The Accused

by Owen Mullen

Good guess.

  I brought him up to date on how it had been: from Davidson’s non-appearance and Andrew’s betrayal, to Boyd’s reaction and the conversation in Helen Street with DI Campbell. He listened without interrupting. When I stopped speaking, he summed up where I was. ‘And you’re blaming yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  He waved an admonishing finger and hit me over the head with one of his quotes. ‘“Better to be punished for making the right decision than live with the guilt of making the wrong one.” Write it down. Seriously, anybody would’ve done what you did.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. I should’ve held back until Davidson told his side of it. Instead, I was in too much of a hurry.’

  Patrick didn’t agree. ‘Yeah. Bring him in before he got caught. Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, Charlie. The one mistake you made was to trust a copper.’

  I held up a hand; he wouldn’t be stopped.

  ‘No. It’s the truth. You acted in good faith. The same couldn’t be said for your pal. Not blaming him, mind. Just doing what he knows. Guys like him never have a day off. Can’t help themselves.’

  ‘Nice of you to give me a pass, Patrick. Coming to me for help is the worst move Dennis Boyd’s made.’

  Patrick wasn’t having any. ‘Talk sense, Charlie. Nobody else would’ve given him the time of day. You did. And got a witness to admit he’d perjured himself at his trial.’

  He used his thumb and forefinger to make his point. ‘You were this close to proving the jury got it wrong fifteen years ago. Who else could’ve done that?’ He answered his own question. ‘I’ll tell you. Nobody.’

  I thanked him for his faith in me. ‘Except where does it leave us? Which reminds me, the Greek Joe Franks bought stones from is coming through from Edinburgh on the three o’clock train from Waverley.’

  ‘Want me to meet him? What’s his name?’

  ‘Yannis.’

  ‘Does he know anything?’

  ‘Doubt it. According to Boyd he’s a good guy.’

  Patrick got up to go. ‘I’ll be there. And by the by, I spoke to Olive this morning. She’s gutted, as you would expect. Willie Davidson might’ve been a rat, but he was still her father.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anything coming up? Could use the cash.’

  I didn’t catch up with Patrick again until close to five in the afternoon. Too late. He introduced his companion like a long-lost brother. It had taken less than an hour for these kindred spirits to recognise each other and begin the celebration.

  Pat raised a glass and said, ‘Yamas! Means cheers in Greek, Charlie.’

  ‘Thanks for explaining that.’

  Patrick was enjoying himself too much to notice the sarcasm. He nudged my elbow and pointed. ‘This is a great guy. Liked him as soon as I saw him.’

  Yannis let his new best friend do the talking. Diane had met him just once, fifteen years and twenty kilos ago – her description was out of date; the black hair had thinned and was streaked with grey, sunglasses he wouldn’t have much use for pushed up off his grinning moon face.

  I wanted to speak to him; this wasn’t the moment. These guys were serious drinkers and they were headed for a session. I made my apologies, ducked out and left them to it.

  There was a smile in his voice. There always would be even when he was ordering somebody’s death.

  Sean Rafferty imagined Rocha dressed in a white lightweight suit and sandals, casually inspecting his nails, relaxing in the shade of his fucking orange tree, while other people made his money for him. Not far away, a naked woman would be in the swimming pool – probably young, definitely beautiful. Rocha wouldn’t hurry; no matter how long he took, she’d wait. Emil Rocha was who Sean Rafferty aspired to be – the man who had it all. Except, his perfect life, like everything about him, wasn’t so perfect, as the presence of the armed guards at the gate and on the walls testified. Rocha had many enemies. Someday, one of them would get him; his time on earth would prematurely end with his suntanned face in the dirt and Rafferty would be looking for a new partner. Until then…

  The Glasgow gangster faked it. ‘Emil, this is a surprise.’

  ‘A pleasant surprise, I hope.’

  Unease rippled Rafferty’s skin: a call from the Spaniard was rarely good. Usually, it meant he was unhappy. And Emil Rocha didn’t keep his unhappiness to himself.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I was thinking about you and decided to give my friend in Scotland a call. How are things?’

  ‘Fine, Emil, everything’s fine.’

  ‘You deserve credit for how quickly you handled our problem. I appreciated it.’

  ‘It was necessary. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’

  ‘As you say, Sean, it was necessary. Though, I took no pleasure in it, I assure you.’

  Liar, he’d relished every second – before, during, and after. Especially after, brazenly revealing he’d had sex with Kim, rubbing Rafferty’s nose in it, daring him to react.

  ‘I’d like another look at the land you showed me. Send me a report. Perhaps, I was too hasty.’

  ‘Did the Menorca project fall through?’

  Rocha paused, the phony bonhomie faltering, and Sean realised there had never been a Menorca project; the drug lord had invented it. He’d been on his way to spend the afternoon with Kim, correctly assessed the implications of her unfaithfulness for himself and decided not to get more deeply involved with a man who wasn’t in control of his wife.

  if she’s willing to betray you to me, she’ll betray both of us to the police

  it’s merely a question of when

  ‘Oh, that. The individuals who approached me had interesting proposals. I turned them down.’

  A conversation with Rocha was a masterclass in duplicity. Sean imagined him sipping an espresso, waving to the girl in the pool. ‘Opportunities are like autumn leaves, my young friend. Thick on the ground. The skill lies in choosing which ones to pick up. We can continue with our plans.’

  ‘I look forward to it, Emil.’

  ‘As do I. And, Sean, one last word. A serious man wouldn’t have to learn the same lesson twice.’

  The line died. In Glasgow, Rafferty trembled with rage. Rocha’s tone had been friendly. Underneath the façade, the bastard was warning him.

  Again.

  Rafferty hadn’t seen his wife since they’d taken her screaming from the house in Bothwell. The Spaniard’s phone call had stirred his hatred for the bitch. Coming here hadn’t been in his plans, yet he couldn’t stay away – his thirst for revenge was too great; he had to witnesses it for himself. He stood by the filthy bed, looking down at the sleeping Kim, his features lit with an intensity Vicky had only seen at the height of sex. Sean swept Kim’s hair away with his finger so he could see her face. His lips parted in a grin. At the final of Miss Scotland, surrounded by lovely women, she’d shone.

  She wasn’t shining now.

  He stepped back and spoke to Vicky out of the side of his mouth without taking his eyes off Kim. ‘Wake this bitch up. I want to speak to her.’

  Vicky swallowed her disgust. ‘Sean… she—’

  He turned, his voice dripping menace. ‘Don’t fucking argue with me.’

  Vicky gently shook Kim’s shoulder. Her eyes opened – she saw her husband and cowered from him.

  Rafferty said, ‘Sorry to break into your beauty sleep. Got a message I thought you’d want to hear.’

  He held the mobile out and pressed play: Rosie was in her walker. In the background, Sean encouraging her. ‘Wave to Mummy. That’s a good girl. Wave to your mummy. Ask her when she’s coming back.’

  On the bed, Kim whimpered like a wounded animal, unable to take her eyes from the screen, tears falling silently. Vicky had known Sean Rafferty was a heartless bastard, but this… The absolute cruelty of it stunned her.

  He closed the mobile and nodded. ‘She’s ready to start earning. Make it happen.’

  ‘Who’d want her in that state?’

  He smiled. �
�You’d be surprised. She can have twenty-four hours. That’s it – I’ve waited long enough.’

  He caught the look in her eyes. ‘Get it done, Victoria. No more excuses. And somebody fix that fucking light outside.’

  31

  Patrick Logue’s dubious claim to fame was that he’d never had a hangover. Today that boast was under pressure. He was subdued; his face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, his usual bonhomie absent. Underneath the table his hands would be shaking. It didn’t take second sight to know how the night before had ended; Patrick had met his match and was suffering. I ignored his pain and asked a question, although the answer was in front of me. ‘So how did it finish with Yannis?’

  His reply was short on detail. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where did you end up?’

  ‘Got round a few places.’

  Patspeak: he couldn’t remember.

  ‘You were getting on like a house on fire when I saw you.’

  He faked a smile that died on his lips. ‘He’s an interestin’ guy.’

  ‘What did you find out yesterday, anything?’

  He took a breath deep into his lungs and let it out slowly. This was a trial for him and he was clearly struggling.

  Patrick changed the subject to something more important. To him. ‘Don’t happen to have a beer, do you, Charlie?’

  I reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and brought a bottle of Chivas Regal out. ‘No beer. Give you a shot of this if it’ll help.’

  The secret of serious drinking was flexibility. He eyed the bottle. ‘I’ll take it.’

  The whisky disappeared in a couple of gulps. I gave him another and watched the colour return to his cheeks.

  ‘So, back to Yannis. Did he have anything we can use?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘Nothing we don’t know already, Charlie. But I’ll tell you one thing, the Greeks can’t half drink. My finances are beleaguered.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘I’m buggered. Don’t suppose you could sub us a—’

  I beat him to it. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’

  He accepted the rebuke and rubbed his hands together, the Patrick of old reborn.

  ‘Worth a try, Charlie, always worth a try. What’s the next move?’

  ‘We’ve run out of witnesses. That just leaves what connects them. Get me the link, Patrick, just get me that link.’

  Yannis arrived at five minutes to ten and, in contrast to Pat Logue, was relaxed and fresh: a different man from the glassy-eyed whisky drinker. I remembered the grin – it was still there. From behind it, he studied me. In his business, over the years, the Greek was bound to have come up against heavy characters. He’d survived and I understood why: there was a strength and an easy charm I hadn’t noticed yesterday. The ponytail dropping to his black T-shirt must go down well with female tourists: very Shirley Valentine.

  I filled him in on my interest in Joe Franks; he didn’t comment.

  ‘When we spoke on the phone you told me Joe was a fine man.’

  His features cracked in a smile revealing white teeth and he replied without answering my question. ‘The Scottish are like the Greeks. Unfortunately, the weather is not so good.’

  I tried again. ‘How well did you know Joe?’

  ‘For more than twenty years he was my friend. We drank together many times. Always it was Joe who took me home. Always. In the morning I didn’t have to look in my pockets to see if my money was still there. Do you understand? I trusted Joe Franks and he trusted me.’

  ‘Did he have enemies?’

  He slapped his thigh as if I’d made a joke. ‘A successful man can’t go through life without making enemies.’

  ‘I mean serious enemies.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying. I’ve dodged more than one bullet in my time. Ours can be a dangerous game to be in. But Joe was a good man; a man you could rely on. He never took chances.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to hear he was broke?’

  Yannis shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because. It’s impossible.’ He drew his fingers through the once-black beard, glanced round the room and slowly came back to me. ‘You never met Joe Franks. He knew his business. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds: he could assess their quality in his sleep. Joe didn’t make a bad deal in his life.’

  ‘Did he tell you about the last deal he was involved in?’

  ‘Sure, we respected each other’s opinion and spoke all the time. He used to joke that my country invented diamonds because the word diamond comes from the Greek word adamas, meaning invincible.’

  ‘Did you tell him to be careful?’

  The question puzzled him. ‘Joe was a professional. There was no need.’

  ‘Then why did he keep the last parcel – the one that got him killed – in his home instead of in the office safe?’

  I was suggesting his friend had been reckless or, worse, a fool. The Greek’s dark eyes mirrored his displeasure; he defended the dead jeweller. ‘If Joe kept them at home you can be certain he had a good reason.’

  His loyalty was admirable. I moved past it. ‘Except somebody murdered him, Yannis. Somebody stole those stones.’

  We stared at each other across the desk until he said, ‘Do you think it was me?’

  My reply was blunt. ‘I don’t know. Was it? According to Dennis Boyd, you argued. Three hundred thousand pounds was mentioned. What was the row about? Were you involved in the deal?’

  He nodded, appreciating the candour, and I knew this man had nothing to hide.

  ‘No. Joe wanted me to come in on it but I was stretched in other directions and couldn’t. He got frustrated and we argued. An hour later, he called me and we laughed about it.’

  ‘Did the stones ever surface?’

  ‘No. After Joe died, I waited for them to come on the market. They never did.’

  ‘Would you have recognised them?’

  ‘As a package yes, the individual stones, no. There are other signs.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Provenance.’ Yannis saw the blank look on my face. ‘The seller and the documentation he provides. If he has none…’ He let me finish the thought.

  A light went on in my head. I’d been coming at it from the wrong angle. In a case with so many unanswerable questions it might still be possible to discover who had fenced the diamonds. ‘If they didn’t pass through the usual routes, what would happen to them?’

  He smiled at my lack of knowledge. ‘A parcel like this would be blood in the water, attracting sharks from many places.’

  ‘Who else did Joe work with besides you?’

  ‘Over the years, many people, too many to remember. Always ones he’d done business with before. No, to find the truth you will have to go in another direction.’

  Yannis looked me in the eye and I knew what Joe Franks had known: the Greek was a straight-shooter. I said, ‘Did Joe seem different to you?’

  ‘Yes. Towards the end he became quiet. His marriage was in trouble so I assumed that was the reason.’

  ‘Did you ever meet his wife?’

  ‘Once. In Chania. She came with him on a trip.’

  ‘What did you think of her?’

  He scratched the beard. ‘A fine-looking woman. Apart from that I don’t remember much about her.’

  There was no more to say. At the door, the Greek shook my hand in an iron grip. ‘Let me know what you find.’

  ‘I will. I promise, I will.’

  He seemed satisfied. ‘Your friend Patrick is another good man. Very smart. I envy him. Where does he find the time to read so many books?’

  I could’ve told him. It was better he didn’t know.

  Apart from losing a good friend, the rift with Andrew was a blow. Often in the past he’d used his connections to help me with a case. The deal was straightforward: I pretended to listen to him grumble about misuse of police resources and said nothing when he barked his usual q
uestion, “Do you imagine I’m working for you, Charlie?” and he’d be back a couple of days later with the information. Understanding the official thinking on where Joe Franks’ diamonds had gone would’ve been useful. Too bad that option didn’t exist any more.

  Diane Kennedy was the next best thing. The last time I’d seen her she’d been distraught, breaking her heart, sobbing on my shoulder over Dennis Boyd. I’d expected her to blame me; she hadn’t. Her conviction that her old lover was being set up again to take the fall for something he didn’t do was so strong my involvement was overlooked and earned me a pass – a more generous assessment of my efforts than my own.

  When I called, she sounded relaxed. ‘We’re at home all day.’

  Domestic harmony? Or maybe she was warning me Ritchie was there and to be careful about what I said.

  Diane opened the door, radiant in beige trousers and a scarlet blouse tied at the front, though the lines on her face told the real story of what she was going through. I followed her into the lounge. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Kennedy glanced up, expressionless. She sat beside him on the couch. ‘I’m surprised to hear from you again so soon. With Dennis in prison I thought that would be the end of it for you.’

  ‘That’s not my case. You hired me to look into Joe’s death, remember? That’s what I’m doing. What happened to his diamonds?’

  Kennedy answered for her. ‘They were never found.’

  I ignored him and put my next question to his wife. ‘Apart from losing your husband, no insurance meant you lost out on a small fortune. Did the police speculate on where the stones may have gone? There must have been follow-up?’

  The surprise she’d admitted a moment earlier played on her face. ‘None that I know of. They thought Dennis had stashed them before they arrested him. I assumed the killer laid them off to a fence.’

  ‘You mean the real killer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they spoke to you about them.’