by Owen Mullen
With luck, Patrick would find something useful; meanwhile, the late Joe Franks remained a mystery.
I called Diane Kennedy and got her husband. Ritchie was a man of few words, at least where I was concerned. ‘She isn’t here, she’s in town.’
The phone went dead.
Diane, on the other hand, was pleased to hear from me when I dialled her mobile.
‘Have you found anything to help Dennis?’
‘No. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Her expectations – so far beyond reality – surprised me, and I had to stop myself from reminding her it had only been days. Now I knew where Pat Logue had been coming from with his ‘ingratitude’ comment. On cue, the door opened and the bold Patrick came in. I waved him to take a seat while I finished my conversation.
Diane said, ‘Then why’re you calling me?’
‘I need to speak to you. Today if possible.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here. There’s something I want you to do. I’ll be in my office till three this afternoon, does that suit?’
She seemed unsure. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Good. See you then.’
For all his shortcomings as a husband, Pat Logue understood people. ‘Didn’t sound too keen, did she? Considerin’ she’s the client and her old boyfriend’s on the run.’
‘You’re not wrong.’
‘How does the husband feel about it?’
‘Kennedy doesn’t have much to say. He’s clearly uncomfortable with it. Boyd’s an old boyfriend after all.’
‘Think he’s jealous?’
‘She’s still a good-looking woman.’
Patrick said, ‘“The jealous are troublesome to others but a torment to themselves.” William Penn.’
He was starting to bore me. ‘What’ve you got?’
He took the hint and consulted a fresh set of betting slips. ‘Ritchie Kennedy’s a man on a mission.’
‘How so?’
‘Went from runnin’ a pub in Govan to owning three in record time. Plus, he has some property he rents out. All before he hooked up with the merry widow.’
‘Maybe he’s a hard worker.’
‘Or just hard. Plays his cards close to his chest. No partners; a genuine self-made man.’
‘Any suggestion he had something to do with the Joe Franks murder?’
‘No. But he moved in on the wife double-quick.’
‘Yeah. He’d been after her for a while, she told me. Tried it on with her more than once. She only took him up on his offer when she discovered she was headed for the poor house, thanks to Joe.’
‘Her very own knight in shinin’ armour. Kennedy squared the mortgage so she didn’t lose the roof over her head. Two years later, it was marzipan all round. Later on, he got shot of the pubs and went into the hotel business.’
‘How’s it doing?’
‘Same as everybody else in hospitality. Every year’s a bumper year accordin’ to VisitScotland. Never seems to reach the people on the front line. I talked to a guy whose sister was employed there for a while as a silver-service waitress when there was a big wedding on. Apparently, Kennedy has a temper. Jumps up and down and shouts a lot. Can’t keep staff.’
‘But so far he hasn’t killed anybody?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is the hotel in financial trouble?’
‘Nothing a couple of decent trading quarters wouldn’t put right. To give Kennedy some credit, he’s on the premises every day.’
‘And his wife?’
Patrick tucked his notes in his inside pocket; he didn’t need them. ‘Now and again. She’s wheeled out occasionally to have dinner with some visiting bigwigs. No danger of gettin’ her hands dirty, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You haven’t said anything about Franks.’
‘Not much more to say. Haven’t come across anybody who didn’t like him.’
‘Even though he owed them money? Strange.’
‘That only happened in the last three months. Thinkin’ is the diamond deal was an attempt to get out of the hole he was in. And the debts weren’t huge. The mortgage was behind and he hadn’t paid the office in the Argyll Arcade in a while. Beyond that, the cars and household bills had been allowed to slide, but nobody I spoke to had been shafted. Seems Franks wasn’t that kind of guy. The big surprise was that when he died, he was penniless. No insurance. No savings. Nada.’
‘His wife was the big loser.’
‘Not for long, thanks to Ritchie Boy.’
‘Yeah, but there’s something not right here, Pat. I feel it. Why didn’t he sack Boyd? Wouldn’t that be the obvious thing to do? And why do you need a bodyguard if you’re not doing any business? And why cut him out of your biggest deal ever?’
‘Good questions, Charlie.’
‘Why do we believe Franks knew about the affair?’
Patrick gave it some thought and came back with the correct answer. ‘Because Dennis and Diane said so.’
‘Right. But maybe he didn’t, or maybe Boyd’s right and he did know. He just didn’t care.’
Patrick sat forward in his chair. ‘She saw the writin’ was on the wall and… and what? Cooked it up with her lover?’
‘No. She was in the dark about the diamond deal and had no idea she was broke. Boyd didn’t do it, according to her, and she’s paying us to prove it. Diane doesn’t fit.’
We stared at each other across the table. In Cochrane Street, a car horn tooted.
Patrick summed it up. ‘Bollocks, isn’t it?’
I agreed. ‘Absolute bollocks.’
‘So, what do you want me to do, Charlie?’
‘We need these witnesses and while you’re at it, Pat,’ I scribbled down the initials and handed them to him, ‘see if you can kick up anything on these.’
‘What are they?’
‘They show up a lot in the last few weeks of Franks’ life. Boyd says he was secretive around him. What you’re holding in your hand bears it out. Joe was meeting people and hiding their identities. Has to be people connected with the deal.’
Before Patrick had a chance to comment, Diane Kennedy stepped through the door wearing a beige cardigan, a brown and cream dress and sunglasses; very Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Diane didn’t speak. She just stood, clearly waiting for Pat Logue to make himself scarce. He took the hint. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Charlie,’ he said and left. On his way out he eyed Diane from head to foot. Later he’d give me his verdict.
18
The shades stayed on and I realised that, behind them, Diane’s mood was dark. The you’re-his-only-hope woman was missing; she seemed tense, her tone clipped. ‘You wanted me here so here I am.’
Her old boyfriend was on the run yet she was displeased with having to see me at short notice. Mrs Kennedy was a complex woman, impossible to read. Before I could begin, she blurted out what was on her mind. ‘The police have been. They think I might be in danger.’
‘From Boyd?’
‘Yes, so I gave them the reaction they expected.’
‘Do they have any idea where he is?’
‘No. They don’t.’ She moved back into confrontational mode. ‘So why am I here if you haven’t found anything to help Dennis?’
I threw the Filofax on the desk between us; it landed with a dull thud. ‘Ever look at this?’
She eyed me suspiciously, sensing a trap. ‘Why would I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to figure out what the hell Joe was up to before he died.’ Her expression was stone; my sarcasm wasn’t welcome. I ignored the signs and encouraged her. ‘Go on. See if anything jumps out at you.’
She lifted the Filofax with her manicured fingers and flicked through the pages with the speed of somebody with no interest in reading.
‘Start at the second year.’
The shades came off, replaced by a frown, her mouth set tight with barely concealed temper. Perhaps the visit from the police had rattled her. Whatever the reason,
Diane Kennedy wasn’t keen to help all of a sudden. Her lips moved silently over the words as the pages turned. She said, ‘Give me a clue. What am I supposed to be looking for?’
Telling her would’ve been too easy.
‘What do you see?’
She stroked her nose, deep in thought – or pretending to be. ‘Nothing very much. Dates. Times. Initials.’
‘Recognise any of them?’
She closed the Filofax and withdrew behind her shades again. ‘No. Should I?’
Diane was giving up too easily. Her attitude confused me. She was the one who’d asked for help; I’d assumed we were on the same side. Today, Joe Franks’ widow seemed bored and impatient.
‘I’d say your husband was hiding what he was doing, wouldn’t you?’
‘Joe was a very private man.’
‘You say private. Boyd said secretive. Which is it?’
She stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language and changed the subject with a question of her own. ‘Have you found the other witnesses?’
I told the truth. ‘We’re working on it. Let’s get back to Joe. You didn’t mention he’d been married before.’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘What was his first wife’s name?’
‘Marion. He never talked about her. I heard she’d died a few years ago.’
I took a shot in the dark and hit what I was aiming at. ‘Did he leave her for you?’
Diane had been close to snapping since she arrived. Now she did. Her cheeks reddened; anger or whatever it was she’d brought with her rose to the surface. ‘What has this got to do with proving Dennis didn’t kill Joe? You drag me in here, give me some empty pages to look at, and now you’re on about a woman I’ve never met. Where the hell is this going? Cut the crap, Cameron. Do what I’m paying you to do. Help Dennis.’
Her outrage was impressive though difficult to believe. Diane Kennedy was as hard as nails. The idea that a visit from the police would be enough to upset her was fanciful at best. She was nervy and reacting all right, though not from anything I’d done.
‘You said Ritchie tried it on with you at your house. What was he doing there?’
‘He had business with Joe.’
My next question pushed her over the edge. ‘What kind of business?’
She stood up, unhappy at the line I was taking. ‘What is this? Joe’s first wife? Ritchie? If there’s something you want to say, spit it out. On the phone you said when I got here, you’d tell me why you had to see me. Well, I’m here.’
Behind her, afternoon sunshine from the window cast a golden aura round her head. For a moment, she was almost beautiful and I understood how Joe Franks had fallen for her. But it was an illusion. Diane wasn’t anybody’s idea of an angel. She’d proved she was a lady more than capable of looking out for Number One; her overplayed annoyance wasn’t down to me.
I picked the Filofax off the table and held it out. ‘Why don’t we both cut the crap? The answers we’re searching for are probably in these tired old pages.’
Diane slumped into the chair, suddenly exhausted. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Ritchie and I haven’t been getting on. Before I left the house, we had a huge row. Screaming at each other.’
I guessed what she was about to tell me. Pat Logue had taken the opportunity to lay another quote on me, but he’d been on the money: the Kennedys were a couple at odds with each other and Dennis Boyd was at the centre of it.
‘What’s his problem?’
‘He doesn’t like Dennis. Doesn’t like me being involved with him. Wants me to drop the whole thing.’
‘It isn’t hard to see where he’s coming from. After all…’
‘Dennis was my lover. You don’t have to remind me. It’s all I hear. Ritchie’s threatening to leave. He’s given me an ultimatum. Him or Boyd.’
‘What did you expect?’
She rubbed her eyes and asked a question only she could answer. ‘What Boyd would do when he came out was easy to guess. I was only trying to stop him from going back in again. Why the hell didn’t I just mind my own business?’
Now she was being silly. Whatever happened once the gates of Barlinnie prison closed leaving Dennis Boyd on the outside would always be Diane Kennedy’s business. Boyd had been found guilty of murdering her husband. Not caring wasn’t an option.
She pulled herself together and explained. ‘I expected him to take the money and go. Just go. Anywhere, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t supposed to cost me my marriage.’
‘Look, for what it’s worth, I get how Ritchie must be feeling. Are you in love with Dennis Boyd?’
My directness caught her off guard; for a moment she faltered and bought herself time by repeating what I’d asked. ‘Am I in love with him? I’m not sure. But I am sure he didn’t murder Joe.’
I wondered what it must be like to be a husband whose wife prefers another man. Especially this man. For a second, I forgot the boor who’d ignored me twice and felt for Ritchie Kennedy. Their relationship, born out of tragedy, and quickly – too quickly perhaps – progressing to the altar, was in trouble.
Diane spoke in a voice more like a lost little girl than the brassy piece who’d blown smoke rings in the air and flashed her knickers. ‘What can I do?’
‘Tell Boyd the truth. Tell him where he stands. A friend would.’
She shook her blonde head. ‘You’ve spoken to him, think he’ll listen? Would you?’
Before she left, I wrote the puzzling initials down on a sheet of paper and asked Diane Kennedy again if they made sense to her. Her blank expression said it all. She shrugged and handed them back. ‘Sorry. Not much help, am I?’
When she’d gone, alone in the office with the constant purr of traffic in Cochrane Street heading for George Square, I fell back on an old standby. I made a list. Not exactly high-tech but useful for clarifying how things stood. Joe Franks had been a jeweller, not a spy. He hadn’t landed me with the Enigma Code. No consolation. I started with questions and the scraps of what I knew about him and the case.
The diamond deal:
Who knew about it?
Who was in it with Franks?
How did it go wrong?
Why keep Boyd out of it?
Franks:
Did Joe Franks know about the affair?
If so, why keep Dennis Boyd as a bodyguard?
Why was he secretive around Boyd?
BS. TM. CL. What do they mean?
What do they tell us about Franks?
How did the business get in trouble?
Dennis Boyd:
Is it possible it was all about settling a score with Boyd?
Whose feathers did he ruffle while he worked for Franks?
And before Franks?
Where is Boyd now?
Speak to:
Andrew. See what he knows about the case.
Alex Gilby. Kennedy is in the hospitality business. What’s the word on the street?
Interview everybody with any connection to Franks, Dennis Boyd or the trial:
Diane Kennedy.
Ritchie Kennedy.
Dennis Boyd? Not advisable but necessary.
McCabe, Joe’s accountant.
The two remaining witnesses, McDermid and Davidson.
Yannis the Greek – friend or killer?
Joe Franks’ old lawyer.
Arcade office owner?
BS, TM and CL once their identities are known.
Plenty of threads. I started with the obvious – Y.
The number rang out. Nobody answered. Next up, the Arcade owner. A bright voice at the other end of the line informed me Mr Shanklin was before her time and no longer worked for the company. I scored him off the list and moved on to the others. Threads, yeah, but none I could tug on for the moment. Finding out who murdered Wilson might have been possible, except – as Pat Logue had underlined – that was what the police were paid to do. A memory of Diane Kennedy stayed with me. She’d been unhappy when she was marr
ied to Joe Franks. Fast-forward and not much had changed. The same went for Dennis Boyd: falsely accused – if you believed his story – of killing Franks, and now the prime suspect in the murder of a man whose testimony had sent him down.
The old lovers had more in common than they knew.
19
My mobile vibrated on the desk. Before I could speak, Pat Logue said, ‘Charlie? Think I know where Liam McDermid is. I’m outside the Schooner Inn. Pick me up.’
‘I’m on my way, Patrick.’
I closed the door of the office and walked to the car park with a spring in my step. My original intention had been to talk to all three witnesses. With Wilson dead, that wasn’t possible. It also wasn’t necessary; one would do.
A left turn at Glasgow Cross and the Tron Steeple took me along Gallowgate past the Barras, the city’s largest and most popular weekend market. On a corner across the road from the Barrowland Ballroom’s gaudy neon façade, the Schooner Inn looked like yet another pub that time forgot – the city was full of them. Inside, I guessed nothing had changed in decades, including some of the customers. In a picture above the door, a ship in full sail battled rough seas. Once upon a time it had proudly flown the Union Jack until, early one Sunday morning, an unknown artist took it on himself to add the Irish flag in protest at a bad result for his football team in the Old Firm derby the day before. Somebody had redressed the affront by daubing red, white and blue on top.
Welcome to Glasgow.
Pat Logue was hunkered on the pavement talking to a wild-looking guy with a beard and dirty hair, sitting against the wall with a paper cup beside him. His face was gaunt, with skin the colour of old wallpaper paste. Stick-thin arms told an all too familiar story of heroin addiction and the hopelessness that came with it. His shoes were worn at the heels and had no laces; they’d be in his pocket, reserved for a more important use: tying-off his blood supply when he injected to increase the size of the vein. He couldn’t have been more than twenty but in a year or two – maybe sooner – he’d be dead. One day, his traumatised brain wouldn’t send the message to his body, his heart would stop beating, and it would be over.
