by Owen Mullen
‘I just need to understand how the last deal went down, and anything you can think of that might throw some light on who killed him.’
‘But I was told they caught the man.’
‘That’s the problem, Mr Kontogiannakis, I’m not sure they did.’
Dennis Boyd sat on the old shooting stick he’d found late on the first day in a musty shop that looked as if it hadn’t had a customer in decades. He had paid for it – as he did with everything – in cash.
On the concrete viewing platform, next to McCaig’s Tower, casting a critical eye over his efforts, it was almost possible to forget he was Scotland’s most wanted man. Boyd had bought a set of light pencils he’d forgotten to get in Glasgow, and a cap. When added to the glasses Diane had given him, the transformation was complete.
People stared; Boyd was fine with that. He saw them out of the corner of his eye putting him down as eccentric without connecting him with the face on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Hiding in plain sight.
Below, Oban harbour curved in a horseshoe, Mull shimmered in the distance and a CalMac ferry returning from the islands broke a path through the water, leaving a white line in its wake. In prison, Boyd’s artistic talents had been an escape. Revisiting them now heightened his appreciation of things he’d missed. Like Diane’s soft body spread like a banquet. He smiled at the memory and added a few deft strokes to the picture, knowing this was how he should have spent his time instead of squandering it. No use regretting it. Painting took discipline. His younger self was headstrong and impatient, lacking the ability to stay with it. He’d been given a gift – no doubt about that. It wasn’t enough. This was where he’d ended up. Being wise after the event did nobody any good.
The call to Diane the previous night had left him depressed. The news wasn’t good. For hours, he’d walked the town’s unfamiliar streets searching for a way to prove his innocence. He’d been a fool; he realised that now. Better to have taken her money and got on the London train. Instead, he’d rejected the idea, pinning everything on an ad in a telephone booth. How crazy was that? Cameron had actually found Willie Davidson, but the lying bastard was sticking to his story. The last hope, the only hope, was gone. There was nothing more the PI could do. His advice hadn’t altered: Boyd should surrender himself to the police. A non-starter. Going back to prison wasn’t an option even if he had to live in a cave for the rest of his life.
A middle-aged woman stopped to admire his work. Under her arm was a rolled-up copy of The Scotsman. Boyd wondered if she’d read the article about him and carried on as if she wasn’t there, playing the part of an artist lost in his art.
She said, ‘You really are very good.’
He mouthed a modest ‘thanks’ and adjusted the glasses, hoping she’d go away.
‘Do you sell your work? You should.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘It’s just a hobby.’
‘Well, I’d buy it. I’d love to have something like that on my wall.’
His one thought was to get her to go. On an impulse he handed the sheet to her and took her by surprise. ‘Then have it.’
‘Are you sure? I mean… it’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all.’
‘It might be worth a lot of money someday.’
‘Then we’ll both be in luck.’
The woman turned to go and changed her mind. ‘Would you sign it for me?’
‘Of course.’
Boyd wrote on the bottom and gave it back. The woman read the name, savouring the moment. ‘I’ll cherish it. Thank you again, Mr Franks.’
28
The voice on the other end of the line was defiant. Willie Davidson’s opinion of me hadn’t improved, though at least this time he was sober.
Our meeting on Lamlash pier had convinced me that if he was Boyd’s last hope, then Dennis Boyd had no hope. How much of our conversation Davidson remembered was anybody’s guess. Enough to make the call, apparently. I hadn’t expected it, and what he had to say was a game changer.
He didn’t introduce himself and came straight to the point. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. There are conditions.’ He paused and I imagined him checking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone or, more likely, topping up his whisky.
‘Where did you get this number?’
‘From my daughter.’
Pat Logue had told me he’d given her my card.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Take Olive somewhere safe. They’ve already threatened her. It won’t end there. They’ll do anything to stop me from talking.’
Davidson sounded spooked. As well he might be. ‘Who will?’
His nervous snigger travelled down the line. ‘You must think I’m a clown.’
‘All I’m asking is who we’re up against.’
‘That’s all you’re asking? When Olive’s beyond their reach, you’ll know what you want to know.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Who murdered Joe Franks and why. I told her to expect you. Do it now. And one more thing. I don’t want Boyd near me.’
‘I’m not his keeper. You’d better hope he doesn’t find you.’
The defiance roared back. ‘I can take care of myself.’
The last time I’d seen him that hadn’t been true; he’d been crying. Agreeing wasn’t difficult. And what choice did I have? Davidson was ready to cooperate, which meant Dennis Boyd would have the proof he needed to clear his name.
‘Where are you?’
The snigger made a comeback. ‘Go fuck yourself. Do as I say or Boyd goes back inside for killing Wilson and McDermid.’
‘He didn’t kill them.’
‘He didn’t kill Joe Franks, either. Look where that got him. Get my daughter out of harm’s way. Once I’ve spoken to her, I’ll talk.’
‘Consider it done. Now cut the crap and be in my office at two o’clock, or she’s on her own.’
It was a bluff, an attempt to even the score for Lamlash. Davidson cut the connection. I checked my watch and called Patrick. He sounded his usual upbeat self.
‘Morning, Charlie. What can I do you for?’
‘Need you to go to Largs. Olive Davidson’s been threatened. Her father’s just off the phone. He won’t talk until he’s certain his daughter’s safe.’
Patrick was a good man; he didn’t ask questions. ‘I’m on my way. Let you know as soon as I’ve got her.’
I needed Diane to persuade her old boyfriend to trust me and do what I’d wanted him to do from the very beginning: give himself up.
Ritchie Kennedy answered the phone. When I told him who I was he shouted to his wife and left me to wait. It seemed the atmosphere in the Kennedy household hadn’t improved. A minute later Diane said, ‘Mr Cameron? Didn’t expect to hear from you again after last night. Has something happened?’
Explaining would take time so I didn’t. ‘Boyd has to turn himself in. Today.’ Before she could speak, I raced on. ‘I can prove he didn’t murder anybody.’
Her reply was breathless. ‘Really? That’s wonderful news. Wonderful. But how is it possible? Last night you said—’
‘Davidson’s changed his mind.’
‘Why? I don’t understand. Where is he?’
‘This is the best chance Boyd’s ever going to have. Tell him I want him in my office at three o’clock. He has to be there.’
‘He will be. I promise you he’ll be there. And thank you.’
I hesitated before making the final call, conscious it might mean the end of a friendship. Andrew was a copper twenty-four hours a day. His reaction to what I had to tell him was easy to predict: he’d go mental.
In my head I ran over what I was going to say, searching for the right words and coming up dry. Because there were no right words. I glanced at my watch: ten thirty-five. For the moment, at least, I didn’t need them. Davidson would be here at two. If Diane did as I’d asked, Boyd would follow an hour later. To make it work, Andrew had to have heard Dav
idson confess before Dennis Boyd showed. What went down after that wouldn’t be up to me.
His brusque voice sounded in my ear. ‘Charlie.’
‘Good morning, Andrew.’
‘Good, is it? You must know something I don’t. What can I do for you?’
The cynic was in residence.
‘Can you be in my office at one-thirty?’
‘Of course. I’ll just drop everything.’ He gave a jaded laugh. ‘Am I allowed to ask why? Any chance of giving me a clue how you want me to spend the tax-payer’s hard-earned money? They pay my salary, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘It’s important. Really important. That’s as much as I can say.’
‘So, it’s a mystery.’
‘Andrew, trust me, it’s important.’
When it suited him, Andrew was a paid-up member of the Awkward Squad.
‘You’ll have to do better than that, Charlie.’
I had to persuade him without giving away too much.
‘An innocent man’s freedom is at stake.’
Andrew was a hard guy to reach; he sucked air through his teeth. I could almost see his mock-serious expression. ‘Dramatic. I’ll give you that.’
‘You’ve known me long enough. If I tell you it’s important it’s because it fucking is. I’ll answer every question you have at one-thirty and then you can decide if I’m being dramatic or not.’
The silence from his end seemed to go on forever. Eventually, he sighed. ‘This better be good. This better be very good or you and I are going to fall out.’
He’d got that right.
I breathed a sigh of my own. ‘It is, Andrew. Really good.’
An hour later, Pat Logue called. ‘Got her, Charlie. Olive’s safe. She’s talking to her father right now.’
All the players were on the board. There was nothing more for me to do but wait.
At exactly one-thirty, the door opened. Geddes hesitated for a second in the frame before stepping inside. We didn’t shake hands or say hello and I realised my friend Andrew wouldn’t be coming.
DS Geddes placed the chair against the wall, sat down and folded his arms across his chest. His expression told me everything I needed to know. I made a stab at breaking the ice. ‘Thanks for coming.’
He brushed the pleasantry aside and made a show of checking his watch.
‘Let’s hear it, Charlie.’
A couple of hours considering what to say and how to say it hadn’t helped. Reluctantly, I’d decided, for better or worse, to tell the tale without justification or excuse – lay it out as it had happened and hope Andrew could see it from my side of the fence.
I began with Diane Kennedy’s trashy performance and her failed attempt at coy manipulation; her teary sob story about the murder of a husband she hadn’t loved – probably never loved – her robust defence of the man found guilty of killing him, and her loyalty, which stretched to giving him money to get away from Scotland to start a new life somewhere else.
Geddes listened stone-faced. Merry widows didn’t move him.
The meetings with Dennis Boyd – in Strathclyde Park and in my office – I left out. This conversation was going to be difficult enough without admitting I’d been in contact with a wanted man. One look at Andrew’s tightly drawn features told me I’d made the right decision.
His breathing was as even and controlled as a Zen master. He must’ve been dying to interrupt, even if it was only to tell me what a prick I was.
There was sweat on my brow and my hands felt clammy. I soldiered on, wisely omitting discovering the body in the garage in Bellshill and the anonymous telephone call to the police. Who was I kidding? By the time I got to Lamlash and Davidson, the detective in Andrew Geddes would have put the pieces together and know I was up to my neck in it.
My voice echoed in the room. ‘This morning, they tried to intimidate Davidson’s daughter. It backfired. He’s agreed to share the secret he’s lived with for fifteen years: who killed Joe Franks. He’s coming here at two. We’ll have the truth about three murders – Franks, Wilson and McDermid. But it isn’t Boyd – he’s been set up for a crime he didn’t do. Twice.’
Geddes pushed himself out of his seat and left. Five minutes later, he came back and sat down without a word. And that was how it stayed. Over the years I’d seen the best and the worst of Andrew – this was new.
Two o’clock came and went. Davidson didn’t arrive. At twenty past, when there wasn’t any sign of him, I started to worry and decided to make a call. On my way to the door, Geddes caught hold of my arm. ‘Don’t try to warn him off, Charlie. It’s gone too far for that.’
Outside, I phoned Davidson; the number was unobtainable. My fingers were trembling when I called Patrick Logue. ‘Has Olive heard from her father?’
‘No, she hasn’t. Something wrong, Charlie?’
‘I hope not.’
Traffic slowed at the lights on Cochrane Street, the drivers unaware of the drama unfolding on an afternoon in Glasgow. I looked up and down to see if Davidson was lurking in a doorway, too afraid to go through with what we had agreed. I didn’t find him because he wasn’t there. Panic washed through me. Without his testimony, Boyd was walking into a trap.
Back in the office, I tried to change the rules. ‘Listen, Davidson swore he’d tell the truth about Joe Franks as soon as his daughter was safe. Boyd is giving himself up on my say-so and he expects to be treated fairly.’
‘He will be.’
‘Even if this guy goes back on his word, promise me you’ll hear Dennis Boyd out. Promise me, Andrew.’
‘I will.’
I needed to believe him.
The minutes ticked by with my heart pounding in my chest. On the half-hour, Geddes’ mobile rang. He opened it and listened, his eyes never leaving mine. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat. ‘I understand.’
He closed the phone and went back to his Easter Island impersonation, and for thirty minutes nothing happened. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. At three o’clock, with the tension at breaking point, footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door opened and Dennis Boyd walked in. He looked at me, then Geddes, and back at me.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’
‘It’s all right, Dennis. This is a friend of mine.’
Boyd sneered and hooked a thumb in Andrew’s direction. ‘A friend? He’s got cop written all over him.’
Geddes leaned against the wall as if what was going on had nothing to do with him. Boyd lurched towards me, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tight the bones of his knuckles threatened to break through.
‘I trusted you, Cameron. Diane trusted you. You set me up.’
‘No, Dennis. They threatened Davidson’s daughter. We’ve got her safe. He’s supposed to come here to tell the truth.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Look. Sit down and calm down. Davidson might still come. Andrew’s here to listen to what you have to say. He’s a good guy. This is your chance to tell your side. Take it.’
Suddenly, the door burst open and four uniformed policemen rushed in followed by a tall man with a pencil moustache, a self-satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The uniforms grabbed Boyd and forced his hands behind him; he didn’t resist.
‘Told you before, Charlie, you’re naïve. Can’t be “friends” with a copper. They don’t do friends.’
The detective in charge ignored me, gave a curt nod to Andrew Geddes and went into his spiel. ‘Dennis Boyd, I’m detaining you under Section 14 of the Criminal Procedure (Scotland) Act, as I have reason to suspect you may be guilty of a crime punishable by imprisonment, namely the murder of Hugh Wilson.’
The rest didn’t register. I couldn’t breathe; I was numb. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Boyd didn’t look at me when they took him away. Geddes had only spoken once since the start of my futile explanation, to warn me against tipping Boyd off. He pushed himself off the wall; for him it was over. But I had to know.
&nbs
p; ‘Why? Why, Andrew?’
The question seemed to confuse him. ‘Why? You can’t be serious.’
‘You made a promise to hear him out.’
‘And I will. In an interview room in Govan, not here.’
‘Boyd’s innocent. When Davidson shows up, he’ll swear to it.’
The detective’s skin was the colour of bread dough, his lips a bloodless line, the anger in his eyes a match for Dennis Boyd’s. Yet his voice was steady because, in the end, he was a copper doing his duty.
‘No, he won’t, Charlie. He won’t be swearing to anything. His body was fished out of Lamlash Bay. That’s what the call was about.’
‘You knew he wasn’t coming?’
He didn’t answer and walked to the door. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do. I’ll tell DI Campbell to expect you.’
Part III
29
After Andrew Geddes left, I couldn’t move; the sky had fallen on me. What had happened was like being in a car crash, too fast, too much to take in. The truth about so many things had been within touching distance.
Or, so it had seemed.
I’d let Boyd down. Again. I’d known it was the policeman in the room with me, and I should’ve guessed how he’d react. But fuck! He was supposed to be my friend. All I was asking him to do was listen, then, if he wasn’t convinced, do what he had to do. But give the guy a chance. For fuck’s sake, give him a chance.
Suddenly, the anger that had been building since Geddes had exploded and I raced down the stairs and into the street. Andrew was outside NYB and glanced round just as I grabbed his shoulder and threw him against the window. I expected him, pinned to the plate glass, to defend himself. He didn’t; his arms hung by his sides. Our faces were inches apart; there was no fear in his eyes. He goaded me in the dull monotone I’d heard in the office.
‘Fancy adding assaulting a police officer to the list, do you?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’