However much I resented beating the bushes for Cecelia McNeil’s husband, the interviews, the phone calls and the neat little missives had kept me sane. Now that distraction was exhausted a river of failure and fear washed me away.
Three days left. Rafferty had won.
I hadn’t heard Patrick come home – perhaps he was with one of his barmaid admirers. His business. I had the impression he was pulling back. Wishing me good luck; what was that all about?
Jackie didn’t pull her punches when I arrived. ‘You look the way I feel,’ she said. ‘Had breakfast?’
‘Not hungry.’
She took my arm and sat me down. ‘Scrambled eggs and toast. Tea not coffee. Got to take care of yourself; nobody else will.’
She brought the food herself. ‘This is the most important meal of the day, did you know that?’
‘Yeah, I’d heard.’
‘So eat.’
I pushed the scramble around the plate, buttered a slice of bread and didn’t touch it. The tea tasted weak and watery. I left most of it too. A poor attempt; she wasn’t pleased with my efforts. ‘Charlie, dear oh dear. When Fiona comes back I’ll get blamed for letting you starve. Eat the toast at least.’
Lost in my own troubles it took a while to notice Jackie wasn’t doing so well. I tried to be funny. ‘How’s the Toad God performing? Any miracles yet?’
‘He’s off to a bad start, Roberto’s gone AWOL. Supposed to be on this morning. No show. He’s not answering his phone. Surprised at him. Thought he was happy here. I’m understaffed as it is.’ Her frustration went deeper than a barman. ‘He has to know he’s left us in the shit.’
‘Maybe he’s ill?’
She laughed. ‘He look unwell to you? Guy’s as fit as they come. Saw him in a gym once, when I was with Gary, pumping iron. Real weight. He isn’t sick, he’s quit.’
More often than not Andrew Geddes and I had lunch on Sunday. Today he took a seat at the bar and kept to himself. He nodded, opened a paper and buried himself in it. Strange. Everybody had their problems this morning. Jackie tried a cheerio smile that didn’t get there. DS Geddes kept reading. Maybe the city fathers were putting something in the water.
I walked and walked. St Vincent Place, St Vincent Street, up the hill and over the motorway. Twenty-five minutes it took. I resisted looking back. If Rafferty’s thugs were coming for me, let them come. Kelvingrove was the last place I expected to find myself. It seemed light years since I’d listened to the tour guide with Fiona Ramsay holding on to my arm. The dinosaur was there, so was the Dali painting, she was missing.
The flat was empty. I fell asleep in a chair and allowed a precious day to slip away.
My mother called around eight. We had a long chat about nothing very much. Most of her conversation was centred round my father. However I judged him, and knowing DI Platt’s experience how could I do otherwise, he was her life. Archie was fine – more than could be said for Perry. According to her, beaten down by loneliness and rejection, Peregrine Sommerville had taken to drink.
‘So finding Jesus was just an act?’
Eleanor Cameron had learned early it was unwise to admit to a definite opinion, even in conversation with her son. She said, ‘I couldn’t possibly comment. Arabella tells me he’s been drinking heavily for a long time. Perhaps that accounts for the behaviour that put him wrong in the first place?’
‘Is he getting help?’
I heard her sigh. ‘Too late, I’m afraid. Liver’s gone. Weeks rather than months.’
‘Does father intend to see him?’
‘He hasn’t mentioned it. He’s very sad about the whole thing. Poor Archie.’
I ended the conversation with my usual promises to call.
The resolve I’d enjoyed in the afternoon deserted me, I edged the curtain aside and peered into the night. A figure stood across from my building. I sensed rather than saw a familiarity, then the feeling passed. Platt’s man or Rafferty’s, I no longer cared.
Monday morning: two days to go.
An unnatural calm settled in me. My expectations of myself were based on the premise that I knew Ian Selkirk. That wasn’t so. I’d known him, or thought I did, in the past. The long dead past, when we were young, crazy and naive, giving the world the finger, completely confident in the possibilities of tomorrow. But the body on the mortuary slab belonged to a stranger. What his motivations had been, what moved or inspired him, was beyond my knowledge. It had been foolish to assume some special insight into someone I hadn’t seen in a dozen years. People change. I had. Ian Selkirk too. Only Fiona stayed the same.
The sun was shining, the first decent day in a month. Outside the Italian Centre the Big Issue seller was back in position. As he was the only witness to the car burning I had been anxious to speak to him. Today that wasn’t important. For once he let me pass without the Burns rant: defeat carries; even those less fortunate can smell it. I gave him a coin and took the magazine.
Jackie was behind the bar pouring lattes and cappuccinos. I said, ‘Roberto didn’t show up then?’
She made a face. ‘Serves me right for depending on a man.’
The barmaid at the El Cid would agree.
Patrick Logue was reading the Daily Record with his feet on the desk and turned when he heard me come in. ‘Mornin’, Charlie. Thought I’d stick around today. Run over the facts one last time.’
I sat across from him. The feet went where they belonged, on the floor.
‘What facts? There aren’t any facts. I’ve learned in five weeks about darts, football, and the gay scene in Glasgow. Unfortunately none of it’s any damned use.’
He folded the newspaper and stuck it in his pocket.
‘So we start again. What we don’t do is lose hope.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Patrick, it’s too late. I just want the nightmare to be over.’
He started to speak – I waved his words away. ‘You don’t understand. If I hadn’t discovered Ian at the mortuary none of this would’ve happened. But I did and contacting Fiona drew her into something she had no part of. We were the only two at Daldowie. That’s why Rafferty believes we’re in on the theft. While there was a chance I might lead them to what they wanted they were content to follow me. Ian was a fool, out of his league from the beginning. The Raffertys and Rochas of the world don’t give up. Ever.’
‘Neither does Charlie Cameron.’
‘You’re not listening. The deal was to give them what they wanted and get these monsters out of our lives. Well, I haven’t.’
‘Still think you should tell Platt.’
‘Platt’s as obsessed as Jimmy Rafferty with me. Another one who credits me with knowing more than I do.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Christ, Patrick, how many times? There is no plan.’
‘And the next couple of days? Will you just wait for them, or will you make it harder than that? See, I need to tell Gail where I’ll be.’
‘What’re you talking about.’
He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Like glue, Charlie, I’m stickin’ to you like glue.’
‘No no. This is my trouble. You need to consider your family.’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Mrs Logue wants a positive role model for her sons. How about a man who stands by a friend? Is that positive or what?’ He grinned. ‘Accept it, I’m here and I’m stayin’ here.’
Pat Logue was incorrigible, but it was working. I managed a fair attempt at the fry-up he ordered for both of us. He was the only person who knew how serious it had become.
Patrick lifted a glass of orange juice and saluted. ‘First today. Time is it?’
‘After eleven. Why?’
‘Let’s get out of the city for an hour or two.’
It made sense. Andrew Geddes was at a table by the door, a yard from the Toad God, enjoying his soggy bagel, killing time before his shift started. His eyes were heavy. I wasn’t the only one who had difficulty sleeping. He offered me a weak smile and said hello to Pat.
I said, ‘Andrew’s warming to you, might escape his clutches yet.’
‘I’m an acquired taste, so Gail says. I’ll catch you up, want to talk to this bloke.’
He stepped away from me and chatted to the Big Issue seller. The poetry lover smiled. Gail’s husband had a talent for leaving people better off than he found them. He hurried after me. ‘Interestin’ guy,’ he said, ‘was an English teacher. Got hooked on heroin. Been clean for years, just can’t find his way back.’
‘You think everybody’s interesting.’
‘Everybody is, Charlie.’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘So where do we fancy? The coast? Largs? Knickerblocker Glory in Nardini’s? Or the Trossachs? Beautiful countryside.’
‘You decide. I’ll point the car in the right direction.’
He considered where he wanted me to take us and said, ‘Head for Balloch, not too far.’
He’d forgotten. I checked the mirror to see if we had company and drove towards Great Western Road.
‘I made a poor show of checking for a boat. I only tried one.’ I told him about old Alan Walker. ‘It’s a loose end. We’ll follow it up. Properly. Like I should have done when I had the chance.’
The route was all too familiar. In Luss, Patrick made his way down Pier Road, out along the jetty to the water. He was quiet now, the boyish enthusiasm and the non-stop patter were left in Glasgow. He gazed across the loch, his hair ruffled by the breeze, a look in his eyes I hadn’t seen.
I said, ‘You brought us here on purpose, didn’t you?’
The sun dipped behind a cloud, turning the loch black. ‘Where was his body?’
I pointed to the narrow strip of beach and the rough fingers of wood poking from the loch. ‘Cold,’ he said. ‘Dead cold.’ He faced me. No jokes now. ‘And that’s what they did to your friend, Charlie. To your old friend, Ian.’
Old friends are the best friends
‘Doesn’t that make you angry? Don’t you want to tear their fuckin’ heads off? Ian Selkirk wasn’t my pal. If he had been I’d never have given up on the bastards who did for him. Never.’
My face flushed. He said, ‘There’s a sayin’, you’ll have heard it. Don’t get mad, get even. Well that’s crap. Get mad. Get even. And get the cunts who murdered your mate. Now that’s a philosophy I can go.’
He walked away. I watched him standing on the sand, skimming stones.
Of course he was right. I had been on the back foot from the very beginning, wishing Ian’s death would go away so Fiona and I could live happy ever after.
There was one more day before Rafferty made his move. Twenty-four hours. If I was going down it wouldn’t be without a fight.