by Owen Mullen
I sat across from him. The feet went where they belonged, on the floor.
‘What facts? There aren’t any facts. I’ve learned in five weeks about darts, football, and the gay scene in Glasgow. Unfortunately none of it’s any damned use.’
He folded the newspaper and stuck it in his pocket.
‘So we start again. What we don’t do is lose hope.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Patrick, it’s too late. I just want the nightmare to be over.’
He started to speak – I waved his words away. ‘You don’t understand. If I hadn’t discovered Ian at the mortuary none of this would’ve happened. But I did and contacting Fiona drew her into something she had no part of. We were the only two at Daldowie. That’s why Rafferty believes we’re in on the theft. While there was a chance I might lead them to what they wanted they were content to follow me. Ian was a fool, out of his league from the beginning. The Raffertys and Rochas of the world don’t give up. Ever.’
‘Neither does Charlie Cameron.’
‘You’re not listening. The deal was to give them what they wanted and get these monsters out of our lives. Well, I haven’t.’
‘Still think you should tell Platt.’
‘Platt’s as obsessed as Jimmy Rafferty with me. Another one who credits me with knowing more than I do.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Christ, Patrick, how many times? There is no plan.’
‘And the next couple of days? Will you just wait for them, or will you make it harder than that? See, I need to tell Gail where I’ll be.’
‘What’re you talking about.’
He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Like glue, Charlie, I’m stickin’ to you like glue.’
‘No no. This is my trouble. You need to consider your family.’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Mrs Logue wants a positive role model for her sons. How about a man who stands by a friend? Is that positive or what?’ He grinned. ‘Accept it, I’m here and I’m stayin’ here.’
Pat Logue was incorrigible, but it was working. I managed a fair attempt at the fry-up he ordered for both of us. He was the only person who knew how serious it had become.
Patrick lifted a glass of orange juice and saluted. ‘First today. Time is it?’
‘After eleven. Why?’
‘Let’s get out of the city for an hour or two.’
It made sense. Andrew Geddes was at a table by the door, a yard from the Toad God, enjoying his soggy bagel, killing time before his shift started. His eyes were heavy. I wasn’t the only one who had difficulty sleeping. He offered me a weak smile and said hello to Pat.
I said, ‘Andrew’s warming to you, might escape his clutches yet.’
‘I’m an acquired taste, so Gail says. I’ll catch you up, want to talk to this bloke.’
He stepped away from me and chatted to the Big Issue seller. The poetry lover smiled. Gail’s husband had a talent for leaving people better off than he found them. He hurried after me. ‘Interestin’ guy,’ he said, ‘was an English teacher. Got hooked on heroin. Been clean for years, just can’t find his way back.’
‘You think everybody’s interesting.’
‘Everybody is, Charlie.’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘So where do we fancy? The coast? Largs? Knickerblocker Glory in Nardini’s? Or the Trossachs? Beautiful countryside.’
‘You decide. I’ll point the car in the right direction.’
He considered where he wanted me to take us and said, ‘Head for Balloch, not too far.’
He’d forgotten. I checked the mirror to see if we had company and drove towards Great Western Road.
‘I made a poor show of checking for a boat. I only tried one.’ I told him about old Alan Walker. ‘It’s a loose end. We’ll follow it up. Properly. Like I should have done when I had the chance.’
The route was all too familiar. In Luss, Patrick made his way down Pier Road, out along the jetty to the water. He was quiet now, the boyish enthusiasm and the non-stop patter were left in Glasgow. He gazed across the loch, his hair ruffled by the breeze, a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen.
I said, ‘You brought us here on purpose, didn’t you?’
The sun dipped behind a cloud, turning the loch black. ‘Where was his body?’
I pointed to the narrow strip of beach and the rough fingers of wood poking from the loch. ‘Cold,’ he said. ‘Dead cold.’ He faced me. No jokes now. ‘And that’s what they did to your friend, Charlie. To your old friend, Ian.’
Old friends are the best friends
‘Doesn’t that make you angry? Don’t you want to tear their fuckin’ heads off? Ian Selkirk wasn’t my pal. If he had been I’d never have given up on the bastards who did for him. Never.’
My face flushed. He said, ‘There’s a sayin’, you’ll have heard it. Don’t get mad, get even. Well that’s crap. Get mad. Get even. And get the cunts who murdered your mate. Now that’s a philosophy I can go.’
He walked away. I watched him standing on the sand, skimming stones.
Of course he was right. I had been on the back foot from the very beginning, wishing Ian’s death would go away so Fiona and I could live happy ever after.
There was one more day before Rafferty made his move. Twenty-four hours. If I was going down it wouldn’t be without a fight.
Thirty-Four
Tuesday, the last day: the time Jimmy Rafferty had given me was almost up.
And I was glad.
They were still watching the house: one of them had skulked the night away in Cleveden Drive. It didn’t bother me now. Tomorrow things would change. Maybe they’d kill me, but it would be over. I was in surprisingly good spirits for a condemned man, I even caught myself humming a tune I’d heard somewhere.
Normally I avoided going into banks unless it was necessary. No one had authority to make a decision – that took a phone call, and a difficult conversation with someone in Rajasthan or Gujarat, reading from a script. This morning my request was simple: I wanted to withdraw more than the hole-in-the-wall limit. It wasn’t a problem the smiling cashier told me. Good to know, considering it was my money. Out on the street two thugs fell in behind and made no attempt to disguise their presence. One of them spoke into a mobile. My visit had caused some excitement. Maybe they expected me to run down Sauchiehall Street with five million pounds.
When I got to NYB Pat Logue saw me and slid off his bar stool. I stopped him.
‘Upstairs is as far as I’m going. Only one way in and out. No need to become Siamese twins. Read your paper and drink your juice, I’ll be all right.’
He sat down. ‘Like glue, Charlie. Know what I’m talkin’?’
Patrick’s heart was in the right place but then I already knew that. His words on Luss pier had hit their mark. I had a reputation: finding missing people was what I did, had been doing for years. My instincts, normally needle-sharp, had been dulled by memories, resentments, guilt in Ian’s case, and love for Fiona Ramsay. Cecelia McNeil never had a chance. My mind was always on Loch Lomond, or Thailand or Spain. Charlie Cameron, honest injun. My guarantee to give it my best was cheap talk. Christopher’s mother had come well down the list.
I gave my order to Jackie. ‘Coffee and two rolls and sausage, with mustard please. Send it up.’
‘Feeling better?’
I didn’t reply. Yesterday I was beaten. Not today. I stuck most of the cash from the bank in an envelope, scribbled a name on the front and put it in my pocket. The coat hanging behind the door caught my eye – I really should get rid of it. Getting mad. Getting even, and all the rest of it was set aside and I gave the food my undivided attention then telephoned Henry Hambley, of Hambley, Lawrence and Radcliffe, my lawyers, and asked if he could give me five minutes in the afternoon. Another box ticked. Now I was free to concentrate on the main event.
I started to write.
Telling myself the story as I knew it seemed to clarify the chain of events. Ques
tions that hadn’t occurred before jumped out at me. I made notes in the margin, spawning more notes. I’d been at it a couple of hours when I dug the list of Ian’s effects from the in-tray. It was short, nothing significant there. The envelope from the Lomond Inn lay beside it; it had never been opened. I remembered the bill being more than I expected. In hotels and restaurants I always checked because mistakes were common. Another sign of how distracted I’d been.
The Inn hadn’t over-charged: there were three items, everything in order; the room, Ian’s bar charges, he’d been drinking heavily, and two telephone calls to the same number, a number I recognised, I had it stored in my mobile. It was Fiona’s.
The calls to Spain were made in the days before they caught him. The woman at the Inn said she thought Ian was waiting for someone. Now I knew who.
My fingers brushed against the fax Andrew had gone the extra mile to get. I smoothed the crumpled sheets, smudged and distorted, almost unreadable. Almost, but not quite.
Emil Rocha stared from the page, defiant and sullen. Not the kind of face you would forget. Rocha was the same age as me. That was where the similarity ended. His eyes were empty and unforgiving. Now I added cold and old. His early record was remarkable for its brevity: the only convictions were as a teenager, stealing from tourists in coastal resorts. Emil Rocha had risen. The second page was a list of what might have been, littered with suspected of...believed to be involved in... thought to be behind, but lacking concrete proof. The Spaniard was immensely rich, and clever. He always had an alibi. Whoever had up-dated his file had a sense of humour; descriptions of him as a businessman dripped irony.
I was looking at Ian Selkirk’s boss and Jimmy Rafferty’s supplier.
Double crossing him was the worst idea my friend ever had. Rocha had the resources to keep searching forever if necessary. Robbing him meant looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Five million. Ten million. No amount of money was worth it.
It wasn’t hidden. Far from it. It sat in the centre of the first line, and I would’ve seen it if my head hadn’t been somewhere else.
Emil Rocha. Full name: Emil Sebastian Rocha.
Fiona had told me he was a building contractor, an important part of her operation. Possible. Rocha would use legitimate enterprises to launder cash and mask the true nature of his empire. I studied the black and white image of the man Ian had worked for, knowing I was seeing a killer.
Fiona talked about Sebastian, referred to him as her partner. What I was thinking horrified me. In my mind it had always been Ian and Fiona and Charlie. The gang of three. Old friends are the best friends and all that crap. But it hadn’t been like that. I was the third wheel. A glorified hanger-on. At the time I couldn’t understand why they allowed me into their club. They were the friends.
And she was the leader.
In Glasgow and in Thailand, Fiona Ramsay was the only one who could influence Ian; he mocked or ignored everyone else. My mistake – I’d made so many – was to believe her when she told me how uncontrollable he’d become. I saw what she wanted me to see, heard what she wanted me to hear. Now the truth was clear, not just about Spain, about how it had always really been.
Ian hadn’t stolen Rocha’s money. They had stolen it.
Twenty-four hours ago I had cut Patrick Logue off, certain there were no facts to review. Now I was drowning in them, choking on their bitterness.
I wanted to be sick. The stress of the last five weeks, the hopes the fears, the dreams and the nightmare were finally more than my body and mind could stand, and I broke. Facing what I had uncovered was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I was devastated. My hands gripped the chair so tight the skin stretched white against the bone beneath. It took minutes before anger arrived; when it did it was like a storm raging inside me.
Everything was a lie; the rekindling of our affair had been a sham, a matter of convenience; the hotel hopping was because she was afraid they were closing in. I was useful cover. Round about then it must’ve occurred to her just how useful I might be. In Skye it was Fiona who urged me to get involved, betting I’d find out what Ian had done with the money. Jimmy Rafferty didn’t fill me with dope and throw me in the loch for the same reason; he could have killed me anytime, instead he gave me a chance to lead him to it. The bastards had been using me.
The guy in the car at Daldowie crematorium wasn’t interested in Charlie Cameron – it was Fiona he was following. I happened to be the fool who went to the city mortuary on the wrong day.
That brought other realisations. If Ian and Fiona were on Rocha’s payroll, what was her relationship with him? It hurt to think about it. And where was she?
The cute text:
NITE NITE
SLEEP TIGHT
DONT LET THE BED BUGS BITE
The reassuring message:
SAFE FOR NOW
And the last communication:
THINK THEYRE ON TO ME
WHAT HAVE U FOUND OUT
FI x
None of it was real. She was playing me, turning the screw, forcing me to try harder to get her what she wanted. Our conversations about our new life together were a smokescreen to lure me in. It hadn’t been difficult. I’d been in love with the Moti Mahal Fiona, the Thailand girl. If she ever existed. My old friend hadn’t been my friend at all. It was a heartbreaker.
Patrick knocked on the door and looked in. ‘Just checkin’ you’re where you’re supposed to be.’
I pulled myself together and put on a front. ‘One way in and out.’
‘What you doin’?’
‘Knocking some ideas around.’
‘Ideas are good, Charlie. I like when you have ideas. Tells me you’re on the ball.’
‘Not all good, Patrick. Be better off without some of them.’
He seemed satisfied. ‘By the by, couldn’t find anybody who hires boats. Not popular, the residents don’t encourage it.’
I made a noise that meant I understood. Truth was I didn’t care anymore. I needed a drink but all I had was an empty whisky bottle, the one Pat Logue made a hole in the day he offered to work with me. I buzzed the bar. ‘Large gin and tonic, Jackie. Make it a triple, will you?’
Her surprise travelled down the line. ‘Is this one of your jokes, Charlie? Sorry, I’m not in the mood.’
‘Gin. Extra large. Please don’t give me a hard time.’
She brought it herself. I wasn’t known for drinking alcohol in the morning; something had to be wrong. She leaned her arms on the desk and stared into my face. ‘Want to talk about it?’
Jackie meant well.
‘No.’
‘Is it Fiona?’
I took a mouthful of gin, it tasted strong and fresh.
‘Has that bitch dumped you?’
Which part of no didn’t she understand?
‘I really can’t discuss it, Jackie.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘I never liked her. There was something...’
‘Jackie. I appreciate the support, it just isn’t the time, so...’ I gestured to the door, ‘...if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Sure, Charlie. Whatever you want. You know where I am if you change your mind.’
When she’d gone I took out my mobile. I wanted to look Fiona in the eye and hear her tell me it was a mistake. My fingers trembled as I wrote.
NEED TO SEE U
TELL ME WHERE U ARE
But there was no mistake. I stared at the words until they blurred and pushed the rest of the gin away. I needed a clear head. This might be the moment to bring DI Platt into the picture; then again it was all supposition. Circumstantial. Hours before he died Ian Selkirk had called Fiona. So what? I was the only one who understood the dynamics of their relationship, and why I was sure he hadn’t planned it himself. Ian was the front man, she was the brains, always had been. The Sebastian connection was a feeling in my gut rather than proof positive. Spain was teeming with guys called Sebastian, it needn’t be Emil Rocha. Except I knew it was.
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Back at the beginning I had ruled out running – that way it would never end – and although a future with Fiona Ramsay couldn’t be, I still had a lot of living to do. She was out there, watching how it developed, believing I would solve the puzzle and deliver somebody else’s money to her.
In her dreams.
She was with Rafferty and Rocha on the other side of the fence. I was on my own, just as I’d always been. That was fine by me.
At three I quit NYB and walked to West Regent Street and the office of Hambley, Lawrence and Radcliffe. As far as I could guess no one followed. Henry was waiting. I told him what I needed. He was an old dog, long in the tooth, a raised eyebrow was as close as he came to questioning me. My instructions were exact. In less than thirty minutes my new will, witnessed by him and one of the partners, was resting in his files.
Later in the flat I lifted the phone to order South Indian garlic chicken, rice and pakora then changed my mind and dialled a pizza place instead. On my way to bed I wondered if my shadow was still around. He was, the collar of his coat pulled up against the cold night air.
I was still important to somebody.
* * *
-------
* * *
Kevin Rafferty said, ‘He went to the bank then to his lawyer. And he sent the text. Coincidence? Get real, Sean.’
Sean shook his head. ‘Cameron isn’t part of it. Either he’s on to us or he’s on to her. Firing his car should’ve produced a reaction. His behaviour hasn’t changed, he’s been to gay bars and Celtic Park. Him and the other guy went back to Luss. They just stood on the pier and talked. He’s as much in the dark as we are. We do nothing.’
Kevin rounded on his brother. ‘Suddenly it speaks. Who put you in charge? And you’re wrong as usual. He’s involved. We’ve tried it your way, Sean.’ He turned to his father. ‘Cameron’s seven days are up. Say the word, Jimmy.’
Jimmy Rafferty might not have heard. He stared out of the window at the manicured lawn running fifty yards to the wall surrounding the house, a far cry from the slum where he’d been dragged up on the edge of poverty by alcoholic parents. The situation they were in couldn’t have happened when he was younger. Emil Rocha was a powerful ally. Better to have kept it that way. The patriarch couldn’t remember which son had suggested the double cross – probably Kevin – Sean never offered much. It was a bad idea. A terrible idea. They already owned the east end. No need to take chances. On a better day he would’ve recognised the dangers outweighed the gains. Instead he’d listened and now it had gone wrong.
