The buzzer broke into my thoughts. I lifted the receiver and heard Jackie, terse and distant, on the other end of the line.
‘Somebody for you.’
Three words more than she wanted to give me. When I went downstairs, she was behind the bar taking stock. Painted fingernails, dripping hostile indifference, fluttered in the direction of the back wall, while she concentrated on her work. If Jackie hadn’t pointed out the guy over near the Rock-Ola, drinking coffee and reading the Herald on the table in front of him, I would’ve walked past him. On cue, the stranger raised his head and I was staring at a face I’d last seen on the battlements of Edinburgh Castle. Back then, Sean Rafferty had been the second son of the notorious East End gangster family; now, he was the boss, and the man responsible for Tony Daly’s murder.
Just hearing him speak brought the memories flooding back.
‘Charlie. Long time.’
Not long enough.
The voice was the same, but the rest was different; very different: light suit, white shirt and short fair hair. You could’ve been sitting next to him at the Royal Concert Hall without suspecting this was, arguably, the most dangerous man in Glasgow. When he lifted the cup to sip his Americano I noticed his nails were buffed. He folded his arms and waited for me to join him. We didn’t shake hands; that would’ve been too surreal.
‘How’s tricks?’
‘Tricks is fine. What’re you doing here?’
Rafferty spread his arms. ‘You turned down my invitation to come and see me so I thought I’d come to you.’
The visit from the knuckle-dragger wasn’t ever going to be the finish of it but I hadn’t expected the main man to show-up in person half an hour later.
‘What do you want, Rafferty?’
‘Oh dear. Got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?’
‘Why’re you here?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘We don’t have anything to say to each other.’
‘I disagree. Want to bring you up to date. You’re living in the past.’
The second time I’d been told that in twenty-four hours.
‘You hear the name “Rafferty” and immediately think of old Jimmy. Understandable, given your experience, but I’m not my father. Take my word for it.’
I wouldn’t.
‘These days I’m a legitimate businessman. All the other stuff’s in the bin.’
‘All of it? Don’t believe you.’
He smiled to keep me on-side. ‘Well, most of it. All right, some of it.’
Sean Rafferty, honest injun; the gangster was stealing my act.
‘You’re about to tell me it’s good for Glasgow, aren’t you?’
He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. For him to bother with this charade meant he had to be seriously worried. Killing me was the easy option, except I might have discovered something and passed it on. That uncertainty was the reason I was still alive.
I kept hearing how good Riverside was for Glasgow. It certainly hadn’t been good for Tony Daly though, as yet, nobody was connecting his suicide to it. Rafferty was afraid I would.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you, because it’s true. Riverside is the most important development in the west of Scotland in years. How many cities can boast a complex like it? Marina, hotel, casino, restaurant and retail. Is it good for Glasgow? Of course it is. Jeopardising it puts thousands, probably tens of thousands, of jobs at risk.’
Rafferty’s eyes bored into me, unblinking.
‘People are depending on it.’
‘People like Emil Rocha?’
His face registered nothing. He straightened his tie. ‘I came to emphasise the damage you’re doing trying to connect a suicide to a project that will positively impact the prosperity of this city. And you should know any attempt to derail it will have consequences.’
The note in my pocket gave me courage. ‘Like?’
Rafferty sighed, unwilling to spell it out. ‘It won’t end well.’
‘Is that a threat? Should I call the police?’
He smiled indulgently at the sarcasm and drummed the table. ‘I don’t make threats, Charlie.’
‘You had Tony Daly murdered.’
The friendly-chat approach disappeared; the gangster, hiding in a sharp suit, fought to come into the light, and I knew I was right.
Rafferty’s voice fell to a whisper as he hissed his reply. ‘You got lucky the last time, Cameron. Wouldn’t count on it happening again.’
‘I’m still here.’
He shook his head at me. ‘Never learn, do you? I’m trying to be reasonable. Why do you always have to go the long road, Charlie? Take a telling, and stop making a nuisance of yourself. This is the third time you’ve been a pain in my arse. Having you in the world is becoming too expensive.’
Sean Rafferty stood and pulled on leather gloves. ‘Know your problem, Charlie? Too clever for your own good. Shame, really.’
It was tempting to produce the note with a magician’s flourish and announce that the police had already been informed. If I did I wouldn’t see tomorrow.
He threw money on the table and pushed past me. ‘Can’t help yourself. I blame it on all that expensive education your old man paid for selling drugs.’
‘Whisky.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Speaking of whisky, your goons filled the guy on the Queen Margaret Bridge with it before they threw him over the edge. Big mistake. He was a rum drinker. Dark rum. Hated whisky.’
Jimmy Rafferty had been a gutter gangster; his son was evolving into something much worse. Malice rolled off him. If he could he would’ve killed me right there. Yet he rose above my reckless baiting and held it together because the prize demanded it. Emil Rocha demanded it. Patrick Logue came in clutching a pink betting slip; Rafferty bumped into him on his way out.
‘Was that who I think it was?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hardly recognised him. Looks like a man with somewhere to go and something to do when he gets there. Didn’t know he made house calls?’
‘He’s making an exception.’
Patrick wagged the first four favourites at Newmarket at me. ‘Not funny, Charlie. Not funny at all. If you poke a snake with a stick don’t be surprised when it bites you. One word from that guy and it’s over for you.’
Patrick’s warning hit home; he was right. The satisfaction of provoking Rafferty had made me careless. Stupid would be a better description. I’d put myself in danger and now he knew what I knew, which wouldn’t give him sleepless nights. Daly drank rum, so what? Rafferty and his corrupt cabal were still free and clear.
Based on my previous experience, I wasn’t hopeful of getting anywhere with Lachie Thompson. With his off-the-peg suit and record of public service, he should have impressed as a man you could trust. That wasn’t what I’d taken from our conversation. His stoic insistence on not discussing his deceased colleague hadn’t lasted. In minutes, he was dragging Tony and Cissie Daly’s dirty laundry into the open under no pressure from me – alcoholics both, according to him – while his praise was over-rehearsed and poorly delivered. It left a bad taste in my mouth. With friends like him…
In spite of that, he was a polished performer – par for the course from a guy who’d spent decades telling people what they wanted to hear – and at the end, when I threw the Sean Rafferty bomb at him, he’d fielded it like a pro.
But a liar, even a good one, is still a liar.
On its own, the note was intriguing though not much else. If, as was likely, Thompson stuck to his story, it wasn’t the break-through the anonymous author supposed. Nevertheless, I took heart from knowing somebody who was no friend of the gangster was watching from the wings.
I called the council chambers and, to my surprise, got put through right away. Thompson wasn’t hostile – in fact, he was pleasant. I asked a couple of inconsequential questions which he batted back with saintly patience. When it seemed as if I had nothing more, I pulled the rug from under him.
‘By the way. How’s that granddaughter of yours?’
For the first time, he faltered. ‘…She’s very well.’
‘Good. I’m pleased. Because I heard she’d had some trouble.’
Thompson’s reply was stiff and unconvincing and told me I was right. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mr Cameron.’