I woke earlier than usual and lay staring at the ceiling. I should have been thinking about Andrew and the hanged man on the Queen Margaret Bridge. I wasn’t. I was thinking about a dark-skinned Malawian woman.
After the movie, we’d gone for a drink in Vroni’s, of all places, where late on Saturday afternoon, a troubled DS Geddes had added wine to the whisky he’d already drunk and guaranteed the journey into oblivion ending with the ugly scene in NYB.
Alile told me about life in her country and how she’d come into nursing. The more she spoke, the more I appreciated what a special person she was. But at the end of the night, when the taxi pulled up outside her flat, I let her go inside by herself, no doubt wondering if she’d said or done something wrong. Of course, she hadn’t; it wasn’t her, it was me. In the wine bar, looking into her beautiful face, I could feel myself falling.
Given my history: not good.
Kate Calder’s unexpected appearance with Big River on New Year’s Eve had been a painful reminder of what we’d had. Without realizing it, I might be using Alile. She deserved better. Taking it slowly was the wisest course – although when had I ever done that? Trying to explain could mean it was over between us before it had even begun.
Chances were, I was complicating things, but it felt right.
My meeting with Councillor Thompson wasn’t until noon so I gave myself the morning off and hung around the flat. By the time I arrived at NYB it was after eleven.
Jackie could be subtle when she wanted; today, she didn’t want. ‘How’s it going with Miss World? Found you out yet, has she?’
‘Has actually, Jackie. Tried to keep it from her, but you know what women are like. They wheedle stuff out of you.’
‘And?’
‘I’m Mr Wonderful. Her words not mine.’
Jackie fired back. ‘And she seemed all right. Goes to show you just can’t tell.’
Poor by her usual standards. She’d lost and she knew it. I lifted a copy of the Herald from the bar and headed for a table. ‘Espresso, please, when you’ve got a minute.’
The small victory was short-lived. Inside the newspaper, on page four, a face I’d hoped never to see again, grinned at me under the headline “Good for Glasgow.”
My mobile rang. DS Geddes.
‘An old friend of yours has gone respectable, Charlie. Who’d have believed it?’
‘Just looking at him, Andrew. Last time I saw him was at Edinburgh Castle with his psycho brother.’
‘Well, now he’s a pillar of the business community. According to the report, OTD, the company he represents, is in partnership with the city.’
‘Good for Glasgow.’
‘Yeah, right!’
‘Close to Daly’s swallow dive. Quite a coincidence.’
‘Don’t believe in them.’
‘Me neither. Know anything about this OTD?’
‘No. I’ll start digging.’
I brought him up to speed. ‘Got a meet at the City Chambers with Daly’s friend, Lachie Thompson. Interested to hear what he has to say about the Lord Provost shaking hands with a gangster.’
‘Probably used to it. Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s going on Sean Rafferty’s up to his armpits in it.’ He rang off.
Jackie came over with the coffee and surprised me with an apology. ‘Sorry, Charlie. Shouldn’t have said that about your girlfriend.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I’d stepped into the trap.
‘Then she is your girlfriend. Wasn’t sure.’
‘You’re putting two-and-two together…’
‘…and coming up with romance.’
I filled the time before my meeting unsuccessfully trying to read the rest of the news. Concentration was impossible; anything Rafferty was part of could only benefit him and whoever he was in bed with. I took a last look at the Lord Provost of Scotland’s second city and a gangster from the East End locked in a handshake, as a blonde model unveiled what was promised to be good for Glasgow.
I returned the newspaper – minus page four – to the bar on my way out and got a sarcastic thumbs-up from Jackie.
‘All you need is love, Charlie.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Lachie Thompson was waiting for me at reception. Though I was aware he’d been a member of the city council for three decades and had to be in his sixties, at least, he was older than I expected: white-haired, thin and balding, wearing a blue suit that wasn’t new. He shook my hand without making eye contact.
‘Sorry to put you off yesterday. Busy day.’ He didn’t go into details and handed me a pass. ‘Won’t let you in without one of these.’
I followed him past granite columns, up a marble staircase to a small room on the first floor. When we got inside we sat at a wooden table, opposite each other. He didn’t waste time on small talk and I realised we wouldn’t be very long.
‘You’re here about, Tony. Okay, let me be honest with you, Mr…’
‘Cameron.’
‘I’d rather not talk about, Tony Daly.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too soon. Still too raw. Cissie’s the only reason I agreed to see you. If anything can help her accept the terrible thing her brother did, then of course it isn’t a choice. My feelings are unimportant.’
Nice speech councillor.
‘I appreciate it.’
He nodded his head solemnly, as if we’d reached some profound understanding, and I resisted changing my first question from how well he’d known Tony Daly to his relationship with Sean Rafferty.
‘Cissie Daly says you were one of Tony’s best friends. What was he like, and did you notice a difference in him before he died?’
Thompson placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers: a man deep in thought. After a minute, he answered. ‘Tony was one of the good guys. Completely dedicated to public service. Glasgow is the poorer for his passing.’
His eulogy sounded hollow and rehearsed. Or maybe I was having trouble getting round the picture in the paper. ‘How long did you know him?’
‘Sixteen or seventeen years. From when he was elected.’
‘And you became friends?’
The councillor was used to answering questions harder than the ones I was asking. He relaxed and sat back in his chair. ‘Tony was an easy guy to like and I did like him. Very much. But at the same time, if he disagreed with what you were saying, he wasn’t afraid to tell you.’
‘So did he?
‘What?’
‘Disagree with you?’
Thompson’s eyes narrowed, suddenly wary. It wasn’t possible to survive in politics as long as he had without being able to tell which way the wind was blowing.
‘Not often, no. We tended to see things pretty much the same.’
I qualified my interest. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr Thompson. The police have written off Tony Daly’s death as suicide. His sister believes – with good reason – it may well be something else. You were closer to him than most people, what do you think?’
He leaned forward, unimpressed with where the conversation was headed. ‘You say you’ve been straight with me. All right, let me be straight with you. I can’t imagine what Cissie’s going through. It must be terrible for her. But clutching at straws isn’t going to help. Somehow, she has to find the strength to put this terrible thing behind her and move on with her life.’
‘Not easy when there are loose ends.’
He spread his arms. ‘Loose ends? I told you Tony was a good man and it’s true. He was also a flawed man.’
‘Flawed as in?’
‘He was an alcoholic.’
Thompson glanced away, reluctant to add more, though I was willing to bet he would. He drew on the table with his finger, hesitant and distracted, before continuing with a question of his own.
‘The only way to say this is to say it. Obviously you’ve met, Cissie.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must have noticed she has a drink problem?’
‘I didn’t.’
He made a noise deep in his throat which cast doubt on my ability to investigate my way out of a wet paper bag. ‘Take my word for it. You asked if I noticed a difference in him before he died. The answer is: yes, I did. He was depressed.’
‘Depressed about what?’
He smiled sadly at my lack of insight into the human condition. ‘Alcoholics don’t need a reason, Mr Cameron. It’s who they are. It’s why they drink in the first place.’
‘So Tony was…’ Thompson’s voice rose in defence of his dead colleague. ‘…a tireless worker on behalf of the people of Glasgow; that’s how he should be remembered. Not as a man slowly drowning in booze. He deserves more. And certainly not as the defenceless victim of a dark conspiracy nobody, including the police, has even bothered to consider. What you’re suggesting is murder, do you realise that?’
For thirty years, Lachie Thompson had been persuading the city’s electorate to vote for him. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. He could conjure passion from the air, while he remained a loyal friend saddened by another’s mistakes. In the waters he swam in, an invaluable skill set.
The councillor studied my expression, expecting to find me convinced. It was time to knock him off-guard. I started slowly. ‘Where did he stand on Riverside?’
Thompson – old stager that he was – took it in his stride. ‘Riverside? Supported it one hundred percent.’
‘Good for Glasgow?’
‘Tony thought so, yes.’
‘What about you?’
‘As I said, we agreed on most things. I’m totally behind the project.’
There were no papers on the table. If there had been the councillor would have shuffled them. Instead, he made do with checking his watch. I’d had all I was getting. He finished on a compassionate note, assuming the meeting was over.
‘Please tell Cissie I’ll call soon.’
My question caught him unprepared. ‘How well did you and Tony know Sean Rafferty?’
Thompson faltered. ‘Sean Rafferty?’
‘He represents the city’s partner, OTD, on Riverside.’
The councillor shook his head. ‘I’ve never met him and I doubt Tony did either.’
‘Surely you met him yesterday?’
‘Yesterday I was just part of the window dressing.’
‘Making up the numbers?’
‘Something like that.’
Later in the day, Andrew phoned to ask how I’d got on with Thompson and to fill me in on what he’d discovered. I assumed his situation hadn’t changed but, whatever frustrations DS Geddes was suffering, they weren’t part of his conversation.
I replayed Lachie Thompson’s reticence to speak ill of the dead before rushing to bad-mouth both the brother and his sister, all the time insisting he was a friend.
Andrew wasn’t surprised. ‘In his next incarnation, he’ll be a lawyer.’
‘Slippery enough, that’s for sure.’
‘So he hasn’t a problem believing Daly did himself in?’
‘Didn’t commit one way or the other and kept to the official line – selfless public servant whose contribution will never be fully appreciated.’
‘Typical politician.’
‘According to him, Tony was all for the development though he isn’t aware of any contact between him and Rafferty.’
‘What did Thompson say about his own relationship with him?’
‘Doesn’t know him.’
Andrew snorted down the line. ‘Not possible. In spite of the rise of the SNP, the Labour Party still holds a majority. As leader of the council, Lachie Thompson is a very influential guy in Glasgow politics. Probably the most influential. Apart from that, he’s been around so long he knows everybody and everybody knows him.
‘Knows him or owes him?’
‘I’d guess both. Nothing happens he isn’t involved in. No public/private collaboration could exist without his approval, especially something this high profile. It just isn’t on.’
‘But isn’t the background of any outside company vetted to be sure they aren’t crooks?’
Geddes laughed. ‘Of course that’s the theory. But in reality this city does business with shady characters all the time. So long as the right people are behind it, councillors will look the other way.’
He paused. Paper rustled on the other end of the phone.
‘Riverside’s a case in point. Been speculation about it for more than a year. Suddenly, out of the blue, it gets approved. Yesterday, we see who the City Fathers are in bed with and yes, it’s true. The devil is in the detail.’
‘Sean Rafferty.’
‘Not Rafferty. The deal involves millions. Far too big for him to take on himself. He’s only the frontman. I spent an afternoon digging into OTD and what I found won’t come as a shock, Charlie. OTD stands for Orange Tree Development. Can you guess who that is?’
‘No, but you’re going to tell me.’
The sarcasm fell on deaf ears.
‘Give you a clue. His father and grandfather were penniless orange farmers. That’s right. None other than our old friend Emil Rocha.’
Geddes was wrong about the shock. Hearing the name sent a jolt of fear through me. In the past, my path and the Spanish drug lord’s had crossed. I’d been lucky to survive the experience.
And Sean Rafferty was Rocha’s man. It made sense.
Every ambitious criminal wanted to create legitimate businesses profitable in their own right that allowed them to wash dirty money. Win-win. On the sun-kissed Costas, Rocha was already a player in real estate, as well as one of the biggest dealers in cocaine, smuggled from Africa. Half the snow snorted in Glasgow had come from him, and been sold on the street by Rafferty.
‘But there’s more. The bold Sean hasn’t let the grass grow. He’s respectable these days; married with a daughter.’
‘God help them.’
‘Indeed.’
I brought the subject back to Lachie Thompson. ‘Thompson and his friend Daly commanded a helluva lot of influence in the council and acted together on most issues. Though maybe the exception was Riverside. For whatever reason, Tony Daly wouldn’t get on board, so they killed him. Does that make sense, Andrew?’
‘Sense, yes. Enough to convince the procurator fiscal? Not a chance. It’s a handy story to explain a violent death. It isn’t evidence. Not even circumstantial.’
Geddes was right.
‘Who else is there, besides Thompson?’
‘It’s hard to say. The vote to green-light the project was 47/32, which means the nationalists stuck together – they always do – and most of the rest approved it.’
‘So who, Andrew?’
‘Only other really well-known face is Sandy Rutherford. Old school trade unionist. Has a reputation for being a straight-shooter. Beyond that I don’t know much about him. Can’t do any harm to talk to him.’
Our options had narrowed and DS Geddes was realising it. He went quiet.
‘Give my right arm to stick it to that bastard Barr. He’s got us working on domestic abuse. Bumps up his numbers and makes him look like a policeman while serious crime gets ignored.’
‘I told you what to do.’
‘Don’t think I wasn’t paying attention, Charlie. Watch this space.’