by Owen Mullen
‘Want to nip it in the bud before it gets a hold. Thought I could talk to you…you know…maybe…compare things.’
‘Whatever else, that won’t be happening. If there really is a problem, my advice is to discuss this with somebody who understands. No need to be embarrassed. Sexual difficulties are common.’
‘What will I say?’
‘Explain what’s going on. Describe the symptoms.’
He was brightening. ‘Just say it?’
‘Right.’
‘In my own words.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Reptile dysfunction.’
-------
Apart from mail on the mat inside the door, Gavin Law’s flat hadn’t changed. Based on the stale smell, nobody had been here. I opened a window to let air in and stood in the middle of the lounge, studying, for the second time, where Caroline’s brother lived. On my previous visit the décor had struck as a deliberate attempt to impress. Laid-back and up-market. The kind of place young women might find appealing and, from what I’d heard, there had been plenty of those.
I wandered through the empty rooms, opening drawers and looking in cupboards, discovering nothing. Wasting energy on a dead end so I could tell Caroline Law I’d tried. Great detective work, it wasn’t.
Ten minutes later, I was back on the street and heading to my car. It hadn’t been a complete bust. The mail included two letters from British Telecom: phone bills. When Law left he’d taken his mobile, and although he wasn’t answering now I was about to find out who he had spoken to in the hours before he dropped out of sight.
Pat Logue was halfway through a pint and gave a doleful nod when he saw me. Given his problem, I could have suggested he kicked the booze on the head for a while to see if it made a difference to his “reptile dysfunction.” Somehow that little experiment hadn’t occurred to him. Too radical.
In the office, I put Gavin Law’s mail on the desk and took another look. There were three circulars from charities, an electricity bill, two from BT and a card with a nativity scene and South African stamps from somebody called Sonia that hadn’t made it in time for Christmas.
I’d pass them on to his sister but not before I checked out the phone bills. The landline was unused – no calls had been made from it – the mobile was another story: a lot of calls though only to the middle of December. No bloody good. I buzzed the bar and asked Patrick to come up.
‘Something to take your mind of things.’ I passed the BT bills to him. ‘We can forget the landline. It’s the mobile traffic I’m interested in. Get me a record of every call between then and now.’
‘Doesn’t your pal normally do this for you?’
He meant Andrew Geddes.
‘Andrew isn’t in a good place right now. Better not to ask him for anything. You can handle it, can’t you?’
‘’Course. Just wondered why you were coming to me.’
On his way out I said, ‘And don’t worry about that other thing.’
‘Which other thing? Oh, you mean the horizontal hokey-cokey? All good things come to an end.’
‘Doesn’t have to be like that. Had an idea.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Cut back the drinking. Worth a try.’
He wasn’t impressed. ‘No offence, Charlie. I’m worried. So if you haven’t got a serious suggestion, say nothing. Know what I’m talkin’?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Andrew Geddes was at his desk when the call came through. The thin voice on the other end of the line was agitated, almost shouting. He struggled to make sense of the words.
‘Rome! It was Rome. He was taking me to see the Vatican.’
Geddes recognised who was speaking and sat to attention. ‘Cissie? Hold on. What’re you talking about?’
‘For my birthday. The surprise. I knew it. I knew it.’
The DS listened for the slur of alcohol and heard none. ‘Slow down and start at the beginning.’
She breathlessly blurted out her news. ‘Next week I’m fifty. Tony had planned something and wouldn’t tell me what it was. Wanted it to be a surprise. It was Rome. Three days. The tickets arrived in the post. I’ve always wanted to go to Rome.’
‘When did he book it?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Which travel agent did he use? It’ll be on the folder.’
Geddes heard her put the receiver down. Half a minute later she was back. ‘Thomas Cook.’
‘Gordon Street? Tell me the booking number.’
The DS guessed Tony Daly had protected his sister from the practical demands of living. The blind drunk leading the blind drunk, DI Barr might say.
‘It’s not here.’
‘Look again.’
‘Could this be it? TCRCB451121’
The DS wrote it down.
Cissie was satisfied with the reaction she’d provoked in the policeman. ‘Told you he wasn’t depressed. Maybe now you’ll believe me.’
Geddes reply was gentle. ‘I do. I do believe you.’
The manager at Thomas Cook was reluctant to discuss a client’s booking over the phone until Geddes told him who he was.
‘When was the booking made?’
‘Two days ago.’
The same day Anthony Daly had hanged himself.
‘Who dealt with it?’
‘Let me check. Sharon processed it.’
‘Is she there? I’d like to speak to her.’
‘Yes. I’ll get her for you.’
The DS explained to Sharon what he wanted to know. ‘You must take a lot of business, especially at this time of the year. Do you recall anything about who made the booking?’
‘As a matter of fact I do. His mind was made-up from the start. Rome or nowhere. The trip was a surprise for his sister’s birthday.’
‘He told you that?’
Her laughter came down the line. ‘While I was doing the paperwork he threw in his life story.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. I had to go over the details with him three times.’
‘Is that usual?
‘No.’
‘Then why do it?’
‘Because he was drunk.’
‘How drunk?’
‘Not falling down. Happy. Started singing “the Celtic song.”’
‘He wasn’t depressed?’
‘Far from it, wouldn’t shut up. Has something happened to him?’
-------
DI Barr was in a meeting so Geddes waited in his office. Eventually, Barr breezed in looking pleased with himself. His smile faded when he saw his colleague. Barr had his own ideas on management and an open-door policy wasn’t one of them.
‘DS Geddes. What can I do for you?’
‘There’s been a development in the Anthony Daly case.’
‘Hasn’t come back to life, has he?’
‘His sister called. She’s just discovered her brother booked a weekend in Rome as a surprise for her birthday.’
The DI took his coat off, hung it up and sat behind his desk. ‘So?’
‘Daly made the booking with Thomas Cook somewhere after four o’clock on the eleventh. Approximately twelve hours later he went over the bridge.’
Barr stared at Geddes; he didn’t want to hear this.
‘They remember him.’
‘Find that hard to believe. One guy arranging a city break and they remember him? Are they sure?’
‘He was drunk. Not raging drunk but affected.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Well, sir. Don’t you think it’s odd? Booking a holiday isn’t exactly the action of a man intending to do himself in. If the trip was just for the sister, okay. A grand farewell gesture. But it was for both of them.’
‘I see what you’re getting at. Because he was in high spirits in the afternoon it proves he didn’t commit suicide.’
‘That’s how it looks to me.’
Barr leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Geddes felt a lec
ture coming on; he wasn’t wrong.
‘Didn’t you just tell me he died approximately twelve hours later? Doesn’t that raise the question of what happened to him in those twelve hours?’
‘He was in great form. Talking his head off. Singing football songs.’
‘That only shows how drunk he really was. And if that was him then, what state was he in later? We know he was blotto. We smelled him, remember? Obviously his state of mind changed in the hours before his death.’
DI Barr was enjoying his display of superior reasoning. ‘If you had even a shred of evidence foul play was involved I might consider it.’
‘But sir, with respect…’
‘As it is, we now have a witness who can testify that late in the afternoon, prior to his demise, Tony Daly was well on the way. The guy was an alkie. Emotionally unstable. Mood change is a symptom. High as a kite one minute, in the depths of despair the next. He offed himself. It’s an absolute no brainer.’
Geddes realised he wasn’t going to win. Better to let it go. That wasn’t who he was. ‘Nevertheless, those twelve hours are unaccounted. We don’t know where Daly was, what he did or who he met. Anything that can help us answer those questions should be pursued.’
Barr focussed on a mark on the wall over the detective’s shoulder; he was losing patience. The DS seemed to have forgotten just who the senior officer was. He had been given the opportunity to make his case and failed. Now he needed to accept it and leave.
‘The PM is scheduled for tomorrow. I’m requesting a two-man job. One pathologist might miss something. Two won’t. We owe it to his sister.’
Before Barr started on the fast-track career path he’d been warned about the resistance he was liable to meet along the way. Old-school coppers, stuck in a rut, disguising their resentment of younger smarter men behind phony objections to closing cases. Keen to drag every enquiry out no matter the cost in man-hours and money. The new breed of policeman in the twenty-first century realised resources were limited and used them accordingly. Evaluating cost against results. Geddes didn’t understand that kind of logic. The guy was dinosaur. A plodder at best. The force would work more efficiently without his kind.
‘I can tell you that’s a non-starter. I’m prepared to go with the pathologist’s recommendation but I’m not willing to second guess the autopsy and squander the budget on something as clear-cut as this case.’
DI Barr stood. He’d heard all he was going to hear.
‘I’m well aware you don’t approve of my appointment. In your position I’d probably feel the same. But know this, DS Geddes, as long as I’m in charge we’ll be doing things my way, and that doesn’t include throwing money around like fucking confetti. Your enthusiasm is appreciated and your objection has been noted. Now start acting like a policeman and, for Christ sake, get a grip. Request denied.’
-------
The sound of laughter followed Kim Rafferty from the lounge, where the clown was making balloon animals and giving them funny voices. The kids loved it. The adults – most of them mothers – were enjoying it too. Sean hadn’t been pleased when she’d told him Rosie’s first birthday party was on a Saturday afternoon; he liked to do as little as possible at the weekend, although it never worked out that way. Something always came up that couldn’t wait.
At the study door, she hesitated, remembering the scene on Hogmanay. Since then she’d avoided physical contact with her husband. Sex she wanted, but not with him.
Inside, Sean, was on the phone – as usual – his feet on the desk. He smiled when he saw her and waved her in. He was drinking.
‘So the pieces are in place, Emil. All we have to do is let it play out. Of course, you’re welcome. I told you I wouldn’t let you down. Speak soon.’
He hung up and spoke to his wife.
‘How’s it going in there? Is Rosie enjoying herself?’
Typical Sean. Paying was his contribution. He didn’t know how to be a father. Hardly a surprise, considering where he’d come from. Kim had heard the stories about his family. Jimmy Rafferty had been a vicious man and a cruel parent. Living with him must have been a nightmare for his sons.
Her reply was tart. ‘Why don’t you join us and find out?’
‘I will. Had to make that call.’
‘There are children in our house and you stink of booze. You should be a part of it. You’re spoiling our daughter’s first birthday. She nearly didn’t survive, Sean. We almost lost her. I never forget and thank God every day.’
Rafferty stifled his irritation. There was more to being grateful than ice cream and face painting. If Kim only knew she’d realise he hadn’t forgotten. Taking care of business allowed her to do the nice things – like organise parties.
Lately, they hadn’t spent much time together; that would change now the project was no longer uncertain. He’d been on edge. Pre-occupied. Impossible to be any other way with Emil Rocha on his back. For the moment, the Spaniard was satisfied. Reporting the obstacles had been removed put a smile on everybody’s face. Sean Rafferty imagined a long and successful partnership with Rocha and it would happen, as long as he continued to deliver. Rochas’ wealth, earned from drugs, was the key to turning Sean Rafferty into a legitimate operator. Respectable would take longer. One day people would hear the name Rafferty and not think of Jimmy.
One day. But not one day soon.
In the lounge, it was time for the cake. Kim lifted Rosie out of her baby-walker and held her level with the single candle, all the time encouraging her.
‘Okay darling. Big blow. A big blow.’
The flame guttered and died. Everybody cheered and clapped. Rosie clapped too.
Kim took the cake back to the kitchen and sliced it. The other mothers put pieces on paper plates and carried them into the party along with cartons of juice.
Sean didn’t appear for the photographs. Kim wiped cream off Rosie’s nose and cradled her while the photographer encouraged the little girl to look at the camera.
‘Say cheese.’
An hour later, the house was a battlefield and the birthday girl had fallen asleep. Kim took her upstairs to the nursery, put her down and sat for a while in the rocker. Sean was somewhere. She didn’t know exactly where and didn’t care. Rosie had had her party – the first of many – a miracle in itself. And her daughter wasn’t the only one who was tired: Kim was exhausted.
She went next door, lay on the bed and closed her eyes. In seconds she was asleep. Hot breath on her neck wakened her. Whisky breath. Kim rolled away from it. A rough hand dug into her shoulder and pulled her onto her back. It was dark. She couldn’t see his face but she knew what he wanted.
‘No. No. No!’
Kim kicked out and heard her husband swear.
‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’
She scrambled to get away. Sean grabbed her hair. She screamed and clawed at the blackness around her. Her nails found his cheek and raked it. His turn to scream.
‘Shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have…’
‘Please, Sean! Don’t!’
He tore her blouse away, punched her and dragged her to the floor. She tasted blood. Somewhere in the distance Rosie was crying. He hit her again and again, kicking her until the pain was too much and Kim blacked out.
When she came to she was naked and alone. She stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the light. Kim’s usefulness to her husband was her looks so he hadn’t struck her face, but red welts marked her throat where he’d tried to strangle her. Bite marks on her breasts showed how out of control the attack had been. Yellow, blue and black bruises covered her body, and when she breathed, a sharp pain lanced her chest: cracked ribs.
She lay on the bed and the hellish images returned. He’d come after her and she’d refused him. This was what became of a wife who rejected a Rafferty. Kim was in shock – too numb for tears. Then she remembered Rosie had been crying. Moving was painful; instinct drove her. At the door she stopped.
The nursery was empt
y; her daughter wasn’t there.
She heard Rosie’s voice and struggled downstairs, every step an effort of will.
They were on the carpet by the fire, Sean pretending to be a monster and Rosie giggling when he made wild faces. Anyone who didn’t know better would see a happy scene. Deep scratches ran from under his eye to his jaw.
Sean spoke to the child. ‘Look, Rosie. Here’s your mummy. Here she is.’
He beamed with pride at his happy family, as if nothing had happened and a terrifying realisation gripped Kim. There was no pretence here. She was married to a monster who got what he wanted and never took no. Even from his wife.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Patrick Logue knocked on my office door and came in. My first thought was the gee-gees must have pulled for him; he seemed pleased with himself.
‘Finally managed to back two winners in a row?’
The bold Pat was unfazed. ‘That day will come, Charlie. Stand on me.’
‘If it isn’t the horses, what?’
He handed a sheet of paper with four mobile numbers on it across the desk.
‘Got this from the guy I know.’
I recognised Alile. The others weren’t hard to guess: the hospital, Law’s sister, and Colin McMillan.
Patrick said, ‘The last three were called on Hogmanay. Since then, nothing.’
‘And now it’s unobtainable.’
‘Yeah, but who doesn’t have a mobile these days?’
An easy question to answer. ‘Somebody who doesn’t want to be found, or… What else have you got for me?’
‘This Maitland character lives a strange life. Ask me where he was last night.’
‘Okay. Where was he was?’
‘Same place he was the night before. And for once, the beer wasn’t bad.’
-------
The sign on the exposed brick façade outside Blackfriars in Merchant City said “Free House,” and promised real ale and good food. I got there at seven o’clock, ordered a bottle of Brooklyn lager – brewed in the “Vienna” style, whatever that was – and sat at a table against the wall. I’d heard plenty of talk about Wallace Maitland without ever seeing him. Patrick’s description of the obstetrician – fifty, greying hair and bulldog jowls – fitted half of the men in the pub. When I asked him for something more, he’d shrugged.