Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Isn’t his style, Pat. Geddes is harder to impress than anybody I’ve ever met. Seen just about everything there is to see. His gut feeling is telling him something isn’t right.’

  ‘Startin’ with his DI.’

  ‘Absolutely. A bookworm promoted beyond his competence. Classic example of the Peter Principle. Throws his weight around and refuses to listen to more experienced officers, then pulls rank when they insist on doing the thing the way it should be done.’

  ‘In other words, an arse.’

  ‘An arse that has Andrew Geddes considering packing it in. Whatever your opinion of him is, I assure you he’s a top-notch detective. Ever find yourself in trouble you want him in the boat with you.’

  Patrick smiled. ‘Not the kind of trouble I get into.’

  He had a point.

  I turned the car into Cissie Daly’s street and stopped outside her house. According to Andrew, Tony Daly had been buried on Saturday so what state his sister would be in was anybody’s guess.

  ‘What’re we lookin’ for?’

  ‘No idea. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Geddes said she hasn’t a clue why her brother would take his own life. The tickets he bought for the weekend in Rome on the day he died convinced her. Refuses to believe it.’

  Pat Logue fingered the goatee that made him look like the fifth musketeer. ‘Easy to understand where she’s comin’ from. Not what you do if you’re thinkin’ about takin’ a long walk off a short pier.’

  We got out of the car.

  ‘Remember, this woman is as fragile as they come. Probably was even before. She was hitting the bottle when Andrew arrived to give her the news about, Tony.’

  ‘Any other family?’

  ‘No. She’s on her own.’

  ‘Tough.’

  I knocked on the front door. Half a minute later I knocked again. Cissie Daly wasn’t expecting us; if she had somewhere else to go she might not be home. The sound of footsteps coming downstairs told us she was. A chain rattled, a key turned in the lock and a small woman blinked at two strangers.

  The way Geddes described her, at the very least, Cissie had a drink problem. More likely, she was an alcoholic. I saw no sign of it. Her hair was combed. She was dressed and though her eyes were red, I guessed it was from crying. For certain, she would’ve done a lot of that with plenty more to come.

  I introduced myself. ‘Miss Daly. My name is Cameron and this is my associate, Mr Logue. I wonder if we could talk to you for a few minutes.’

  ‘Is it about, Tony?’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘The policewoman said you’d be back.’

  ‘We’re not the police. I’m a private investigator.’

  That wasn’t what she was expecting and she hesitated. ‘So why’re you here?’

  ‘To ask you about your brother.’

  Patrick said, ‘Wish the timin’ was better.’

  Her face showed her confusion. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Pat tried again. ‘It could be important, Cissie.’

  She started to warm to him. ‘Who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Investigators. I promise we won’t take up too much of your day.’

  Cissie pursed her lips. ‘Then you’d better come in.’

  Andrew Geddes had broken the terrible news to her about Anthony in this very room, but now it was different, and so was she. There was no bottle at the side of the chair. Cissie was sober in spite of her grief, dealing with her loss with courage and dignity. I admired her.

  ‘I can make some tea if you like.’

  ‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

  ‘Okay. Ask whatever you want.’

  On Sunday at the flat – between bouts of retching and despair – Andrew and I had discussed how best to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of Tony Daly and decided on the straightforward approach. Anthony Daly was officially a suicide so no longer an ongoing police case, which left me free to do my thing, preferably with the family’s blessing. That meant getting Cissie’s agreement to represent her.

  ‘The investigation into your brother’s death is closed. The authorities are satisfied he took his own life but the detective sergeant who interviewed you told me you were unhappy with that conclusion and thought you might appreciate having somebody else look into it.’

  Surprise manifested in a frown. ‘He’s right, I’m not happy, though why would you get involved?’

  It was a good question. And one I couldn’t answer honestly. My job was to persuade Cissie she needed my help without mentioning her brother had been sold short. Charlie Cameron honest injun? Not today.

  ‘Sudden death is hard to come to terms with. If there was a reason Tony killed himself I’m sure you’d want to know.’

  ‘How could I afford you? I haven’t any money.’

  ‘Money won’t come into it. I’ll be doing it because I want to.’

  The frown returned only this time it was heavy with suspicion. Andrew had found a woman in the throes of addiction; this lady had mined a strength she may not have realised she had.

  ‘Mr Cameron. I’ve lived long enough to know people do very little that doesn’t involve money. Why would you be different?’

  ‘Tony killed himself publicly. I find that strange, don’t you?’

  Cissie’s view hadn’t altered from her statement. ‘More than strange. I don’t believe it. Do you know, on the day he died, Tony had booked a trip to Rome as a surprise for my birthday? Does that sound like a man thinking about dying to you? Because it certainly doesn’t to me.’

  ‘What if I can prove it?’

  ‘The police have given up.’

  Patrick said, ‘Will you let us try, Cissie?’

  If she’d been drinking I was certain she would’ve agreed right away. She wasn’t, so she didn’t jump at the offer and I didn’t blame her. Tony wouldn’t be coming back no matter what we found and reliving his death – maybe his murder – couldn’t change that. Against the odds, even this early, Cissie Daly seemed to be coping with losing her brother. Being dragged through the tragedy again, albeit in the name of justice, may not be in her best interests, and when I thought about it, the decision I was asking her to make had a lot of downside.

  Instead of giving me an answer, she changed the focus. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’

  Pat Logue had street talent: he understood people better than anyone I’d ever met.

  ‘Wouldn’t refuse a beer if you have one.’

  ‘No beer. Could give you a rum. Tony loved his rum.’

  A light went on in my head. ‘Did he ever drink whisky?’

  ‘Never, he hated it. Dark rum was his favourite. Can’t stand it myself; the smell’s enough. Probably end up down the sink.’

  Patrick hadn’t picked up on what Cissie had said, but I had. We did without the rum and moved on to her brother’s friends.

  ‘Tony never had friends. Being on the council didn’t leave him a lot of spare time. Now and again, he’d mention names of people he met at the football. Apart from that…’

  She chided herself for knowing so little about her only brother.

  ‘I suppose Lachie.’

  ‘Who’s Lachie?’

  ‘Lachie Thompson. Took Tony under his wing when he won his first election. He was at the funeral on Saturday. Most of the councillors were there. And a couple of the Celtic players.’

  Pat Logue said, ‘Always nice to see a big turnout.’

  Cissie nodded. ‘Tony would be pleased.’

  Patrick took a look round Tony Daly’s bedroom and, at the door, I shook Cissie’s hand and promised to be in touch. Deceiving her wasn’t a great feeling, even for a good cause.

  ‘I appreciate you coming, Mr Cameron.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie. Nobody will ever convince me my brother killed himself. Just wait a minute, will you?’

  Cissie disappeared into the lounge.

  When she’d gone, Pat Logue said, ‘Clean as
a whistle. Apart from a pile of programmes at the side of the bed and a Celtic poster on the wall, nothing much there. And nicely done, by the way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Avoidin’ the awkward questions. Should’ve been a politician like your old man.’

  ‘Not my finest hour, Patrick.’

  ‘I disagree. This is a bad time. You’re helpin’ her come to terms with her brother’s death.’

  Cissie came back with an almost full bottle of dark rum and handed it out to me. ‘I’m trying not to drink. Take this away with you in case I’m tempted.’

  ‘Keep it up. You’re doing great.’

  In the car, I asked Patrick what he thought. His focus, as usual, was on alcohol and Cissie Daly’s willpower; he’d missed it. Monday morning, with just the one pint in him, wasn’t his best time.

  ‘The brother dies a violent death and she doesn’t drown her sorrows. Amazin’. How on earth does one wee woman find that kind of strength? Couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t even try.’

  ‘The body stank of booze.’

  ‘So he was well away with it. Had to be to do what he did.’

  ‘Except what Andrew smelled was whisky. Enough to knock you down he said. Turns out Daly only drank rum.’

  Patrick was catching up.

  ‘Somebody forced it down his throat. Tony Daly was murdered.’

  -------

  The bottle of rum on my desk didn’t look much, but for me, in terms of evidence, it was more significant than the dead man booking a holiday for himself and his sister on the day he died. Changing your mind was one thing; changing your drink was something else.

  I called Andrew on his mobile. His gruff voice lacked its usual bite. He sounded down. What I had to report would cheer him up.

  ‘I’ve got a new client. Cissie Daly’s a go. And get this. She says Tony hated whisky. All he ever drank was rum.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line while Andrew processed this nugget and realised its importance. ‘The TOX deals in blood/alcohol level. Doesn’t identify specifically what the alcohol was. Well done, Charlie. First day on the case and you’ve cracked it.’

  Hardly. Though I didn’t give him an argument.

  ‘Added to his travel plans, it strongly suggests he didn’t kill himself. All I have to do now is find out who did and why.’

  ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘His sister claims the council took up all her brother’s time. Tony had no friends to speak of apart from some councillor called Thompson.’

  ‘Lachie Thompson?’

  ‘That’s right. Know him do you?’

  ‘Elder statesman. Been around forever. Could’ve been lord provost.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he?’

  ‘Not interested. Prefers to stay in the background, I suppose.’

  ‘Is he honest?’

  Andrew laughed. ‘He’s a councillor, Charlie. What do you think?’

  ‘Tell you after I talk to him.’

  ‘How’s Cissie doing?’

  ‘Better than you’d expect. She isn’t drinking.’

  Geddes was impressed. ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  Glasgow City Chambers in George Square was round the corner from my office. I could walk there in two minutes but it made sense to check if Lachie Thompson was available. A female on the switchboard connected me. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Lachie Thompson.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thompson. Sorry to break into your day. My name is Charlie Cameron. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you about a colleague of yours. Tony Daly.’

  The councillor hesitated. I gave him a prompt. ‘I’m representing Mr Daly’s sister. I understand you were a very good friend of her brother’s.’

  His reply was open and sympathetic. ‘Known the family for years. My heart goes out to Cissie. Tony was all she had. Of course I’ll help whatever way I can. Unfortunately, I’m tied-up all day today. I could meet you tomorrow. Say twelve o’clock, if that’s any good to you.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Thompson ended the call sounding like a friend. ‘What happened to Tony was tragic. I blame myself. I should’ve seen it coming.’

  ------

  The letters I’d picked up at Gavin Law’s flat meant nothing. More interesting was the one from Francis Fallon informing Law of his suspension – it wasn’t amongst them. Maybe it had been lost in the post if it had ever been sent at all; the person behind the allegation may have changed her mind about pursuing it. The alternative was the hospital had invented it to pull Gavin Law into line. Wild speculation at best. Everything about this case led in a circle. The letters needed to be forwarded to his sister. I tied them together with an elastic band, put them in an envelope large enough to take them all, and wrote Caroline Law’s address on the front. In the middle drawer of the desk I found a book of stamps and stuck on three to be on the safe side. Jackie buzzed just as I was slipping the package into my inside jacket pocket. When I answered, she was her usual sarcastic self.

  ‘There’s a Miss Universe here asking for a Charlie Cameron. Surely she can’t mean you?’

  ‘Send her up.’

  We hadn’t arranged to meet, so this was a surprise – the best kind. Although Alile was dressed for winter she swept into the room like the first day of summer, wearing a beige raincoat over a cream roll-neck sweater, blue jeans and brown ankle boots.

  ‘I was in the city centre and thought about you. Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Glad you’re here.’

  She unbuttoned her coat, shook-out her hair and smiled. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy taking in a movie?’

  ‘You mean re-arrange my busy schedule at a moment’s notice? Consider it done. What’s on?’

  ‘We’ve got a choice – a war movie, a romantic comedy or the new Dracula.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘And it’s Humphrey Bogart week at the GFC.’

  ‘What’re they showing?’

  ‘Casablanca.’

  ‘Bogie and Bergman. No contest. When does it start?’

  Alile looked at her watch. ‘Ten to two. Plenty of time. But only if you’re sure I’m not dragging you away from something important.’

  ‘You aren’t. Let’s eat first.’

  In NYB we started with minestrone then split a pepperoni pizza. While Alile ate, I watched her. She caught me.

  ‘What’re you thinking?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘I might. Take a chance.’

  ‘Okay. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.’

  Alile laughed. It was a sound I could get used to. ‘Why aren’t you married, Charlie?’

  ‘Just didn’t happen.’

  ‘Ever been close?’

  ‘Not close enough.’

  She moved the conversation on to safer ground before I could ask her the same question. ‘Any luck finding Gavin Law?’

  ‘None. He’s disappeared. What’s the chat at Francis Fallon?’

  Alile made a face and still managed to look beautiful.

  ‘Not a word. It’s as if he never worked there.’

  ‘And the rape allegation?’

  The tapered fingers of an elegant hand gently brushed my question aside. ‘The only one who’s mentioned it is you.’

  ‘Not anymore. Won’t hear a peep out of me about it for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  In the dark, halfway through the film, I felt Alile move closer. Her hand slipped into mine. I’d seen Casablanca a dozen times; that didn’t matter. When Ilse got on the plane with Victor Lazlo, and left Rick on the runway in the rain, inside, I was still hoping it would work out for him. It hadn’t the previous eleven.

  That didn’t stop me believing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A steady drizzle fell on the black Volkswagen Phaeton limousine as i
t turned off William Street and silently cruised to the main entrance of the Hilton hotel where a concierge, wearing a green cape and tartan trousers, stood ready with an umbrella to shelter the important visitor from the rain. The Lord Provost of Glasgow got out and was ushered through the foyer to a lift and on to an anteroom on the first floor.

  The rebranding of an East End gangster could begin.

  People were already there, drinking coffee and eating shortbread. On the surface, all very civilised. In a corner, Lachie Thompson shifted uneasily and avoided contact. The Lord Provost would be making the announcement and Lachie thanked God because he wasn’t in a fit state to speak to anybody; the call from the private investigator had freaked him out.

  Tony’s murder and the threat to his granddaughter should have convinced him the only way he would ever be free was to go to the police. Unfortunately for the councillor, history was against it. Decades of corruption would come out. A long prison sentence was the best he could hope for, and, at his age, he wouldn’t survive. More likely he’d finish up swinging from the end of a rope, like poor Tony, before he got anywhere near Barlinnie.

  He needed to speak to Sandy Rutherford but the bloody idiot was in expansive mood, standing in the middle of the floor, chatting with a beautiful female. Sean Rafferty joined them and slipped an arm round the woman’s waist: his wife. The suit and tie made him seem like a respectable businessman. Rutherford guided Rafferty towards the Provost and introduced him. They shook hands, no doubt congratulating each other on the project, and the benefits for the city.

  Thompson caught Rutherford’s eye and waved him over. The former shipyard firebrand smiled and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. His colleague brushed it away, barely able to contain his contempt.

  ‘What’s up, Lachie?’

  ‘Tell you what’s up. Tony isn’t cold in his grave and you’re making small talk with the man who had him killed. Rafferty’s a murderer. What does that make you?’

  Rutherford glanced over his shoulder; somebody might hear. Lachie was losing it.

  ‘Steady, Lachie, steady. Keep your voice down. It could just as easily have been me or you hanging from that bridge, and don’t forget it.’

  Thompson understood the self-serving argument and wasn’t impressed by it. ‘Say this for you Sandy, you’re flexible. Always land on your feet, don’t you? Though if you believe you can trust Rafferty you’re a bloody fool. He’s a snake.’