The Caledonian MacBrayne ferry from Ardrossan dipped and rose, throwing small lines of spray into the air and onto the bow. The morning’s early promise had delivered a beautiful day and I was standing as far forward on the top deck as they allowed, shading my eyes against the sun. Ahead, spread across the horizon under a blue sky, the island of Arran might have been Tahiti.
Over to my left, a shout went up. People pointed at the grey-brown dorsal fin of a basking shark gliding through the water. When the creature rolled, giving us a sight of its white belly and huge open jaws, the watchers broke into applause. One of the crew, wearing green oilskins and a woolly hat, smiled; he’d seen it all before and hadn’t forgotten the thrill of that first time.
Pat Logue had done an amazing job. Because of him we had a chance to discover the truth behind the testimony that had doomed Dennis Boyd. He was waiting for me when I returned to the car deck, leaning against the door with his eyes closed and his face turned towards the warm light.
With Patrick, the philosopher was never far away. Whatever he’d had to drink brought it to the surface. ‘Crossin’ water always puts your troubles behind you. Ever noticed that?’
‘Can’t say I have, Patrick.’
‘“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds you in its net of wonder forever.”’
He was at it again. I didn’t remind him the spell hadn’t been strong enough to drag him away from the bar. He sighed and stretched. ‘Guess who said it.’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
He was immune to my apathy. ‘It’s an obvious one.’
‘Wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you. Jacques Yves Cousteau.’
‘Very good. Now let’s get our heads in the game. Where’re we going?’
‘Lamlash.’ He checked his watch. ‘Davidson’s probably in the pub.’
A man after his own heart.
‘Which one?’
‘Not too many to choose from, Charlie. Olive says her father goes to The Pierhead Tavern or the Bay Hotel. Spends most of his time gettin’ bluttered.’
From the ferry we drove the three miles from Brodick to Lamlash, where two dozen small boats lay at anchor in the bay. Scotland the wow! Today, my mind was on other things.
I parked in the car park opposite the pub. Outside, a group of blonde-haired female backpackers were drinking lager and enjoying the weather. Inside, the bar was busy. I scanned the faces, not sure who I was looking for, illogically certain I’d recognise him. Davidson was in his seventies. Nobody came close.
Behind me Patrick said, ‘Maybe we’ve missed him.’
A sign directed customers to the terrace bar. We followed it upstairs. The terrace was full; all the seats were taken. Nobody there was Davidson’s age.
Patrick said, ‘He isn’t here.’
In the distance, a lone figure at the end of the pier, gazing towards the Holy Isle, caught my attention. ‘Yes, he is.’
I ran towards the flotilla of small boats at anchor with Patrick at my heels, our footsteps heavy on the stone jetty. Davidson was in a world of his own and didn’t know we were there until I called his name. He turned slowly, with an effort drawing himself to his full height, one hand gripping an almost empty half-bottle of Famous Grouse. The whisky hadn’t brought him peace: dark stubble covered his jaw and his eyes were red from crying. He wiped them on his sleeve like a child and stared through us.
Thanks to Pat Logue, Dennis Boyd might still have a chance to prove his innocence: we’d found the third witness.
Before I could introduce myself, Davidson spoke, his voice thick with booze. ‘Leave my daughter be, you hear? She isn’t part of this.’
He was expecting somebody else. I didn’t enlighten him. Not yet. He growled an impotent demand and took an unsteady step forward. ‘Leave her out of it.’
Olive’s father was older than his years, his thin grey hair a match for his face. The one concession he’d made to the sunny day was a white shirt, open at the neck, under a wine cardigan worn with charcoal trousers. I tried to picture how he must have looked on the witness stand fifteen years earlier: tidy and clean-shaven, clear-eyed and plausible, describing a man running from Joe Franks’ house who looked like Dennis Boyd.
All lies.
Time had paid him out for whatever he’d done; the fingers of his left hand trembled uncontrollably and not through fear: Willie Davidson had Parkinson’s.
His voice cracked, he pushed his chest out, dredging courage from somewhere deep inside, and in a strange way, though I knew what he’d done, I admired him. ‘Go on. Get on with it. Get it over with!’
Letting him give himself away would’ve been easy – he was drunk and it would’ve been cheap. I didn’t have the stomach for it.
‘You’ve got it wrong, Willie. We haven’t come to harm you.’
His expression crumbled. His arms dropped to his sides like someone who’d reached the end of the line. ‘Then what the hell do you want?’
‘To talk about Dennis Boyd.’
As the realisation he wasn’t about to die sank in, he set aside what was probably the one noble moment in his entire life and reverted to who he was, who he’d always been. ‘Nothing to say about him. To you or anybody else.’
‘You sure, Willie? You sure about that? I’m not. Your testimony convicted an innocent man. Yours and McDermid’s and Wilson’s. The only one above ground is you, though not for much longer. Thought we were them, didn’t you? They’ll be here soon enough. Whoever did McDermid and Wilson is coming for you. They can’t let you live.’
Patrick said, ‘If I can track you down so can they.’
‘Willie, you’re in danger. Let me take you to the police. They can protect you.’
He didn’t seem to understand the words. I tried a different approach and pointed at his quivering hand. ‘What’ve you got to lose? Make it right before it’s too late.’
Davidson wasn’t in the mood to make anything right. His crisis had passed; he was regaining control. ‘Boyd beat Joe Franks to death. Bastard got what he deserved. I saw him there. It’s what I said then and it’s what I’m saying now.’ He forced out an unconvincing laugh. ‘So, you and the police can fuck right off!’
He pushed between us and lurched down the pier to the shore, still clutching the half-bottle. I called after him. ‘Willie! Don’t be a fool! Go to the police!’
Davidson turned, gave me the finger and, with the afternoon light dappling the bay, slurred a mouthful of untruths. ‘He did it! Boyd did it! He’s fucking guilty!’
Vicky heard the floorboards creak under his boots as he crept along the corridor. He was predictable, she’d say that for him. This time, he’d made a mistake – he hadn’t reckoned Vicky would still be there. Most of the girls could tell stories about Noah, a disgusting user, probably the sleaziest individual to cross the threshold in Renfrew Street. Every night he paid at least one of them a visit. Having him to protect them was another sad irony in a life full of them.
She lifted a piece of metal pipe from the corner, feeling the cold solidness of it in her palm, and crouched. On the bed, Kim Rafferty snored in an exhausted sleep not destined to last – when she wakened, the craving would be waiting for her and the nightmare would continue. Vicky was determined this guy wouldn’t be part of it.
The door opened; Noah stood in the shadows like Frankenstein’s monster, letting his eyes adjust before coming into the room. He probably weighed as much as Vicky and Kim Rafferty together, a scuzz ball trying to take advantage. If he’d known the woman he was after was Sean Rafferty’s wife, he’d have acted very differently. Men like this weren’t brave; taking advantage of vulnerable females was his stretch. Tony was worth a hundred of him.
She allowed the would-be rapist two more steps, then swung the pipe through the air. It thudded against his shin, he screamed, fell to the floor and she was on him, crashing the metal against his arms and legs, beating him as he whimpered and crawled back the way he’d come.
When he’d gone, she closed the door, put the pipe down and dropped into the chair.
Kim would never know. Nobody would.
Vicky had won a small victory. Better than none.