by Owen Mullen
This wasn’t the result Rutherford wanted. He turned to Daly, already halfway through his latest drink and visible affected. ‘What about you, Tony? What do you think?’
Daly didn’t hesitate. Alcohol made him brave. ‘I’m with Lachie. Fuck Rafferty. Fuck him.’
Just as he’d predicted: buy one get one free. Rutherford pushed his chair back and stood. So be it. He pitied them. If they’d looked into the East End gangster’s eyes and seen what he had seen in them, they’d realise they were making a terrible mistake.
It was true. Sean Rafferty wasn’t like his father. He was worse. And he would kill them all.
-------
On the previous occasion, Sean Rafferty had been first to arrive at the car park in Elmbank Crescent. Not this time. Rutherford was already here. He got out of his car and walked towards the Audi without the usual confidence that had carried him from an apprentice in the shipyards to public office. He hadn’t slept and it showed in his face. Fear was a new experience for the councillor. But today he was afraid.
Rafferty watched as he came towards him and realised he wasn’t bringing good news. His hands balled into fists. His jaw tightened. He needed a result and he wasn’t going to get one. Rutherford opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
‘You look tired, Sandy. Bad night?’
‘You could say. I spoke to Thompso and Daly; they’re not interested.’
‘Really? Sorry to hear it.’
‘That stunt with Lachie’s granddaughter back-fired. He’s angry. Thinks you over-stretched the mark.’
‘Does he? What about you?’
Rutherford resisted the opportunity to criticise. Rafferty wouldn’t appreciate it. He chose his words carefully and avoided answering the question.
‘I can pull a fair number of votes together, though without the other two, not enough to guarantee a result. It needs to be just another decision nobody paid any attention to. Cut and dried. No opposition. No debate. Lachie can get controversial things through without a fuss.’
‘Better than you?’
‘Better than anybody. No surprise after thirty years on the council. People do what he says. Sorry, Sean. It’s not what you want to hear. I tried.’
Rafferty’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. ‘Okay. Leave it with me.’
Rutherford breathed a sigh of relief. He had expected the gangster to go crazy and was pleased to be getting off so lightly.
‘I’ll come back to you,’ Rafferty said.
‘When?’
‘Soon. Very soon.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Colin McMillan had given me a number to call and David Cooper was very keen to talk. I don’t know what I was expecting but seeing the reality of Margaret Cooper’s disability up close shocked me. The house the couple lived in was a bungalow in Knightswood, ironically not far from Francis Fallon. Cooper was standing in the doorway, waiting for me, wearing a wine cardigan over a light blue shirt and dark trousers. Heavy stubble covered his jaw and his hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in a while. As I came towards him I saw the strain he was under in the dark hollows of his eyes and the way his shoulders rounded. He stooped like an old man, bent beneath a burden that had fallen from a blue sky on a clear day and irrevocably changed his universe. I was witnessing the body language of the defeated.
He shook my hand and went inside. Before we got to the lounge he paused. ‘Margaret’s sleeping.’
The significance of the statement escaped me. ‘Is she in bed?’
‘No, she’s in her chair. She falls asleep. I usually try to get some rest at the same time. At first I wanted her to stay awake; it felt better. More hopeful, you know? As if it was still the two of us. Now I just let her sleep. At least she isn’t suffering.’
‘Is she in pain?’
‘Not physical pain, no. She cries a lot. We both do.’
I nodded as if I understood. I didn’t. ‘What happened to Margaret?’
‘When the operation went wrong Maitland tried to save the womb so we would still be able to have children. He failed. He couldn’t stop the bleeding and Margaret was deprived of oxygen for eight minutes. Our baby died – a boy; I called him Thomas – and Margaret was left with severe brain damage. The medical term is anoxic injury. Everything she does is affected. She can’t dress or feed herself. I have to do it. She has no control over her bodily functions. In almost every respect she’s a child. Except a child grows and learns. My wife won’t get any better.’
The operation had been in September. This was the end of January. These people had been given a life sentence and were serving it together.
‘What age is she?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘I’ll keep my voice down.’
‘No need.’ He paused again. ‘We can talk in the car if it’s a bit much for you. Although I don’t like to be too far away in case she wakes and needs me.’
His consideration was appreciated though, in the circumstances, impossible to accept.
‘Of course not. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Sure? If you change your mind…’
He opened the door. Cooper’s description of his wife and his offer to talk in the car should have prepared me for the tragedy on the other side. It didn’t.
Margaret Cooper sat in the centre of the room, wearing a blue plastic bib on top of her blouse. Her head hung to one side and her tongue lolled from her open mouth. The second finger of her left hand tapped a silent beat on the wheelchair’s metal frame – some involuntary muscle reflex perhaps – while her snoring filled the empty room like the sound of a muted trumpet. Thirty-four her husband had said. I would have put her at twice that and then some.
Cooper gave me a minute to come to terms with the scene in front of me. ‘We can sit in the kitchen if you like.’
I liked.
He made coffee while I perched on a stool, imagining the excited conversations they must’ve had about the arrival of their first-born, over breakfast in this room.
Before.
The coffee was barely drinkable; too little sugar and too much milk. And it couldn’t have mattered less. I began with where they were with their claim against Francis Fallon.
‘There was an enquiry, wasn’t there?’
Cooper laughed. ‘It concluded no one was to blame. So the bastard who performed the operation walked away scot-free. The director took me aside and told me to let him know if there was anything the hospital could do to help. Then left me to make my own way home.’
‘Did the surgeon speak to you after the operation?’
‘Not him. Mr Law took me aside and went through what had gone wrong. He brought Thomas to me. I held him in my arms; he was so tiny. Maitland didn’t appear until late on the following afternoon. He apologised and assured me he’d done everything in his power. Imagine it. The bastard apologised. How can you just apologise for taking away everything worthwhile?’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘At the time, of course. It didn’t occur to me he’d made a mistake. A hospital – well you trust them, don’t you? You just do.’
‘When did you realise?’
‘I think it was the day after. I started asking Maitland questions. Stupid questions about how long before Margaret improved. It must have been difficult for him knowing what he’d done and me, going on and on. Eventually he told me. This was it. “As good as it was going to get” was the phrase he used. Not in a cruel way. Just forceful enough to shake me out of my delusions. He succeeded.’
We’d both forgotten the coffee. Cooper remembered and took a sip from his cup. I left mine alone. Even if it had been the finest bean ever to come out of Colombia, I didn’t have the stomach for it.
‘And that’s when I knew.’
‘How?’
‘I’m not sure. Something in his eyes. In his voice, maybe. But I knew.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got hysterical. Shouting. Screaming. Two nurses calmed me d
own and he left. The hospital went through the motions, swept it under the carpet and we were sent home with Social Services buzzing around. Reeling. I still am.’
‘And you haven’t spoken to either Maitland or Law since?’
‘I haven’t. Our lawyer has. Alison Cummings. She contacted, Mr Law, and pleaded with him to testify against Maitland and Francis Fallon. He was there. He’d seen Maitland make the wrong decision.’
Cooper stared at the floor.
‘At first he said he couldn’t. It would be professional suicide for him. Later we heard he’d lodged a formal complaint. Then, before Christmas, he changed his mind and agreed to speak out if the hospital didn’t re-open our case. We were delighted. Alison came round with a bottle of champagne. I poured a tiny drop for Margaret and helped her drink it. And now he’s disappeared and we’re back to square one.’
Words couldn’t describe what these people were going through. Unfortunately, words were all I had. And promises that would probably turn out to be empty.
‘If I hear anything I’ll let you know.’
He half-nodded and I could see he was sinking.
I did my best to reassure him. ‘I will. I understand what’s at stake here. Can I have Alison’s phone number?’
He took a card from a drawer under the table and handed it to me. A whining noise came from the lounge. Cooper jumped to his feet. ‘She’s waking up.’
‘I better go.’
‘Yes. Yes. You should.’
On my way out I said, ‘Do you blame Law for not coming forward sooner?’
He wasn’t bitter. ‘I’m disappointed, though not surprised. Nobody really cares. They sympathise. Say the right things. Then they all go home, because at the end of the day, it isn’t happening to them. It’s happening to us.’
‘What about Francis Fallon?’
David Cooper was distracted, anxious to see to his wife, yet the answer came easily and I knew he’d considered it many times.
‘Those bastards. I’d burn their fucking hospital down and everybody in it. But who would look after, Margaret?’
CHAPTER TWENTY
I used the card David Cooper had given me and called Alison Cummings. She answered sounding young and serious. I told her who I was and what I wanted. ‘As you know, Mr Law has disappeared. His sister has hired me to find her brother. Can I ask when you last spoke to him?’
She didn’t bother to disguise her frustration and her disgust. ‘We met two days before Christmas. An earlier approach from me was turned down. Said he wanted to give the hospital a chance to respond to a complaint he’d made. They didn’t, and he made contact.’
‘So he offered to get involved?’
‘Yes. Just the best present I could’ve wished for. It meant the Coopers had someone credible to testify about what had gone wrong during Margaret’s surgery. Someone who knew what he was talking about.’
‘You must’ve been pleased.’
‘Over the moon. We celebrated. That was a mistake. I raised David’s hopes. Really, after my experiences with Francis Fallon, I ought to have been more cautious.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You thought you were on to a result.’
‘And we would’ve been if…’
‘…your star witness hadn’t gone missing.’
She sighed. ‘That was the thing. Mr Law offered us his support. Better late than never, but still.’
‘You only actually met him once?’
‘Yes. He seemed nice. Very anxious to help Margaret Cooper. I liked him. Then he spoiled it by asking me out.’
‘Why did that spoil it?’
‘I was wearing a wedding ring. But at least he was on our side.’
‘Did he say anything about the hospital?’
‘A lot. They’d had their chance to come clean and hadn’t taken it. It was up to us to see to it they did.’
‘“Us”? He actually said “us”?’
‘Absolutely. He was off to America after New Year. We were going to agree a statement when he came back. His exact words were “We’ll get them. We’ll get the bastards.” It was all so positive.’
Her voice changed.
‘You can understand why David Cooper is so crushed. Without Mr Law they’ll get nothing. Or, at the least, be tied up in litigation that’ll take years to resolve.’
I thanked her for being so forthcoming.
‘I hope you find him, Mr Cameron. Good people are depending on it.’
We ended the conversation on that note and I sat for a while, trying to make sense of what could have changed Gavin Law’s mind although I suspected I already knew.
Rape.
I was considering going home when Pat Logue breezed into the office like a man on fire, and right away I saw he was pleased with himself. He began with a question.
‘Ever dreamed about what you’d do if you won the lottery, Charlie?’
‘Haven’t given it too much thought, Patrick.’
He nodded as if he understood something that until then had passed him by.
‘Well, of course you haven’t. Never needed to. You’re from money. You see it differently. It’s just…there.’
He drew an arc in the air with his hand like a magician.
‘My side was skint three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Should’ve married a well-fixed burd with big tits. Instead, I married Gail.’
‘Good decision.’
‘No argument. And one out of two’s not bad. The point is her mob was even poorer than mine. Gail’s an orphan same as me. Her parents didn’t leave so much as a razoo. Not even enough to bury them. Fortunately they went within a couple of days of each other – did a deal with the undertaker.’
The pitiful sight of Margaret Cooper faded in my head. Patrick’s patter was doing its work; he was on form.
‘Treated me like one of the family from the off. Didn’t understand it. Still can’t. What had I ever done to them?’
I interrupted his act. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got a result on the hospital.’
He grinned. ‘When have I ever let you down, Charlie?’
I assumed it was a rhetorical question. He settled back to bask in his achievement.
‘First thing you need to know is, it wasn’t easy. Took hours to find where the porters drank. Tried the boozers nearest to the hospital. A dead loss. Not hard to understand why. Hole-in-the-wall joints. Piss poor beer. There’s a hotel. Gave that a go as well. Nada.’
He pointed an admonishing finger at me. ‘Hope you appreciate the sacrifice involved.’
Drinking and getting paid for it?
‘I may be many things, Charlie, but when it comes to beer, I’ve got standards. High standards.’
‘I’ve seen them, Patrick.’
He gave me a funny look and went on with his tale. ‘Finally tracked them down in a pub half a mile from Francis Fallon. To you and me these porter guys just wheel sick people around. So what? We don’t consider the responsibility involved. Drinking isn’t cool so they do their bevvyin’ a fair distance away.’
‘And what’s the story?’
He ran through the cast of characters on his fingers. ‘The director and Maitland aren’t popular though no surprise there; nobody likes the boss, do they? Present company excepted. Couldn’t get much at first. Dour bunch of bastards. Not the cheeriest people you’re ever goin’ to meet. Even after I bought a few pints they still weren’t sayin’. Eventually got pally with one of them. Probably an alki. Refused nothin’ but blows. Cost you a few bob, Charlie. Sorry. Worth it though.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Accordin’ to him, Maitland likes a drink. That makes him okay. The others thought he was an arrogant prick.’
‘And Gavin Law?’
‘Consensus is he’s a bit of a pussy hound, but they like that. Banged everything that moved, apparently.’
‘So the rape thing might be true?’
He shrugged. ‘Not mentioned, Charlie. Unusual in a gossip shop, alt
hough it could be the hospital’s managed to keep a lid on it. Sensitive stuff, after all.’
‘Yeah, but a member of staff’s been suspended on the strength of it, Patrick. Hard on the heels of another doctor. That can’t be the norm. There has to be more than the big boss not being on anybody’s Christmas card list and his arrogant brother-in-law too fond of a drink.’
‘Agree with you. Got a hollow ring to it. Two suspensions in as many months should have the jungle drums at it.’
‘So how come they aren’t? What’s the take on McMillan?’
‘Again, not much. Plenty of sympathy. Decent guy who’s had a rough time.’
‘And is off the operating list because he told somebody he was suicidal.’
Patrick stroked his chin. ‘Long faces when I asked about him. That said, no suggestions he wasn’t.’
I stood up and paced the floor. ‘Visited the Coopers this afternoon. You wouldn’t wish what’s happened to those people on your worst enemy. The wife – Margaret – she’s still breathing. About all you can say for her. Gavin Law was going to testify for them against Maitland and the hospital. Without him they’ll get nothing.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
For the moment, I wasn’t sure.
‘It all comes back to the hospital. The common factor linking Law and McMillan is Maitland. We need more.’
Patrick threw a piece of paper on the desk. On it, scribbled in pencil, was an address and a phone number.
‘Wallace Maitland’s?’
‘The very same.’
‘Good stuff, Patrick.’
He clapped his hands together and got to his feet. ‘Now, where’s this Eskimo woman you want me to wrestle?’
-------
Wallace Maitland crossed the road at St Enoch’s Square and made his way past House of Fraser at the bottom of Buchanan Street. An hour earlier he’d left Blackfriars pub in Merchant City – the last customer – where he’d spent most of the evening. For a change he was relatively sober. The steak and ale pie he’d eaten helped and anyway, he hadn’t been in the mood. Glasgow wasn’t short of watering holes but sitting at a bar wasn’t the fun it had been.
Jimmy Hambley was right; his drinking was out of control and that worried him. A lot of things worried him: losing his wife; the end of his career; the nagging fear he might be a murderer. And, above all, getting found out.