Opening my eyes was painful. I closed them again and tried to figure out why I felt so bad. The answer arrived like jagged fragments from a bad dream: the look on Dennis Boyd’s face when he realised he’d walked into a trap; Alex Gilby pulling me away from Andrew Geddes outside NYB; and Diane Kennedy’s tears on my neck. I drew the duvet over my head and lay until the nightmare moved on. Eventually, I stumbled blindly to the shower and began a reluctant recovery that wouldn’t include eating.
The hot water helped. After a while I felt good enough to make a will, but decided to face whatever had to be faced. Getting myself together was a slow process. When I was ready, I called a cab to take me into town – it wasn’t a difficult decision considering my car was where I’d parked it the previous afternoon. While I waited, I forced down a cup of coffee and struggled to make sense of the previous day. Unfortunately, I succeeded.
Excuses weren’t hard to find; I had no use for them. Blaming Willie Davidson’s no-show for what had happened was too easy. If I could find the third witness, so could the killer. Shortly after his telephone call to me, Davidson was dead and with him Boyd’s last slender hope of clearing his name. Dennis Boyd had been set up; I was sure of it. The witnesses had committed perjury for money. Their paymaster – whoever he’d been – had murdered Joe Franks.
I’d been accused of being naïve. On recent evidence, the verdict was guilty as charged. Discovering the killer’s identity had always been a long shot. Now it was impossible.
Over his shoulder the taxi driver made a stab at cheery conversation but gave up when it was clear I wasn’t interested in talking. At George Square, I got out and walked the rest of the way. Usually, my first stop would be NYB. Not today. I’d no wish to run into Andrew or Jackie Mallon, or anybody else. I had to think. To do that I needed to be alone.
A wall of whisky fumes hit me as soon as I opened the office door. The bottle on the floor against the wall caught my eye. Of course, it was empty. I lifted it and dropped it into the waste-paper basket; it fell with a dull thud on top of Diane Kennedy’s cigarette butts. Apparently, the No Smoking policy had been suspended.
So how long had she been here? What hopeless promises had been made? I shuddered at the thought. Unless something unexpected came along, Boyd was headed back to Barlinnie. As Andrew Geddes never tired of reminding me, his guilt or otherwise was a decision other people would make. The ability to prove it, one way or the other, was the only thing that mattered. And on that, I’d failed.
Around eleven-thirty, my mobile rang. I thought of not answering it and changed my mind. ‘Charlie Cameron.’
A voice with a heavy accent said, ‘Mr Cameron. It is Yannis. How are you?’
I lied. ‘I’m fine.’
‘My business in Edinburgh will be finished this morning. Then I will come to Glasgow on the three o’clock train. Where will I meet you?’
My heart wasn’t in it but the Greek was going out of his way to help. ‘I’ll be at Queen Street station when you arrive.’
‘Great. See you then. Goodbye.’
I’d forgotten about the Greek. It probably wasn’t important now. Pat Logue stuck his face round the door. ‘Two words, Charlie. Su perb. But you couldn’t hold on, could you?’
‘Come again.’
‘To stick one on that pompous arsehole. All this time I’ve waited, and when it finally happens, I’m somewhere else.’
‘You didn’t miss much. It was not my finest hour, Patrick.’
He came in, closed the door behind him and sat down. ‘With respect, I’ll be the judge of that. Jackie says you laid him out. Were the scales suddenly lifted from your eyes and you saw him as he really is? Did you remind him how many of his cases you’ve solved?’
Patrick’s enjoyment was undisguised. Punching a policeman – especially this particular policeman – appealed to him.
‘Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn’t like that.’
He picked the whisky bottle from the waste basket and held it in the air. ‘How do you come to be assaulting an officer of the law? Nothing to do with alcohol, I hope.’
‘We had a disagreement. It got out of hand.’
He let it go and became serious. ‘I called you last night. Mobile was switched off. Guessed you wanted space.’
Good guess.
I brought him up to date on how it had been: from Davidson’s non-appearance and Andrew’s betrayal, to Boyd’s reaction and the conversation in Helen Street with DI Campbell. He listened without interrupting. When I stopped speaking, he summed up where I was. ‘And you’re blaming yourself?’
‘Yes, I am.’
He waved an admonishing finger and hit me over the head with one of his quotes. ‘“Better to be punished for making the right decision than live with the guilt of making the wrong one.” Write it down. Seriously, anybody would’ve done what you did.’
‘No, they wouldn’t. I should’ve held back until Davidson told his side of it. Instead, I was in too much of a hurry.’
Patrick didn’t agree. ‘Yeah. Bring him in before he got caught. Hindsight’s a wonderful thing, Charlie. The one mistake you made was to trust a copper.’
I held up a hand; he wouldn’t be stopped.
‘No. It’s the truth. You acted in good faith. The same couldn’t be said for your pal. Not blaming him, mind. Just doing what he knows. Guys like him never have a day off. Can’t help themselves.’
‘Nice of you to give me a pass, Patrick. Coming to me for help is the worst move Dennis Boyd’s made.’
Patrick wasn’t having any. ‘Talk sense, Charlie. Nobody else would’ve given him the time of day. You did. And got a witness to admit he’d perjured himself at his trial.’
He used his thumb and forefinger to make his point. ‘You were this close to proving the jury got it wrong fifteen years ago. Who else could’ve done that?’ He answered his own question. ‘I’ll tell you. Nobody.’
I thanked him for his faith in me. ‘Except where does it leave us? Which reminds me, the Greek Joe Franks bought stones from is coming through from Edinburgh on the three o’clock train from Waverley.’
‘Want me to meet him? What’s his name?’
‘Yannis.’
‘Does he know anything?’
‘Doubt it. According to Boyd he’s a good guy.’
Patrick got up to go. ‘I’ll be there. And by the by, I spoke to Olive this morning. She’s gutted, as you would expect. Willie Davidson might’ve been a rat, but he was still her father.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anything coming up? Could use the cash.’
I didn’t catch up with Patrick again until close to five in the afternoon. Too late. He introduced his companion like a long-lost brother. It had taken less than an hour for these kindred spirits to recognise each other and begin the celebration.
Pat raised a glass and said, ‘Yamas! Means cheers in Greek, Charlie.’
‘Thanks for explaining that.’
Patrick was enjoying himself too much to notice the sarcasm. He nudged my elbow and pointed. ‘This is a great guy. Liked him as soon as I saw him.’
Yannis let his new best friend do the talking. Diane had met him just once, fifteen years and twenty kilos ago – her description was out of date; the black hair had thinned and was streaked with grey, sunglasses he wouldn’t have much use for pushed up off his grinning moon face.
I wanted to speak to him; this wasn’t the moment. These guys were serious drinkers and they were headed for a session. I made my apologies, ducked out and left them to it.
There was a smile in his voice. There always would be even when he was ordering somebody’s death.
Sean Rafferty imagined Rocha dressed in a white lightweight suit and sandals, casually inspecting his nails, relaxing in the shade of his fucking orange tree, while other people made his money for him. Not far away, a naked woman would be in the swimming pool – probably young, definitely beautiful. Rocha wouldn’t hurry; no matter how long he took, she’d wait. Emil Rocha was who Sean Rafferty aspired to be – the man who had it all. Except, his perfect life, like everything about him, wasn’t so perfect, as the presence of the armed guards at the gate and on the walls testified. Rocha had many enemies. Someday, one of them would get him; his time on earth would prematurely end with his suntanned face in the dirt and Rafferty would be looking for a new partner. Until then…
The Glasgow gangster faked it. ‘Emil, this is a surprise.’
‘A pleasant surprise, I hope.’
Unease rippled Rafferty’s skin: a call from the Spaniard was rarely good. Usually, it meant he was unhappy. And Emil Rocha didn’t keep his unhappiness to himself.
‘Always.’
‘I was thinking about you and decided to give my friend in Scotland a call. How are things?’
‘Fine, Emil, everything’s fine.’
‘You deserve credit for how quickly you handled our problem. I appreciated it.’
‘It was necessary. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’
‘As you say, Sean, it was necessary. Though, I took no pleasure in it, I assure you.’
Liar, he’d relished every second – before, during, and after. Especially after, brazenly revealing he’d had sex with Kim, rubbing Rafferty’s nose in it, daring him to react.
‘I’d like another look at the land you showed me. Send me a report. Perhaps, I was too hasty.’
‘Did the Menorca project fall through?’
Rocha paused, the phony bonhomie faltering, and Sean realised there had never been a Menorca project; the drug lord had invented it. He’d been on his way to spend the afternoon with Kim, correctly assessed the implications of her unfaithfulness for himself and decided not to get more deeply involved with a man who wasn’t in control of his wife.
if she’s willing to betray you to me, she’ll betray both of us to the police
it’s merely a question of when
‘Oh, that. The individuals who approached me had interesting proposals. I turned them down.’
A conversation with Rocha was a masterclass in duplicity. Sean imagined him sipping an espresso, waving to the girl in the pool. ‘Opportunities are like autumn leaves, my young friend. Thick on the ground. The skill lies in choosing which ones to pick up. We can continue with our plans.’
‘I look forward to it, Emil.’
‘As do I. And, Sean, one last word. A serious man wouldn’t have to learn the same lesson twice.’
The line died. In Glasgow, Rafferty trembled with rage. Rocha’s tone had been friendly. Underneath the façade, the bastard was warning him.
Again.
Rafferty hadn’t seen his wife since they’d taken her screaming from the house in Bothwell. The Spaniard’s phone call had stirred his hatred for the bitch. Coming here hadn’t been in his plans, yet he couldn’t stay away – his thirst for revenge was too great; he had to witnesses it for himself. He stood by the filthy bed, looking down at the sleeping Kim, his features lit with an intensity Vicky had only seen at the height of sex. Sean swept Kim’s hair away with his finger so he could see her face. His lips parted in a grin. At the final of Miss Scotland, surrounded by lovely women, she’d shone.
She wasn’t shining now.
He stepped back and spoke to Vicky out of the side of his mouth without taking his eyes off Kim. ‘Wake this bitch up. I want to speak to her.’
Vicky swallowed her disgust. ‘Sean… she—’
He turned, his voice dripping menace. ‘Don’t fucking argue with me.’
Vicky gently shook Kim’s shoulder. Her eyes opened – she saw her husband and cowered from him.
Rafferty said, ‘Sorry to break into your beauty sleep. Got a message I thought you’d want to hear.’
He held the mobile out and pressed play: Rosie was in her walker. In the background, Sean encouraging her. ‘Wave to Mummy. That’s a good girl. Wave to your mummy. Ask her when she’s coming back.’
On the bed, Kim whimpered like a wounded animal, unable to take her eyes from the screen, tears falling silently. Vicky had known Sean Rafferty was a heartless bastard, but this… The absolute cruelty of it stunned her.
He closed the mobile and nodded. ‘She’s ready to start earning. Make it happen.’
‘Who’d want her in that state?’
He smiled. ‘You’d be surprised. She can have twenty-four hours. That’s it – I’ve waited long enough.’
He caught the look in her eyes. ‘Get it done, Victoria. No more excuses. And somebody fix that fucking light outside.’