Rain fell relentlessly in thin sheets on the ‘A’ listed buildings on Blythswood Square, once the town houses of wealthy cotton merchants and shipping magnates. Sean Rafferty liked this part of the city. In another age, he’d have lived here; the history of the square appealed to him. Over his shoulder in No 7, Madeleine Smith had poisoned her lover with arsenic-laced cocoa and got away with it. Good for Madeleine. Rafferty was waiting for somebody who very definitely hadn’t got away with it.
A taxi splashed to a halt outside the Kimpton Hotel, where a well-dressed couple sheltered in the doorway of the former home of the RAC Club under a black umbrella held aloft by the concierge. The man was bald, decades older than the woman. She was blonde and pretty, young enough to be his daughter, clinging to his arm as if they were on the edge of an abyss, instead of a wet pavement in the centre of Glasgow. Rafferty smiled – money got you just about anything. Which was why everybody wanted it. The concierge proved his point, slipped the tip into his waistcoat with the dexterity of a pickpocket and shepherded them through the puddles. An orange indicator flashed and the cab drew away, no doubt returning them to their comfortable lives in Whitecraigs, Dowanhill or Bearsden. Sean imagined them sharing a nice bottle of Chateaux What-The-Fuck with dinner, selected specially for them by the sommelier, the female fluttering her lashes, coyly pursing her lips, secretly hoping the wine, the two glasses of Courvoisier before the meal, and the Drambuie he’d drink after it would get her out of spreading her legs later.
Rafferty’s driver pointed to a bedraggled figure coming up the hill from Waterloo Street, her cropped hair matted to her skull, the short skirt and high heels out of place in the filthy weather. She stopped at the corner, looking up and down, swaying slightly, obviously on something. Sean didn’t blame her – if he spent every night doing what she was doing, he’d be on something, too.
The driver said, ‘Is that her?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Christ Almighty, she’s pathetic.’
Rafferty smiled a second time. ‘Isn’t she just?’
A white Mondeo pulled into the kerb. The guy behind the wheel rolled the window down and leaned across to speak to her. The exchange was brief and the car pulled away. Rafferty understood why – one look at her face would be enough to put anybody off.
The driver said, ‘He didn’t fancy it. Know where he’s coming from. You’d have to be desperate to take that on. Bloody desperate.’
‘Fortunately, some people are.’ Sean Rafferty tapped the dashboard. ‘I’ve seen enough. Take me to Bothwell.’
Vicky was hurting. Every joint in her body ached; she needed a fix. Two hours, three at the most, to earn. After that, the city closed down and it would be too late. Thinking about not being able to score panicked her; an iron hand gripped her chest, her fingertips tingled with the anxiety attack already on its way. The guy appeared out of the rain and was beside her before she realised he was there. Something about him was familiar, though she couldn’t place him. He squinted, amused, hard eyes assessing her. ‘Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.’
Vicky’s brain wouldn’t function.
He saw the confusion in her eyes. ‘Don’t remember me, do you? I remember you. How could I forget?’ He laughed and stepped closer. ‘No bells? That is disappointing. Made a lasting impression on your scrubber, though, didn’t I?’
He grabbed Vicky’s arm and slapped her against the railings. ‘Kelvin. Got a right doing because of you. Spent five days in the Royal.’ He slapped her; she stumbled and fell, tearing her tights, skinning her knee. Kelvin Hunter hauled her to her feet, caught a handful of her wet hair, and dragged her head up to the light. ‘Jesus Christ! What the hell’s happened to you? You weren’t bad for a tart. Pick a fight with a bus, did you?’
Kelvin was enjoying himself too much to hear the car stop and the man get out. He threw Vicky to the ground, mocking her. ‘Wear a mask. Who in their right mind would pay for that? Nobody—’
A hand gripped him and spun him round. The first blow broke his jaw, the second put Kelvin Hunter down – he wouldn’t be getting up again any time soon.
Tony lifted Vicky Farrell to her feet and held her close as she sobbed into his shoulder. It had taken longer than he wanted, but he’d found her. He said, ‘Come on, baby, we’re done with this town. Let’s get you home.’