by Owen Mullen
Central was quiet. Boyd bought coffee from a Costa stand and sat on a seat under the huge notice board suspended above the gates to the platforms. Yards away, a teenage boy and girl draped their arms round each other and kissed for Scotland. Near them, a gang of young boys passed round a can of foreign beer he didn’t recognise and made obscene comments about the couple, while a homeless man in a grubby overcoat a couple of sizes too big for him scavenged a litter bin. If the tramp dug deep enough, he might come across the plan Boyd had had twelve hours earlier.
A train going to the coast caught his eye. For a second, he considered it.
Then what? Who did he know? Where would he go?
I may be the only friend you’ve got left in this town
He patted his jacket, unsure if he still had it, and was in luck – the beer mat was still there. Boyd threw the coffee away, walked to a bank of telephone booths at the far side of the station and dialled the number. When she answered, she sounded sleepy. He blurted out his relief at hearing her voice. ‘Diane? Diane, it’s me.’
‘Dennis?’
‘You were right.’
‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’
‘It’s a mess, Diane. A fucking mess.’
‘What is? Where are you?’
‘Central Station. Come and get me.’
Sean Rafferty grunted his dissatisfaction at the darkness beyond the empty conservatory overlooking the river. The fine weather had moved on and rain spattered the windowpanes in a steady drumbeat. He was ugly drunk and spoiling for a fight; there weren’t any takers. Kim was upstairs in bed – again – with the new door locked. Rosie was asleep. Rafferty’s fevered brain threw up a possibility he hadn’t considered: she had a lover. Kim was a great-looking woman, even if she was a pain in the arse. When they’d met, she’d been a model, flashing her tits for the cameras every chance she got. Would any guy be stupid enough to mess with his property? If somebody had the balls, God help them. Bryce Hunter’s son had tried and was lucky to still be able to walk.
But with his wife? Veins tightened like cords in his neck under the skin; he cracked his knuckles and grimaced. What a mistake that would be.
Rafferty wasn’t jealous. He didn’t love Kim. Apart from Rosie, he’d never loved anybody. Kim was a good mother, otherwise he’d have got rid of the bitch long since. There would be a queue round the block to take her place when he did pull the plug.
Rosie would always be okay – Sean Rafferty was her father.
He sloshed more whisky into the glass; some of it fell on the carpet. The redhead would be at home, curled up on the couch, watching television with her husband.
He mimicked the conversation. ‘How did it go today, darling? Anything to report?’
‘You mean, apart from Sean Rafferty fucking me? Not much. How about you, darling?’
Rafferty gave a harsh laugh and put the whisky to his lips, aroused, breathing heavily. Would he see her again? What was the point? He could get sex anywhere – anywhere but his own bed, apparently.
7
Afternoon sunshine streamed in the window. The blonde sitting in my office casually opened another button on her blouse, her eyes studying my face for a reaction. I didn’t oblige; it was an act. Better-looking ladies than her had tried it. Some had had the talent to pull it off. She wasn’t one of them.
Two blondes in two days. Maybe my aftershave was attracting them.
I expected her to introduce herself. Instead, she lit a cigarette without checking if I objected and pointed to the sign stencilled on the door.
C Cameron
Private Investigator
‘Are you any good?’
Her directness fazed me. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
She crossed her legs, blew a smoke ring in the air and glanced at me to see if her routine was cutting it. ‘Could you handle something a little more… unusual?’
‘If I knew who I was talking to, I might.’
The fingers she offered were like the rest of her: slim, well cared for and cool.
‘Sorry. Diane Kennedy. Call me Diane.’
‘Okay, you’ve got my attention.’
She paused, considering how to begin, and pushed her credibility over the edge. This lady had decided exactly what to say and how to say it before she’d even met me.
‘A friend of mine needs help, he’s in trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The police are looking for him, or they will be soon.’
‘What for?’
‘Murder.’
The femme-fatale nonsense fell away – it wouldn’t be missed; concern furrowed her brow, and something real took its place. ‘It’s a long story. You may not believe it. Don’t know if I believe it myself.’
In the movies, the PI would jut out a square jaw and mouth a manly, ‘Try me.’ I said nothing. It was her show.
‘Does the name Dennis Boyd ring any bells?’
‘Should it?’
‘Perhaps not. Fifteen years ago, when he was convicted of robbing and killing Joe Franks, it was front-page news. Joe was a jeweller. Dennis was his bodyguard. It looked like a set-up and it was. The police found traces of blood in the boot of his car and a diamond on the floor.’
‘Convincing.’
‘And convenient. Though on its own, probably not quite enough to persuade a jury.’
‘What swung it?’
‘The testimony of three people.’
I let what I was hearing sink in. Surely, she wasn’t expecting me to solve a crime already a decade and a half old? If she was, like Kim Rafferty, she’d come to the wrong door. Mrs Kennedy indulged her flair for the dramatic, got up, walked round the room and kept me waiting for an answer. ‘Last night, one of the witnesses was murdered in a car park at Charing Cross.’
I was ahead of her. ‘Boyd is the obvious suspect.’
‘Correction. The only suspect.’
‘And you want me to do… what?’
‘Dennis is innocent. Prove he didn’t do it. He got a message…’
I held up my hands to stop her. ‘Don’t tell me anything else. If you have information, you should be talking to the police, not me.’
‘They got it wrong before.’
‘So you say.’
‘Of course they did. A blind man could see he’s being framed again. It’s obvious.’
‘No, it isn’t. Less than a day after your friend gets out of prison somebody who spoke against him is killed.’
‘That’s what they want you to think.’
‘They? Who’s they?’
‘Whoever murdered Joe.’
I massaged my temple. This was crazy. I wanted her out of my office, and not just because the smoke from her cigarette was annoying me. I’d had plenty of loony tunes with impossible expectations come to me. This one was hard to beat.
‘Look, Mrs Kennedy—’
‘Diane.’
‘Look, Diane. I have no idea what happened at Charing Cross last night. Even less about a fifteen-year-old crime. You say your friend is innocent. Fine. I’ll take your word for it. But I won’t take your case, it isn’t what I do. I find missing people.’
She glared over my shoulder and shook her head. ‘I knew this was a waste of time. Dennis insisted. Told him you’d be no use.’
Maybe it was part of her strategy to draw me in. If it was, it had worked – being told you were a waste of time would do that.
My ego raised its ugly head. ‘Why isn’t Boyd with you? Does he even know you’re here?’
‘He can’t show himself.’ She paused, pulled out her big line and laid a giant-sized guilt trip on me. ‘You’re his only hope.’
For a whole two minutes I’d been a stranger – a useless stranger, according to her. I preferred it. I got out of my chair and opened the window. ‘Then he’s in more trouble than he realises, because I can’t promise to help on the say-so of somebody’s girlfriend.’
Her voice took on an edge a long way f
rom the aloof character pissing me off by polluting the air; the elegant fingers gripped the table. ‘I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not anybody’s girlfriend.’
‘That’s not my business. Just so long as you understand the ground rules. The police will be looking for Boyd. You believe he’s innocent – I hope he justifies your faith in him. I’m not interested in knowing where he is, so don’t tell me.’
She stubbed the cigarette out under her high-heeled shoe, took a new packet of Benson & Hedges from her bag and tore off the cellophane.
‘And I’d prefer you didn’t smoke in here.’
That prohibition affected her more than the rest of my speech. The packet went back in her bag and she didn’t look at me; I’d displeased her. Too bad.
My objection had knocked her off her stride. It took a moment to get back on track. I filled the gap. ‘What’s your connection to Dennis Boyd?’
‘I met him when he worked for my husband, Joe.’
Diane stared me down.
‘The Joe he was convicted of murdering?’
‘Dennis didn’t kill anybody. Someone else did and made it look like it was him.’
‘Why so sure?’
‘Because I know Dennis Boyd.’
‘Fair enough. Why did Joe have a bodyguard? That isn’t usual, is it?’
‘Not unusual. He dealt with trade, not the public, and worked out of an office in the Argyll Arcade. Sometimes he’d be holding stones worth a lot of money. It made sense to have protection.’
‘Okay. Tell me about the murder.’
Her husband had been gone a long time. Maybe why talking about it didn’t seem to bother her. ‘One night our house was burgled. A parcel of diamonds was taken. So far as the police could tell, they’d forced Joe to open the safe then beat him to death. It was horrible. After they searched his car and discovered traces of blood and a diamond on the floor, they suspected Dennis.’
‘Did Boyd have an alibi?’
‘No, he didn’t. But the case against him was circumstantial.’
‘Until the three witnesses.’
‘From out of nowhere, they came forward and nailed him to the cross.’
‘What did they say?’
‘A small-time crook called Liam McDermid claimed he’d overheard Dennis and Joe arguing.’
‘About?’
‘Money Joe owed Dennis.’
‘And did he?’
She threw back her head, about to laugh, and thought better of it. ‘It would be strange if he didn’t. He owed everybody else.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Hughie Wilson, a well-known thug, swore Dennis asked him to be part of a burglary. Of course, he’d turned him down. But, later, when he got word about Joe, he’d realised that was the job. Dennis was already well on his way to Barlinnie when Willie Davidson testified to seeing a guy matching his description running from the house.’
‘Added to the physical evidence, there was no way back.’
‘It took the jury less than an hour to reach their verdict. I was there.’
Diane had said a lot though she’d left out why she was in my office, asking me to help the man who’d been found guilty of robbing and killing her husband.
‘Mrs Kennedy, excuse me for being blunt. Your husband was the victim. What’s your interest in helping the man convicted of murdering him?’
She reached for her bag and the pack of cigarettes, then remembered and changed her mind. This lady had arrived with plenty of attitude. Now the questions were more difficult and she was struggling. I gave her a push in the right direction. ‘Before you answer you need to know that no matter what you tell me, I’m probably not taking the case. Anything less than the truth and probably becomes definitely.’
I could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she made her decision. Whatever she was holding back had to be pretty important.
‘Dennis got a raw deal. Joe screwed both of us. Nobody would’ve got hurt if he’d kept the stones in a bank or the office safe like any sane person. What was he doing with them in the house? I wasn’t at home or I might be dead, too.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘I was lucky. Dennis went to Barlinnie for something he didn’t do. I owe him.’
‘That doesn’t explain why you’re here. In fact, it gives you even less reason to put yourself in the middle of it. Last chance, Mrs Kennedy. Tell me the truth or close the door on your way out.’
She stared at me for a long time. ‘All right. Dennis and I were more than friends. But it was a fling. Nothing serious.’
‘Did your husband know?’
‘I think he guessed, and I’m afraid that’s why he was so reckless and cut Dennis out of the last job, even though there was so much money at stake. Joe was wrong. Dennis wasn’t to blame for the affair. I was the one who made the running. He didn’t want to betray Joe.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I met him yesterday outside Barlinnie when he was released and tried to get him to go away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because fifteen years is a lot to have taken from you. There was no chance he’d let it go. I knew he’d be determined to even the score.’
‘By doing what?’
She stopped short of putting a name to it. ‘I offered him money. At first, he wouldn’t take it. Later, he called me. A witness was dead and Dennis was scared. He realised they intended to frame him a second time. At least now he understands what he’s up against. No matter what happens, he swears he isn’t going inside again. All he wants is his life back.’
Finally, I was hearing something I could believe.
‘Is it all right if I have a cigarette?’
I nodded. She rummaged in her bag again with the enthusiasm of a panhandler, except the silver and gold she was after were dried leaves and paper. Diane inhaled hard enough to suck the oxygen from the room; when she spoke, there was smoke in her voice. ‘He’s desperate. Please meet him. Please.’
I pushed my card across the desk and saw hope come alive in her eyes.
8
DS Geddes was scribbling notes on a sheet of paper, his lips moving soundlessly as he read through them before the scribbling began again. Patrick, on the other hand, had abandoned the racing section of the Daily Record for a book. Whatever it was it certainly had his attention.
It was Pat I was looking for. Diane Kennedy had told me the truth – so far as it went. I didn’t fool myself it was all there was. Pat would get the whole story; it was his gift. I tapped him on the shoulder. He greeted me like I was a soldier returning from the Russian front. ‘Charlie!’
I nodded at his book. ‘Good, is it?’
He turned it over to let me see the title: World’s Best Quotations.
‘Fantastic. You’ve no idea how much stuff is in here. A gem on every page.’
‘A word, when you’ve got a minute.’
‘Absolutely. I’m free now.’
He followed me to a table near the back. NYB wasn’t busy; we had the place to ourselves. I didn’t dance around it. ‘Does the name Dennis Boyd mean anything to you?’
‘A blast from the past.’ He scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘Killed the jeweller he was workin’ for, as I remember. Big news at the time.’
‘Find out everything you can about him.’
‘In the Big House, isn’t he?’
‘Not any more. He got out yesterday.’
‘Why the sudden interest? Must’ve been a dozen years ago now.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Any older and it’s an archaeologist you’d need. That it?’
‘No. I want to know about Joe Franks and his wife, Diane. Diane Kennedy now. And whatever you can find about her second husband.’
He got up. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. Give me a couple of days. Start first thing in the morning, all right?’
‘Faster if you can. One more thing. At the trial, the testimony of three witnesses swung it in the prosecution�
�s favour. Whatever you turn up on them will be useful.’
‘Any idea where they are?’
‘One of them is in the morgue. Died last night in a car park. According to Diane, these guys were bribed, so the other two have got to be seriously sweating.’
Patrick’s reaction was understandable. ‘Didn’t let the grass grow, did he? Not too clever. Better if he’d held off, although maybe he thought fifteen years was long enough.’
‘It might not have been Dennis Boyd.’
‘Good luck convincin’ the procurator fiscal. Have the police caught him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Only a matter of time before they do. Hope it was worth it. Probably cost the rest of his life.’
‘Unless he didn’t do it.’
Pat Logue’s eyes searched my face as he began to see where we were headed. ‘That what this is about, Charlie? Because if it is, let me remind you the difference between you and your pal, Andrew, over there. He’s police. They pay him to solve crimes. You find missin’ people. You used to get that.’
‘Appreciate the concern, Patrick. Believe me. I’m not involved in anything.’
‘Yet.’
He knew me too well. My mobile vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and opened it. ‘Charlie Cameron.’
The deep male voice on the other end didn’t waste words. ‘Strathclyde Park. Tomorrow at four o’clock.’
Before I could speak, he hung up.
Pat Logue was the most tolerant person I’d ever known. Across the table, he didn’t disguise his disapproval. ‘One word from me and you do what you like, eh, Charlie? Thought you’d learned your lesson. Takin’ cases that would put you opposite Sean Rafferty is bad enough. Questions about fifteen-year-old murders and ten-second phone calls tell me you’re off and runnin’ again, aren’t you? Puttin’ your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’ He shook his head. ‘This isn’t you, Charlie. Findin’ people, that’s your game. And if you want to branch out, why the hell can’t you do bread and butter jobs? Domestic disharmony’s a lot less dangerous. Pay’s better, too.’