by Owen Mullen
On the open roof, he found a space next to a dark blue Mondeo, and turned off the engine. He was early. Sitting in the car gave him time to think about what a crap day it had been so far. Rocha, demanding results. Spouting his what-a-wonderful-world bollocks and, at the same time, trying to intimidate him. The Spaniard was out a shit-load of money; he wanted what he wanted. Fair enough. But where was the credit for what Sean had done? More than three quarters of the site ear-marked had been acquired albeit with Rocha’s cash; the rest – along the banks of the river – was why he was here. The whole thing was Rafferty’s idea. And he’d told Rocha it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe wouldn’t even be possible. They’d agreed it was a fantastic opportunity and decided to go ahead. So fuck him if he wasn’t happy! Fuck him, lying in the sun while Sean took instructions from bent councillors.
All morning, Kim had been in a funny mood. What the hell was up her nose? And now he came to think about it, it wasn’t just this morning; she’d been avoiding him for days. Leaving the room when he came in. Pretending to be asleep. Walking around like a wet weekend and finding fault with him whenever he went near Rosie.
No problem. Whatever was wrong would right itself. Or she’d be gone; he’d trade her in for newer model, one who smiled once in a while. Rafferty had enough hassles in business without getting them at home. Watch it, baby. Watch it.
A black Mercedes soundlessly crawled into the light and, for a moment, Rafferty thought Rutherford had come in an official car. The Merc made two circuits before squeezing onto the end. Rafferty got out and walked to the limo. The door opened and he got in. Rutherford adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see if somebody decided to join them. Sean Rafferty knew he wasn’t going to be hearing anything good.
Rutherford shook his head. ‘Sorry, Sean. I tried. They’re not having any.’
‘By “they,” you mean..?’
‘Thompson. Where Lachie goes, Daly follows. Buy one get one free, normally.’
‘Apart from the obvious, what would make them change their minds?’
Rutherford blew air through his teeth. ‘Don’t think anything will.’
‘Not even more money? You do surprise me.’
Rafferty gazed out over the city skyline. He didn’t speak, sensing Rutherford had something more to say. After a long silence the councillor spat it out. ‘It’s Jimmy, Sean.’
Rafferty lost his temper. ‘How many times do I have to say it? Jimmy’s dead. There is no, Jimmy.’
‘People remember.’
‘They can remember what they like.’
‘They’re scared. More scared of the Raffertys than getting caught.’
‘That’s the past.’
‘Not to them it isn’t. Your old man was a bastard. You’re his son.’
The conversation with Emil Rocha ran through Sean Rafferty’s brain. He looked at Rutherford; his skin was grey. ‘What about you? Where do you stand in all this given you’ve had your wedge? Should I be expecting a refund?’
Rutherford tried for a smile and failed. He bit his lip but didn’t answer.
‘That’s what I thought. So now we do it my way.’
-------
From his office on the seventh-floor Jimmy Hambley looked out at the traffic racing along Great Western Road and wondered how it had come to this.
He blamed himself for not acting sooner. Maitland’s drinking had been out of control for a long time; he’d seen it. Of course, Wallace didn’t come to work under the influence – that would’ve been indefensible – but he’d become noticeably distant with colleagues and on occasion, his judgement, as Gavin Law had pointed out, was dangerously flawed, even reckless. Colin McMillan stated the same, citing instances where the senior consultant had avoided safer options and gone with an alternative procedure, increasing the risk to the patient or the baby, or both. Taken in isolation, it boiled down to one surgeon’s opinion against another’s but, added to the original complaint from Law, it was a scandal in the making which would irrevocably stain Francis Fallon’s and James Hambley’s reputations.
On Hogmanay in this office, Hambley had delivered his bombshell and watched the blood drain from Gavin Law’s face. At that moment, with McMillan safely neutralised, he’d foolishly believed he had the situation under control. Hours later, Maitland – drunk again – trashed his efforts and raised the consequences to a new level.
This morning, Personnel had confirmed his worst fears. Law’s sister had called, asking about him. HR refused to discuss a member of staff over the phone. It was clear Caroline Law didn’t know her brother was suspended. Or why.
Hambley assumed the role of concerned employer, issuing instructions with a calmness he didn’t feel. Inside, he was falling apart. ‘Get hold of Mr Law and come back to me.’
Half an hour ago they had. The surgeon wasn’t answering his landline or mobile; paging, email, and text had produced nothing. Hambley put the phone down, unable to speak, unable to think. When the initial shock subsided, he buzzed his secretary and told her to find Maitland and tell him to come to Hambley’s office.
He was still waiting.
The telephone rang again. He picked it up. ‘Yes.’
‘Mr Hambley. HR here. We have Mr McMillan holding. He wants to know if a date has been set for his case. He’s pretty insistent. I told him we had no information and he asked me to call you.’
A fresh wave of disquiet swept over the director. ‘Please tell Mr McMillan to expect a letter from the hospital in due course giving a date for him to undergo psychiatric evaluation.’
‘Indeed. But according to my file, the letter was sent on the twenty-seventh. It ought to have arrived by now.’
‘Re-send it and apologise to Mr McMillan. It isn’t in anyone’s interest to prolong the process.’
Hambley put the phone down. Today of all days, this was the last thing he needed. It was odd for McMillan to want to force the pace because the evidence against him was conclusive; a witness was prepared to swear he’d told him he was suicidal. When that testimony became a matter of record, Colin McMillan’s career would end. Francis Fallon would let him go and few, if any, hospitals would employ a man with a history of emotional instability. Perhaps he just needed it over.
The buzzer on his desk sounded. His secretary said, ‘Mr Maitland is here.’
Hambley sat behind his desk and fought to control his anger. This bastard was responsible for the whole mess. He kept his voice even. ‘Send him in.’
Maitland shut the door behind him. One look at his brother-in-law’s face was enough to warn him. ‘You want to see me? What’s happened?’
Hambley resisted an urge to beat his stupid head against the wall until it was a bloody pulp. ‘Sit down, Wallace. I think it would be better.’
Maitland did as he was asked without taking his eyes off Hambley. Their relationship had come about because Maitland married Martha’s sister, Shona; the men had known each other for over twenty years. But they had never been friends. Now, they were a whole lot less than that. Hambley let Wallace Maitland wait, enjoying the anxiety on his face, taking pleasure in inflicting pain on the person who had probably ruined his life.
After a while he spoke. ‘Law’s gone missing.’
Maitland reacted like a frightened child. ‘What does that mean?’
Underneath the table, Hambley balled his fists. ‘Just as I say. His sister can’t find him. She’s already been on to us.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I haven’t spoken to her, at least not yet. HR fobbed her off. For today, that’ll do. Tomorrow, or the day after…’
Before Hambley’s eyes Maitland shrank; suddenly his clothes seemed too big for him. He stared into space. What he was hearing was beyond his understanding. A barely remembered nightmare.
The silence was broken by the telephone ringing. Hambley lifted it. ‘Not now.’
The person on the other end kept speaking. The director cut across them. ‘I said not now.’
He p
ut the phone down and folded his arms. ‘You killed him, didn’t you?’
‘No. No…How can you say that?’
‘Because it’s true. I was there when you fell in the door. I saw you.’
‘Jimmy, how long have we known each other?’
‘Too fucking long.’
‘I wouldn’t hurt anybody.’
Hambley laughed a grim laugh and mimicked Maitland’s terrified justification. ‘“I wouldn’t hurt anybody”. Really? Is what you tell yourself?’
Maitland shook his head; his heart pounded in his chest. He tried to defend himself; the words wouldn’t come. Hambley despised Maitland and realised he always had.
‘You murdered him. I don’t know how but you did.’
‘Surely you don’t think that’s true?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be true? Look what you did to Margaret Cooper. She would’ve been all right if she hadn’t met you. Law was going to expose your incompetence, so you killed him. You stupid fucker. Why couldn’t you leave well alone? I had it under control.’
‘I couldn’t. I was drunk. I would remember.’
‘Except you don’t. At least you say you don’t.’
‘Jimmy! Jimmy! This is crazy!’
Hambley stood up. ‘Don’t worry, Wallace, I won’t shop you. I expect you’ll do that yourself once it sinks in. Just know this. I’m not covering for you any longer. When they find his body – whatever you’ve done with it – it’ll be only a matter of time before they come for you. And when they ask me I’ll have to tell them, won’t I? No choice. Pity about, Shona. She doesn’t deserve this. She’ll divorce you, of course. Should’ve done it years ago.’
‘Jimmy! Jimmy, please!’
‘You’ll be on your own, Wallace. You already are.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Margaret had stopped whimpering and was staring into space with her mouth open. That morning, David had called the surgery and asked if someone would drop in and take a look at her. Around two o’clock, Doctor Bennet arrived. He did some tests and asked the same questions David had answered two dozen times before.
At the end, Cooper said, ‘She’s deteriorating, isn’t she?’
The doctor wouldn’t commit himself. ‘I don’t detect any major change since my last visit.’
‘But there is. I can tell. Sometimes she can hardly breathe.’
‘It may be Margaret’s body hasn’t yet found the level it will operate on, given what has happened. There may be some settling which can sometimes even look like improvements in the condition. Your wife may be experiencing stabilisation, in that sense.’
‘Is that a medical term for sinking?’
‘Every organ in the body gets instructions from the brain. Not just signals. Commands. If they aren’t being sent…’
The doctor glanced at Margaret Cooper and, from force of habit, lowered his voice.
‘I’m sorry to sound blunt. I don’t mean to be. But you have to accept she isn’t going to get better.’
‘I do accept it. I have accepted it. My question is: is she getting worse?’
‘There will come a time when it’s no longer practical for you to look after your wife by yourself. She’ll need more care than you’ll be able to give. More than any one person could give. That time may be far away, or it may be soon. You understand what I’m saying, Mr Cooper?’
David Cooper understood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Caroline Law was back in two days, calmer and more certain than ever. She got straight to the point. ‘He’s disappeared. Gavin’s disappeared. Definitely. I went back to his flat again. He keeps his passport in a drawer in the bedroom; it wasn’t there. His suitcase wasn’t there either.’
‘So he’s in America?’
She seized on my conclusion and beat me over the head with it. ‘No, he isn’t. Yesterday I called St Joseph’s hospital in New York. They wouldn’t say much but admitted Gavin hadn’t been interviewed. Then I tried Francis Fallon again. Down-right unhelpful. Refused to discuss anything over the phone except to say he wasn’t on the operating list.’
‘I take it he still isn’t answering his mobile.’
‘The number’s unobtainable.’
‘Okay. The passport and suitcase say he’s left the country but hasn’t gone where he was supposed to. Maybe he decided against the interview.’
‘Possible though unlikely. He said it was a tremendous opportunity. Why would he not turn up?’
I didn’t have an answer for her.
‘Did you contact his friends?’
The question didn’t sit well with her. Some of the certainty left her voice. ‘I don’t know them.’
‘Caroline didn’t see as much of Gavin as she would’ve liked. His friends tended to be female. Nobody regular. ’
‘No guys?’
‘None that he talked about.’
Dean rested a hand on his partner’s shoulder. She didn’t acknowledge it. I got the impression she wasn’t pleased with him for speaking out and he knew it.
‘Where did he meet these women?’
Caroline’s expression was stone. Clearly her brother’s love life wasn’t somewhere she wanted to go. At least not with me. She had brought him up. In her own words she had been the only mother he’d ever had. Maybe she resented other females getting his attention.
Deep. Too deep.
Dean was either a very brave man or a very stupid one; he ploughed on, in spite of the warning signs. ‘I think he worked with some of them. None were in the picture very long, so far as we could tell.’
‘All right. Leave it with me.’
‘You’ll take the case? Thank you, Mr Cameron.’
‘I’ll want to see inside Gavin’s flat.’
‘What do you expect to find?’
‘How would I know?’
‘I mean, I’ve been there twice. Is that really the best place to start?’
Behind her, Dean rolled his eyes. Caroline would be a difficult client.
Was there any other kind?
Jackie watched Caroline Law sweep out like a ship under sail with Dean trailing after her. ‘And so it begins, Charlie. Another adventure.’
I refused to take the bait. ‘And so it begins, Jackie. Don’t knock it.’
An hour later, I left NYB and stepped into a chilly wind. In summer, this was a suntrap where Glaswegians watched the world go by over lattes and flaky croissants. Today, it was deserted. I walked around aimlessly; killing time. In the West End, my flat would be in darkness. Kate wouldn’t be waiting for me: there was nothing to hurry home for.
-------
Lachie Thompson came through the heavy doors of the City Chambers into George Square and ran a blue-veined hand through what was left of his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun. It wouldn’t be today; the sky was low enough to touch. Scotland in January. Bloody awful.
The snow from Hogmanay was long gone but the temperature hadn’t climbed much above five degrees. Thompson shivered; he was seventy-one; too old to be cold. No, he was too old full stop.
The meeting he had just left challenged that theory. A discussion which should have lasted no more than an hour had run to three, without a decision being reached and it still wasn’t finished. Not for the first time he realised the fundamental flaw in democracy: everybody got a vote. After thirty years in politics, Lachie should’ve been used to it. He wasn’t and never would be. Most people were too thick and too lazy to merit an opinion; a view he shared only with his most trusted colleagues. The majority of councillors were sheep, easily frightened and easily led. Though even sheep had to be allowed to make a noise every now and then. Otherwise, they might realise no one was interested in them.
Across the Square, two Union Jacks drifted in the wind at the base of the Cenotaph – good men dead on the whims of elected idiots. A wise man made his own arrangements. Lachie Thompson was a wise man.
His watch told him what he already knew; he was late. He hated to do wh
at he was going to do but there was nothing else for it. He stabbed his daughter’s number into his mobile and waited for her to answer.
‘Hello, Dad.’
Thompson drew a heavy breath. Joan’s mother had been a strong woman and Joan was no different. She wasn’t going to be pleased.
‘Hi Joan. I’m sorry about this but I can’t collect Annie from school. I know it’s a bugger. The meeting has run over.’
‘Again?’
The irritation was undisguised. ‘I wish you’d told me sooner.’
‘Yeah, sorry…’
Joan cut him off. ‘…look…Dad…I have to go. I can’t leave Annie at the school gates with nobody to pick her up. She’s only six. Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t make it?’
‘I didn’t know.’
His daughter ended the call. Her father put the phone in his pocket and turned to go inside. Maybe it was time to call it a day. Glasgow wouldn’t fall down without him. The next local round of elections was eighteen months away; perhaps he should retire – he’d had a good run. Rutherford was a competent politician, though not as competent as he thought he was. He could take his place and do a decent job. Scotland was changing. The whole country was changing. For the foreseeable future, the Labour Party was finished north of the border; its fifty-year influence was on the wane. Old warhorses, like himself, had had their day. Besides, there were more important things, like collecting his granddaughter from school. Let somebody else be the shepherd. Lachie was tired of it.
Fine talk, except the councillor didn’t believe a word of it. At the moment, the bloody Scot Nats were doing well, but how long was that likely to last? Their appeal was too narrow and, when push came to shove, people baulked at stepping into the unknown. Labour, the party of Nye Bevin and Keir Hardie, would regain what had been lost. Men with his experience would be needed.