by Owen Mullen
‘And is there evidence to support another theory?’
‘Nothing on the bridge. No footprints. That could be because he went into space before it started to snow.’
‘All right. And the ligature?’
‘A simple slip-knot. Photographed and on its way to forensics.’
‘Then to assume he took his own life isn’t such a giant leap – if you pardon the pun. Or am I wrong?’
‘You’re not wrong.’
Barr snorted. ‘It was like a brewery. God only knows how much he had in him. And – one more cliché to add to the pile – they’ll claim he didn’t have an enemy in the world. Have I missed anything?’
He turned away. ‘Clean this up. Talk to whoever you need to and let’s get back to catching criminals. That is what we do, isn’t it?’
Geddes didn’t respond.
‘In a couple of days the PM will confirm the cause of death and we can start looking for a Johnnie Walker. Last seen in every bar in Scotland.’ He smiled a thin smile and pulled his coat around him. ‘Job’s hard enough, Geddes. Let’s not kick the arse out of it, eh? I’ll see you at the station.’
-------
The information on Anthony Daly came minutes after DI Barr left the scene: the deceased had been fifty-two years old, unmarried and shared a flat with his sister in Bishopbriggs.
DS Geddes waved a young female constable to follow him. ‘Come with me. I need you.’
They drove along a deserted Queen Margaret Drive – barred to traffic all the way to Maryhill Road – and turned left. The policewoman didn’t speak; overawed to be in the same universe as the detective responsible for catching Richard Hill, the most prolific serial killer Scotland had ever seen. Every copper in Glasgow – probably the country – knew his name. Such a high-profile collar should’ve earned him promotion. It hadn’t happened. The fresh-faced constable wanted to ask why. Word on the street said he was a first-rate officer who had a short fuse and didn’t suffer fools. She was about to find out if it was true.
Maryhill was busier than usual because of the diversion and Geddes wasn’t unhappy to have to wait. He wasn’t in a hurry. This part wasn’t nice: the reason DI Barr had landed him with it. He glanced at the constable in the passenger seat: twenty-five or twenty-six. Keen. Still believing she could make a difference. She’d learn.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Lawson, sir.’
‘Any idea where we’re going?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Take a guess.’
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, sir. No good at guessing.’
‘All right. The guy on the bridge, you saw him, didn’t you? Not pretty. Well, his name was Anthony Daly. And hard though it may be to believe, somebody loved him. We’ve got tell them they’re never going to see him again. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, apologies in advance for picking you. That said, before we knock on the door and ruin a stranger’s life let’s understand a couple of things. This is tough for everybody but, when it’s done, we’ll go home. Whoever opens that door will have to get on with it.’
Lawson bit her lip to stop herself from speaking.
‘We’re delivering bad news; we don’t get emotionally involved. It isn’t happening to us. Don’t forget it. Stay professional. Do the job. And if you feel you could do with a stiff drink, I’ll be at your elbow.’
‘Will you be buying, sir?’
In spite of the circumstances, Geddes smiled. ‘You’ll do, Lawson. You’ll do.’
-------
Sandy Rutherford wasn’t looking forward to the conversation he was about to have. Lachie Thompson had always gone his own way; how he would react to something like this was impossible to predict. Hanging Tony Daly in broad daylight was pure Jimmy. Very public. Very brutal. It had worked for the father and Rutherford had little doubt it would work for the son.
Thompson’s first words told him he’d heard the news. ‘That bastard. That murdering bastard.’
For a second Rutherford thought he was going to cry. ‘Who told you?’
‘It’s on the news. The early report said a jogger found the body of a man hanging from the Queen Margaret Bridge. The police have confirmed the identity. I’m going to see Cissie later, once the initial shock has passed. Christ knows what I’ll find to say to her.’
Rutherford gazed out of the window to where his car sat buried under snow. His head was filled with a lot of things; at that moment, sympathy for Tony Daly’s sister wasn’t top of the list. ‘We need to meet, Lachie. Sooner the better.’
‘Where?’
‘Same as last time. Charing Cross.’
Thompson tempered his regret about Daly and thought about Joan and Annie.
‘I’m leaving now,’ he said, and hung up.
-------
Baby Grand was deserted. Sandy Rutherford took a seat at the back, ordered a cappuccino and a roll and sausage with mustard, and waited for Lachie Thompson to arrive. Despite the part he’d played in Tony Daly’s death, Rutherford’s appetite was unaffected.
The drive from his home hadn’t been too bad. Getting onto the main road was a challenge; after that it was all right. At the far end of the bar, a television with the sound turned off played stock footage of the Queen Margaret Bridge, while a female wearing a scarf and gloves reported live from the scene; she looked cold. Over her shoulder two police vehicles blocked the road. In due course there would be a statement. Whatever they had to say didn’t interest Rutherford; he knew more about what had happened than they did.
The TV camera scanned the small silent crowd, shivering and stamping their feet to keep warm; male and female; some young some old. Drawn by a need to be close to where another human being had suffered. Ordinary faces hiding twisted imaginations the councillor would never understand.
Fucking ghouls.
The breakfast waitress seemed familiar: in her early twenties, slim and black and very good-looking. Her dark eyes, fixed on her task, gave nothing away. Was she happy or unhappy? It was impossible to know. Faces were masks. Rutherford’s proved it. Then he remembered. This was the girl who had asked if he’d wanted ice in his water and when he said no, brought it anyway. Today she’d forgotten the mustard.
He’d been right. Nobody listens.
Lachie Thompson hadn’t listened. The threat to his family didn’t dissuade him from believing he could go against Sean Rafferty and win. Fool. As usual, Tony had taken his side, driven by loyalty and Dutch courage. Thompson and Daly. Two for the price of one. Not anymore. Rutherford had called Tony Daly a sleeping partner.
He was certainly that now.
The door opened. Thompson came in, glanced up at the TV where a police officer was reading a prepared statement. The officer was young.
Lachie spoke to the empty bar. ‘Where do they find them, eh? Got ulcers older than him.’
Rutherford tried to read his expression, hoping he was ready to see sense. Otherwise…
The waitress arrived, ready to take Thompson’s order. He waved her away. Unlike Rutherford, he didn’t feel like eating. ‘Heard anything from Rafferty?’
‘Not so far. He’s made his move. The ball’s in our court. He’ll expect a reaction. We’ve got a decision to make, and we better make it quick.’
‘Part of me wants to go to the police and tell them.’
Rutherford took a bite out of his roll. Crumbs fell to the table; he brushed them on to the floor. ‘Tell them what, exactly?’
‘For a start, he threatened my family.’
‘Did he? “Sean says hello?” Doesn’t sound very threatening to me.’
‘Don’t get cute, Sandy. You know what was meant.’
‘I do, that’s right. But when you say it out loud there’s not a lot to it, is there? You’re a public figure. Could be just a friendly message from somebody who hasn’t seen you in a while. Plenty of guys called Sean in Glasgow.’
He leaned forward to make
his point.
‘Half the crowd at Celtic Park’s called Sean. Try proving which one it was.’
Thompson hit back. ‘If it’s proof you want drop into the city morgue. You’ll find it lying on a slab with a ticket on the toe.’
Rutherford wiped his mouth, drank some of the coffee and tried to take the heat out of the conversation. ‘What I’m getting at is this. When you boil it down, it doesn’t add up to much.’
‘It adds up to murder, isn’t that enough? Or was Tony just collateral damage?’
Rutherford’s reply pulled no punches. ‘No. Daly was an alki who hit his gutter and didn’t come back up. A sad end to a sad life.’
‘But they hanged him. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
Sandy Rutherford was unmoved. ‘Rather him than us. Or maybe you disagree, Lachie. Maybe you’d prefer to be the one swinging from that fucking bridge?’
‘What I’d prefer is to never have met the Raffertys.’
‘Except you did. We did. We took Jimmy’s money and thought we could control him. Well we couldn’t, and Sean’s his son. You may not believe me but I am sorry. Tony didn’t deserve to die like that. And neither do we. That’s what’ll happen unless we see reason.’
Watching Rutherford finish his breakfast, Thompson knew he was on his own. The fire in him went out. He sat back in his seat. Rutherford saw defeat in his eyes and pressed home the advantage.
‘Rafferty wants an answer from us. What’s it going to be? Are we in?’
Thompson suddenly felt old and tired; he nodded. He’d call Joan and get her to come back. In time, maybe, she’d understand and forgive him.
Rutherford was speaking. ‘Good. You know it makes sense.’
‘Does it, Sandy? Does any of it make sense to you?’
‘Absolutely. With a man like Sean Rafferty, it’s better to be part of the solution. Now we will be. I’ll let him know. How soon can we get it through the council?’
‘Soon.’
‘That’s what he needs to hear.’
Rutherford dropped money on the table and swirled the dregs in his cup. ‘A shame about, Tony. He was a poor soul but I liked him.’
He stood, ready to leave. Thompson didn’t move. ‘You’ve been on his side from the beginning, haven’t you, Sandy?’
‘Not from the beginning. We made a mistake, Lachie.’
Thompson snorted contempt at their naivety. ‘Just the one?’
‘When Jimmy died we assumed we were shot of the Raffertys. We aren’t shot of them and we never will be. I realised that on Hogmanay at the house. Best we can hope for is not to end up like Tony Daly, gagging on a rope. We don’t have to like it, Lachie, but at least we’re alive.’
-------
Cissie Daly’s pink dressing-gown might have fitted her once. Now it hung off her shoulders over cotton pyjamas which could have belonged to someone else. Her uncombed hair stood out at crazy angles like a 1980s punk rocker. Geddes saw the bloodshot eyes and the trembling fingers and guessed that when the dead man settled down for a drinking session at home he had company. Cissie knew it was bad news the moment she opened the door.
Geddes coughed into his hand. He’d done this duty many times. Despite the speech in the car, it never got easier. ‘Miss Daly?’
Cissie’s eyes darted from the stocky man in the raincoat to the young constable beside him.
‘Can we come in?’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
Geddes repeated the question. ‘Can we come in? It would be better.’
She led the way into the lounge. In the corner, on the television screen, a reporter was talking to camera. The ambulance had gone but the police cars were still there. On the floor, at the side of an armchair, a half-full glass sat next to a dark green bottle with a familiar orange label. The Benedictine connection.
Geddes cleared his throat. ‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid.’
No amount of training would make anyone good at this. There was no such thing as good. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you a man we believe to be your brother has been found dead.’
The woman folded her arms across her chest and rejected the statement. ‘Tony’s here. He’s in bed. You’ve made a mistake.’
Officer Lawson shot a glance at the DS. Surely they hadn’t got it wrong? Geddes remained calm; his expression didn’t alter. ‘Could I ask you to check?’
Cissie Daly’s certainty was unshakeable. ‘My brother’s in bed. Tony works hard. He doesn’t get up before twelve.’
‘I understand. Can we take a look? Which room is his?’
She pointed to the end of the hall. Without needing to be told, Lawson eased past her and went to the door. The constable opened it, looked inside and came back. Over Cissie Daly’s shoulder she shook her head at Geddes.
‘He isn’t there.’
Confusion and dread met on a face older than its years. ‘Of course he is. What’re you talking about?’
‘Your brother isn’t there. I’m sorry.’
Cissie moaned, staggered and almost collapsed. Stick-thin fingers tore at her hair. Officer Lawson guided her to the couch. Geddes stood in the middle of the room, powerless. The young constable put her arms round the woman and nodded to the DS. ‘Put the kettle on.’
This time she didn’t say, “sir.”
Geddes did as he was told. When he returned with strong sweet tea, Cissie was curled in on herself, sobbing. He handed the cup to his young colleague and sat down. Lawson held it to Cissie Daly’s lips. ‘Take this. It’ll help.’
She took a sip, then another encouraged by the policewoman. Like a child at bedtime she said, ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’
Lawson’s offer to go with her was refused.
‘I’ll be all right.’
When she was out of the room, Geddes lifted the Buckfast bottle and the glass and handed them to his constable. In the ambulance at the Queen Margaret Bridge, the smell of whisky had been over-powering. Here it was the sickly-sweet aroma of fortified spirits.
‘Don’t call it a family illness for nothing. Stop her having any more. Tastes like bloody cough medicine. How anybody can stomach it – especially first thing in the morning – is beyond me.’
‘It’s cheap.’
‘Would need to be.’
Lawson had taken what the DS said in the car to heart. She’d been professional and kept her emotions in control. For a moment they got the better of her. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’
Geddes reply proved his reputation as a hard-arse was well deserved. ‘It’s life. Get used to it. You’ll see a lot more of the same before you’re finished. Told you. It’s tough, but it isn’t happening to you.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Geddes softened. ‘You’re doing fine. Stay with her. We’ll pick you up when she’s ready to identify the body and make a statement. Won’t want to. There’s no way round it. And she shouldn’t be alone. Not tonight. Find somebody – a neighbour – who can come round.’
Walking down the path, Geddes could hear the TV drone: a terrible reminder of how quickly circumstances changed. Minutes ago, Cissie Daly had been drinking wine and watching somebody else’s tragedy. Suddenly that tragedy was hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Another day gone and not a word. The investigator had promised to let him know as soon as there was anything to report. David Cooper had wanted to believe him, but deep down he knew there would be no news. Law was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
David closed the blinds, made himself a cup of tea and drank it in front of the television. With the carer’s help he’d put Margaret to bed at four; with luck she’d sleep ’till morning. His choice of phrase amused him and he laughed a bitter laugh. Luck wasn’t something they’d had any of recently. It wasn’t luck Margaret hadn’t died – he’d thought so at the time. He was wrong – it would have been better if she had. Better for them both, though he hated himself for even thinking it. There was nothing fortunate about the lingering half-life they wer
e living.
New Year’s Eve had been especially difficult. Usually, they’d have a party to go to with Margaret wearing a new dress, looking wonderful. They’d make sure they were together at midnight – not just a tradition, a symbol of their love – but like everything else, a memory better put behind him. There would be no more parties for the Coopers.
The last months had been hell and the nightmare played on. Some mornings, when he opened his eyes, the awfulness of it hit him and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to cope. Letting Margaret down terrified him most of all. Law offering to testify had given him a glimmer of hope, something to cling to in the darkest hours, but it was slipping away. The obstetrician had forgotten them. The whole world had forgotten them and David Cooper resented it.
The hoped-for improvement in Margaret’s condition hadn’t materialised, and though her husband continued to pray it would, lying to himself had become harder. David wasn’t interested in money, only in what it could do for his wife. With the settlement they would have been able to afford the best care available. Margaret might have recovered – not fully perhaps, he accepted that – but enough for them to enjoy life again.
He swapped the tea for whisky and switched between TV channels – a man had hanged himself. Cooper envied him – then he went to the window and peered between the slats of the blind at the street outside. When he’d brought Margaret from the hospital, a few neighbours made it known they were willing to help in any way they could. Two or three had popped in to visit and David saw the horror on their faces as the women realised what Margaret had become.
One visit was enough, they didn’t come back, and he didn’t blame them.
He poured himself another drink, nursing it and the growing anger inside him as he remembered how the pompous director at Francis Fallon had washed his hands of them. And Wallace Maitland, the obstetrician who’d botched the operation, had hardly looked the road they were on.
David Cooper detested them all. And how could Law tell them not to worry because he was on their side then disappear? What kind of man would do that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
