by Owen Mullen
Thirty minutes later he was in my office, smiling his rat smile, reinforcing my original decision. ‘That your jalopy out there, Charlie? Dear oh dear, what a mess. And no sign of the girlfriend, I hear.’ He was baiting me. ‘Where can she have got to?’
I came close to hitting him. He sat down, crossed his legs and straightened the crease in his trousers. ‘Five million pounds is an awful lot of money. Not easy to write off to experience, especially when every dago in Iberia’s paying attention to see what you do. Emil Rocha isn’t liable to forget about it. Can’t say I blame him, I mean, he’s the king of the castle, everybody’s afraid of him, until someone makes him look a fool. Won’t do. Won’t do at all. Never trust a junkie, that’s the lesson. Did you know your pal was an addict?’
Since Ash Wednesday Ian Selkirk had dominated my life. My flat had been ransacked, people followed me, and Fiona was in hiding, terrified. Now my car was lying in the street, a smouldering husk, while Detective Inspector Platt smirked offensive questions at me. I was tired of it.
The policeman was having too much fun at my expense to notice how close to the edge I was. ‘A little bird tells me Jimmy Rafferty has taken an interest in you.’
He did his tutting thing.
‘Hardly the sort of company a well brought up chap like you should be keeping.’
He was enjoying himself, drawing a languid finger across a table top and inspecting it for dust. When he got up to straighten a picture I realised it was an act; he still had nada.
I bit back. ‘How’s the investigation coming along, Inspector? Any nearer to understanding the first thing about it?’
Platt dropped the phony casual. ‘You amaze me, Charlie. Your world is falling apart yet you can still make jokes. Admirable. Fucking stupid but admirable. I know Rafferty’s watching you because so am I. Two of his men were here this very morning. I’d guess about the time your banger caught fire. I asked myself why Jimmy Rafferty would be bothering with you. The answer is he’s working for Rocha. Rocha wants his money and he’s hired the local strength to find it for him.’
He laughed. ‘It’s a foolish man who’d go up against that pair.’
‘How much did you say?’
‘Five mil. Give or take.’
I couldn’t listen to any more. ‘What is it with you, Platt? You don’t really think I had a part in this. So why are you on my back? I thought it was because you didn’t approve of a civilian poking around your case but it isn’t. You disliked me from the beginning. You’re making my life difficult instead of doing your job. The only one trying to get to the bottom of this is me.’
‘Difficult? I haven’t even started.’ He stroked his chin with the insufferable half-smile on his face. ‘You want to know why? Okay, I’ll tell you. I worked on a case in London involving a chum of your father’s, Peregrine Sommerville. Know him, do you? Old school. Up to his armpits in all kinds of corruption. Aren’t they all? Ten years would’ve been about right; instead he got a paltry couple of months in a country club. The evidence was there. Spent sixteen months pulling it together. But I made a mistake, didn’t I? Forgot who I was dealing with. Sommerville had clout. Got off with a slap. Guess who was behind it Charlie.’
The sins of the father.
‘And here I am, in the arse end of nowhere, my career down the river, quietly putting in my days, until the Almighty has a rethink and throws me a bone. And not any old bone. Archibald Cameron’s son and heir, out of his depth and as bent as a nine bob note. Not a surprise, considering. Must be in the genes. Except this time the law will prevail.’
His rat eyes sparkled. ‘Nice idea, isn’t it? The law prevailing.’
‘You’re looking in the wrong direction, Platt. Resentment is blinding you. Whatever happened between you and my father has no place here.’
His face twisted, the words flew at me. ‘He was guilty as hell. He got away with it because of who he was. Him and his cronies make me sick. My wife was ill, I was too busy building the case against Perry Sommerville to be with her. The night she died I was fifty miles away arresting that Tory bastard. Then he got off. Bitter? Absolutely! They paid some quack to say I was unfit for duty. Tried to push me out. After twenty eight years. I wasn’t having that. Glasgow was the compromise.’
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Ah, but you do Charlie. You’re his boy. One of the gang. The chosen few. And no, you don’t seem like it, not at the moment. I’ll give you that. Today it’s playing detective in the frozen north. Tomorrow, when you get tired of it, and you will, you’ll be welcomed back into the fold. The prodigal returns.’
‘You don’t believe I had any part in what Ian Selkirk did. This is about revenge. Where does justice figure in that?’
He dismissed the question. ‘Very plausible. Sommerville was the same. You’re better than he was. I almost believe you. Almost, Charlie.’
‘You’ve decided I’m guilty without a shred of proof.’
‘On the contrary, I invited you to work with me. First thing I said. You haven’t behaved like an innocent man. That business in Spain, for example, must admit that was odd. I mean, why would someone with nothing to hide lie to the police?’
‘I didn’t want to put Fiona in danger.’
‘By telling the authorities? My my, don’t have much faith in the system, do you?’
He turned a chair round to face me and straddled it the way cops in the movies did.
‘There were three of you in on it; the details are unimportant. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about them. Selkirk wouldn’t tell where he’d stashed the cash so they killed him. Willing to bet the female’s gone the same way. Shame, especially if as you say, she didn’t know. That leaves you. Rafferty’s after Rocha’s money. My plan is simple. Stay back ‘til you break cover and lead them to it. At that point I’ll step in and have the lot of you.’
His black eyes filled with malice.
‘And your father can’t help this time. Drug money. Murder. Sweet. Maybe you put the knife in your old pal. Never thought of that.’
He stood. ‘I’m a patient man, Charlie. However long it takes I’ll be there.’
You’ve got one more week
It just got better and better.
Thirty
Around two in the afternoon a contractor took away what was left of my car. Quite a sight hanging twelve feet above a Glasgow street.
Jackie was wonderful. She called the insurers and dealt with them on my behalf. That let me get on with the business of staring at the wall. The only witness was the Big Issue guy and suddenly he wasn’t around.
Platt’s admission about Perry Sommerville and my father muddied the already dirty water. He had crossed the wrong people and they destroyed him. In his haste to implicate Archibald Cameron’s son he had gifted information I didn’t have, the hire car abandoned at Duck Bay, and what exactly it was Ian had stolen. Five million pounds. A man with no axe to grind would’ve been more cautious; the inspector’s enmity made him careless.
It was the sixth of April, exactly four weeks since Cecelia McNeil’s first visit, twenty eight days from when I discovered Ian Selkirk’s body at the city morgue.
Jackie arranged for a replacement vehicle to be delivered later in the afternoon. Nice one, Jackie. On her way out she stopped at the door and fingered the coat hanging behind it.
‘Not the time, I know,’ she said, ‘but this has seen better days. You hardly ever wear it.’
‘It’s Armani.’
‘Doesn’t matter. If you don’t wear something it clogs up the energy. This is clogging-up the energy.’
DS Geddes came by. He had already heard about the arson.
‘Somebody doesn’t like you, Charlie. The fax came through from the Spanish police.’
He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Emil Rocha’s a big fish, not the kind of hombre you want to fall out with.’
There were two sheets; in the right hand corner of the top one was a grainy image. I studied the photograph.
The poor quality didn’t disguise how handsome he was. Moody and dark. He might’ve been a movie star. The eyes told a different story – they stared from the page, cruel and unforgiving. And this was who Ian Selkirk had chosen to rob. Mad bastard. The drugs must have separated him from reality. No one in their right mind would mess with this guy.
No one in their right mind; a description of Ian, perhaps? Fiona said he was uncontrollable and if she couldn’t handle him, who could?’
Andrew said, ‘Making any progress with Platt?’
‘You might say, Andrew.’
‘Word is he won’t be with us too long. His boss thought he was getting a high-flyer. He’s pretty disappointed. Platt’s put in for a transfer.’
I was sorry to hear it. Andrew wasn’t aware of the background. DI Platt was a victim; he deserved a better shake. Though I still couldn’t bring myself to like him I had sympathy for the way things had turned out. Later I had a surprise visitor. Patrick. He came through NYB straight to the office. The change was miraculous – not quite his usual self, but close.
‘You should’ve told me you were after a new motor. I would’ve taken the other one off your hands. Got you a fair price too.’
‘It slipped my mind, Pat. Maybe next time. Didn’t expect to see you.’
‘I called Gail. She apologised. I’m meetin’ her in the Hilton to talk about Liam.’
‘Good.’
‘Meantime I was earnin’ my corn. The barmaid at the El Cid? Her name’s Janet. She’s divorced. “Between husbands” was how she put it. Been workin’ in the pub for eight years. Eric, her boyfriend, works there too. Knows everybody and everybody knows her, that type. Thinkin’ about packin’ it in and movin’ abroad. The Greek islands are the favourite. I asked about Stephen McNeil. Hasn’t a good word to say about him. Reckon they might’ve had a thing at one time. She’s a nippy sweetie to start with. When I mentioned McNeil she really let go.’
‘I’ll never understand how you do it, Patrick. A woman you’ve never met tells you her life story. What’s the secret?’
‘No secret. I’m a people person. See, you’re all business, Charlie. No interest in small talk. I’m the opposite. Never came across anybody who didn’t have a story. Trick is to get them to tell it to you.’
‘By doing what?’
‘Listenin’.’
I was certain there was more to it than that.
‘Janet,’ the way he said it made it sound as if they were pals, ‘is up in arms about poor Carol.’
‘The girlfriend.’
‘Ex-girlfriend. McNeil’s been messin’ around for years. Carol’s just the latest. Nobody was judgin’ until he packed her in. One night he told her he was goin’ away, that it was all over.’
‘Did he say where?’
‘Didn’t say anythin’. Carol is Janet’s mate so Stephen McNeil’s the biggest bastard that ever walked the planet.’
‘Are these women aware he already has a wife?’
‘So what? McNeil dumped Carol, that’s the only thing that matters.’
He fished out a crumpled scrap of paper and handed it to me. ‘Carol Thom. There’s the address. Hasn’t got a job. Or a man. Spends most afternoons down the bingo. Most nights in the El Cid.’
‘Patrick, how could I have doubted you?’
‘I’ll leave it with you.’
‘And I almost forgot. Stephen McNeil’s seats are in the Celtic end. 123. G19 and 20.’
He played it low key. ‘See what I can do.’
* * *
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* * *
I stayed later than usual at NYB. When I left, the replacement car still hadn’t arrived. I walked – it wasn’t far. Nothing is in a city the size of Glasgow; something I liked about living here. Patrick had lifted my spirits. I envied his ability to shuck off his worries, even if he was faking it.
I was headed for Bennets and another night trying to connect with someone who might’ve spent time with Ian Selkirk shortly before he died. Wednesday was karaoke night. I’d make this quick – Karaoke at the best of times was crap.
He was at the bar. I didn’t recognise him at first; the old fashioned three piece suit was gone; tan chinos and a check shirt took its place. His pale face was creased in a grin. The two men he was with were younger than him by a good ten years. In their company he seemed younger too. This was the third occasion our paths had crossed. The first time he’d struck me as diffident, unsure of himself, easily intimidated by the older woman. At NYB he’d been more confident, still shy, but willing to be drawn into conversation – until I reminded him of our mutual acquaintance and asked the wrong question.
Amazing how obvious everything appears as soon as you can see it, like the winning lottery numbers the day after the draw.
5 15 24 25 41 49
Of course!
This was the same. He was having fun. I wouldn’t interrupt him. No need – he’d told me more than enough just by being there. I hung around for another fruitless hour until the few conversations I had managed to start petered out. I glanced up and down the street looking for some sign of Rafferty or Platt or both. Nada, as Patrick Logue would say.
Maybe they were having a night off.
A taxi stopped for me in Queen Street. I used the journey to reflect on how stupid I had been. George Lang was in Bennets. I was willing to bet he’d taught young Christopher more than the piano.
Cecelia McNeil’s dead son had been gay.
* * *
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* * *
On Wednesday night I made notes on both cases and put the information into some kind of form. Christopher McNeil’s sexuality would hardly be news to his mother. Of course she might’ve been in denial, hoping against hope for the grandchildren she would never have. Not what she wanted, no doubt, but no surprise.
So far I’d been able to lay the black thoughts about Fiona aside, telling myself she must be somewhere with poor reception. At ten o’clock I went to bed. Around three I fell into a shallow sleep and woke tired and depressed. Fast becoming the norm.
I made coffee and did something I’d only ever seen in movies: pulled the curtain back and scanned Cleveden Drive, expecting two strangers to be parked in an unfamiliar car. Spooking myself. I lived with the constant expectation of another terse message from Fiona, or worse, none at all.
Mid-morning I left. Any longer and I would’ve gone insane. Jackie Mallon sat at a table near the bar watching Roberto give a virtuoso macchiato-making performance for the benefit of three women at the start of a girls’ day out.
As I passed she said, ‘Message from the hire car people, they’ll be here later. They apologise for the delay.’
‘Has the Big Issue guy been around? He shot off as soon as the police took his statement. Wouldn’t have minded a word, seeing as it was my car that got it.’
‘Haven’t seen him.’ Her voice was flat and her eyes were red; she might’ve been crying. She went behind the counter and returned with two cappuccinos and two pieces of cheesecake. One of the coffees was for me, the rest was for her. Her shoulders sagged,
‘I better tell you, Charlie, it’s over between Gary and me.’
I guessed I’d heard the last of Gary’s wisdom.
‘Sorry, Jackie, you liked him a lot.’
‘Yeah. But I couldn’t handle his jealousy. A guy only had to glance at me and he’d go off the deep end. Accused me of having an affair with Roberto, can you believe it?’
Silence was the safest option.
‘I mean Roberto’s great,’ she spooned cheesecake into her mouth, ‘but I’m his boss, he’s an employee for god’s sake.’ Another spoonful followed. ‘How’s Fiona?’
‘Still in Spain.’
She made a start on the second portion. ‘Relationships are tough, believe me I know. Hope you have better luck. You’ll need it.’
I didn’t want to talk about Fiona.
‘Any strangers been in? Any odd characters?’
She gave me
a look. ‘Loads, that’s why the takings are so good. Don’t let yesterday get to you. Fortunately we have Andrew here to protect us.’
Andrew had just come in the door. I said, ‘You ever work, Geddes? You spend more time drinking cappuccino than anyone I’ve ever known.’
He nodded to Jackie and defended himself. ‘Not true, Charlie. Just thought I’d tell you, Platt’s in trouble.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. The incident on the street yesterday brought things to a head. His boss wants something he can take upstairs. So far our friend Nigel hasn’t unearthed a single line of enquiry with any meat on it. Been ordered to turn it round or else.’
‘Bit soon to condemn him; it’s only been four weeks.’
‘He hasn’t made any kind of progress. I mean none. Is he up to it? That’s the question the brass are asking.’
‘So what’ll happen?’
‘Another officer will be assigned the case. Hope to Christ it isn’t me. If it is, you’re the first person I’ll be interviewing. No offence, but what went on in Porto Estuto smells and now deliberate fire raising on the city’s streets. Platt’s convinced you’re in it up to your ears. It’s not difficult to see where he’s coming from. Selkirk and Fiona Ramsay were mates of yours once upon a time.’
That annoyed me. ‘Once upon a long time, Andrew. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Don’t worry, DS Geddes, I won’t expect special treatment.’
‘Hold on, Charlie, they were friends.’
the best friends
‘Now one’s dead and the other’s missing.’
Andrew and I were friends too; he seemed to have forgotten. I gripped the edge of the table. Jackie put a hand on my arm, afraid I was about to lose it. First and foremost Andrew Geddes was a policeman, that’s what he was telling me.
‘Putting you in the picture, that’s all.’
‘Appreciate it.’
When he left Jackie admonished me. ‘You bit his face off. In his position what would you do?’
