Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  The eye blinked. Its owner cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

  ‘Do you still hire it out? The Inn wasn’t sure.’

  Alan Walker stepped into the frame and he was old, about two hundred and fifty years old. His face hung above stooped shoulders, heavy and ancient, under a tangle of steel-grey hair as overgrown as his garden. He smelled of pipe smoke and wore woollen gloves with the fingers cut out. A second cardigan peeked from the worn elbows of the navy blue one on top. Walker was a man who had retired from the world and gone to seed. I reckoned he was in his eighties – his bulldog glare told me I wasn’t welcome.

  ‘Mr Walker has anyone taken your boat recently? The Lomond said you used to hire it out.’

  ‘Bloody tourists. More trouble than they’re worth. Stopped giving them the boat a long time ago.’

  ‘So nobody recently, in the last month?’

  He repeated himself. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. Bloody tourists.’

  I edged away. Alan Walker didn’t know the day of the week. When I heard the door close I went back and looked at the boat. The bottom was caved in, six inches of water filled the shell and something green and slimy clung to the sides. Vandals maybe. I suspected the old man had taken an axe to it one night. Either way Ian Selkirk hadn’t been near it. I’d try Balloch and the other one but not today.

  On the drive back to the city it started to rain. Again. I thought about Fiona and Spain and missed her. She wasn’t due to telephone tonight. For that I was grateful. She was convinced I was handling it – it was important not to worry her.

  By the time I reached Anniesland my spirits were low. The rest of the evening was a bust. I slumped in front of the television not caring what I watched, not seeing, not hearing. While I’d been having my one sided conversation with Alan Walker I’d missed a call: Cecelia McNeil. As constant as the weather. Of course I knew what she wanted; what I didn’t understand was why she still had faith in me.

  I was a busy fool, telling myself effort equalled progress. Except it didn’t. Perhaps I’d been a bit quick to pit myself against DI Platt and Police Scotland CID with all the manpower they could muster. Andrew Geddes had told me that on any murder investigation, depending on the circumstances, anything from twenty five to a hundred people could be involved. He sneered at the cop shows where four officers tracked down a serial killer in days. ‘Forty days more like, just to establish the suspects,’ he’d said.

  Experience taught me grinding brought results, if results were possible. But I didn’t have to enjoy it. Checking and rechecking, going over and over the same old ground. Not twenty-five people. Not one hundred. Sometimes with Patrick – usually just me.

  Hard. Damned hard.

  Sixteen

  Sean Rafferty said, ‘Cameron’s found the car switch and been to the Lomond Inn. He’s good.’

  Jimmy said, ‘Is he good enough?’

  Kevin’s logic never changed. ‘Why don’t we lift him? Sweat it out of him.’

  Sean put his head in his hands. Wasn’t that why they were in this shit? If they had followed the thief he would’ve led them to it. He said, ‘I told you this guy’s different. He doesn’t know where the money is. He’s looking same as us. Anyway, that didn’t work. Or don’t you remember?’

  Jimmy Rafferty interrupted before Kevin could reply. ‘Shut it. Both of you, shut it. Your brother was worth more than the two of you put together.’

  Paul. Paul. Paul. The old man was fixated. In life the youngest brother had been a thug; in death he’d become a saint.

  Sean was with him when he died. A Friday, the night a myth began.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  The Bell public house was crowded. A flat screen television hung on the wall with the sound turned off. Nobody was interested. Friday was for serious drinkers. The Rafferty brothers stood at the bar – an unusual sight – Jimmy’s boys were rarely together. They should’ve been able to meet once in a while, but Paul Rafferty and alcohol didn’t mix. He was a touchy bastard at the best of times and, when he’d had a few, he was better avoided. From the moment Billy Lyle spoke the evening was doomed and so was he.

  Lyle was a hothead. On a busy Saturday afternoon he had beaten a stranger unconscious over a disputed parking space at Tesco, gone into the store and done his shopping. He wasn’t part of any gang; none would have him: more trouble than he was worth. He resented Kevin. In a moment of uncharacteristic clarity he had told the young thug there was no place for him in the family’s plans; he was a loose cannon. Rich coming from Kevin. It was a slight Billy Lyle wasn’t ready to forget.

  He stood at the end of the bar, Sean facing him, his eyes boring into the eldest brother’s back. Kevin didn’t realise he was there until he shouted above the noise. ‘Heard Jimmy had a stroke, how’s he doin’?’

  Sean answered. ‘Fine’.

  Lyle smiled. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  The words fell like an unexploded bomb. Conversation faded. Time passed in slow motion. Sean returned the smile. Lyle was a punk, probably a psycho. He didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I’ll tell him you were asking for him, Billy. When he’s better he’ll thank you himself.’

  The threat would’ve been enough if Paul had stayed out of it. He said, ‘And tell Senga I’ll be round to see her.’

  Senga was Billy Lyle’s sister.

  ‘Still a tenner, is it?’

  Lyle, already wound tight, jumped on the bar and dived at Paul. It was madness – he was outnumbered three to one – it should’ve intimidated him. It didn’t. Sean pulled them apart and dragged his brother outside. Kevin blocked the door and tried to calm Lyle down. He had just about succeeded when Paul added to the insult.

  ‘She’s not bad, Billy. Not as good as her mother.’

  Lyle broke free of Kevin, ran outside and pulled a gun. The first shot missed; the second hit Paul Rafferty in the eye. He died in an ambulance on the way to the Royal Infirmary. Just seventeen years old.

  For his mother his death was a tragedy. For his father a legend was born.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  Kevin threw down the challenge. ‘Any better ideas, Sean?’

  His brother had, though not any he cared to share. The choice was straightforward: say nothing and hope he was still standing after Rocha took his revenge, or find the money and give it back. To do that, they needed Cameron or the woman to lead them to it. He made his decision. Kevin was greedy and delusional. He presumed a right to head the family and believed force could solve every problem. Wrong on both counts.

  Jimmy said, ‘Do we know if Cameron’s still in contact with the woman?’

  ‘Can bet he is, so what she knows he knows. Time to turn the screw.’

  ‘Make sure he realises we’re here. Toss his flat. See what that gets us.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  An orange tree stood in the centre of the courtyard. In the morning it caught the sun; in the afternoon, as the temperature rose, it was cool, a pleasant escape from the heat. Emil Rocha’s study overlooked it. The Raffertys had sipped iced tea there. Rocha was careful, he knew all there was to know about Jimmy Rafferty and his sons before they met. Big fish in a small pool. Forgotten the moment they left. He hadn’t expected to have to think about them again. The call from Glasgow had changed all that.

  He picked up the telephone. ‘Tell my nephew I want him,’ he said. ‘And send coffee and some juice.’

  The Spaniard structured his organisation so he couldn’t be linked with anything illegal. The police had tried and failed – Rocha was always beyond their reach. It was a point of honour with him to keep it that way.

  Honour was important to the drug lord: he never broke a promise. That made him good to do business with because he always delivered what he said he would. Of course, as many discovered, that coin had two sides. If he came after you there was nowhere to hide.

  Nowhere in th
e world.

  He had a talent for reading people, so mistakes were few. But he’d trusted Selkirk and he’d proved himself unworthy of that trust. Disappointing though easily resolved. The money was unimportant; although it was a great deal – a fortune – the loss would hardly be noticed. The other matter was more serious. Betrayal came in many forms. By Emil Rocha’s code, what had happened was unforgivable.

  The orange tree was almost as high as the study window. He had planted it himself, years before, not for fruit, but as a reminder of how it might have been. His grandfather had been an orange farmer, his father and his uncle too. They worked hard and died poor.

  Young Emil vowed to break the chain, and if that meant breaking the law, so be it. He might have become just another gangster – the Costas had more than their share – except Rocha had ambition. And vision. He went to Morocco, to Tangier and Marrakech, making connections, shaking hands with rogues who would murder for a hundred dirham, learning, putting the pieces in place. Building. That seemed a long time ago.

  On his deathbed his uncle made him swear he would take care of his wife and son. He needn’t have asked.

  His nephew and the drinks arrived together. When Rocha looked at the handsome face he saw his father’s brother as he must have been before poverty broke him.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need you to do.’

  Seventeen

  I went to work on Friday. Jackie smiled and waved hello; Gary’s great body was working its magic. They say there’s always somebody worse off than you: this morning it was Pat Logue. He sat at a table by the window, drinking cappuccino and reading the Express, a tan suitcase at his feet.

  ‘Bit early to see you, isn’t it?’

  He looked as if he hadn’t slept. A livid red lump rose on his forehead and deep scratches ran down his cheek. Patrick had been in the wars.

  ‘Gail’s thrown in the towel,’ he said. ‘Last night was the finish. Worst rammy ever.’

  ‘Come to the office and talk about it.’

  ‘Nah Charlie, nothin’ to talk about.’

  ‘I can offer you a whisky if that’s any help.’

  He folded the newspaper ‘All right. Just don’t let me drown in self-pity.’

  I asked Jackie to send coffee for two and went upstairs. Patrick followed me. He slumped in the chair opposite. I poured a stiff Grouse – he took it without a word. It was strange to see him so low – disturbing in a way that was hard to describe. I’d always thought of him as one of life’s survivors. Now he seemed lost. No patter, no street philosophy. None of the irrepressible spirit that marked him as different. He didn’t want to discuss his situation. Not yet anyway.

  ‘That friend of mine – the one we buried on Monday – he was murdered and dumped in Loch Lomond.’

  A flicker of interest. ‘Rafferty?’

  ‘Could be he had something Jimmy Rafferty wants.’

  He cradled his drink. ‘The Awkward Squad. Give it a body swerve.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple.’

  A knock on the door – the coffee had arrived. The dark-haired waitress set it on the desk and left.

  ‘Yeah it is. Missing persons is your thing, Charlie. How come you’re involved?’

  ‘Long story. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  Patrick said, ‘First today,’ and downed the whisky in one. His features contorted and he shook his head against the fire. ‘No, tell me.’

  ‘Better you don’t know.’

  ‘Right now I couldn’t give a flyin’ fuck if I live or die, tell me.’

  So I told him: about the car switch, the Lomond Inn; Jimmy Rafferty’s shadow and DI Platt.

  ‘What about the woman? Where does she fit in?’

  I poured him another; he didn’t object. His coffee sat untouched. Whisky felt right; it wasn’t a coffee conversation.

  ‘We were pals at Uni. Ian needed looking after, Fiona got the job.’

  Old friends are the best friends

  ‘Who looked after Fiona?’

  The whisky was starting to work. Patrick was being cheeky.

  ‘Fiona and Ian sold real estate in Spain. Three years ago she sacked him. Had to. She discovered he was doing drugs, and not just using, he was selling them.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Back in Spain. Don’t want her anywhere near here.’

  He inspected the whisky, searching the golden liquid for imperfections.

  ‘And the plan is?’

  ‘Killing Ian didn’t get them what they wanted. We were the only people at the funeral. The only link Rafferty has. He’ll be expecting us to lead them to whatever Ian stole. When we don’t because we can’t, he’ll come after us. I’m taking your advice, Patrick. Sort it out you said. That’s what I intend to do.’

  He gazed into the glass, unblinking: I thought he hadn’t heard. He said, ‘First today.’ The second whisky chased the other one. He grimaced. ‘Jimmy Rafferty’s a psycho; he doesn’t play wee games. The rules are his rules. He’ll kill you, and your girlfriend, then send out for pizza.’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  Patrick’s eyes were glazed, not just with alcohol; lack of sleep and unhappiness were in there too. ‘I’ll do a deal, Charlie. I’m potless, I have to earn and I need a place to kip.’

  ‘Stay with me until you’re straight.’

  ‘But not for nothing.’

  Not a gift, Charlie. Not something for nothing.

  ‘I’ll work with you, how’s that?’

  ‘You’ll be putting yourself in harm’s way.’

  He turned his face so I could see the marks. ‘I’m already there, or hadn’t you noticed.’

  I wondered if I hadn’t caught him at a low ebb and dragged him into my troubles so I’d feel less alone. Two of us. Twice as baffled in half the time? Or perhaps that bit of luck every investigation begged for would come. I gave my new flatmate a key.

  Downstairs in NYB Jackie was on a break, nibbling like a rabbit on Scandinavian cardboard, drinking a bottle of something with Power on the label. I ordered a roll and sausage – the brown sauce tipped her over the edge. She lifted her eyes accusingly but I didn’t notice until she was standing over me.

  ‘You’re killing yourself with that crap. You do know that?’

  ‘You make money selling this crap, Jackie. You sell it, people buy it. They buy it because they like it, and they like it ‘cause it tastes good.’

  She leaned her arms on the table. I heard a lecture approach.

  ‘Your body’s a machine, Charlie. More complex than a jumbo jet. Put junk in it, it breaks down. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it will. Gary says it isn’t our job to convert anybody. All we can do is lead by example. And I can guess what you’re thinking: crazy Jackie, off on another one, well you’d be wrong. Health is the cornerstone of a happy life. Without it, what is there?’

  Her sincerity unnerved me. She returned to her seat, her work done. I pushed the plate away, not hungry anymore.

  When it came the phone call shook me. It was Patrick, no lethargy now. ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘I’m at your gaff. I think you’d better get over here. And call the police.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  Possessions never held much interest for me. If it could be bought it could be replaced. So I thought. When your personal space has been invaded and trashed it’s a difficult outlook to hold on to. I phoned Andrew and told him what Pat had told me. At the flat Patrick was in the kitchen drinking water; coffee and sugar dusted the floor. He stared at me; his face was pale – he knew who was responsible. So did I. Jimmy Rafferty’s breath was hot on my neck.

  Andrew Geddes stood in the ruin of my life. Around him books had been swept from shelves, their pages torn and scattered; CDs were tossed aside like a losing hand of cards and furniture was overturned, heaped on the carpet as if Guy Fawkes had come early. The expensive sound system, my Christmas present to myself, lay smashed against th
e wall beside a coffee table with three legs. Zigzag cracks ran across the face of every picture in the room. In the bedrooms, drawers had been emptied and socks and pants and shirts tossed everywhere; up-ended mattresses drooped against the bare metal bed frames like drunken walrus. A curtain, ripped from its runner for no reason, hung sad and defeated above a broken Murano lamp – a gift from a woman during a long weekend in Venice I could scarcely recall. And all the lights were on. I was stunned. It was a mess, and malicious. Some bastard had taken a hammer to the flat screen TV just for fun.

  Andrew saw me and picked his way through. ‘Sorry, Charlie, sorry this had to happen to you. I assume you’re insured.’ He seemed almost cheerful. ‘Anything obvious taken?’

  I didn’t answer. Glass crackled beneath my shoes. ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘Door’s been forced. We’re interviewing the neighbours. A pound to a penny nobody heard anything. I’ve had a word with Logue, says you gave him your keys. That correct?’

  ‘Yes, he’s staying with me for a while.’

  He raised a disapproving eyebrow. I said, ‘Some other time, Andrew. I like him.’

  ‘Your business, Charlie. I’ll get a list of whatever they took, later. No need to be too exact.’

  He was suggesting I inflate my claim. Insurance companies were on everybody’s shit list. I wouldn’t, not because of some moral imperative. I didn’t have the energy; the world was bent enough without me adding to it. When the police had gone Patrick came into the lounge. I was sitting on the floor. He joined me.

  ‘Your pal says vandals. He’s wrong. Welcome to the Big Boys Club. This is how they communicate. They’re tellin’ you they know where you live Charlie. Warnin’ you.’