Around two in the afternoon a contractor took away what was left of my car. Quite a sight hanging twelve feet above a Glasgow street.
Jackie was wonderful. She called the insurers and dealt with them on my behalf. That let me get on with the business of staring at the wall. The only witness was the Big Issue guy and suddenly he wasn’t around.
Platt’s admission about Perry Sommerville and my father muddied the already dirty water. He had crossed the wrong people and they destroyed him. In his haste to implicate Archibald Cameron’s son he had gifted information I didn’t have, the hire car abandoned at Duck Bay, and what exactly it was Ian had stolen. Five million pounds. A man with no axe to grind would’ve been more cautious; the inspector’s enmity made him careless.
It was the sixth of April, exactly four weeks since Cecelia McNeil’s first visit, twenty eight days from when I discovered Ian Selkirk’s body at the city morgue.
Jackie arranged for a replacement vehicle to be delivered later in the afternoon. Nice one, Jackie. On her way out she stopped at the door and fingered the coat hanging behind it.
‘Not the time, I know,’ she said, ‘but this has seen better days. You hardly ever wear it.’
‘It’s Armani.’
‘Doesn’t matter. If you don’t wear something it clogs up the energy. This is clogging-up the energy.’
DS Geddes came by. He had already heard about the arson.
‘Somebody doesn’t like you, Charlie. The fax came through from the Spanish police.’
He put his hand in his pocket. ‘Emil Rocha’s a big fish, not the kind of hombre you want to fall out with.’
There were two sheets; in the right hand corner of the top one was a grainy image. I studied the photograph. The poor quality didn’t disguise how handsome he was. Moody and dark. He might’ve been a movie star. The eyes told a different story – they stared from the page, cruel and unforgiving. And this was who Ian Selkirk had chosen to rob. Mad bastard. The drugs must have separated him from reality. No one in their right mind would mess with this guy.
No one in their right mind; a description of Ian, perhaps? Fiona said he was uncontrollable and if she couldn’t handle him, who could?’
Andrew said, ‘Making any progress with Platt?’
‘You might say, Andrew.’
‘Word is he won’t be with us too long. His boss thought he was getting a high-flyer. He’s pretty disappointed. Platt’s put in for a transfer.’
I was sorry to hear it. Andrew wasn’t aware of the background. DI Platt was a victim; he deserved a better shake. Though I still couldn’t bring myself to like him I had sympathy for the way things had turned out. Later I had a surprise visitor. Patrick. He came through NYB straight to the office. The change was miraculous – not quite his usual self, but close.
‘You should’ve told me you were after a new motor. I would’ve taken the other one off your hands. Got you a fair price too.’
‘It slipped my mind, Pat. Maybe next time. Didn’t expect to see you.’
‘I called Gail. She apologised. I’m meetin’ her in the Hilton to talk about Liam.’
‘Good.’
‘Meantime I was earnin’ my corn. The barmaid at the El Cid? Her name’s Janet. She’s divorced. “Between husbands” was how she put it. Been workin’ in the pub for eight years. Eric, her boyfriend, works there too. Knows everybody and everybody knows her, that type. Thinkin’ about packin’ it in and movin’ abroad. The Greek islands are the favourite. I asked about Stephen McNeil. Hasn’t a good word to say about him. Reckon they might’ve had a thing at one time. She’s a nippy sweetie to start with. When I mentioned McNeil she really let go.’
‘I’ll never understand how you do it, Patrick. A woman you’ve never met tells you her life story. What’s the secret?’
‘No secret. I’m a people person. See, you’re all business, Charlie. No interest in small talk. I’m the opposite. Never came across anybody who didn’t have a story. Trick is to get them to tell it to you.’
‘By doing what?’
‘Listenin’.’
I was certain there was more to it than that.
‘Janet,’ the way he said it made it sound as if they were pals, ‘is up in arms about poor Carol.’
‘The girlfriend.’
‘Ex-girlfriend. McNeil’s been messin’ around for years. Carol’s just the latest. Nobody was judgin’ until he packed her in. One night he told her he was goin’ away, that it was all over.’
‘Did he say where?’
‘Didn’t say anythin’. Carol is Janet’s mate so Stephen McNeil’s the biggest bastard that ever walked the planet.’
‘Are these women aware he already has a wife?’
‘So what? McNeil dumped Carol, that’s the only thing that matters.’
He fished out a crumpled scrap of paper and handed it to me. ‘Carol Thom. There’s the address. Hasn’t got a job. Or a man. Spends most afternoons down the bingo. Most nights in the El Cid.’
‘Patrick, how could I have doubted you?’
‘I’ll leave it with you.’
‘And I almost forgot. Stephen McNeil’s seats are in the Celtic end. 123. G19 and 20.’
He played it low key. ‘See what I can do.’
-------
I stayed later than usual at NYB. When I left, the replacement car still hadn’t arrived. I walked – it wasn’t far. Nothing is in a city the size of Glasgow; something I liked about living here. Patrick had lifted my spirits. I envied his ability to shuck off his worries, even if he was faking it.
I was headed for Bennets and another night trying to connect with someone who might’ve spent time with Ian Selkirk shortly before he died. Wednesday was karaoke night. I’d make this quick – Karaoke at the best of times was crap.
He was at the bar. I didn’t recognise him at first; the old fashioned three piece suit was gone; tan chinos and a check shirt took its place. His pale face was creased in a grin. The two men he was with were younger than him by a good ten years. In their company he seemed younger too. This was the third occasion our paths had crossed. The first time he’d struck me as diffident, unsure of himself, easily intimidated by the older woman. At NYB he’d been more confident, still shy, but willing to be drawn into conversation – until I reminded him of our mutual acquaintance and asked the wrong question.
Amazing how obvious everything appears as soon as you can see it, like the winning lottery numbers the day after the draw.
5 15 24 25 41 49
Of course!
This was the same. He was having fun. I wouldn’t interrupt him. No need – he’d told me more than enough just by being there. I hung around for another fruitless hour until the few conversations I had managed to start petered out. I glanced up and down the street looking for some sign of Rafferty or Platt or both. Nada, as Patrick Logue would say.
Maybe they were having a night off.
A taxi stopped for me in Queen Street. I used the journey to reflect on how stupid I had been. George Lang was in Bennets. I was willing to bet he’d taught young Christopher more than the piano.
Cecelia McNeil’s dead son had been gay.
-------
On Wednesday night I made notes on both cases and put the information into some kind of form. Christopher McNeil’s sexuality would hardly be news to his mother. Of course she might’ve been in denial, hoping against hope for the grandchildren she would never have. Not what she wanted, no doubt, but no surprise.
So far I’d been able to lay the black thoughts about Fiona aside, telling myself she must be somewhere with poor reception. At ten o’clock I went to bed. Around three I fell into a shallow sleep and woke tired and depressed. Fast becoming the norm.
I made coffee and did something I’d only ever seen in movies: pulled the curtain back and scanned Cleveden Drive, expecting two strangers to be parked in an unfamiliar car. Spooking myself. I lived with the constant expectation of another terse message from Fiona, or worse, none at all.
Mid-morning I left. Any longer and I would’ve gone insane. Jackie Mallon sat at a table near the bar watching Roberto give a virtuoso macchiato-making performance for the benefit of three women at the start of a girls’ day out.
As I passed she said, ‘Message from the hire car people, they’ll be here later. They apologise for the delay.’
‘Has the Big Issue guy been around? He shot off as soon as the police took his statement. Wouldn’t have minded a word, seeing as it was my car that got it.’
‘Haven’t seen him.’ Her voice was flat and her eyes were red; she might’ve been crying. She went behind the counter and returned with two cappuccinos and two pieces of cheesecake. One of the coffees was for me, the rest was for her. Her shoulders sagged,
‘I better tell you, Charlie, it’s over between Gary and me.’
I guessed I’d heard the last of Gary’s wisdom.
‘Sorry, Jackie, you liked him a lot.’
‘Yeah. But I couldn’t handle his jealousy. A guy only had to glance at me and he’d go off the deep end. Accused me of having an affair with Roberto, can you believe it?’
Silence was the safest option.
‘I mean Roberto’s great,’ she spooned cheesecake into her mouth, ‘but I’m his boss, he’s an employee for god’s sake.’ Another spoonful followed. ‘How’s Fiona?’
‘Still in Spain.’
She made a start on the second portion. ‘Relationships are tough, believe me I know. Hope you have better luck. You’ll need it.’
I didn’t want to talk about Fiona.
‘Any strangers been in? Any odd characters?’
She gave me a look. ‘Loads, that’s why the takings are so good. Don’t let yesterday get to you. Fortunately we have Andrew here to protect us.’
Andrew had just come in the door. I said, ‘You ever work, Geddes? You spend more time drinking cappuccino than anyone I’ve ever known.’
He nodded to Jackie and defended himself. ‘Not true, Charlie. Just thought I’d tell you, Platt’s in trouble.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. The incident on the street yesterday brought things to a head. His boss wants something he can take upstairs. So far our friend Nigel hasn’t unearthed a single line of enquiry with any meat on it. Been ordered to turn it round or else.’
‘Bit soon to condemn him; it’s only been four weeks.’
‘He hasn’t made any kind of progress. I mean none. Is he up to it? That’s the question the brass are asking.’
‘So what’ll happen?’
‘Another officer will be assigned the case. Hope to Christ it isn’t me. If it is, you’re the first person I’ll be interviewing. No offence, but what went on in Porto Estuto smells and now deliberate fire raising on the city’s streets. Platt’s convinced you’re in it up to your ears. It’s not difficult to see where he’s coming from. Selkirk and Fiona Ramsay were mates of yours once upon a time.’
That annoyed me. ‘Once upon a long time, Andrew. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Don’t worry, DS Geddes, I won’t expect special treatment.’
‘Hold on, Charlie, they were friends.’
the best friends
‘Now one’s dead and the other’s missing.’
Andrew and I were friends too; he seemed to have forgotten. I gripped the edge of the table. Jackie put a hand on my arm, afraid I was about to lose it. First and foremost Andrew Geddes was a policeman, that’s what he was telling me.
‘Putting you in the picture, that’s all.’
‘Appreciate it.’
When he left Jackie admonished me. ‘You bit his face off. In his position what would you do?’
She had a point. My reaction wasn’t about Andrew. Or Platt. On the outside I appeared to be doing okay. Not the truth. My head was out to get me. A ball of anxiety lay in the pit of my stomach from morning ‘til night. I couldn’t sleep. When was the last time I ate? Since Spain all I’d thought about was Fiona. The search for Cecelia McNeil’s runaway husband was a distraction. Thank god Patrick was making a come-back.
Speak of the devil.
I made a show of looking at my watch. Pat grinned. ‘Is this the new Pat Logue? That’s what the fans are askin’. Quick out of the traps. No more lettin’ the day slip away.’
He was pleased with himself. I wondered why.
‘Got us a ticket. Ten rows behind your man, McNeil.’
‘Well done, Patrick. How much?’
‘Call it a donation to the cause.’
‘Thanks. I want to have a look at the lie of the land before Saturday.’
‘Good idea, Charlie. Easy to lose him in the crowd. When?’
‘This afternoon?’
‘I’ll call Gail and tell her where I’ll be.’
This was unusual. Patrick did his own thing. He never asked if it was all right. He ordered a pint, orange juice and lemonade, sipped it and didn’t add “first today”.
I said, ‘Three o’clock okay?’
He was already dialling the number. I moved away, trying not to hear and failing. His voice carried. “Honey” and “love” figured a lot in the conversation. The new Patrick indeed. Gail was calling the shots probably for the first time in their marriage. It was her turn. She had her husband where she wanted him and by the sound of it he wasn’t unhappy about it.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’m all yours. Gail needs an idea where I am, what with the Liam carry-on at the weekend. Can see her point.’
‘Getting better, is it? You and Gail?’
He looked away. ‘That wee tyke shook her up. She’s startin’ to see me in a new light.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah, but it’s a slow process. Know what I’m talkin’?’
Bullshit was what he was talking.
‘We’ll leave at half past two and drive out there. Tonight I’ll try Carol. Like you to come along. That be okay?’
He squinted at me. ‘Okay? Why wouldn’t it be okay? We’re a team on this, aren’t we?’
‘But Gail?’
His reaction made me smile. ‘Gail’s got nothin’ to do with it. This is business. I’ll call her, sure, just so she knows. I’m on a case, for Christ’s sake.’
Things had altered in the Logue household. In future New York Blue would be seeing a lot less of its best customer.
The replacement car was delivered at noon. I had wheels again. I signed something without bothering to read it, drove to High Street and parked. Still no sign of the Big Issue guy. A quiver of concern passed through me. As far as I understood, he was the only one who had seen the arson attack; wilful fire raising, DS Andrew Geddes’s description. The people who murdered Ian wouldn’t tolerate witnesses.
I invited Patrick to have lunch. He cleared his plate in record time and said, ‘Ever been to Celtic, Charlie?’
‘Never. Football doesn’t do it for me.’
He made that sound car mechanics make when they lift the bonnet, a this-is-worse-than-I-thought noise. ‘The accent is one thing, you might be from the islands, I suppose, but not into football? Serious. Some guys go for rugby. Even golf’s a pass – but most of us worship the beautiful game.’
‘Not me, Patrick.’
‘Then do yourself a favour, don’t tell anybody. And you hardly touch whisky, even your own.’ He might have been describing a felony. ‘Strange kind of Scotsman you are.’
‘I didn’t have the best of starts.’
‘Still blamin’ your old dad? Take responsibility, Charlie. Gail’s favourite word right now. Plank yourself in front of the telly on Saturday and Sunday and watch twenty-two millionaires run after a ball. Better still, start goin’. I’ll come with you if you like. Explain the finer points. Soon pick it up. ‘
‘Thanks but no thanks.’
We walked to Cochrane Street. The Big Issue seller wasn’t there. He might’ve switched to another location. I didn’t think so.
In the east end of the city, down-market met derelict and the nearer we got to the ground the worse it became. We were in a war zone, or so it seemed; blocks of flats, dull grey and dilapidated, every other window boarded; sectarian graffiti, shaded in green, scrawled on the walls of public houses no sane person would enter. We stopped at traffic lights. On one corner two young boys wearing hoods did a drug deal in broad daylight, on the other an old man in a heavy coat scavenged a bin, searching for god knew what. Rough stuff.
I watched rubbish drift across scraps of scrub land that hadn’t a snowball’s chance of being developed into anything except another pub or a betting shop. The few people we passed walked with their heads down. I couldn’t see their eyes; there would be no hope in them.
It was a helluva place to live but according to Pat Logue the beautiful game was alive and well in the middle of it. Loch Lomond might have been another galaxy instead of twenty-odd miles. But bad things happened there too.
From a distance Parkhead rose like the coliseum in ancient Rome, just about the only cared-for property on London Road. A Mecca for some, the enemy’s lair for others. We turned left into the car park, deserted apart from a dozen vehicles near the main door. Patrick pointed to the red brick façade with Celtic Football Club in large green lettering.
‘Paradise,’ he said, his face lit like a child’s. ‘Been comin’ here since I was a kid. Got in for nothin’ umpteen times.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘It was pay at the turnstile. We’d ask an adult to lift us over. Somebody always did. Saw loads of games that way. Wouldn’t work now. Tickets only. When they’re on a run it’s a full house. ‘Course it didn’t look like this. We were headed for bankruptcy. Fergus McCann stepped in and saved us. He built the new Paradise. Impressive, isn’t it?’
It was. But where I saw a modern sports stadium Pat Logue saw glory. He walked across the empty concourse, explaining how it would be. ‘Twenty minutes before the end of the match they open the gates.’ He stopped. ‘Stephen McNeil will come out this one. I’ll be behind him.’
I tried to picture the scene. ‘How difficult will it be to keep him in sight?’
‘Depends. The hard part is stayin’ with him when the whistle blows.’
‘Can we do it?’
‘We’ll need help.’
‘Assume there are four of us. You, me, Liam and young Patrick.’
‘Depends,’ he said again. ‘We don’t know which direction he’ll take.’
‘Or if he has a car.’
‘That could be a problem. If he drove away we’d be none the wiser about where he was staying. We’d have found him and lost him in the same afternoon.’
It had sounded like a good idea but tailing Stephen McNeil wasn’t going to be easy.
I said, ‘Let’s figure it out back at the ranch.’
In the office we worked on a plan. I sketched a map of the ground and thought about the best way to use our resources. ‘Do your boys have mobiles?’
‘Phones are no good – won’t be able to hear over the crowd noise.’
‘Forget talking, we’ll text.’
‘Nice one, Charlie. And everybody can have a picture of McNeil on the phone. Might be possible for me to photograph him and send it to the rest of you.’
‘Just message what he’s wearing, we’ll go from there.’
Pat Logue stroked his chin. ‘You really don’t get this, do you, Charlie? Message what he’ll be wearing, I can tell you that right now. He’ll be wearing a green and white football shirt or a scarf, same as forty thousand other fans.’
‘All right, you’ll have him in sight for the best part of two hours. After that he’ll be easy to lose. Stay with him as long as you can. Liam will be waiting in front of the main stand; young Patrick can be further along London Road towards the city if he goes that way.’
‘What about you, where will you be?’
‘I’ll try to pick him up when he comes out. With luck we’ll both be on him.’
‘And?’
‘The further he gets from the stadium the better our chances. He used the credit card at Tesco’s in Shettleston Road. I’m hoping he’s pitched his tent near there.’
‘Walkin’ distance. More trouble than it’s worth to use a car.’
‘Still a possibility. We’ve got the reg. The boys can wander around the streets looking for it. Forty-five minutes each way, plus the interval. They can cover a lot of territory in that time. And if they find it all the other stuff isn’t necessary. I’ll get parked early, ready in case we get lucky.’
Patrick arranged to meet me later at NYB. I put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes. It was tempting to let Carol Thom go – she wasn’t in the loop. Another trip to the El Cid didn’t appeal.
Talking it through with Pat Logue made it seem so simple; he would spot Stephen McNeil and follow him to the car the boys had already located. I’d be waiting. McNeil would drive to his house and we’d know where he lived. What to do after that was up to Cecelia McNeil. My job would be done.
I must have dozed off because I woke sweating with my heart hammering in my chest. Finding what Ian had stolen and getting Fiona back safe was my job. Nothing else mattered.
And I had six days to make it happen.
Job done, who was I kidding?