The Accused

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Kennedy most of all. Must’ve been terrified Boyd would beat the truth out of McDermid or Davidson.’

  Andrew helped himself to another drink. ‘The wife’s in a helluva state. Just sinking in. She’s a brassy piece, no better than she should be, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

  The whisky talking.

  ‘Campbell’s invited me onto the case.’

  ‘Payback for handing it to him on a plate?’

  Geddes laughed. ‘Doubt that. He’s asked me to interview Mrs Kennedy. Doesn’t fancy doing it himself so I am, first thing in the morning. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it. Second husband murders the first husband? Christ.’

  I didn’t have advice for him. I said, ‘The marriage to Franks was over. Her affair with Boyd was the last straw – he was divorcing her.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘What about Boyd?’

  Geddes shook his head. ‘Still the prime suspect in three murders.’

  ‘Where’s the motive? He needed them alive.’

  Andrew toyed with his whisky. ‘Try good old-fashioned revenge. Boyd knew he’d been set up and knew who was responsible. Unless we can put Kennedy at the crime scenes, what’s changed?’

  His assessment stopped the conversation in its tracks. Eventually, I said, ‘I don’t understand why you gave the arrest to Campbell. It would’ve made sense to push yourself forward, especially with your review coming up.’

  He eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘Is that what I did?’

  ‘That’s what it looked like.’

  ‘If I told you I’d spoken to the chief inspector before I called DI Campbell, would you believe me?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Geddes didn’t reply; he hadn’t spoken to anybody. It wasn’t who he was. I said, ‘Surely somebody will remember seeing Kennedy at one of the scenes?’

  He stared wearily into his drink. ‘We’ll appeal for witnesses and hope somebody comes forward, otherwise the PF might be forced to go with manslaughter.’

  ‘After what Boyd went through it doesn’t seem right he isn’t getting a better shake.’

  Andrew finished his whisky and stood, his face flushed and more lined than when he’d arrived. He bit back his anger as best he could. ‘Right? How many times do I have to say this? Right’s got fuck all to do with it. The only thing that matters is proof.’

  We stopped at the door. DS Geddes put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve got great instincts, Charlie. Better than anybody I’ve ever met. But the thing is, proof trumps instinct every time. You believed Boyd hadn’t murdered Joe Franks and you were spot on. Wilson, McDermid and Davidson were scum, won’t find many who’ll disagree about that. But they’re dead and somebody killed them. You can’t see past Ritchie Kennedy. At the risk of repeating myself, where’s the evidence?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘To you maybe. Not to a jury. Boyd’s still the favourite.’ Andrew counted on his fingers. ‘One: it’s common knowledge he intended to go after the witnesses because they lied on the stand. That’s motive. Two: he admits he was at Elmbank Street car park on the night Wilson was beaten to death, as well as his fingerprints. That’s opportunity.’

  Geddes flashed his bad-news grin. ‘Hate to be the one to break it to you. It isn’t over. Not by a long way. Might be beyond even you, Charlie.’

  It was the truth. After everything Boyd had been through it was hard to hear. I pretended I wasn’t fazed and turned his well-worn argument against him.

  ‘Motive and opportunity, I’ll give you. But ask yourself, Andrew: is it proof?’

  When I came through the main door of Helen Street police station, Patrick was waiting, clearly unhappy to be there. I understood. To the Pat Logues of the world, police stations were Kryptonite, avoided at all costs. I told the sergeant on reception who we were and why we were here. He wrote down our names and asked me to take a seat.

  Pat whispered to me out of the side of his mouth. ‘Everybody gives you the once-over in places like this. Guilty until proven innocent. Suspicious bunch of bastards. Good mind to tell them where to shove their statement.’

  He seemed to have forgotten our presence wasn’t exactly optional.

  ‘Coppers have a look about them, ever noticed?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  He snorted his disbelief. ‘Then you must be blind, Charlie.’

  Hours ago, I’d been a hero. It hadn’t lasted very long.

  Two young constables on their way to their car happened to glance at us. It was enough. Patrick leapt on it as proof. ‘See that? See what I mean.’

  I didn’t see.

  He stared into my face, incredulous. ‘Sometimes I wonder how you’ve managed to get through life, Charlie. Don’t you realise these people would kick their granny if it got them an arrest?’

  ‘Sorry, that hasn’t been my experience.’

  It was the wrong answer. He folded his arms and slumped in his chair. ‘Then all I can say is you’ve been lucky. Bloody lucky. The rest of us aren’t so fortunate.’

  I tried the reasonable approach. ‘Well, you do sail close to the wind.’

  ‘Bit rich comin’ from you, isn’t it? How many times have you – what do you call it? – oh, yeah, “crossed the line”?’

  ‘We’re not talking about the same line, and it’s always in a good cause.’

  Patrick nodded, unconvinced. ‘That how a judge would see it?’

  ‘Depends on his definition of a good cause.’

  ‘Does providin’ for your wife and family qualify? “Men keep on the path of righteousness only because the road to the Devil is not yet paved.”’

  Like so many of his quotes, it killed the conversation and we waited until a uniform appeared and asked me to follow him. Patrick stared into space.

  The interview room was the same as any interview room I’d ever been in: white walls, a table with a tape machine the size of a cigarette packet on top, and a couple of chairs on either side. A plainclothes detective I didn’t recognise sat in one of them. As I came through the door, he glanced up, then drew his eyes away.

  A second officer, tall with a pencil moustache, leaned against the wall: DI Campbell. His smug smile when he arrested Dennis Boyd in my office hadn’t impressed. He wasn’t smiling now and, for a moment, I got what Pat Logue had been talking about; the feeling of being judged was hard to shake. There was no sign of Andrew.

  Campbell spoke from behind me, playing to an invisible gallery, enjoying himself. Because of our efforts, a disturbing case had fallen into his lap signed, sealed and delivered. The credit – thanks to Andrew Geddes – would be his, even though the DI’s contribution was zero. Gratitude would’ve been appropriate. Clearly it wasn’t going to happen. Patrick was going to love this. Not!

  ‘Fairly get around, Charlie. Don’t tell me the arse has dropped out of the dirty-picture game? DS Wharton’s going to conduct the interview. Pretend I’m not here.’

  I’d do my best.

  When it was over the DI opened the door to let me out in a show of mock civility. ‘By the way, Charlie, he’s still going down. You do know that, don’t you?’

  It took a second to realise he was talking about Dennis Boyd.

  39

  From the start my instinct had been to give Diane, Ritchie, Dennis Boyd and the whole ancient saga a miss and I hadn’t been wrong. Ritchie Kennedy confessing to the fifteen-year-old killing of Joe Franks should’ve been enough, except it wasn’t. Events had moved on. Pat Logue claimed God hated him; the Almighty really had it in for Dennis Boyd. Telling him he was the prime suspect in three murder investigations wouldn’t be nice. I didn’t get the chance. My mobile rang. Calling from prison meant time was tight; he launched right in as if our conversation in Barlinnie had never ended.

  ‘You asked if there was somebody Joe didn’t trust, Charlie. Somebody in the business. Well, I just remembered there was. Could well be nothing: a guy wanted to go into partnership with him. Had fuck all
to do with me but, for what it’s worth, I didn’t take to him. Dapper. Dressed like a dodgy insurance salesman.’

  ‘How long was this before Franks was murdered?’

  ‘Six months, maybe less.’

  ‘What makes you think he might’ve been involved?’

  ‘He put a lot of effort into persuading Joe to cut him in. Claimed he had connections. Took us to Casino on the Clyde one night to swing it. Spent a fortune.’ He laughed. ‘Should’ve saved his money. Joe wasn’t impressed.’

  ‘Cut him in on what?’

  ‘Some deal Joe was trying to pull together. I could tell Joe wasn’t pleased he’d found out about it.’

  ‘The same deal that got him killed?’

  Boyd stuck to what he knew. ‘This was months before that, but, yeah, suppose it could’ve been.’

  ‘You said us.’

  ‘Joe, Diane and me.’

  ‘Why were you included?’

  ‘Joe wanted my opinion on him.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Didn’t matter in the end, they had a bust-up halfway through dinner. Joe told him to fuck off. Franks had spent most of his life in the stones market and here was this idiot telling him how he was going about it all wrong. Clown.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Graham Lennox.’

  His last-known address, like Joe Franks’, was an office above the shops in the Argyll Arcade. I put on a coat and headed out to find him.

  In Queen Street, people sheltered in doorways waiting for the worst of the downpour to ease off. A woman with an umbrella almost took my eye out as she hurried past with her head down, her only concern getting where she was going before the rain got any heavier.

  At the Arcade, a brass sign told me I’d come to the right place. I knocked on the door and went in. Above my head a bell tinkled. The room was small, the air warm and musty. Apart from a desk, two chairs and a row of battered filing cabinets, there was nothing. I guessed the cabinets were for show and would echo the same emptiness as the rest of it. From somewhere a high-pitched male voice shouted, ‘With you in a minute!’

  The linoleum on the floor had been laid when the world was young, scuffed and torn, the nondescript design worn bare. Rain dripping from my coat formed a puddle like a miniature lake at my feet. When Lennox appeared, I was reminded again of just how long ago it had all been. Dennis Boyd described a pushy, dapper man; a crude wheeler-dealer determined to talk his way into whatever Franks had going on, who’d been rejected and maybe taken it personally. I’d expected my questions to be met with evasion and sleazy energy.

  That man no longer existed.

  Now he was granddad-who-does-hugs.

  He was in his seventies, his hair – what was left of it – white and sparse, carefully combed over to cover the almost-bald head. The light-grey suit he was wearing was well matched with the maroon tie and grey shirt, the sleeves shot at the wrist revealing gold links with what I assumed, given the trade he was in, was a tiny diamond in each cuff. Lennox had the face of a man-child, smooth except for lines at his eyes. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and his fingers were long and slim, the nails manicured. I guessed his hands would be soft – although he hadn’t offered to shake mine – the hands of a man who hadn’t done a day’s work in his life. Graham Lennox was vain; appearance was what mattered. He wanted to look successful and might have pulled it off if it weren’t for the down-at-heel surroundings giving the game away. I’d be willing to bet he was struggling to pay the rent.

  No doubt some people would be fooled. I’d come across plenty of his type: he was a con man, pure and simple, older than when he’d tried it on with Joe Franks, but, under the skin, a con man just the same.

  He peered at me over his bifocals while he dried his hands on a paper towel.

  ‘Agnes, my secretary, is on holiday.’

  In the over-heated room, the smell of Listerine drifted on his breath. Behind him, where the top of the wall met the ceiling, a spider hung suspended from a web, the gossamer trap already dotted with the remains of dead insects.

  I almost laughed out loud. Lennox was at it: there was no secretary, no cleaner either. His fastidiousness didn’t extend to his office. I played along with the fantasy meant to impress. ‘No problem. I tried to make an appointment. The number just kept ringing out.’

  He repeated the lie, adding to it for my benefit. ‘As I say, my secretary’s in Majorca, lucky woman. Anyway, you’re here now. What can I do for you?’

  His smile faded as soon as I told him. ‘I’d like to ask a few questions about an old acquaintance of yours, Joe Franks. Remember him?’

  Lennox’s expression locked in place as his brain processed this blast from the past. I enjoyed putting a dent in his urbane act. To his credit, he recovered. ‘No, can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Didn’t you have dinner with Joe six months before he was murdered?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t have, don’t know anybody called Franks.’

  ‘Really? Weren’t you keen to be part of a deal he was putting together? Maybe you’ve forgotten.’

  His tie was straight; he straightened it anyway. ‘When was this supposed to have happened?’

  Lennox was an old dog, and, like every old dog, played to his strength: he already knew. When I answered, he dropped the act, leaned across the desk, and rubbed my nose in it. ‘You’re asking if I had dinner with somebody fifteen years ago.’ He steepled his hands and slowly shook his head. ‘I probably did. Didn’t everybody? Didn’t you?’

  His buffed fingernails got his attention before he moved on to those showy cuffs. At first, my unscheduled appearance and questions about the past had fazed him. Not any more. Too much water had gone under the bridge; there was nothing to say.

  Lennox was in control, detaching from a conversation that had no interest for him was easy, and he was probably already considering the fastest way to get me out of his office.

  ‘I’d be more careful about where I got my information. I’m afraid you’ve been misled, Mr…?’

  The old sorry-I-didn’t-quite-catch-your-name gambit.

  ‘Cameron. Charlie Cameron.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve been told, Mr Cameron, isn’t correct.’

  I took a notebook from my inside jacket pocket and pretended to read from it. The page was blank. Graham Lennox wasn’t the only old dog, or the only one with a talent for untruth. I hesitated, feigning confusion. ‘The two other people who were there that night tell a different story.’

  He sighed and cast around the room, hoping to find something to satisfy me. Over his shoulder, the spider dangled at the end of an invisible thread. Lennox said, ‘What reason would I have to deny it?’

  I had him.

  ‘Let’s suppose it’s just slipped your mind and you did know Franks. None of us are getting any younger, right, Graham? Joe was putting a big deal together. You got wind of it and wanted in. I’m guessing you’d tried a few times to persuade him. Dinner was probably your last attempt.’

  Lennox stared at me and didn’t interrupt. How many nights’ sleep had he lost worrying about what he’d done? When Dennis Boyd went down for a murder he didn’t commit, this guy would’ve breathed a huge sigh of relief. And as months turned to years, maybe he really did forget – he would’ve tried, that much was sure. Time had covered the murder and the robbery the way autumn leaves gathered and banked against a headstone in a cemetery, until the grave beneath was obscured. But the body was still there. For Graham Lennox, spring had come to blow the leaves away and expose his guilt.

  Me. I was spring.

  A sheen of perspiration glossed his forehead. Sitting in his shabby office, I knew Boyd had remembered well. Lennox fingered his glasses. ‘This is nonsense. All nonsense.’

  Spoken without conviction. He didn’t believe it and neither did I.

  ‘Where’s the proof?’

  ‘Will two witnesses do?’

  ‘Witnesses to what?’ />
  ‘The dinner you can’t recall. Fortunately, they don’t have that problem.’

  ‘Okay. All right. I wanted in on a diamond deal I’d heard he was planning. That isn’t a crime.’

  ‘No, you’re right, Graham, it isn’t. Though what happened after Joe turned you down most definitely is.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I didn’t kill anybody.’

  ‘You didn’t. Ritchie Kennedy took care of that. I’m betting you were the guy who moved the gems.’

  His jaw tightened, the well-cared-for fingers couldn’t stay still. But I had nothing beyond a dinner to use as leverage. Not enough. Not nearly.

  Lennox pulled himself together. ‘Time for you to leave, Cameron. Whatever you thought you were going to find here, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  I shook my head. ‘This is how it is: murdering Joe Franks was one thing, fencing the stones something else.’

  Kennedy had confessed to killing Franks but wouldn’t give whoever he’d passed the diamonds to. He might’ve made a deal with the prosecution; he didn’t try. Lennox was a loser. Kennedy had nothing to fear from him. So why not cut the deal?

  The clouds parted: he was protecting somebody. For certain, it wasn’t Graham Lennox. Who did that leave?

  I leaned against the back of the chair. Across the desk, Lennox’s fancy clothes looked like they belonged to someone else. Blood drained from his face leaving it pale, childlike and vulnerable; his hands balled into trembling fists. Before my eyes he became what he’d always been: a wide boy whose reach had exceeded his grasp. His tongue ran over his lips again and left them still dry. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t stupid; he was ahead of me. Remembering the past and seeing the future; knowing where this was going. And he was scared.

  I said, ‘You realise she’ll crack, don’t you? Give you up without a second thought. I’d get my version of the story in first if I were you. Make it easier on yourself. A man your age with your delicate habits – don’t rate your chances. Dennis Boyd’s done a lot of hard time because of you. He has friends inside. They’ll remember. And they’ll be waiting.’