by Owen Mullen
Old Friends and New Enemies
Owen Mullen
Old Friends and New Enemies
Copyright © 2017 Owen Mullen
The right of Owen Mullen to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
ISBN: 978-0-9956926-4-0
Created with Vellum
Introduction
They dragged him from the boot of the car, down an embankment to the shore; gagged, bound and blindfolded. His feet scraped grass and stones; a shoe came off and was left behind. At the jetty, Kevin Rafferty waited in the boat. In a long career of violent persuasion this guy had been the hardest to break. But it wouldn’t last. When the blindfold came off he’d realise the loch was to be his grave. Then the begging would begin because pain and death weren’t the same. And he’d tell. Everything. It never failed. Plastic ties fastened the victim’s wrists to hooks hammered into either side of the gun-wale, holding him upright. His head moved, blindly drawn to every sound. With what he’d been through – the beating, the burns, the loss of blood – it was a miracle he was still breathing.
Rafferty turned up his collar, dipped the oars in the water and started to row.
After a while he stopped. Late afternoon drizzle falling from a grey sky stippled the calm surface, they would drift, but not much. He released the blindfold. They stared at each other. Rafferty broke the spell. He opened a canvas bag that lay across his knees, slowly, so the man could see the knives, the screwdrivers, the pliers: his tools. On top he placed a bolt cutter and patted it as he would a faithful dog. The thief moaned and fought against the restraints, wild terror in his eyes. The cutter trapped the first finger of his right hand between the blades. He began to cry.
‘Last chance,’ Rafferty said.
The blades tightened, a muffled wail came from behind the gag.
‘Sure? Okay.’
A thin red line appeared at the joint. Rafferty sighed fake regret.
‘This little piggy went to market...’
* * *
An opal moon hung above the loch, it had stopped raining and the night sky was clear. The thief was slumped forward, passed out. They’d been at it for hours - or five fingers - he should be pleading for his life. Better yet he should be dead. In Glasgow, Rafferty understood it wasn’t going to be easy. Something wasn’t right about this guy. He didn’t get it. Kevin’s job was to make him get it.
He peeled the sock from the shoeless foot, bleached like a corpse in the moonlight, and lifted it into position. For the moment the gag was unnecessary, he ripped it away and waited for his victim to come round; when he did it would continue. A noise took him by surprise. He tensed. At the other end of the boat the head came up, eyes blazed in the gloom and the madman grinned at him through broken teeth.
‘I’m starving,’ he said.
‘What...what?’
‘Could murder a curry.’
Rafferty’s voice cracked with desperation. ‘What did you do with the money?’
‘Chicken Tikka.’
This was insane.
‘The money! Where is it?’
The thief spat blood and sniggered. ‘Fuck off.’
Rafferty snapped. He grabbed a knife and buried it in the crazy bastard’s heart.
No,’ he said, ‘you fuck off.’
* * *
The body rolled over the side and disappeared into the dark water, Rafferty gathered the severed fingers and threw them after it; food for the fish. At the jetty, he got out and stood for a long time watching the untethered boat float away. He had been so confident, so sure. But it hadn’t worked out. He was going back with nothing. The thought of telling his father made Rafferty sick with fear – more afraid than the man he had just killed had ever been.
Jimmy would go mental.
Prologue
Glasgow 2006
* * *
He was standing inside the door, watching me. The cheeky grin came naturally. He had been using it all his life. The trade mark fuck-you confidence was harder to fake but he tried. So why was I surprised? On a Friday night in Glasgow you might meet anybody; it’s that kind of place. The girl I was flirting with laughed and floated past; she was too good looking to go home by herself and knew it. She was playing a game. Later we’d play a different game.
He came towards me. ‘Get in touch with your emotions, Charlie,’ he said and gave me a hug. When he let go I caught something in his eyes; a trace of anxiety.
‘Ian! What the hell are you doing here? What’re you drinking?’
I shouted my question over the noise of the band. He waved the offer away. ‘Off it,’ he said, then changed his mind, put a hand on my shoulder and drew me to him. ‘Tell you what, seeing it’s you, a large glass of your father’s finest. Just to be sociable.’
He made it sound like he was doing me a favour.
My father’s finest was Cameron’s whisky, world famous. Archibald Cameron was the CEO. I hadn’t followed the path he’d taken and he never let me forget what a disappointment I was. Unfortunately for both of us, for the last couple of years I’d been proving him right. But my days as a waster were numbered. The money my grandmother left was almost gone. Beyond that I had no idea. All I could be certain of was that returning south with my tail between my legs to a job in the family business was a non-starter. Not happening.
Ian took the amber liquid from the bartender, swallowed half and wiped his mouth.
‘The bad penny, eh?
‘What a coincidence running into you. Where’s Fiona?’
‘In Spain. Doesn’t know I’m here. Forgot this was your local.’
No he hadn’t.
‘This was where we met a year ago.’
‘So it was.’
The club was busy. Under my feet the floor vibrated. The weekend had started. I led him to a corner where there was a chance of hearing ourselves think and signalled for another round. Across the table I watched, waiting for him to get to the point. With Ian Selkirk there was always a point. He was one of those people who sailed through at the expense of whoever was handy. For as long as I’d known him he’d been charming and funny and selfish. We’d had some good times together. Except I wasn’t a nineteen-year-old student anymore. Those Friday and Saturday nights at the Moti Mahal and our Thailand adventure, when I asked Fiona to marry me, were long gone.
He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To old friends. The best friends.’ Fiona’s words.
‘Old friends,’ I said.
He grinned. So much of what he came away with was bullshit. That hadn’t altered. He wasn’t off it, he was drunk. ‘What’re you up to these days?’
I avoided answering. ‘This and that, you know.’
He drummed his fingers on the side of the table and let it go, laughing his nervous laugh at a joke he was getting round to telling. ‘Got myself into some trouble. Wondered if you could help.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. I need money. Not a gift, Charlie. Not something for nothing.’
I asked how much and he told me. It was a lot. ‘I don’t have it, Ian.’
‘Not even for an old pal?’
‘Why do you need it? What’s happened? You and Fiona were doing great out there.’
He smiled his disbelief and stood.
‘If you don’t have it you don’t have it, Charlie. Thanks for the drink.’
Old friend or not, I hadn’t been his first choice, more like his last. Bumping into me wasn’t a coincidence. God knows how many times he’d been in here until he eventually tracked me down. And suddenly I understood. He’d remembered my grandmother had included me in her will, put two and two together and come up with five. It wasn’t anxiety in his eyes, it was desperation.
‘Sorry, Ian, I really am.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
I never saw him alive again.
One
Those who know don’t speak. Those who speak don’t know.
* * *
Jimmy Rafferty was in his twenties when he heard that scrap of ancient wisdom. It appealed to him. He quoted it often without understanding. Or perhaps he did. The mafia had Omerta, in the east end of Glasgow, Rafferty had the Tao. It was enough. The boy from Bridgeton climbed the mountain and for over forty years his empire was held in place by the unsaid. No one discussed him or his business.
All his life Rafferty had been strong, physically and mentally, depending only on himself. Few were brave enough to go up against him. Those who had regretted it. The stroke and the stick that came with it represented what he despised most. Weakness. He had lost weight, a lot of weight; clothes hung on him like hand-me-downs, and his eyes were watery hollows that could no longer intimidate. Illness had aged him. Before, he’d stood ramrod straight, now he stooped and when he walked he shuffled. More and more he found himself thinking of the past. And it wasn’t just his body that had suffered; something at the very centre of his being was missing: the iron will of old was gone. His concentration wandered. At times he wasn’t really there.
That left a question: who would take over?
The trouble the family faced cried out for a leader but his sons didn’t have the stuff. Kevin was thick and Sean was a non-event. In a year what he had achieved would be gone. Between them they would lose it all.
It should’ve been easy. Steal from the thief and bury him where he’d never be found. Jimmy had let Kevin handle it. A mistake.
Rage built in the old man like an approaching train; a murmur on the air, a quiver in the rail, until the monster roared and thundered, unstoppable. His hands trembled, the stick danced. He screamed. ‘You moron! Fucked us right up, haven’t you, boy?’
At the end of a lawn shaded by trees and set back from the road the house held its secrets. Nobody would hear. Kevin fingered the scar running from his ear to his chin and braced himself against the expected tirade. It didn’t come. Instead the tone was gentle; it terrified his eldest son.
‘‘Come on. C’mon, Kevin. Convince me. Tell me it wasn’t your fault.’
Sean watched his brother’s humiliation. Kevin was still scared of his father – maybe understandable in the past – not now. For all his noise Jimmy was spent and knew it. He’d been decisive. A force of nature. Once. With his hold slipping, anger replaced action. The old man’s power was gone; he was impotent.
Jimmy said, ‘How does a guy end up dead before he gives us what we want? I mean, how can that be? We needed him breathin’ in and out. Didn’t even capture his mobile. A bastard monkey could figure it. But not you.’
Kevin’s excuse was worse than feeble. ‘He laughed at me.’
‘So you knifed him. That would take the smile off his face. Taken the smile off mine. Pity you didn’t remember why we lifted him in the first place.’
Kevin blurted out his defence. ‘That guy was a nutter. I pumped him full of shit. It didn’t matter, he was never going to tell. He just kept laughing. I lost it.’
Rafferty’s face was inches from his son’s. Kevin could smell his breath, sour with cigarettes. ‘You never had it to lose,’ his father said. ‘Your brother got the brains.’
Sean knew he wasn’t talking about him.
‘We’re out because a junkie you were working on laughed at you. He thought you were a clown and so do I. Our friend in the sun is expecting results.’
‘He was waiting to make contact. We know he was waiting.’
‘Hear that Sean? Your brother said something that wasn’t stupid. That’s what we have to do. Wait. Sounds like the kind of thing you’d be good at, Kevin. Maybe I should put you in charge. Head of Fucking Waiting.’
The son had endured taunts and jibes and worse from his father all his life. This time it was deserved so he took it but, then, he always did. Getting people to talk was Kevin’s speciality and he enjoyed his job; it shouldn’t have been a problem. Except the thief wasn’t right in the head. He didn’t care. Even with his injuries the bastard was mocking him. With the last “fuck you!” Kevin snapped. The knife felt heavy against his palm. He heard the thud and sensed the blade twist into the heart.
Jimmy Rafferty turned to his sons. The effort had drained him; his chest rose and fell. ‘We’ve still got a chance. Sean, keep an eye on your idiot brother. Make sure he doesn’t screw up.’ He sighed and leaned on the stick. ‘I wish Paul was here. He was young but he was a doer. And he was smart.’
Sean flinched. Paul. Always Paul. Should he tell the deluded old bastard the apple of his eye was a reckless fool who died an unnecessary death proving it? Wouldn’t the great Jimmy be surprised to discover that sainted Paul had mocked him behind his back? Talked about replacing him. Not yet, this wasn’t the moment.
Those who know don’t speak
But soon.
Two
I was late. The visitor pulled herself tight and held the cup Jackie had given her in both hands. I laid the blame on road works at Charing Cross, hung the coat I had on behind the door and went into my busy act. Papers got shuffled that hadn’t been shuffled since yesterday. When I’d made enough of a fuss I said, ‘Right. How can I help you?’
A small mouth in a pleasant face voiced her uncertainty. ‘I haven’t done anything like this before.’ She drew a nervous hand through light-coloured hair that may have been blonde in her youth. ‘I’m not sure how to begin.’
‘Then I’ll begin. I’m Charlie Cameron. Anything you say will stay here. If I feel you’d be better off without me I’ll tell you. You can hire me by the hour or daily, depending. At the end of my enquiry I’ll give a written or a verbal report, whatever suits. And I don’t have a team of highly trained operatives. I’m it. Sometimes I’m successful, sometimes not. All I guarantee is to give it my best.’
I’d used that little speech before. Charlie Cameron, honest injun. As near to a mission statement as I would ever get. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘I want you to find my husband. Two weeks ago I buried my son; my husband walked out the day before the funeral.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Stephen. Stephen McNeil. I’m Cecelia McNeil. I’m worried sick about him.’
She lifted her teacup and gave me an insight into what she was going through. Her fingers were the most slender I’d ever seen: long and delicate, porcelain-white and china-fine; beautiful, spoiled by unpainted nails bitten to the quick.
‘I’m a tea person, always have been. Earl Grey is my favourite. Coffee doesn’t agree with me.’
Nonsense chatter.
She tried a smile that didn’t fit and touched the black mark on her forehead. Burnt palm. I recognised what it was.
‘Which mass did you go to?’
‘St Andrew’s on Clyde Street. The eight o’clock service. My own parish is the Immaculate Conception, Maryhill. Do you know it?’
I shook my head.
‘Since Christopher did what he did, God and I aren’t speaking. That’s hard for me. Without faith I’m lost. Today starts the forty days Our Lord spent in the desert. Forty six days actually. Sundays don’t count.’
Talking to a stranger is supposed to be easier than talking to a friend. Not alw
ays. I said, ‘Take your time, Mrs McNeil.’
She drew strength from a private well and spoke. ‘Christopher took his own life. I found him in the garage. He had locked the doors and turned on the ignition. His father drove non-stop from Dover to get home. He was devastated. I told him it wasn’t his fault. The circumstances meant a sudden death inquiry. The funeral was held back. Stephen retreated further and further into himself. He couldn’t get over it. The suicide verdict was more than he could bear. The day before we buried our boy, Stephen disappeared. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. His employer says he’s quit; they don’t know where he is.’
‘Have you reported him missing?’
‘He isn’t missing, he’s running away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he thinks he’s to blame. And he took his guns.’
‘Guns?’
‘That’s why I’m here. I’m afraid he’ll do something stupid. My husband’s a long distance driver. After a week stuck behind the wheel he needs air. Shooting and fishing help him relax.’
‘What makes him believe he’s responsible for his son’s death?’
‘Things haven’t been easy at home. Christopher argued with his father night and day.’
Fathers and sons. I got it.
‘When he was younger they were so close. Stephen’s a Celtic fan. Even before Christopher was old enough he had season tickets bought. Beside the corner flag. When the TV cameras were there Christopher would wave to me. I tried to see him. I did too, sometimes. Apart from Rangers, they never missed a game. Christopher detested the atmosphere at Old Firm matches, so full of hate. Stephen went. Christopher stayed away. Taking his son to the football – being a part of his life – was something to be proud of. His own childhood hadn’t been happy; his father was a brute. I loved seeing them set off together wearing their green and white scarves.’