A steady drizzle fell on the black Volkswagen Phaeton limousine as it turned off William Street and silently cruised to the main entrance of the Hilton hotel where a concierge, wearing a green cape and tartan trousers, stood ready with an umbrella to shelter the important visitor from the rain. The Lord Provost of Glasgow got out and was ushered through the foyer to a lift and on to an anteroom on the first floor.
The rebranding of an East End gangster could begin.
People were already there, drinking coffee and eating shortbread. On the surface, all very civilised. In a corner, Lachie Thompson shifted uneasily and avoided contact. The Lord Provost would be making the announcement and Lachie thanked God because he wasn’t in a fit state to speak to anybody; the call from the private investigator had freaked him out.
Tony’s murder and the threat to his granddaughter should have convinced him the only way he would ever be free was to go to the police. Unfortunately for the councillor, history was against it. Decades of corruption would come out. A long prison sentence was the best he could hope for, and, at his age, he wouldn’t survive. More likely he’d finish up swinging from the end of a rope, like poor Tony, before he got anywhere near Barlinnie.
He needed to speak to Sandy Rutherford but the bloody idiot was in expansive mood, standing in the middle of the floor, chatting with a beautiful female. Sean Rafferty joined them and slipped an arm round the woman’s waist: his wife. The suit and tie made him seem like a respectable businessman. Rutherford guided Rafferty towards the Provost and introduced him. They shook hands, no doubt congratulating each other on the project, and the benefits for the city.
Thompson caught Rutherford’s eye and waved him over. The former shipyard firebrand smiled and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. His colleague brushed it away, barely able to contain his contempt.
‘What’s up, Lachie?’
‘Tell you what’s up. Tony isn’t cold in his grave and you’re making small-talk with the man who had him killed. Rafferty’s a murderer. What does that make you?’
Rutherford glanced over his shoulder; somebody might hear. Lachie was losing it.
‘Steady, Lachie, steady. Keep your voice down. It could just as easily have been me or you hanging from that bridge, and don’t forget it.’
Thompson understood the self-serving argument and wasn’t impressed by it. ‘Say this for you Sandy, your flexible. Always land on your feet, don’t you? Though if you believe you can trust Rafferty you’re a bloody fool. He’s a snake.’
‘I agree, Lachie. Except, he’s our snake. What the hell’s got into you? We’re home and dry with this thing.’
His colleague laughed a bitter laugh. ‘Is that so? Then maybe you’d like to tell that to the private investigator who called me this morning?’
Rutherford tensed. ‘Private investigator? What did he want?’
‘I’ll let you know. I’m seeing him tomorrow. He’s working for Cissie so I expect we’re not as home and dry as you think, Sandy.’
‘Somebody should have a word with Cissie. Persuade her she isn’t acting in her best interests.’
Thompson sneered. ‘Yeah? Then you do it.’
Rutherford ignored the slight. ‘According to the police, Tony took his own life. There’s nothing to investigate.’
‘So why is this guy interested?’
Neither man had an answer to that question. Five minutes ago, Sandy Rutherford had been flirting with Kim Rafferty then doing the introductions with her husband and the Lord Provost. He’d been enjoying himself. Now, fear crawled over him.
‘What’s this guy’s name?’
‘Cameron.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Not a thing. Might spend his time peeking in windows and taking photographs of people at it for divorce evidence for all I know.’
Rutherford breathed a sigh of relief. It didn’t last.
‘Although, I’d have to admit that wasn’t how he sounded.’
Rutherford forced defiance into his voice. ‘Well, I didn’t kill anybody.’
Lachie Thompson’s reply damned them both. ‘Keep telling yourself that, Sandy. I do. Pity it doesn’t help.’
An artist’s impression of Riverside with the slogan “Good For Glasgow,” provided the backdrop to the model from Sean Rafferty’s den, covered for the moment. At the entrance to one of the Hilton’s fifteen meeting rooms, employees from the council’s marketing department stood beside piles of press packs with instructions to wait until the end before issuing them. Nothing could be allowed to distract from the speech the Provost was about to make.
Invited guests, councillors, and reporters from newspapers and television – all anxious to hear officially the city’s worst kept secret – filled seats laid out in rows. BBC Scotland and STV cameras trained on the Lord Provost as he made his way to the lectern. A photo-opportunity was arranged for the press. The city’s most senior elected representative was there to introduce the ambitious public/private initiative to the world.
Lachie Thompson watched from the side. There was little doubt in his mind that the development would indeed be good for Glasgow and, as the Lord Provost was proving, anyone instrumental in making it happen would be popular. How it had been achieved made him want to retch. Beside him, Sandy Rutherford seemed relaxed, though in truth, it was an act; he hadn’t regained his composure from Lachie’s bombshell. Sean would have to be told and his reaction was impossible to predict.
The Provost patted the gold chain round his neck as if he was checking it was still there, and began with the history of the “’dear green place’”, praising the vision of OTD and the project it was his honour to stand behind. In truth, he’d had nothing to do with it but credit was subjective: he was the main man. He talked-up the confidence the partnership showed and painted a picture of a prosperous future. When it was fully operational the city would be at the forefront of Scottish tourism.
He ended by inviting Kim Rafferty to unveil the model to applause. The next minutes were spent with the Lord Provost shaking hands with Rafferty, representing the city’s newest partners, and posing for the cameras with Kim between them.
If it was a good day for the city, it was a great day for Sean Rafferty.
Across the room, Kim had been kidnapped by a man with halitosis and terminal dandruff telling her a story she had no interest in, while over his shoulder she could see her husband playing Prince Charming with a willowy brunette from Scottish Enterprise. The stupid bitch fluttered her eyes, buying whatever bullshit Sean was selling. Kim didn’t blame the woman; not so long ago she’d almost done the same.
Waitresses moved through the crowd offering champagne and canapés to the guests. Rutherford waited for an opportunity to pull Sean aside and give him the bad news. It wasn’t easy because Rafferty was in demand. He was animated, enjoying himself; obviously pleased with how things had gone. The councillor gritted his teeth and edged towards him, nodding to familiar faces without stopping to chat.
When he got to him, he touched his elbow and whispered. ‘Need a word, Sean.’
Rafferty disguised his annoyance, excused himself and followed Rutherford to the anteroom. Instinct told Kim something was happening. She made her excuses and went to the door. From inside, Sean’s voice, full of contempt, carried to her.
‘See your mates are managing to force the champagne down their throats. No surprise there. Always ready with their snouts in the trough. What does it say on the coat of arms? “Let Glasgow Flourish”’.
He laughed.
‘“So Long As It’s Free” would be more like it.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Okay. What do you want?’
Rutherford apologised. ‘Sorry to drag you away but we may have a problem.’
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘A private investigator phoned Lachie this morning.’
Rafferty’s expression hardened. ‘What did he want?’
‘Tony’s sister has hired somebody to nose around. Cissie isn’t convinced he killed himself.’
‘Did Thompson tell him anything?’
‘Of course not. He put him off ’til tomorrow, but I’m worried.’
Rafferty didn’t like what he was hearing. ‘This PI, what do we know about him?’
‘Name’s Cameron.’
Sean paused, suddenly wary. ‘Charlie Cameron?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Do you know him?’
Sean Rafferty kept his reply vague. ‘Let’s just say we’ve met.’
‘So what do you want me to say to Lachie?’
‘He sticks to the story and keeps it simple. Warn him not to try to be clever. He’s an elected member of the council; clever doesn’t come into it. Daly was depressed, remember? Been going downhill for a while. Too young. Such a waste. All that shite. Got it?’
Sandy Rutherford may have been a hard man, once. Not anymore. He panicked. ‘You shouldn’t have killed Tony. Not like that. Lachie would’ve come round quicker if you hadn’t threatened his granddaughter…’
Rafferty grabbed Rutherford’s lapels and threw him against the wall. ‘Shut the fuck up. Nobody can prove anything unless somebody tells them. Pull yourself together or you’ll be next.’
He slapped the councillor’s face with the back of his hand. ‘If you bastards had just taken your wedge we wouldn’t be in this position and Daly would still be alive. Greedy gutless fuckers to a man. The folk who voted for you have no idea, otherwise you’d be out on your arses.’
Rutherford was afraid but something in the East End gangster’s eyes had changed: the aggression was a front. Sean was rattled.
‘How do know this, Cameron?’
Rafferty ignored him. ‘Thompson keeps to the script and we all go home happy. For your sake, make it happen. You wouldn’t last a day in the Bar-L.’
Outside the door, Kim savoured every word. She’d been prepared to wait for years if necessary. The opportunity had come sooner than she had expected. Her lips parted in a smile.
The Maitland house was in darkness. Wallace turned the key in the lock and went inside knowing Shona was upstairs in bed pretending to be asleep. Since New Year, life had spun out of control and he’d spiralled into a black vortex of fear and paranoia. At the hospital, Jimmy Hambley refused to allow him into his office; every case he operated on was being scrutinised – he was sure of it – and when he spoke to patients, he imagined their reluctance to trust his diagnosis.
Wallace Maitland was slowly losing his mind.
But the hostile atmosphere at home was real. Shona hadn’t exchanged twenty words with him since Hogmanay, and then it was to tell him the marriage was over. He was lonely. In his heart he accepted how badly he’d let his wife down but wouldn’t acknowledge that, with Margaret Cooper bleeding out in front of him, he’d made the wrong choice. He hid behind good intentions while David Cooper pureed Margaret’s meals and fed her with a spoon.
Maitland turned on the light, removed his jacket and pulled off his tie. Shona had poured the whisky that sat on the sideboard down the sink weeks ago. He hadn’t bothered to replace it. Drinking depressed him and although he spent every night in a pub, it was merely a refuge from his wife’s silent contempt. He hardly touched alcohol anymore.
A half-finished cup of tea, still warm, meant Shona had left it in her hurry to avoid meeting him. What had they become? He poured a glass of water, went back into the lounge and switched on the TV. Flicking through the channels told him what he already knew; there was nothing on except wall-to-wall rubbish. Maitland switched it off and listened to the house breathe as the central heating cooled. After a while he got out of the chair and wandered around the room that had been so familiar to him; a stranger in his own home.
At the window, he parted the blinds and peered into the street. A car was parked across the road with the silhouette of a man behind the wheel. Not doing anything; just sitting. Fear gripped Maitland’s chest, quickly replaced by anger. He threw open the front open and ran towards the stalker. Immediately, the engine fired, and the car roared away, leaving him standing in the middle of the road, shaking his fist and shouting.
‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone, you bastard!’
In the lounge, he got on his knees and dragged the contents of the sideboard onto the carpet with trembling fingers, scavenging like a homeless man in a dustbin, until he came across what he was looking for hidden behind a box of chocolates and a pile of telephone directories.
The vodka had been bought for a guest who had repaid the consideration by not showing up to drink it. Maitland brought a glass from the kitchen, filled it almost to the brim and emptied it. The clear spirit tasted vile and burned his throat; he didn’t care; he needed to escape the hell he was living in. A second measure went the way of the first. Wallace Maitland put his head in his hands and started to cry.
Shona had heard the front door slam shut and, soon after, the anguished sounds of a soul in torment rose to the room above. She got out of bed and went downstairs. The Maitlands had been married for more than two decades. In that time, Shona had become used to her husband the worse for wear. None of it prepared her for what was waiting.
Wallace was on the floor, wailing like a lost child. Blood from his mouth had stained his shirt. His right eye was bruised and closing. Seeing her didn’t stop him. He punched his face with his fist. Again and again, all the time weeping.
‘Wallace…what...?’
‘I killed him and I can’t remember! I can’t remember, Shona!’
Maitland’s nose burst under the force of another blow. His wife knelt beside him, and cradled his injured head; he collapsed against her, sobbing.
‘Help me. Please. Please. Help me remember Hogmanay.’
‘I’ll try, Wallace. I promise I’ll try.’