The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

  ‘That wasn’t why. It was never going anywhere. I was your bit of rough. A diversion to keep boredom at bay until a better offer came along. I couldn’t afford you and we both knew it.’

  Diane lifted the mat and pressed it into his hands. ‘Take it. Please. For me.’

  ‘On one condition. Wilson, Davidson and McDermid. Where are they?’

  She hesitated.

  Boyd said, ‘I’ll find out. With or without your help.’

  ‘Last I heard Wilson and McDermid were in Glasgow. Davidson moved away after his wife died of cancer. Stays with his daughter on the coast somewhere.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing else. Their names haven’t been mentioned in years. Now, take this. You promised.’

  He slipped the beer mat into his inside pocket, drained his drink and stood. She looked up at him. ‘They’ll know you’re out. What will going after them do beyond putting you back inside? It’ll change nothing.’

  ‘They can tell me who was behind it.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I’ll settle the score.’

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Maybe they will and maybe they won’t.’

  Diane wasn’t impressed. ‘I’d forgotten talking to you was never easy.’

  ‘I don’t recall us doing much talking.’

  She stabbed out her cigarette, not amused. ‘It was always a long shot but I wanted to give it a go. I may be the only friend you’ve got left in this town.’ Her fist banged on the table. ‘I’m trying to do you a favour here!’

  ‘Really? Then drop me at my sister’s.’

  5

  Sean Rafferty tore open a paper finger of brown sugar and stirred it into the coffee cup in front of him. Through the glass frontage of the Radisson Blu Hotel, Glasgow was going about its day. He felt himself relax. It had been a stressful morning, but it had turned out well, all things considered.

  At one o’clock, a black taxicab pulled up at the kerb. The woman inside paid the driver and got out. Rafferty smiled. Right on time – keen – he liked that in a female. She saw him and waved. Rafferty didn’t wave back. He’d forgotten her name. Awkward, though not a problem – she wouldn’t be around long enough to need one. She’d dressed for the occasion: white jacket, flared navy-blue skirt and the highest heels he’d ever seen. She hurried towards him, arms outstretched, wet lips parted. His eyes wandered to the lilac blouse and imagined the breasts underneath.

  He kissed her cheek and she said, ‘I’m not late, am I? Please tell me I’m not late. I’ve been so busy I’m exhausted.’

  A lie. She’d married her husband because he was good at making money, and so she could sit around on her lovely arse all day; the hardest work she did was on her knees for her tennis coach.

  Rafferty smiled. When they got to the room upstairs, he’d show her what exhausted felt like.

  ‘No, you’re fine.’

  Her eyelashes fluttered. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘Just got here.’

  She stepped back to look at him. ‘How do you manage to stay in such good shape?’

  ‘Clean living. Avoid it at all costs.’

  She laughed on cue and playfully punched his shoulder. ‘Fake as fuck’, to use one of old Jimmy’s expressions. Rafferty took her hand and led her to the lifts. She tossed her red hair over her shoulder in her best I-enjoy-being-a-girl routine.

  ‘What kind of morning have you had?’

  ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’

  She remembered this was Sean Rafferty and giggled uncomfortably. ‘Then don’t.’

  The bedroom door closed behind them. Her arms circled his neck and she kissed him; he smelled her perfume, subtle and expensive. Her fingers ran over the front of his shirt.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  He watched her long legs teeter to the bathroom, then went to the window and looked out. The sun was shining; down below, a line of cars sat at the traffic lights, grey smoke puttering from their exhausts, waiting to make the left turn into Hope Street – the most polluted street in Glasgow. Rafferty had cancelled the meeting with his accountant and made only a brief appearance at the youth centre – just long enough to get his face in the photographs. He didn’t identify with the kids; compared to his upbringing with Jimmy as a father, they had it easy.

  The bathroom door opened and the redhead came out, naked except for the heels.

  Rafferty still couldn’t remember her fucking name.

  He saw the firm breasts, the tanned thighs, and felt himself grow hard. That body had been used to getting its owner what she wanted from men. For all her ladies-who-lunch and golf-club la-di-da, it was for sale.

  She came towards him, rolling her tight arse from side to side, confident she had what no warm-blooded man could resist, circling her arms round his neck like she’d done before.

  Rafferty took hold of her wrists and roughly pulled them away. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Not the reaction she’d expected. ‘I… I…’

  He wanted to punch her pretty face for trying to take control, treating him like a clown who thought with his dick and could be played by a smile and a pair of nice tits.

  She stepped away, suddenly afraid, the confidence gone, conscious of the change in him without understanding what she’d done to cause it. ‘Sean, I was—’

  ‘Save the act for somebody who appreciates it. You’re trying too hard, sweetheart. I don’t like it. Put your clothes on and hurry up. I’ve waited long enough.’ He opened the minibar, weighed a brandy miniature in his palm and unscrewed the top. ‘Bloody robbery what they charge for this. Somebody should call the police.’

  When she returned, he was on the edge of the bed, watching TV with the sound down. He spoke without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Get undressed.’

  She peeled the blouse away, unzipped the skirt and stepped out of her underwear. The garments dropped to the floor at her feet and he was on her, lifting her up, throwing her against the wall, his lips parted in a cruel smile. He kissed her neck and took her already hard nipple in his mouth; her legs snaked round his waist, gripping him with the unexpected strength of the aroused.

  He buried himself in her and whispered in her ear. ‘What the hell’s your name?’

  The flat in Shawlands was the nicest place Vicky had ever had. And it was all hers; she owned it. From the beginning, she’d been determined not to end up like so many in her trade: addicted, broken and broke. Her bank account had a tidy sum in it. A ‘fuck you’ fund for the day she needed it.

  The meeting with Sean Rafferty was the first sign that day was coming.

  She watched Tony stretch for the half-full bottle of Pinot Grigio and top them up. Drinking wasn’t his thing – long-distance drivers didn’t risk their licence for a few glasses of wine on a Tuesday afternoon. Tony saw the woman behind the label and loved her. He wasn’t handsome but he was kind; the most genuine person she’d ever known. And he was crazy about her. If only they’d met before she went down this path. Vicky couldn’t even blame her choices on her upbringing. No, the credit was all hers. An impressionable teenager, she’d jumped at the chance when a friend told her what easy money it was and how much of it she was making. It had sounded exciting and glamorous. It was neither. Too late for regrets; she’d done what she’d done.

  Tony cut across her thoughts. ‘How many times in the last year – forget year, the last six months – have I asked you to marry me?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Not a few, seven. I’m starting to think you don’t like me.’

  Vicky flushed, uncomfortable with the reminder. ‘I’ve told you why.’

  ‘Tell me again, see if I believe you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘I think it would.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Tony. When a man has a girlfriend, what she did in the past doesn’t bother him. Wives are different.’

  ‘How?’

  �
��It becomes… personal… a reflection on him.’

  Tony sat up. ‘Rubbish. What guy thinks like that?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Almost every working girl I’ve known who got married ended up divorced.’

  ‘And you assume it’s because their husbands couldn’t handle their history. Okay. What’s that got to do with you and me?’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘This. What we have, it’s good. Let’s not spoil it.’

  Tony pressed his case. ‘I turn good money. Your job would be to make a home for us. It doesn’t need to be Glasgow or even Scotland, it could be anywhere you like. Plenty of nice spots down south. So, for the eighth time. Vicky Farrell, will you marry me?’

  She kissed the tip of his nose. ‘No, Tony, I won’t. I like you too much. Consider yourself fortunate and stop asking, otherwise one of these days…’

  6

  The reunion was more awkward than either Dennis Boyd or his sister had imagined it would be. Annie was Boyd’s only relative. She loved him, no doubt about that, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof since they were teenagers, and the time he’d spent in prison hadn’t helped; they were strangers. With the best will in the world, building a relationship would be slow going and they both realised it.

  Most men newly released from the Big House could expect a welcome home party. There was no celebration for Dennis Boyd. He didn’t want one. A party took people. Friends. Boyd had no friends.

  He laid on the single bed in Annie’s spare room killing the hours until he could make an excuse to go. A framed charcoal drawing of a woman, done years ago, stared down at him: his sister. He’d captured her perfectly before life had had a chance to grind her down. Grind both of them down. Dennis wondered if she’d put it there to remind him who he’d been and could be again.

  His surroundings were comfortable – beyond that, not so different from his cell. As soon as he’d done what he had to do, he’d be on his way. Annie would spout the usual stuff about there always being a place for him here, though she’d be pleased to see the back of him. Boyd didn’t blame her; he felt the same.

  After dinner, they sat across from each other watching television, Boyd’s eyes straying to the clock on the wall every few minutes. Around eight-thirty, he put on his jacket and said he was going for a drink. Annie called a minicab to take him into town and settled to her programmes and her routine, already recognising the short-term future of having her brother live with her.

  Boyd asked the taxi to let him off in St Vincent Street. Banged up in Barlinnie, he’d dreamed of being able to walk in anywhere he fancied and order a whisky and a pint. Now it was a reality, it didn’t feel as good as he’d imagined.

  Half an hour and two pubs later, he was heading towards George Square. The Counting House was more to his taste. Big and busy, just as he remembered it. Dozens of people stood at the bar or clustered round tables, talking and drinking. Boyd guessed they were city workers who hadn’t made it home yet. He squeezed in between two middle-aged businessmen in suits, asked for a whisky and watched the crowd. After a while, he ordered again. The barman brought the drink and a slip of paper to him and went to serve the other side of the bar. Boyd read the message written in capital letters.

  ELMBANK CAR PARK TOP LEVEL 10.30

  He called the barman over. ‘Who gave you this?’

  The man shrugged indifference. ‘Some guy.’

  ‘Point him out.’

  ‘He left.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Just a punter.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  The barman shrugged a second time. ‘A guy. Never seen him before. Assumed he was a friend of yours. Sorry, pal.’

  Boyd pushed the whisky away. Whatever this was about, he’d need a clear head. It hadn’t taken somebody long to make a move. The speed of it was the biggest surprise. Or maybe not. Diane had said they’d know he was out. Of course, she was right. They wouldn’t hang around. He wondered which one of them would be waiting for him. Wilson was the favourite – a thug who assumed everybody was as gullible as himself. An obvious trap like this was exactly what Boyd expected from an idiot who lied for money.

  He read the message again, picturing Hughie Wilson on the stand, the suit he’d been wearing and the shirt and tie not enough to disguise his true nature. To give the prosecution their due, they’d prepped him well and encouraged him to tell the story in his own words. Carefully chosen words sweated over for hours. The fabrication had come close to being undone when Wilson delivered his lines like an amateur, visibly toiling under cross examination. His testimony had liar plastered all over it. In the dock, Boyd had breathed a sigh of relief, convinced it was too pat to persuade a jury – none of them would believe this guy. Except they had. Wilson swore the defendant approached him and suggested there was a place for him in a robbery Boyd intended to commit. The target wasn’t identified – that would’ve been pushing credibility already stretched by the over-rehearsed numbskull’s performance – but, since Joe Franks was robbed and murdered shortly after the alleged conversation took place, it hadn’t been hard to join the dots.

  With a straight face, Wilson admitted considering the offer before turning it down.

  When asked to answer yes or no if he believed the jeweller was the intended victim, he answered yes. The judge sustained the defence counsel’s immediate objection, warned the prosecution against leading the witness to speculate, and instructed the jury to disregard what they’d heard.

  Pointless and impossible.

  Dennis Boyd realised whoever was behind it had to be smiling; they’d laid their plan well and it was working. He was going down for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  On St Vincent Street, he checked his watch, turned his collar up, and started walking. The message said ten-thirty and it was already quarter past. Elmbank Gardens was a good ten minutes away; he quickened his step. At the top of the hill across from the Alexander ‘Greek’ Thomson church, a monstrosity if ever there was one, he glanced at the time again: a few minutes to half past. Boyd turned right at the traffic lights at the bottom, then left into Elmbank Gardens. From inside the King’s Theatre the sound of the audience applauding filtered through to the street; the show was ending. In a minute, the place would be flooded with people. That thought reassured him. Responding to the message was a gut reaction, though it allowed whoever had sent it to set the rules. Hiding wasn’t an option. Tonight, for better or worse, he’d learn who he was dealing with. After that…

  After that Boyd had no idea.

  Diane’s offer would still be on the table – he guessed she was part of the deal. Not entirely unwelcome, except he’d be kidding himself to pretend it had a chance of working any better now. She was a woman who needed more than he was ever likely to be able to provide. In a straight choice between love or money, money would win every time. Fifteen years ago, circumstances were different. Joe had given her financial security; she’d needed something more. She’d needed sex. And it had been fun.

  The memories had taken time to die because – whatever she said about him – Diane certainly hadn’t been a seven. Her second husband had nothing to fear from him; adultery was a young man’s game and Boyd was too old to be sneaking around.

  A yellow sign flashed ‘No Spaces’. In a few minutes, that wouldn’t be true; the theatre crowd would arrive and head home. He took the lift to level five, ignoring the smell of piss and stale cigarette smoke – mild after the Bar-L – until it came to a shuddering stop. The doors opened and he walked into the open air, his eyes taking a moment to become used to the half-light. From the street below, the chatter of excited voices rose to meet him.

  If it was a trap, this was when he expected whoever had sent the message to step from the shadows. His fists balled at his sides as adrenaline surged through him and his eyes narrowed, scanning the empty car park. The meeting had been a test to get his attention. Somewhere they’d be watching and had already learned something valuable about him: he c
ould be played.

  The door opened. Three women, all speaking at once, appeared and made their way to their car. On instinct, Boyd pressed himself against the nearest vehicle and stood still but they were preoccupied with each other and didn’t notice him. Soon there would be more. He took a final look round before retracing his steps.

  Then he saw it: at the far end, a pile of rags dumped on the ground. Boyd edged cautiously towards it, hearing the hum of the lift. Two men and two women stepped out and hurried to a black Vauxhall. He fell to the concrete floor and scrambled towards the bundle, knowing it was the reason they’d wanted him here. Closer, it became the body of a man lying in a pool of blood. Boyd rolled it over to see the face and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Even without the horrific injuries, time hadn’t been kind to Hughie Wilson; he hadn’t aged well – having his head beaten to a pulp didn’t help. In the semi-darkness there was enough left of the thug who’d lied on the witness stand for Boyd to recognise him; shards of bone poked through the skin from the shattered nose below the temple caved in under the force of a tremendous blow. Wilson’s eyes were open, the right socket a milky white where the iris and pupil should’ve been. Boyd touched the cold concrete and felt scrapes of Christ-knew-what under his fingertips.

  Nothing had prepared him for this. Less than twelve hours after his release from Barlinnie, one of the men who’d testified against him was dead. And suddenly, Dennis Boyd understood.

  They’d framed him once and they were doing it again.

  The hum of the lift returning snapped him into action. He ran across the car park, almost knocking down a middle-aged couple coming through the door. The man cursed and the woman cried out. Boyd didn’t stop to apologise. In the distance, a police siren cut through the night. He took the stairs to the bottom and ran out of the rear entrance. In Bath Street, he joined the last of the crowd spilling from the King’s Theatre and slowed to a walk so as not to attract attention to himself. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in Central Station with little idea how he’d got there, or why.