The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

  ‘It’s hard to watch.’

  Sean laughed. ‘You’re a great fuck, Victoria, excellent value for money, and you do a good job running the girls, but it’s fair to say you never were the brightest button in the box, isn’t it?’

  The insult was old; he’d used it before to remind her of her place.

  ‘I do my best, Sean. I do what you tell me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m telling you to wake the bitch up. While you’re at it, make her eat. Don’t want her dying on us and getting off easy.’

  She took a deep breath and appealed to a sense of decency she knew didn’t exist.

  ‘Sean… you and I go back a long way… are you certain you really want to go through with this? I mean, whatever she’s done, however bad it was, surely this—’

  ‘You volunteering to take her place? ’Cause that can be arranged. As for strolling down memory lane – you’re a hooker, a pro, Victoria. Bought and paid for. “Had more pricks than a second-hand dartboard.”’ He sniggered at his joke, then cut it short. ‘Don’t go all sentimental on me, for Christ’s sake, eh? That isn’t our arrangement. Give me a bell when the withdrawals start like we agreed. Details. I want details, the juicer the better. And you’re right, we do go back a long way – first tart I ever had. They say you never forget the first one, don’t they? Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked you. Be a good girl and don’t force me to change my mind.’

  Vicky stared at the mobile in her hand; trying to reason with Sean had been a waste of time. Whatever line his wife had crossed she was paying for it now. More than retribution. This was revenge Vicky Farrell didn’t have the stomach for.

  Down the hall, a couple were arguing, the man’s voice deep and low, the female yelling, accusing him. Every profession had rules. In hooking the most important one was: get the money first. It sounded as if somebody had forgotten it.

  Vicky realised she was still holding the phone. Instinctively, she called Tony. He answered, his usual cheerful self. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  Vicky lied. ‘Nothing. I was thinking about you.’

  ‘Good to know. You all right?’

  ‘Fine. I’m fine. Just a bit flat. I’m only on for a minute. When will I see you?’

  ‘South coast tomorrow. Up north after that. You sure you’re okay?’

  The temptation to tell him the truth, that she was forcing another woman into addiction so a gangster could put her on the streets, was overwhelming. Vicky felt her resolve cracking. ‘I… I have to go.’

  ‘That’s a short minute.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He sensed her mood. ‘Look, there are services in a few miles. I could pull in. We can talk.’

  She faked it with another lie. ‘No, no. Time of the month. Got the blues. It’ll pass.’

  Tony didn’t believe her. He said, ‘I love you, baby.’

  ‘You can’t know how much I needed to hear that today.’

  Sean Rafferty watched a kestrel glide effortlessly over the river and land in the trees on the other side. It wasn’t a visitor; he’d seen it more than once. Kestrels were birds of prey. Killers who survived by adapting to changing conditions. Sometimes they were even found in the heart of a city. Sean could identify.

  He stepped away from the window. The conversation with Vicky Farrell told him something he hadn’t known: Vicky was losing it. Getting sensitive in her old age. He had a lot on his plate. When things were back on track, he’d deal with her. A shame because, at the height of her powers, she’d been prime, no denying it. But that was then.

  Her biggest mistake hadn’t been questioning what he was doing, unwise though that was. It was the appeal to some imaginary bond between them, the ‘you and I go back a long way’ bullshit, that made him want to fucking throttle her for presuming they were, in some bizarre way, equals.

  A younger Vicky would’ve known better. This Vicky didn’t.

  From the room next door, he heard his daughter’s high-pitched giggle and smiled. The nanny seemed to be working out; Rosie had taken to her. He’d told the agency in Bath Street he’d need help for at least a year – probably longer – and asked them to send somebody experienced, somebody mature. Somebody he wouldn’t spend valuable time thinking about jumping – life was complicated enough.

  Spain was an hour ahead of Scotland; Rocha would be waiting for his call. His threat about the next shipment being the last wasn’t serious – they both had too much to lose. It was a show of strength, a reminder he held the big cards. True. For the moment, at least. But in playing his unnecessary game to prove his superiority, he’d made an error.

  Fucking Kim was one thing. Gloating about it was something else.

  Elephants – and Sean Rafferty – never forgot.

  The day would come. When it did it would be sweet.

  Two thousand miles away, Rocha went into his prodigal-son act, unaware his insinuation at Glasgow Airport had reminded Rafferty he was in bed with a snake. And like all snakes, sooner or later, he would bite.

  ‘I take it you’re calling with good news, am I right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘The problem has gone away?’

  ‘It’s sorted.’

  The Spaniard said, ‘Then, our plans can go on uninterrupted.’ He lowered his voice, suddenly sincere. ‘I never lost faith in you, Sean, I want you to know that. Business is business but your friendship is precious to me. As for the woman…’ he sighed, ‘you’re better off without her. I’m assuming she’s—’

  ‘It’s sorted, Emil.’

  ‘Good, good. And how is your daughter? How is Rosie?’

  ‘She’s fine. We’re both fine.’

  ‘Perhaps you can bring her here someday. Children have an energy a tired old man can only envy. Give her a kiss from me. We’ll speak soon.’

  The line died. Rafferty slowly shook his head. Once upon a time, not so long ago, Emil Rocha was the most impressive man Sean had ever met. He’d wanted to be him. Not any more. The Spaniard had underestimated Jimmy Rafferty’s son. A mistake. Their agreement would be reinstated, they’d continue to profit together, but the spell was broken.

  Elephants and Sean Rafferty…

  26

  The Caledonian MacBrayne ferry from Ardrossan dipped and rose, throwing small lines of spray into the air and onto the bow. The morning’s early promise had delivered a beautiful day and I was standing as far forward on the top deck as they allowed, shading my eyes against the sun. Ahead, spread across the horizon under a blue sky, the island of Arran might have been Tahiti.

  Over to my left, a shout went up. People pointed at the grey-brown dorsal fin of a basking shark gliding through the water. When the creature rolled, giving us a sight of its white belly and huge open jaws, the watchers broke into applause. One of the crew, wearing green oilskins and a woolly hat, smiled; he’d seen it all before and hadn’t forgotten the thrill of that first time.

  Pat Logue had done an amazing job. Because of him we had a chance to discover the truth behind the testimony that had doomed Dennis Boyd. He was waiting for me when I returned to the car deck, leaning against the door with his eyes closed and his face turned towards the warm light.

  With Patrick, the philosopher was never far away. Whatever he’d had to drink brought it to the surface. ‘Crossin’ water always puts your troubles behind you. Ever noticed that?’

  ‘Can’t say I have, Patrick.’

  ‘“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds you in its net of wonder forever.”’

  He was at it again. I didn’t remind him the spell hadn’t been strong enough to drag him away from the bar. He sighed and stretched. ‘Guess who said it.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  He was immune to my apathy. ‘It’s an obvious one.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. Jacques Yves Cousteau.’

  ‘Very good. Now let’s get our heads in the game. Where’re we going?’

&nb
sp; ‘Lamlash.’ He checked his watch. ‘Davidson’s probably in the pub.’

  A man after his own heart.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Not too many to choose from, Charlie. Olive says her father goes to The Pierhead Tavern or the Bay Hotel. Spends most of his time gettin’ bluttered.’

  From the ferry we drove the three miles from Brodick to Lamlash, where two dozen small boats lay at anchor in the bay. Scotland the wow! Today, my mind was on other things.

  I parked in the car park opposite the pub. Outside, a group of blonde-haired female backpackers were drinking lager and enjoying the weather. Inside, the bar was busy. I scanned the faces, not sure who I was looking for, illogically certain I’d recognise him. Davidson was in his seventies. Nobody came close.

  Behind me Patrick said, ‘Maybe we’ve missed him.’

  A sign directed customers to the terrace bar. We followed it upstairs. The terrace was full; all the seats were taken. Nobody there was Davidson’s age.

  Patrick said, ‘He isn’t here.’

  In the distance, a lone figure at the end of the pier, gazing towards the Holy Isle, caught my attention. ‘Yes, he is.’

  I ran towards the flotilla of small boats at anchor with Patrick at my heels, our footsteps heavy on the stone jetty. Davidson was in a world of his own and didn’t know we were there until I called his name. He turned slowly, with an effort drawing himself to his full height, one hand gripping an almost empty half-bottle of Famous Grouse. The whisky hadn’t brought him peace: dark stubble covered his jaw and his eyes were red from crying. He wiped them on his sleeve like a child and stared through us.

  Thanks to Pat Logue, Dennis Boyd might still have a chance to prove his innocence: we’d found the third witness.

  Before I could introduce myself, Davidson spoke, his voice thick with booze. ‘Leave my daughter be, you hear? She isn’t part of this.’

  He was expecting somebody else. I didn’t enlighten him. Not yet. He growled an impotent demand and took an unsteady step forward. ‘Leave her out of it.’

  Olive’s father was older than his years, his thin grey hair a match for his face. The one concession he’d made to the sunny day was a white shirt, open at the neck, under a wine cardigan worn with charcoal trousers. I tried to picture how he must have looked on the witness stand fifteen years earlier: tidy and clean-shaven, clear-eyed and plausible, describing a man running from Joe Franks’ house who looked like Dennis Boyd.

  All lies.

  Time had paid him out for whatever he’d done; the fingers of his left hand trembled uncontrollably and not through fear: Willie Davidson had Parkinson’s.

  His voice cracked, he pushed his chest out, dredging courage from somewhere deep inside, and in a strange way, though I knew what he’d done, I admired him. ‘Go on. Get on with it. Get it over with!’

  Letting him give himself away would’ve been easy – he was drunk and it would’ve been cheap. I didn’t have the stomach for it.

  ‘You’ve got it wrong, Willie. We haven’t come to harm you.’

  His expression crumbled. His arms dropped to his sides like someone who’d reached the end of the line. ‘Then what the hell do you want?’

  ‘To talk about Dennis Boyd.’

  As the realisation he wasn’t about to die sank in, he set aside what was probably the one noble moment in his entire life and reverted to who he was, who he’d always been. ‘Nothing to say about him. To you or anybody else.’

  ‘You sure, Willie? You sure about that? I’m not. Your testimony convicted an innocent man. Yours and McDermid’s and Wilson’s. The only one above ground is you, though not for much longer. Thought we were them, didn’t you? They’ll be here soon enough. Whoever did McDermid and Wilson is coming for you. They can’t let you live.’

  Patrick said, ‘If I can track you down so can they.’

  ‘Willie, you’re in danger. Let me take you to the police. They can protect you.’

  He didn’t seem to understand the words. I tried a different approach and pointed at his quivering hand. ‘What’ve you got to lose? Make it right before it’s too late.’

  Davidson wasn’t in the mood to make anything right. His crisis had passed; he was regaining control. ‘Boyd beat Joe Franks to death. Bastard got what he deserved. I saw him there. It’s what I said then and it’s what I’m saying now.’ He forced out an unconvincing laugh. ‘So, you and the police can fuck right off!’

  He pushed between us and lurched down the pier to the shore, still clutching the half-bottle. I called after him. ‘Willie! Don’t be a fool! Go to the police!’

  Davidson turned, gave me the finger and, with the afternoon light dappling the bay, slurred a mouthful of untruths. ‘He did it! Boyd did it! He’s fucking guilty!’

  Vicky heard the floorboards creak under his boots as he crept along the corridor. He was predictable, she’d say that for him. This time, he’d made a mistake – he hadn’t reckoned Vicky would still be there. Most of the girls could tell stories about Noah, a disgusting user, probably the sleaziest individual to cross the threshold in Renfrew Street. Every night he paid at least one of them a visit. Having him to protect them was another sad irony in a life full of them.

  She lifted a piece of metal pipe from the corner, feeling the cold solidness of it in her palm, and crouched. On the bed, Kim Rafferty snored in an exhausted sleep not destined to last – when she wakened, the craving would be waiting for her and the nightmare would continue. Vicky was determined this guy wouldn’t be part of it.

  The door opened; Noah stood in the shadows like Frankenstein’s monster, letting his eyes adjust before coming into the room. He probably weighed as much as Vicky and Kim Rafferty together, a scuzz ball trying to take advantage. If he’d known the woman he was after was Sean Rafferty’s wife, he’d have acted very differently. Men like this weren’t brave; taking advantage of vulnerable females was his stretch. Tony was worth a hundred of him.

  She allowed the would-be rapist two more steps, then swung the pipe through the air. It thudded against his shin, he screamed, fell to the floor and she was on him, crashing the metal against his arms and legs, beating him as he whimpered and crawled back the way he’d come.

  When he’d gone, she closed the door, put the pipe down and dropped into the chair.

  Kim would never know. Nobody would.

  Vicky had won a small victory. Better than none.

  27

  The ferry trip back to Ardrossan was very different from the outward journey. My appreciation of the beauty around me had diminished; the combination of Davidson’s drunken wretchedness and too much sun bleached whatever fragment of hope I’d had. My thoughts wandered to Dennis Boyd. The odds of proving his innocence in a fifteen-year-old case had never been great. Now, because of my misplaced sense of fair play, there were no odds. It was over. Davidson’s claim remained unchanged: he’d seen him running from Joe Franks’ house.

  Joining Patrick in the bar instead of going on deck had seemed a good idea. It wasn’t. He was in no better shape. We drank muddy coffee and didn’t speak until the announcement for drivers to return to their cars blared over the Tannoy.

  In Glasgow, I dropped him at NYB. Before he got out, he said, ‘So that’s it, Charlie. Can’t win them all.’

  ‘That’s it for you. I’m not done. Boyd didn’t murder Joe Franks. I intend to prove it.’

  He shook his head and scratched his goatee. I heard a lecture – or maybe another quote – coming. It was neither; it was a rebuke. ‘What is it with you? Used to think it was determination. Now I’m not so sure. Could be ego. This was a turkey from the start. Should never have got involved. For your own good, it’s time to get uninvolved and you can’t see it.’

  ‘Not as simple as that.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. The third witness was our last chance. We found him and he’s sticking to his story. Give it up, man, before somebody decides you’re too bloody nosy.’

  I stayed in the office until the shadows on the
wall faded to black, mulling over the confrontation. The last forty-eight hours had been manic, and my mistake on Lamlash pier weighed heavily on me. A skewed sense of honour had consigned an innocent man to a second term in prison and left another at the mercy of a killer. Davidson didn’t want to go to the police. But he was drunk, not thinking straight. I should have taken the decision out of his hands.

  The list I’d made – was it really only two days ago? – lay on the desk. I picked it up, tore it into pieces, dropped them in the waste-paper bin, and headed for the door. Pat Logue was right: the case was a bust.

  My mobile rang just as I was pulling into the car park. ‘This is Yannis Kontogiannakis. You called.’

  The English was good, spoken in an accent as thick as olive oil.

  ‘Yes, I did. Thanks for coming back to me. My name’s Charlie Cameron. I’m a private investigator. I wanted to speak to you about a man you used to do business with: Joe Franks.’

  ‘Joe. I don’t understand. Joe died a long time ago.’ Suspicion edged into his voice. ‘Who did you say you were again?’

  I told him, leaving out Dennis Boyd and double murder. ‘His family has asked me to look into what happened to him. My problem is it’s impossible to find anybody who knew him.’

  ‘I see.’ I could hear him turning over his reply. ‘Well, we worked together for many years. I liked Joe. He was a fine man. We were a good team. I’m not sure what I can tell you.’

  ‘Look, do you mind if I call you back? I’m in the car.’

  ‘Are you phoning from Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He laughed. ‘The way you speak takes me back. And you’re in luck. I am in the UK for a few days. First London, then Edinburgh.’

  ‘Great. Can we meet? I’m in Glasgow. I’ll come to you. Anywhere you say.’

  ‘No need. I love Glasgow. It’ll be a good excuse to see it again, though, like I said, I don’t know what I can tell you.’