by Owen Mullen
Wrong.
‘Not well. Good neighbours. Wish there were more like them. Quiet. Tended to keep themselves to themselves. Didn’t see them together much. Spoke to her the odd time but never him. Terrible how she ended up. He hasn’t been here more than two or three times since. Can’t say I blame him. Poor man.’
Sympathy but no facts.
She pointed back the way I’d come. ‘Doreen Walters, two doors down, was on better terms with them. Think she has a key. I’d ask her.’
Doreen must have been doing her own share of hiding behind the curtains because she was waiting for me. Her hair was grey though she wasn’t old, and from her expression, she was far from sure about me. I guessed she’d heard me knocking and decided to leave me to it. The vibe coming off her was low-level hostile. Odd, considering I hadn’t opened my mouth. For some reason, strangers weren’t welcome in this part of the city. Or maybe it was just me.
‘I’m trying to contact Mr McMillan. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in. Do you know when he’ll be at home?’
She gave me the look I’d already had from the first woman and decided not to trust me. ‘He isn’t there, now.’
‘So where is he?’
She drew up short of answering and repeated what I guessed was going to be her stock reply. At least as far as I was concerned. ‘He isn’t at home.’
‘Yes, but where is he? It’s important I speak to him.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help. Who are you anyway? Aren’t from the newspapers, are you?’
‘No. I’m a private investigator. The doctor may have information that could help a client of mine. It isn’t about him. He isn’t directly involved. The woman across the road says you have a key to the house, so I assume you know where he is.’
She wasn’t having it. She shook her head. ‘Doctor McMillan is one of the nicest men you could meet. What’s happened to him…it’s so sad.’
I didn’t disagree.
‘Surely you have a contact number? Would you call and let me speak to him? It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.’
She bit her bottom lip and thought about it. ‘You’re definitely not from the papers? He doesn’t need any more upset.’
‘I’m not, and I promise I won’t upset him. I just have some questions.’
‘Okay. Wait there.’
Scots pride themselves on their hospitality. Keeping me standing at the door in the rain showed it didn’t always apply. I heard snatches of a one-sided conversation about me then Doreen returned for clarification.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Cameron. Charlie Cameron. As I said, I’m a private investigator looking for somebody. Mr McMillan may be able to help.’
She disappeared again and came back with good news – although her face didn’t think so. ‘He’ll speak to you.’ She handed me the telephone.
I chose my words carefully. ‘Mr McMillan. Hello. I’m Charlie Cameron.’
The voice at the other end was strong and assured. ‘So I’m told. A private investigator.’
‘That’s right. A colleague of yours is missing.’
‘Who?’
‘Gavin Law.’
‘Really. I’m sorry to hear it. How can I help?’
‘I want to talk to you about him. Would that be possible?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At my mother’s house in Peebles. Had to get out of the city. It’s peaceful down here. Much better than Glasgow.’
‘I understand. When can we get together?’
‘Anytime you like. I’m not exactly rushed off my feet. Bit of a long drive for you, I’m afraid. Not sure what I can tell you. Wouldn’t want to waste your time.’
‘That isn’t a problem. How would next Tuesday suit?’
‘Tuesday’s fine. One o’clock in the Cross Keys hotel. Do you know Peebles?’
I told him I didn’t.
‘It’s in Northgate. Anybody will give you directions.’
‘All right. See you at one.’
Before he could hang up, I said, ‘You and Law complained about a colleague. What case was that?’
‘That was Law. Complications arose during an operation where he assisted. A woman called Margaret Cooper was left with brain damage. Law wasn’t happy about the procedures adopted and put in a formal complaint against the obstetrician in charge. I wasn’t involved.’
‘It would be helpful to speak to them. Any idea where they live?’
‘No, I don’t. But give me your mobile number. I still have some contacts at the hospital. Call you back in ten minutes.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A line of black taxis were parked on Gordon Street, opposite the main entrance to Central Station. Lachie Thompson walked to the first and got in. The driver edged away from the kerb into the traffic. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Where to?’
‘Charing Cross.’
‘Charing Cross, it is.’
They drove up Hope Street and stopped at the lights. Thompson loosened his tie and gazed out of the window, his face set hard; angrier than he’d ever been in his life. Almost as angry as Joan when he’d told her to pack a suitcase and be ready to go in twenty minutes. Her reaction had been predictable.
‘You want me to leave my own home?’
‘It’s a precaution.’
‘Against this Sean character?’
Thompson hadn’t answered; he didn’t want to explain. ‘You’ll be safer in Warrington with your aunt Agnes. Annie will be safer. Look on it as a wee holiday.’
In the station, Joan stopped under the faded black and white clock suspended from the roof and faced him. She kept her voice low so Annie wouldn’t hear.
‘When this is over, I never want to see you again. You don’t have a family. You don’t deserve one.’
‘Joan…’
‘Your bloody politics killed Mum. She died of loneliness and you were too busy to notice. I’ve come second to your precious Labour Party all my life, and here we are again. I don’t understand what you’re involved in and I don’t want to, but this is the end.’
She spat the words from between clenched teeth.
‘I never want to see you again. You’re out of our lives. I hate you.’
Thompson didn’t try to reason with her. Whether she believed him, what he was doing was in their best interests. This thing would be settled – he would make sure of it – and they would pick up from where they had been before an East End gangster over-stepped the mark. Joan would come round. In time.
He watched them board the train. Annie waved. He waved back then walked towards the main entrance with his daughter’s rebuke ringing in his ears. And it was true; he had neglected them and he regretted it. Too late to change any of it. But not too late to save them from Sean Rafferty.
Lachie Thompson was married with a daughter and already set on the course he would follow for the next three decades the day the stranger had crossed his path.
At first glance, Jimmy Rafferty was just another hard man in a city full of hard men. His request – although it had never been a request – was for Thompson to have a word with the Licensing Board about a shop he was thinking of buying and turning into a pub – looking for a guarantee before any funds were committed. The councillor refused and forgot about the meeting until six weeks later when Rafferty returned. Their meeting was short. Jimmy did most of the talking, and at the end, Thompson had taken the first step down the long dark road he’d been on ever since.
Travelling along Bath Street, he remembered nervously weighing the envelope from Rafferty in his hand. The first of many.
Thicker envelopes. Heavier envelopes. Tenners became twenties, then hundreds. Now thousands.
The driver said, ‘This do?’ and pulled in at the King’s Theatre. Thompson got out. On either side of the main door, billboards advertised the final weeks of Aladdin. A pang of guilt dug into him. He was supposed to take Annie to the pantomime – another broken promise to add to the
list.
Further down the street, a wild-eyed beggar huddled under a shabby blanket next to a half-empty bottle of Buckfast wine. Thin fingers ingrained with dirt gripped a piece of cardboard with HUNGRY AND HOMELESS scrawled in red crayon, while on the wall behind him a woman in a bathing costume caught a brightly coloured ball on a Florida beach. The beggar lifted a plastic cup with two or three copper coins in the bottom, and held it up. Thompson, preoccupied, turned left towards his destination without giving him a second glance.
Inside Baby Grand, Tony Daly was on a stool at the bar, thumbing through a holiday brochure. Daly was in his fifties, unmarried and living with his sister. The councillors had known each other since he was first elected: a lot of years. Although never a star, he’d been a moderate voice that many found persuasive, and more than once a rebellion had been avoided because of his ability to find common ground between warring factions. Daly still had his supporters but his influence was on the wane. He was in the grip of alcoholism and spinning out of control. A recent meeting of the full council had been brought to an end prematurely because of his disruptive behaviour. He’d been drunk then and he was well on the way now.
Daly greeted his colleague with alcohol-driven enthusiasm. ‘Lachie! It’s yourself!’
Thompson shot disapproval at the glass at Daly’s elbow and back to the drinker.
‘Started early, haven’t you?’
The criticism bounced off. ‘Just a jag. No harm done.’
Thompson pointed to the brochure. ‘Going somewhere?’
‘Maybe. It’s Cissie’s birthday. Thought I might surprise her.’
‘Then show up sober.’
Daly was beyond recognising a rebuke and ploughed on in expansive mood. ‘Give my friend whatever he wants. On me.’ He tugged Thompson’s sleeve. ‘This. This is a great man.’
The barmaid hid her discomfort with a smile.
Thomson said, ‘Coffee. Black’ and took a table in the window. Daly joined him.
‘So, Lachie? What’re we doing at the other end of the town?’
Thompson studied the flaking skin and purple veins in his colleague’s face. In the last couple of years he had aged. The shirt he was wearing was grubby and frayed at the cuffs and a sprinkle of dandruff lay on his coat collar. No doubt his sister tried, but the man wasn’t looking after himself and it showed. If you needed to depend on somebody, it wouldn’t be him.
‘What happened to you, Tony? What happened, eh?’
Daly was taken aback. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing happened. What do you mean?’
‘I mean, when exactly did you become an arsehole? Did it just arrive or is it something you worked on? Because that’s what you are.’
‘Hold on, Lachie…’
Thompson swept the glass off the table with his hand. It smashed against the wall. Rum ran in dark lines to the floor and for a second, conversation in the café/bar stopped.
‘No, you hold on! You were a man worth listening to, once upon a time. Now you’re a fucking waste of space. And if I didn’t need to be talking to you I wouldn’t see you in my road.’
The outburst startled Daly. He stared at Thompson and tried to understand what was going on. A girl appeared with a brush and shovel and swept up the shards. He mumbled an apology and offered a weak smile. His everybody’s-pal-Jack-the-Lad act had come from a bottle and evaporated as quickly as the booze.
The barmaid said, ‘Another rum?’
Thompson answered for him. ‘No. He wants a black coffee, same as me. Preferably sometime today, if that’s possible.’
Tony Daly realised Thompson was close to losing it. Not like him. Usually Lachie was a cool head. A strong character only Sandy Rutherford was able to stand up to. Between them they’d held the SNP at bay while other Labour councils the length and breadth of the country lost control in the rise of nationalism. Daly wasn’t a match for his colleagues and didn’t try to be. They were giants; the rest of the council – and he included himself – were pygmies. But giants weren’t for everybody. He represented an alternative to Thompson and Rutherford. Given that, Lachie should be showing him more respect. He’d had a couple. So what? He was an elected member of Glasgow City Council and Thompson wasn’t his boss, even if he thought he was.
Daly signalled to the barmaid.
‘I’ll take that rum whenever you’ve got a minute.’
Thompson was on the point of given him a mouthful when the door opened and Rutherford came in. He spoke to the barmaid. ‘Just water, please.’
‘Ice?’
‘In this weather? You’ve got to be kidding.’
He brought a chair from another table and sat. Thompson let him settle before he got to the purpose of the meeting. The lunchtime crowd was arriving and Baby Grand was filling up. He lowered his voice. ‘When Jimmy Rafferty died we agreed we wouldn’t have anything else to do with the family, no matter who took over.’
Daly said, ‘Sean’s reckoned to be a different kettle of fish, maybe…’
Thompson cut across him and spoke to Rutherford. ‘You were supposed to get him to back off.’
Rutherford waited while the waitress placed two black coffees, a rum and a glass of water with ice on the table. The councillor stuck his fingers in the glass, took out the cubes and put them in the ashtray. ‘Nobody listens anymore.’
Thompson bit back his irritation.
Rutherford wiped his hand on a napkin. ‘It’s too late for that. The people he represents have already bought three-quarters of the land they intend to build on. They’ve invested millions. The last piece – the piece they need and don’t have – is crucial to the project; a green belt backing on to the Clyde. It’s owned by the city. Selling it will be strongly opposed. Even if they had the land, planning permission will be a nightmare. Without help, the project is dead in the water.’
Thompson was unsympathetic. ‘Then they shouldn’t have spent their money until they were sure.’
‘Rafferty thought he could pull it off. Still does.’
‘Well, he thought wrong.’
‘Sean isn’t his father, Lachie. We can work with him. At the end of the day, he’s a Rafferty. We all understand what that means. But we don’t have to marry him. Personalities aren’t the issue. We’re talking about a high-profile development that will bring a helluva lot of jobs to the city. Good for tourism and good for Glasgow, so why wouldn’t we give it a push?’
Anger coloured Thompson’s face; how quickly Rutherford forgot. ‘Jimmy was a monkey on our backs. When he died we breathed a sigh of relief and swore we’d have nothing to do with whoever came after him because the whole family’s poison.’
Rutherford was quick to disagree. ‘In the past, maybe. Sure. Not now. Rafferty’s getting out of the dodgy stuff and into legitimate business ventures. Like Riverside.’
Daly said, ‘I can think of plenty who won’t vote for it if a Rafferty’s involved.’
Rutherford shot him a look. His input wasn’t welcome. ‘He’s a sleeping partner. A bit like yourself, Tony.’
Putting Daly in his place was easy. Lachie was going to be harder to convince.
‘Listen, Jimmy was a monster. And Kevin should’ve been in Carstairs. Absolutely. No argument. But Sean’s on a different page. I spoke to him at his house on Hogmanay. He says he wants to put the bad old days behind him and go forward. I believe him.’
Thompson let Rutherford make the case, then spoke quietly. ‘He threatened my family.’
After his last conversation with Rafferty, Rutherford expected something from him, but not this. This was too much. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday. Somebody at the school gates told Annie to give me a message.’
‘What message?’
“Sean says hello.” Daly was visibly stunned. He lifted his glass and emptied it.
Thompson kept his eyes on Rutherford. ‘So much for putting the bad old days behind him, eh, Sandy? Bastard’s trying to intimidate me. Me! And you’re standing up for
him.’
Rutherford shook his head. ‘As I said, he’s a Rafferty.’
Thompson poked him in the chest. ‘So no matter what he’s told you. No matter what you ‘believe’. He isn’t any different from his father. He’s just the same. And Jimmy’s son’s coming for us where we live.’
Peddling the argument that Sean Rafferty was a reasonable man wasn’t going to work. Lachie was incensed, and who could blame him?
‘It isn’t how we want it, no denying. Sean was always the sane voice. Violence wasn’t how he dealt with things. He’s a family man now. He wants a peaceful life.’
Daly called to the girl behind the bar for another rum and said what they were all thinking. ‘In that case, he’s changed, Sandy. Using Lachie’s granddaughter is well out of order. Even Jimmy didn’t go after kids. How can we trust him?’
Thompson answered the question. ‘We can’t. That’s why we don’t get involved. It won’t end well. It didn’t before.’
Rutherford imagined having to tell Sean Rafferty they weren’t prepared to co-operate. Not something to look forward to. He toyed with his water glass and tried to salvage a solution.
‘I understand how you feel. I feel the same. Except – and let’s be realistic – this is going ahead, one way or the other. The people behind it are powerful. They expect a return on their investment. They’ll get the land they need and planning permission, with or without us.’
‘So you’re saying…what, Sandy?’
Rutherford sighed. ‘We go along or get left behind. There isn’t a third option.’
‘Yes there is. Crush Rafferty before he even gets started by opposing this development with everything we have. Give it to somebody already on the regeneration project.’
Rutherford bit the inside of his mouth. ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Lachie. Not wise at all.’
Thompson pressed his lips into a smile. ‘Maybe not. But it’s what I’m going to do. I don’t work with people who would harm my family. When you speak to Rafferty, tell him that.’