The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

  It was only half an answer. I let it go. ‘The three witnesses. Did you know them?’

  ‘Not until the trial.’

  ‘And since?’

  ‘Of course not. Why would I?’

  She went to the minibar and poured herself a refill.

  ‘Sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’

  Diane lit another cigarette and studied me the way Dennis Boyd had at Strathclyde Park. ‘I think I may have underestimated you, Mr Cameron.’

  It might have been meant as a compliment. I couldn’t be sure. ‘Boyd tells me he went to Crete with Joe on business. Did he ever take you?’

  ‘Yes. Said it was a holiday. Some holiday. We were only there a few days and I spent most of it by myself while he met his contact in a bar in the harbour.’

  ‘Yannis?’

  She seemed surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was his second name?’

  ‘I never knew it. I was in his company for about ninety seconds.’

  Mrs Kennedy swirled the amber liquor around in her glass. ‘I’d say he was about thirty, maybe. With a beard. His English was perfect, that’s what struck me most about him.’

  ‘And that was the only time you met him?’

  ‘He called the house a couple of times looking for Joe.’

  ‘Would you say your husband and this Yannis were on good terms?’

  She considered her answer. ‘I think they were, yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because Boyd heard Joe on the phone arguing with him.’

  ‘Joe argued with everybody and their granny, including me, including Dennis. He could be an awkward bastard when it suited him.’

  I glanced at a framed photograph of her and Ritchie. She caught me. ‘You’re too smart not to have noticed things between me and Ritchie could be better. Don’t deny it.’

  Denial hadn’t crossed my mind.

  ‘He’s unhappy this has started again. Dennis Boyd is a no-go subject in this house. Ritchie’s the jealous kind, against me having anything to do with him. I don’t blame him. Dennis was my lover, after all.’

  I carried all that was left of Joe Franks to the door. Diane put a hand on my arm.

  ‘Don’t let my husband bother you. He can be an arse sometimes.’ She had that right. ‘Got a lot on his plate right now. We own a hotel on the Ayr Road. Daltallin House. Do you know it?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘We won our first Michelin star last year and we’re anxious to hold onto it. Every day brings another problem for Ritchie to sort out. Good managers are as rare as hen’s teeth.’

  Jackie Mallon would be pleased to hear it.

  ‘When will you talk to Dennis again?’

  ‘I’m not planning on speaking to him again. And if you tell me where he is – even by accident – I’ll drop the case. Trust me on that.’

  ‘You can relax, Mr Cameron. I can’t tell you. I don’t know where Dennis is.’

  There was a change in the Spaniard. Sean Rafferty sensed it. The night before he’d been urbane and utterly charming and had Kim eating out of his hand. This morning, he was edgy and distracted, not interested in what he was being shown. Sean caught him gazing off into the distance as though he had something on his mind.

  His two bodyguards didn’t speak. It wasn’t what they were paid for. Behind the sunshades their eyes constantly scanned the line of trees. At one point, Rocha excused himself and moved away to make a call. Rafferty heard him, intimate and persuasive, talking to a woman no doubt. He returned, smiling to himself, and Sean knew he was right. The land they were assessing was on the outskirts of Glasgow. For the moment, beyond the reach of developers. As Sean animatedly outlined his vision about how they would acquire it and how much it would cost, Rocha listened in silence. When Rafferty finished, Emil was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘I admire your energy.’

  Sean detected a but coming.

  ‘It’s a question of timing and… visibility. I’m told the controversy over the Waterside Regeneration Initiative hasn’t gone away. With that in mind, further involvement with the council is better avoided. Our profile – your profile, actually – is too high. I’d feel more comfortable if it was lower.’

  His handmade Italian shoe toyed with a tuft of grass.

  ‘You have to understand, Sean, a man in my position is offered opportunities every day of the week. For example, the island of Menorca is vastly under-exploited compared with its big sister, Majorca. Just before I flew here a company looking for funds approached me. For reasons too tedious to go into, the banks have decided not to grant the loans they seek and they came to me.’

  He swept a hand across the horizon.

  ‘Whether I go with them or not is neither here nor there. Unlike you, I’m not in a hurry. Playing the long game. Of course, if you’d presented a gilt-edged investment perhaps my answer would be different. As it stands…’

  The rebuff was unexpected. Rafferty reacted like a rejected lover. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to do business with me?’

  Rocha took his arm and guided them back to the car. ‘If and when you have something less public, by all means bring it to me. Meanwhile, our other interests are closely aligned and very successful. Demand outstrips supply and always will. There’s a reason people love drugs. They dull the pain of their grey little lives and make them feel fucking great.’

  Sean swallowed his disappointment. ‘I’ll find another project.’

  ‘Do that. I won’t be hard to get hold of.’

  Rafferty checked the new Longines on his wrist and tried to salvage what he could from a wasted day. ‘I’ve booked a table for lunch. I thought we—’

  Rocha put a hand on his shoulder. ‘A splendid idea. Unfortunately, I already have an appointment.’

  Rafferty didn’t hide his surprise. ‘Anyone I know?’

  Emil Rocha patted his arm. ‘I think I can confidently say it isn’t. But I’ll see you tomorrow. We can chat on our way to the airport. Drop me in town, would you? Anywhere in the centre will do.’

  14

  Back in the office I trawled through what I had. At first glance it didn’t look good. The paper sheets were yellowed and dusty, some of them torn from rough handling; fifteen years in the attic hadn’t done them any favours. Underneath, in the bottom of the box, were a small black address book and a leather-bound Filofax with the gossamer threads of a spider’s web clinging to the crack along the spine. Inside, the pages were stiff and dry to the touch and had the musty smell you’d expect off an old book. Nobody had opened it in a very long time – probably the police had been the last.

  I turned to the beginning and read the last two years of Joe Franks’ life. The first had been very busy: appointments, flights, meetings with his accountant. Nothing jumped out at me other than the name Yannis.

  In January of his final year, the entries were in blue pen, capitalised and neat, the name, time and place of every meeting carefully recorded, along with flights to Amsterdam and Chania every other week just like before. February was business as usual. Around March, the handwriting deteriorated into hastily made scrawls and initials replaced names. For reasons of his own, Franks had decided to make whoever he met with less obvious and there were fewer appointments. Was Joe Franks losing interest?

  A typical entry read:

  BS/10. TM/6. CL/6.

  In May, everything changed again. No flights, no appointments, and the letter Y appeared more frequently. Towards the end of June, an edge was smudged and worn where information had been crudely erased. I tried and failed to read the imprint of what had been written. The story wasn’t hard to follow – page after empty page told how it had been. The author stuck with his rudimentary attempts at disguise even when the scribbles in the margin were fewer because trade had all but ceased. Franks’ business was in trouble. Probably why he’d got in over his head on the diamond deal.

  Two contacts were regularly mentioned: BS and somebody call
ed CL. Joe Franks was with one or other of them a total of ten times in the last seven weeks of his life.

  Maybe they’d murdered him and set Dennis Boyd up for it? Without knowing their identities, it was impossible to say.

  A month later, the jeweller would be dead, though on the twenty-eighth of June he was very much alive when he wrote his final reminder to himself. A single letter. Capitalised and underlined.

  Y

  Y for Yannis?

  Almost certainly.

  Pat Logue came in without knocking and broke into my train of thought. He sat down, put his hands behind his head and stretched like a cat, the row we’d had forgotten.

  He was pleased with himself. He’d been given a difficult task and cracked it in record time. I’d come to expect no less from a man at home on the streets of a city where he knew everybody and everybody knew him. In another life, he might have been a high-flying politician or a self-made millionaire. In this one, he too often depended on the third favourite in the four-thirty at Wincanton to get him out of a hole. Often it did. And when it didn’t, there was me: his very own lender of last resort. He had talents, lots of them. Unfortunately, nothing inspired him as much as drinking. That said, Patrick wasn’t destined to die with his music still inside him. He loved life more than anybody I’d ever come across and was happy with who he was.

  I let him enjoy his moment before I spoke. ‘Surprised to see you so soon.’

  ‘Time is money, Charlie. So they say. And speakin’ of money, I could use some.’

  ‘I paid you a couple of days ago. Surely you haven’t gone through it already?’

  I sounded like his mother.

  He stared for a minute and shook his head. ‘You and me have a fundamentally different understandin’ about the nature of finance. Not your fault; you can’t help it. Folk from money are desperate to hold onto it. They’re used to havin’ it. It’s important to them. Whereas people like me – who’ve never had much and aren’t likely to – instinctively grasp the truth. The world’s full of the stuff. Knowin’ somebody who’s well fixed is nearly as good as being well fixed yourself. In some ways better.’

  ‘And you know me, that right?’

  ‘Got it in one, Charlie. Even if I was born rich…’

  ‘I wasn’t born rich, Patrick.’

  He wouldn’t be deflected. ‘I’d spend every day obsessing that some street urchin in Singapore was cleanin’ out my bank account and end up givin’ it to somebody like me. Then I’d worry about not havin’ it. This way, I minimise self-doubt.’ He raised his hands to make his point. ‘“Money is only a tool.” Ayn Rand said that.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘She did. And she was right.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. What’ve you got for me?’

  He rested his elbows on the desk and pulled a bunch of pink betting slips from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Let me refer to my report.’

  ‘Stop fucking about. What did you find?’

  ‘Okay. Long story short: on the surface, there’s not much to tell. Franks and Boyd had a good relationship. I haven’t found anybody who heard them argue, about money or anythin’ else. Franks trusted Boyd and Boyd didn’t let him down. Until he did.’

  ‘The affair with his wife?’

  ‘A foregone conclusion. She was a man-eater from way back. Big surprise when Joe left his wife and married her.’

  A small detail Diane Kennedy had neglected to mention.

  ‘Doomed from the start but, hey, it happens.’

  A generous spirit was one of Pat Logue’s gifts.

  ‘His widow says Franks left her in bad financial shape. Anything on that?’

  Patrick scratched his chin. ‘Give me another day. Same with the guy who stepped into his shoes.’ He meant Ritchie Kennedy. ‘Likes them to have a few coins, doesn’t she? Joe must’ve been doing all right when she met him. Never heard of a poor jeweller. Contradiction in terms. If he was on the ropes at the end, nobody I spoke to was aware of it.’

  ‘What about the witnesses?’

  ‘Nonentities to a man. Couldn’t lace Boyd’s boots, accordin’ to my sources.’

  ‘Any link to Franks?’

  ‘No. Not in the picture until their fifteen minutes of fame at the trial.’

  ‘And since?’

  ‘Didn’t hang out together before or after they testified against Boyd. Doesn’t look like they’re connected.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Patrick read with a straight face from his betting slips. ‘Hughie Wilson was a misfit and a loner. No job. No wife. No kids. No interests at all, unless you count drinkin’ his gyro. He had a reputation as a hard man and put some time in as a bouncer. He enjoyed his work until he smacked a punter harder than he needed to and the club had to let him go. A big mouth when he’d had a few. Claimed he’d sorted Dennis Boyd. Proud of it, too. Told a pub full of people if Boyd came after him, he was ready. Not many cryin’ because he’s gone. Wilson was scum, and not in a good way.’

  ‘Where did he live?’

  ‘In Baillieston. He lived there with his mother before she died. She was a widow. Father died when Hughie was a boy.’ Patrick put the notes down. ‘What kind of hard man lives with his mammy?’ He read on. ‘And here’s the thing. Wilson didn’t have a pot to piss in, but the house belonged to him.’

  ‘It must’ve been left to him.’

  ‘It was. Of course it was. Mrs Wilson bought her council house fifteen years ago. Not long after Dennis Boyd was convicted. Where did Mrs W get the money?’

  ‘Her son gave it to her out of what he was paid to testify?’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘Any idea what the going rate was for telling lies at the high court back then?’

  Pat Logue returned to his balancing act with the chair and gave the question his attention. ‘Five grand? Ten? Depends on who was payin’, doesn’t it? Enough to see your old mum right and still afford to get drunk for the next six months.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s how it was. The dates work. Did McDermid and Davidson suddenly come into funds around the same time?’

  The betting slips made a comeback. ‘Haven’t much on them yet. I’ll keep diggin’. McDermid’s a barman, currently workin’ at a pub called the Schooner Inn, near Gallowgate. Lives in Possil. Been in and out of the Bar-L. Nothin’ serious. The guy isn’t very good at breakin’ the law. Keeps gettin’ caught. If he was a stick of rock, he’d have ‘Loser’ runnin’ through him. Nobody’s seen him since the night Wilson was murdered. He has to be terrified.’

  ‘And Davidson?

  ‘Willie Davidson’s the quiet man. A joiner to trade. Self-employed. Shop-fitting mostly. Packed it in. Word on the street is his health wasn’t good. Hasn’t been on the Glasgow scene in years. Might even be dead.’

  ‘Is that it? Nothing on Kennedy?’

  He looked away and back. ‘I’m sensin’ ingratitude, Charlie. It’s only been a day.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s a good start. Thanks, Pat.’

  I waited, expecting him to leave. I should’ve known better. The optimism in his voice was forced. Not difficult to spot if you were looking for it. He said, ‘Anyway, as I mentioned, I’m off the pace. It’s happened before though it’s never lasted as long as this.’

  ‘What’re you saying, Patrick?’

  ‘Mojo isn’t workin’. I’m skint.’

  He was singing a song I’d heard often from him. ‘How skint?’

  ‘Skint skint. Haven’t a razzoo. Worse than that. Don’t even have the entrance money to NYB.’

  ‘Since when do you need entrance money there? Jackie lets you drink on the slate, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That option’s tapped out until I square up what I owe. Fifty would get me back in the game. If I’m on this case with nothin’ comin’ back at the end of it, that’s just how it is.’

  ‘What about Gail?’

  ‘Gail’s all right. I make sure she’s always the first name on the team sheet.’

/>   ‘Glad to hear it.’

  He toyed with his goatee. ‘God hates me. Did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘More times than I can remember.’

  I took five twenties from my wallet and handed them to him. Now, he had more money than me.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. Appreciate it.’

  He got up to go, his faith renewed, and anxiously checked the time on his watch. William Hill was about to have another customer. ‘I’ll get you what you need on these guys. Stand on me.’

  ‘I know you will, Pat. And I do. One more thing. Looks like Franks’ business really was struggling. Keep digging on that and find out if he was the faithful type.’

  When he’d gone, I settled down with the contents of the cardboard box. The sheets of paper hadn’t fared as well as the Filofax or the address book. At some point, coffee had been spilled, making them look like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Most of what had survived was trade information: a brochure for a conference in London and the odd invoice that hadn’t made it to Franks’ earnings.

  That thought drew me to the black address book. The jeweller’s accountant would be able to tell what Franks had been thinking those last months.

  At the back of the book, the firm of Turner and McCabe sat near the bottom with about forty others in a list that ran over the page. Y, BS and CL weren’t there, which made sense. What would be the point of writing in code then leaving the key? I rang the number and heard a hum: unobtainable. Maybe they’d packed their tent and disappeared into the night. Not so. Directory Enquiries put me through. A bright female voice – the kind of voice it would be nice to come home to – said, ‘Turner, O’Neil and McCabe.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘This may sound like a strange request. I’d like to speak to whoever acted for a Joseph Franks. Mr Franks died fifteen years ago. Your firm handled his accounts.’

  ‘I expect that would be Mr McCabe. He retired. I could give you an appointment with his son, Barry, if it’s any good to you.’

  ‘Can he see me today?’

  The gentle laughter cascading down the line wasn’t meant to offend. Nevertheless, it did and altered my opinion about hearing her call my name after a tough day.