The ten o’clock mass on Saturday was a celebration of Tony Daly’s life – according to Father Scanlon. Those who’d known him could have told the clergyman it was a life of few pleasures, most of them from a bottle.
Daly had been a season ticket holder at Parkhead and in the packed congregation, half a dozen Celtic players mingled with the less famous. Glasgow City Council was well-represented. Seventy-five of the seventy-nine elected members were there, even if one of them was in a box. And on Clyde Street, outside St Andrew’s church, hundreds of ordinary people gathered to silently pay their respects.
All things considered, not a bad turnout for a nobody.
Two rows from the front, Lachie Thompson had listened to trite anecdotes about how happy and fulfilled Daly had been and wondered who they were talking about. If you believed the waffle coming from the pulpit, Tony was a quiet modest man, devoted to his family. His selfless work on behalf of the community was talked up. No mention of the reprimand for over-charging his expenses, the two drink driving convictions that had cost him his license, or the years of alcoholism.
When he’d fallen from the Queen Margaret Bridge with the rope round his neck, he was intoxicated and, therefore, not able to judge his actions. A strange piece of good fortune. Mortal sin was avoided. Tony could have his big send-off.
Thompson was invited to give a eulogy but declined. Rutherford took his place and spoke movingly about the colleague and the friend.
Lachie Thompson wanted to be sick.
The priest circled the coffin, sprinkling holy water and incense that caught in Thompson’s throat. Finally, the procession left to The Fields of Athenry – a favourite Tony had drunkenly belted out from his seat in the Lisbon Lions stand in better times.
At Lambhill cemetery, the sky opened and they finished what an East End gangster had started in the rain. At the head of the grave, under a black umbrella, Father Scanlon read from a bible in a flat monotone, lost in the open air, as the casket was lowered into the ground. Solemn faces watched it disappear, wanting it to be over so they could get out of the miserable day.
‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.’
Throughout the service, Daly’s sister had quietly sobbed. Now the realisation she would never see her brother again overwhelmed her and she broke down, wailing uncontrollably. Sandy Rutherford offered a comforting arm. Her fingers dug into him, drawing strength, unaware of the part he had played in Tony’s death.
When it was over, mourners hurried to their cars. Sandy Rutherford held back to console the pitiful figure of Cissie Daly, shaking her hand and whispering empty words.
Lachie Thompson walked on. He didn’t have the stomach to face her. Rutherford ran to catch up with him. Since their last meeting in Baby Grand, the two men hadn’t spoken.
‘Lachie! Wait! When?’
‘Ten days. The next meeting of the full council.’
‘Are we sure it’ll go through, Sean wants to know?’
‘So it’s Sean now, is it?’
Rutherford didn’t respond. ‘He wants to know, Lachie. Have we got the numbers?’
Thompson pointed over his shoulder to two grave-diggers shovelling muddy earth into the hole in the ground. ‘For our sakes we better have.’
Rutherford nodded; he understood. ‘Nice service, wasn’t it?’
Thompson spat his disgust. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? It was awful. Really awful. The priest might believe it was a celebration of Tony’s life, but – in case you haven’t noticed – he’s still fucking dead.’
A bunch of flowers in a vase at the end of the bar told me Andrew Geddes had taken my advice and made peace with Jackie. It would’ve been good to have been a fly on the wall to hear the brusque detective throw himself on her mercy, though whatever he’d said had worked because he was at a table, reading the Herald and dunking a bagel into a cup of coffee, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
I knew that wasn’t true.
Today was the first I’d seen of Jackie Mallon since Saturday night and whatever reception I expected, I didn’t get it. She gave me a tight smile that said I wasn’t her favourite person and went back to doing what she was doing, leaving the distinct impression she somehow held me responsible for Geddes’ behaviour. I’d saved the situation but maybe in her eyes that meant guilt by association.
Andrew’s greeting was reserved and his colour was better, improved from the angst-ridden wreck throwing-up in my bathroom. It took a minute to realise it was an act; he was pretending to be okay when, in fact, he was far from it.
I started brightly; brightly and naïve. This was Geddes. On a good day with him the glass was half-empty.
‘So you and Jackie are all right, then?
He sifted through the newspaper with trembling fingers and spoke out of the corner of his mouth without so much as a glance in my direction.
‘Joking, aren’t you? She’s a woman. Once you step out of line it isn’t all right ever again with them. If you’d kept your nose out and let her get me arrested I’d be barred and better off for it.’
‘You don’t want that. This is your second home.’
‘Was, Charlie. Was my second home. I’ll be on probation for the rest of my life in here. Grovelling doesn’t suit me. I was drunk. It happens.’
Andrew was re-writing history with him as the victim.
‘Well, you were out of order. I mean, really bad. Can’t expect relationships to go back to normal right away; it takes time.’
Geddes looked uncomfortable and I soon understood why.
‘Jackie told me what I said to you. I’m sorry I was really messed up.’
‘We’re good. What about DI Barr?’
‘I’m still thinking of resigning. Haven’t ruled it out.’
Self-pity was running riot. I nipped it in the bud. ‘Yeah, you have. I’m going to Cissie Daly’s house as soon as Pat Logue arrives.’
Geddes’ expression hardened. He spoke with the authority of someone used to being heard and became DS Geddes, the scourge of Glasgow’s criminal classes. ‘You know how I feel about that guy.’
I wasn’t listening. In my flat the previous day we’d agreed two things. First, I’d go where the policeman couldn’t and investigate Anthony Daly’s death. Second, I’d do it my own way.
‘How you feel is noted, Andrew, now let me get on without jumping in, eh?’
‘He’s a scallywag. Kick his granny if the price was right. Don’t trust him.’
‘But I do and that’s what matters. Or we can forget it. Up to you.’
DI Barr was in a different league to Pat Logue when it came to which of them Andrew disliked most. Patrick was a petty crook whose time would come; Barr was trashing everything DS Geddes believed in. He turned the focus back to the case in hand and put aside his reservations.
‘Sure you’ve got a hold on this? As it stands it’s an awful lot of nothing. Beginning to agree with Barr.’
‘Don’t do that. To be able to discount suicide we need to discover why somebody would want Tony Daly dead. Maybe his sister can tell us.’
Geddes sighed. ‘Good luck with that.’
At a minute to eleven, Pat Logue strolled into NYB and sat on “his” stool at the bar. He’d ordered a pint before I could stop him. Patrick had a golden rule that allowed him to justify his excessive habit: he never drank on Sunday night. In all the years I’d known him – with a few exceptions – he’d stuck to it. The spring in his step and the light in his eyes told me the golden rule was alive and well; he seemed fresh.
When he saw me, he smiled. ‘Charlie, how’s your luck?’
I ignored his bonhomie. Some of Andrew’s negativity had rubbed off. ‘Before you get started, we’ve got a job.’
‘An earner on a Monday mornin’. Lead me to it.’
‘Leave the lager. It’ll be here for you when you come back.’
Pat Logue wouldn’t be rushed. ‘Edge-up, Charlie. Got to start the day right.’
‘Five minutes, then.’
‘Takes five minutes when I’m in the mood to taste it. Hold on.’
The pint disappeared and we were out the door. Patrick fell into step beside me. We headed for High Street and my car with him hurrying to keep up.
‘Where’s the fire?’
‘You’re very up-beat. Take it your problem has resolved.’
‘Absolutely. All systems go. Know what I’m talkin’?’
Glasgow was under a post-festive cloud that would last until Easter eggs appeared in the shops. By now, credit card statements carrying depressing news had arrived and jolted the Christmas over-spenders back to reality. Most people fitted that category. Pat Logue’s eagerness to help his ailing finances was a shared wish.
On Maryhill Road, I gave him the background: the body on the bridge; Cissie Daly, the weekend in Rome and DS Geddes’ frustration that brownie points had replaced a real investigation.
Patrick looked out of the window and listened. When he spoke his first consideration mirrored Andrew’s. ‘And your pal’s okay with me stickin’ my nose in, is he?’
I told him the truth. ‘Okay isn’t exactly how I’d describe it, but he hasn’t a choice. We work together. If he wants me he gets you. But remember, his career could be on the line so he expects absolute discretion, naturally. That has to be a given.’
Patrick nodded. ‘Let me understand. This DI Barr wants to shut the case down and move on. Your pal…’
‘He’s got a name, Patrick. Could you stretch a point and give it to him?’
We reached the outskirts of Bishopbriggs before he replied. The animosity wasn’t all on Andrew Geddes’ side. Pat Logue had every reason to be wary of the DS whose sworn intention was to catch him with a load of knitwear that had never seen the inside of a shop.
‘…Andrew isn’t satisfied and you’ve agreed to investigate on his behalf. That about it?’
‘That’s exactly it.’
‘Then, in a roundabout way, we’re helpin’ the police with their enquiries.’
‘Yeah. You could say.’
He bit his lip. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. If this gets out…’
Pat Logue lived in a universe beyond my understanding, a place where people were measured by a different standard. It hadn’t occurred to me it would be a problem for him. In the passenger seat he’d gone quiet, perhaps reflecting on the impact to his reputation of collaborating with the other side. I glanced across the car.
‘You okay?’
He took his time answering. ‘Tell you this, Charlie, and I’ll tell you no more. Don’t go him myself but he’s lucky to have you as a friend.’
Silence was the best option. I took it.
His next question surprised me and raised an issue I hadn’t thought of.
‘We don’t know what we’re gettin’ ourselves into. Could be dangerous. Will that be reflected in the pay? Just sayin’.’
Patrick always had an eye on the money.
‘We can discuss it later.’
‘Later as in when? Hangin’ somebody is serious shit. This Daly could’ve been into anythin’. Then again, maybe there’s bugger all and your …Andrew… is over-reactin’.’
‘Isn’t his style, Pat. Geddes is harder to impress than anybody I’ve ever met. Seen just about everything there is to see. His gut feeling is telling him something isn’t right.’
‘Startin’ with his DI.’
‘Absolutely. A bookworm promoted beyond his competence. Classic example of the Peter Principle. Throws his weight around and refuses to listen to more experienced officers, then pulls rank when they insist on doing the thing the way it should be done.’
‘In other words, an arse.’
‘An arse that has Andrew Geddes considering packing it in. Whatever your opinion of him is, I assure you he’s a top-notch detective. Ever find yourself in trouble you want him in the boat with you.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Not the kind of trouble I get into.’
He had a point.
I turned the car into Cissie Daly’s street and stopped outside her house. According to Andrew, Tony Daly had been buried on Saturday so what state his sister would be in was anybody’s guess.
‘What’re we lookin’ for?’
‘No idea. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Geddes said she hasn’t a clue why her brother would take his own life. The tickets he bought for the weekend in Rome on the day he died convinced her. Refuses to believe it.’
Pat Logue fingered the goatee that made him look like the fifth musketeer. ‘Easy to understand where she’s comin’ from. Not what you do if you’re thinkin’ about takin’ a long walk off a short pier.’
We got out of the car.
‘Remember, this woman is as fragile as they come. Probably was even before. She was hitting the bottle when Andrew arrived to give her the news about, Tony.’
‘Any other family?’
‘No. She’s on her own.’
‘Tough.’
I knocked on the front door. Half a minute later I knocked again. Cissie Daly wasn’t expecting us; if she had somewhere else to go she might not be home. The sound of footsteps coming downstairs told us she was. A chain rattled, a key turned in the lock and a small woman blinked at two strangers.
The way Geddes described her, at the very least, Cissie had a drink problem. More likely, she was an alcoholic. I saw no sign of it. Her hair was combed. She was dressed and though her eyes were red, I guessed it was from crying. For certain, she would’ve done a lot of that with plenty more to come.
I introduced myself. ‘Miss Daly. My name is Cameron and this is my associate, Mr Logue. I wonder if we could talk to you for a few minutes.’
‘Is it about, Tony?’
‘Yes it is.’
‘The policewoman said you’d be back.’
‘We’re not the police. I’m a private investigator.’
That wasn’t what she was expecting and she hesitated. ‘So why’re you here?’
‘To ask you about your brother.’
Patrick said, ‘Wish the timin’ was better.’
Her face showed her confusion. ‘I’m not sure.’
Pat tried again. ‘It could be important, Cissie.’
She started to warm to him. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘Investigators. I promise we won’t take up too much of your day.’
Cissie pursed her lips. ‘Then you’d better come in.’
Andrew Geddes had broken the terrible news to her about Anthony in this very room, but now it was different, and so was she. There was no bottle at the side of the chair. Cissie was sober in spite of her grief, dealing with her loss with courage and dignity. I admired her.
‘I can make some tea if you like.’
‘No thanks, we’re fine.’
‘Okay. Ask whatever you want.’
On Sunday at the flat – between bouts of retching and despair – Andrew and I had discussed how best to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of Tony Daly and decided on the straightforward approach. Anthony Daly was officially a suicide so no longer an ongoing police case, which left me free to do my thing, preferably with the family’s blessing. That meant getting Cissie’s agreement to represent her.
‘The investigation into your brother’s death is closed. The authorities are satisfied he took his own life but the detective sergeant who interviewed you told me you were unhappy with that conclusion and thought you might appreciate having somebody else look into it.’
Surprise manifested in a frown. ‘He’s right, I’m not happy, though why would you get involved?’
It was a good question. And one I couldn’t answer honestly. My job was to persuade Cissie she needed my help without mentioning her brother had been sold short. Charlie Cameron honest injun? Not today.
‘Sudden death is hard to come to terms with. If there was a reason Tony killed himself I’m sure you’d want to know.’
‘How could I afford you? I haven’t any money.’
‘Money won’t come into it. I’ll be doing it because I want to.’
The frown returned only this time it was heavy with suspicion. Andrew had found a woman in the throes of addiction; this lady had mined a strength she may not have realised she had.
‘Mr Cameron. I’ve lived long enough to know people do very little that doesn’t involve money. Why would you be different?’
‘Tony killed himself publicly. I find that strange, don’t you?’
Cissie’s view hadn’t altered from her statement. ‘More than strange. I don’t believe it. Do you know, on the day he died, Tony had booked a trip to Rome as a surprise for my birthday? Does that sound like a man thinking about dying to you? Because it certainly doesn’t to me.’
‘What if I can prove it?’
‘The police have given up.’
Patrick said, ‘Will you let us try, Cissie?’
If she’d been drinking I was certain she would’ve agreed right away. She wasn’t, so she didn’t jump at the offer and I didn’t blame her. Tony wouldn’t be coming back no matter what we found and reliving his death – maybe his murder – couldn’t change that. Against the odds, even this early, Cissie Daly seemed to be coping with losing her brother. Being dragged through the tragedy again, albeit in the name of justice, may not be in her best interests, and when I thought about it, the decision I was asking her to make had a lot of downside.
Instead of giving me an answer, she changed the focus. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
Pat Logue had street talent: he understood people better than anyone I’d ever met.
‘Wouldn’t refuse a beer if you have one.’
‘No beer. Could give you a rum. Tony loved his rum.’
A light went on in my head. ‘Did he ever drink whisky?’
‘Never, he hated it. Dark rum was his favourite. Can’t stand it myself; the smell’s enough. Probably end up down the sink.’
Patrick hadn’t picked up on what Cissie had said, but I had. We did without the rum and moved on to her brother’s friends.
‘Tony never had friends. Being on the council didn’t leave him a lot of spare time. Now and again, he’d mention names of people he met at the football. Apart from that…’
She chided herself for knowing so little about her only brother.
‘I suppose Lachie.’
‘Who’s Lachie?’
‘Lachie Thompson. Took Tony under his wing when he won his first election. He was at the funeral on Saturday. Most of the councillors were there. And a couple of the Celtic players.’
Pat Logue said, ‘Always nice to see a big turn-out.’
Cissie nodded. ‘Tony would be pleased.’
Patrick took a look round Tony Daly’s bedroom and, at the door, I shook Cissie’s hand and promised to be in touch. Deceiving her wasn’t a great feeling, even for a good cause.
‘I appreciate you coming, Mr Cameron.’
‘Charlie.’
‘Charlie. Nobody will ever convince me my brother killed himself. Just wait a minute, will you?’
Cissie disappeared into the lounge.
When she’d gone, Pat Logue said, ‘Clean as a whistle. Apart from a pile of programmes at the side of the bed and a Celtic poster on the wall, nothing much there. And nicely done, by the way.’
‘What?’
‘Avoidin’ the awkward questions. Should’ve been a politician like your old man.’
‘Not my finest hour, Patrick.’
‘I disagree. This is a bad time. You’re helpin’ her come to terms with her brother’s death.’
Cissie came back with an almost full bottle of dark rum and handed it out to me. ‘I’m trying not to drink. Take this away with you in case I’m tempted.’
‘Keep it up. You’re doing great.’
In the car, I asked Patrick what he thought. His focus, as usual, was on alcohol and Cissie Daly’s willpower; he’d missed it. Monday morning, with just the one pint in him, wasn’t his best time.
‘The brother dies a violent death and she doesn’t drown her sorrows. Amazin’. How on earth does one wee woman find that kind of strength? Couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t even try.’
‘The body stank of booze.’
‘So he was well away with it. Had to be to do what he did.’
‘Except what Andrew smelled was whisky. Enough to knock you down he said. Turns out Daly only drank rum.’
Patrick was catching up.
‘Somebody forced it down his throat. Tony Daly was murdered.’
The bottle of rum on my desk didn’t look much, but for me, in terms of evidence, it was more significant than the dead man booking a holiday for himself and his sister on the day he died. Changing your mind was one thing; changing your drink was something else.
I called Andrew on his mobile. His gruff voice lacked its usual bite. He sounded down. What I had to report would cheer him up.
‘I’ve got a new client. Cissie Daly’s a go. And get this. She says Tony hated whisky. All he ever drank was rum.’
There was silence on the other end of the line while Andrew processed this nugget and realised its importance. ‘The TOX deals in blood/alcohol level. Doesn’t identify specifically what the alcohol was. Well done, Charlie. First day on the case and you’ve cracked it.’
Hardly. Though I didn’t give him an argument.
‘Added to his travel plans, it strongly suggests he didn’t kill himself. All I have to do now is find out who did and why.’
‘What’s your next move?’
‘His sister claims the council took up all her brother’s time. Tony had no friends to speak of apart from some councillor called Thompson.’
‘Lachie Thompson?’
‘That’s right. Know him do you?’
‘Elder statesman. Been around forever. Could’ve been lord provost.’
‘Why wasn’t he?’
‘Not interested. Prefers to stay in the background, I suppose.’
‘Is he honest?’
Andrew laughed. ‘He’s a councillor, Charlie. What do you think?’
‘Tell you after I talk to him.’
‘How’s Cissie doing?’
‘Better than you’d expect. She isn’t drinking.’
Geddes was impressed. ‘Pleased to hear it.’
Glasgow City Chambers in George Square was round the corner from my office. I could walk there in two minutes but it made sense to check if Lachie Thompson was available. A female on the switchboard connected me. He answered on the first ring.
‘Lachie Thompson.’
‘Good morning, Mr Thompson. Sorry to break into your day. My name is Charlie Cameron. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you about a colleague of yours. Tony Daly.’
The councillor hesitated. I gave him a prompt. ‘I’m representing Mr Daly’s sister. I understand you were a very good friend of her brother’s.’
His reply was open and sympathetic. ‘Known the family for years. My heart goes out to Cissie. Tony was all she had. Of course I’ll help whatever way I can. Unfortunately, I’m tied-up all day today. I could meet you tomorrow. Say twelve o’clock, if that’s any good to you.’
‘Perfect.’
Thompson ended the call sounding like a friend. ‘What happened to Tony was tragic. I blame myself. I should’ve seen it coming.’
The letters I’d picked up at Gavin Law’s flat meant nothing. More interesting was the one from Francis Fallon informing Law of his suspension – it wasn’t amongst them. Maybe it had been lost in the post if it had ever been sent at all; the person behind the allegation may have changed her mind about pursuing it. The alternative was the hospital had invented it to pull Gavin Law into line. Wild speculation at best. Everything about this case led in a circle. The letters needed to be forwarded to his sister. I tied them together with an elastic band, put them in an envelope large enough to take them all, and wrote Caroline Law’s address on the front. In the middle drawer of the desk I found a book of stamps and stuck on three to be on the safe side. Jackie buzzed just as I was slipping the package into my inside jacket pocket. When I answered, she was her usual sarcastic self.
‘There’s a Miss Universe here asking for a Charlie Cameron. Surely she can’t mean you?’
‘Send her up.’
We hadn’t arranged to meet, so this was a surprise – the best kind. Although Alile was dressed for winter she swept into the room like the first day of summer, wearing a beige raincoat over a cream roll-neck sweater, blue jeans and brown ankle boots.
‘I was in the city centre and thought about you. Is this a bad time?’
‘Absolutely not. Glad you’re here.’
She unbuttoned her coat, shook-out her hair and smiled. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy taking in a movie?’
‘You mean re-arrange my busy schedule at a moment’s notice? Consider it done. What’s on?’
‘We’ve got a choice – a war movie, a romantic comedy or the new Dracula.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘And it’s Humphrey Bogart week at the GFC.’
‘What’re they showing?’
‘Casablanca.’
‘Bogie and Bergman. No contest. When does it start?’
Alile looked at her watch. ‘Ten to two. Plenty of time. But only if you’re sure I’m not dragging you away from something important.’
‘You aren’t. Let’s eat first.’
In NYB we started with minestrone then split a pepperoni pizza. While Alile ate, I watched her. She caught me.
‘What’re you thinking?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me.’
‘I might. Take a chance.’
‘Okay. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.’
Alile laughed. It was a sound I could get used to. ‘Why aren’t you married, Charlie?’
‘Just didn’t happen.’
‘Ever been close?’
‘Not close enough.’
She moved the conversation on to safer ground before I could ask her the same question. ‘Any luck finding Gavin Law?’
‘None. He’s disappeared. What’s the chat at Francis Fallon?’
Alile made a face and still managed to look beautiful.
‘Not a word. It’s as if he never worked there.’
‘And the rape allegation?’
The tapered fingers of an elegant hand gently brushed my question aside. ‘The only one who’s mentioned it is you.’
‘Not anymore. Won’t hear a peep out of me about it for the rest of the day.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Then let’s go.’
In the dark, halfway through the film, I felt Alile move closer. Her hand slipped into mine. I’d seen Casablanca a dozen times; that didn’t matter. When Ilse got on the plane with Victor Lazlo, and left Rick on the runway in the rain, inside, I was still hoping it would work out for him. It hadn’t the previous eleven.
That didn’t stop me believing.