The Accused

by Owen Mullen

  The room was shabby and smelled of sweat. In the weak light cast from a dusty bulb dripping cobwebs, Vicky Farrell had watched from a chair in the corner. After the soulless sex with Sean, she’d listened to him coldly describe the sickening destruction he planned for the mother of his child. Vicky wanted no part of it. She’d learned long ago that refusing Sean Rafferty wasn’t an option.

  She remembered the newspaper images of the couple on the register office steps, the new bride lifting the white satin hem of her dress off the ground, waving at the crowd. At her side, her smiling husband, proud of his new wife.

  What had she done to deserve this?

  Kim opened her eyes, unsure where she was, until the hellish nightmare rushed in and she screamed, ‘Where am I? What’ve you done to me? Please, my baby. Let me go to my baby.’

  Vicky reluctantly opened her mobile, hearing the words, hating herself for uttering them. ‘She’s awake.’

  Kim strained against the ties fastening her to the bed, sobbed Rosie’s name into the pillow and gave up. It was hopeless. She’d been a fool. Imagining Rocha would choose her over Sean had been inexcusably stupid. The terrible cost of believing the Spaniard’s honeyed words was losing the only thing that mattered to her.

  From the moment she’d allowed him to caress the nape of her neck with his finger he’d sensed a conquest to add to his collection. From then, it had all been a game. Confessing he’d bedded Sean Rafferty’s wife, even if it meant signing her death warrant, wouldn’t cause Emil Rocha a second’s concern. On the contrary, whispering her betrayal in her husband’s ear would’ve been sweet. Playfully asking how Sean would react if he discovered what she’d done, knowing he was going to tell him, was shocking and cruel.

  Apart from the brief phone call, the woman in the chair hadn’t spoken. Kim desperately tried to reach her. ‘He’s going to kill me; you understand that, don’t you? My blood will be on your hands. Your hands! You’ll be a murderer.’

  Her voice was on the edge of hysteria; Vicky pretended to ignore it. Kim wouldn’t let her.

  ‘How can you stand by and let him do this? How can you?’

  Silence.

  Then the pleading, disturbing and sad and awful to listen to. ‘Let me go, please. I’ll disappear. All I want is my little girl. You’re a woman, maybe a mother, this—’

  As soon as Vicky spoke, she regretted it. ‘He isn’t going to kill you.’

  Not getting drawn in was the only way to survive – refusing to see the prisoner chained to the bed as a human being. In her life, Vicky Farrell had done things she wasn’t proud of but nothing like this.

  Kim kept on. ‘You don’t know him.’

  Vicky wished that were true. She said, ‘I’ve known Sean Rafferty longer than you.’

  ‘Then, you realise he’s capable of anything. Rosie’s just a child. A child! I’m her mother. She needs me. Please, I’m begging you.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. I can’t help you. Nobody can.’

  It was the truth; crossing Sean would mean it was her shackled to the bed, her arm they injected, her on the painful road to addiction and prostitution on the streets. Vicky had to block out the pathetic cries and stay strong no matter how difficult it was. Anything else was suicide.

  Kim said, ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I need to.’

  ‘I said, not yet.’

  ‘When?’

  Before she could answer, the door opened and the guy from earlier came in, smiling as if he were meeting an old friend.

  Kim saw the syringe in his hand and screamed.

  Buchanan Bus Station was in Killermont Street; the irony didn’t escape him. Behind the ticket counter a man who looked to be in his mid-forties managed to answer his question about the next bus to Oban without making eye contact: a skill first-timers in prison quickly learned.

  According to the station clock he had two hours to spare; he deserved a drink. Standing at the bar in The Counting House at George Square seemed long ago; so much had happened it was difficult to take it all in. He strolled down Renfield and turned left into Drury Street. The Horseshoe Bar was a Glasgow institution, the kind of pub he’d missed. At lunchtime it was busier than most watering holes in the city. Boyd asked for the whisky Diane had ordered on Paisley Road West – Johnnie Walker Black Label – and a half-pint of lager, and pushed one of her twenty-pound notes across the dark-wood bar. The whisky was smooth. He let the atmosphere wash over him and felt himself relax. Maybe Cameron would do the impossible: find the third witness and get him to confess. Boyd signalled the barman for a refill, surprised to realise he was actually enjoying himself. By the time he’d downed his third, he’d started to believe.

  New clothes and the alcohol made a difference. Boyd felt good. On his way to the bus station he thought about buying a couple of cans of beer, changed his mind and settled for a sandwich and a bottle of water instead. The Horseshoe Bar had been fun. But nothing had changed; he was still on the run. Better not to kick the arse out of it.

  The Citylink bus reversed away from the stand and into the early afternoon traffic as the sun broke through the clouds. Boyd watched Glasgow disappear. Soon they were on Great Western Road, then at Anniesland Cross where Diane had taken him on his first day of freedom.

  Her again.

  She’d been in court every day, sitting at the back, pale and drawn, staring straight ahead. Not once had she looked at him. Boyd had understood what was going through her mind and had worried about her almost as much as himself. They had no future together. He didn’t kid himself about that. Nevertheless, Boyd cared about her. He had few friends; she was one of them. Eventually, he’d stopped thinking about Diane Franks and when the car pulled up outside Barlinnie, Boyd hadn’t recognised the woman behind the sunshades.

  Time was a bastard.

  He closed his eyes and fell asleep remembering the curve of her neck and the softness of her skin in Newton Mearns, and woke to the majesty of Loch Lomond. Boyd swore under his breath. Drinking at lunchtime was a bad idea; he needed to be alert, on the ball. So far, he’d been lucky – if he didn’t count being the prime suspect in two murders.

  At Inverbeg, some passengers got off and others got on. Boyd checked his fellow travellers out: tourists mostly, photographing everything without appreciating any of it. He didn’t blame them; he’d done his share of taking life for granted and been given a hard lesson in return.

  Tarbert came and went. The driver changed down gears as the road began to rise. Across the calm dark water of Loch Long, the village of Arrochar seemed to shelter in the brooding beauty of Ben Lomond in the distance behind it. They passed a man painting the hull of an upturned boat on the rocky shore; he stood back to admire his work and smiled, satisfied with what he’d done. Boyd envied him.

  Making love to a woman, savouring a fine whisky – even painting a boat on a sunny afternoon – were the simple pleasures of a free man. More important than revenge for lost years. Dennis Boyd would gladly settle for them.

  24

  I hadn’t seen Pat Logue since the day we’d found McDermid’s body in the garage in Bellshill. Patrick was a rolling stone. Now and then, as he put it in his football patois, he ‘took a dive’. I’d learned it was better not to ask. When he had something, he’d be back.

  Weak sunshine broke through gaps in the clouds and the air was warm. I hoped it was shining wherever Dennis Boyd was. He’d done well to stay on the run this long, though he couldn’t keep out of sight forever. Every day put him closer to capture. I needed Pat to find Willie Davidson before the killer did, but Patrick was distracted. I hoped whatever he was doing included finding the missing witness.

  On many occasions in the past, Andrew Geddes would’ve been the first person I asked for help. Almost always he’d come through. With this, we were on different sides. If he even suspected I’d met Dennis Boyd, our friendship wouldn’t save me.

  Jackie was behind the bar in NYB. She w
asn’t crying now, but she looked different; I didn’t know why. There was no sign of Michelle.

  The man I was looking for was reading The Herald at a table by himself. I took my coffee over and said hello, trying to sound laid-back. ‘Good morning, Andrew.’

  Geddes glanced up at me without moving his head. ‘Is it? Seen this?’ He tapped the headline on the front page. ‘Guy in Bellshill got murdered about half a dozen times.’

  ‘Nasty?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You involved?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. Could’ve done with a high-profile prosecution right now. Big Sandy landed it.’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘DI Sandy Campbell.’

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘He knows you. Every copper in Glasgow knows you, Charlie. Not meant as a compliment, by the way.’

  I faked innocence. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘The press has it about right. Makes a change. Dead guy was a barman called McDermid, a witness in an old murder trial. Testified against a guy called Dennis Boyd. Got him fifteen years.’

  Pretending wasn’t easy. I did my best. ‘Old news, isn’t it?’

  ‘Would’ve thought so, except the night Boyd got out of Barlinnie, another one of the witnesses was found in a car park at Charing Cross with his face caved in.’

  ‘And you think this Boyd did it?’

  ‘Looks helluva like it. One might’ve been a coincidence, but two?’

  ‘Surely Boyd would figure he’d be the obvious suspect. Nobody would be that stupid.’

  Geddes folded the paper and sighed. There was pity in his eyes. ‘You’re naïve, Charlie. Anybody ever tell you that?’

  ‘It’s been said, Andrew.’

  ‘Not the best quality in a man in your profession. Listen, and get this into your head. People are thick, criminals especially. They get caught because they fuck up, otherwise we wouldn’t have a snowball’s. Brilliant masterminds only exist in books and James Bond movies. Your average criminal is just that: average. Don’t credit them with brains. They haven’t got any. It’s clear as the nose on your face what’s happened. Boyd couldn’t wait to get even. For years, it’s all he’s thought about. First thing he does is find Wilson – a scumbag in his own right, by the way – and end him. What it would look like didn’t come into it. After that, he gives us the mummy in a Bellshill garage.’

  Andrew shrugged. ‘Wilson and McDermid sent him down. In Dennis Boyd’s twisted thinking, they deserved it. So now they’re dead. Got a better theory?’

  I did, though not one I could share.

  ‘Where is Boyd?’

  ‘That’s the question. Nobody’s seen him apart from his sister. He left her house, supposed to be going for a couple of beers. As you do when you haven’t had a civilised drink in a while.’ He paused. ‘Notice I didn’t say when you haven’t had a drink. Can get anything you want inside these days. Fucking all-inclusive holiday. The governor could be Thomas Cook.’

  Conditions in Her Majesty’s prisons was one of Andrew’s pet poodles. I let him rave. ‘So, Boyd’s on the run?’

  ‘For the moment. Seen it before and it always ends the same way. They run out of money, out of options or just lose the will to keep going. We’ll get him. Bet that nice West End flat of yours on it.’

  ‘What if Boyd doesn’t care about getting caught? What if he’s done what he set out to do? Evened the score. Nothing else counts, including going back inside for the rest of his life.’

  Andrew sat back in his chair. ‘But he hasn’t, Charlie.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘He hasn’t “evened the score”. There were three witnesses.’

  ‘I assume the other one’s in protective custody.’

  ‘He would be if we could find him.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘I mean we don’t know.’

  ‘Is that a no-idea-don’t-know or a last-seen-don’t-know?’

  ‘Willie Davidson’s last known address was in Largs.’

  ‘Largs?’

  ‘With his married daughter. He lives with her. At least, he did. Not there now. And if he’s got half the savvy you credit these types with, he won’t return until Dennis Boyd’s out of circulation.’

  ‘She must be worried sick.’

  ‘I’m told she is. We’ve got people watching the house.’

  If Andrew had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed my expression change. He wasn’t. He opened his newspaper and added a gruesome image to take with me. ‘Then again, the guy might be in a lock-up somewhere, Tutankhamuned-up.’

  I turned to go.

  ‘And by the by. I’ve got a date for the promotion interview.’

  On another day I would’ve been happy to chat about his prospects. Not today. I had to contact Patrick. ‘You ready for it?’

  He kept his eyes on the page. ‘As I’ll ever be, Charlie. Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  Outside NYB I punched Pat Logue’s number into my mobile. He answered on the first ring. ‘Charlie. Well timed.’

  ‘Patrick, be careful. The police are watching Davidson’s house.’

  ‘I know.’ He sounded relaxed. ‘Got a couple of men in a car across the street. Clocked them right away. They searched the place yesterday.’

  ‘But didn’t find Davidson.’

  ‘Because he isn’t there.’ Patrick was enjoying himself. ‘The game’s moved on. An hour ago, the daughter went to the supermarket. Bumped into the back of another car in the Tesco car park. No real damage. Her fault, no contest. Her nerves are shredded. The driver started givin’ her a hard time. Lucky I was there to smooth things over. I got her calmed down enough to give her insurance details and told him in future to watch how he spoke to a lady. She was shaken up about it so I took her inside and bought her a cup of tea. Nice woman. Must take after her mother.’

  I held my breath. ‘You’re telling me you’ve talked to Davidson’s daughter?’

  ‘Yep. Turns out she went to school with my cousin. Small world or what?’

  ‘Did she say where her father is?’

  ‘He left as soon as he heard about Wilson. Olive reckons he knew he was in danger.’

  ‘Olive?’

  ‘Yeah. Her name’s Olive. Olive Devlin. She was a teenager when her father testified against Boyd. Doesn’t remember much about it. This last year Davidson’s been on a short fuse, flyin’ off the handle for no reason. In the beginning, she thought it was dementia. Now she knows he was scared.’

  A man’s freedom hung on my next question. ‘Did she tell you where he is?’

  ‘I’ve been down here for two days. Best customer Nardini’s ever had. The bump in the car park was jammy but it was the cousin that swung it. Gave her one of your cards.’

  He was winding me up. ‘Stop fucking about, Patrick. Did she tell you where he is?’

  ‘Her dad’s treatin’ himself to a wee holiday. She’s pretty sure he’s at a bed and breakfast on Arran. Davidson and his wife – she’s dead by the way – spent their honeymoon in Whiting Bay. Been going there two or three times a year.’

  ‘Did you get the address?’

  ‘Now you stop fuckin’ about, Charlie. ’Course I did. Want me to hop over?’

  It was an easy question to answer. The pace was picking up, and with Dennis Boyd somewhere out there on the run I had to act fast. Face to face with a terrified Willie Davidson might be the only way to know the truth about the testimony that had already resulted in the brutal murder of two men.

  I looked at my watch. ‘No. Meet me at the ferry in an hour.’

  My hand was on the doorknob when the phone on the desk rang. Time wasn’t on my side. I picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end was well spoken and polite.

  ‘Mr Cameron?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Barry McCabe from Turner, O’Neil and McCabe. You were anxious to speak to my father.’

  ‘I still am. Is he back from
his cruise?’

  Barry hesitated. ‘Not yet. He took a bad turn. They’re flying him and my mother home today. The Spanish doctors think it’s best.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?’

  ‘He says he’s fine. Then he always says he’s fine. I’m calling to tell you I’ve no idea when he’ll be able to see you. My mother just wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  ‘My father retiring was her idea. She pushed for it otherwise he’d still be in harness. Growing up all I remember is my dad working. Even on Christmas Day.’

  ‘I’m sorry he isn’t well. I was looking forward to talking to him.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to when he’s stronger.’

  ‘I hope so. Tell him to look after himself.’

  ‘Too late for that, I’m afraid. My dad’s a man who goes his own way. If you knew him, you’d understand. Goodbye.’

  25

  Vicky was expecting Sean’s call. When it came, she almost didn’t answer and let her mobile ring out a dozen times. Hearing his voice, knowing he was responsible for the horror in the room, was more than she could stomach. Through the night, sitting in the chair with the noises of the brothel seeping through the paper-thin walls – giggling girls and loud men; drunken laughter and angry growls; faked orgasms that went on for minutes, and, from somewhere nearby, the crack of leather against flesh – she’d realised Sean was an animal with no bottom to his depravity. That didn’t excuse her from going along with it. But she had, because, like most of Glasgow, she was afraid of him.

  His voice was casual, relaxed, almost as if he’d phoned to catch up with a pal he hadn’t seen in a while. ‘How’s it all going?’

  Vicky wanted to shout, ‘How do you think it’s going, you fucking monster?’ Instead, she said, ‘She’s asleep.’

  The news displeased him. ‘Asleep! Wake her up. The faster the craving starts, the sooner we can move to the next phase. My darling wife is at the beginning of a new career, one she’s admirably suited for. And I don’t mean a West End girl.’