Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  The look on my face answered for me. ‘Rafferty’s given me a deadline.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Five days and counting. Surely he can’t believe I’m holding out on him? If he thought I had the information he’d have kneecapped me to get it and thrown my body in the Clyde.’

  ‘Nah, you’re a detective; he thinks you can lead him to the money and Fiona.’

  I lost it.

  ‘The money! The money! We’re not absolutely sure if it even was money Ian took. And I’ve no idea where Fiona is. Why doesn’t somebody listen? I haven’t a fucking clue, Patrick.’

  I was showing more of myself than he could cope with. ‘Take it easy Charlie. Freakin’ won’t help. By the way, what’s that wee statue doin’ on the floor?’

  ‘Toad God.’

  It might’ve been the most obvious thing he’d ever heard, he didn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘The Toad God. Right. Jackie’s idea?’

  ‘Yip.’

  ‘And switchin’ the chairs, what’s that about?’

  ‘Not taking no for an answer.’

  ‘Not a word women recognise.’

  When he’d gone I ran my eye over the list of Ian Selkirk’s possessions again. I saw nothing – there was nothing to see. Downstairs in the diner chaos ruled, as Roberto and Jackie struggled to make the seating plan work. I had bigger problems. On my way out I checked no one was watching and rubbed the Toad God’s fat little head.

  Because you just never know.

  Thirty-Two

  Mrs McCall cleaned the flat on Saturday mornings. It didn’t suit; still, that was the deal. She came in twice a week; Wednesday was the other day. I must have tried fifty times but she refused to alter “the arrangement” as she called it. If there was someone with me we stayed in bed ’til she’d gone. I’d learned that sex with the Hoover going in the next room is a disappointing experience. Mrs Mac made no concessions. No matter how late it had been when I got home the night before the vacuum began its awful sound at nine sharp.

  But that was BP. Before Patrick. Pat Logue’s talent worked on everybody, with the exception of his wife and DS Geddes.

  I found them sitting on the sofa drinking tea and talking. ‘Charlie, Lorna’s askin’ when you’re thinkin’ of puttin’ the house straight.’

  Mrs McCall had been my cleaner for five years. I didn’t know her name was Lorna until today. It had taken Pat Logue five minutes to find out. He said ‘New television arrives on Monday.’

  I looked at him. In days I wouldn’t need a TV or anything else. They went back to their conversation. I became invisible. “Lorna” was bitching about her daughter-in-law. And all the time the Hoover stayed silent.

  At NYB the Toad God hadn’t moved an inch but the seats in the restaurant were back in place. I scanned and cropped the photograph Cecelia McNeil had given me of Christopher and his father on the water, printed four copies, took a picture on my phone and forwarded it to Pat Logue. By now I assumed the tea-drinking competition was finished, Patrick was collecting his sons, and Mrs McCall was doing the work I was paying her to do.

  Today was a big day: the last chance to locate Stephen McNeil.

  Without the McNeil case to distract me I might’ve gone insane worrying about Fiona. I hadn’t seen her in almost three weeks and hadn’t told her about the warning. My final warning. If Rafferty made good on his threat all I could hope was that Patrick would keep Fiona safe.

  Liam Logue was fourteen, shy, and already as tall as his father. His brother was smaller and over-weight. Patrick introduced them. ‘Charlie, meet Batman and Robin.’

  The boys shuffled and stared at their shoes.

  ‘Sit down guys. Anything to drink?’

  I passed the shot of Stephen McNeil and let them study it.

  ‘This is who we’re after. It isn’t recent.’

  I laid out the plan, gave them the colour, make and car registration and told them what to do.

  ‘At the end of the game you have to be in position to pick him up. If you come across the car we’ll use plan B. It’ll be down to you not to lose him in the crowd. Any questions?’

  Young Patrick spoke. ‘How much’re we on? Da says a tenner.’

  I flashed a hard look at their father. Andrew said Pat Logue would kick his granny if the price was right. Not so far from the truth. ‘We’ll make it twenty, how’s that?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ Liam said. His genes were doing the talking.

  ‘Twenty, that’s your lot. Don’t push your luck. Wait for us outside.’

  Patrick pretended to be embarrassed but secretly he was pleased. In their universe if you didn’t ask you didn’t get. ‘What do you make of them?’ he said. ‘Couple of yahoos, aren’t they? Got their mother’s heart roasted.’

  ‘And that’s your job, right Patrick?’

  ‘Not anymore, Charlie, not anymore. Name’s in the book. The appeal procedure’s exhausted. One more offence and I’m sine died.’

  ‘Then behave.’

  ‘Easier said.’

  ‘Seen the Big Issue guy on your travels?’

  ‘Have not. Must be keepin’ a low profile. I notice the wee man’s still hoggin’ the door though.’

  He meant the Toad God.

  ‘He stayin’ then?’

  Even if I understood, which I didn’t, I couldn’t be bothered to explain.

  ‘Something Jackie’s interested in.’

  ‘A lucky charm.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  His mood altered. ‘Look, this Rafferty thing, I could get some muscle. Have to pay them mind but I could get them if it’s any help.’

  He’d made the offer before.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick, you’re a good guy. It has to end, whatever way it ends, otherwise Fiona and I won’t ever be free of it.’

  ‘This is Jimmy Rafferty. On a contract. He’ll do you in, Charlie.’

  ‘I’m not being brave, either these people realise I have no part in it and leave us alone or they kill me. But it has to end. And it will.’

  ‘In five days.’

  ‘Four days. Five days was yesterday.’

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ Almighty.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  Nobody spoke in the car. Patrick tuned the radio to a football phone-in, fans asking the experts their opinion, letting off steam and giving their own view. Football wasn’t my game. I didn’t have a game; sport had never interested me. I knew enough to realise Celtic against Motherwell wasn’t the match of the season. Nevertheless, in London Road the police were already refusing entry to the main car park. Patrick and his sons got out, I drove through the lights and took the second turning. I didn’t notice the boys until I was locking the car; eight or nine years old, kicking a ball around, on the lookout for a mark.

  ‘Hey, Mister,’ the bigger one said, ‘watch your car for you?’

  He flicked the football out of his hands and caught it, his expression on the right side of friendly. Just. His pal had the look of a cherub, cheeks smeared with dirt and big brown eyes that stared up at me.

  ‘Watch it? Why?’

  ‘In case something happens. It’s a nice car.’

  They teach them young in Glasgow.

  ‘How much?’

  The smaller kid piped up. ‘Fiver.’

  ‘Two pounds, a quid each.’

  ‘Three. Three quid and it’s a deal.’

  I wanted to slap his angel face.

  ‘Okay.’ I started to walk away.

  ‘Where’s the money?’

  I turned, still walking. ‘When I get back. Do a good job, I’ll make it four.’

  ‘We might have to go.’

  ‘Then you’ll miss out, won’t you?’

  Saturday afternoon extortion was the easiest cash they would ever come by. Ten years down the line, when their menace had been sharpened on somebody’s unpaid debt, their mothers might be sitting on the bus next to Gail Logue, on the
way to Barlinnie. For now, they had a decision to make. I was changing the rules.

  I gave a thumbs-up. ‘Do a good job, lads.’

  On another day I would’ve given in and paid them to leave my car alone.

  This wasn’t my car.

  Patrick and his sons were in a queue at a burger van. ‘Want anythin’, Charlie? This guy does great onions.’

  The sky was overcast. It could rain anytime. We gathered in a circle for a final run-through the plan. ‘Okay.’ Patrick clapped his hands. ‘Got the car reg? Got the photo? Know what our man looks like?’

  They nodded and kept on eating.

  ‘Put my number in your phones and call me if you come across the car.’

  A beeping sound pulsed inside young Patrick’s jerkin. He brought out his mobile.

  ‘Should’ve charged it,’ he said. ‘Forgot.’

  I glared at Patrick senior not pleased.

  ‘Sure your boys are up to it? This is our last chance on this thing.’

  ‘They’re fine, Charlie. Honest. I spoke to both of them this mornin’.’

  I didn’t share his confidence. My watch said twenty past two. Forty minutes ‘til kick-off. Liam and Patrick Logue were quiet. Whenever they spoke it was to their father. I was invisible again. A group of Motherwell fans passed close to where we were standing, chanting defiance, claret and amber scarves in the air, eyes blazing with intensity. The home fans ignored them; they had nothing to prove against the Motherwells of the world.

  Pat Logue saw the boys off and shook my hand, a very un-Patrick thing to do.

  ‘Here’s hopin’, Charlie,’ he said and walked away.

  At five minutes to three the place was mobbed. At five past it was deserted. The crowd cheered each name when the team was announced over the PA. Standing in the car park was like being beside a huge bee hive, the constant buzz broken by the Ohs and Ahs of thousands; an occasional roar, massive applause, and a return to the drone.

  Liam and his brother would be roaming the streets looking for Stephen McNeil’s car. We were due a break. I fingered the mobile in my hand. Nothing from Pat Logue. Did that mean he couldn’t see McNeil, or did it mean he wasn’t there? The temperature was fourteen or fifteen degrees yet my palms sweated. Suddenly getting a result was the most important thing – it had become a symbol.

  Every couple of minutes I looked at the phone. At half-time Patrick called. Background noise made it difficult to hear but the part that mattered got through.

  ‘No McNeil. I’ll speak to the people around where he sits, see what they can tell me.’

  I was more disappointed than I had a right to be. Thirty minutes later Pat Logue came towards me. ‘Had to wait until they opened the gates. Never realised you can’t just leave. He’s not there, Charlie. Spoke to a guy who knew who I meant: said he hadn’t seen him in weeks.’

  ‘Well that’s that.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Can’t find him if he isn’t here. We gave it our best shot.’

  ‘Did we, Patrick?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll call the boys, tell them to pack it in. About time you told the police about Rafferty. Joke’s over. Keepin’ it to yourself was fine when there was a chance of sortin’ out the mess your pal dropped you and Fiona in. Now it’s down to the wire. You need protection. You need help, Charlie.’

  ‘What can I tell them? Some thug threatened me?’

  ‘Start with the truth. Give them the whole story. Ian and Fiona, why Rafferty thinks you’re in on it, the heavies following you. The flat. The car. The messages from Fiona. And the reason you didn’t include them.’

  ‘She’s the reason.’

  ‘I know. That’s not enough anymore. You can’t win because killing you means nothing to them. It’s what they do, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’ll take it under advisement, Patrick. Will you be at the flat later?’

  ‘Not sure. Got to get these two back to their mother, otherwise it’ll be my fault.’

  ‘What’ll be your fault?’

  ‘Everything. See you when I see you. Good luck.’

  I rolled the car into the traffic, past stalls selling trainers with Nike on the side for a tenner and shops that only opened at the weekend. The flat was tidy. Mrs McCall – Lorna – had done some work after all. I emptied my pockets and lay down on the bed. I must have slept because when I opened my eyes it was dark. Something had woken me – Pat Logue, maybe. Or perhaps Rafferty’s patience had run out?

  It was neither. I had a message.

  THINK THEYRE ON TO ME

  WHAT HAVE U FOUND OUT

  FI x

  I went crazy. This whole mess was Ian Selkirk’s doing. If he was standing in front of me I’d kill the stupid bastard myself. I replied.

  STILL NOTHING

  CALL THE POLICE AND GET AWAY NOW

  Cx

  Thirty-Three

  However much I resented beating the bushes for Cecelia McNeil’s husband, the interviews, the phone calls and the neat little missives had kept me sane. Now that distraction was exhausted a river of failure and fear washed me away.

  Three days left. Rafferty had won.

  I hadn’t heard Patrick come home – perhaps he was with one of his barmaid admirers. His business. I had the impression he was pulling back. Wishing me good luck; what was that all about?

  Jackie didn’t pull her punches when I arrived. ‘You look the way I feel,’ she said. ‘Had breakfast?’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  She took my arm and sat me down. ‘Scrambled eggs and toast. Tea not coffee. Got to take care of yourself; nobody else will.’

  She brought the food herself. ‘This is the most important meal of the day, did you know that?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d heard.’

  ‘So eat.’

  I pushed the scramble around the plate, buttered a slice of bread and didn’t touch it. The tea tasted weak and watery. I left most of it too. A poor attempt; she wasn’t pleased with my efforts. ‘Charlie, dear oh dear. When Fiona comes back I’ll get blamed for letting you starve. Eat the toast at least.’

  Lost in my own troubles it took a while to notice Jackie wasn’t doing so well. I tried to be funny. ‘How’s the Toad God performing? Any miracles yet?’

  ‘He’s off to a bad start, Roberto’s gone AWOL. Supposed to be on this morning. No show. He’s not answering his phone. Surprised at him. Thought he was happy here. I’m understaffed as it is.’ Her frustration went deeper than a barman. ‘He has to know he’s left us in the shit.’

  ‘Maybe he’s ill?’

  She laughed. ‘He look unwell to you? Guy’s as fit as they come. Saw him in a gym once, when I was with Gary, pumping iron. Real weight. He isn’t sick, he’s quit.’

  More often than not Andrew Geddes and I had lunch on Sunday. Today he took a seat at the bar and kept to himself. He nodded, opened a paper and buried himself in it. Strange. Everybody had their problems this morning. Jackie tried a cheerio smile that didn’t get there. DS Geddes kept reading. Maybe the city fathers were putting something in the water.

  I walked and walked. St Vincent Place, St Vincent Street, up the hill and over the motorway. Twenty-five minutes it took. I resisted looking back. If Rafferty’s thugs were coming for me, let them come. Kelvingrove was the last place I expected to find myself. It seemed light years since I’d listened to the tour guide with Fiona Ramsay holding on to my arm. The dinosaur was there, so was the Dali painting, she was missing.

  The flat was empty. I fell asleep in a chair and allowed a precious day to slip away.

  My mother called around eight. We had a long chat about nothing very much. Most of her conversation was centred round my father. However I judged him, and knowing DI Platt’s experience how could I do otherwise, he was her life. Archie was fine – more than could be said for Perry. According to her, beaten down by loneliness and rejection, Peregrine Sommerville had taken to drink.

  ‘So finding Jesus was just an act?’

  Eleanor Cameron h
ad learned early it was unwise to admit to a definite opinion, even in conversation with her son. She said, ‘I couldn’t possibly comment. Arabella tells me he’s been drinking heavily for a long time. Perhaps that accounts for the behaviour that put him wrong in the first place?’

  ‘Is he getting help?’

  I heard her sigh. ‘Too late, I’m afraid. Liver’s gone. Weeks rather than months.’

  ‘Does father intend to see him?’

  ‘He hasn’t mentioned it. He’s very sad about the whole thing. Poor Archie.’

  I ended the conversation with my usual promises to call.

  The resolve I’d enjoyed in the afternoon deserted me, I edged the curtain aside and peered into the night. A figure stood across from my building. I sensed rather than saw a familiarity, then the feeling passed. Platt’s man or Rafferty’s, I no longer cared.

  Monday morning: two days to go.

  An unnatural calm settled in me. My expectations of myself were based on the premise that I knew Ian Selkirk. That wasn’t so. I’d known him, or thought I did, in the past. The long dead past, when we were young, crazy and naive, giving the world the finger, completely confident in the possibilities of tomorrow. But the body on the mortuary slab belonged to a stranger. What his motivations had been, what moved or inspired him, was beyond my knowledge. It had been foolish to assume some special insight into someone I hadn’t seen in a dozen years. People change. I had. Ian Selkirk too. Only Fiona stayed the same.

  The sun was shining, the first decent day in a month. Outside the Italian Centre the Big Issue seller was back in position. As he was the only witness to the car burning I had been anxious to speak to him. Today that wasn’t important. For once he let me pass without the Burns rant: defeat carries; even those less fortunate can smell it. I gave him a coin and took the magazine.

  Jackie was behind the bar pouring lattes and cappuccinos. I said, ‘Roberto didn’t show up then?’

  She made a face. ‘Serves me right for depending on a man.’

  The barmaid at the El Cid would agree.

  Patrick Logue was reading the Daily Record with his feet on the desk and turned when he heard me come in. ‘Mornin’, Charlie. Thought I’d stick around today. Run over the facts one last time.’