Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

  He smiled. Almost. ‘Wonderfully ornate tombs in there. Mini-architecture, really. Lovely sentiments on some of the headstones.’

  Where McMillan was, the cemetery might offer him something. I nodded as if I understood, glad I hadn’t a clue.

  ‘When we were talking about the Coopers one of the inscriptions struck me as particularly poignant. “Save your tears for the living”.

  ‘Appropriate.’

  ‘Isn’t it.’

  We shook hands. McMillan seemed reluctant to leave. ‘Look Charlie, I haven’t been completely honest with you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Gavin Law. I didn’t much take to him. He was…let’s say he wasn’t like you.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s a compliment.’

  He pulled on his gloves. ‘Clumsy, but yes it is.’

  ‘Caroline thinks the sun shone out of him. From what I’ve gathered a few people wouldn’t agree.’

  ‘Maybe so. Maybe so.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘Look, you stopped when you saw me at the Necropolis. I appreciate it. And for suggesting lunch. I feel better about things. Let me return the favour. Next week. Be an excuse to cook a proper meal. Not Glasgow. You come to me in Peebles.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  McMillan walked away and the sad poetic inscription he liked so much came into my head. “Save your tears for the living.” I’d promised to let David Cooper know if I found anything to give him hope. It didn’t look like I’d be making that call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  James Hambley stood at the window on the seventh floor of Francis Fallon with his hands behind his back and gazed out across Great Western Road. A cold sun shone in a clear sky.

  The hearing had gone exactly as he’d wanted. At first, McMillan responded calmly to the questions put to him; he seemed relaxed. But when asked about his wife the veneer fell away. His voice became quiet and Hambley had strained to hear the words. Listening to him relive the night he’d found her was difficult; watching him fight to keep control of himself made everyone in the room uncomfortable. McMillan’s hands trembled and he was forced to pause mid-sentence more than once. The trauma of that terrible discovery was still with him physically. Before their eyes the colour drained from his face and he became pale and thin; the camel coat he was wearing might have belonged to someone else. By the end he’d looked defeated.

  Surprisingly, with his professional future on the line, he’d chosen to appear without legal or union representation, flatly rejecting the accusation against him. His denial was convincing. Unfortunately for him, not nearly as convincing as the testimony of Eddie Connelly; the anaesthetist he had foolishly confessed his state of mind to. Connolly was neither an enemy nor a friend, just someone who happened to be there when he broke. His recollection of events was unclouded. Both men were scrubbing-up when McMillan suddenly became distraught. He’d put his head in his hands and started to cry, saying he couldn’t go on. According to Connelly, he apologised almost immediately and pulled himself together.

  But it was after they left the operating theatre that the real bombshell hit. McMillan apologised a second time, adding he didn’t know how he was going to survive without his wife.

  ‘I’m at the end, Eddie. I’m suicidal. I don’t want to live anymore. Really I don’t.’

  There was no coming back from a statement like that.

  Hambley told a silent McMillan he would hear from the hospital in due course though nobody was in any doubt about the outcome.

  A bad day for Colin McMillan but a good one for Hambley and Maitland.

  With McMillan discredited and Law missing, Wallace Maitland’s decision to try to save Margaret Cooper’s womb would stay unchallenged. He was in the clear. Francis Fallon was in the clear.

  The knock on the door brought Hambley back into the present. Wallace Maitland smiled a weak smile and came in.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Depends, Wallace. If it’s your pathetic skin we’re talking about, it couldn’t be better though Colin McMillan and David Cooper might disagree.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Jimmy.’

  ‘Indeed I do. You’re asking if it’s alright for you to carry on putting the hospital and its patients in danger. And the answer is no it fucking-well isn’t!’

  Maitland blanched under the force of the attack and Hambley realised again that Martha’s brother-in-law was a coward.

  ‘You’re off the hook. At least until they find Law’s body. Credit where credit’s due, Wallace. You’re not good for much but killing people and hiding them seems to be a talent I wasn’t aware you had. Not very useful in the normal run of things, then again, as you demonstrated on Hogmanay, you can never be certain when it’s going to come in handy. No idea how you pulled it off. Or how long you’ll get away with it.’

  ‘Please don’t joke. That isn’t what happened.’

  Hambley walked to his desk and sat down, enjoying Maitland’s anxiety. Let the bugger stew; he deserved it. ‘Isn’t it? Sure about that, are you?’

  ‘It isn’t funny and I haven’t.’

  ‘See me laughing, do you?’

  Maitland ran a hand through his thinning hair. Uncertainty had aged him. ‘I still can’t remember a bloody thing. But have a heart. Do you seriously believe I’m capable of murder?’

  Hambley shot him a look. ‘Perhaps Margaret Cooper’s husband is better placed to answer that.’

  ‘Oh, come on. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. I was unlucky.’

  Maitland was a self-absorbed child. Even now his concern was for himself. They both knew his mistake had left Mrs Cooper as close to a vegetable as made no difference.

  ‘Unlucky? You really are a despicable bastard. You make me want to be sick.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

  ‘Yes it is. Your only concern is how this is going to affect old Wallace. Everything and everyone else comes second.’

  ‘I’m concerned. Of course I’m concerned. Who wouldn’t be? But you’ve got your own motives. Francis Fucking Fallon! First, last and always!’

  Maitland was shouting. Somebody would hear. It was time to get him out of the office. Hambley held up his hands to quiet the bloody idiot down. ‘Listen. And let’s not bullshit each other. Today went well for us. Without Law’s testimony, the Coopers don’t have a case against you or the hospital. McMillan isn’t a threat. Nobody will be interested in anything he has to say. He’s history. That leaves you.’

  ‘Tell me what you want me to do, Jimmy. Tell me.’

  ‘As far as the world is concerned, you’ve done nothing wrong. We’re two doctors down. We need you on the list.’

  Maitland nodded like a faithful dog. Hambley pointed a warning finger at him.

  ‘But I meant what I said about the drinking.’

  ‘I know. I’ve cut it way back.’

  ‘Good. Now, fuck off.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The ten o’clock mass on Saturday was a celebration of Tony Daly’s life – according to Father Scanlon. Those who’d known him could have told the clergyman it was a life of few pleasures, most of them from a bottle.

  Daly had been a season ticket holder at Parkhead and in the packed congregation, half a dozen Celtic players mingled with the less famous. Glasgow City Council was well-represented. Seventy-five of the seventy-nine elected members were there, even if one of them was in a box. And on Clyde Street, outside St Andrew’s church, hundreds of ordinary people gathered to silently pay their respects.

  All things considered, not a bad turnout for a nobody.

  Two rows from the front, Lachie Thompson had listened to trite anecdotes about how happy and fulfilled Daly had been and wondered who they were talking about. If you believed the waffle coming from the pulpit, Tony was a quiet modest man, devoted to his family. His selfless work on behalf of the community was talked up. No mention of the reprimand for over-charging his expenses, the two drink driving convictions that had cost him his license, or
the years of alcoholism.

  When he’d fallen from the Queen Margaret Bridge with the rope round his neck, he was intoxicated and, therefore, not able to judge his actions. A strange piece of good fortune. Mortal sin was avoided. Tony could have his big send-off.

  Thompson was invited to give a eulogy but declined. Rutherford took his place and spoke movingly about the colleague and the friend.

  Lachie Thompson wanted to be sick.

  The priest circled the coffin, sprinkling holy water and incense that caught in Thompson’s throat. Finally, the procession left to The Fields of Athenry – a favourite Tony had drunkenly belted out from his seat in the Lisbon Lions stand in better times.

  At Lambhill cemetery, the sky opened and they finished what an East End gangster had started in the rain. At the head of the grave, under a black umbrella, Father Scanlon read from a bible in a flat monotone, lost in the open air, as the casket was lowered into the ground. Solemn faces watched it disappear, wanting it to be over so they could get out of the miserable day.

  ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.’

  Throughout the service, Daly’s sister had quietly sobbed. Now the realisation she would never see her brother again overwhelmed her and she broke down, wailing uncontrollably. Sandy Rutherford offered a comforting arm. Her fingers dug into him, drawing strength, unaware of the part he had played in Tony’s death.

  When it was over, mourners hurried to their cars. Sandy Rutherford held back to console the pitiful figure of Cissie Daly, shaking her hand and whispering empty words.

  Lachie Thompson walked on. He didn’t have the stomach to face her. Rutherford ran to catch up with him. Since their last meeting in Baby Grand, the two men hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Lachie! Wait! When?’

  ‘Ten days. The next meeting of the full council.’

  ‘Are we sure it’ll go through, Sean wants to know?’

  ‘So it’s Sean now, is it?’

  Rutherford didn’t respond. ‘He wants to know, Lachie. Have we got the numbers?’

  Thompson pointed over his shoulder to two grave-diggers shovelling muddy earth into the hole in the ground. ‘For our sakes we better have.’

  Rutherford nodded; he understood. ‘Nice service, wasn’t it?’

  Thompson spat his disgust. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? It was awful. Really awful. The priest might believe it was a celebration of Tony’s life, but – in case you haven’t noticed – he’s still fucking dead.’

  -------

  A bunch of flowers in a vase at the end of the bar told me Andrew Geddes had taken my advice and made peace with Jackie. It would’ve been good to have been a fly on the wall to hear the brusque detective throw himself on her mercy, though whatever he’d said had worked because he was at a table, reading the Herald and dunking a bagel into a cup of coffee, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  I knew that wasn’t true.

  Today was the first I’d seen of Jackie Mallon since Saturday night and whatever reception I expected, I didn’t get it. She gave me a tight smile that said I wasn’t her favourite person and went back to doing what she was doing, leaving the distinct impression she somehow held me responsible for Geddes’ behaviour. I’d saved the situation but maybe in her eyes that meant guilt by association.

  Andrew’s greeting was reserved and his colour was better, improved from the angst-ridden wreck throwing-up in my bathroom. It took a minute to realise it was an act; he was pretending to be okay when, in fact, he was far from it.

  I started brightly; brightly and naïve. This was Geddes. On a good day with him the glass was half-empty.

  ‘So you and Jackie are all right, then?

  He sifted through the newspaper with trembling fingers and spoke out of the corner of his mouth without so much as a glance in my direction.

  ‘Joking, aren’t you? She’s a woman. Once you step out of line it isn’t all right ever again with them. If you’d kept your nose out and let her get me arrested I’d be barred and better off for it.’

  ‘You don’t want that. This is your second home.’

  ‘Was, Charlie. Was my second home. I’ll be on probation for the rest of my life in here. Grovelling doesn’t suit me. I was drunk. It happens.’

  Andrew was re-writing history with him as the victim.

  ‘Well, you were out of order. I mean, really bad. Can’t expect relationships to go back to normal right away; it takes time.’

  Geddes looked uncomfortable and I soon understood why.

  ‘Jackie told me what I said to you. I’m sorry I was really messed up.’

  ‘We’re good. What about DI Barr?’

  ‘I’m still thinking of resigning. Haven’t ruled it out.’

  Self-pity was running riot. I nipped it in the bud. ‘Yeah, you have. I’m going to Cissie Daly’s house as soon as Pat Logue arrives.’

  Geddes’ expression hardened. He spoke with the authority of someone used to being heard and became DS Geddes, the scourge of Glasgow’s criminal classes. ‘You know how I feel about that guy.’

  I wasn’t listening. In my flat the previous day we’d agreed two things. First, I’d go where the policeman couldn’t and investigate Anthony Daly’s death. Second, I’d do it my own way.

  ‘How you feel is noted, Andrew, now let me get on without jumping in, eh?’

  ‘He’s a scallywag. Kick his granny if the price was right. Don’t trust him.’

  ‘But I do and that’s what matters. Or we can forget it. Up to you.’

  DI Barr was in a different league to Pat Logue when it came to which of them Andrew disliked most. Patrick was a petty crook whose time would come; Barr was trashing everything DS Geddes believed in. He turned the focus back to the case in hand and put aside his reservations.

  ‘Sure you’ve got a hold on this? As it stands it’s an awful lot of nothing. Beginning to agree with Barr.’

  ‘Don’t do that. To be able to discount suicide we need to discover why somebody would want Tony Daly dead. Maybe his sister can tell us.’

  Geddes sighed. ‘Good luck with that.’

  At a minute to eleven, Pat Logue strolled into NYB and sat on “his” stool at the bar. He’d ordered a pint before I could stop him. Patrick had a golden rule that allowed him to justify his excessive habit: he never drank on Sunday night. In all the years I’d known him – with a few exceptions – he’d stuck to it. The spring in his step and the light in his eyes told me the golden rule was alive and well; he seemed fresh.

  When he saw me, he smiled. ‘Charlie, how’s your luck?’

  I ignored his bonhomie. Some of Andrew’s negativity had rubbed off. ‘Before you get started, we’ve got a job.’

  ‘An earner on a Monday mornin’. Lead me to it.’

  ‘Leave the lager. It’ll be here for you when you come back.’

  Pat Logue wouldn’t be rushed. ‘Edge-up, Charlie. Got to start the day right.’

  ‘Five minutes, then.’

  ‘Takes five minutes when I’m in the mood to taste it. Hold on.’

  The pint disappeared and we were out the door. Patrick fell into step beside me. We headed for High Street and my car with him hurrying to keep up.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘You’re very up-beat. Take it your problem has resolved.’

  ‘Absolutely. All systems go. Know what I’m talkin’?’

  Glasgow was under a post-festive cloud that would last until Easter eggs appeared in the shops. By now, credit card statements carrying depressing news had arrived and jolted the Christmas over-spenders back to reality. Most people fitted that category. Pat Logue’s eagerness to help his ailing finances was a shared wish.

  On Maryhill Road, I gave him the background: the body on the bridge; Cissie Daly, the weekend in Rome and DS Geddes’ frustration that brownie points had replaced a real investigation.

  Patrick looked out of the window and listened. When he spoke his first consideration m
irrored Andrew’s. ‘And your pal’s okay with me stickin’ my nose in, is he?’

  I told him the truth. ‘Okay isn’t exactly how I’d describe it, but he hasn’t a choice. We work together. If he wants me he gets you. But remember, his career could be on the line so he expects absolute discretion, naturally. That has to be a given.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘Let me understand. This DI Barr wants to shut the case down and move on. Your pal…’

  ‘He’s got a name, Patrick. Could you stretch a point and give it to him?’

  We reached the outskirts of Bishopbriggs before he replied. The animosity wasn’t all on Andrew Geddes’ side. Pat Logue had every reason to be wary of the DS whose sworn intention was to catch him with a load of knitwear that had never seen the inside of a shop.

  ‘…Andrew isn’t satisfied and you’ve agreed to investigate on his behalf. That about it?’

  ‘That’s exactly it.’

  ‘Then, in a roundabout way, we’re helpin’ the police with their enquiries.’

  ‘Yeah. You could say.’

  He bit his lip. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. If this gets out…’

  Pat Logue lived in a universe beyond my understanding, a place where people were measured by a different standard. It hadn’t occurred to me it would be a problem for him. In the passenger seat he’d gone quiet, perhaps reflecting on the impact to his reputation of collaborating with the other side. I glanced across the car.

  ‘You okay?’

  He took his time answering. ‘Tell you this, Charlie, and I’ll tell you no more. Don’t go him myself but he’s lucky to have you as a friend.’

  Silence was the best option. I took it.

  His next question surprised me and raised an issue I hadn’t thought of.

  ‘We don’t know what we’re gettin’ ourselves into. Could be dangerous. Will that be reflected in the pay? Just sayin’.’

  Patrick always had an eye on the money.

  ‘We can discuss it later.’

  ‘Later as in when? Hangin’ somebody is serious shit. This Daly could’ve been into anythin’. Then again, maybe there’s bugger all and your …Andrew… is over-reactin’.’