by Owen Mullen
‘What can I tell you? Imagine a guy who claps when the plane lands and you won’t be far away.’
‘That the best you can do?’
‘Likes to sit at the bar. Soon as he opens his mouth you’ll know it’s him.’
‘He’s well spoken?’
‘No, Charlie. You’re well spoken. He sounds as if he got his accent from eBay.’
The early evening crowd was made up of professional types, who preferred telling each other lies about how well they were doing to going home and guys who were picky about what they drank. In a corner, two men loudly argued politics next to a scruffy geezer wolfing down some kind of pie and scribbling on the back of a beer mat.
At twenty past seven, Wallace Maitland came through the door and took a stool at the bar. Patrick thought his voice would single him out. For me it was his walk: the purposeful stride of a man in no doubt about his place in the world. I pictured him marching along the corridors of Francis Fallon with a posse of eager young doctors trailing in his wake, hanging on his every word.
He was dressed as you’d expect someone making the money he was making to be dressed: charcoal grey three-piece suit, white shirt and a tie that had to be Armani. The obstetrician was tall, though the waistcoat straining against his belly told a tale of life choices not rooted in moderation.
He ordered in the deep plumy tones his parents had paid for by the term and Pat Logue found so objectionable. ‘A large Chivas and a half of lager.’
No “please.”
The woman serving put the drinks in front of him. He handed over a twenty-pound note and, if he thanked her, he must have whispered it. Maitland stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the gantry and sipped his Chivas. No one spoke to him, an arrangement his body language suggested he preferred.
I’d learned early to let other people squabble over the moral high-ground; some might have a legitimate claim. I hadn’t met them. In this business, non-judgement was the only game in town, and while knowing you were on the side of the angels was a good feeling, innocent or guilty was somebody else’s call.
Perhaps it was seeing what this guy had done to Margaret Cooper that changed my mind. Something had, because I disliked him before we’d even spoken. There was an air about him, a disdain that made me want to wipe the superior look off his face.
He was on his second double whisky when I slid onto the stool beside him and asked for another bottle of Brooklyn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him draw away. It couldn’t be the beer – who could disapprove of a beer brewed in the “Vienna” style – it had to be me.
I watched him in the mirror. Surely he should be taking his wife to dinner or playing with his grandkids? But he wasn’t. He was here. My previous attempt to speak to him had gone nowhere. In a public place it was harder to escape without causing a scene. The theory was about to be tested. At moments like this I envied Andrew Geddes his authority. If he wanted to interview someone it happened. This man could tell me to fuck off and there was nothing I could do. My best hope was the pressure he must be under.
I introduced myself and saw him tense. ‘Mr Maitland. I called the other day. You hung up on me. Charlie Cameron. I’m working for Gavin Law’s sister. As you’re aware, her brother has disappeared.’
His reply was what I expected. ‘Are you following me? You are, aren’t you? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I couldn’t care less.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe. Law intended to testify against you and the hospital. You’d be finished in medicine. Might even go to jail. Without him you’re in the clear.’
Over the years, I’d learned actions – in this, case reactions – were more revealing than words. Maitland had been caught off-guard. His eyes darted to the door and back to me. Close-up, his face was marked by broken veins and his posh voice rose an octave as he protested.
‘Ridiculous! You know nothing about it! Gavin Law was a womaniser who crossed the line and sexually assaulted a member of staff. He ran away rather than face the consequences of his actions.’
‘Did he? How convenient for you.’
Maitland’s sneer didn’t convince either of us. ‘Convenient or not, it’s the truth.’
Conversation in Blackfriars had stopped. Maitland pushed past and I followed him into the street.
‘You’ll have to talk to me sometime. Me or the police, Wallace.’
‘Fuck off!’
He ran towards Candleriggs as if the hounds of hell were chasing him. I let him go. Caroline Law’s brother was missing and I was no nearer uncovering where he was. But I’d learned something. Wallace Maitland was scared. As frightened as anyone I’d ever seen.
-------
DI Barr wasn’t in the habit of visiting his officers. When he wanted to see them, they came to him. The police, like the military, was founded on chain of command and Barr believed informality blurred the line. Today, he was making an exception.
His expression told the DS it wasn’t a social call. Geddes was making a list of people he would interview if he was allowed to conduct a proper investigation into Anthony Daly’s death. So far, it was a short list. Barr tossed a dark green folder on the desk – the PM report. Geddes pushed it away and kept writing. The DI swallowed his irritation and added the reaction to the catalogue of insubordination in his head. Unlike his DS, it was a long list.
Barr spoke as if he was making an important announcement. ‘Death by asphyxiation and venous congestion.’
Andrew Geddes didn’t lift his head.
‘Weather conditions make an accurate assessment difficult but the pathologist estimates death occurred between four and six hours prior to the body being discovered. So somewhere between twelve midnight and two a.m.’
Geddes put his pen down and turned a blank stare on the detective inspector. Barr flashed a smile closer to a grimace, determined to press his point. ‘I’ll give you the highlights, shall I?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll take your word for it. Sir.’
The senior man was incensed by the dumb insolence coming back at him. It wouldn’t be forgotten. He ran his finger down a page, stopping at a comment couched in language they would both understand.
“The ligature mark encircled the neck except for the area where the knot was located, resulting in a furrow in the tissue that had hardened and dried due to the abraded skin and corresponded to the material used; in this case, a rope.”
He glared at Geddes. ‘Need I go on?’
It would have been wiser for the detective sergeant to play the game. Barr hadn’t come to tell him what they already knew; he was looking for confrontation. Geddes recognised the signs and could have defused the situation if he’d wanted to. He didn’t.
‘We seem to be talking at cross purposes. None of what you’ve said surprises me. My question has always been how he managed it, given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. Said yourself he smelled like a brewery.’
DI Barr fought to keep his frustration in check. ‘He was drunk. Of course he was drunk. Nobody in their right mind would do what he did.’
‘Agreed. How did he get to the bridge?’
‘A taxi could’ve dropped him off somewhere close.’
‘With a length of rope underneath his arm? And nobody notices?’
DI Barr shook his head. ‘You know, Geddes, I feel sorry for you. It has to be complicated. Dirty work at the crossroads or you’re not happy. For Christ sake, the guy was out of it and decided to go for it. Maybe planning it for months but couldn’t find the courage.’
‘So he books a trip to Rome for him and his sister? I don’t buy it.’
‘At that moment, he was still sane. People swallow a handful of sleeping pills, go to bed and never wake up. During the day they take their kids to the zoo. A waitress at Pizza Express remembers them laughing and singing songs. From the outside, everything was fine. Everything was good. Except it wasn’t.’
‘Daly’s sister told us he had no worries. Her brother wasn’t depres
sed.’
Barr screwed up his face. ‘Oh, please. We both saw her. She isn’t sure what day of the week it is.’
‘Not true. And okay. He brings the rope with him and has it ready. In the state he was in, how did he tie it to the lamppost?’
The DI leaned on the desk and towered over Andrew Geddes. He’d had enough. ‘Listen. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s probably a fucking duck. You’re old-time gut instinct’s over-rated.’
‘Instinct doesn’t come into. I’m asking questions that need answers. The TOX will show he was incapable. Which means somebody else was there.’
Barr waved his arms in the air; almost shouting. ‘Let’s call it like it is, Geddes. This isn’t about some drunk doing himself in. You’ve resented me from day one. Don’t deny it.’
The DS forced himself to stay calm. ‘Again, not true.’
Barr thumped a fist on the desk, his face ashen with anger. ‘You’re setting yourself up to look like the dedicated detective railing against bureaucracy, while I’m the Uni pen-pusher, when in fact, you’d happily spend valuable police time and money on an obvious suicide instead of effective police work.’
Geddes sat back in his chair. ‘You’re right, I do resent you. But not for the reasons you think. My priority never changes. It was why I joined in the first place. I want to catch criminals. You’re more interested in staying within the budget and getting a pat on the head from the DCI. Well done, Adam. Good boy. Tick.’
Barr stepped back as if he’d been slapped and Geddes realised he’d gone too far. A difference of opinion was one thing, insulting a superior officer was something else. ‘I’m sorry. That was out of order. I shouldn’t have said it. Can we at least wait for the TOX?’
The DI ignored him. ‘We’re waiting fuck all. Anthony Daly took his own life on the Queen Margaret Bridge between the hours of midnight and two a.m. Case closed.’
He lifted the PM folder, started to leave, and changed his mind. ‘It seems you’re a man who likes questions. Well, here’s a question you’d better find the answer to pretty bloody quickly. Are you sure you’re cut out for this job? Just because you’ve been doing it since Christ left Dumbarton doesn’t mean shit. The world’s changing and, from what I’ve seen so far, you’re struggling to cope.’
He opened the door.
‘You’re a dinosaur, Geddes. And we don’t need a TOX report to tell us what happened to them, do we?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jackie Mallon’s voice was edged with concern. ‘Charlie? Sorry to call you at home. Need your help.’
‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. More than can be said for your mate.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Andrew.’
‘What about, Andrew?’
‘He’s drunk.’
‘How drunk?’
‘Drunk drunk. Fourteen out of ten on the Mankometer, as your other mate might say.’
‘Don’t let him drive. Take his keys off him. Get him a taxi.’
Jackie could come to those conclusions without me telling her. That wasn’t why she was calling. ‘It’s beyond that. He’s in the bar, giving everybody their character. I’m going to have to call the police. Last thing I want to do except we are trying to run a business. He’s a good customer and all that but…’
She left the rest unspoken. Getting arrested for being drunk and disorderly wasn’t going to do much for Andrew’s career. In the background I could hear a man yelling obscenities ‘That him?’
She sighed. ‘That’s him. And, pal or no pal, it can’t go on. How soon can you be here?’
‘I’m on my way.’
The drive through the city gave me time to think. Andrew hadn’t been himself lately. I’d been aware the job was getting him down though I hadn’t realised just how bad it had become. Geddes was a hard man to get close to; he only ever told you what he wanted you to know. Behind his gruff exterior was a grouchy bastard, waiting to get out, and he discouraged personal questions. I parked on Ingram Street and quickened my pace. Jackie could have called Sandra. Instead, she’d called me. Things must be bad.
And they were.
Andrew was standing in the middle of the bar and didn’t see me come in. It was Saturday night; the restaurant was fully booked. He mimed pulling an imaginary pin from an imaginary grenade and lobbing it into the diners.
‘Here! Share that amongst you!’
Jackie made a gesture with her hand across her throat that told me whatever goodwill Geddes had been travelling on, had been used up. Drunks could be an amusing distraction. By the look on the faces of the people in the bar, Andrew had stopped being funny.
I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and I knew Pat Logue’s Mankometer was going to need recalibrated. Manky didn’t cover it. Geddes could hardly see. His eyes narrowed, searching for focus. When he realised who it was, he threw his arms round me like a long lost brother.
‘Charlie! Charlie boy! What’re you drinking?’
He dredged change from a trouser pocket and gave it to me. Half a dozen coins landed on the floor and rolled in different directions. Andrew didn’t notice.
‘Get whatever that’ll buy you. And one for me while you’re at it.’
The money wasn’t enough for a packet of crisps let alone a round.
‘You don’t need any more. I’m taking you home.’
Not what he wanted to hear. In an instant his mood altered. He pushed me away, snarling and swaying unsteadily. ‘What the fuck’re you talking about? I’ll go when I’m good and ready to go and not before. Who do you think you are?’
‘Somebody who can see you’ve had enough.’
Andrew balled his fits. He wasn’t a violent man but he was in a bad place and spoiling for a fight. His coat hung awkwardly, half on half off, the tie he’d been wearing probably lying in a gutter somewhere.
White foam gathered at the corners of Andrew’s lips. He tried to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his coat and missed. His voice slurred, hoarse with unhappiness, speaking to everyone and no one; a mix of rage and tears, unrecognisable from the tough-as-old-boots Glasgow copper who’d seen it all and survived.
The story came out in a spittle spray. ‘Had enough? Tell you what I’ve had enough of – bastards telling me what to do. Sick of it. Sick!’
‘Andrew, listen…’
He grabbed hold of a chair to save himself joining the coins on the floor. Angry eyes blazed; he had me in his sights. Friendships die on nights like this.
‘Charlie. Charlie Cameron.’ He grinned ugly and introduced me to the crowd. ‘Charlie’s a clever cunt. Smart arse extraordinaire.’
The booze was doing the talking and it had plenty to say. Tomorrow Andrew would be sorry. Now he was cruel and unstoppable. His next shot tested the years we’d known each other.
‘Still looking for your sister, Charlie? Still looking for Pamela?’
It was time to end this. I moved towards him. He swung a punch that hadn’t a snowball’s chance of connecting but sent him off balance and knocked a table over. I caught him on his way down and hauled him upright.
Jackie was beside me. ‘I’ll send one of the waiters with you to get him home.’
‘No need. I’ll manage.’
‘Where are you parked?’
‘Outside.’
Jackie Mallon ignored me and with the help of two guys from NYB, we poured Andrew into the back seat, unconscious. On the drive to my place he slept. When we arrived in Cleveden Drive the fun began. Geddes was heavy. By myself it took twenty-five minutes to get him inside. At one point he tried to kiss me; for me, the worst thing he’d done all night. In the lounge I dropped him on the couch and sat listening to him snore, wondering what had inspired a blow-out this big.
I threw a quilt over him and went to bed. In the morning maybe he’d tell me what had inspired such craziness. When he’d lifted the first whisky, for sure, he didn’t have good times on
his mind.
Then again, it was Andrew – a guy who only told you what he wanted you to know.
I wouldn’t hold my breath.
-------
Noises from next door told me the barroom brawler was awake. The hiss of the kettle meant moves were being made. I could only guess at how Andrew was feeling and thanked God it wasn’t me. Sometime after nine, the noises stopped and I tip-toed through to see how he was doing.
He wasn’t in the lounge; he was in the bathroom. I knocked on the door. ‘Andrew, are you okay?’
His bad tempered response reassured me the real Geddes was back. ‘What do you think? No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m dying.’
Normal service had been resumed.
When he eventually made it back to the couch, I was waiting with coffee, water and Alka Seltzer. He’d aged about a hundred years: deep lines that hadn’t been there before ran from his mouth to the end of his chin, matched by the ones under the sunken hollows where his eyes used to be. He gazed at me like a lost soul, put his head in his hands and tried to make some sense of how he’d woken up on my couch in my flat.
‘Christ. Never been as bad as this.’
My lack of sympathy surprised him. ‘Serves you right. Lucky you’re not in the cells.’ That got his attention. ‘How much of last night do you remember? Honestly.’
He squinted at me, probably because looking hurt too much. ‘Started early in a pub in Finnieston. Stayed there most of the afternoon then moved on to the BrewDog.’
‘And after that?
‘Vroni’s.’
‘West Nile Street. Wine on top of whisky. Not wise. Then where?’
He dragged a hand across his face, pulling his features to one side as if they were made of Plasticine. When he let go they slowly reformed like a movie special effect and I was looking at Andrew’s grandfather again.
Geddes was prepared to let me believe Vroni’s was his final destination except I knew better. He didn’t add another name to the pub crawl until I asked again.
‘Then where did you go?’
