by Owen Mullen
She was here.
Sean had seen his brother’s arrogance too often and knew he was watching a psychopath. Kevin seemed not to have noticed the plan to lift the woman quietly had fallen apart. Three people dead, killed by the same gun, meant triple murder. Front page news Emil Rocha would hear about before the end of the day. The consequences were inevitable. Between them Kevin and Jimmy had signed his death warrant.
Kevin said, ‘This won’t take long.’
He found the bedroom at the first try, not difficult, there was only one. The figure under the clothes was asleep. Kevin put the gun in his pocket – he wouldn’t need it.
For a minute he stood in the middle of the room listening to her breathe, relishing his success. Sean had been against it; his father, the deluded old bastard still believing he was in charge, had taken some persuading. But he had been right. And now, thanks to him, they had her.
He sat on the edge of the bed, studying the woman, knowing even before he drew the bedclothes away that she was naked. His finger ran the length of her thigh; skin like velvet. She shivered under his touch and began to come awake. Rafferty covered her mouth with his hand and in the half-light saw her eyes flash open. The terror in them made him smile. Fiona Ramsay struggled against him. All in vain. Soon she stopped and lay trembling.
Kevin lowered his head letting his lips brush her ear and whispered.
‘Sorry to disturb you. You look as innocent as an angel lying there. But you’re not, are you Fiona?’
Twenty
A river of people poured from Victoria Station flooding already over-crowded London; the tourist season was beginning. Eastern European, oriental and black faces. A tanned young man with blonde hair and a backpack brushed against me. He said, ‘Sorry, mate’, his accent a flat drawl. I wondered what the Aussie in the boat off Koh Tao a couple of lifetimes ago was doing now. The underground was less busy. We passed Ravenscourt and Boston Manor; by then only those headed for Heathrow remained.
I punched Patrick Logue’s number in speed dial. He didn’t let me speak. ‘Call you back,’ he said and hung up. Five minutes later he did. ‘Sorry about that, Charlie. Any idea how many pubs there are out here?’ He answered for me. ‘Dozens. I’m in the Cottage Bar in Dennistoun. Thought I saw your man, why I cut you off. False alarm. Been in ten pubs since last night – so far no sign. ’Course he might come in at a different time. Can’t be everywhere.’
‘Stay with it, Patrick. We need a break.’
‘If Rafferty’s goons are hangin’ around they’re makin’ a better job of keepin’ out of sight. Nobody suspicious at the flat or NYB and I was there all day. Mother all right is she?’
‘Fine. I’ll be gone a few more days. Let’s hope Stephen McNeil decides to show.’
Speaking to Pat Logue reminded me I had a call to make. My mother sounded tired. For once the energy to quiz me wasn’t there. I told her to take it slowly, knowing she would do exactly as she pleased.
At nine I tried Fiona’s number from the airport: her mobile was switched off. I tried again. Same thing. And again. By midnight I was seriously worried. This wasn’t our arrangement. Something was wrong. It was going to be a long night. The idea of surprising her was in the bin. My imagination gave me dark thoughts to feed on. I devoured them. In the lobby of the Hilton I logged on to the Internet and Googled the address of RealSpain. Images of sandy beaches and golden sunsets jumped out at me. And business was slow: under ‘Properties For Sale’ scores of flats and villas were marked down; a sign of the times. Nevertheless the site boasted a remarkable tally of hits. My interest was the address and telephone number.
In the morning I was tired and irritable. A group of teenage boys in front of me in the check-in queue started as they meant to go on, drinking cans of lager and talking loudly, well impressed with themselves. One of them, trying to run before he could walk, called to a passing dark-haired stewardess in her thirties. ‘All right darlin’? Fancy a bit, do you?’
She ignored him. I wished I could.
On the ground I hired a car and drove south, following the instructions from the RealSpain web pages through mile after mile of white boxes piled on each other. Living the dream? I didn’t think so.
RealSpain supplied the background. Porto Estuto had been a quiet fishing village three decades previously. Weren’t they always? What they didn’t tell was how tourism and the nineties building boom erased every authentic fragment and replaced it with pizza joints, a fish and chip shop and a handful of English pubs. I clocked the Prince of Wales Feathers, The Green Man and the Albert Bar within yards of each other, crazy golf, bingo, karaoke, and more estate agents than I could count; it was about as Spanish as the Great Wall of China.
RealSpain was off the main drag. Not a great location though Fiona had said it did well. I pressed my face against the glass. Two desks occupied most of the space and a small couch sat in the corner. The windows were dressed with colour prints of villas and long-term rentals, priced in euros. It was unremarkable and it was closed.
A swarthy guy came out of the jewellers next door. He lit a cigarette and looked me up and down. I made an odd sight: polo neck sweater and jacket, overdressed for the climbing temperature.
‘Excuse me, what time do they open?’
His reply was an indifferent shrug. If I wasn’t in the market for over-priced bracelets and gaudy rings I was no use to him. I kept with it. ‘My girlfriend works here. I want to surprise her.’
He threw the cigarette on the cobbled street and put his foot on it. ‘Haven’t seen her in a while.’ His English was perfect. ‘Nobody’s been lately.’
‘Since when?’
He gave another shrug. ‘Weeks.’
That didn’t make sense. ‘Any idea where she lives?’
‘No. Try the Lord Stanley down by the harbour – all the English go there.’
The harbour was easy to find. Any lingering trace of the fishing village had been obliterated. Every spare foot of space was a restaurant offering a menu turistico, or a club with a name like 007 and Diamonds, ready to supply music and watered-down sangria. At night this place would be a neon car crash.
I parked and walked, blinking in the sun so different from Glasgow. The Lord Stanley was all I expected it to be: a hole in the wall selling John Courage and Stella Artois. Even this early in the day a few diehards sat at the bar reading the Daily Mail, treating hangovers with a hair of the dog and examining me through their pain.
The barman grinned. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Coffee, please. Espresso.’
The boozers sussed we had nothing in common and went back to reading the latest attack on the England football team.
‘Just arrived?’
‘Actually I’m trying to find someone.’
‘Yeah? Who?’
‘A woman, runs RealSpain real estate. Know her?’
‘Fiona, of course. Comes in regularly. Haven’t seen her lately. Keeps herself to herself.’
‘But you know her?’
‘Oh yeah, knew her pal better. Ian was a card. Hasn’t been around either. Might have moved on – the property market’s as flat as a witch’s tit.’
‘Any idea where she lives?’
His expression changed. Too many questions.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘I’m a friend of hers, thought I’d surprise her but the office isn’t open.’
He wasn’t convinced. ‘A friend? From where?’
‘Scotland. Thinking of buying a villa. Fiona said she’d help me. Can’t spend another summer in that god-awful climate. Nothing but rain.’
The coffee was bitter with a metal aftertaste. I pretended not to notice. The barman needed time to accept me; criticising wasn’t the way forward. ‘Property market’s dead,’ he said again. ‘You might land a bargain.’
‘That’s what Fiona told me.’
He laughed. ‘She’s okay. He was a spaceman, challenging people to drinking contests, passing out on the floor. She wasn
’t amused. Reckoned he was an alki.’
‘Ian always was a crazy hombre, even at Uni. Nobody could stand the pace he set. Fiona kept us out of jail more than once.’
That little piece of fakery convinced him I was okay. ‘Her place is a mile out of town on the north coast road. Big gates. Impressive, you can’t miss it.’
The villa was more than impressive and he was right, I couldn’t miss it – on a hill above the long ribbon of road to Alicante and eventually to Valencia. A high wall ran all the way round. Behind it tall palms swayed in the breeze beside a kidney-shaped pool, while the blue Mediterranean stretched to the horizon. In the mature garden, acacia and jacaranda, lilac and bougainvillea offered colour and shade. A lot to trade for grey skies and Glasgow. I hoped I was worth it. The gate wasn’t locked. Ominously, neither was the front door. I walked in on a familiar scene: the house had been wrecked. Mine had been bad enough, this was worse.
I hated Ian Selkirk for what he’d done to us. Patrick called them the Big Boys Club, and I had been a fool. Scotland or Spain, it made no difference to them. Of course there was a chance she got out before they arrived. Her built-in wardrobe still held clothes. I couldn’t say if any were missing. I scanned what was left of a beautiful home. Pat Logue’s friends weren’t around to fix it this time. There was no blood but, like my flat, the damage went beyond a search – the same malicious hands had been at work. Behind the villa I found more bad news. A red Vauxhall estate. Fiona’s car. She hadn’t escaped.
I told myself fairy stories to keep from going insane. After my place was done she had moved. The villa was empty when Rafferty’s thugs arrived. She was on her way to Scotland and we’d missed each other. I heard my logic and didn’t buy it.
It was one hundred metres to the nearest house. The neighbours might have seen or heard something. But there were no neighbours – the windows were shuttered – it was too early in the year. I drove back to Porto Estuto with my heart hammering in my chest and stopped at the first bar I came to. My hands were shaking; a large gin steadied them. I sat at a corner table and tried to think. If Fiona had fled where would she go? Glasgow wasn’t safe, so where? Maybe to a friend, except the only friend mentioned was Ian Selkirk and I knew where he was. She could be anywhere in the country, or close by, a victim of kidnapping. Her abductors might be torturing her, filling her with drugs like they had Ian.
She could be dead.
The sunshine failed to warm me. I was cold and sweating, my hands and arms were numb, pins and needles lanced them. Lifting the glass to my lips was almost impossible. Black thoughts ran wild in me. I was having an anxiety attack.
It passed, clarity returned, enough to allow me to consider the options. The obvious one was the police, yet involving them had negative implications. Fiona had disappeared, her villa was wrecked and the business closed. Then I show up asking questions. The barman and the boozy Daily Mail readers would have no problem remembering me. I might even be detained. That couldn’t happen, not while Fiona was at Rafferty’s mercy.
A name came, the contractor Ian and Fiona worked with: Sebastian. “More like a partner” was how she described the relationship. They depended on his business. The arrangement barely survived Ian’s first fuck-up – there wouldn’t be a second chance. I’d seen the villa. It took money to own a place like that. Fiona was afraid she was going to lose everything she’d worked for. Understandable self-interest made her weep in Glasgow.
Sebastian could be the key, might even be involved. Might even be in danger.
I trawled estate agents, ignoring the ones who specialised in re-sales – my man was a builder. There were fifteen agents in Porto Estuto, nine full service outfits. It took two hours to get round them and none had heard of a developer called Sebastian. The last was the most helpful. A German woman telephoned the architect they used. No luck. He had never come across a construction company run by anyone with that name. With nothing better to do I tried RealSpain again. It was still closed. The properties in the window didn’t carry any information other than the spec. Just as I was about to go I noticed Fiona’s villa, asking price one point four million euros; she was delivering on her promise to sell-up and join me. Life without her was unimaginable.
I drove the coast road again to her place as afternoon made way for evening. They might be watching, waiting for me. The magnificence of the property had distracted me on my first visit, now it seemed less attractive. I searched for some indication of where Fiona might have gone, assuming she left ahead of whoever Rafferty sent. The action of a man out of ideas. Once a house has been invaded and vandalised it was never the same. I thought of my flat – I’d probably sell it. The villa was already on the market, Fiona wouldn’t come back here. It occurred to me I was surmising she’d got away, that they didn’t have her, an emotional trick to keep pain at bay. I lifted a small Moroccan urn lying unbroken on its side and imagined her haggling over it in the souk on a trip with someone else. There was so much I didn’t know about her, so much I wanted to know. I prayed it wasn’t too late.
An alcove set-up as an office had been trashed beyond belief. Everything was in pieces: the pc, the printer, the desk hacked with something heavy and sharp; the contents of a black filing cabinet torn like confetti. A rattan waste paper basket spilled its contents with the rest. I picked it up, stupidly hoping Fiona had printed off a receipt or some clue to where she was going. I didn’t find it. Stuck in the bottom, ripped to shreds was an image I recognised. I gathered the bits and smoothed them out. The picture, shot from across the road on a sunny day, flattered just as it was supposed to.
I was staring at a photograph of the Lomond Inn.
Twenty-One
She’d seen their faces. They hadn’t bothered to hide them. They didn’t care. As soon as they got what they needed, they’d kill her. Ian had stolen from dangerous people. Not these people and not their money, but they wanted it and assumed he’d told her where it was hidden. While they believed that, she had a chance.
Fiona opened her eyes to nothing. No sight, no sound. She was on the floor, in the dark, with her back against an uneven wall. Something scurrying nearby startled her. Mice she could handle, rats were...better not to think about rats.
What seemed like hours later, heavy footsteps brought her awake; paralysed with fear her body had closed down and she had fallen asleep. A door opened and two men pulled her upright. She blabbered. ‘Please. Where are you taking me? This is a mistake.’
Iron fingers gripped her arm; a rough voice said, ‘Shut it.’
At the top of a narrow flight of stairs, she stumbled and felt it sting where the skin had broken. The thugs dragged her into a lift that travelled from the basement to the fifth floor; the smell of stale cigarette smoke and piss was overpowering. The doors slid open. An elderly couple waiting to go down held on to each other and stood aside as Fiona was manhandled across the landing.
She pleaded with them. ‘Help me. Please. These men are going to kill me.’
Their eyes stayed on the ground; whatever was happening was no business of theirs. This was the high flats, a place the police considered a no go area, dope dealers and junkies, shooting up yards from their home. The old people witnessed violence every day and knew better than to get involved. They wouldn’t be calling for help. Nobody would. Not if they valued their legs.
Those who know don’t speak.
The room was not unlike her mother’s lounge; patterned wallpaper, a solid coffee table and a floral three piece suite. Kidnapped and held against her will, the very ordinariness of it shocked her.
A man leaned on a stick. He looked frail and unwell. Two younger men flanked him, one with a scar marring an otherwise handsome face. The old man spoke. ‘So at last, this is her, Kevin.’
‘This is her, Jimmy’
Jimmy Rafferty pointed a trembling finger at Fiona. ‘Don’t go with hurting women. ‘Course if I have to, if there’s nothing else for it, then...’ The shrug absolved him from responsibility. �
�You’ve brought this on yourself. We can do it three ways, the easy way, the hard way,’ he paused for effect, ‘or Kevin’s way. Your choice.’
Fiona Ramsay had been told about the east end gangster family, Jimmy and his psycho sons. Paul, the one who died, was supposed to have been mental, a maniac even by Glasgow standards. Christ! Of them all, Sean was the only Rafferty who was even half sane.
She’d seen him before.
Sean took control. He said, ‘Tell us what Selkirk did with the money and I’ll ask them to go easy on you.’
Words poured from Fiona. ‘Ian was out of control, doing drugs, lots of drugs. Some days he was so wasted he couldn’t talk. People complained, he’d become a liability, I fired him. After that...’
Kevin turned to his father. ‘This is bullshit. She’s giving us her life story. Let me have a crack at her. Have I ever let you down?’
Jimmy snorted contempt. ‘Only every day since you were born, Kevin.’
Sean spoke to Fiona. ‘You getting that? D’you realise what my brother’s asking, do you understand? Where did your coke head pal hide the cash?’
Fiona didn’t answer.
Kevin said, ‘Make a decision, Jimmy. You’re the boss.’
Jimmy said, ‘What do you think, Sean? Should Kevin have his fun?’
* * *
-------
* * *
They tied her hands behind her back and blindfolded her with a piece of cloth. Behind it fear became panic. Why blindfold her now?
The same hands hauled her to her feet and marched her away, minutes later she heard a door slide shut and felt the floor move beneath her. She was in the lift again. Then there were steps, another door, and the wind ruffling her hair, cooling the sweat on her face.