by Owen Mullen
Kim lifted a hairbrush, brandishing it like a knife, screaming at them. ‘Get out! Whoever you are, stay away from me! I’m warning you, stay away!’
They edged towards her, blocking her escape. The leader said, ‘Shut the bitch up. Sean wants this done quietly.’
‘If he’s finished with her, I’ll take her on.’
‘Yeah, I’ll tell him you said that, shall I?’
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t.’
Kim ran to the window, banging on the glass, shouting for help. One of her attackers went after her and made the mistake of getting too near; her nails ripped bloody lines on his cheek. His reaction was instinctive; he punched her with his clenched fist, rocking her head back on her shoulders. His mate pulled him away. ‘Are you fucking crazy? Didn’t you hear what Sean said? He doesn’t want her marked.’ He took plastic ties from his pocket. ‘For fuck’s sake get these on her. And where’s the tape? Get it over her mouth before she wakes the whole fucking neighbourhood, never mind the kid.’
Kim twisted her head, yelling, ‘Sean! Sean! This is wrong!’
They bound her hands and feet, finally managing to hold her long enough to get the gag in place, then carried her like a sack of laundry, still kicking. On the landing, they passed the bedroom where Rosie was asleep. The door was ajar – her baby was in there. Hot tears blinded Kim. She’d been a fool: Rocha had used her, had his fun and tossed her aside like the silly woman she was.
At the bottom of the stairs Sean was waiting. Rosie started to cry. Kim bucked and fought but her strength was gone.
Sean barked at his men. ‘I told you not to wake my daughter!’
‘She had the door locked. We didn’t have a choice.’
He cradled his wife’s head, gently wiping her tears. Kim smelled whisky on his breath as he leaned closer and whispered, ‘Did you really believe you could double-cross Sean Rafferty and get away with it? You’re a fool, my darling. And a whore. A tart too stupid to have around. Rosie will miss her mummy.’ He sighed. ‘But in a month, she won’t remember you. As for us, we won’t meet again, at least, not in this life.’
He ran a finger tenderly over her face. ‘Get her out of here.’
Rough hands hauled her to the car, dragging her bare legs on the wet concrete drive, cutting her feet, scraping her thighs. She strained to look back at the house, knowing she’d never be here again. What she saw broke her heart: Sean was at the bedroom window holding Rosie in his arms, her small fingers in his, both of them waving goodbye.
Kim’s anguished moan was lost in the storm. She retched, acid bile burning her throat, choking her. Lightning lit the night, the blow struck the side of her head, and the world went dark.
The blue neon sign hanging from the crumbling building in Renfrew Street flickered in and out as it had for as long as anyone could remember. Nobody fixed it. Nobody cared enough, certainly not the Johns who made their way up the hill from the town centre, arm in arm with the women they’d picked up in the pubs on Sauchiehall. The arrangements struck depended on how much money the guy had in his wallet or was able to get out of the cash machine.
Sean Rafferty had inherited this place from his father, tucked between a row of unloved low-rent bed and breakfasts at the top of stone stairs, green with mould. Nothing had been spent on the exterior in decades and it showed; the building was black, decaying like a rotted tree, the guttering broken and overgrown with weeds, paint peeling on the buckled wooden window frames, and the grouting between the granite blocks had loosened and fallen out.
Inside, a greasy-haired guy had his face hidden behind a dog-eared copy of Fiesta, open at Readers’ Wives. His black biker boots were on the reception desk, the soles cracked, heels worn beyond repair. When he saw Vicky, he closed the magazine and sat up straight. His name was Noah – unusual in Glasgow – the only notable thing about him. He wore a leather jacket, de rigueur in his universe, the collar up over a black T-shirt with I’M WITH STUPID on the front. His teeth were crooked, the backs of his hands and most of his fingers covered in faded tattoos. Noah’s job was to strong-arm anybody who started bother or knocked the pros around, and to make sure the punters paid for what they wanted.
Drunks always got a slap because they didn’t fight back.
Noah considered it a perk of the job.
Vicky hated coming here and rarely did. It depressed her. If things had gone a different road, this could’ve been her fate. Even the prettiest girls ignored the lines on their face, the coarsening skin, and overstayed their usefulness. After a while, it was about survival rather than money. The very freedom they craved becoming something to fear, something to dread. Until Rafferty, or whoever owned them by then, replaced them with a younger version of themselves and sent them to this.
She shuddered, thanked the Higher Power that had plucked her off that path and stepped into the rain to meet the car.
22
Patrick’s assessment of Boyd: a hard man but not a thug – certainly not a gangster – failed to reassure me when faced with a guy who had less and less to lose the longer he stayed on the run. I faked a casualness I didn’t feel and pretended I wasn’t surprised to see him. ‘You’re wet, Dennis. Sit down.’
He straddled the chair like they did in cop movies. On another day, it might’ve been cool. Not today. With rain running off the end of his chin, it didn’t get there.
‘I called Diane. She told me.’
‘Did she tell you why?’
‘I can guess. McDermid’s dead. Or Davidson. Whoever did it, I’d like to shake his hand.’
‘Don’t be so fast to congratulate them. They haven’t done you any favours. The opposite: every policeman in Glasgow has your description, and they’re all convinced you’re a double-murderer.’
He peeled off his herringbone coat and hung it over the chair. Underneath his jacket the front of his shirt was sodden. Boyd had come to make a point and wasn’t leaving until he had. ‘I thought I’d convinced you Wilson wasn’t me?’
‘Convinced is too strong. Planted a seed of doubt would be nearer the mark.’
‘But not now? Now you think I squared things with McDermid.’
‘Somebody did. To be fair you’re just about everybody’s favourite suspect.’
He snorted at the gullibility of people and took me to task. ‘Let me ask you a question, Charlie. Do you believe in fate?’
‘Never given it much thought. Should I?’
Boyd brought a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket, a casualty of the weather. ‘I’ll level with you. Coming across your ad in the phone booth at Central Station was good news for me. I was desperate. It was as if God had changed his mind and decided to pitch in on my side, know what I mean?’
I had no idea.
‘After Strathclyde Park I felt better than I’d done in a long time. I had hope. That’s what you gave me. All I had to do was stay ahead of the police and let you get on with it.’
‘Naïve. It wasn’t ever going to be that simple.’
‘Naïve.’ He rolled the word round his mouth, savouring its meaning. ‘A pretty fair description of me my whole life.’
‘But you survived. No easy trick to pull off.’
‘Don’t confuse surviving with living. It’s not the same. Not even close.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
He blew smoke at the wall and returned to the taciturn character I’d met in the car.
‘Here and there, you know.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Good question. Been asking it myself. The answer is you’re still the best chance I’ve got of proving I didn’t kill Joe Franks.’
‘Then you’re in big trouble, Dennis. Bigger than you realise. The only way to clear your name is for a witness to confess to perjury, and we’re running out of witnesses.’
‘No thanks to me. I still didn’t do it.’
‘I believe you.’
His expression froze. ‘You do?’
‘Absolutely. A guil
ty man wouldn’t have come here. Pity my opinion doesn’t help you. You or me. If we find Willie Davidson and get him to talk there might be a chance. But I’m staying clear of what’s going on right now. And my advice to you hasn’t changed. Turn yourself in.’
‘Not happening, Charlie.’
‘They’ll get you in the end. And suppose Davidson goes the same way as the other two. It’ll be three charges of murder you’ll be facing.’
‘Not if you stay on board. You say you believe I’m innocent. All right. Prove it.’
‘Dennis, you’re a wanted man. Just being here puts me over the line. Here’s the deal, and it’s the same deal. I’ll do my best to get to Davidson before whoever killed Wilson and McDermid does. But you were never here. We’ve never met. And the case I’m on is ancient history.’
Boyd stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and – the only word for it – chuckled. He lifted his coat and struggled into its soggy folds. ‘So, you’ll help but only on Joe Franks. The rest’s getting a wide berth?’
‘Right. Anything else is too dangerous.’
The skin under his eyes crinkled. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. And I got what a younger Diane had seen in him. Maybe still did. At the door, he stopped and grinned again. Not bad for a man hunted by every policeman in Central Scotland.
Dennis Boyd said, ‘Who’s being naïve now, Charlie?’
The storm raged into the night before blowing itself out, lowering the temperature and clearing the mugginess from the air so we could breathe, replacing it with the familiar West of Scotland summer weather of weak sunshine and a breeze stiff enough to make you believe it was autumn. I slept badly and woke early with the image of Dennis Boyd standing in the doorway.
A break in the downpour gave me the chance to walk to NYB without getting soaked. The unexpected visit was on my mind. My original instinct to turn Diane Kennedy away had been on the money. Meeting Boyd – not once but twice – put me in the position I’d tried to avoid. On a stack of bibles, I could swear no knowledge of exactly where he was hiding, but I knew he was in Glasgow. Keeping that kind of information from the police made me, if not quite an accessory to double murder, at least guilty of obstruction. Claiming to be working on the Joe Franks case already seemed laughable. Whether Boyd was guilty or innocent – then or now, to use his expression – didn’t come into it.
DS Andrew Geddes was the last man I wanted to see, but in NYB there he was, still scribbling away.
As a police officer, he’d experienced the worst of human behaviour. He didn’t let it poison his opinion of his fellow man; it was poisoned to begin with.
To the world, Geddes presented a brusque, sometimes rude, persona. Knowing him better did little to alter the perception. In reality, he was both brusque and rude – though he saw it as plain speaking – and easy to dislike. We disagreed on many things. Occasionally, just occasionally, he lowered his guard and let me in and I saw that behind the grumpy façade was a decent guy, admittedly a grumpy decent guy. He should’ve gone further in the police force and would have if a determination to go his own way hadn’t held him back. In terms of promotion, he’d dragged his heels. Younger guns were leaving him behind, mainly because climbing the greasy pole wasn’t one of his talents.
He was busy and didn’t notice me. I left it like that. Given who’d been in my office, the less contact I had with the law, the better.
Michelle smiled from behind the bar. I said, ‘On your own? How’s it going?’
‘Better. But Jackie still doesn’t speak to me unless she has to.’
‘She’ll get over it.’
‘I’m not so sure. If it wasn’t for the customers I would’ve already quit.’
‘Nice, are they?’
‘Very. Pat’s invited me to have a drink with him on my day off.’
‘And will you take him up on his offer?’
‘I think so.’
If Gail found out she’d kill him.
The door to Jackie’s cubbyhole was shut. I opened it and wished I hadn’t. Her head rested on the desk; she was crying. Jackie Mallon was a tough lady; seeing her like this caught me unprepared. I blurted out, ‘You all right, Jackie?’
She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears, and nodded. ‘I’m okay, Charlie. Got the blues, that’s all.’
I knew the feeling.
23
To someone who didn’t know better, the woman might be asleep. She seemed at peace, her breathing quiet and steady, her blonde head turned to one side. Vicky Farrell knew better. The flush on the skin wasn’t natural. The drug had done that.
When they’d carried her sobbing to the room at the end of the corridor on the third floor and tied her with rope to the metal frame of the bed, Vicky had let them. They’d stripped the duct tape from their victim’s mouth, her pleading the saddest thing Vicky had ever heard. Sean would make a terrifying enemy – Vicky had always known that – but this, this was worse than she’d expected, even from him.
She felt ashamed. If there had been a way to avoid being involved, she’d gladly have taken it. But there wasn’t. Not unless she wanted to take Kim’s place.
In a few hours, the men who’d brought her would come back and the process of sending this woman to hell would continue. The young guy with them had understood what he was doing: while the others held her, he’d lifted the woman’s arm, wiping a spot on the inside near the elbow with a pad dipped in alcohol so as not to infect the area, then set about locating a vein. He’d ignored her muffled cries, inserting the needle at a shallow angle, pointing towards her heart. Vicky guessed he was a user. Then, he’d pulled the plunger back, checking the blood that rushed into the syringe was black and slow. It was and he applied pressure to the injection site. His work was done.
Dennis Boyd counted the crisp twenty-pound notes onto the dresser. Diane had been generous; there was plenty left from the first envelope, and he still hadn’t touched the second one. Since leaving the Holiday Inn Express at Strathclyde Park, he’d stayed in a bed and breakfast in Mount Florida, not far from Hampden, expecting to bump into other guests but he hadn’t. Apart from the tired-looking man on reception when he’d arrived, he’d seen no one, which suited him.
Time to move on. Again. But where to? Every newspaper headline screamed about the horror in Bellshill. For sure, the police wouldn’t be considering other lines of enquiry. He was It. Whoever the real killer was knew exactly what he was doing.
Paying the bill was the tricky part. Trying to seem relaxed when relaxed was the last thing he felt. The man at reception made small talk about the weather and took his money. ‘Was everything okay for you?’
Boyd faked it. ‘Yes. I’ll recommend you.’
‘Did you fill in our Customer Service Questionnaire?’
He admitted he hadn’t.
‘Then could I ask you to put a review on Trip Advisor?’
Boyd had never used Trip Advisor. His accommodation needs had been unaltered for a decade and a half. He paid his bill and left, glancing back to see if the receptionist was following him with his eyes. He wasn’t; he was safe.
In town, Boyd bought a Daily Record and walked to a haunt from his previous life, a stone’s throw from where Hughie Wilson had been beaten to death. It hadn’t changed. Downstairs, he had the place to himself and ordered sausage, fried egg, beans, toast and coffee from a cheery waitress. While he waited, he read the latest news: the police had confirmed the identity of the man discovered in the garage as Liam Peter McDermid. The link between the victim and Wilson – not difficult to piece together – dominated the story. An old picture of Boyd took up half the front page above a recap of the Joe Franks trial. He stared at it, wondering if he’d ever really been so young, fingering the spectacles in his jacket pocket.
In the toilet, Boyd put them on. From the mirror the truth of his situation stared back at him: the disguise was laughable. Charlie Cameron was right. It was only a matter of time before he was caught.
&n
bsp; Back in his seat, he laid the envelopes on the table – one thin, one thick – and studied them. Diane’s cash – generous though it was – wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, it would run out and he’d need work to survive. When that day came, he had to be far away. The killer could’ve finished what he’d started: the third witness might already be dead. If so, he could forget it – there would be nowhere to hide; the cliché about throwing away the key would become reality.
Reluctantly, he realised Diane’s suggestion about the night train to London might have been the best option. When she’d made it, only Wilson had been murdered. Now McDermid had joined him and it was too late. Police would be watching every major transport link and Dennis Boyd knew he should have listened when he had the chance.
The waitress came back with his breakfast. His or Desperate Dan’s, Boyd couldn’t make up his mind. He spent the next thirty minutes ploughing his way through it; miraculously, he had an appetite. The mountain of food made a vivid picture on the plate and Boyd had an idea.
He bought jeans, three T-shirts, a brown corduroy jacket and a pair of casual shoes, paid cash, and stuffed the clothes Diane had given him in a rubbish bin. In an art shop in Queen Street, remembered from the old days, Boyd bought a bundle of sketch pads and a set of charcoal pencils.
In Barlinnie, where every day was like a week and every year a lifetime, a man with a gift got respect. Inmates hadn’t left their vanity on the outside. Boyd had sketched some of the most dangerous men in Scotland. His talent had given him a daily purpose that saved his life. It could do it again.
Exhaustion from the fight she’d put up at the house and the effects of the drug meant Kim had slept the night away – a troubled sleep, filled with demons only she could see, moaning, calling out a name – Rosie – thrashing so violently the ties at her wrists were all that stopped her rolling off the bed onto the floor.
