The ferry trip back to Ardrossan was very different from the outward journey. My appreciation of the beauty around me had diminished; the combination of Davidson’s drunken wretchedness and too much sun bleached whatever fragment of hope I’d had. My thoughts wandered to Dennis Boyd. The odds of proving his innocence in a fifteen-year-old case had never been great. Now, because of my misplaced sense of fair play, there were no odds. It was over. Davidson’s claim remained unchanged: he’d seen him running from Joe Franks’ house.
Joining Patrick in the bar instead of going on deck had seemed a good idea. It wasn’t. He was in no better shape. We drank muddy coffee and didn’t speak until the announcement for drivers to return to their cars blared over the Tannoy.
In Glasgow, I dropped him at NYB. Before he got out, he said, ‘So that’s it, Charlie. Can’t win them all.’
‘That’s it for you. I’m not done. Boyd didn’t murder Joe Franks. I intend to prove it.’
He shook his head and scratched his goatee. I heard a lecture – or maybe another quote – coming. It was neither; it was a rebuke. ‘What is it with you? Used to think it was determination. Now I’m not so sure. Could be ego. This was a turkey from the start. Should never have got involved. For your own good, it’s time to get uninvolved and you can’t see it.’
‘Not as simple as that.’
‘Yeah, it is. The third witness was our last chance. We found him and he’s sticking to his story. Give it up, man, before somebody decides you’re too bloody nosy.’
I stayed in the office until the shadows on the wall faded to black, mulling over the confrontation. The last forty-eight hours had been manic, and my mistake on Lamlash pier weighed heavily on me. A skewed sense of honour had consigned an innocent man to a second term in prison and left another at the mercy of a killer. Davidson didn’t want to go to the police. But he was drunk, not thinking straight. I should have taken the decision out of his hands.
The list I’d made – was it really only two days ago? – lay on the desk. I picked it up, tore it into pieces, dropped them in the waste-paper bin, and headed for the door. Pat Logue was right: the case was a bust.
My mobile rang just as I was pulling into the car park. ‘This is Yannis Kontogiannakis. You called.’
The English was good, spoken in an accent as thick as olive oil.
‘Yes, I did. Thanks for coming back to me. My name’s Charlie Cameron. I’m a private investigator. I wanted to speak to you about a man you used to do business with: Joe Franks.’
‘Joe. I don’t understand. Joe died a long time ago.’ Suspicion edged into his voice. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
I told him, leaving out Dennis Boyd and double murder. ‘His family has asked me to look into what happened to him. My problem is it’s impossible to find anybody who knew him.’
‘I see.’ I could hear him turning over his reply. ‘Well, we worked together for many years. I liked Joe. He was a fine man. We were a good team. I’m not sure what I can tell you.’
‘Look, do you mind if I call you back? I’m in the car.’
‘Are you phoning from Scotland?’
‘Yes.’
He laughed. ‘The way you speak takes me back. And you’re in luck. I am in the UK for a few days. First London, then Edinburgh.’
‘Great. Can we meet? I’m in Glasgow. I’ll come to you. Anywhere you say.’
‘No need. I love Glasgow. It’ll be a good excuse to see it again, though, like I said, I don’t know what I can tell you.’
‘I just need to understand how the last deal went down, and anything you can think of that might throw some light on who killed him.’
‘But I was told they caught the man.’
‘That’s the problem, Mr Kontogiannakis, I’m not sure they did.’
Dennis Boyd sat on the old shooting stick he’d found late on the first day in a musty shop that looked as if it hadn’t had a customer in decades. He had paid for it – as he did with everything – in cash.
On the concrete viewing platform, next to McCaig’s Tower, casting a critical eye over his efforts, it was almost possible to forget he was Scotland’s most wanted man. Boyd had bought a set of light pencils he’d forgotten to get in Glasgow, and a cap. When added to the glasses Diane had given him, the transformation was complete.
People stared; Boyd was fine with that. He saw them out of the corner of his eye putting him down as eccentric without connecting him with the face on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Hiding in plain sight.
Below, Oban harbour curved in a horseshoe, Mull shimmered in the distance and a CalMac ferry returning from the islands broke a path through the water, leaving a white line in its wake. In prison, Boyd’s artistic talents had been an escape. Revisiting them now heightened his appreciation of things he’d missed. Like Diane’s soft body spread like a banquet. He smiled at the memory and added a few deft strokes to the picture, knowing this was how he should have spent his time instead of squandering it. No use regretting it. Painting took discipline. His younger self was headstrong and impatient, lacking the ability to stay with it. He’d been given a gift – no doubt about that. It wasn’t enough. This was where he’d ended up. Being wise after the event did nobody any good.
The call to Diane the previous night had left him depressed. The news wasn’t good. For hours, he’d walked the town’s unfamiliar streets searching for a way to prove his innocence. He’d been a fool; he realised that now. Better to have taken her money and got on the London train. Instead, he’d rejected the idea, pinning everything on an ad in a telephone booth. How crazy was that? Cameron had actually found Willie Davidson, but the lying bastard was sticking to his story. The last hope, the only hope, was gone. There was nothing more the PI could do. His advice hadn’t altered: Boyd should surrender himself to the police. A non-starter. Going back to prison wasn’t an option even if he had to live in a cave for the rest of his life.
A middle-aged woman stopped to admire his work. Under her arm was a rolled-up copy of The Scotsman. Boyd wondered if she’d read the article about him and carried on as if she wasn’t there, playing the part of an artist lost in his art.
She said, ‘You really are very good.’
He mouthed a modest ‘thanks’ and adjusted the glasses, hoping she’d go away.
‘Do you sell your work? You should.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘It’s just a hobby.’
‘Well, I’d buy it. I’d love to have something like that on my wall.’
His one thought was to get her to go. On an impulse he handed the sheet to her and took her by surprise. ‘Then have it.’
‘Are you sure? I mean… it’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘It might be worth a lot of money someday.’
‘Then we’ll both be in luck.’
The woman turned to go and changed her mind. ‘Would you sign it for me?’
‘Of course.’
Boyd wrote on the bottom and gave it back. The woman read the name, savouring the moment. ‘I’ll cherish it. Thank you again, Mr Franks.’