The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Cameron. Charlie Cameron.’

  ‘You’re in luck. He has a window at two.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Do you know where we are?’

  I read from the address book. ‘Battlefield Road, Mount Florida.’

  The laugh returned; I could almost see her smile. ‘No, that’s where our offices used to be. We’re in Bath Street now. Number 1427.’

  Joe Franks’ old accountant firm had added a partner and changed address. In itself, unremarkable. Except, it highlighted the problem at the heart of uncovering who had murdered the jeweller: fifteen years. It might as well have been fifty. People had lived and loved and died during that time, some taking their secrets with them. Joe Franks was one of them, his life boiled down to a collection of junk revealing little about who he’d been.

  Parts of it I could guess. His wife’s affair must have been a blow to a man already drowning financially and probably guaranteed the end of the marriage. Add in the betrayal by Dennis Boyd – a man he trusted – and it was possible to imagine his state of mind.

  Beyond that, all I had were questions. Had Franks, in a desperate bid to get back on his feet, got involved in a diamond deal way out of his league? Was Yannis in it with him? Had the Greek killed him or had him killed? Boyd didn’t think so but if the deal was big enough to let the thieves leave two stones behind, anything was possible.

  The two remaining witnesses were the only real hope of discovering the truth. Andrew Geddes might know something if I could get him talking about it.

  Bath Street was busy. Cars at the traffic lights revved their engines impatiently as if they were under starter’s orders and ready for the race to begin. Above them, the sun was losing its battle to break through, and it was humid; rain wasn’t far away. God hadn’t come to a decision on the weather; when he made up his mind, we’d be the first to know.

  On the pavement across the road outside an Italian restaurant, a sallow guy in T-shirt and jeans hunkered to chalk today’s specials on a blackboard. I’d taken a woman to dinner there a lifetime ago and could still see her toying provocatively with the stem of her wine glass as she lied to me. Even if I’d known I wouldn’t have minded. Later maybe, but not then.

  A block further up the street, a gold rectangle mounted on the wall next to a heavy door told me I’d found where Joe Franks’ former accountants lived these days.

  Inside, a female receptionist glanced from behind a mahogany desk and smiled. Behind her, a large grey Perspex sign with the Turner, O’Neil and McCabe logo etched in burgundy reassured anybody who needed reassuring they’d come to the right place. During our brief phone conversation, something in her voice had drawn me in and I’d imagined coming home to that sweet sound after a day in the snake pit. Then, without trying, she’d turned me off. Seeing her auburn hair and angel face made me change my mind about changing my mind.

  ‘Charlie Cameron. I’m meeting Mr McCabe at two.’

  She checked my name off against a list in front of her and put a tick beside it.

  ‘Of course. I remember. I’ll see if he’s available. Have a seat, Mr Cameron.’

  I didn’t have to wait long. Barry McCabe collected me himself, tired-looking, balding and somewhere in his fifties with a pallor that matched his clammy handshake.

  I followed him up several flights of wide stairs to the third floor. At the top, he stopped to get his breath back. ‘Make more sense to be closer to the door, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Or take the lift.’

  ‘Building doesn’t have one.’

  ‘Alternatively, quit smoking.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m considering it. Can’t see me surviving another ten years of this.’

  McCabe senior had retired. I guessed the son wouldn’t mind following his example. His office was big. About as much as you could say for it. Apart from a desk – the twin of the one at reception – a couple of chairs and some lifeless landscapes on the walls, there was nothing in it. If I’d expected banks of filing cabinets I was off the mark. Somewhere in the bowels of the building an army of drones dealt with the real work, while their leader lunched with clients.

  When he was seated, he leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘So, what can I do for you, Mr Cameron?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator and I’d like to speak to your father about a client of his.’

  He made a hissing sound through his teeth to warn me how impossible my request was. ‘My father hasn’t worked in the business for eight years.’

  ‘He’s retired, I know. But I’d still like to talk to him. Does he live in the city?’

  ‘No. My parents moved to Millport. “Far from the madding crowd” and all that. Hard to believe how different the weather is. Supposed to be because of the Gulf Stream. Dad loves it. If you tell me what it’s about, I may be able to help, although you must understand confidentiality forbids me from going into details.’

  ‘Of course. Does the name Franks mean anything to you?’

  He scratched the side of his balding head. ‘Franks. Franks. Can’t say that it does. How long ago was this?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  McCabe flattened his hands on the top of the desk, as if I’d solved a particularly baffling mystery. ‘Well, there you are. No wonder I didn’t recognise it. We started storing files electronically before we moved from Battlefield Road. Couldn’t afford the space, quite frankly. Anything prior to then is long gone.’

  ‘I’m hoping your father might remember the name.’

  Barry considered what I was saying and agreed. ‘He might, though don’t depend on it. His memory isn’t what it was.’

  ‘Can you arrange for me to meet him?’

  His eyes narrowed and I sensed him withdraw. ‘You haven’t said what this is about. Nothing that involves the firm, I hope.’

  ‘Not at all. Joe Franks was murdered. I’m trying to establish how solvent he was at the time of his death. As his accountant, your father would’ve been better placed than anyone to know.’

  McCabe was still suspicious. Understandably, his instincts were to protect his family and his business. Ancient history or not, he was closing down on me and didn’t bother to hide his reluctance; his arms spread in a gesture of powerlessness. ‘I’m not sure Dad will meet you. That would be for him to decide. Anyway, it’s all a bit academic.’

  ‘Academic, how?’

  ‘They’re away on a cruise of the Mediterranean. Flew to Palma yesterday. Won’t be back for ten days. Sorry.’

  He didn’t sound sorry.

  ‘When he returns will you tell him I’d like to talk to him about an old client of his? He doesn’t have to come to Glasgow. I’ll go to Millport.’

  Barry had no talent for lying. ‘I’ll mention it to him, of course. Be prepared for him to say no. Can be a stubborn bugger when he feels like it.’

  ‘Can’t we all.’

  McCabe showed me out though it meant climbing the stairs yet again. At the front door he pointed to the sky. ‘Rain by the looks of it.’

  I left the weather forecasting to him and shook his moist palm a second time.

  ‘Tell your father a man’s freedom may depend on what he can remember.’

  He smiled, only half believing me. ‘You make it sound dramatic.’

  ‘It is.’

  15

  Dennis Boyd stood with his hands deep in his coat pockets and gazed at the rain falling on the water. No rowers or joggers today. Strathclyde Park was deserted. The roll-ups were gone; the cigarette stuck in a corner of his mouth was an Embassy. Boyd glanced at the grey sky and asked himself what the fuck he was doing here; a question needing no answer.

  Three days earlier – three days and three sleepless nights, to be exact – the warmth of the sun on his face for the first time in so many years had made him more determined than ever to fight for his freedom and not have it taken from him again. That fight had already begun. Diane’s fears had been way off; Cameron w
as a straight-shooter. Better than that, he was smart.

  Boyd thought back to Central Station. While he’d waited for Diane, he’d stayed in the phone booth thumbing through directories, pretending to be speaking to someone so he could stay out of sight. The private investigator’s simple advert in Yellow Pages had found him.

  Diane was against it. There was a train leaving for London in five hours; she urged him to quit Scotland and get on it. Her argument was sound; Glasgow was too small to hide him for long. Scotland was too small. Eventually, they’d catch him and charge him with murdering Wilson. Although what she was saying made sense, Boyd overruled her. But when she’d offered the cash again, he hadn’t refused. He had both envelopes with him now. For the moment money wasn’t a problem.

  Getting out of the station had been his first priority, though going back to his sister’s house was out of the question. If the police hadn’t already been there, they soon would be. He thought of Annie and how hard this would be on her. She’d believed in him. Her faith would be shattered. Another bridge gone in a long line of burning bridges.

  They drove for over an hour – going nowhere – until Diane parked the car in Lynedoch Street. Around the corner in Woodlands Road they found an all-night café and sat with their heads close together, holding hands, playing the part of the lovers they’d once been. Boyd asked what the time was. Diane told him it was after one o’clock.

  ‘Won’t Ritchie wonder where you are?’

  ‘He’s staying at the hotel tonight.’

  ‘He runs a hotel?’

  ‘No. We own a hotel, and I wish to God we didn’t. More trouble than it’s worth.’

  She steepled her fingers over a half-finished coffee, too harsh to drink, too sweet to leave alone. ‘But even if he was at home, I doubt he’d notice I’d gone.’

  The reply might have been an invitation to take up where they’d left off and Boyd hesitated. He wanted sex; this wasn’t the moment.

  ‘I really do think you’d be better off catching that train.’

  ‘Running’s the same as admitting I killed Wilson and I didn’t. I went to Barlinnie for something I didn’t do once already. I’m not going back. Whatever happens. Besides, the cops will be all over Central by now.’

  ‘You could turn yourself in. Tell your side of the story.’

  Boyd’s eyes bored into her, his voice a monotone, the anger behind it controlled but real. ‘Is that a serious suggestion? Because if it is you can fuck off right now, Diane. I mean it.’

  She covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m only trying to do what’s best. For you. Surely you understand that much? I’ve never stopped caring about you, Dennis, and I’m not about to start. Let’s not kid ourselves. It looks bad and it is. Less than a day after you’re released, one of the witnesses who testified against you is murdered. Here, London or anywhere, it doesn’t matter. Face facts. You’re on the run. The question is where to run to. Any ideas?’

  ‘I was hoping you might have some.’

  ‘I have. London. Get on the train. I’ll drive you to Motherwell to catch it.’

  ‘No. Even the cops could work that out. The private investigator I was telling you about in the station, Charlie Cameron, ever hear of him?’

  Diane’s exasperation boiled over. She drew her hands away. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dennis. You’re losing it. You don’t know the first thing about him. He could be a sleaze with bad breath and dandruff who specialises in pictures of people with their clothes off. Talk sense.’

  ‘I am talking sense. Somebody needs to ask the questions I was going to ask. Find out who framed me. Cameron could do that. It’s worth a try.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘The London train? Last chance.’

  Boyd shook his head. ‘Non-starter. Forget it.’

  They toyed with their coffee cups. A passing waitress offered them a refill. Finally, Diane said, ‘All right, Dennis, have it your way. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Contact Cameron. Get him to agree to meet me.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  Boyd ran a hand through his beard. ‘Get rid of this, stay out of sight and pray Cameron is more than a low-life muckraker.’

  ‘What if he isn’t interested?’

  ‘Then I’m fucked, aren’t I? They’ll catch me and I’ll go down.’

  ‘If this Cameron agrees to meet you, where will you be?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. ‘You can stay at my place, at least until morning. Then I’ll drive you wherever you want.’

  Boyd looked up. Diane had always been a strong woman; a lady who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. She’d made the move that started the affair. Boyd hadn’t objected then and he didn’t object now.

  ‘It’s coming up on 2 a.m. Ritchie won’t be back until lunchtime at the earliest. That gives us time.’

  The ‘us’ didn’t escape Dennis Boyd and he remembered why he’d been so attracted to her. In truth, he’d never forgotten.

  He paid the bill and followed her into the street. On the journey to her house, Diane kept her eyes on the road, while a late-night music station murmured in the background. She didn’t believe some private investigator, advertising in Yellow Pages, had any hope of discovering who murdered Joe Franks. Neither did Dennis Boyd, but Charlie Cameron – whoever he was – was all that stood between him and the rest of his life in the Bar-L.

  Boyd allowed the motion of the car to gently rock him. Sleep would’ve been welcome; his mind wouldn’t let him. The image of Hughie Wilson lying on the car park floor appeared, and with it the knowledge he’d fallen into a trap conceived long before he walked through the gates of Barlinnie prison. They’d known exactly what to expect from him and been ready.

  For Boyd, seeing the house was a journey back in time. He’d been there so often with Joe Franks. And with his wife when Joe wasn’t around. His affair with Diane had gone on in hotel rooms in the city and upstairs in the master bedroom. In those days, Diane had had the place decorated in Laura Ashley floral prints with matching curtains. Not to Dennis Boyd’s taste; she certainly had been. For almost a year they’d met, often in the jeweller’s home, and fucked each other’s brains out, while giant lilies bowed their heads and watched from the walls.

  Inside, memories flooded over him, mostly of Joe, discussing what he wanted him to do or where he needed him to be and splashing whisky into a glass that already had plenty in it. Franks had been a generous employer, often, for no reason, paying Dennis an unexpected bonus. When that happened, his conscience complained and he made excuses to avoid having sex with Diane. Only, the sensual power of Franks’ wife was too strong to resist. Soon they were at it again, harder than ever. And Boyd couldn’t have cared less about Franks.

  Diane took her coat off in the lounge and bent forward to remove her shoes. The V-neck sweater she was wearing showed the top of her bra and her breasts. Beautiful breasts.

  ‘Bathroom’s at the top of…’ She smiled. ‘But you know that, don’t you? You know where everything is.’

  It was as much as Boyd could do to stop himself from throwing her on the floor and having her. She was aware of the effect she was creating; the smile followed him to the door. In the bathroom, Boyd took off his coat, jacket and shirt and stared at his reflection. The last time he’d looked in this mirror a different face had looked back: a younger fresher guy with his best years still in front of him. Boyd didn’t lie to himself. The decade and a half in the Big House were those better years. And they were gone.

  He ran the tap and squeezed Ritchie Kennedy’s shaving gel into his palm. Once again, he was in another man’s home with another man’s woman. Wanting her. Joe Franks hadn’t deserved to be treated the way he’d treated him. Boyd wondered if Kennedy – so quick to squire Joe’s widow – was as deserving.

  The arms circled his chest before he realised she was there. Hot breath on his neck made him cut himself; in the mirror a
red line appeared on his chin. She kissed his back and drew her nails across his belly. Boyd tensed. He turned to face her, fingers already underneath the sweater. Beneath the bra, the nipple was stone-hard, waiting. Ritchie might have saved her when she’d needed saving but for a woman like Diane there had to be more than security on offer. Kennedy had only done half the job. The rest should be played out slowly between her smooth slender thighs. She was up for it. After fifteen years, so was he. Until an image of Wilson’s body on the cold concrete came into his mind and Boyd stepped away.

  ‘Bad timing, Mrs Kennedy.’

  ‘It didn’t stop us before.’

  ‘The police weren’t after me before.’

  He was right and she knew it. ‘Some of Ritchie’s clothes are on the bed. You’re about the same size. They should do well enough. Shoes too. The man’s got more pairs than me.’

  Boyd mumbled thanks, finished shaving and tried on the clothes: expensive and a decent fit. Seeing himself in the shirt and tie was startling. When he came downstairs, she handed him a whisky – her first husband had done the same thing once, less than an hour after Boyd had been with his wife.

  Diane pointed at the ceiling. ‘Sorry about that. Couldn’t help myself. Imagine sex is the last thing on your mind.’

  She had to be joking.

  ‘A pressure you don’t need right now. They say men who’ve been in prison struggle to—’

  Boyd grabbed her and pinned her against the wall. In seconds, he had her naked and was pounding into her. Diane cried out and bit his shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted in a sly grin.

  It didn’t last long; it didn’t need to. They were back where they’d been before Joe Franks was murdered, before Barlinnie, before Ritchie Kennedy.

  When it was over, they didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary; they both knew what it meant. Diane picked her clothes off the floor and walked to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make something to eat then we’d better leave in case my husband decides to come home early.’ She laughed. ‘That would complicate things, wouldn’t it? Where am I taking you?’