hot water restored my body though my mind stayed numb, as if a circuit had fused somewhere inside. But that loss had value; my heartbeat was steady and I was calm, ready to face whatever was out there. When I came back scrambled eggs and bacon were waiting. ‘Breakfast.’ he said, ‘My speciality.’
He pattered for my benefit. There was no need; the long night had passed.
‘You do this at your house?’
‘Yep, Gail isn’t a mornin’ person. Ever since the boys were wee I’ve been in charge of gettin’ the show on the road.’
I was impressed. I said, ‘You’re a good guy, Patrick.’
He crunched toast. ‘Nah, nah I’m not. I make decent scrambled eggs, I’ll settle for that.’
We travelled into the city together. I reckoned he was keeping an eye on me. NYB was quiet. The two guys Jackie had hired were lounging against the end of the bar. Their conversation wasn’t about clearing tables. I overheard Roberto championing Fair Trade with a female – preaching to the converted – the lady hung on every word. I asked one of the waiters to bring coffee to the office. He was a strange looking boy with lazy eyes, prominent teeth and a neck that was too long for his body; probably a student paying his way through university before going on to become a doctor or some such and earn real money. Unfortunately that’s how he saw it too; he seemed to resent being interrupted. Not good. If a well-known face couldn’t get service what chance did anybody else have?
Patrick said. ‘He the best she can get?’
The other guy brought our coffee. A smile played around his mouth, a joke he wasn’t willing to share. I wanted to give him a slap; he had that kind of face. He was gay and flaunted his sexuality in a mini performance.
‘So,’ Patrick clapped his hands, ‘let’s get to it.’ He drew a chair over to the desk and reached for Yellow Pages. ‘What’s the approach? They’re not going to give out information on employees just like that.’
‘Ask to speak to Stephen McNeil. They’ll tell you if he doesn’t work there. Apologise and move on to the next one.’
He grinned. ‘Ever lookin’ for a new gig, Charlie, there are people who could use a devious bastard like you.’
I pushed a pen and paper towards him ‘We want haulage companies in the Greater Glasgow area.’
‘Snookered if he’s gone south.’
‘Let’s hope not. Cecelia McNeil’s been disappointed enough.’
The list was longer than I’d imagined. Patrick worked in silence, now and then whistling snatches of a tune unfamiliar to both of us. When I couldn’t take any more I left him to it.
‘Where you goin’?’
‘Lesmahagow.’
‘Ah, the Gow. Mamba country. Miles and miles of bugger all. Take it easy, Charlie.’
Jackie called me over to the baby grand. She said, ‘Missed the drama last night. Danny stormed out. Won’t be back until the piano’s fixed.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘He says it’s out of tune.’
‘Sounds fine to me.’
‘Yeah, but with respect, Charlie, you’re not a musician. Danny is, and he says it’s way off.’
‘Does Glasgow have piano tuners? Where did you find him?’
‘Yellow Pages. When he’s finished I’ll call the maestro, tell him his integrity isn’t threatened and it’s safe to come back.’
A man leaned inside the body, tinkering, doing whatever piano tuners do. He played a chord, then another, fingers drifting across the keys and turned to me. His features were delicate, the skin white and smooth as porcelain. I recognised him. It was George Lang, Christopher McNeil’s music teacher.
‘We’ve met before. Almost. At the McNeil house.’
His aesthetic features changed. His reply was stiff. ‘Really?’
‘I’m working for Christopher’s mother. Have you got a few minutes? Can we talk about Christopher?’
He looked at his watch, suddenly he was a man with a schedule to keep. ‘I haven’t...’
‘Two minutes?’
His shoulders sagged, resigned. ‘I’m not keen to discuss Christopher. Not with you, not with anybody.’
‘How long were you his piano teacher?’
‘A couple of years.’
‘How did you get on?’
‘Good. Chris had talent, discipline too. He loved to practise.’
‘So why did he need you?’
Lang’s skin was more bloodless than I remembered, as pale as bone. ‘You’d have to appreciate where he was coming from. Christopher couldn’t cope with the pressure at home. It affected him, affected his music.’
‘How?’
‘It confused him. The father wanted him to be a sportsman, the mother a musician. He couldn’t concentrate. People think talent arrives in a box, all you have to do is take it out and put it on. They’re wrong. It demands attention. And it’ll make you unhappy if it doesn’t get it.’
‘Sounds like a curse.’
‘In a sense. Gifts come at a price.’
‘Are you saying Christopher was unbalanced?’
George Lang’s voice was an anguished whisper. ‘I told you I won’t talk about Christopher and I won’t.’
I’d lost him and I knew it. He brushed past me. I ignored how upset he was and called after him. ‘Did you ever meet his father?’
He said something I didn’t hear and hurried away.
* * *
-------
* * *
The Big Issue seller waited in his usual place. I fingered coins in my pocket and steadied myself for today’s recitation. He saw me coming. I pressed money into his hand. He gazed at it as if it was unexpected. I was three steps past him when he spoke.
“‘Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine. A man’s a man for
a’ that.’”
His voice held controlled contempt. I understood the couplet, just not how it applied to me, and I made a decision: I’d resist his emotional blackmail. In future, as far as I was concerned, the guy was on to blank. I wasn’t having some geezer hurl Robert Burns at me. Enough was enough.
Glasgow has an advantage over many cities: minutes after you leave you’re in the country. I drove past the cathedral on to the M74 and followed the signs for Carlisle. In-coming traffic was backed-up into the distance, a couple of miles of vehicles moving at snail-pace.
April, and still the sky was muddy, heavy with rain, temperatures in single figures. Porto Estuto it wasn’t. At Strathclyde Park a few people in boats braved the cold – a strange sight on a Monday morning. On a whim I took the Clyde Valley scenic route. Places with quaint names, Rosebank, Hazelbank and Tillietudlum, came and went. Lesmahagow was neither scenic nor quaint; it was typical of villages in South Lanarkshire, an odd mix of houses clustered on the rise above the single main street, some more than a hundred years old. Jean Selkirk might be in one of them, on the phone telling a cousin in Australia about the unexpected arrival of her nephew, Ian – what a lovely boy he was – and how he’d asked her to keep a package for him.
It took an hour to find her, or at least find her name, etched in granite in the little graveyard by the river. The drive back to Glasgow seemed long.
At NYB I avoided the Big Issue guy but not Pat Logue. He was at the bar. I frowned when I saw him. He slid off the stool, drew me aside and whispered. ‘No luck, nobody’s heard of Stephen McNeil. Could be usin’ another name, of course.’
‘Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong. We can’t find him because he’s kept it simple. His mistake was using the card at Tesco, and it wasn’t a mistake, he doesn’t know his wife hired us. As far as he’s concerned nobody’s looking for him.’
‘Fifteen thou won’t last forever. On that subject, Charlie, sub me, will you?’
I let my irritation show. ‘Patrick, keep going and you’ll have drunk all your due.’
‘Surely not? I mean I’m full-time. My other interests have been set aside to concentrate on your stuff. A couple of dips won’t make much of a hole, will they?’
‘What other interests?’ I gave him two twenties and a ten.
His mobile rang. He checked the screen and switched it off. ‘Gail.’ he said. ‘Been tryin’ to get me all weekend. I’m diggin’ in my heels. Saturday night decided it, I’d be all right by myself. Better than all right.’
‘Always wise to keep a dialogue going.’
‘No point. Not with her.’
I told him he knew his own business best but I didn’t believe it.
‘We need to discuss expenses for hangin’ around dodgy pubs and sufferin’ shite beer. I’ve got standards Charlie, thought you knew that. And I’m still owed from the east end.’
‘Bring me receipts. No receipts, you’re buying your own. Understood?’
Receipts for a couple of pints. What a cheap bastard I could be.
‘You’re as bad as Gail. Ian’s auntie was a bust and you’re takin’ it out on me, am I right?’
He sloped off, pretending to be hurt. And he was right. The trip to Lesmahagow had been a waste. Seeing Pat Logue at the bar set me off. It wasn’t his fault, it was me.
Andrew Geddes called over. ‘A word, Charlie. Platt’s making noises. Your name keeps cropping up. He’ll be along to see you. My advice would be to tell him anything you know. The case hasn’t caught fire and his ego’s screaming blue murder. No news on your break-in, by the way. Spoke to Celtic Park this morning – they’ll have the information tomorrow. Best I can do in the circumstances.’
He spelled out the circumstances he meant.
‘No crime. No suspicion of a crime. Just doing a pal a good turn. You’ll understand why I don’t push harder.’ He was joking. But only a little.
‘I appreciate it. Tomorrow’s fine, and thanks.’
‘Platt. Watch it with him. He’s after a result. Make sure you don’t oblige him.’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, withholding evidence, maybe? He has a reputation for not letting go when it comes to bringing a charge. Just be careful.’
‘Right now he’s the least of my troubles. What about Emil Rocha?’
‘Spanish police haven’t got back yet. How does he figure?’
‘How does any of it figure, Andrew? I wish I knew.’
I dropped my voice so no one else could hear. ‘Listen, about Pat Logue. He’s doing some work for me so go easy, will you?’
He sighed. ‘He isn’t Public Enemy Number One, Charlie, but he’s always got an angle on the go. Only a matter of time before he falls on his face. It’s my job to be there when he does. The Logues of the world do plenty of damage on the quiet. Your pal’s a thief and his sons are right behind him. Liam got caught lifting a leather coat out of Paul Smith’s on Saturday. Can’t say he lacks ambition. Security camera caught him and the staff are witnesses.’
‘Patrick doesn’t know.’
‘He will soon. The boy’s too young for the Big House but the Children’s Panel will be delighted to make his acquaintance.’
‘First offence?’
‘Don’t be daft. First time he’s been nicked, that’s all.
‘Patrick’s wife’s been calling him. They’re at war. He stopped answering his phone.’
‘Better tell him. The boy’s mother collected him. In a right state she was. Wondered where the Wild Rover had got to.’
‘He was with me. He’s been avoiding her.’
‘Shame she didn’t do the same with him. She’s nice enough.’
Andrew had a habit of sounding pleased when trouble arrived. He’d been the same when the flat was burgled. Perhaps he couldn’t help it. He wandered off to spread cheer in other lives. I wasn’t unhappy to see him go. I went upstairs and waited a few minutes then buzzed down to Jackie. ‘Ask Pat Logue to meet me in the office.’
‘He’s talking football with Roberto. Boring.’
‘Tell him it’s important.’
Patrick sauntered in, pint in hand as usual. ‘That Roberto’s an interestin’ guy. Big Inter fan. Hates A.C. I mean, he really hates them. He was sayin’...’
‘You need to call Gail, Liam’s in trouble with the police. She’s been trying to reach you for two days.’ The grin disappeared. ‘Use this phone if you like, just make sure you get her.’
‘Who told you? What kind of trouble?’
‘Andrew Geddes. Shoplifting. Gail was at the police station. She was upset.’
I gave him space. The irony of Saturday night didn’t escape me, while we drank our way round Glasgow, Gail Logue was in a police station crying for her son. That was at the heart of her sudden objections to her husband.
Alex Gilby stopped me at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Jackie’s losing it, Charlie. Best to keep a low profile’
‘How so?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll find out.’
And I did. A minute later when she introduced me to somebody. ‘This is Mr Strang, Charlie. Mr Strang has offered to help.’
‘Help with what?’
Mr Strang peered down his long nose, a character from a Dickens novel with the charm of an undertaker. ‘I’m here to resolve the unresolved, Mr Cameron.’
‘Really?’
Jackie got between us. ‘Mr Strang is an accredited consultant with the Feng Shui Society; he’s doing a bagua.’
‘Is he indeed?’ I hadn’t a clue what a bagua was. ‘Let me know how it goes.’
Patrick passed me on his way out. He didn’t say goodbye. Very different from the guy who talked football with the barman. I guessed he’d been on the receiving end of hard words. I didn’t envy him. Likely this wasn’t the first time one of his sons had crossed the line and been caught, but it came at a critical moment; divorce was in the wind.
Andrew Geddes was at my shoulder. ‘Got the word, has he?
He’ll get used to it. It’s only the beginning.’
His pleasure got under my skin. ‘He’s a man worried about his son, Andrew, cut him a break. Patrick’s wide, that’s all, he’s not a child molester or a serial killer.’
Geddes was unimpressed. ‘Never had you down as a bleeding heart, Charlie. Wide? What does that cover? I wouldn’t give him house-room.’
I went to the office. Another word would be one too many; we’d fall out. Andrew had his view, he was entitled. Later in the afternoon Jackie was behind the bar.
I said, ‘How did the bagua go?’
‘Not good. Not good at all, Charlie.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s the club.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s facing the wrong way.’
Alex was going to love hearing that.
Twenty-Eight
The Cumberland Arms on the corner of Argyle Street and Wellington Street claimed to be the oldest gay pub in the city. I’d take their word for it. When Ian Selkirk did a runner the first time, I tracked him here and missed him by minutes. It was as good a place as any to begin. I had a plan, two places a night; any more was headless chicken stuff, running around trying to get lucky, never sure if I was too early or too late. As a strategy it was limited but until I had better it would have to do.
The Cumberland wasn’t busy, though not bad for a Monday. It was no different from any pub anywhere; guys drinking and shooting the breeze, talking politics, laughing too loud.
I sat at the bar. As a strange face I expected the regulars to check me out and keep their distance. Someone called ‘Two heavy, Norrie!’ and gave me the start I needed. Norrie was a tall thin guy, black t-shirt, jeans, designer stubble and an earring. I asked for lager.
‘Haven’t seen you in here before.’
It didn’t sound like a question but it was.
‘Friend of mine recommended you.’
‘Oh aye, who would that be?’
I drank the top off the beer and took my time. ‘Ian. Comes in whenever he’s in Glasgow. Lives in Spain these days. Told me to say hello to Norrie for him.’
