by Owen Mullen
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Putting handcuffs on him was unnecessary; he wasn’t going anywhere; they did it anyway. Andrew Geddes kept his distance and let Barr have the glory. The DI didn’t acknowledge me, and, at a guess, my contribution wouldn’t feature in his report. When they’d taken McMillan away, the grave was cordoned off and an officer placed on guard until permission was granted to open it. I had no doubt about what they would find.
Patrick should have been back by now. The sight of so many policemen might have scared him away. He’d turn up with a story the length of the street and probably true.
I walked the steep incline to the John Knox monument, with virgin snow sighing under my feet, passed the elaborate final resting places of tobacco barons and their moneyed neighbours. Knowing you can’t take it with you hadn’t prevented some people trying.
From the top, in the extraordinary light, the cathedral was a doll’s house dusted in icing sugar, and the sounds of the city barely a whisper. For a spot to spend eternity, it would be hard to beat. If it mattered.
“Save your tears for the living” had spoken to Colin McMillan. David Cooper would have understood only too well. Caroline Law and Cissie Daly would appreciate where he was coming from.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
NYB had been my second home for longer than I wanted to remember. Leaving would be hard but, as Pat Logue liked to say, it had to be done.
Jackie wasn’t around when I arrived. I guessed she’d heard I’d asked Alex Gilby to see me this morning and would be dancing on the tables at the thought of getting my office and quitting her shoe box under the stairs. Not so.
She said, ‘Alex told me you’re moving out. Never thought I’d hear myself say it. I’m going to miss you, Charlie. You’re a good guy.’
Now she tells me.
Pat Logue was in bad shape, and looked as if he’d spent the night in a barn. His usual hail-fellow act was beyond him. Patrick was hungover. I’d last seen him at the Necropolis on his way to the fruit market and his deal.
He spoke to me from behind his hand. ‘Any chance of a sub, Charlie? I’m potless.’
‘Thought you were geared up to take on the world?’
He tried a smile that didn’t make it. ‘Business is a cruel world. It’s dog eat dog out there.’
I’d heard. So far, nobody had paid me. Patrick’s need was greater than mine. I gave him a large photograph of the queen.
‘Thanks. Take it off my next wage.’
He handed the money to the barman and took a pint in return.
‘Come up and tell me what went wrong.’
‘Will do. By the by, the jungle drums are sayin’ today’s the day you’re offski, that true?’
‘Yes. Time to go time.’
In the office, I started clearing my stuff; not much to show for the years I’d been here.
Alex Gilby found me emptying the desk drawers. He seemed subdued. ‘Sorry you’re going, Charlie. Sure you won’t change your mind?’
Generous, except we both realised it was for the best. The arrangement with Alex had been great for me but it hadn’t been intended to last indefinitely.
‘Had a good run. No complaints.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Don’t know yet.’
He fished a set of keys from his pocket and threw them on the desk. ‘A place round the corner in Cochrane Street belongs to me. Could use a coat of paint and it’s small. It’s yours if you want it.’
‘Cheers, Alex. I’ll take a look.’
Half an hour after he left, Andrew Geddes poked his head round the door. ‘Still here? Thought I might’ve missed you.’
Those jungle tom-toms were loud.
DS Geddes did a line in solace few could match. And even fewer survived. He sat across from me and gazed around, preparing to conjure up good old days that had never happened. I braced for comforting words which would have us both in tears.
Andrew sighed. ‘Sad, Charlie. Has to be said.’
No it didn’t. I was moving offices not going to Patagonia. I nipped it in the bud.
‘What about Colin McMillan?’
Geddes took the hint and let it go. ‘He’s confessed to murdering Gavin Law on Hogmanay. And you were spot on; he didn’t change his story. Claims to have driven from Peebles to his flat, and killed him. In the snow? Remember how bad it was?’
‘You were worried about getting a taxi to take you a couple of miles home.’
‘Hard to argue with a guy who’s determined to take the credit. Barr’s as happy as a pig in shit. Loves it. Getting a reputation as a can-do copper.’
‘Except it would be impossible for McMillan to do it by himself. Doesn’t Barr get that?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Doubt forensics will find much. Even if he did do it, the one thing a surgeon understands is contamination. Barr’s got a signed confession from a guy with motive – Law seduced his wife then dropped her. She committed suicide. More than enough for most people.’
‘Unless they’re interested in finding out what really happened.’
‘Barr isn’t.’
‘Then he must be deaf, dumb, and blind, because the physical logistics don’t add up. The Necropolis was closed, so how did he get in? Even if he somehow managed that he’d have to drag the body to the other side of the cemetery, dig a hole and bury it. Way more far-fetched than Tony Daly. It would take a Sean Rafferty to make those problems go away. And the cash withdrawals would be easy for him to organise.’
‘Nevertheless, as a place to hide a body, the Necropolis is hard to beat. And while McMillan’s protesting his guilt, it isn’t up to the police to prove he isn’t telling the truth. According to him, the phone call from Law gave him the opportunity.’
‘What he isn’t saying is he never left Peebles. He called Rafferty and told him about the rape. And that Law was on his own.’
‘Yes. Killing him was the plan from the beginning. Complaining about Maitland was a ruse to make it look like he was on the same side as Law. Same with admitting he was suicidal to another member of staff. Knew he was putting his career in jeopardy, and didn’t care. Difficult to argue against.’
‘Can only imagine how angry and bitter he was to sacrifice his career for revenge’
‘Not really. Did you notice his hand shaking?’
‘Assumed it was the booze. Anytime I was with him he was drinking for Scotland.’
Geddes shook his head. ‘It isn’t booze.’
‘Then, what?’
‘Parkinson’s. His days in theatre were over.’
‘So what about his connection to Sean Rafferty?’
‘Denies there is one. The Rafferty baby almost died. McMillan saved her life. Just doing his job.’
‘Again, not true. Rafferty owed, him or thought he did. He’d heard what Law had done and offered to square things. There’s a photograph of Rafferty’s wife with the daughter in his house in Peebles.’
‘That’s when you sussed it?’
‘No. I couldn’t place the woman’s face until McMillan crossed in front of the car, heading towards the Necropolis. Then it hit me along with something Rafferty said. He told me I’d been a pain in his arse three times. Thought he’d made a mistake because I only counted two: the last time I crossed his path and Daly. He was talking about Law.’
I handed Andrew the picture I’d torn from the Herald: the Lord Provost, Sean Rafferty and a blonde woman unveiling a model of Riverside.
‘It was too crazy. The day before McMillan had told me he was finished with Glasgow – pretty definite about it, too – and suddenly, there he was. It didn’t feel right. And, unlike your DI, I didn’t believe Wallace Maitland had done it. Pat Logue saw him coming out of the Necropolis and I’d already run into him on the street there as well. Three times was too much of a coincidence. Spun a yarn about how fascinating the architecture was and quoted the inscription on the gravestone.’
“‘Save your tears for the living.” Was he giving you a clue?’
‘Y
ou’d have to ask him that.’
‘I will. And before you start feeling too sorry for him, remember, Rafferty might’ve been the instrument but McMillan was at the centre of it, even if he didn’t actually do the deed. That makes him a murderer.’
‘How did Law actually die?’
‘Asphyxiated.’
‘The same as Joyce McMillan. Poetic.’
Geddes laughed. ‘Fucks Barr’s fairytale about Maitland killing Law right up.’
‘But it doesn’t explain how Maitland came by his injuries on Hogmanay.’
‘You’ve called it so far. What’s your best guess?’
‘I’d put money on David Cooper. The guy must’ve been going under even then. Went to talk to Law and ran into Maitland. Stopped short of killing. Later on he snapped and finished the job. Anything from Francis Fallon?
‘No. Though you can’t get near the place for reporters. Hambley’s knighthood’s out the window.’
‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. He’s still getting off lightly.’
‘You did great work on this, Charlie. Great work.’
A compliment from Andrew was a rare thing. I would savour it.
‘Yet the real killer is getting away scot-free. Sean Rafferty has murdered two people and nobody knows it.’
‘Whoever sent you the note about Thompson’s granddaughter knows. Hope they find more courage next time.’
‘If there is a next time. Rafferty’s on his way to becoming respectable.’
‘He’ll never be that, and there’s always a next time with scum like him. We’ll get another chance. Sooner or later he’ll run out of luck. They all do.’
Geddes stood and took a last look round, on the point of going maudlin on me, then changed his mind. ‘Oh, just so you know, I’ve put in for promotion.’
‘Not before time. Pleased to hear it.’
‘Barr will be asked to input, so don’t hold your breath. I’ll play the game his way until I can play it my way. No more meltdowns. You won’t have to rescue me again.’
‘Can’t keep a good man down, Andrew. Don’t forget it.’
The unbeliever in him never slept.
‘Been doing a pretty fair job so far.’
My mobile rang. Andrew waved, and left. On the other end of the line, Caroline Law was understandably subdued, but all right.
‘I wanted to thank you for finding Gavin. Without you, I would’ve lived the rest of my life not knowing, and blaming myself.’
I identified with that feeling.
‘Send me your bill, and thanks. I really mean it. Thanks.’
Pat Logue must have been waiting, because no sooner had DS Geddes left than he appeared. The money I’d given him had done its work. Whatever his business reversal had been, he’d put it behind him and was his breezy self again, though it wasn’t all down to the alcohol. Now and then, the storms of life raged and threatened to drown him, but he always surfaced; Patrick was a survivor. Seeing him back on form made me smile. Some things should never change.
He clapped his hands. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Where’s this Eskimo woman you want me to wrestle?’
EPILOGUE
Kim Rafferty sat in the rocking-chair with Rosie in her arms; the toddler was almost asleep. Today had been a big day; she’d said her first word: mama. As usual, Sean wasn’t around to hear it. Kim hadn’t seen him for two days; he hadn’t come home. Probably with one of his whores. She didn’t care. Being in the same room with him made her want to be sick. Their child was the only good thing to have come out of the marriage. All that ever would come out of it.
Rosie’s eyes flickered open and closed again. Kim smiled down at her daughter and whispered. ‘Mummy’s note wasn’t enough. But we’ll get him, won’t we, Rosie? Daddy’s a bad man but we’ll get him. Just you wait. You wait and see if we don’t.’
A NOTE FROM BLOODHOUND BOOKS
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Have you read the other books in Owen Mullen’s PI Charlie Cameron Series?
Book One
Games People Play
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Book Two
Old Friends and New Enemies
Amazon UK – Amazon US
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For me, the biggest surprise in writing has come from the encouragement and support of people; many of them strangers. Their generosity has been a humbling experience. The debt of gratitude is so large it is difficult to know where to begin, but perhaps a mention to all the book clubs and their members is a good place to start. Also, the reviewers and bloggers who tirelessly work to help a novel reach the maximum audience deserve to be recognised. If they weren’t there, I would be whistling in the dark. Naming them individually is a recipe for missing someone out and offending them, so I won’t go there. It isn’t necessary; they already know who they are. Thanks, everybody.
In bringing the story to the page, I again credit DS Alasdair McMorrin of Police Scotland CID for keeping me within the bounds of reality, Heather Osborne, my editor, and Betsy and Fred at Bloodhound Books for their faith in me.
Putting a book together is like making sausages; a process it is better no one witnesses. In that regard, my partner, inspiration and guiding light is, as always, my wife, Christine. How fortunate to be married to such a creative thinker. It means I am never stuck for long because she sees possibilities I am blind to. Her vision is unsurpassed and, without her input this book would not exist.
Owen Mullen
Crete 2017