by Owen Mullen
Thompson shivered and drew his coat to him.
No, he wasn’t ready to go; there was still work to do. And if he was looking for a reason, he had one. For over thirty years, Jimmy Rafferty had been a stain on the face of the city, coercing and intimidating to get what he wanted. His son was set on going down the same road. Lachie Thompson was too old to be scared by another East End thug.
-------
Traffic was heavy. Annie’s mother cursed at a moron in a white Vauxhall going slow enough to be following a hearse.
She took her frustration out on the horn. ‘Come on! Come on! Move it, for Christ’s sake!’
At the first opportunity, she passed the car with a final irate blast. She was going to have to speak to her father. It wasn’t working. This was the second time he had let her down. On something else, she wouldn’t have a problem. Annie wasn’t something else, and Joan needed to be certain he would be there at three o’clock. Every day. Without fail. Last minute phone calls weren’t on. The truth was, she hated the council. Growing up, she’d seen less of her father than other children. He was always at meetings or surgeries – something. Her mother had more or less raised the children on her own, while he was off doing “important things.” And it hadn’t changed. He was still at it, except this time it was her daughter who was suffering because of it. Annie deserved better, and she would have better. The world was full of crazy people. Kids needed to be protected. Now that was a job worth doing.
As soon as she came round the corner she saw her; blonde hair tied in a ponytail and carrying her tiny satchel. Usually, a crowd of adults gathered at the gates, waiting for their kids. Today there was no one.
Just Annie. And the man she was talking to.
Joan braked so suddenly she lurched forward and almost hit her head on the windscreen. Annie saw her and waved. Her mother ran to her and scooped her into her arms.
The stranger smiled. ‘You have a lovely daughter. You must be very proud of her.’
Something in his eyes made her shiver. Joan backed away, blurting out apologies. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘It’s all right, Mum. This man knows granddad.’
The innocence of it made her mother want to cry. Later she would, but not now. Joan held her little girl tighter. The news was full of pervs and child molesters. Her father had no right putting his precious council before Annie’s safety.
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. He knows all about him.’
The stranger made to walk away. He waved. Annie waved back. ‘Remember what I told you to tell your mum?’
Annie nodded and rolled her eyes.
‘You’re supposed to tell Granddad.’
Joan hesitated; afraid to ask. Her voice trembled. ‘Tell Granddad what?’
‘Sean says hello.’
-------
Lachie Thompson wasn’t surprised when Joan called and said she wanted to talk to him. Her tone told him all he needed to know: he was in the bad books.
He tried to sound casual. ‘Okay, when?’
His daughter didn’t mince her words. ‘Right now.’
Collecting Annie from school was a serious responsibility. Calling off at the last minute was unacceptable. A tongue-lashing was on its way and he deserved it. Too often, when Joan was young, he hadn’t been around. No outsider could appreciate how much they had sacrificed so he could attend a function or yet another meeting which – invariably – over-ran into the small hours. He returned to a house in darkness, his family asleep. Lachie remembered sitting downstairs, nursing a whisky, his mind still racing, too wired to go to bed.
In the beginning, Sally had been his biggest supporter but, in the end, even she couldn’t take the loneliness that came with public office, and divorced him. Thompson understood: it was the price. Then Annie had come along. His second chance. And he was blowing it.
Joan was waiting for him in the kitchen and from the look on her face he could tell she was upset. More than upset: furious. Her voice trembled with an emotion her father thought was anger; it was fear.
He sat at the kitchen table. Joan stood with her back against the sink, gripping the edge so hard her knuckles poked white through the skin. Her father began with an apology. ‘Look. Joan. About this afternoon. I’m very sorry. I…’
He didn’t get further.
‘Do you know what happened today? Do you have any idea?’
She’d lost him.
Joan barked her questions at him. ‘Who is Sean? Sean who? I want to know.’
‘What’re you saying? I don’t get it.’
‘Don’t you? Don’t you, really?’
She leaned across the table until her face was inches from his. ‘A stranger gave Annie a message at the school gates. A message for her granddad.’
Thompson shook his head. ‘What stranger? What message?’
‘He told her to tell him “Sean says hello.” So, I’m asking. Who the fuck is Sean?’
Thompson didn’t answer; he was too stunned. Finally he got up and walked to the door. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
His daughter looked at him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and contempt. ‘What’ve you got us into, Dad?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’d wanted a case to take my mind off Kate. Well, all right – I had one.
Caroline Law’s problems hadn’t started on Hogmanay. I’d only met her twice but it didn’t take Billy Big Brain to realise she was a possessive over-protective woman, needy in the extreme, whose behaviour had probably driven her brother away. He was young when their parents died. No doubt his success in later life was largely due to his sister’s love and sense of duty in those early years. Unfortunately for her, that time had come and gone and she couldn’t see it. Gavin was thirty-three. A man. Not the vulnerable orphan he’d once been.
It wasn’t hard to understand. In the aftermath of the car crash that had killed their parents, she must have set aside her own hopes and dreams to look after both of them. Admirable. Except Caroline’s love wasn’t unconditional; it came with the expectation of her staying front and centre in her brother’s plans.
His non-appearance at the party was seen as a rejection – probably just the latest in a long line – and she’d over-reacted. When he wasn’t at his flat, she’d jumped the gun.
But now we knew Gavin Law hadn’t shown up for his interview, there were grounds to at least suspect Caroline’s initial conclusion had some substance. Maybe. I wasn’t convinced. Not yet. At this time of the year, Law could just be off on a bender.
My first phone call was to a contact at Glasgow Airport asking him to find out if Gavin Law had actually left the country. He said it would take a couple of days, and rang off. Next, I tried my luck with Andrew Geddes. His gruff voice growled down the line. ‘Charlie, what an unexpected bummer. What do you want?’
I feigned injury. ‘Can’t a pal just give a pal a call without being accused of having a motive?’
‘No, a pal can’t. So what do you want, pal?’
I filled him in on the background, knowing he was bound to be unimpressed. In his world missing people weren’t a priority. ‘And before you ask the usual question, no. At this moment, there’s still no evidence of a crime. Just a sudden disappearance that looks off.’
‘There’s your answer then. Anything else?’
Mr Awkward – the role he was born to play.
‘Has anyone reported it?’
‘The sister has. Nothing doing.’
Boredom and irritation met. ‘Get to the point, Charlie. What is it you want?’
‘Would you approach the hospital? Break through the red tape.’
‘In my capacity as a DS?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without any suspicion of a crime?’
‘Right.’
‘In other words, impersonate a police officer. Over-step the mark because you occasionally buy me a coffee?’
He was winding me up to amuse himself. ‘Got it on the screen in front of me. Car’s gone. Passport’s gone. And no sign of a struggle at his flat. Your man’s done a runner. Understandable in the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances?’
‘Didn’t the sister tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Her brother’s been suspended from work. An allegation’s been made against him.’
Andrew teased the information out; enjoying himself.
‘An allegation of what?’
‘Rape.’
I hid my surprise from him. ‘Are the police involved?’
‘Not yet. Might not happen. Ninety percent of sexual assaults aren’t reported. Often the victims don’t want the humiliation of a trial and let the attack go. Can’t say I blame them. Who’d want to re-live an experience like that with no guarantee of getting a conviction? So, no, we aren’t involved. Also, he withdrew money.’
‘He took cash? How much?’
‘Three grand from ATMs in the city – the first on Hogmanay – and another couple two days ago in London. Looks bad for him. Why bail on a successful career unless he knows it’s coming to an end? Must be desperate. Won’t get far on five grand.’
‘Will the police monitor his credit cards?’
‘Worry not. Good old Uncle Andrew will keep an eye on it.’
I could picture him at the other end of the line, shaking his head and smiling.
‘You certainly know how to pick them, Charlie.’
I put the phone down and called Caroline Law. She answered on the third ring. I didn’t bother with introductions. ‘You didn’t tell me Gavin was suspended.’
She didn’t reply.
‘I asked if he was in any kind of trouble. You said no. That was a lie?’
Caroline found her voice. ‘It wasn’t a lie. It’s nonsense. They’re trying to discredit him.’
‘Who?’
‘Francis Fallon.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Gavin and a colleague complained about one of the surgeons. Since then, their lives have been hell. They’ve already suspended the other guy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gavin didn’t say but he told me that whatever way it went, he was ruined. They’d make sure of it.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am serious. Reputation is everything to these people; they’ll go to any lengths to protect it.’
Her story wasn’t credible. Francis Fallon was a respected private hospital. She sensed my disbelief.
‘Gavin was going out with a nurse. Would she be involved with him if there was any truth in it?’
‘What’s her name?’
She thought about it. ‘Can’t remember. A foreign girl. India. Africa. Somewhere like that. Ask her. Ask her about him.’
‘Look, Caroline. He took money with him.’
‘For his trip. That was why he was going to America. He knew there was no future for him here.’
‘You’re forgetting; the interview didn’t happen. He didn’t show up. Does he know anyone in London?’
‘Why?’
‘Withdrawals were made down there?’
Every instinct told me to dump the case. She realised what I was thinking. ‘Does this mean you won’t try to find him? I know my brother. He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Then why is he missing, Caroline?’
‘That’s what I need you to find out.’
-------
She was waiting for me, and inside I caught her glance expectantly in my direction, willing me to seize immediately on some clue her untrained eyes had missed. Too much television.
The flat was typical Dowanhill. Large rooms, high ceilings with cornices, and an original fireplace in the lounge. Furniture was stylish – modern without being minimal – on top of parquet flooring. A Moroccan rug Law had probably rescued from the souk in Marrakech, and paid three times what it was worth, hung like an Old Master on a wall catching the eye, just as it was supposed to. The gleaming stainless steel kitchen continued the theme. All the appliances matched.
Seeing where somebody lived gave a sense of who they were, and for me, this was a show house rather than a home. Whoever stayed here was trying to impress.
‘When was Gavin’s cleaner last in?’
Caroline’s face fell as her notion of me as Sherlock Holmes faded. ‘Yesterday, I think.’
‘But definitely in the last week?’
A reluctant “yes.”
I went into the bedroom and opened a drawer. A folder, lying on its side, took up most of the space. I lifted it out and let the loose plastic sleeves run through my fingers: Bank of Scotland. Santander. MBNA.
Law’s sister supplied the background. ‘Gavin keeps his business affairs in it. Credit card statements and insurance policies. His passport was the first thing I looked for. When it wasn’t there I assumed he’d gone to his interview. Then I noticed he’d left his PC. Gavin would never do that.’
‘May I take it?’
‘If you want.’
Caroline Law was right; he hadn’t been here recently. I left her on the steps outside and drove to the office. Before we went our separate ways, she put her hand on my arm.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about the police. I was scared you wouldn’t want to help, and I was sure my brother didn’t assault anybody. You don’t know him; he’s not like that.’
I didn’t share her certainty. That didn’t make her wrong, but it did make her an unreliable witness.
-------
The computer taken from the flat didn’t have a password. It didn’t need one; there was nothing of interest on it. Mid-morning, my contact at Glasgow Airport called and what he said made me reconsider my opinion. Caroline Law was wrong about her brother.
‘Hasn’t left from here or any other UK port or airport, Charlie.’
‘What about the tunnel?’
‘Checked that as well. No record.’
Gavin Law was still in the country.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wallace Maitland slumped into the chair across from his brother-in-law. Hambley didn’t acknowledge his presence; he kept writing. Maitland spoke, his voice husky with fear. ‘Have the police been back?’
Hambley made his signature with a flourish at the bottom of the page and looked up. ‘They haven’t and they won’t unless somebody tells them what you did.’
Maitland maintained his innocence. ‘I didn’t do anything. How can you believe I did?’
Hambley’s tone was brittle. ‘Easy. You’re a functioning alcoholic who doesn’t function as well as you used to. Most of the time you don’t know what you’re doing. Law was right. You shouldn’t be operating. Take a holiday. I’ll find somebody to cover for you. That’s an order. By the end of today I want you off the premises.’
He lifted another letter from his in-tray and scanned it as if the conversation was over.
Maitland pleaded. ‘I don’t need a holiday.’
Hambley’s response was harsh. ‘Then take a handful of Xanax. But do it far away from Francis Fallon, will you? You’ve caused this hospital enough trouble.’
‘Look. Jimmy. I’m sorry for what’s happened but… you can’t seriously think I killed him.’
The director put the pen down. ‘You’re forgetting, Wallace, I was there. I saw you out of your head and covered in blood.’
He stood up and came round the desk. ‘Let’s be clear. Shona’s the only reason you still have a job. We both know you botched the op. And Gavin Law knew. That’s why he complained.’
‘It was a judgement call. How many times?’
Hambley towered over him. ‘Stop lying. You fucked up and caused a disaster – for the Coopers and for the hospital. I should’ve let you get what was coming to you instead of brushing it under the carpet. Law’s dead and you killed him!’
James Hambley lifted a quivering finger and pointed it at the other man. �
��Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll take extended leave. In a couple of months you’ll tender your resignation on doctor’s orders. Stress. In the meantime I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. Cleaning up your mess. Now, get out of my sight.’
At the door, Maitland turned. ‘What’ll I tell Shona?’
Hambley bared his teeth. ‘Tell her any bloody thing. I couldn’t care less.’
When Maitland had gone, Hambley sat down; he was shaking with anger. Wallace was a pathetic fool and always had been, but he couldn’t avoid responsibility for letting it get as bad as this. Unlike Law, Colin McMillan wasn’t present when Maitland bungled the operation and left Margaret Cooper a brain-damaged paraplegic. His letter questioned Wallace’s ability and cited instances of alleged incompetence. Those charges hadn’t been pursued because of the doubts that emerged over McMillan’s state of mind. In a matter of months his life had come apart and, in due course, it seemed likely Francis Fallon would terminate his contract on medical grounds.
To lose three surgeons in such a short space of time – whatever the reasons – didn’t reflect well on Hambley or the hospital. Eventually Law’s body would be recovered from wherever Wallace had hidden it. McMillan was unstable and Maitland was slowly unravelling; he had to go. Hambley was in the middle of a shit storm. Regrets wouldn’t help. All he could do was carry on.
The buzzer on his desk sounded. His PA said, ‘There’s somebody to see you, Mr Hambley. I’ve told him he needs an appointment but he insists.
‘Who is it?’
‘A Mr Cameron.’
Hambley didn’t recognise the name and was about to refuse to see him. The next words changed his mind.
‘He’s a private investigator.’
The director straightened his tie and pulled himself together.
‘Give me five minutes then send him in.’
-------
I’d assumed – wrongly as it turned out – getting to speak to Gavin Law’s boss would be difficult. The woman on reception was anything but the loyal Rottweiler I’d anticipated: mid-thirties, attractive and perfectly civil even when she told me it wouldn’t be possible to see the director without an appointment. Once upon a time a younger keener me had had cards printed: a thousand of them. There couldn’t be more than nine hundred and ninety-seven of them left.