Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

He tried to bluster his way out of admitting he wasn’t sure, pretending to lose it with me. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending.

  ‘Christ sake. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Can’t you see I’m suffering?’

  ‘Take the Alka Seltzer, you’ll feel better.’

  He took a sip and glared at me. ‘You’re a smug bastard, did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘That and more, Andrew. After Vroni’s, where?’

  He kept his eyes on the carpet. Eventually he gave me the answer he didn’t want to give. ‘It’s a blank but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me. Did we meet in a pub or did I roll up here uninvited?’

  I considered my reply. ‘A bit of both.’

  ‘See what I mean about smug?’

  ‘It’s a long story but you aren’t well enough to hear it.’

  I stood. If he wanted into NYB again, the whole sorry tale would have to come out. At the very least, Jackie was due an apology. I wouldn’t bet on her accepting it. She was fiercely protective of what she’d built and, no matter what lay behind it, the scene last night had been unacceptable. Anybody else would be waking up in the cells this morning. Giving Andrew a blow-by-blow about what he’d done would be kicking a man when he was down. I satisfied myself with lesser tortures. Cruel but fun.

  ‘So, breakfast?’

  The thought was enough to turn his stomach. He groaned. ‘Don’t mention food. Said it before but this time I’m serious. I’m never drinking again.’

  I’d seen Andrew Geddes low before. During his divorce from Elspeth he’d lost the place on occasion and tried to escape the bitter battle it became by drowning himself in booze. This was different.

  ‘Hair of the dog any good to you?’

  He turned his face away as if he’d been slapped, then thought better of it. ‘Take more than the hair. I’m rough as a badger’s. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Can probably manage a whisky.’

  ‘Make it a glass. A beer too, if you have one.’

  So much for never again.

  I brought him the drinks and watched the alcohol undo the damage it had caused. Eventually Andrew said, ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  He meant about where we’d met.

  ‘Didn’t I? I thought I had.’

  He studied me, reluctant to push it, yet unable to hold his anxiety in check. ‘Bad was I? Doesn’t surprise me.’ He shook his head. ‘I was poison from the off yesterday. Heading for the rocks from the minute I got out of bed.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Geddes sipped the whisky and washed it down with beer. ‘I’ve come to a decision, Charlie. I’m resigning from the force.’

  I hid my surprise. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  Andrew toyed with the amber liquid in his hand. ‘Wanting to doesn’t come into it. I’m past my sell-by date. Happens to the best of us if you hang around long enough.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. Never over-stay a welcome. I’m a dinosaur, apparently.’

  ‘Yeah, but you were a dinosaur to begin with, what’s changed?’

  He didn’t smile. ‘The Service. More about politics than policing these days. I don’t fit in so I’ll leave it to those who do. Good luck to them.’

  Being a policeman had been Andrew’s life ever since I’d known him. He was a great detective. If he was a dinosaur, then Glasgow could do with a Jurassic Park-load. Something or someone had set him down a dark road where the consequences of acting in haste hadn’t been thought through. Andrew needed the police force as much as it needed him. Without his job he’d be lost.

  He finished the whisky and grimaced. I pointed to the empty glass. ‘Same again?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m starting to come round.’

  ‘Is that a refusal?’

  ‘See what I mean about smug. Can’t help yourself, can you? Just a splash.’

  ‘One condition. Tell me what’s brought this on. And leave the self-pity out of it.’

  ‘In that case, you better bring the bottle.’

  -------

  I came back from the kitchen with his splash and what was left of the lager and waited for him to begin. For a while he stared at the floor. When he finally spoke the poor-me act was gone.

  ‘You know about the body on the Queen Margaret Bridge?’

  I nodded. ‘Councillor found hanged. You’re on that?’

  ‘Yes and my boss is falling over himself to file it as a suicide and move on.’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  ‘I’ve no idea one way or the other. I’m absolutely convinced we haven’t properly considered the facts. Barr had his mind made up from the start. At the scene, the smell of whisky off the dead man would’ve knocked you down. That was all he needed to call it suicide.’

  ‘Is there evidence that says it wasn’t?’

  Andrew snorted. ‘We may never know. Barr refuses to investigate anything that might put a hole in his conclusion.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s determined to impress the powers-that-be by not wasting resources on open and shut cases.’

  ‘So you’re butting heads. Been there before, haven’t you?’

  Andrew finished the lager and read the label. ‘Camden Hells. Trust you to have la-di-da beer.’

  Not long ago, he hadn’t been so critical.

  ‘Remind me to have Tartan Special in for your next visit. Go on with the story.’

  ‘The TOX report will show Anthony Daly was paralytic. So my question is: how does a man who can hardly stand get to the bridge and secure the knot to a lamp-post?’

  ‘Had to have help.’

  ‘Correct, Charlie. And get this. The same day, the guy books a weekend in Rome for his sister’s birthday.’

  ‘Just for her?’

  ‘No. For both of them.’

  ‘Then he wasn’t thinking about topping himself.’

  ‘But proving it would mean man-hours, so Barr wants it put to bed.’

  Geddes paced the room, animated; talking with an intensity that had risen from nowhere; punching a fist against his palm as he reaffirmed his belief in why he’s spent over twenty years of his life as a copper.

  ‘Budgets are important. Resources are precious. But policing isn’t a business and can’t be treated like a business. It’s about people. Not hitting targets and ticking fucking boxes.’

  He sat down and covered his face with his hands. ‘I interviewed the sister. She’s heartbroken. Hard enough to look somebody in the eye when you’re sure you’ve done your best. When you haven’t…’

  ‘So where has it been left?’

  ‘Case is closed. Barr’s a man in a hurry. Climbing the ladder. Christ only knows what his next half-arsed attempt will be. Accused me of resenting him, can you believe it? I’m a dinosaur because I want to do the job the way it should be done. It’s time to go time, Charlie, and yesterday I realised it.’

  He waited for my reaction and I let him. ‘Two things jump out at me, Andrew. First: Barr’s right, you do resent him. His career is going somewhere and yours isn’t.’

  Geddes exploded. ‘Resent him? He’s a dick! Couldn’t detect his way out of a paper bag.’

  ‘Bottom line: he’s giving the orders and you’re taking them. Of course you resent him. Anybody would. He’ll be in your universe for five minutes before he’s off and another educated incompetent tosser takes his place. Unless you get motivated and go for promotion yourself.’

  He glared at me but I had his attention.

  ‘You’re the man who caught Richard Hill. That should’ve taken you to detective inspector. It didn’t because you don’t want it. Until some rookie starts teaching his granny to suck eggs, then you want to throw in the towel.’

  ‘What’s the second thing?’

  ‘If the case is closed the police are no longer involved, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Have somebody else investigate it.’

  ‘L
ike who?’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

  ‘Thought you had your hands full with the missing doctor?’

  I corrected him. ‘Gavin Law. And he’s an obstetrician. Hands full isn’t how I’d describe it. Nothing else on the credit cards, is there?’

  ‘Haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘Then it’s going nowhere. Can’t keep taking Caroline Law’s money. So…’

  Andrew threw his arms round me and hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was back to being a long-lost brother. His hangover was on the run.

  ‘Well make a start tomorrow. I’ll come to your office and we’ll go over it in detail.’

  I stopped him. ‘That could be a problem.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Jackie will tell you when you see her.’

  Andrew didn’t understand; he soon would.

  ‘My advice: buy the biggest bunch of flowers you can find and wear a suit of armour.’

  -------

  I closed the blinds in the spare room and left Andrew to die in peace. On my way out, I closed the door. I had a call to make and Gavin Law’s sister wouldn’t be happy with what I was going to tell her. The brother she blindly adored was still missing and I hadn’t come close to discovering what had happened to him. Asking who had the most to gain with him out of the picture was a legitimate question. Of course, Wallace Maitland and the hospital weren’t exactly heartbroken; they were off the hook. But, if the rape allegation was real – and if it was true – disappearing suited Law as well as any.

  On the other end of the phone, Caroline sounded calm. More measured in her reaction than I’d expected. Some of the fight had gone out of her.

  ‘I’m disappointed, of course, though I understand. You’ve done all you can, so it’s over for you.’

  The standard lines, meant to reassure, rang hollow even to me; they were all I had.

  ‘The situation may change. Gavin might show up on your doorstep or call.’

  She seized the straw and clung to it. ‘At least I’d know he was all right.’

  Before the conversation ended I gave Caroline something else to hold on to. ‘For the record, I haven’t found anybody at Francis Fallon who’s even heard about the allegation against him.’

  She reverted to type. Prickly, righteous and completely invested in the myth she’d created. ‘I’ve been saying that from the beginning. Why doesn’t anybody listen?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  David Cooper opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Night-time was the worst. But last night had been the worst of all. Margaret hadn’t settled easily. It had taken almost an hour of holding her hand and whispering to her before she finally went to sleep. That and an extra pill. Three. More than advised on the dark brown bottle. More than the doctor prescribed.

  But what was his opinion worth?

  What were any of their so-called professional opinions worth?

  The hours when Margaret slept were his. Sleeping himself would have been the best idea. David didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. He preferred to drive, though preferred wasn’t the right word because he wasn’t certain it was a choice. Perhaps in the beginning it had been. At any rate, he frequently found himself in the same place, often with no memory of the journey. Drifting between realities. Slowly becoming someone he didn’t know, didn’t recognise. It was stress, wasn’t it? Had to be. Otherwise, what did that make him?

  That wasn’t the end of it. Taking care of Margaret took most of the day and, on the outside, David knew he must seem a dutiful husband, dedicated to looking after his invalid wife. Of course, it was true, he was.

  Thank God they couldn’t see inside his head. What went on in there was beyond imagining. Dark thoughts. But last night…last night they’d been close to being more than thoughts. Dark actions.

  Gavin Law was a bastard who’d strung them along with his promise of support, then fucked-off out of it and left them – him – powerless against Francis Fallon and that other bastard, Hambley. Cooper hated all of them though his deepest loathing he kept for the obstetrician responsible for turning Margaret into a vegetable.

  Wallace Maitland.

  Cooper didn’t understand how the man lived with himself knowing what he’d brought about. Margaret was breathing but she wasn’t alive. The woman he had known died on that operating table. In a different way, David had died there too.

  Yet, the people responsible were walking around: living their lives, fucking their wives, while he changed nappies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I recognised the coat before I recognised the man waiting to cross the road at the entrance to the Necropolis on Wishart Street. When I realised who he was I pulled in and opened the window on the passenger side.

  ‘Colin. Thought it was you.’

  He bent to see who was speaking and when he realised it was me he took off a glove and offered me his hand. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were red and watery from the cold.

  McMillan smiled. ‘Charlie Cameron. What a coincidence.’

  I leaned across to talk to him. ‘What’re you doing in this part of the world?’

  ‘It’s Thursday. Francis Fallon. Remember?’

  I’d forgotten.

  ‘Spent the morning there.’

  ‘Of course? How did it go?’

  He shrugged. ‘As expected. They’ll let me know.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift? Where’s your car?’

  ‘Parked it and got a taxi. Didn’t feel like driving.’

  ‘Then get in.’

  At the bottom of John Knox Street, opposite the imposing Victorian facade of the derelict Great Eastern, I turned right into Duke Street. Most of the snow had melted and the roads were wet. McMillan was quiet; more reserved than how he’d been in Peebles when he’d told me ghost stories. I guessed he was still recovering from what had to have been a painful experience in the West End of the city, and tried to cheer him up.

  ‘What’s the plan? Heading back to the borders right away or do you have time for lunch? My office is above an American diner. I can recommend the cheeseburger.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I haven’t had breakfast. Not sure I could eat.’

  ‘Something light, maybe?’ I sounded like my mother.

  ‘All right, I’ll try. Nothing to be gained by starving myself to death.’

  We left the car in the usual place and walked to NYB. Out of the blue, he said, ‘I’m selling the house in Bearsden. Too many memories. It was always more Joyce’s than mine. Peebles suits me better. There’s nothing in Glasgow for me now.’

  ‘You’re assuming they’ll find against you?’

  He sighed and kicked a stone into the road. ‘Certainty I imagine. Eddie Connelly – the witness who claims I told him I was suicidal – was very believable.’

  Inside NYB, Jackie wasn’t around. Pat Logue was. At the bar. Where else? In an uncertain world it was reassuring to know some things never change. A waitress gave us menus. McMillan ordered soup and I joined him. When we were settled I returned to the conversation.

  ‘This witness.’

  ‘Eddie Connelly.’

  ‘What would be his motive?’

  He considered his reply. ‘Perhaps along the line he’s fucked-up and this is the price for saving his arse. To be honest I don’t care. All I can tell you is he’d read the script and delivered it word perfect. It was impressive.’

  ‘Does this guy have an axe to grind?’

  ‘With me?’ He shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Hambley will be behind it.’

  ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘Of course you must have. What did you think of him?’

  It was a good question. ‘Confident. Arrogant.’

  ‘He’s that all right. And ambitious, too. Further down the line he can hear the Queen saying “Arise, Sir James.”’

  ‘Is that a possibility?’

  ‘Yes. If he keeps his nose clean, why not? Better chance of it happening if he wasn’t
tied to that brother-in-law of his. He’s a ticking bomb.’

  The soup arrived and for a few minutes we gave our attention to it. My companion found an appetite he didn’t know he had and emptied the bowl. When he was finished, he took up from where he’d left off.

  ‘Any luck with Law?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Apart from Hambley who have you spoken to?’

  ‘His sister, of course. A nurse he was supposed to be going to a party with on Hogmanay and cancelled. And David Cooper.’

  ‘So you’ve seen his wife?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘Awful. Really awful.’

  ‘And really sad. Law was determined to make Maitland pay for the suffering he’d caused the family. Admire him for that if nothing else.’

  The implied criticism didn’t escape me.

  ‘How long will you keep looking for him?’

  Another good question. ‘Depends. Unless something turns up it’s going nowhere.’

  McMillan called the waitress over and ordered cheesecake and coffee. He’d been hungry after all. ‘Prefer a large whisky but I’m driving. Don’t want to lose the license on top of everything else.’

  Hardly a consideration for a man on the edge of suicide.

  Pat Logue passed on his way to the toilet. I introduced him. They shook hands. Normally Patrick had plenty to say, even to a stranger. Today he struggled with even the smallest of small talk, a Patrick speciality.

  When he left, McMillan said, ‘So it’s true. Always going to be somebody worse off than you. Didn’t expect to meet him today.’

  I understood where he was coming from. Pat Logue’s mood was bluer than the lining of his coat. I’d met Colin McMillan by chance and it had been pleasant enough. Given the stress he was under he was coping better than I would have.

  He insisted on paying. ‘The least I can do. Your shout next time.’

  Out on the street, I remembered where he’d been when I ran into him. ‘What were you doing at the Necropolis? Francis Fallon is miles away?’

  He pulled his coat around him against the wind. The middle of the day and already the temperatures were heading south. ‘Just walking. Needed to be alone.’

  ‘Plenty of alone in there.’