Patrick Logue knocked on my office door and came in. My first thought was the gee-gees must have pulled for him; he seemed pleased with himself.
‘Finally managed to back two winners in a row?’
The bold Pat was unfazed. ‘That day will come, Charlie. Stand on me.’
‘If it isn’t the horses, what?’
He handed a sheet of paper with four mobile numbers on it across the desk.
‘Got this from the guy I know.’
I recognised Alile. The others weren’t hard to guess: the hospital, Law’s sister, and Colin McMillan.
Patrick said, ‘The last three were called on Hogmanay. Since then, nothing.’
‘And now it’s unobtainable.’
‘Yeah, but who doesn’t have a mobile these days?’
An easy question to answer. ‘Somebody who doesn’t want to be found, or… What else have you got for me?’
‘This Maitland character lives a strange life. Ask me where he was last night.’
‘Okay. Where was he was?’
‘Same place he was the night before. And for once, the beer wasn’t bad.’
The sign on the exposed brick façade outside Blackfriars in Merchant City said “Free House,” and promised real ale and good food. I got there at seven o’clock, ordered a bottle of Brooklyn lager – brewed in the “Vienna” style, whatever that was – and sat at a table against the wall. I’d heard plenty of talk about Wallace Maitland without ever seeing him. Patrick’s description of the obstetrician – fifty, greying hair and bulldog jowls – fitted half of the men in the pub. When I asked him for something more, he’d shrugged.
‘What can I tell you? Imagine a guy who claps when the plane lands and you won’t be far away.’
‘That the best you can do?’
‘Likes to sit at the bar. Soon as he opens his mouth you’ll know it’s him.’
‘He’s well spoken?’
‘No, Charlie. You’re well spoken. He sounds as if he got his accent from eBay.’
The early evening crowd was made up of professional types, who preferred telling each other lies about how well they were doing to going home and guys who were picky about what they drank. In a corner, two men loudly argued politics next to a scruffy geezer wolfing down some kind of pie and scribbling on the back of a beer mat.
At twenty past seven, Wallace Maitland came through the door and took a stool at the bar. Patrick thought his voice would single him out. For me it was his walk: the purposeful stride of a man in no doubt about his place in the world. I pictured him marching along the corridors of Francis Fallon with a posse of eager young doctors trailing in his wake, hanging on his every word.
He was dressed as you’d expect someone making the money he was making to be dressed: charcoal grey three-piece suit, white shirt and a tie that had to be Armani. The obstetrician was tall, though the waistcoat straining against his belly told a tale of life choices not rooted in moderation.
He ordered in the deep plumy tones his parents had paid for by the term and Pat Logue found so objectionable. ‘A large Chivas and a half of lager.’
No “please.”
The woman serving put the drinks in front of him. He handed over a twenty- pound note and, if he thanked her, he must have whispered it. Maitland stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the gantry and sipped his Chivas. No one spoke to him, an arrangement his body language suggested he preferred.
I’d learned early to let other people squabble over the moral high-ground; some might have a legitimate claim. I hadn’t met them. In this business, non-judgement was the only game in town, and while knowing you were on the side of the angels was a good feeling, innocent or guilty was somebody else’s call.
Perhaps it was seeing what this guy had done to Margaret Cooper that changed my mind. Something had, because I disliked him before we’d even spoken. There was an air about him, a disdain that made me want to wipe the superior look off his face.
He was on his second double whisky when I slid onto the stool beside him and asked for another bottle of Brooklyn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him draw away. It couldn’t be the beer – who could disapprove of a beer brewed in the “Vienna” style – it had to be me.
I watched him in the mirror. Surely he should be taking his wife to dinner or playing with his grandkids? But he wasn’t. He was here. My previous attempt to speak to him had gone nowhere. In a public place it was harder to escape without causing a scene. The theory was about to be tested. At moments like this I envied Andrew Geddes his authority. If he wanted to interview someone it happened. This man could tell me to fuck off and there was nothing I could do. My best hope was the pressure he must be under.
I introduced myself and saw him tense. ‘Mr Maitland. I called the other day. You hung up on me. Charlie Cameron. I’m working for Gavin Law’s sister. As you’re aware, her brother has disappeared.’
His reply was what I expected. ‘Are you following me? You are, aren’t you? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I couldn’t care less.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe. Law intended to testify against you and the hospital. You’d be finished in medicine. Might even go to jail. Without him you’re in the clear.’
Over the years, I’d learned actions – in this, case reactions – were more revealing than words. Maitland had been caught off-guard. His eyes darted to the door and back to me. Close-up, his face was marked by broken veins and his posh voice rose an octave as he protested.
‘Ridiculous! You know nothing about it! Gavin Law was a womaniser who crossed the line and sexually assaulted a member of staff. He ran away rather than face the consequences of his actions.’
‘Did he? How convenient for you.’
Maitland’s sneer didn’t convince either of us. ‘Convenient or not, it’s the truth.’
Conversation in Blackfriars had stopped. Maitland pushed past and I followed him into the street.
‘You’ll have to talk to me sometime. Me or the police, Wallace.’
‘Fuck off!’
He ran towards Candleriggs as if the hounds of hell were chasing him. I let him go. Caroline Law’s brother was missing and I was no nearer uncovering where he was. But I’d learned something. Wallace Maitland was scared. As frightened as anyone I’d ever seen.
DI Barr wasn’t in the habit of visiting his officers. When he wanted to see them, they came to him. The police, like the military, was founded on chain of command and Barr believed informality blurred the line. Today, he was making an exception.
His expression told the DS it wasn’t a social call. Geddes was making a list of people he would interview if he was allowed to conduct a proper investigation into Anthony Daly’s death. So far, it was a short list. Barr tossed a dark green folder on the desk – the PM report. Geddes pushed it away and kept writing. The DI swallowed his irritation and added the reaction to the catalogue of insubordination in his head. Unlike his DS, it was a long list.
Barr spoke as if he was making an important announcement. ‘Death by asphyxiation and venous congestion.’
Andrew Geddes didn’t lift his head.
‘Weather conditions make an accurate assessment difficult but the pathologist estimates death occurred between four and six hours prior to the body being discovered. So somewhere between twelve midnight and two a.m.’
Geddes put his pen down and turned a blank stare on the detective inspector. Barr flashed a smile closer to a grimace, determined to press his point. ‘I’ll give you the highlights, shall I?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll take your word for it. Sir.’
The senior man was incensed by the dumb insolence coming back at him. It wouldn’t be forgotten. He ran his finger down a page, stopping at a comment couched in language they would both understand.
“The ligature mark encircled the neck except for the area where the knot was located, resulting in a furrow in the tissue that had hardened and dried due to the abraded skin and corresponded to the material used; in this case, a rope.”
He glared at Geddes. ‘Need I go on?’
It would have been wiser for the detective sergeant to play the game. Barr hadn’t come to tell him what they already knew; he was looking for confrontation. Geddes recognised the signs and could have defused the situation if he’d wanted to. He didn’t.
‘We seem to be talking at cross purposes. None of what you’ve said surprises me. My question has always been how he managed it, given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. Said yourself he smelled like a brewery.’
DI Barr fought to keep his frustration in check. ‘He was drunk. Of course he was drunk. Nobody in their right mind would do what he did.’
‘Agreed. How did he get to the bridge?’
‘A taxi could’ve dropped him off somewhere close.’
‘With a length of rope underneath his arm? And nobody notices?’
DI Barr shook his head. ‘You know, Geddes, I feel sorry for you. It has to be complicated. Dirty work at the crossroads or you’re not happy. For Christ sake, the guy was out of it and decided to go for it. Maybe planning it for months but couldn’t find the courage.’
‘So he books a trip to Rome for him and his sister? I don’t buy it.’
‘At that moment, he was still sane. People swallow a handful of sleeping pills, go to bed and never wake up. During the day they take their kids to the zoo. A waitress at Pizza Express remembers them laughing and singing songs. From the outside, everything was fine. Everything was good. Except it wasn’t.’
‘Daly’s sister told us he had no worries. Her brother wasn’t depressed.’
Barr screwed up his face. ‘Oh, please. We both saw her. She isn’t sure what day of the week it is.’
‘Not true. And okay. He brings the rope with him and has it ready. In the state he was in, how did he tie it to the lamppost?’
The DI leaned on the desk and towered over Andrew Geddes. He’d had enough. ‘Listen. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s probably a fucking duck. You’re old-time gut instinct’s over-rated.’
‘Instinct doesn’t come into. I’m asking questions that need answers. The TOX will show he was incapable. Which means somebody else was there.’
Barr waved his arms in the air; almost shouting. ‘Let’s call it like it is, Geddes. This isn’t about some drunk doing himself in. You’ve resented me from day one. Don’t deny it.’
The DS forced himself to stay calm. ‘Again, not true.’
Barr thumped a fist on the desk, his face ashen with anger. ‘You’re setting yourself up to look like the dedicated detective railing against bureaucracy, while I’m the Uni pen-pusher, when in fact, you’d happily spend valuable police time and money on an obvious suicide instead of effective police work.’
Geddes sat back in his chair. ‘You’re right, I do resent you. But not for the reasons you think. My priority never changes. It was why I joined in the first place. I want to catch criminals. You’re more interested in staying within the budget and getting a pat on the head from the DCI. Well done, Adam. Good boy. Tick.’
Barr stepped back as if he’d been slapped and Geddes realised he’d gone too far. A difference of opinion was one thing, insulting a superior officer was something else. ‘I’m sorry. That was out of order. I shouldn’t have said it. Can we at least wait for the TOX?’
The DI ignored him. ‘We’re waiting fuck all. Anthony Daly took his own life on the Queen Margaret Bridge between the hours of midnight and two a.m. Case closed.’
He lifted the PM folder, started to leave, and changed his mind. ‘It seems you’re a man who likes questions. Well, here’s a question you’d better find the answer to pretty bloody quickly. Are you sure you’re cut out for this job? Just because you’ve been doing it since Christ left Dumbarton doesn’t mean shit. The world’s changing and, from what I’ve seen so far, you’re struggling to cope.’
He opened the door.
‘You’re a dinosaur, Geddes. And we don’t need a TOX report to tell us what happened to them, do we?’