by Owen Mullen
I didn’t punch him, though it was a close run thing. Instead, I dug my fingers into his throat and watched his face turn the colour of cooked lobster.
It had gone off so fast Patrick hadn’t had time to move from his stool. Jackie lifted the telephone ready to dial. It wasn’t necessary. The words came from a bad place; I spat them out like orange pips. ‘Tell your boss I’m not going anywhere. If he wants to see me, I won’t be hard to find. Now fuck off.’
I let him go. Back at the ranch he’d have some explaining to do. Rafferty would pay by results and the thug might find himself suddenly out of the intimidation business.
Patrick kept his admiration on a tight leash. ‘This the new way you start your day? Impressive. And if that’s what you get for wantin’ to speak to you, bloody glad I didn’t ask for a sub. Who is he?’
‘Long story.’
‘The Clint Eastwood CD box set you got at Christmas got anythin’ to do with it? Seriously, who sent him?’
Jackie’s expression had blame written all over it. Telling Patrick Logue the biggest gangster in the city was back in my life wasn’t going to get a good reaction. She ignored me and went to her office under the stairs.
‘Our old pal, Sean Rafferty.’
‘You’re jokin’?’
‘Wish I was.’
‘How come I haven’t heard?’
‘As I said: long story.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, Charlie, the Raffertys tried to kill you.’
I didn’t need to be reminded.
‘Maybe this time they’ll have better luck. Told you before. Don’t mess with these bastards. They’re premier league bad guys. Do whatever it takes to get out of their way. Although, looks like that advice is too late.’
‘I didn’t plan it. Getting threats from killers isn’t me living the dream.’
He searched my face for answers he wasn’t going to find. ‘Hate to hear myself say this, but if you need any help…’
‘Don’t worry; you’ll be the first to know.’
-------
Jackie Mallon had never been happy with me in the office above NYB. I knew where she was coming from. She managed the place yet her office was a cubbyhole a fifth the size of mine. Alex Gilby’s promise I could have it as long as I wanted was solid. But in truth, however much a city centre address suited me, it wasn’t appropriate anymore. The business I was in attracted all kinds of people: the thug Sean Rafferty had sent was an example. After what had just gone on, Jackie had a case. It was time to acknowledge it.
She kept her eyes on the computer screen when I opened the door and a glance at her desk, covered in post-it notes and the walls lined with sheets of paper, was enough to convince the selfish part of me that would’ve held on to my gig upstairs.
I began with an apology. ‘Sorry about that. Shouldn’t have happened.’
‘We agree on something.’
‘Again, sorry.’
Her voice was low and steady, holding the anger and resentment in check. It wasn’t easy for her. The resentment was old; its roots were deep. ‘First the scene with Andrew Geddes. Now this. It’s not on, Charlie.’
Jackie was forgetting I’d helped her out with Andrew.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said it’s not on.’
‘Really? Correct me if I’ve got this wrong, but didn’t you call me when one of your customers got out of order? I also remember I wasn’t slow to help.’
She fired back. ‘My customer and your friend. I gave you a chance to stop him getting arrested for being drunk and disorderly, which was what he deserved. How does that entitle you to do what you like in here?’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘Then what about that little scene just now?’
Arguing wasn’t going to improve things.
‘You know what, Jackie, forget it. I’ll speak to, Alex.’
‘You do that.’
She lifted an envelope from her desk and passed it to me; it was sealed. My name was printed in blue Biro on the front.
‘When did this arrive?’
‘A kid delivered it last night.’
I turned the white rectangle over in my hand. ‘What did he look like?’
Jackie wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. ‘Like a kid delivering a letter.’
I stormed upstairs to the office at the heart of Jackie’s resentment, more angry at her than Sean Rafferty’s gorilla. Andrew Geddes out of his face and the tussle with the heavy weren’t connected. Trouble had come to me. I hadn’t gone looking for it. Clearly, with Jackie at least, I’d over-stayed my welcome. It was time to move on.
Inside the envelope a small piece of paper with a single sentence written in the same blue ink brought me back to the case Andrew’s DI wouldn’t allow him to investigate, and I forgot everything except proving an innocent man had been murdered.
ASK LACHIE THOMPSON
ABOUT HIS GRANDDAUGHTER
With few exceptions, every case needs luck; this might be it. What I was holding could bring Sean Rafferty down. My pulse quickened. I reread the words, willing them to tell me more until, slowly, the truth dawned. It was unlikely Thompson would add anything to what he’d already said. Speaking to him would be a waste of time. So was speculating about who had sent the note. Another councillor crossed my mind. Glasgow council had seventy-nine less Daly, Rutherford and Thompson, leaving seventy-six.
As Pat Logue would say: Su perb.
Thompson wasn’t the author. It was about him and where his granddaughter fitted in was anybody’s guess. I called Andrew and caught him in a rare good mood.
‘Charlie. Just thinking about you.’
I didn’t fill him in; that could come later. ‘Lachie Thompson’s granddaughter. Find out about her.’
‘Didn’t know he had one.’
‘Apparently he has.’
‘Sounds as if you’re on to something.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Just get the information. I’ll explain when I see you.’
The door knocked. Patrick came in and sat down. I tossed the note across to him and watched his reaction. When I hung up he said, ‘Who’s this from?’
‘No idea’
I brought him up to speed on my meetings with the councillors which didn’t take long.
‘So what’s the next move?’
Good question.
‘Let’s see what Andrew comes back with.’
Patrick changed the subject. ‘You and Jackie, what gives?’
‘She’s upset about this morning.’
‘Can’t blame her.’
‘I don’t, but that isn’t all of it. She’s never been happy having me here so time to go time. I’m moving out.’
‘No complaints. You’ve had a good run. Where will you go?’
Before I could answer him my mobile rang. James Hambley was too important to spend even a minute of his day on the likes of me; at least, that was his opinion. But here he was.
‘Stop trying to intimidate my staff.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. Leave Wallace Maitland alone.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t lie, Cameron. You’ve been following him. He saw you.’
‘No, he didn’t. Speaking to him once in a pub hardly constitutes harassment.’
Hambley dismissed my protests. ‘This is the first and last opportunity you’ll be getting. Stay away from him or I’ll bring in the police.’
The line went dead.
Patrick was smiling. ‘Not a fan, is he?’ He glanced around and returned to our conversation. ‘Hate to admit it, but Jackie does have a point. Couldn’t swing a cat in her office.’
‘I agree. I’ll speak to Alex and tell him I’m leaving.’
Patrick yawned and apologised. ‘Up too early this mornin’. Got a wee deal goin’ on over at the fruit market. They start work in the middle of the night. Needed to inspect the goods.’
‘Everything o
kay?’
‘Peachy. So if you’re lookin’ to score some bananas...’
He got up.
‘If there’s anythin’ you want me to do, make it quick. As soon as I’ve made the right connections, I’m out of your life forever.’
‘Then let me wish you good luck.’
‘Cheers. And changin’ your address might not be the worst idea in the world. Might stop you ending-up dead. Seriously. By the by, drivin’ back from the market, I saw your pal.’
‘Who?’
‘What’s his name? The guy with the coat.’
Colin McMillan.
‘Where?
‘Comin’ out of the Necropolis.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
David Cooper shaved and showered while Margaret was asleep. In their bedroom, he put on the suit she’d got him the previous Christmas – the black one with the wide pin-stripes – a luxury from before they knew she was pregnant and decided to tighten-up their spending. Babies were expensive. Life was about to change and every spare penny would be needed.
Choosing a tie wasn’t an easy decision; eventually, he went with the blue one. When he was ready, he inspected himself in the mirror. Not bad, considering. Margaret would like it. That was the only thing that mattered.
Downstairs, he picked his way through their CD collection until he found what he was looking for. “The Four Seasons” – her favourite piece of music – and put it in the player. They’d bought it after a concert in Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, where a young female Japanese violin virtuoso moved them to tears with an unforgettable performance. They’d held hands and gazed at the stained-glass windows, while Vivaldi’s famous work filled the historic room that had once been the private chapel of the king of France. It had all been so wonderful and David Cooper had n ever been happier.
That was then. Now, his wife’s eyes were empty. She might not even be hearing it.
David combed her hair, tied the plastic bib round her neck, and put a spoonful of chocolate ice cream in her mouth, moving her jaw with his hand to help her swallow, speaking to her as if he was expecting an answer. Old habits.
They’d been great talkers. And great friends.
He pulled a chair next to the wheelchair so they were side-by-side and opened the photograph album. A younger Margaret Cooper stood in Trafalgar Square, laughing at the camera with a pigeon on her head.
‘Remember that? Our first trip to London. Walking at night through the streets back to the hotel. I wanted us to move down but you said it wasn’t somewhere for children. Too big and too busy. Not the place to bring up a family.’
He looked at his wife’s dead eyes.
‘Of course you were right. I was always a dreamer. You were the practical one. We would’ve trailed round the world like a couple of hippies if it was up to me. You insisted on planting roots.’
David dipped the spoon into the ice cream, and tried again to get her to take it. Dark rivulets of melted chocolate dripped from Margaret’s chin onto the bib. He pointed to photographs of them in Rome and Barcelona, chattering over his tears.
The woman who had been the light of his life went back to sleep. Margaret Cooper didn’t know it, but she’d had a good day.
Her husband gently slipped the pillow from behind her and laid it on the floor. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He put his head in her lap and let the music run to the end. When it finished, he kissed his wife, and gripped the pillow in both hands.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The buzzer broke into my thoughts. I lifted the receiver and heard Jackie, terse and distant, on the other end of the line.
‘Somebody for you.’
Three words more than she wanted to give me. When I went downstairs, she was behind the bar taking stock. Painted fingernails, dripping hostile indifference, fluttered in the direction of the back wall, while she concentrated on her work. If Jackie hadn’t pointed out the guy over near the Rock-Ola, drinking coffee and reading the Herald on the table in front of him, I would’ve walked past him. On cue, the stranger raised his head and I was staring at a face I’d last seen on the battlements of Edinburgh Castle. Back then, Sean Rafferty had been the second son of the notorious East End gangster family; now, he was the boss, and the man responsible for Tony Daly’s murder.
Just hearing him speak brought the memories flooding back.
‘Charlie. Long time.’
Not long enough.
The voice was the same, but the rest was different; very different: light suit, white shirt and short fair hair. You could’ve been sitting next to him at the Royal Concert Hall without suspecting this was, arguably, the most dangerous man in Glasgow. When he lifted the cup to sip his Americano I noticed his nails were buffed. He folded his arms and waited for me to join him. We didn’t shake hands; that would’ve been too surreal.
‘How’s tricks?’
‘Tricks is fine. What’re you doing here?’
Rafferty spread his arms. ‘You turned down my invitation to come and see me so I thought I’d come to you.’
The visit from the knuckle-dragger wasn’t ever going to be the finish of it but I hadn’t expected the main man to show-up in person half an hour later.
‘What do you want, Rafferty?’
‘Oh dear. Got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’
‘Why’re you here?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘We don’t have anything to say to each other.’
‘I disagree. Want to bring you up to date. You’re living in the past.’
The second time I’d been told that in twenty-four hours.
‘You hear the name “Rafferty” and immediately think of old Jimmy. Understandable, given your experience, but I’m not my father. Take my word for it.’
I wouldn’t.
‘These days I’m a legitimate businessman. All the other stuff’s in the bin.’
‘All of it? Don’t believe you.’
He smiled to keep me on-side. ‘Well, most of it. All right, some of it.’
Sean Rafferty, honest injun; the gangster was stealing my act.
‘You’re about to tell me it’s good for Glasgow, aren’t you?’
He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. For him to bother with this charade meant he had to be seriously worried. Killing me was the easy option, except I might have discovered something and passed it on. That uncertainty was the reason I was still alive.
I kept hearing how good Riverside was for Glasgow. It certainly hadn’t been good for Tony Daly though, as yet, nobody was connecting his suicide to it. Rafferty was afraid I would.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you, because it’s true. Riverside is the most important development in the west of Scotland in years. How many cities can boast a complex like it? Marina, hotel, casino, restaurant and retail. Is it good for Glasgow? Of course it is. Jeopardising it puts thousands, probably tens of thousands, of jobs at risk.’
Rafferty’s eyes bored into me, unblinking.
‘People are depending on it.’
‘People like Emil Rocha?’
His face registered nothing. He straightened his tie. ‘I came to emphasise the damage you’re doing trying to connect a suicide to a project that will positively impact the prosperity of this city. And you should know any attempt to derail it will have consequences.’
The note in my pocket gave me courage. ‘Like?’
Rafferty sighed, unwilling to spell it out. ‘It won’t end well.’
‘Is that a threat? Should I call the police?’
He smiled indulgently at the sarcasm and drummed the table. ‘I don’t make threats, Charlie.’
‘You had Tony Daly murdered.’
The friendly-chat approach disappeared; the gangster, hiding in a sharp suit, fought to come into the light, and I knew I was right.
Rafferty’s voice fell to a whisper as he hissed his reply. ‘You got lucky the last time, Cameron. Wouldn’t count on it happening again
.’
‘I’m still here.’
He shook his head at me. ‘Never learn, do you? I’m trying to be reasonable. Why do you always have to go the long road, Charlie? Take a telling, and stop making a nuisance of yourself. This is the third time you’ve been a pain in my arse. Having you in the world is becoming too expensive.’
Sean Rafferty stood and pulled on leather gloves. ‘Know your problem, Charlie? Too clever for your own good. Shame, really.’
It was tempting to produce the note with a magician’s flourish and announce that the police had already been informed. If I did I wouldn’t see tomorrow.
He threw money on the table and pushed past me. ‘Can’t help yourself. I blame it on all that expensive education your old man paid for selling drugs.’
‘Whisky.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Speaking of whisky, your goons filled the guy on the Queen Margaret Bridge with it before they threw him over the edge. Big mistake. He was a rum drinker. Dark rum. Hated whisky.’
Jimmy Rafferty had been a gutter gangster; his son was evolving into something much worse. Malice rolled off him. If he could he would’ve killed me right there. Yet he rose above my reckless baiting and held it together because the prize demanded it. Emil Rocha demanded it. Patrick Logue came in clutching a pink betting slip; Rafferty bumped into him on his way out.
‘Was that who I think it was?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hardly recognised him. Looks like a man with somewhere to go and something to do when he gets there. Didn’t know he made house calls?’
‘He’s making an exception.’
Patrick wagged the first four favourites at Newmarket at me. ‘Not funny, Charlie. Not funny at all. If you poke a snake with a stick don’t be surprised when it bites you. One word from that guy and it’s over for you.’
Patrick’s warning hit home; he was right. The satisfaction of provoking Rafferty had made me careless. Stupid would be a better description. I’d put myself in danger and now he knew what I knew, which wouldn’t give him sleepless nights. Daly drank rum, so what? Rafferty and his corrupt cabal were still free and clear.
-------
Based on my previous experience, I wasn’t hopeful of getting anywhere with Lachie Thompson. With his off-the-peg suit and record of public service, he should have impressed as a man you could trust. That wasn’t what I’d taken from our conversation. His stoic insistence on not discussing his deceased colleague hadn’t lasted. In minutes, he was dragging Tony and Cissie Daly’s dirty laundry into the open under no pressure from me – alcoholics both, according to him – while his praise was over-rehearsed and poorly delivered. It left a bad taste in my mouth. With friends like him…
