by Owen Mullen
Rafferty stopped at the end of the hall. ‘How long have you known me, Victoria?’
He called her Victoria when he was displeased.
‘A long time.’
‘And have I ever mentioned working for anybody? I mean, even once.’
‘No.’
‘So why take this clown’s word when you know it isn’t true?’
‘What if it was? I… I couldn’t be certain. You’re involved in so many things.’
Rafferty shook his head. Vicky Farrell wasn’t the whore she used to be. He’d heard a whisper there was a boyfriend in the wings. A Tony somebody. Tony must be desperate. What kind of man got seriously involved with a tart?
‘You know, Vicky, I can remember a time you’d have had his legs broken and left him in the street without even telling me. You’re losing it. Maybe I need to give your job to somebody else. Now, show me this idiot. Let’s hear what fantasy his father’s been feeding him.’
At the door, he turned. ‘I’m serious. Do better or get another gig.’
Kelvin Hunter raised his head when Rafferty came in. Vicky had been right about this guy: he wasn’t afraid. Sean pegged him somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, as confident a bastard as he’d met in a while. Kelvin sat on a chair in the middle of the room, examining his fingernails, making a show of being bored. His shirt had blood on it but it wasn’t his own. Apart from bruising across his knuckles, he was unmarked. Rafferty caught the amusement in the eyes staring up at him and wanted to waste the young sadist’s face. Clearly, Kelvin believed he was fireproof; his father had a lot to answer for. Two men Sean recognised stood behind Hunter – he’d made a run for it once; it wouldn’t happen again.
Kelvin clapped his hands and spoke in a privately educated accent. ‘At long last, the boss man cometh. Now, can I get out of here?’
He straightened his jacket in a prelude to leaving and tried to stand. Thick fingers digging into his shoulder forced him back on the chair. He shook his head slowly as though he didn’t understand why he was being treated this way, mumbling an explanation to himself that revealed his sense of superiority. ‘She was a prostitute, for Christ’s sake. What’s the big deal?’
Rafferty’s interest was in what the thug had said to Vicky rather than the harm he’d done to a defenceless girl. His tone was conversational. ‘Apparently, I work for your father. Who told you that?’
The question surprised Hunter. ‘What? He did.’
‘And this “work”. What is it?’
‘How would I know?’
‘Maybe we should ask him. First, you owe me for damage to my property.’
Strong hands dragged Kelvin to his feet and threw him against the wall. For the first time, fear lit his eyes. His misjudged sense of entitlement won; he tried the brazen routine again. ‘You wouldn’t dare. My father—’
The punch to his gut doubled him over, lining him up to catch the full force of Rafferty’s knee to his chin. Kelvin dropped to the floor and lay still, barely conscious as Sean Rafferty’s foot smashed into him, again and again.
‘You’re due a valuable lesson, then we’ll hear what your dad has to say for himself, eh?’
The bungalow and the neat square of well-tended lawn edged with rose bushes would be considered modest in many parts of the country. In Bearsden, six miles north-west of the city centre, it was beyond most people’s reach. One survey put the G61 postcode as the seventh wealthiest in the UK. Posh Glasgow, a world away from the tenements of the East End or the high-rise monstrosities like the now demolished Red Road flats where, on a clear day from the thirteenth-floor, residents could see gangs of junkies shooting up on the banks of Hogganfield Loch.
Councillor Bryce Hunter lived here; he’d done all right for a guy who’d left school at fifteen without a qualification to his name.
The car pulled off the road into the drive. Sean Rafferty got out and walked up the path. Behind him, Kelvin Hunter’s feet scraped the gravel. Barely able to stand, he wasn’t smiling now. Naked from the waist up, supported on either side by the heavies who’d watched their boss teach him a lesson he richly deserved, he moaned as they dragged him to the door, his pale skin black and blue from the beating.
Rafferty pressed the doorbell and waited. When it opened, Bryce Hunter saw the gangster and the state his son was in. The elected member’s tone told Sean everything. Kelvin was his father’s boy, no doubt about that.
‘You low-life bastard, Rafferty. What the hell have you done to him?’
‘Think yourself lucky he isn’t floating face down in the Clyde. Kelvin here likes rough sex. Did he get that from you or his mother? The problem is, it costs, and he didn’t fancy paying for it.’
A woman appeared from the kitchen still holding the tea towel she’d been using to dry dishes. Hunter raised his arms to stop her getting closer. ‘It’s okay, Hazel. It’s okay.’
Her hand went to her mouth when she saw her boy. ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God! What’s happened?’
Hunter shepherded her into the lounge. ‘There’s been a bit of trouble but I’m dealing with it. Kelvin’s all right.’
They dumped the semi-conscious thug inside the door. Rafferty said, ‘Because of this piece of shit, one of my girls is in hospital.’ He shook his head. ‘Messing with Sean Rafferty’s property – how did he imagine it would turn out?’
Bryce Hunter bent over Kelvin, whispering to him. From the other room, his wife shouted, ‘I’m calling the police!’
Sean Rafferty ignored her. ‘You’ll be getting a bill for lost income. I’ll add on something for the girl.’ He pointed to Kelvin. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll keep him on a leash. We’ve got his shirt and jacket; the hooker’s blood is on them and there’s a video of him admitting he assaulted her. I own you now, Bryce. Don’t forget it. Whenever a request for planning permission comes across your desk with my name on it, persuade your colleagues to approve it without the usual malarkey.’
He moved away, then turned back.
‘One more thing. Kelvin tells me I work for you. Who the fuck gave him that idea?’
Walking into NYB was like walking into a Jack Vettriano painting. All that was missing was a singing butler.
For years this had been a familiar scene when my office was a room above the diner. Moving from New York Blue might have meant seeing a lot less of Jackie, Andrew and Pat Logue. But like so many things, it didn’t come out like that. The space Alex Gilby offered me was round the corner, and whenever I went back to NYB it was like visiting the land time forgot; Jackie Mallon still managed the place from her cupboard under the stairs. With me gone from the office she’d lusted after, the need to actually occupy it seemed to have passed. Over next to the Rock-Ola, Andrew Geddes was starting his day with his usual habit of ruining perfectly good bagels by dunking them in his coffee.
Andrew was a detective sergeant in Police Scotland CID: a shrewd, observant old-time copper. We’d been friends a long time. More impressive than it sounded because Geddes wasn’t the easiest guy to be friends with. He’d helped me more often than I could remember; he had a good heart. But if you wanted to find it, you had to be prepared to dig.
And Patrick Logue was Patrick Logue: as permanent a fixture at the bar as Sir Walter Scott on top of the column in George Square. He’d worked for me on and off for years and was streetwise and savvy, except when it came to his own business. He was a good guy. I liked him. At a minute to eleven o’clock, he broke from the racing section of the Daily Record and his ritual of picking losers to speak to Jackie.
‘How long till I can get something stronger than a coffee? Askin’ for an alkie.’
She gave him an old-fashioned look and poured his first pint of the day, the first of many.
I saw her the moment she came through the door, her lemon dress and Ray-Ban sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair – perfect for the fine weather central Scotland had been enjoying for more than a week – catching the attention of everyone in the bar, including the women: esp
ecially the women.
The new arrival scanned the tables, searching for somebody. When she didn’t find them, she spoke to Jackie Mallon. Jackie raised an arm and pointed in my direction. High heels clacked on the floor; the vision weaved towards me between the chairs. Then I realised who she was and wished she wasn’t coming to me.
Close up, with her slim figure and fresh complexion, she might have been seventeen or eighteen, and if she was wearing make-up on her heart-shaped face, it didn’t show. We’d never met though I knew her story: Kim had been a model at the beginning of what was certain to be a successful career, a finalist in the Miss Scotland competition at the Radisson Blu Hotel on Argyle Street the night the man she’d go on to marry introduced himself.
Sean Rafferty was the son of legendary Glasgow gangster, Jimmy. When his father died, he’d taken over and, on the surface at least, moved away from his family’s criminal past. But, behind the façade of respectability, Sean was worse than Jimmy had ever been.
For months, pictures of the fairy-tale romance between beauty and the beast had filled the celebrity gossip columns: coming out of a Michelin-starred restaurant in Edinburgh glassy-eyed, smiling champagne smiles; draped round each other laughing at a Kevin Bridges show in the SEC; strolling barefoot on a Caribbean beach, hand in hand as a blood-red sun dipped into the sea. For me, at least, the last photograph I’d seen of this beautiful woman had been on a chest of drawers in a cottage on the outskirts of Peebles.
Her top lip quivered; she was nervous and not because every pair of eyes was on her – a lady like her was used to that kind of attention and took it in her stride. This was something else.
‘Mr Cameron. Charlie Cameron?’
I wanted to deny it.
‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Please do.’
‘I’m sorry to break into your morning. You have an office here, don’t you?’
She was almost correct. I’d had an office here. Now, my name was stencilled on the door of a shoebox round the corner in Cochrane Street. I’d gone down in the world, a circumstance I was still coming to terms with.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know who my husband is?’
I knew only too well. Our paths had crossed more than once and I was fortunate to still be alive to tell the tale.
The problem wasn’t that I knew Sean Rafferty. It was that Sean Rafferty knew me.
Like his father before him, Rafferty was a killer. This lady had known his reputation and married him anyway. What did that say about her?
I answered her with a question, suspicion undisguised in my voice. ‘Why are you here, Mrs Rafferty?’
She gazed away, as though what she had to say wasn’t easy. ‘I’m in trouble. You’re the only one who can help.’
A tear brimmed in her right eye. She blinked and it cascaded down her cheek. The left eye was closed and swollen, purple and dark where the blow had connected. Painful, though it wasn’t why she was crying.
‘I take it he did that?’
She nodded.
‘My advice would be to go to the police. I can put you in touch—’
Kim cut across me, her voice louder than she intended. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think that hadn’t occurred to me?’ Her fingers gripped the edge of the table. ‘How long do you imagine I’d survive? He’d kill me and take Rosie. He will anyway, it’s only a matter of time.’
People turned in our direction, instantly interested. At the bar, Pat Logue was one of them, shaking his head; he’d recognised my visitor and was warning me against having anything to do with her.
I said, ‘Here isn’t the place to be discussing this. We’ll go to my office; it’s not far.’
‘I’m desperate, Mr Cameron. You don’t know how desperate.’
3
We walked to Cochrane Street in silence. As soon as the door of my office closed, she took up where she’d left off, describing the sad reality behind the tabloid fantasy.
‘The marriage was over almost from the beginning. He didn’t love me. He used me to clean up his image. On our honeymoon, I caught him with one of the hotel’s chambermaids. He wasn’t sorry; he laughed. Told me to get used to it. Yet, he’s jealous, insanely jealous. He sees me as his property. Another man only has to look at me and he goes crazy, while he flaunts his affairs and his whores.’
Kim looked around the modest room, too wrapped up in her own problems to see its shortcomings. ‘He’ll never let me go because I’d take Rosie. Sean idolises his daughter. She’s probably the only person in the world he truly cares about.’
I spoke quietly, trying to keep disbelief out of my voice. ‘Am I understanding this? You’re asking me to help you leave your husband?’
‘Yes. Finding people who’ve disappeared is what you do, isn’t it? Like that child, Baby Lily Hamilton. That was you.’
‘It was. But that was very different.’
Kim sailed through my objections. ‘Wherever I go, wherever I run to, Sean will come after me.’ She paused and smiled a half-smile. ‘As for the police… let’s just say… your faith in them is… misplaced.’ She laid her crazy idea on me. ‘I want you to work in reverse. Make me and Rosie disappear.’
The look on my face should’ve told her all she needed to know. Even if I was foolish enough to get involved, her plan was doomed. Rafferty had eyes and ears on every street corner in Glasgow and connections far beyond. She reached across and squeezed my fingers; hers felt soft and dry. ‘You are going to help me, aren’t you? At least tell me you’ll think about it. Say you’ll consider it. For God’s sake give me something to cling to. This is my life we’re talking about. Mine and my daughter’s.’
‘Mrs Rafferty—’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Okay, but really…’
Her hand slipped into her bag and came out clutching a thick bundle held together by a rubber band. The notes were Bank of Scotland twenties, purple like her eye; thousands of pounds. She put them on the table and pushed them towards me.
I said, ‘Look, it’s not about money.’
Kim’s expression changed, her head tilted, lips parting provocatively. I realised what was coming and tried to stop her before her humiliation was complete.
Too late.
She whispered, ‘I’ll do anything. Anything. Please, Mr Cameron. Please… Charlie.’
I felt an overwhelming sadness deep inside me. What she was asking was impossible, even if I was the man for it, which I wasn’t. The decision was simple – a choice between prudent or rash, smart or dumb. From bitter experience, I understood the reach Sean Rafferty had and the lengths he’d go to avenge himself on whoever had been stupid enough to help his wife escape.
A stone-cold no-brainer.
Until a voice that sounded like my voice betrayed my desire to go on breathing.
‘Let me think about it.’
And I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.
Kim Rafferty seized on my lack of fortitude. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you. I was sure you wouldn’t refuse me.’
‘Hold on. I’m agreeing to give it some thought. Don’t read any more into it.’
She lied. ‘I won’t. I promise, I won’t.’
I didn’t believe her. ‘Give me your mobile number.’
I added it to my contact list; her face lit up. ‘You can’t imagine how much this means. You’ve given me hope there’s an end to the nightmare.’
The conversation had got away from me. I made an attempt to rein it back.
‘Please understand how difficult life will be for you and your daughter if by some miracle we get you away from him.’
I was talking to myself; she wasn’t listening.
‘How soon will you let me know?’
My throat was dry. Somehow thinking about it had become agreeing to do it.
‘A few days.’
She threw her arms round me and I smel
led her scent – beautiful like the lady herself.
What the hell had I got myself into?
Out on Cochrane Street, Sean Rafferty’s wife waved and hurried towards George Square, already dreaming dreams of freedom. I envied her optimism and wished I shared it.
As a base, the room in Cochrane Street was okay rather than great. Kim Rafferty had had too much on her mind to notice the spartan decor. Somebody less rattled might conclude whoever worked here wasn’t very good at what they did and find another private investigator to take on their case. I wouldn’t blame them.
Kim was terrified; it was in her eyes and in her voice, and, though my instinct was to help her, the downside was massive. Getting involved with the wife of the most dangerous gangster in Glasgow was madness, unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair wishing he’d finished the job. Turning Kim away was the only thing that made sense. Instead, I’d asked for a few days to think about it and given her false hope.
Footsteps on the stairs told me I had another visitor. The door banged open and Pat Logue stood in the frame, his face taut with anger. Before he spoke, I knew what he would say. Patrick had come charging over the hill like the cavalry and saved me on more than a few occasions. He rarely lost his temper. Today, anger flushed his neck and his usual bonhomie was missing.
He sat in the same chair as Kim Rafferty – the only other chair in the room – and stared at me as though he didn’t understand what he was seeing. He was wearing his on-holiday clothes: polo shirt, jeans and open-toed sandals, the goatee on his chin neatly trimmed. Patrick had a singular view of life and made me laugh; he hadn’t come to joke.
‘How long have we known each other, Charlie? I mean, seriously, how long?’
I sighed. ‘A long time, Pat.’
‘And how often have I given you duff advice?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘What I’m gettin’ at is this. A wise man sees trouble and gives it a body swerve; he doesn’t seek it out.’