Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

  The rape allegation against Gavin Law gave weight to the idea he had run off rather than face the consequences of his actions. And given his history with women, confirmed by the Malawian nurse, the lawyer representing Mr and Mrs Cooper, and the porters at Francis Fallon Patrick had spent my money on, it was an obvious conclusion to come to. Even Caroline Law’s partner had suggested Gavin was a bit of a lad. My client – the sister who idolised him – was the exception.

  Whoever was behind the accusation was still unknown. The hospital, in its own interests, was determined to keep it like that and avoid the publicity a charge of sexual misconduct would bring. So far they were in luck; the police weren’t involved. Without Law it might never go any further.

  But it didn’t feel right.

  The fundamental question of motive remained. Who stood to gain from Gavin Law’s disappearance? On that score, Francis Fallon was out in front, followed by Maitland. I needed to speak to him.

  The number Pat Logue had given me rang out until a wary male voice answered with a question. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Wallace Maitland? My name is Charlie Cameron. I’m working for Caroline Law. I would…’

  The clipped tone told me his response had been considered long before I called.

  ‘I have absolutely nothing to say.’

  He hung-up. I tried again and got no reply. Clearly, the obstetrician didn’t want to discuss anything with me. Patrick was downstairs on his usual seat. A guy behind the bar I didn’t recognise pushed a pint across. Patrick grinned his appreciation.

  ‘Barman is an unsung profession, Charlie. To the untrained eye it looks easy. People don’t understand. It takes skill; instinct and anticipation.’

  He pointed to his drink.

  ‘See this. Didn’t even ask for it. He knew. He just…knew. Can’t teach that. It’s a gift. This man’s a natural. Know what I’m talkin’?’

  He was laying the groundwork for drinking on the slate.

  ‘Where’s, Jackie?’

  ‘Not doin’ so well. Called in sick. Lucky Tom’s on the bench. Super-sub.’

  ‘Maitland doesn’t want to talk. Find out where he goes. Look for somewhere I can corner him. And I don’t expect it to take three days.’

  He downed the pint in one and wiped froth from his lips. ‘Stand on me, Charlie.’

  -------

  As countries go, Scotland was small: drivable. Where I was headed wasn’t far, but it was a world away from Glasgow.

  On the other side of Biggar the road followed the valley floor between rolling hills covered, in parts, with forests of fir trees and the occasional white blur of a farm cottage on the distant slopes. A fast-flowing stream, bubbling over rocks, raced to join the River Tweed and unfamiliar names like Romanno Bridge and Dolphinton came and went. So did the rain, sometimes so hard the windscreen wipers couldn’t cope and I had to pull in until it eased off.

  I stopped to enjoy a long disused water mill at Blythe Bridge, then carried on, until the crumbling stones of Neidpath Castle told me I hadn’t far to go.

  In Peebles, I parked on Tweed Green and got out of the car. A chill wind made me catch my breath and drew my attention to a group of volunteers piling sandbags along the bank to prevent the river from over-flowing into the row of cottages facing it. The Tweed was running high. Above the men, dark clouds said their work might be in vain.

  McMillan had suggested we meet in the Cross Keys in Northgate – wherever that was – despite the weather, plenty of people were about. Two women, hurrying to get home, told me to take a left at the end of High Street. The hotel, they assured me, was easy to find.

  When I got there, a bearded man poured the coffee I asked for while I read the history of the inn framed on the walls. The Cross Keys was built in 1693, and it had a ghost.

  Behind me a deep male voice said, ‘Meg Dodds.’

  I turned to face whoever had spoken and found a tall man unbuttoning the camel coat he was wearing; the kind you probably bought once in your life. I was willing to bet the label on the inside would say Gieves and Hawkes, or Crombie. When it was new, it would’ve been a fine garment. Now it was scuffed at the arms and the map on the collar ran in different directions. Like its owner, it had known better days. A flash of blue silk lining caught the light and was gone.

  He gave a lop-sided grin. ‘Our ghost. Sir Walter Scott used to drink in this very pub and modelled Meg Dodds – one of his characters – on the landlady, Marion Ritchie. Marion is supposed to have died in mysterious circumstances in the Cross Keys and appears now and again, on cue, to scare the tourists. My mother worked here as a cleaner in the mid-seventies. She saw her many times and had lots of stories about Meg.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. One morning, a chambermaid asked about the queer old biddy on the stairs, muttering to herself and rattling a bunch of keys. The poor girl fainted when she told her there wasn’t anybody else in the hotel. Apparently, if Meg took against you, you were in trouble, but if she liked you, she could be very kind. Back then, furniture being moved around in the middle of the night was common. Nowadays, her speciality is electrical appliances. Turns them on and off, so they say.’

  ‘Interesting. Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘My mother certainly did.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He glanced away and didn’t reply.

  I held out my hand and introduced myself. ‘Charlie Cameron. Colin McMillan?’

  ‘Good guess. What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘I’ve got one coming. What would you like?’

  ‘A large Glenfarclas, if you don’t mind?’

  It was half past twelve in the afternoon. We hadn’t exchanged much more than a couple of dozen words and already he’d told me something. McMillan was a drinker.

  He pointed to a table in the original building and we sat down. A waitress brought my coffee and I ordered for him. He called her back to ask for water and I got a look at him. He was tall, at least six feet. Striding through Francis Fallon on his way to theatre, he would have been an imposing presence. Most of his hair had gone. What was left was going grey. His skin was smooth and unlined. The traumas of his wife’s death and losing his livelihood weren’t visible. He seemed relaxed.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. A large one at this time?’

  I lied. ‘Not at all. Depends on the mood, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more.’

  So what was his mood today?

  He began, as strangers do, with small talk. ‘How were the roads?’

  ‘No problem. As long as you aren’t in too much of a hurry.’

  The waitress brought his water. He poured a little into his drink with his left hand, measuring the amount with his eyes. I waited. He was right to not want to spoil a great whisky. Finally he said, ‘All right. How can I help you?’

  ‘When we spoke on the phone, I told you Gavin Law had gone missing and his sister has hired me to find him.’

  ‘I understood he was in the states.’

  ‘That was the plan but he didn’t get there.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I suppose that must’ve been when I went back to work.’

  ‘After your wife’s funeral?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be, what? Two months?’

  ‘More like ten weeks.’

  ‘Did you discuss Wallace Maitland with him?’

  ‘We didn’t discuss anything, as I recall.’

  ‘Though you knew he’d lodged a letter of complaint. The day after you returned to Francis Fallon you did the same. I assumed you’d talked about it.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t a joint thing. I’d been on the point of reporting Maitland more than once. With Joyce dying everything got pushed to the side. My best memory is we only ever spoke twice on the phone. He called me when I was suspended to say how sorry he was.’

  ‘Had you given him your number?’
<
br />   ‘No. He must’ve got it from somebody at the hospital. I told him to watch his back. But we weren’t in it together; you mustn’t think that.’

  ‘Was it just coincidence that you complained about the same colleague at the same time?’

  ‘Well, coincidence isn’t the word I’d use. Maitland isn’t competent. It’s as simple as that. We acted as concerned professionals.’

  ‘Independently.’

  The suggestion annoyed him. ‘Yes. Independently.’

  McMillan lifted his whisky; some of it spilled. What I knew about being a surgeon wasn’t worth knowing though I guessed a steady hand was important.

  ‘When was the second conversation?’

  ‘New Year’s Eve.’

  He caught my surprise.

  ‘He phoned me.’

  ‘At what time?’

  The surgeon thought about his answer. ‘Eight. Eight-thirty. Something like that?’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was angry. More than angry. Outraged would be a better description. He’d seen what they’d done to me and still believed he could take them on.’

  ‘Brave.’

  McMillan disagreed. ‘Not brave. Foolish. He was never going to win. But the rape allegation made him realise what he was up against.’

  ‘Law told you about that?’

  ‘It was why he called.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  McMillan shrugged. ‘Shock at first. Then again, I knew from my own experience these people will stop at nothing.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘James Hambley and Wallace Maitland.’

  ‘What did you tell Law?’

  McMillan lifted his whisky with his left hand, took a sip and put the glass on the table. ‘Don’t be their enemy. I told him to withdraw his complaint and get a new job. He said it was too late to withdraw because the suspension letter had already been sent out and, anyway, he had an interview lined-up. In America.’

  I was sceptical. ‘You know, as an outsider looking in it’s difficult to believe Francis Fallon would go to these lengths to protect itself.’

  He sat up straight. I’d touched a nerve. ‘Really? Listen to me. I’ve seen this from the inside. When I complained I went up against them. The very next day they find somebody prepared to swear I told them I was suicidal, and suspend me. What does that look like to you?’

  ‘You’re saying they framed you?’

  McMillan tried to be patient and didn’t succeed. Resentment got the better of him. ‘Framed me? They finished me. Do you imagine hospitals will be queuing up to hire a man with a question mark over his emotional stability? They bloody well won’t.’

  ‘You’re fighting this, of course?’

  He played with his glass. ‘The hearing’s on Thursday. I’m challenging it but I don’t kid myself. I’ll lose.’

  ‘Why so certain?’

  McMillan threw the last of the whisky over and wiped his mouth. ‘My wife committed suicide. Naturally I was depressed. Still am. They’re using that to imply I’m unstable. Unfit to be operating.’

  ‘What proof do they have?’

  ‘An anaesthetist claims I admitted I wanted to take my own life.’

  He let what he’d told me sink in.

  ‘They’re investigating it. Doesn’t matter. The outcome is irrelevant. Mud sticks. They discredit you and they win. And that’s what I said to Law.’

  ‘I assume you agree with him about Margaret Cooper?’

  McMillan glanced towards the bar. ‘I had nothing to do with the case though I know what happened. Maitland’s first duty was to save his patient. He ignored that and she ended up…the way she ended up. Law knew Maitland had got it wrong and reported him. In the normal scheme of things their little enquiry ought to have been the end of it. Except Law wouldn’t let it go.’

  McMillan shook his head.

  ‘Knowing what they’d done to me, that was a mistake.’

  ‘You reckon they’ve pulled the same trick twice, only with him it was a rape allegation?’

  He signalled to the waitress for another round. ‘They used Joyce’s death to smear me. With him…’

  He hesitated and changed tack.

  ‘You have to understand how Francis Fallon works. Hambley thinks he’s on his way to a knighthood and he’s probably right. He won’t allow anybody to put that in jeopardy. If it means destroying a career or two, so be it. Wallace Maitland is his brother-in-law. Unfortunately, though he’s been able to climb the greasy pole, hard choices are beyond him, which means, as a surgeon, he isn’t very good. Margaret Cooper was a tough call and he blew it.’

  McMillan had avoided answering my question. I gave him a second chance. ‘They used your wife against you, so they’re clever. But with him, why rape?’

  Before he could reply the drinks arrived. We sat in silence while the waitress set them on the table. McMillan thanked her and faced me. ‘As an obstetrician, Law was pretty fair. There wasn’t much they could attack him on professionally. His character was something else.’

  ‘His character?’

  ‘If you ask around the hospital I think you’ll find plenty of nurses willing to talk about him. I’m sure his sister is a very nice person but I’m told her brother wasn’t. No doubt Hambley had heard the rumours and came up with the rape allegation.’

  ‘Another trumped-up charge?’

  McMillan went into the ritual with the water again. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he said, ‘There’s Hambley and Maitland, and there’s Law and me. The only one I can definitely vouch for is me.’

  His face was flushed. Anger or alcohol, I wasn’t sure. May be both. Either way, the meeting was over. McMillan finished his whisky, put money on the table and stood. I hadn’t touched my coffee. He didn’t notice.

  ‘Where are you parked?’

  ‘I’m by the river.’

  Outside on Northgate, he closed his coat around him and we started walking down Main Street. For the moment, the rain had settled to a steady drizzle. We didn’t speak until we reached the green and McMillan made a stab at being the charming man who had educated me about ghosts.

  He shook my hand. ‘Drive carefully.’

  ‘I intend to. Thanks for talking to me.’

  He walked away. After a few steps he turned. Rainwater ran down his cheeks and off the end of his nose. His nice coat might never recover.

  ‘The day they suspended me, I knew I was beaten. Officially, I still have a job, but Joyce killed herself and somebody is going to swear under oath on a stack of bibles I admitted I was thinking about doing the same.’

  Unhappiness rolled off him. I saw it as clearly as his mother had seen Meg Dodds. Old ghost stories and large whiskies in the middle of the day hid the pain. For a while. But he was a broken man and I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling.

  ‘There’s another possibility we haven’t discussed. One you might need to consider.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If Gavin Law has disappeared just when David and Margaret Cooper need him, maybe it’s because he’s guilty.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Across Glasgow, DS Geddes stood on the pavement at the bottom of High Street, outside the city mortuary, waiting for Constable Lawson to bring Anthony Daly’s sister to identify his body. To his left, the blue face and gold hands of the Tron clock told him it was ten minutes to three in the afternoon. The horrific scene at the bridge felt weeks rather than hours ago. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over.

  Lawson had stayed with Cissie and performed well. Being near somebody who had lost a loved one was difficult but Geddes’ cautionary words to the young policewoman had found their mark. The world could be an ugly place where people did terrible things to other people and to themselves. Learning to detach wasn’t just a question of being professional; it was essential if you were going to survive in the job. On the phone, the officer calmly reported the early stages of grief and agree
d to meet the DS at three. Geddes was impressed. Lawson was going to be all right.

  In the car, Cissie Daly looked out at Glasgow and saw nothing. She’d stopped crying and sat silently playing with her fingers. The police car turned left at the cathedral, headed down the hill and stopped at the lights on Duke Street. Cissie Daly did her thinking out loud.

  ‘I’ll have to give his season ticket away.’

  She turned to the constable.

  ‘Do you ever watch football?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Don’t you have brothers?’

  ‘No. Just sisters.’ Lawson had two brothers; both Rangers supporters.

  ‘So it wouldn’t be any use to you?’

  In the circumstances, it was a silly conversation to be having. Cissie was trying to make sense of life without Tony. At the mortuary, the constable helped her out and Geddes joined them.

  ‘Sorry to ask you to do this today. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Has to be. Better to get it over with.’

  DS Geddes had been to the city mortuary more times than he cared to remember. It wasn’t the way they showed it on television. Nobody would be drawing back a white sheet to reveal the deceased. The viewing room was small, a few chairs in front of a screen set into the wall. Cissie Daly stood between the officers as it flickered and filled with her dead brother’s face. Cissie tensed. For a moment she swayed. The constable laid a steadying hand on her emaciated arm.

  ‘That’s him. That’s Tony.’

  Geddes led them back to the car. ‘Are you up to giving us a statement, Miss Daly?’

  Cissie was confused. ‘A statement? What about?’

  ‘It would help us piece together your brother’s movements prior to his death.’

  She hesitated. ‘I suppose so. If you think it’s necessary.’

  ‘We could go to the station and do it just now. Get you a nice cup of tea.’

  Why did everybody keep giving her tea? She wanted to be left alone to come to terms with the fact that Tony wouldn’t be coming home. And to search for the missing Buckfast. Lawson took her to an interview room and waited for the DS to arrive. Geddes began by establishing the background of their relationship before moving on to how the dead man had appeared recently.