The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

The drive from the house in Bothwell to Crossbasket Castle in Blantyre, where Rocha and his bodyguards were staying, took less than fifteen silent minutes. Sean and Kim didn’t speak until they pulled up outside the hotel. She’d come downstairs looking as stunning as he’d ever seen her, wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress and a single-strand pearl necklace with matching earrings. Her hair was pinned back, the bruising at her eye disguised, barely noticeable, and for a moment Rafferty remembered why, in a room full of gorgeous female flesh, it was her who’d caught his attention.

  None of that admiration was in his voice. ‘Don’t forget what I told you. The next couple of hours are crucial. Rocha pretends he’s here to assess land for future projects. That’s only one of the reasons. He’s checking up on me before he commits himself and his money more than he already has. He needs to see a loving spouse, supporting her man, hanging on every word he says. Anything less…’ He tipped her chin. ‘And in case you don’t remember, if I fall, I don’t go down alone.’

  Kim didn’t protest. Her last best hope had died with Charlie Cameron’s rejection. To his credit, he’d sounded sorry. Sorry or not, his answer had still been no.

  Sean went around the car and opened her door. As she got out he leaned closer and whispered, ‘No silences. No sulks. The performance of your life for an audience of one, or I’ll break your lovely legs. What a waste that would be.’

  Emil Rocha was at the bar. Kim had expected an old man with wrinkled leather skin. The Spaniard was far from that. His white suit and sky-blue shirt open at the neck highlighted a perfect tan. He ignored Sean, gathered her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks, then added another.

  ‘In my country we kiss twice. But my mother was Dutch and I inherited her tradition.’ His keen eyes darted over her face. ‘I approve. There should be more traditions like it.’

  He shook Sean’s hand and waved at the room. ‘You have taste, my friend. This is a splendid place.’

  ‘I’m sure the meal will be just as good.’

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’ Rocha snapped his fingers like a man not used to being kept waiting. ‘And don’t tell me you’re driving. I don’t want to hear it. That’s why taxi drivers were invented. So, what? Brandy? Wine? Champagne, perhaps?’

  Kim said, ‘Sparkling water with a twist of lime.’

  ‘Really, is that all?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Never? Not even for me?’

  She smiled. ‘Not even for you.’

  From his jacket pocket he brought out two small boxes and pushed them across the table, the first squat and square, the second thin and rectangular. Rocha said, ‘Sadly, as you’ll remember, it wasn’t possible for me to attend your wedding. The loss was mine.’ He sighed. ‘Work steals so many of life’s happy moments from us. Please accept these gifts by way of apology and as a token of my friendship.’

  Rafferty unwrapped his and flipped it open. The watch inside was a black Longines, stylish and fashionable. Not outrageously expensive, though more than most people would pay. Rocha tapped the box with his finger. ‘I have this one myself.’

  Sean’s reaction was genuine. ‘Emil, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then, my advice would be to say nothing. Wear it in good health.’

  He moved closer to Kim. ‘Go on. I might bite you but this won’t.’

  Sean felt a stab of annoyance at the blatant flirtation but let it go. Rocha was a womaniser – he couldn’t help himself; it was who he was. Kim did as she was told and gasped. Inside was a necklace studded with emeralds and diamonds, the gems sparkling in the light. ‘I… I…’

  The Spaniard supplied the history. ‘It was my mother’s. Now, it’s yours. My family weren’t always poor. Once, many decades ago, we were wealthy. This was given to my great-great-grandmother on her wedding day by her husband. She passed it down to my mother. Through hard times she could easily have sold it but never did.’

  ‘I can’t accept it.’

  His hand closed over hers. ‘This treasure sits at the bottom of a drawer in my villa, bringing happiness to no one. If I had a wife, it would belong to her and I would insist she wear it for me always. Sadly, I don’t and doubt I ever will. At least try it on.’

  Kim removed her strand of pearls and laid them in her lap. Rocha fastened the necklace’s delicate clasp, his finger tracing the soft skin at the nape of her neck beyond her husband’s sight. She bowed her head and smiled; the Spaniard wanted her.

  ‘Your wife, Sean, isn’t she beautiful?’

  ‘Very.’

  The Spaniard’s hand rested on Kim’s shoulder, gentle yet firm. ‘Do me the honour of taking it. My mother would approve.’

  Kim blushed and bent her head. ‘If you insist, Mr Rocha.’

  ‘Emil. Call me Emil.’

  ‘If you insist, Emil.’

  A waiter appeared at his elbow. Annoyance at the interruption flashed in Rocha’s eyes.

  ‘Your table is ready, please follow me.’

  Kim moved to put the pearls back on. Emil stopped her. ‘No, no, leave it where it is. It’s perfect.’

  ‘I have to look.’

  ‘Then, look. We’ll wait for you.’

  When she’d gone, Rocha sat down; he was smiling. Sean said, ‘You’re a fox, Emil.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Rafferty smiled. ‘Absolutely. You forget, I’ve seen the orange tree and heard the story of how you planted it as a symbol of where you’d come from. The jewellery’s wonderful – she loves it – but it never belonged to your mother, to a farmer’s wife from Murcia.’

  Rocha pursed his lips and nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. And you’ve reminded me why I agreed to go into business with you. One of my better decisions.’

  ‘I don’t miss much.’

  The Spaniard agreed. ‘Not much, Sean, not much. As for the gift.’ He shrugged. ‘If he desires an easy life, a wise man tells a woman what she wants to hear. I assumed you already understood that. Perhaps, I was wrong.’

  During the meal, Rocha spun stories of an idyllic childhood in the countryside near Valencia, where money was scarce and family everything. Sean glanced across at Kim taking it all in, believing every word. The Spaniard could certainly talk, skilfully larding his fantasy tales with history lessons. ‘The orange was probably grown in southern China or India and brought to the Mediterranean by Italian traders or Portuguese navigators around 1500. No one can be sure.’

  Kim was clearly impressed. ‘You know so much, Emil.’

  Rocha accepted the compliment. ‘I know what I know. Because we were poor, I started working when I was nine but vowed to make up for it. Later, I did, reading most evenings, sometimes late into the night.’ His dark eyes fixed on Sean Rafferty. ‘Do you read?’

  ‘I’m too busy.’

  ‘A pity, there’s so much to learn about the world.’

  Under the table his foot touched Kim’s ankle and lingered. She didn’t draw away. There were very few people Sean was afraid of: this man was one of them.

  When the dessert plates were cleared and the coffee served, with nobody to interrupt or contradict him, Rocha summed up his philosophy. Rafferty observed his silent partner, ruthless and still ambitious in spite of his wealth, lying for the fun of it. He’d called him a fox; he was more. Emil was a con artist. Apart from the odd fragment of truth, most of what he revealed about himself was false. Sean almost laughed out loud.

  ‘My parents were good people, noble in their own way. They taught me the values that have guided me to this day. I’ll always be grateful to them.’ He spoke to Kim. ‘You have a daughter now. Believe me when I tell you, power, money – even the exquisite necklace you wear with such grace – mean nothing compared to the light in the eyes of a child. What’s her name?’

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Rosie is why God put you on this earth. Cherish her. Protect her with your life.’

  He sipped from the cup in his right hand while, out of sight, the left squeezed her thigh
.

  Kim said, ‘I’d love her to meet you.’

  ‘I’d love that, too. You should bring her to my villa. I’ll arrange for the young ones in the village to play with her.’

  Rocha’s villa had impressed Rafferty; he’d never forgotten the luxurious furnishings, the turquoise water of the swimming pool and, the most vivid image of all, the armed security guards at the gate and on top of the whitewashed walls, bronzed faces hidden behind black sunglasses, Israeli-made Uzis ready to defend the bleached citadel against Rocha’s many enemies.

  Sean had had enough. He couldn’t listen to any more of Emil Rocha’s crap; he excused himself and went to the bathroom. As soon as he was gone the Spaniard moved in on his wife, taking her hands in his, staring at her as though she was the only other person in the room.

  ‘Don’t speak; there’s no need. I can see for myself.’ He pointed to the injured eye and the heavy make-up. ‘Did Sean do this?’

  ‘Yes? He accused me—’

  Rocha broke angrily into the explanation. ‘It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. A man who strikes a woman, especially the mother of his child, is lower than a snake.’ He edged closer, his index finger scratching her palm. ‘I want the truth. This has happened before, hasn’t it?’

  Kim lowered her head. ‘Yes. Yes, it has. I’m scared of him, Emil. If I leave, he’ll find us and take Rosie. Don’t tell him I spoke to you, you’ve no idea—’

  Rocha patted the back of her hand. ‘You’re wrong, my dear, I do. And it can’t go on. I won’t let it go on.’

  ‘Please don’t say anything, Emil. He’ll kill me.’

  Rocha whispered, ‘No, he won’t. I promise you, he won’t. Meet me tomorrow afternoon in the city and we’ll make a plan for you and Rosie.’ Their faces were inches apart. ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Give me your mobile number. Expect my call and, please, wear the necklace for me.’

  13

  When I stopped at NYB for breakfast on the way to my office, Jackie Mallon threw a tight smile at me and went on with what she was doing.

  It was too early for Pat. I’d given him a tall order. But if anybody could pull it off, it was Patrick Logue. Part of me hoped he hadn’t been able to discover anything significant so I could legitimately turn the case down.

  Andrew nodded and kept on reading his newspaper: a sign he wanted to be left alone. Given what I’d agreed to, I was happy to oblige. I ordered scrambled eggs on toast and a cappuccino. Jackie brought it over. A smarter man would’ve said nothing. Today, I wasn’t him. ‘Saw Michelle in action last night. Looks the part.’

  It was meant to be positive. It failed. The plate of scrambled eggs hit the table like a brick dropped from a great height. Bits of congealed yellow flew into space. The coffee got the same treatment, spilling in a dark brown puddle in the saucer. Jackie glared down at me.

  ‘That your professional opinion, Charlie? Because you can shove it. It’s about respect. Gilby comes waltzing in with somebody I haven’t seen and announces she’s working here. Still, it tells me how much value the owner puts on what I do for the business. Now I know. Worth it for that alone.’

  Jackie had a right to be upset. ‘Alex was out of order, no doubt about it. But you’d be wrong to think he doesn’t appreciate you. He does.’

  ‘Really? Got a queer way of showing it.’

  Unbelievably, she started crying and stomped away leaving me to scrape my breakfast off the table and wonder what I’d done to upset her. Andrew didn’t bat an eye. His mood must be dark, and it would be a whole lot darker if he knew I’d met Dennis Boyd the night before. New York Blue wasn’t the place to be. I was happy to leave.

  It would’ve been less trouble to ask Diane Kennedy to bring Joe Franks’ stuff to my office, but then I’d miss the opportunity to see the Kennedys in their natural habitat.

  Diane lived with her second husband in Newton Mearns, seven miles from the centre. After Giffnock, signs directed me to golf courses – Williamwood, Cathcart Castle and Whitecraigs – and the houses got bigger.

  I rang the bell and checked out the neighbours while I waited for somebody to answer. Across the street, in the driveway of an impressive, detached villa with a mock-Tudor façade, a metallic matador-red Audi A5 coupe with new reg plates was parked in front of a double garage. Further along, a top of the range Lancia shared space with a grey Mercedes, together costing more money than I made in a year. Some people had taken that ‘have a nice life’ stuff seriously. Like everybody else, the people who lived here would have their share of problems. Paying the rent wouldn’t be one of them.

  Diane Kennedy opened the door. ‘You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Come in.’

  I stepped into the hall just as a tall, heavy-set man with short black hair was coming downstairs. Ritchie Kennedy reminded me of somebody I couldn’t put my finger on. He ignored me and spoke to his wife. ‘I’m late.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  His reply had an offhand edge. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Remember we’re having dinner with Roland and Janice.’

  Kennedy shrugged on his coat and swore under his breath. ‘You go. Tell them something came up at the hotel.’

  ‘But we cancelled last time. We can’t let them down again. Try to make it, will you?’

  He brushed past without committing himself or acknowledging me, and it was impossible not to notice the chemistry between them: there wasn’t any. When he’d left, we went into the lounge. Diane lit a cigarette, inhaled defiantly and dared me to disapprove. A waste of time; her house, her rules. What I’d witnessed had angered her.

  I said, ‘Joe’s things. You said you still have some of them.’

  ‘Yes. They were in the loft. I dug them out.’

  She lifted a cardboard box filled with a jumble of paper from behind the sofa and handed it to me. ‘Do you think there’s likely to be anything that can help you?’

  ‘Who knows? It’s a place to start. We always come back to the same problem: none of it happened yesterday.’

  Mrs Kennedy moved towards the door. Giving me her late husband’s paperwork was enough; she’d done her bit. Not how it was going to play. ‘I want to discuss Joe Franks with you. Who he was and how he conducted his business. You’re better placed than anybody to understand.’

  The mention of her late husband seemed to affect her the way it hadn’t previously. Her smoking took on an exaggerated flourish; the cigarette became a prop. Suddenly, she seemed vulnerable. ‘Of course. Though I doubt I’ll remember much. What do you want to know?’

  We sat facing each other on two wine leather couches. Diane said, ‘I haven’t offered you something to drink.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, really. Have something. Please. Whisky and water?’

  ‘No, thanks, it’s too early in the day. But don’t let me stop you.’

  She opened a dark-wood cabinet hiding a not-so-minibar and poured a stiff one from a bottle of Dewar’s that had already been given a good kicking, then topped it off with mineral water. When she rejoined me the nerves, or whatever it had been, had passed. Maybe the glass in her hand reassured her, but the Diane Kennedy I’d met in my office – laid-back and aloof – was back. She stubbed the first cigarette out and immediately lit another. Finally, she was ready to explain. ‘This is the house I shared with Joe. You’re sitting where his body was when they found him. Blood soaked through the carpet and stained the floorboards.’ She pointed at the wall. ‘There used to be a built-in safe. I had it taken out.’

  ‘I can imagine it must be upsetting.’

  ‘Most of the time it’s as if it never happened and I’m okay. Dennis’s release brought memories I hoped I’d forgotten.’

  She caressed her right eye with a suntanned finger. Brushing a tear away? I couldn’t be sure. ‘Ask your questions, Mr Cameron. I’ll do my best to answer them.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me about y
ou and Joe Franks.’

  She sighed. ‘There’s not much to tell. That was the problem. Joe was a simple man. There was no depth to him. Precious stones were his business and his life. Back then, whatever I lacked, it wasn’t sparkle. Joe saw it and wanted it.’

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  She smiled a smile that had been years in the making, a mixture of sadness and amusement. ‘Did I love Joe Franks? It depends on the mood I’m in.’ Diane allowed herself a brittle laugh.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘It’s a sometimes. Best I can do. For a while we both got what we wanted out of the relationship. Joe had the good-looking young wife, and I had security. Or, so I thought. Then he was killed and the truth came out.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Like I told you. He was in trouble. I thought it was just me he wasn’t paying attention to. I was wrong. It was the business as well.’

  ‘How do you end up on the wrong side of selling stones to the trade?’

  She laughed again, and this time there was genuine humour. ‘Excuse my French but fucked if I know. All I can tell you for certain is my husband managed it.’

  ‘This last deal, the one he kept Boyd away from. Tell me about it. If it was so hush-hush, how did the police realise there had been a robbery? What led them to that conclusion?’

  ‘The safe had been cleaned out and everything in it taken except a small uncut gem in the corner; the police assumed there was a struggle, and in their hurry to get away it got missed.’

  I tried not to let my disbelief show. A diamond conveniently spilled in the back of Dennis Boyd’s car and a second stone left beside the jeweller’s dead body; somebody had tried hard. Too hard. Five minutes on the case and already for me the circumstantial evidence was unravelling.

  ‘And you weren’t aware Joe had a big deal on?’

  ‘I had no idea. That wasn’t unusual. Joe didn’t discuss his work with me.’

  ‘Where were you when the robbery took place?’

  Mrs Kennedy hesitated. I waited her out. ‘I was with a friend.’