by Owen Mullen
On an ugly chest of drawers that might have pre-dated the First World War, a photograph of a blonde woman holding an infant lay beside the envelope it had come in. The woman was kissing the child’s forehead. Underneath the inscription written in an assured hand read “One year on and going strong. Thanks to you.”
McMillan came in and saw me studying the picture.
‘Not bad, eh? Another satisfied customer. Only thing I miss about it.’
He knelt down and added wood to the fire from a wicker basket, grinning.
‘These old places don’t hold the heat. No joke this time of year I can tell you.’
‘Can imagine.’
‘What’ll it be?’
‘I’m good. And I’m driving.’
‘Don’t mind if the chef indulges himself, do you?’
‘Not at all.’
He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a whisky the size of three pub measures; the obstetrician wore it well but he was still drinking heavily. We sat by the fire watching tongues of new-born flames devour the logs, not speaking, until McMillan broke the spell.
‘Any luck with Gavin Law?’
‘As a matter of fact there is.’
‘You’ve found him?’
I told him about the night before and he listened in silence. When I reached the end he poured himself another drink. The story affected him; the hand holding the drink shook though his voice was steady.
‘Sorry, Charlie, don’t believe it. I knew Maitland – not well – though I knew him. His incompetence might have hurt people, but he wouldn’t kill anybody.’
‘How can you be sure? Law had him in a corner. He must’ve hated him.’
‘Even so, it doesn’t compare with David Cooper. His wife had been taken from him. Over the years, Maitland’s done well enough financially. Being forced to retire early isn’t the worst thing in the world.’
He sipped his drink and got up to set the table. Out of the blue he said, ‘So what did he do with the body?’
I gave him the answer Andrew had given me. ‘It’ll turn up.’
McMillan was smart; smarter than DI Adam Barr – how hard was that? ‘Hasn’t so far. Shouldn’t that concern the police?’
Not when closing a file was more important than the truth. His voice reached me from the kitchen. ‘Hope you’ve brought your appetite with you.’
A minute later, he appeared holding two plates of spaghetti.
‘Careful, it’s hot.’
He opened a bottle of red wine and offered me a glass. I refused.
‘Sure? Just one? All right. More for me.’
The pasta was cooked to perfection and the meat sauce hadn’t come from a jar.
‘Don’t stand on ceremony. Dig in.’
McMillan spoke through a mouthful of Bolognese. ‘What happened to the rape allegation Law was so worried about when he spoke to me?’
Good question.
‘The woman won’t come forward. So Hambley says.’
McMillan paused. ‘I wonder if there ever was an allegation. Wouldn’t be surprised if he invented it to shut Law up. He’d realise no hospital would employ an obstetrician without a reference. Believe me, I know.’
He changed the subject.
‘I’ve decided to go away for a while. Take a villa for six months and live like the locals then move on to somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘Haven’t decided. The Greek islands. The South of France. Sit in the sun and watch my lemons grow.’
‘Nice idea. Won’t you get bored?’
He smiled across the table. ‘I expect I will.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Soon. I’m done with Scotland. Glasgow especially. Won’t be going back there. The agent can sell the house and everything in it for all I care.’
Colin McMillan sounded low. The adventure he was describing didn’t excite him as much as he made out. His eyes were hooded and his cheeks were flushed, and in the firelight, he looked old and unhappy. He refilled his glass, missing me out. He hadn’t been joking about more for him.
‘So I suppose what I’m saying is, this is goodbye.’
‘Drop me a postcard from the Promenade des Anglais, or wherever.’
‘I will. And don’t stop searching for Law. The answer is probably staring you in the face. All you have to do is see it.’
At the door, he said, ‘You’re a smart guy, Charlie. I like you.’
‘I didn’t hear the ghost story. Neidpath Castle, remember?’
‘What? Oh, yes. Some other time. Take care of yourself.’
On the drive back to the city, it started to snow. Night closed in and although it was only five-thirty, it could have been ten o’clock. At one point, it was coming down so fast the wipers struggled to clear the windscreen, and I was glad I’d left the drinking to him. Colin McMillan was decent company but he was heading for trouble. The shaking revealed how much booze he was getting through. A new beginning took courage. McMillan could be going through the motions, making a geographical change, or he might be opening himself to the future.
I wished him well.
At a BP station in Biggar, I stopped, still thinking about the obstetrician and what he’d been through. I’d been through some stuff, too: from discovering Margaret Cooper dead in her wheelchair to standing helpless while her husband executed Maitland and turned the knife on himself. And I hadn’t once thought of Kate Calder.
My text was short, two words: it’s over.
Alile’s reply matched it: I’m at home.
I got into the car, turned off the forecourt, and put my foot on the gas.
-------
The door opened before I reached it and Alile stood with light at her back. There were no words. We tore each other’s clothes away until we were naked and fell against the wall. She buried her face in my shoulder, crying and moaning before she climaxed. I carried her upstairs and in her bed, we finished what we’d started. Slowly and deliberately this time, but we finished it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I lay quietly watching Alile sleep, tracing her perfect features with my eyes and wondering how I’d ever considered letting her slip away.
The night before had been wonderful and, for the first time since Kate got on the plane, I was at peace. Love was strange. David Cooper was proof of that. Smothering his wife – if indeed he had – was courageous and unselfish. The final act of devotion. To care so much for someone was an awesome thing and when the balance of his mind wasn’t disturbed, he’d felt the same. I’d seen it.
On the way to Francis Fallon, bright sunshine and blue skies made it seem like summer had arrived early. But it was bitterly cold, and snow from yesterday piled in drifts on the pavement. I was wearing my coat. I would need it. Alile was from Africa; no snow there. She stared at it and didn’t speak, maybe trying to decide if she’d made a mistake with Scotland and with me.
As she was getting out she said, ‘Will I see you tonight?’
‘Tonight and every night.’
It was the question and the answer we both had to hear. She kissed me and smiled. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
In NYB, Jackie Mallon set aside our differences to grill me. Jackie was a sharp-eyed cookie. Apart from that, she was a woman, and as soon as I stepped through the door, she spotted a change in me. Resentment about office space was no match for gossip straight from the mill.
‘So when’re we going to meet her, then?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Jackie.’
She laughed, and started making the cappuccino I hadn’t asked for. ‘Read you like a book, Charlie. You’re like the cat that got the cream.’
‘And you’re a silly romantic, Jackie.’
She set the coffee in front of me. ‘It was cappuccino you wanted, wasn’t it?’
‘As a matter of fact, it was, yes.’
Her fingers pressed her temples, closed her eyes and went into a mock trance. ‘Magda know all.
Magda see all. So shove your denial chat. You and Miss Universe are together.’
I lifted the Herald from the bar and headed to a table and sanctuary. Jackie could be a scary woman, but I’d miss her. The paper was full of speculation about how bad Brexit was for the country and not much else until an item on page five caught my eye. Leader of the council, Lachie Thompson had resigned. His colleague, Sandy Rutherford, was quoted saying how much he regretted the elder statesman’s sudden departure – which, of course, he respected – and praised his contribution to the city. The report didn’t touch on why Thompson had chosen this moment to go. I thought I understood. Out of politics, Sean Rafferty had no more use for him, and, given what I’d seen, it was probably one of the councillor’s easier decisions.
As for Jackie, she was teasing me. I didn’t mind. Over the years her car-crash love life had put her in the firing-line. My turn now and a small price to pay for Alile. I thought about the lady from Malawi, then focussed on what was certain to be a difficult day. By now, Gavin Law’s sister would have been told DI Adam Barr’s flimsy fantasy, where Wallace Maitland murdered her brother. It would destroy her, but in time, some kind of acceptance might be possible.
And she had Dean. Cissie Daly had no one. I hoped I could find the words.
Normally, it would too early for Pat Logue – the bar wouldn’t open for a while – yet he was here, drinking a coffee with his head buried in a book. He acknowledged me with a distracted nod and followed it with a question.
‘Could use a lift if you’re going out again, Charlie.’
‘Where to?’
‘The fruit market. Got a deal on.’
‘It’ll have to be soon.’
‘Ready when you are.’
‘Then let’s go.’
On the way to the car, he offered un-asked for insights into his mid-life crisis. Pat Logue lived in bookmakers and shady transactions.
‘I’m at a stage where I need to decide where I want to go.’
We swept up High Street, passed Barony Hall, as far as the traffic lights opposite the St Mungo Museum, and rolled to a halt. In the passenger seat, Pat Logue stayed in entrepreneurial mood, exploring the pros and cons of his business model – whether I was interested or not. He recognised a captive audience when he had one. Patrick stroked his goatee and loudly invited me to consider the world of business, giving his newly acquired language an airing. For the moment, what was going to win the two-thirty at Wincanton didn’t figure in his thinking. Joining the ranks of the Rothschilds did, although, when he searched for an example to illustrate a point, the sport of kings was there to help.
‘Low risk investments bring low returns which is why, with the gee-gees, bettin’ the favourite won’t get you much. Perishable goods are high risk, Charlie. And decidin’ on a stop-loss position in case it all goes Pete Tong, that’s where the skill comes in.’
How much risk could there possibly be in five dozen boxes of bananas?
I threw my tuppence-worth in. ‘Stop-loss? Isn’t that for the stock market?’
Patrick wasn’t fazed. ‘Stock market. Fruit market. Comes down to the same thing: makin’ money or losin’ money.’
We moved on, into Castle Street, as far as the Cathedral and waited while a steady stream of people, likely coming from the Royal Infirmary, crossed in front of us. I’d successfully filtered Patrick out and was drumming the steering wheel and remembering Alile when I saw him. Without his distinctive coat, he would’ve been just another face in the crowd.
Colin McMillan walked purposefully, and Pat Logue’s description of Sean Rafferty came into my head: a man with somewhere to go and something to do when he gets there. Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d told me he wasn’t coming back here.
I’m done with Scotland. Glasgow especially.
Yet, here he was. The jigsaw puzzle came together in my head.
‘McMillan! Bloody McMillan!’
Patrick hadn’t seen him. Before I could act, the lights changed and I was forced to go with the traffic instead of turning right onto the motorway and Blochairn. I swung left.
Patrick started to protest. ‘Wrong way, Charlie. The market, remember?’
I didn’t explain; there wasn’t time. A minute later, we were back where we’d started, facing the Royal Infirmary and Cathedral Square. There was no sign of Colin McMillan. I pulled into the kerb and jumped out.
‘You’ll have to drive, Patrick. Park and find me.’
Pat Logue didn’t understand what was happening. ‘Where will you be?’
I pointed. ‘In there.’
McMillan was going to the Necropolis. The Victorian graveyard on a hill over-looking the city, originally intended to be Glasgow’s version of the famous Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris. And it was big - thirty-seven acres. The man I was after could be anywhere.
I raced towards what I later discovered was the Bridge of Sighs and found my way barred: the heavy black and gold gate was locked. Through it I saw McMillan, already on the higher ground, surrounded by tombstones, unaware he’d been spotted. I charged back the way I’d come – took a left, then down the hill another left, across from Cathedral House hotel – and arrived at the main entrance. Further away, the path McMillan had been on rose to the heart of the cemetery. There was no sign of the obstetrician and I stopped to get my bearings, out of breath, amid more frosted reminders of mortality than I could count.
On every side, paths led to more paths. Footprints in the snow helped me decide. I followed them and ran, until, in the distance, I saw the camel coat, and McMillan standing at the foot of a grave with his hands clasped in front of him. For a second, I thought he was praying. The last interment had been before he was born. Who did he know here?
When I reached him he smiled his sad lop-sided smile at me and didn’t offer to shake hands. ‘Charlie! Wasn’t expecting to see you again.’
In the cold light, his face was lined and tired, older than he’d seemed in Peebles. He kept his eyes on me, waiting for my reaction. We’d shared pasta and ghost stories and I had liked Colin McMillan. In other circumstances we might have become friends.
That wouldn’t be happening.
I found my voice. ‘It was you. All along, it was you.’
He shrugged an apology. ‘Afraid so. No choice. Sorry if you’re disappointed in me.’
‘Why?’
He studied the rock-hard ground.
‘You never met Gavin Law, did you? Take it from me he was a bastard, especially with women. Callous. Used them, and threw them away. Joyce met him at a party when our marriage was in trouble; they had an affair. We could’ve got over it. We’d agreed to give it a try then he convinced her he was serious about her. Instead of getting back together, Joyce moved out. Five weeks later, he dropped her. I tried over and over to get her to speak to me. She wouldn’t even meet me. She was a good person and she was ashamed and humiliated by what she’d done. But it wasn’t her it was him.’
The memory overwhelmed him.
‘Ending the affair was one thing but treating her the way he did was unforgiveable. He shunned her and she took her own life.’
‘How do you know that’s what happened?’
‘She left a note explaining everything. I kept it. And that night, I swore Law would pay for the suffering he’d caused.’
‘So you killed him? How?’
The surgeon seemed keen to unburden himself maybe because he felt he owed me the truth.
‘We weren’t friends and never would’ve been. But, because I complained about Wallace Maitland, Law considered us allies; on the same side. Thought I didn’t know he was the man Joyce was having an affair with, and confided in me. After the harm he’d caused he telephoned on Hogmanay to tell me about the rape allegation, and I knew this was the chance I’d waited for.’
‘You set it up from the beginning. The anaesthetist was telling the truth. You told him you were suicidal because you knew Francis Fallon would suspend you.’
McMillan sigh
ed. His breath drifted on the air. ‘Gavin Law was cruel, and so obsessed with himself, he didn’t realise what I was doing. It was all about him. My wife – his lover, a woman he’d persuaded to leave her husband – was only two months’ dead, and he’d moved on.’
I asked again. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I drove to Glasgow and went to his flat.’
‘Wasn’t he surprised to see you?’
McMillan laughed. ‘His ego was so big, the fucking idiot assumed I was concerned about him. We talked. I said he should go to his sister’s party. I’d give him a lift if he wanted.’
‘And?’
‘I killed him in the car.’
The world was suddenly over-run with people telling fairy stories – James Hambley, DI Adam Barr and now, Colin McMillan.
I shook my head. ‘Nice try Colin, but you didn’t kill anybody. It was Sean Rafferty.’
The lop-sided smile reappeared. ‘I’m lost, Charlie.’
No he wasn’t.
‘When I saw you heading here again, I realised who the woman in the photograph is. The satisfied customer. It’s Sean Rafferty’s wife. His daughter almost died. You saved her life, and Sean owes you. Am I right?’
McMillan dropped the pretence and applauded; slowly and deliberately. ‘You’re a smart guy. No doubt about it. Rafferty warned me to be careful round you. Well done. But how will you prove it?’
The grave was modest compared with some. Wind and rain had eroded the name of whoever was buried here. The inscription survived and I’d heard it before. He’d quoted it to me in NYB the first time we had met, when he was describing the attraction of the Necropolis.
Save your tears for the living .
I tapped the frozen earth with my foot and took out my mobile. ‘That won’t be a problem, Colin.’
We waited for DS Geddes and the uniforms to arrive. McMillan didn’t try to run. He seemed resigned, pleased even.
‘You and a murdering thug like, Rafferty? I don’t get it.’
McMillan stuck to his script. ‘I’ve admitted I did it and told you why and how. Beyond that…you’re imagining things, Charlie. Settle for what you’ve got. I have.’