by Owen Mullen
‘Anywhere, as long as it’s away from Glasgow and anybody who might recognise me.’
While he waited, Boyd remembered his conversation with the guards in the Bar-L.
a minute of her life she’s never going to get back, eh?
a minute the first time, maybe
He had exaggerated.
Over poached eggs on toast, she asked again where he wanted to go. His answer remained the same: out of the city. Diane fished in a drawer and found a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. ‘See how these are. Ritchie’s too vain to wear them. They’re not very strong and nobody’s seen you with glasses.’
Boyd put them on. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like Clark Kent’s geeky older brother.’
‘That’ll do.’
Before they left, she gathered his old clothes, put them in a bag and emptied the ashtrays on top. Ritchie didn’t smoke, and, even if he had, he was too much of a snob to go near roll-ups.
They got into her car and left at seven-thirty. At the Ayr Road junction, she threw an option into the mix. ‘We could be at the coast in half an hour. No?’
He let the suggestion pass without a word and they joined traffic heading towards Glasgow. Lack of sleep made them subdued. Boyd’s thoughts were dark. Diane sensed his mood and stayed quiet. Three miles from the city centre she broke the silence. ‘Please tell me where the hell we’re going.’
In the passenger seat, Dennis stared straight ahead. At Mount Florida he said, ‘Take a right. Drop me in Hamilton. Get a hold of Cameron. If he agrees to help, tell him to expect my call.’
He’d lost her. ‘The investigator I understand, but why Hamilton?’
‘Why not? You said I look different. Different enough to walk down the street? We’ll soon see. Wherever I go it has to be somewhere Cameron can reach me. Otherwise, I may as well turn myself in and be done with it.’
Diane Kennedy sighed. There was logic to what he was saying; she didn’t have to approve. ‘Okay. Hamilton, it is.’
The last three days had been the longest days of Dennis Boyd’s life. Now, standing on the shore with rain plastering his hair against his head, he came to a decision. This would be the final night he’d spend here. It was time to move on.
A lone rower strained against the elements, cutting through the water in a show of strength and determination. It would take more than that to bring the result Boyd needed. He’d been impressed with Charlie Cameron. The PI had made it clear he’d come to talk. Only that. If Boyd lied, the talking would stop. Every question had had a point. He’d probed, searching for inconsistency in the answers, which would make it easy for him to pass. Boyd kept it simple, sticking to what little he knew. There were no inconsistencies in the story. He didn’t do it. Not then and not now.
Later, he’d called Diane and heard the news: Cameron was on board. Since then, nothing. Nothing except a fear that grew with every hour spent trapped like an animal.
At the far end of the loch, the rower slumped across his oars, recovering from the effort. To the south, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and a rainbow arced in the sky over the racecourse: a sign of good luck. Boyd grinned humourlessly and started walking back the way he’d come. If it wasn’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all.
One more night.
Emil Rocha looked out of the hotel window at the rain falling steadily on the city. To his right, the Kingston Bridge spanned the river; a very different landscape from the barren hills surrounding his villa. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket beside two fluted glasses on a table by the TV. He glanced over his shoulder to the bathroom door and smiled. Kim was making him wait. Good for her. The Spaniard was confident that when she finally appeared, it would be worth it. Getting her to meet him at the Hilton hadn’t been difficult; she believed he’d save her and her daughter from Sean. Even if he hadn’t suggested it, she would have come anyway – he’d met her type before: it was who she was. His objective was less complicated. And Emil Rocha usually got what he wanted.
The room at the Hilton was booked for one night; he’d no intention of sleeping here. Rocha lost his virginity at sixteen and had a long history of bedding females – unattached, married, divorced, he didn’t mind; the world was awash with wives unhappy with their husbands – so long as they inspired something in him. Kim Rafferty certainly had. When Sean introduced them, Rocha’s sharp eyes immediately noticed the marks on her face and he’d known she was his for the taking. Sympathetic words and a generous gift were all it needed. Emil had both.
The door opened. Kim Rafferty stood in the frame, naked apart from the present he’d given her sparkling at her throat. They kissed, then kissed again. Rocha lifted her in his arms and laid her gently on the bed. Kim said, ‘I wore the necklace just like you asked.’
He caressed her soft flesh with the tip of his finger, tracing a line between her breasts to her belly and beyond. Kim gasped and Rocha whispered, ‘I like a woman who does what she’s told. Now, turn over.’
He was a good-looking man, but Kim wasn’t attracted to Emil Rocha. Despite the show she’d put on for him, she’d hoped he’d get the sex over with quickly so they could talk about how he intended to help her and Rosie. For all his old-world charm, Kim had expected the Spaniard to be easily satisfied. She’d underestimated him.
Kim lost count of how many times he had her: on the bed and on the floor, his lean body crushing her; bending her over the upholstered arm of a chair, moaning with pleasure, as he ploughed her from behind with the sound of his flesh slapping against her buttocks; up against the wall, her legs wrapped round his waist, and back to the bed.
Rocha was insatiable. Yet, he still wasn’t done. Kim had had her share of lovers; none had been like this. He poured champagne and handed her a glass, eying her nudity like a horny schoolboy.
She said, ‘I told you, I don’t drink.’
Rocha sat beside her. ‘We all do a lot of things we say we don’t. Drinking is one example. Spreading your legs for a man who isn’t your husband, another. This afternoon, it appears you do both.’
Kim didn’t appreciate his joke, pushed the glass away, and changed the subject. ‘Have you thought about me and Rosie?’
‘Of course. Since last night I’ve thought about little else. The situation disturbs me. It cannot be allowed to go on.’
Kim moved closer. ‘I’ve been thinking, too, Emil. Perhaps, we could stay in your villa. The three of us. Rosie’s sweet, you’ll soon be very fond of her.’
Rocha sipped from his glass. ‘If she’s like her mother, I’m certain I will. Alas, my darling, when you get to my age you like things just as they are. Relationships are a complication better avoided. And, in spite of his obvious failings as a husband, Sean’s a valued associate. The ties between us are deep. We make a lot of money together.’ Rocha kissed the slope of her neck. ‘He doesn’t appreciate what he’s got.’
‘And never has.’
‘Did you ever love him?’
Kim replied candidly. ‘In the beginning, yes, maybe I did. It didn’t last. Like most folk in Glasgow, I’d heard of the Rafferty family. The stories he told me about his upbringing were terrifying – his father, Jimmy, was a monster, who beat his sons and set them against each other. Stupidly, I believed Sean wasn’t like him.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Everybody pleaded with me to have nothing to do with him. Of course, I knew better. By the time I realised I was wrong, Rosie was on the way and it was too late, I was part of his plan. The Rafferty name was despised in the city, something Sean was determined to change. Having a wife and a daughter was, and is, important to his image of appearing ordinary.’
Rocha corrected her. ‘Not ordinary. Sean Rafferty’s a lot of things, ordinary isn’t one of them. To appear respectable.’
‘Respectable, you’re right.’
‘Didn’t you have family of your own? Couldn’t they have helped?’
‘My parents were dead. As for the rest – I hadn’t seen them i
n years.’
Rocha caressed the inside of her wrist. ‘And what do you think would happen if your respectable husband discovered his lovely wife, the mother of his child, had spent the afternoon in a hotel room being fucked?’
‘I don’t need to think, I know. He’d kill me. Kill me with his bare hands.’
Through the shadows at the end of the garden, the River Clyde flowed to the city and on to the sea. Sean Rafferty was in the conservatory – not drunk, but getting there. He was considering his decision to divorce Kim. It needed more thought. She’d fight for custody and get it – the woman always did. The newspapers, bastards that they were, would jump all over the story. His carefully contrived image would be damaged; once Kim started talking, he’d never get it back. Rosie was a child, too young to understand her mother was a bitch.
As usual, Kim and Rosie were upstairs and he was alone, still seething over the morning meeting. Rocha had used his public profile as an excuse to turn his proposal down, then kicked his lunch invitation into touch. The relationship had cooled; he didn’t understand why. Tomorrow, the Spaniard was flying home. All Sean had to show for his efforts was a nice watch.
He started to pour another drink, thought better of it and lifted his mobile. Fifteen miles away, Vicky Farrell answered. A call from Sean was never good news; she faked it as she’d been doing with men all her life.
‘Sean. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Rafferty said, ‘Set me up with one of the West End girls. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.’
‘Anybody in particular?’
‘No. On second thoughts, make it two.’
‘You really are in the mood.’
‘Actually, Vicky, I’m not. But I will be.’
16
Sean kept his eyes on the road and his hands firmly on the wheel to conceal the trembling, his mood as sour as the taste in his mouth; hangovers were becoming a habit. Vicky had organised a blonde and a black chick from Liverpool for him. They’d done their best to please the boss. He’d performed poorly – too much on his mind – and ended the night back in the conservatory, finishing what he’d started, getting drunk.
Rocha had only a few hours left in Scotland; this afternoon, he’d be in Spain. Nobody needed to tell Sean the visit hadn’t been a success. Rocha’s interests went beyond the drug empire that had made him wealthy, which meant constantly fielding calls. Apart from chauffeuring him to and from the airport, Sean had been with him exactly twice and couldn’t shake the suspicion Emil was avoiding him.
Outside, temperatures were in the low twenties; inside the car the atmosphere was heavy. The bodyguards sat in the back, impassive. Rafferty had yet to hear them speak, even to each other. Their boss liked the sound of his own voice, pontificating on every subject under the sun: politics, history, music, women; the world according to Emil Rocha. Expecting whoever was there to listen.
Today, he was subdued.
This quiet Rocha unnerved Sean; he tried to make conversation. ‘I’m sorry your trip wasn’t more fruitful, Emil.’
The Spaniard faced him. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I got to meet Kim. An interesting woman by any standards. Worth making the journey for that alone.’
Rafferty didn’t respond and settled for driving. Something was definitely wrong.
When they reached Departures, the bodyguards unloaded the suitcases from the boot. Rocha stayed where he was, shifting in his seat so he was looking directly at Sean, his tone uncharacteristically formal. ‘In a week, the latest delivery will arrive. I’m assured it’s already been dispatched.’
‘Good. Very good. Like you said, demand is always greater than supply. This shipment is the biggest yet.’
Rocha’s mouth was a thin line. He said, ‘The biggest and the last, I’m afraid. After this, make your arrangements with somebody else. Doesn’t matter who, I don’t care. Our work… our association… is over.’
Rafferty hadn’t seen this coming. His legitimate revenue streams paled compared to the money he made from the marijuana, cocaine and heroin he bought from Rocha.
‘Have I offended you in some way, Emil?’
Rocha leaned forward, the Rocha of old, his piercing eyes black coals against his dark skin.
‘Offended, no. Caused me concern, most certainly. You have a problem, Sean, one it seems you’re unaware of.’
Sean Rafferty tensed. What the fuck was coming?
‘Kim asked me to get both her and your daughter out of the country. Somewhere you couldn’t get to them.’
Surprise mixed with anger on Rafferty’s face. Rocha said, ‘If she’s willing to betray you to me, she’ll betray both of us to the police. It’s merely a question of when. And that’s a risk I’m not comfortable with.’ He opened the door. ‘Of course, your first instinct is to kill her. I would be the same.’ The Spaniard shook his head. ‘I’d counsel against doing anything before you’re sure who else she’s spoken to. Your fine wife is in a position to destroy you. Act carefully.’
Over his shoulder his bodyguards patiently waited for him. Through the windscreen, he looked up at the sky, resigned acceptance in his voice, almost as though he was speaking to himself. ‘We’ve had a good run. A shame it has to end. When you’ve done what’s necessary, call me and we’ll talk. With the threat gone, perhaps there’s a way to reinstate our arrangement and our friendship. I hope so.’ He offered a regretful half-smile. ‘Otherwise…’
Emil Rocha held out his hand.
Sean didn’t take it.
In the wing mirror, Rafferty watched Rocha head into Departures, his burly henchmen in his wake. When the automatic doors closed behind them, Sean hammered the steering wheel with his fists, screaming with rage. He’d welcomed the visit, seeing it as an opportunity to forge an even closer relationship with the drug lord. Now, he regretted Emil Rocha ever setting foot in Scotland. Outwardly, he treated Sean like a son, complimenting his success, admiring his wife – ‘your fine wife’, he’d called her – in a caricature of old-fashioned respect. In reality, he’d enjoyed sharing the danger he’d uncovered, the danger Kim had put both of them in. The quietly spoken words weren’t the commiserations of a friend to a deceived husband – they were a thinly disguised ultimatum. In his urbane way, he was telling him to fix it or there would be more than the future of his business at stake.
otherwise…
A memory of the Spaniard excusing himself, breaking away to make a call, his voice soft, gently wooing the woman on the other end of the line, came to him. And he understood. Nobody knew how many men had died on Rocha’s orders. Scores, maybe hundreds.
Behind the gifts and fawning charm in the restaurant lay an ice-cold killer the equal of any. That man had fucked his wife. Offering sinister advice even as he boasted about it.
Rafferty closed his eyes, picturing how it would’ve been: Rocha pinning a naked Kim to the bed, relishing his power as she shuddered and climaxed under him, smiling a tight smile at her faith in him as her saviour. Sean struggled to keep control of the fury burning like acid inside him. Kim had been history long before Rocha’s private jet landed in Glasgow. But her betrayal with the Spaniard had condemned her to a fate more awful than anything she could contemplate. Cuckolding him would’ve been enough. What she’d done was worse. Much worse. Plotting to take Rosie was a sin beyond mercy. Death would come – that much was certain – but before she breathed her final breath, she had to suffer as few had suffered. And she would; he’d see to it.
He punched the buttons on his mobile. Vicky assumed her boss was on with a complaint about the girls the previous night and answered reluctantly; two conversations in twenty-four hours with Sean Rafferty were more than she could handle. More than anyone could handle.
‘Sean.’
‘Send a girl to the airport hotel.’
‘Any particular one?’
‘Yeah, actually, you. I want you.’
Most of Vicky Farrell’s adult life had been spent in the skin trade; nothing about men surprised he
r. Some were considerate, others rough, almost animals. Sean was neither.
It had gone on for ninety minutes. But it wasn’t sex. There was no joy. No lust. He’d been relentless, emotionless, almost like a machine, repeating the act but taking no pleasure in it. When he’d finished, he’d thrown money on the bed and told her what he needed her to do – the only words spoken since she’d arrived. Vicky heard them and felt sick.
Part II
17
I’d committed myself to Dennis Boyd. Now, it was time to get serious. In the office, I emptied the cardboard box onto the desk and set about arranging the contents into some kind of order. I didn’t kid myself. Apart from the Filofax with its code, there wasn’t much. The relevant entries covered a period of three months.
BS/10. TM/6. CL/6.
CL/7. BS/12. Y/2.
CL/3. CL/4. BS/5.
BS/8.
TM/6 BS/10. CL/5.
Y/2. BS/4.
I turned my attention to the papers. Reading the dog-eared sheets confirmed my original opinion that there was nothing of importance amongst them. Franks had thought them so unimportant, he hadn’t bothered to file the last couple of invoices he’d received. One of them – from his accountant, McCabe Senior – had a personal note tacked to it thanking the jeweller for his business, signed with a sprawling A.
Unfortunately for Dennis Boyd, ‘A’ was sunning himself on the deck of a cruise liner or trailing around Pompeii along with three dozen sweaty tourists determined to get their money’s worth, even if it killed them. Hopefully, we’d talk when he returned. Until then, all I had – apart from a few scraps from Pat Logue and Diane Kennedy – was right in front of me. My gut told me I was looking at the answer; it wasn’t often wrong.
