The Accused

by Owen Mullen

  I swung my fist and connected with his jaw. He staggered and fell to one knee. Before I could hit him a second time, strong arms circled my chest and dragged me away. Alex Gilby’s voice was in my ear. ‘Easy, Charlie. Whatever it is, don’t make it worse.’

  Geddes touched the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and came towards me.

  ‘Not clever, Charlie. Not very clever at all. And here we are again. How often do you need to be told? If you’d wanted to be a copper you should’ve joined the force. I’ve warned you to stay on your own side of the street ’til I’m sick saying it. You don’t listen, do you? The great Charlie Cameron always knows better.’

  A crowd of people had come out from NYB, no doubt enjoying the excitement of seeing two grown men squaring up. Jackie Mallon was one of them. I shrugged free of Gilby. The urge to beat Andrew’s righteous head to a pulp was fading.

  He said, ‘Told you every policeman in Glasgow knows who you are. Didn’t tell you why. You’re famous for sticking your oar in where it doesn’t belong. A well-intentioned amateur. But an amateur just the same.’

  ‘You’ve got a short memory. You wouldn’t have a hope at promotion if it wasn’t for me serving results up to you on a plate. The number of times I’ve solved a case for you seems to have slipped your mind. The amateur doing your work for you because you and your pals in blue are so fucking incompetent.’

  The veins in Andrew Geddes’ neck thickened; his hands became fists. He was on the edge but he was going to hear what I had to say. ‘Fifteen years ago, an innocent man went down for a crime he didn’t commit.’

  ‘Not according to the jury.’

  ‘Stop hiding behind the verdict. Your lot got it wrong. Whoever did it is leading you by the nose just like they did the last time. Davidson admitted it wasn’t Boyd. He was going to confess to perjury and tell me the real killer’s name.’

  ‘Except, he didn’t. Which knocks the backside out of your story and puts Dennis Boyd in the frame.’

  Frustration boiled up in me. ‘Talk sense. Pretend you’re a real detective and try thinking for a change. Boyd came to give himself up. Why would he do that if he was guilty?’

  Andrew poured contempt on my explanation. ‘And that’s where we part company, Charlie. You deal in theories and notions about justice. Professionals don’t have that luxury. They’re only interested in facts. In this case, the facts say that for a decade and a half, Dennis Boyd planned his revenge on the witnesses who spoke against him, and took it in a car park at Charing Cross, in a garage in Bellshill, and this morning in the Firth of Clyde.’

  ‘You’re choosing the easy road and you know it. You fucking know it!’

  Andrew glanced at the onlookers and back. I was past caring who heard; it was the truth. ‘You completely blanked the fact Davidson confessed to me. Didn’t want to know because it made your old mates look bad. That’s what I really can’t take. You never gave Boyd a chance.’

  ‘Not here to dole out chances. My job is to catch suspects. Guilty or innocent doesn’t come into it. That’s somebody else’s call. You’ll be lucky not to find yourself up on a charge after this.’

  ‘So, as long as you can tick a box, everything’s all right?’

  Geddes brushed dust off his trousers and didn’t answer. ‘You’ve crossed the line for the last time. From now on keep out of my way. I’m not telling you again.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Your side isn’t for me. Never could be.’

  He shook his head and grinned his trademark grin, unamused. ‘You’re memory’s selective, Charlie. As I recall you’ve got it wrong plenty of times.’

  ‘But it didn’t cost some poor bastard fifteen years of his life, Andrew. That’s the difference.’

  Geddes walked away without a backward glance. Alex Gilby laid a hand on my shoulder and guided me into NYB; the crowd went back to minding their own affairs. The exception was Jackie, who stood at the door, watching me.

  Alex led us to a table and signalled to the bar. A large whisky appeared in front of me. ‘Drink this, it’ll do you good.’

  ‘It’ll take a lot more than that.’

  His eyes wandered over my face. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Too late for talk.’

  ‘Okay, but, whatever happened, you and Andrew will get through it. Even the best friends fall out sometimes.’

  Alex imagined I was worried about the fight; he was wrong. At that moment, I couldn’t have cared less about Andrew Geddes. My concern was for Dennis Boyd.

  I trusted you… you set me up

  ‘I’m okay, Alex. Really.’

  He left and I changed my mind about the whisky. Jackie was at my elbow. I expected a lecture; it didn’t happen. ‘What was that about?’

  When I didn’t reply, she answered her own question. ‘Andrew can be a hard guy to get along with. You do better than the rest of us. For it to go that far, he must’ve crossed the line.’

  ‘We both did, Jackie.’

  ‘It happens.’ She patted my hand. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’

  Maybe I imagined it – for a second, I was sure her eyes filled up. Like Alex, she meant well, though I doubted she was right. Geddes had a long memory and, as his ex-wife, Elspeth, had discovered, putting the past behind him wasn’t one of his gifts. Right now, I was with him on that. Dennis Boyd had trusted me. I’d trusted Andrew. We’d both come out on the losing side.

  Jackie laughed softly and got up. ‘Have to admit you lead an interesting life, Charlie.’

  ‘Is that what it is? I was wondering.’

  ‘Have another whisky. On the house.’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll have to make a statement. Better get it over with.’

  She took the hint and left. I opened my mobile and punched in Pat Logue’s number.

  ‘Charlie. What’s happenin’?’

  ‘Long story, Patrick. Get Olive to Helen Street. Ask for DI Campbell.’

  ‘Did it go okay?’

  I sighed, wishing I hadn’t turned down Jackie’s offer. ‘It went the way it went.’

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘Yeah. As bad as that.’

  At Govan police office, DI Campbell was in fine spirits; not surprising, in his position. Thanks to me, a wanted man had fallen into his lap, and the detective inspector was disinclined to hold his good fortune against me. I told him how it had been, minus the parts he didn’t need to know. The policeman sat back in his chair, relaxed, not bothering to fake interest, as though he’d already decided whatever I had to say wasn’t important.

  He let me finish and took over. ‘Amazing how your name keeps cropping up, Charlie. You’re a friend of Andrew Geddes, is that right?’ He moved a pen around his desk. ‘Bit of a dour bastard, between you and me. Would’ve got on well with John Knox, if you know what I mean.’

  I knew.

  ‘He’d throw the book at you and not think twice. Can’t say I blame him. You’ve a reputation for sailing close to the wind. Not everybody appreciates that.’

  I let him do the talking; he preferred it that way.

  Campbell turned his attention to a ragged fingernail. ‘Me, I’m inclined to take a different view. Truth is I’m grateful to you. There’s a man downstairs in the cells who wouldn’t be there without Charlie Cameron. Besides, you represent a tonne of paperwork I can do without. So why don’t I do us both a favour? If anybody asks, you’ve had your knuckles rapped. We’ll need a statement. Then you can go. But remember, you’ve been long enough in the game to know the rules. Police business isn’t your business. In future, stay clear.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop me investigating anything I like so long as I don’t break the law.’

  He frowned. ‘Not a good idea, Charlie. You tend to get lost and go for a wander.’

  ‘When can I speak to Boyd?’

  ‘System’s against you. Have to wait your turn.’

  ‘So when?’

&nbs
p; ‘He’ll be charged later this afternoon with his lawyer present and appear at Glasgow Sheriff Court tomorrow. The next time you meet him he’ll be on remand in Barlinnie.’ He sniggered. ‘After what happened today, you’ll be top of his visitors list. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.’

  DI Campbell was enjoying himself. I hated to spoil his fun but it had to be done.

  ‘Dennis Boyd didn’t do it. The real killer is still out there. Ask Boyd where he was this morning. I bet he was nowhere near Arran.’

  ‘Already did. Claims he was in Oban. But he’s lying.’

  ‘You can place him at the scene of the crime, can you?’

  Doubt flickered in Campbell’s eyes. He reached for an answer and found it. ‘We’ll get what we need. Don’t worry on that score. He’s going back inside.’

  ‘Unless he’s a magician he can’t be two places at the same time. Putting him on the island shouldn’t be difficult. Somebody must’ve seen him: at Ardrossan or on the ferry. But you can’t and you won’t because he’s telling the truth. And, if he wasn’t in Lamlash, he couldn’t have killed Davidson. So, who did?’

  The certainty faded from Campbell’s face. I stood up; the interview was over.

  ‘Got your work cut out, unless, of course, you settle for the easy target like last time.’

  Getting drunk was an attractive proposition, and the bottle of Famous Grouse in the bottom drawer of my desk was calling. I could’ve resisted, put up a fight, but sometimes giving in just felt like the right thing.

  The first couple of shots came straight from the neck and when the fire hit the back of my throat, I knew I didn’t want to stop; willpower was having a holiday. The awful sequence of events – from Davidson’s mid-morning telephone call to brawling in the street with Andrew Geddes – rolled over me. I’d been lucky it was DI Campbell’s case. He was telling the truth when he said Andrew would have nailed me to the wall.

  Pointing out the weakness in Campbell’s case had been satisfying but it didn’t change anything. Coupled with the history between them, Boyd’s admission he’d been in the car park where Hughie Wilson died would be enough to bring a murder charge.

  According to Pat Logue, two police officers had taken Olive Davidson away. I didn’t envy any of them. Patrick had done everything asked of him. None of it was down to him. The same couldn’t be said for me. By the time I thought about getting myself a glass, the bottle was edging towards half empty and it didn’t seem worth the inconvenience. I put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes.

  Diane Kennedy didn’t bother to knock; she threw the door open and came in. Without make-up she seemed old and I could see she’d been crying. I braced for an angry tirade. It didn’t come. She ran to me and fell into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Charlie, Charlie. It’s so unfair.’

  Just what I needed: a hysterical woman.

  The perfect end to a perfect day.

  Since Noah’s midnight visit, Vicky hadn’t gone back to her flat, sleeping fitfully in the chair rather than her own bed. Tony sensed she was struggling and called every day to speak to her from wherever he was. She made an effort to sound upbeat and cut the exchanges short before he could probe too deeply.

  He was a good man. But even good men had their limit. This life wasn’t his; how much longer would he put up with her rejections before he’d had enough and offered his love to somebody worthy of it? For all his worldliness, he was in some ways an innocent. The night they’d met she’d been in a bar in Miller Street, off George Square; he’d asked if he could buy her a drink and sat down. It had taken an hour to suss he didn’t know what she was. When she’d told him, he’d carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. Eleven months later the relationship was strong, except Tony wanted more. So did she. Fear made her settle for what they had and she prayed he would, too.

  Time had no meaning for Kim. She was still being sick, had no interest in food and ate little. Mars bars were the mainstay of a diet that, along with the ‘H’, brought a dramatic weight loss, most noticeable on her face, arms and legs. At the beginning she’d cried. Now, she waited for the next fix, eyes open, staring at the wall, deep in depression.

  The knock on the door startled Vicky. She opened it, stepped into the hall and found Noah waiting. ‘Mr Rafferty called. Says he wants her earning. Got a john at the desk looking for a woman.’

  ‘She’s too ill.’

  ‘Mr Rafferty says—’

  ‘I couldn’t care less who says, she can hardly stand. She isn’t in a fit state to work.’

  ‘You tell him.’

  ‘No problem, I will. If he wants to make money off her, he’ll have to wait or he’ll have a dead junkie on his hands.’

  Noah had delivered his message and came closer, cigarette smoke and the sickly smell of cheap wine floating like a cloud around him. He bared his bad teeth. ‘You nearly broke my fucking leg, bitch.’

  Vicky wasn’t fazed. ‘You’re lucky it wasn’t your skull. I’ll speak to Sean—’

  Noah sneered. ‘Sean, is it? Big mates, are you?’

  Vicky was going to let it go, then changed her mind. Putting the wind up this animal would be fun. ‘Now you mention it, yeah, we are.’ Vicky faced him down. ‘I covered for you. Otherwise, you would’ve been out on your fat arse ages ago. Not any more. It’s personal. Any idea what would happen if he hears about your nightly habit of sampling the merchandise without paying? He’ll cut your bastard heart out and throw what’s left in the Clyde. Ask yourself why Sean Rafferty is interested in what goes on here.’

  The threat found its target – Vicky saw it in Noah’s eyes.

  ‘As for your customer, send him to somebody else. This one isn’t for sale.’

  30

  Opening my eyes was painful. I closed them again and tried to figure out why I felt so bad. The answer arrived like jagged fragments from a bad dream: the look on Dennis Boyd’s face when he realised he’d walked into a trap; Alex Gilby pulling me away from Andrew Geddes outside NYB; and Diane Kennedy’s tears on my neck. I drew the duvet over my head and lay until the nightmare moved on. Eventually, I stumbled blindly to the shower and began a reluctant recovery that wouldn’t include eating.

  The hot water helped. After a while I felt good enough to make a will, but decided to face whatever had to be faced. Getting myself together was a slow process. When I was ready, I called a cab to take me into town – it wasn’t a difficult decision considering my car was where I’d parked it the previous afternoon. While I waited, I forced down a cup of coffee and struggled to make sense of the previous day. Unfortunately, I succeeded.

  Excuses weren’t hard to find; I had no use for them. Blaming Willie Davidson’s no-show for what had happened was too easy. If I could find the third witness, so could the killer. Shortly after his telephone call to me, Davidson was dead and with him Boyd’s last slender hope of clearing his name. Dennis Boyd had been set up; I was sure of it. The witnesses had committed perjury for money. Their paymaster – whoever he’d been – had murdered Joe Franks.

  I’d been accused of being naïve. On recent evidence, the verdict was guilty as charged. Discovering the killer’s identity had always been a long shot. Now it was impossible.

  Over his shoulder the taxi driver made a stab at cheery conversation but gave up when it was clear I wasn’t interested in talking. At George Square, I got out and walked the rest of the way. Usually, my first stop would be NYB. Not today. I’d no wish to run into Andrew or Jackie Mallon, or anybody else. I had to think. To do that I needed to be alone.

  A wall of whisky fumes hit me as soon as I opened the office door. The bottle on the floor against the wall caught my eye. Of course, it was empty. I lifted it and dropped it into the waste-paper basket; it fell with a dull thud on top of Diane Kennedy’s cigarette butts. Apparently, the No Smoking policy had been suspended.

  So how long had she been here? What hopeless promises had been made? I shuddered at the thought. Unless something unexpected came along, Boyd was headed
back to Barlinnie. As Andrew Geddes never tired of reminding me, his guilt or otherwise was a decision other people would make. The ability to prove it, one way or the other, was the only thing that mattered. And on that, I’d failed.

  Around eleven-thirty, my mobile rang. I thought of not answering it and changed my mind. ‘Charlie Cameron.’

  A voice with a heavy accent said, ‘Mr Cameron. It is Yannis. How are you?’

  I lied. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘My business in Edinburgh will be finished this morning. Then I will come to Glasgow on the three o’clock train. Where will I meet you?’

  My heart wasn’t in it but the Greek was going out of his way to help. ‘I’ll be at Queen Street station when you arrive.’

  ‘Great. See you then. Goodbye.’

  I’d forgotten about the Greek. It probably wasn’t important now. Pat Logue stuck his face round the door. ‘Two words, Charlie. Su perb. But you couldn’t hold on, could you?’

  ‘Come again.’

  ‘To stick one on that pompous arsehole. All this time I’ve waited, and when it finally happens, I’m somewhere else.’

  ‘You didn’t miss much. It was not my finest hour, Patrick.’

  He came in, closed the door behind him and sat down. ‘With respect, I’ll be the judge of that. Jackie says you laid him out. Were the scales suddenly lifted from your eyes and you saw him as he really is? Did you remind him how many of his cases you’ve solved?’

  Patrick’s enjoyment was undisguised. Punching a policeman – especially this particular policeman – appealed to him.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn’t like that.’

  He picked the whisky bottle from the waste basket and held it in the air. ‘How do you come to be assaulting an officer of the law? Nothing to do with alcohol, I hope.’

  ‘We had a disagreement. It got out of hand.’

  He let it go and became serious. ‘I called you last night. Mobile was switched off. Guessed you wanted space.’