by Owen Mullen
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?
Thirty-One
My third visit to the El Cid failed to improve my opinion. The pub was one of those land-that-time-forgot boozers. In the lounge it was 1972. We arrived after ten. Carol Thom was a bingoid. Patrick assured me she wouldn’t be there any earlier.
We got our first piece of luck as soon as we went in: the barmaid who thought I asked too many questions wasn’t working. A smiling younger woman took her place. In the car we’d agreed Patrick would do the talking. This was Pat Logue country. Besides, as the blonde barmaid had pointed out, my accent was against me. My brief was to watch and learn. I ordered our drinks, leaned on the bar and did just that.
Music filtered through tiny speakers high on the wall. Two or three regulars stood at the bar, alone and apart. I wondered why they preferred it in here. A boy and girl held hands; her head lay against his shoulder. Young love. By the door a middle-aged couple ignored each other and stared into space. They’d made an effort – he had on a shirt and tie and she was wearing make-up. Big night out.
The bingo girls were easy to spot: five of them, in a booth at the far end, talking and giggling. Patrick turned on his patter like a market trader.
‘Any joy, ladies? Who should I be pally with?’
A brunette whispered something that made the rest cackle, deep and dirty.
‘Anybody scoop the rollover?’
The women snorted their disillusionment. ‘Fat chance,’ one of them said. ‘Hardly got a tickle.’
More sniggers.
Patrick squeezed in beside them. ‘Rubbish when it goes like that. Last time I played I was dead unlucky. The Pyramid. Almost knocked it off.’
A hard faced redhead in her fifties helped him out. ‘Close were you?’
‘Really close. The woman sittin’ in front of me won it.’
They laughed and he was in.
Some instinct told me to take a look outside. The street was deserted except for a man standing in shadow; one of Rafferty’s thugs, an officer there on DI Platt instructions, or just a punter waiting for the number 17 to Castlemilk? Six days to go, and I was spending energy on a womaniser who’d done a runner.
Pat Logue had the bingo women eating out of his hand. At a guess, Carol Thom was in the centre of the group, protected by the sisterhood; blond highlights streaked her hair, her bust strained against the too-tight blouse and every finger had a ring. Twenty years in the past she wouldn’t have had to try so hard.
Pat said, ‘So, no luck tonight. What will the men say?’
The redhead answered for them. ‘Who cares? Gave up caring what mine thinks long since.’
‘Communication breakdown. Not good. When that goes what’s left?’
The brunette had a suggestion. ‘Three kids and the family allowance.’
Patrick smiled at the joke. ‘You’re too cynical. Where would you be without us? You need us, we’re your rocks.’
They hooted.
‘Nah, come on. We have our uses.’
‘Aye, but the rest’s a waste of space. Rather have a plate of home-made soup.’
‘Ladies, ladies, you’ve been taken for granted, I can tell. Don’t let your bad experience prejudice you. A few bad apples. Know what I’m talkin’?’
‘Shite, that’s what you’re talking. This girl’s an example.’ The redhead pointed to Carol Thom. ‘Bastard didn’t even say goodbye.’
Patrick spoke to Carol. ‘Maybe he’s havin’ a breakdown?’
Carol Thom choked on her drink. ‘If anybody’s having a breakdown it’s me.’
Pat shook his head. ‘Guy’s an idiot then. No idea where he went?’
‘Don’t know, don’t want to know. Cared more about his football team than me. I’m well rid of him.’ It was bluster, a performance for the others. Redhead took charge again. ‘The easiest way to get over a man is get another one. Who’s your friend?’
Patrick pulled out of the booth, hooked a thumb in my direction and feigned surprise. ‘Him? He’s my parole officer.’
In the car he said. ‘The girlfriend’s as much in the dark as the wife. Cross her off the list.’
‘I agree. You did well, Patrick.’
‘Thanks, Charlie. Leave them laughin’. Always leave them laughin’.’
The next day was Friday. Five days until Jimmy Rafferty’s deadline ran out. Deadline. How was that for irony? I had to face it, I was out of ideas. Not quite accurate, I hadn’t had any to speak of. In the middle of the night I called Fiona’s number; it rang and rang. No one answered. If I asked, Andrew would run a trace except that meant telling him the truth. Too complicated.
Pat Logue had already left the flat when I finally dragged myself out of bed. He had graduated from a shady character to a man of mystery. I guessed Gail was leading him by the nose and he was loving it.
Though it had been two weeks, signs of the burglary were still visible. I hadn’t moved on replacing the damaged furniture. Mrs McCall wasn’t happy, as she cleaned she muttered disapproval, not all of it directed at the intruders.
I threw a jacket in the car – the one I’d dipped in beer at the Lomond Inn, overdue for dry cleaning but in the circumstances hardly a priority – and headed for the office.
Jackie Mallon was in better spirits, the disappointment of Gary was fading. Even from a distance I could tell she’d turned the corner. As I arrived, a customer who had been coming to New York Blue as long as I had was leaving. I held the door open for him and made some comment about the weather. That’s when I saw the small marble figure under the window. A frog with three legs. I picked it up; it was heavier than it looked. Jackie came towards me faking a smile. ‘You’ve found him then?’
I weighed it in my hand. ‘Have I? What is it?’
‘The Toad God.’
‘Oh, right. Of course. And why is he here?’
‘The Toad God’s the bringer of prosperity, Charlie.’ She could see I needed more. ‘It’s about energy. Ancient forces. Gary was a physical guy...’
‘You said.’
‘...but he was blocking the flow. I’ll explain it when you’ve got the time.’
‘I’m not sure...he’s an ugly little fucker.’
‘Who? Gary?’
I laughed. ‘No, your new friend.’
‘Touch him when you’re passing. Get him on your side.’
I handed her the totem and walked away. She pointed to the jacket over my shoulder.
‘That for
cleaning? Shall I put it in for you?’
This unexpected generosity made me suspicious, especially coming from her.
‘Thanks, I’ll do it myself.’
Then she asked her real question: ‘Do you think I should change the seats in the restaurant so nobody’s facing the door? Bad Feng Shui.’
‘What does Alex think?’
‘He says to leave them. I’m not sure, we’re losing power.’
The world was going mad. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
In the office I emptied the jacket pockets and found the bill I’d paid for Ian. I tossed it in the in-tray and opened the mail – one crisp white envelope – the kind I’d come to know so well. Cecelia McNeil. She was unaware of our plan for Celtic Park. I hadn’t told her. And wouldn’t, unless her husband was there. I was struck again by the precision of the handwriting and the economy of the words, in spite of how she must be feeling. Mrs McNeil was stronger than I had realised.
* * *
Dear Mr Cameron,
My sister in Dumfries wants me to stay with her. There is nothing for me here so I have decided to go. The house is on the market, too many memories. Please send me your invoice and thank you for your efforts on my behalf. I know you tried.
Cecelia McNeil.
* * *
No mention of God; he’d had his chance. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to change the outcome, for Mrs McNeil at least. If Stephen McNeil was at the game and we discovered where he was living, we might produce a different ending. Then I’d get a note thanking God and me for saving her marriage.
Patrick arrived in the afternoon, all smiles. He was wearing his Jesus sandals, a good omen. He knocked and came in. ‘Gail’s okayed the boys for tomorrow. She wasn’t keen, I talked her round. Told her it was a payin’ event, help them appreciate the value of money. All that stuff. Promised to bring them home as soon as we tracked McNeil. She’s happy.’
‘Then we’re set. We’ll meet here at one o’clock and get in position early. Do the boys know?’
‘Not yet, don’t want them talkin’ to their mother. They’ll be alright. Anythin’ on the Ian front?’