Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

  CHAPTER THREE

  9.30. Hogmanay

  West End of Glasgow

  Gavin Law felt better. Two stiff whiskies helped. He stepped out of the shower and padded through to the lounge, without bothering to cover himself. No need, he was the only one there. He poured another drink and imagined himself at the party with Caroline giving him a dressing-down for being drunk and embarrassing her in front of her friends. She needn’t worry. It wouldn’t happen – he wasn’t going. A pity, because he had invited a nurse called Alile, a twenty-eight-year-old stunner from Malawi, who wouldn’t be out of place in the Miss World contest. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood.

  Unusual for him.

  He fished out his mobile and punched in her number. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Alile. It’s Gavin. Hate to cancel at the last minute. No luck, I’ve come down with something. Just came on this afternoon. I’ll call you in a few days.’

  He doubted she would be bothered one way or the other. When you were as good-looking as her, men were like corporation buses; there would be another one along in a minute.

  The next call, to his sister, connected him to Caroline’s recorded voice, asking him to leave a message. Everybody was busy.

  ‘Sorry sis. Going to pass on the bells. Too tired. Speak to you tomorrow. Have a good one.’

  That would go down like a lead balloon. Caroline was obsessed with what other people thought and would have mentioned he was coming. When he didn’t show, people would talk. Tough titty. Her brother couldn’t give a monkey’s. Life really was too short.

  But Hambley had rattled him, and the reaction since the complaint had gone way beyond anything he had expected. Colleagues Law worked alongside and shared coffee with closed ranks and snubbed him, as if he had something to be ashamed of. Nurses fell silent when he came into the room. Suddenly, he was on the outside looking in.

  Nobody got it.

  Nobody, except McMillan.

  Law made his third telephone call in a row and listened to it ring out.

  Colin McMillan had been through a rough time. His fifteen-year marriage had ended in tragedy. His wife moved out of the family home in Bearsden into a bedsit in Shawlands. Two months later, he found her dead; she had hanged herself. On his first day back, McMillan wrote his own letter, complaining about Wallace Maitland’s incompetence, and delivered it by hand to the seventh floor. Twenty-four hours later, an un-named member of staff claimed he had confessed to being suicidal. McMillan denied saying anything of the kind, but his personal circumstances played against him. He was suspended, his name removed from the operating list and he was told he would be advised about the date of the inquiry in due course. It hardly mattered because whatever the finding, his reputation was in rags. He was finished.

  The two surgeons weren’t friends; in fact, they didn’t get on. But together they had blown the whistle and one of them – McMillan – had paid the price.

  A weary voice answered. Law didn’t introduce himself. ‘Those bastards! Those bastards!’

  ‘…Law? What’s wrong?’

  ‘They did it to you. Now they’re trying it with me. I could go to prison.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘An allegation’s been made about me.’

  ‘An allegation of what?’

  ‘Rape.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line before McMillan whispered ‘Christ.’

  ‘It never happened.’

  ‘…Of course not. Of course it didn’t.’

  Law heard uncertainty in the other man’s voice, and forced insistence into his own.

  ‘Colin. It never happened. They were afraid I’d testify for the Coopers and want to discredit me.’

  ‘And will you testify?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘You must be feeling like shit.’

  ‘Yeah. My sister’s invited me to her place but I can’t face it. I’m not going.’

  ‘No, you should. Tomorrow, call Hambley and withdraw your complaint.’

  ‘Too late for that. The notification’s already been sent.’

  ‘Then start looking for a new job.’

  ‘Done that. Got an interview at St Joseph’s Hospital Health Centre in Syracuse.’

  ‘Great reputation for obstetrics. When?’

  ‘Fourth of January. Flying over on the second.’

  ‘If they offer it to you, take it. Forget you ever heard of Francis Fallon.’

  ‘And what about the Coopers? What about that poor woman? Should I just forget about her?’

  McMillan was pragmatic. ‘Only fight the battles you can win.’

  ‘But without somebody to say what exactly went wrong, the hospital might never settle, or if they do, it’ll take years.’

  The surgeon’s opinion didn’t alter. ‘Do yourself a favour. Make peace with the hospital and the rape thing will go away. It’s over; they’ve won. Accept it. I have.’

  Law stood in the middle of the room, feeling the slow burn of the alcohol at the back of his throat. McMillan hadn’t any doubts about what he ought to do. Don’t be their enemy, he’d said, and who would know better? Going up against them had cost him his career. Law didn’t have to make the same mistake. At the end of the day, Wallace Maitland wasn’t his problem. If the hospital was happy with a surgeon who was likely to kill as many patients as he helped, it was no business of his. He’d been a damned fool to get involved. It was time to get uninvolved. Tomorrow, he would call Hambley and withdraw his statement. After that – do his homework for the American post, polish his answers on the plane, and shine at the interview. The allegation would evaporate, and by spring, he’d be thousands of miles away from Glasgow and Francis Fallon, and fuck the lot of them.

  He’d told his sister about his concerns with Maitland; something he regretted now. Caroline had been horrified and urged him to do the right thing. Predictable. She saw things in black and white; his personal life was an example. Everything would be better if only he found a nice girl and settled down. No need to get married, not these days, she accepted that, but having someone you could depend on made a difference. Tied to one woman, when there were so many, wasn’t for him. Hospitals were full of them, walking around in those prim uniforms and cute hats. Every man’s fantasy. Not something you got used to, and maybe, subconsciously, the reason he had been drawn to medicine. It certainly wasn’t a disincentive.

  He pulled on a black polo neck and smiled a whisky smile at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. All right, considering. Tall, dark, and not especially handsome. Though it hadn’t held him back.

  Caroline enjoyed introducing him as “my brother, Doctor Law”. “Mr” would’ve been more appropriate but then whoever she was trying to impress might not get it. Law didn’t mind. “Doctor” was the magic leg-spreader.

  When he met a female who interested him he usually let a couple of minutes go by before admitting that, actually, he wasn’t just a doctor – he was a surgeon. To a bored housewife, with her very own Dean and a few too many drinks in her, that was exciting. Or a dissatisfied spouse. Plenty of those, thank God. The married ones were the best because they knew what they wanted and weren’t slow to go after it.

  No strings. No romantic nonsense with them.

  Of course, if they forgot the rules, it could get messy.

  He spoke to the empty room, imitating his sister’s nasal Kelvin side accent.

  ‘This is my brother, Doctor Law. Yes, a doctor. We’re all very proud of him.’

  Three cheers for Caroline. The party was starting to seem like a good idea. Then the mellow buzz faded, the whisky soured in his stomach and he collapsed into an armchair with his hands over his face.

  Rape, for Christ’s sake.

  On the telephone with McMillan, he’d sworn the accusation was bogus; the tr
uth was, he wasn’t sure. There had been so many. The perks of the job. And somebody at Francis Fallon – probably Hambley – had made it their business to get hold of one of them.

  Law tried to think. A relationship with a woman in cardiology had run its course and finished in tears. Whenever their paths crossed, she made a point of ignoring him. More recently, there had been a one-night stand with a midwife he’d met in a pub near the hospital. June? Jan? Geraldine? He couldn’t remember the name. If he was being honest, the sister from the fourth floor could be a contender. He hadn’t felt good about doing her – too much booze. Drunk females were better avoided, however tempting. No telling how they would react the next morning. Or maybe the blonde gynae nurse with the tight little arse; she’d put up a fight in this very room, though in the end, she’d been well into it. And come back for seconds, as he recalled. Not her. So who?

  Law poured another drink. Winding up like Colin McMillan wasn’t an option. He would definitely call Hambley. Let some other mug take them on if they liked; it wouldn’t be him.

  The phone rang. Caroline’s opening line lacked festive cheer.

  ‘What do you mean you’re giving it a miss? You can’t. I want you here.’

  Law held the receiver away from his mouth and sighed. He didn’t need this. ‘Yeah, sis, I know. Gutted about it. Really am. But I’m not fit.’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s Dean, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing to do with Dean, or anybody else. I can hardly keep my eyes open. And the day after tomorrow I’m off to the US. The interview. I told you about it, remember?’

  She wouldn’t be soft-soaped. ‘That’s ages away. You can easily come here.’

  ‘I’m shattered, Caroline. Give me a break.’

  ‘I’m the only family you’ve got, Gavin.’

  Law felt his patience slipping; his hand tightened around the telephone. Of course, she couldn’t know what had happened in Hambley’s office and assumed ducking out of the party was about her.

  ‘The one night. The one and only night of the year. People travel from all over the world just to be together. But not us. Not the Laws. You’re twenty minutes away, yet you can’t make it. And after I’ve gone to so much trouble.’

  ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through today, Caroline. Sorry to disappoint but, hand on heart, it isn’t about you.’

  ‘You don’t like my friends. You’ll do anything to avoid them.’

  Law couldn’t hold on to himself any longer. ‘Since you mention it, yeah, your friends are a bunch of tossers. But that’s got nothing to do…’

  ‘They’re nice people. A lot nicer than you.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  Rape, for Christ’s sake .

  Caroline went quiet at the end of the line. When she spoke, she was near to tears. ‘I blame myself. After Mum passed, I was worried how you would cope, so I spoiled you. You grew up selfish.’

  ‘I’m not being selfish. I’m wiped. Barely have the energy to drag myself to bed.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a shower and see if you feel any better.’

  ‘I’ve already had a shower.’

  His sister lost her temper. ‘Oh, give yourself a shake, please. What about the girl you wanted to bring – Alile, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Alile understands. I’m not coming, Caroline. I’m too tired.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be here all day tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t promise. I’ll see how it goes.’

  ‘What..? You’ll see how it goes? I’m your sister you pompous clown. And I’m trying to be nice to you. Have you any idea how up your own backside you are? No to tonight. Won’t promise tomorrow. Then you’re off to America the day after that. Aren’t you at all bothered about me? Is that the thanks I get?’

  Law threw the phone across the room. It landed on the sofa. Emotional blackmail was Caroline’s specialty; he’d had a lifetime of it. She had to be in control, didn’t she? For a moment, it occurred to him that maybe Dean hadn’t always been such a wuss. Living with Caroline would grind the spirit out of anybody. Law slumped onto the couch, depressed. He swallowed what was left of the amber drink, feeling its effect, unable to escape the black thoughts it had failed to banish.

  Rape, for Christ’s sake.

  All very well for McMillan to suggest he withdraw his complaint. What if it was too late? Hambley could then claim that once the process was in motion, it couldn’t be stopped. Where would that leave him? Law knew the answer – America wouldn’t be happening. No matter how much he impressed at the interview, any job offer would be dependent on satisfactory references. Something he hadn’t considered before he’d started rocking the boat. Obvious, when you thought about it. Stay or go, those fuckers at Francis Fallon had him where they wanted him.

  Law noticed he was holding an empty glass. He picked the bottle up by the neck, brought it beside him and carelessly splashed alcohol into the tumbler. Some of it spilled. He tried to think but wasn’t able to concentrate; his head swam. Who the hell was it? His gut still said the gynae blonde although, when he’d given her money for a taxi to take her home, she’d made a joke about payment for services and they’d laughed. She seemed fine at the hospital, too; whenever they passed each other, she smiled.

  So? Somebody else.

  The phone rang again. Law let it and poured himself another whisky; it would be Caroline. After a while, it stopped. He lay on the couch, closed his eyes and fell asleep. In his head, he could hear Colin McMillan telling him the same thing, over and over.

  Don’t be their enemy

  Don’t be their enemy

  Don’t be their enemy

  CHAPTER FOUR

  9.30. Hogmanay

  Bothwell. 9 miles from Glasgow

  Sean Rafferty spent most of his life on the phone, and even as the last few hours of the old year wound down, that didn’t change. On the desk, a photograph of his daughter sat in a gold frame. Rosie had only been days old when the picture was taken; pink and wizened like all new babies. Rafferty had lost hours gazing at it, appreciating how fortunate they’d been. Rosie was almost a year old now, born prematurely and still small. The East End gangster didn’t believe in God. Who to thank was already arranged.

  He balanced the receiver between his ear and shoulder while he jotted columns of figures on a pad and totalled them in his head. Listening. Liking what he was hearing. Against the far wall, a model of Riverside sat on a table. The project had been Sean’s idea and it was ambitious – a marina, casino, hotel, restaurant and retail development – the jewel in the crown of the Waterfront Regeneration plan. Two hundred projects on both sides of the river that would transform the Clyde. If it was approved, whatever benefits it brought to Glasgow, Riverside would help achieve two things for Sean Rafferty: cement his relationship with Emil Rocha, the foreign backer, and give Rafferty what he craved: respectability.

  The door opened. From the terrace, the low hum of the band playing nineties pop reached him and Kim’s beautiful face appeared in the frame. She didn’t come inside. This was her husband’s space; the rest of the house on the hill above the River Clyde was hers to do with as she wished.

  Rafferty hung up. ‘Are they here?’

  His wife hesitated. Sean was bad at bad news. ‘One of them is.’

  ‘Lachie Thompson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who?’

  ‘Rutherford.’

  ‘And he’s on his own?’

  Kim’s expression answered for her.

  Rafferty hid his anger with a tight smile. He’d met Kim in the Radisson Blu Hotel at the final of the Miss Scotland contest. A month later, he had taken her on holiday to Antigua, and during the second week, hand-in-hand on the beach beneath a crescent moon in a black sky, he’d proposed. Walking bare-foot over the still-warm sand that night, Rafferty had told the twenty-one-year-old history student he loved her.

  He didn’t. It was something he’d said because she needed to hear it. For him, it was unim
portant; he liked her. More than enough to build the life he had in mind. She’d stand at his side: a flawless symbol of the re-invention of Jimmy’s son as a respected member of the business community. Kim would be the mother of his children. And she would obey him in everything. Under the skin, Sean was not so very different from the father he’d feared or the brother he’d despised.

  He came to the door and slipped his arms around her waist. ‘You smell wonderful. What is it?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Nice. Did Rosie go down all right?’

  ‘Yes. Not a murmur out of her.’

  ‘I’ll go up in a minute.’

  ‘What about our guests?’

  ‘Fill them with drink. Free booze is the only reason they’re here, isn’t it?’

  Not the only reason. They were afraid to turn Sean Rafferty down. Except Lachie Thompson; he wasn’t afraid. The others had taken their courage from him and stayed away.

  Rafferty closed the study door and locked it. Upstairs, he tip-toed into the nursery where his daughter was asleep. Sean had barely had a father, let alone a nursery, when he was a baby. Growing up with Jimmy was a loveless experience he would never get over. Rosie wasn’t going to know anything like that. Her childhood would be very different; she would have everything money could buy from a man prepared to sacrifice his life to keep her safe.

  The pink covers lay crumpled at the bottom of the cot; she had already managed to kick them off. Rafferty gazed at the little face – totally and completely at peace – and the long blonde eyelashes she had inherited from her mother. He gently pulled the blankets back over her, and went down to greet his guests.

  -------

  Roland Kirkwood was at Sean Rafferty’s elbow, grinning at him through a sunbed tan and designer stubble. ‘Great party, Sean. Thanks for asking me.’

  He was wearing jeans and a white kaftan trimmed with blue. The guy was a dick. His girlfriend was the reason he’d been invited.

  ‘Where’s Marie?’

  ‘Over there.’