Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Not often, no. We tended to see things pretty much the same.’

  I qualified my interest. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Mr Thompson. The police have written off Tony Daly’s death as suicide. His sister believes – with good reason – it may well be something else. You were closer to him than most people, what do you think?’

  He leaned forward, unimpressed with where the conversation was headed. ‘You say you’ve been straight with me. All right, let me be straight with you. I can’t imagine what Cissie’s going through. It must be terrible for her. But clutching at straws isn’t going to help. Somehow, she has to find the strength to put this terrible thing behind her and move on with her life.’

  ‘Not easy when there are loose ends.’

  He spread his arms. ‘Loose ends? I told you Tony was a good man and it’s true. He was also a flawed man.’

  ‘Flawed as in?’

  ‘He was an alcoholic.’

  Thompson glanced away, reluctant to add more, though I was willing to bet he would. He drew on the table with his finger, hesitant and distracted, before continuing with a question of his own.

  ‘The only way to say this is to say it. Obviously you’ve met, Cissie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must have noticed she has a drink problem?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  He made a noise deep in his throat which cast doubt on my ability to investigate my way out of a wet paper bag. ‘Take my word for it. You asked if I noticed a difference in him before he died. The answer is: yes, I did. He was depressed.’

  ‘Depressed about what?’

  He smiled sadly at my lack of insight into the human condition. ‘Alcoholics don’t need a reason, Mr Cameron. It’s who they are. It’s why they drink in the first place.’

  ‘So Tony was…’ Thompson’s voice rose in defence of his dead colleague. ‘…a tireless worker on behalf of the people of Glasgow; that’s how he should be remembered. Not as a man slowly drowning in booze. He deserves more. And certainly not as the defenceless victim of a dark conspiracy nobody, including the police, has even bothered to consider. What you’re suggesting is murder, do you realise that?’

  For thirty years, Lachie Thompson had been persuading the city’s electorate to vote for him. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. He could conjure passion from the air, while he remained a loyal friend saddened by another’s mistakes. In the waters he swam in, an invaluable skill set.

  The councillor studied my expression, expecting to find me convinced. It was time to knock him off-guard. I started slowly. ‘Where did he stand on Riverside?’

  Thompson – old stager that he was – took it in his stride. ‘Riverside? Supported it one hundred percent.’

  ‘Good for Glasgow?’

  ‘Tony thought so, yes.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘As I said, we agreed on most things. I’m totally behind the project.’

  There were no papers on the table. If there had been the councillor would have shuffled them. Instead, he made do with checking his watch. I’d had all I was getting. He finished on a compassionate note, assuming the meeting was over.

  ‘Please tell Cissie I’ll call soon.’

  My question caught him unprepared. ‘How well did you and Tony know Sean Rafferty?’

  Thompson faltered. ‘Sean Rafferty?’

  ‘He represents the city’s partner, OTD, on Riverside.’

  The councillor shook his head. ‘I’ve never met him and I doubt Tony did either.’

  ‘Surely you met him yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday I was just part of the window dressing.’

  ‘Making up the numbers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  -------

  Later in the day, Andrew phoned to ask how I’d got on with Thompson and to fill me in on what he’d discovered. I assumed his situation hadn’t changed but, whatever frustrations DS Geddes was suffering, they weren’t part of his conversation.

  I replayed Lachie Thompson’s reticence to speak ill of the dead before rushing to bad-mouth both the brother and his sister, all the time insisting he was a friend.

  Andrew wasn’t surprised. ‘In his next incarnation, he’ll be a lawyer.’

  ‘Slippery enough, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So he hasn’t a problem believing Daly did himself in?’

  ‘Didn’t commit one way or the other and kept to the official line – selfless public servant whose contribution will never be fully appreciated.’

  ‘Typical politician.’

  ‘According to him, Tony was all for the development though he isn’t aware of any contact between him and Rafferty.’

  ‘What did Thompson say about his own relationship with him?’

  ‘Doesn’t know him.’

  Andrew snorted down the line. ‘Not possible. In spite of the rise of the SNP, the Labour Party still holds a majority. As leader of the council, Lachie Thompson is a very influential guy in Glasgow politics. Probably the most influential. Apart from that, he’s been around so long he knows everybody and everybody knows him.

  ‘Knows him or owes him?’

  ‘I’d guess both. Nothing happens he isn’t involved in. No public/private collaboration could exist without his approval, especially something this high profile. It just isn’t on.’

  ‘But isn’t the background of any outside company vetted to be sure they aren’t crooks?’

  Geddes laughed. ‘Of course that’s the theory. But in reality this city does business with shady characters all the time. So long as the right people are behind it, councillors will look the other way.’

  He paused. Paper rustled on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Riverside’s a case in point. Been speculation about it for more than a year. Suddenly, out of the blue, it gets approved. Yesterday, we see who the City Fathers are in bed with and yes, it’s true. The devil is in the detail.’

  ‘Sean Rafferty.’

  ‘Not Rafferty. The deal involves millions. Far too big for him to take on himself. He’s only the frontman. I spent an afternoon digging into OTD and what I found won’t come as a shock, Charlie. OTD stands for Orange Tree Development. Can you guess who that is?’

  ‘No, but you’re going to tell me.’

  The sarcasm fell on deaf ears.

  ‘Give you a clue. His father and grandfather were penniless orange farmers. That’s right. None other than our old friend Emil Rocha.’

  Geddes was wrong about the shock. Hearing the name sent a jolt of fear through me. In the past, my path and the Spanish drug lord’s had crossed. I’d been lucky to survive the experience.

  And Sean Rafferty was Rocha’s man. It made sense.

  Every ambitious criminal wanted to create legitimate businesses profitable in their own right that allowed them to wash dirty money. Win-win. On the sun-kissed Costas, Rocha was already a player in real estate, as well as one of the biggest dealers in cocaine, smuggled from Africa. Half the snow snorted in Glasgow had come from him, and been sold on the street by Rafferty.

  ‘But there’s more. The bold Sean hasn’t let the grass grow. He’s respectable these days; married with a daughter.’

  ‘God help them.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I brought the subject back to Lachie Thompson. ‘Thompson and his friend Daly commanded a helluva lot of influence in the council and acted together on most issues. Though maybe the exception was Riverside. For whatever reason, Tony Daly wouldn’t get on board, so they killed him. Does that make sense, Andrew?’

  ‘Sense, yes. Enough to convince the procurator fiscal? Not a chance. It’s a handy story to explain a violent death. It isn’t evidence. Not even circumstantial.’

  Geddes was right.

  ‘Who else is there, besides Thompson?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. The vote to green-light the project was 47/32, which means the nationalists stuck together – they always do – and most of the rest approved it.’

/>   ‘So who, Andrew?’

  ‘Only other really well-known face is Sandy Rutherford. Old school trade unionist. Has a reputation for being a straight-shooter. Beyond that I don’t know much about him. Can’t do any harm to talk to him.’

  Our options had narrowed and DS Geddes was realising it. He went quiet.

  ‘Give my right arm to stick it to that bastard Barr. He’s got us working on domestic abuse. Bumps up his numbers and makes him look like a policeman while serious crime gets ignored.’

  ‘I told you what to do.’

  ‘Don’t think I wasn’t paying attention, Charlie. Watch this space.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Councillor Sandy Rutherford was everything I expected a union fire-brand to be: a tall, barrel-chested man whose handshake was firm. Unlike his colleague, Thompson, he looked me in the eye. I took that as a good sign but if it was, it was the only one. Our conversation, in the same first floor room in the city chambers, was less than productive.

  In a deep voice, Rutherford said his association with Tony Daly was cordial but distant; they weren’t friends, and despite their years together on the council, hadn’t met socially. Daly’s death was a tragedy. Of course it was. Glasgow needed more of his kind. In short, the usual. No insight to advance what I already knew, which wasn’t much.

  When asked about Riverside, Rutherford freely admitted voting for it and parroted the benefits-to-the-city mantra; using the end to justify the means. Half-way through I switched off and filtered his baritone out until he finished whatever self-serving point he was making.

  I’d heard rumours about the political elite, known as the Glasgow Mafia. Now I believed. Lachie Thompson was one of them. So was this guy. And probably the late great Tony Daly they cried crocodile tears over.

  Saint Anthony.

  To his credit, the councillor let the chat exhaust itself – “no places to go people to see” routine with him – and walked me to the front door. We stood for a moment watching the rain fall in sheets on a deserted George Square, waiting for it to ease. At the beginning, I’d been tempted to like Sandy Rutherford. His bluff, no-nonsense openness appealed. Since then, I’d changed my mind. He talked different and looked different from Thompson, but there wasn’t any difference.

  He smiled. ‘Never have an umbrella when we need one, do we?’

  I turned my collar up and put out my hand. He took it in the same assured grip as before and was about to let go when I casually dropped a question into the conversation and sensed his fingers tighten against mine.

  ‘How well do you know Sean Rafferty?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Don’t know him at all, really. Met his father a couple of times.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Jimmy? Unforgettable.’

  Jimmy Rafferty had been that all right.

  An orange and green corporation bus, racing to beat the lights, splashed through a puddle causing a mini-tidal wave to wash the pavement yards from where we were. Rutherford took his hand back and patted my shoulder, encouraging me to leave.

  ‘I hope you can swim.’

  ‘I hope so, too.’

  -------

  Calling Sean with bad news was the last thing Rutherford wanted to do. He rehearsed what to say over and over and finally gave up on it because no matter what words he used, the message didn’t change; the private investigator was still asking questions. Not a problem, until he’d mentioned Rafferty by name and Rutherford knew they were in trouble.

  He left the council building at ten minutes to five and hurried across the square. In Queen Street, he stopped in a doorway and punched the familiar number on his mobile, hoping Rafferty wasn’t there.

  In his Bothwell home, on the banks of the River Clyde, Sean Rafferty was rolling around the floor, playing with his daughter. The interruption irritated him. Kim was right; he spent too little time with Rosie.

  ‘Sean, it’s Sandy.’

  ‘What do you want?’’

  ‘Sorry to…’

  ‘What do you want?’

  The councillor blurted the unwelcome news. ‘The private investigator came to see me.’

  Rafferty exploded. ‘The what? It was Thompson he was supposed to meet. How come you’re talking to him?’

  ‘He phoned. I couldn’t put him off. It would’ve looked suspicious.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Asked about Daly. Where did I stand on Riverside. Stuff like that.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘What we discussed.’ Rutherford heard fear in his own voice. ‘A boost to tourism, jobs, retail income. Good for Glasgow, you know.’

  Rafferty wasn’t satisfied; he sensed something. For all his hard-man reputation, the councillor was weak. They all were and he despised them for it. ‘Don’t sound too sure. Tell me the rest.’

  Two middle-aged women came into the shop. Rutherford moved aside to let them pass. When he put the phone to his ear, Sean Rafferty was waiting.

  ‘Tell me exactly what Cameron said.’

  Rutherford’s voice dropped to an anxious whisper. ‘He didn’t say anything but I’m not sure I convinced him, Sean.’

  Rafferty coaxed him. ‘Of course you did. What makes you think you didn’t?’

  ‘He asked if I knew you.’

  The silence terrified the councillor. Eventually, Rafferty spoke. ‘And what did you say, Sandy?’

  ‘Said I’d met your father once or twice.’

  ‘Really? And how did that go down?’

  ‘Okay. All right. He left.’

  ‘So what makes you think he didn’t believe you?’

  ‘Can’t put my finger on it. First Lachie. Now me. Just doesn’t feel good.’

  Rafferty’s response calmed the councillor. ‘I agree, but let me worry about it. Don’t talk to Thompson or anybody else. Wait for me to contact you. I’ll deal with it, okay?’

  Rutherford gushed his thanks, relief rolling off him. ‘That’s great. Cameron caught me off-guard. Sorry, Sean.’

  Rafferty had already stopped listening.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The tale Thompson and Rutherford had told was so similar they might have been twins, reading from a script. But – to use one of Patrick Logue’s sporting expressions –fair play to them; they’d done a reasonable job. No surprise, given they were professional liars.

  My meetings with them would’ve yielded nothing of interest if I hadn’t already seen a Glasgow gangster in the Herald, convincing me beyond any reasonable doubt, they were involved in something, even before they opened their untrustworthy mouths.

  Thanks to Andrew, we knew OTD was Emil Rocha, which made Sean Rafferty the front for dirty money. The lack of hard evidence didn’t prevent me from being certain he’d murdered Tony Daly. As yet, I didn’t understand why though it didn’t take a big brain to figure the lucrative partnership with the city must be at the centre of it. Tomorrow I’d discuss it with Andrew. Tonight I needed to be free.

  Alile came round to the flat and I squandered another opportunity to make love to her. She had to be wondering. All her life, men had fallen over themselves to get close to her and here I was acting like an emotionally stunted schoolboy. At best, the signals were mixed. Confusing for me as well as her.

  Sitting on the couch with two-thirds of a bottle of wine inside us, she squeezed my hand and gave me the chance to explain. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘You’re still in love with somebody, aren’t you?’

  Women know things; somehow they just do.

  ‘Who is she?’

  My first words damned me. ‘It’s over.’

  She shook her head. ‘No it isn’t, Charlie. Whatever you’re telling yourself, it isn’t.’

  I didn’t disagree. Alile had opened Pandora’s Box and it all came tumbling out. She listened while I told her about Kate Calder; how the romance ended and how it kicked off again – at least for me – when she showed-up unexpe
ctedly on Hogmanay.

  I left out the snakeskin boots.

  Too much information.

  Alile kissed me on the cheek; warm and soft. ‘Thanks for being honest with me, Charlie. I’d like to go home now.’

  We didn’t speak in the car. When we got to her place she turned, took my face in her hands, and kissed me again. This wonderful woman was about to walk out of my life. The memory of wanting to be free came back to haunt me. They say be careful what you wish for; this wasn’t what I had in mind.

  ‘Honestly, Alile, it’s over.’

  The smile on her lips didn’t reach her eyes. ‘If it ever is, I’ll be here. Just don’t wait too long.’

  At the flat I washed the glasses, poured the wine down the sink and called Kate’s mobile. A female with an American accent told me the number was unobtainable. For a while – no idea how long – I sat on the couch where Alile had been and tried to picture Kate Calder the last time we’d been together.

  I couldn’t.

  The next morning I felt ill and depressed.

  Two glasses of wine will do that to you.

  Not.

  -------

  I parked, as usual, in High Street and walked to NYB under a sky that mirrored my mood; dark and overcast. Last night stayed with me. Turning a beautiful woman down wasn’t an everyday thing and it didn’t feel good.

  He was waiting for me on the corner of the Italian centre: an extra from Beyond the Planet of the Apes. On another day, seeing him might have given me pause. Not today. I walked past and heard him fall into step behind me.

  It was too early for the bar to be open. Pat Logue was letting a coffee go cold in front of him. Jackie started to say something when he tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Mr Cameron? Mr Rafferty would like a few minutes of your time.’

  What happened next surprised me as much as him. I grabbed his arm, pivoted and followed his graceless descent over my knee to the floor. He landed heavily on his back with me on top of him. The guy was mid-twenties and probably spent more time in the gym than most people spend at work. All for nothing when over-confidence takes your eye off the ball. And I was up for it. Punching somebody would be almost therapeutic.