by Owen Mullen
I threw sympathy her way. ‘Family members are always prime suspects.’
She hugged herself like a child. ‘I couldn’t get through to them that I didn’t even know Joe had stones in the house. He was so secretive towards the end. Hardly said a word. They changed their tune when they found a second diamond and Joe’s blood in Dennis’s car.’
‘Did you get them back?’
‘We did. Eventually. Got a decent amount for them, too. God knows what the whole lot was worth.’
‘Who did you sell to?’
Diane said, ‘Joe kept me away from the business so I hadn’t a clue. I used a guy in the Arcade who probably ripped us off. I just wanted the nightmare to end. Except, thanks to my late husband, I needed the money.’
Her present husband gently massaged her shoulders. Relations between them, so obviously strained because of her connection to her former flame, must have improved. I guessed Boyd being in custody might have something to do with it.
‘Then, you can’t tell me anything?’
She shook her blonde head. I turned my attention to Ritchie and caught him off guard. ‘Weren’t you in business with Joe Franks at one time?’
The implication didn’t escape him; he reacted. ‘No. I approached Joe – must be eighteen years ago – about maybe getting together.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Wouldn’t consider it. Turned me down flat. Told me to stick to what I knew. Good advice. Though something good came out of it. I met Diane.’
A look passed between them; time for me to go. At the door I said, ‘Did you speak to Boyd about the visitor list?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re on it. He’s expecting you at eleven o’clock tomorrow.’
Kennedy put his arm round his wife and grinned fiercely at me. His rival was in prison and likely to stay there. He allowed the satisfaction to show. I guess he couldn’t help himself. From where he stood it had worked out all right.
He said, ‘Apart from his sister you’re the only one who wants to see him.’
32
I didn’t go back to the office; I went home and called Barlinnie. Boyd had no visitors scheduled for the next day. Now, he had me.
From what I’d seen, Ritchie and Diane Kennedy were trying to put their marriage back on track. Good for them. Kennedy struck me as a difficult guy to like and Alex Gilby reckoned he was a hard taskmaster to work for. On our briefer than brief acquaintance, he’d managed to be boorish without saying very much, a singular talent. Living in Dennis Boyd’s shadow couldn’t have been easy; the battle for his wife might have been going on since the beginning.
But he’d won. At least, he thought he’d won. The memory of Diane sobbing on my shoulder suggested that whatever had existed between her and Boyd was far from finished.
At ten minutes to nine at night there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Andrew holding the bottle in his hand up to let me see the label: Johnnie Walker Blue Label.
‘Any idea how much this stuff costs? They say only one in ten thousand casks makes the grade. All bollocks, probably. But it’s bloody good stuff. And it should be at the price.’
I stood aside to let him in. I’d known Andrew a long time; this was him apologising – or as close to it as he was liable to get. My anger hadn’t disappeared but turning him away would be churlish and, besides, he was right: Blue Label was bloody good stuff.
‘We’ll need four glasses.’
‘Why four?’
‘Two for the whisky, two for chilled water. It’s how you drink it, apparently.’
I did as he asked and watched him pour. He handed mine to me and lifted his own.
‘May you be half an hour in heaven…’
I completed the toast for him ‘…before the devil knows you’re dead.’
He nodded. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’
We sat for a while, alternately sipping the mix of old malt and grain and the water. On some levels Geddes was a complicated man, on others there was a disarming simplicity to him. Problem was, you could never be sure which Andrew was going to show up. If it had been me bringing a peace offering, it would’ve been rejected. Some people were like that.
I gave him time to come to the point of his visit, glad he’d made the move. When he didn’t, I said, ‘What’s the latest with the promotion interview? Got a date yet?’
He took a drink from his glass and gave a grimace that had nothing to do with the neat whisky. ‘To tell the truth, been thinking about pulling out.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘What if they turn me down? Am I supposed to keep taking orders from jumped-up uni students with five minutes’ experience of real police work for the rest of my life? Because I’ll tell you, Charlie, whatever else, that isn’t happening. I just can’t do it.’
‘Agreed. Except they won’t turn you down.’
Andrew wasn’t convinced. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Appreciated. You don’t get how tough it’ll be talking to superior officers about how great you are. Not advisable to bullshit men who’ve seen it and been it.’
‘Don’t. Just tell them what they want to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘Your record. The fact you’ve got the highest solve rate in the city. Andrew, you’re a great detective.’
He stared at his shoes and shook his head slowly. ‘No, Charlie, you’re a great detective. They trained me and gave me resources. That’s the difference. You’re a natural.’
A compliment from Andrew Geddes was a rare thing. He said, ‘I was wrong. I should’ve stuck to the deal with Dennis Boyd. I’ve lost it since this whole promotion thing started.’
‘He didn’t do it.’
The old Andrew surfaced – by-the-book, black-and-white Andrew. ‘That’s for the court to decide. I’m talking about trusting you, trusting your judgement.’
It had taken a lot more than the price of a bottle of expensive whisky to bring him here. I didn’t push it. He leaned across and topped our glasses up.
I said, ‘Need some more water?’
Geddes drew me a look. ‘What do you think? Marketing crap. Like telling a room full of detective chief inspectors how good you are.’
‘In your case, it’s the truth.’
He savoured his drink and remembered something. ‘By the by, I went to see Boyd today. Owed him an apology, too.’
‘So you agree he isn’t guilty?’
He tilted his head and his expression changed. ‘Not at all. That’s for—’
I interrupted. ‘—the jury to decide. You said.’
He smiled into his glass. ‘Scoff away, Charlie. Have to tell you it doesn’t look good. DI Campbell can’t tie him to Bellshill or Lamlash. Yet. But that won’t matter. One murder will do. And the car park in Elmbank Gardens fits the bill. Boyd admits he planned to track down the witnesses who’d spoken out against him. He doesn’t deny finding Wilson’s body. Just as well. Left his fingerprints at the scene. My guess is he’s headed back inside. Shotts probably. For a revenge killing they’ll throw away the proverbial key. “Prosecuted to the full extent of the law” as they say.’ He finished his drink and stood. ‘Sorry to be the bringer of bad news.’
For a moment I thought he’d forgotten the bottle of Blue Label. Wishful thinking.
‘Want me to call you a taxi?’
‘No, got the car.’
‘You’re driving?’
He stepped away and peered at me. ‘Might be a great detective, Charlie, but sometimes I wonder about you.’
‘How so?’
‘Told you before, you’re naïve. I mean, what’re the chances of me getting stopped?’
He took my silence as an answer. ‘Exactly. See what I mean?’
At the door we shook hands. ‘I’m visiting Boyd tomorrow.’
Andrew didn’t try to hide his surprise. ‘Why, for Christ’s sake? It’s all over bar the shouting. Let justice take its course.’
‘Justice has nothing to do with it. Got that from you. And I want to ask a favour.’
Geddes sighed whisky fumes over me. ‘Oh, yeah? Not the only one around here who’s naïve, are you? Spit it out.’
‘Can you find out what happened to the diamonds stolen when Joe Franks was murdered?’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am. At the time, what was the thinking?’
He considered the question. ‘Should be something in the original file. Assuming it still exists. Chances are, it doesn’t. Too long ago. I’d get myself another client if I were you.’
I didn’t answer him. Andrew had already lost interest. An encouraging sign: it meant normal service between us had been resumed.
33
The room at the end of the corridor was as it had been the night Kim Rafferty arrived bound and gagged: the threadbare carpet, the shabby second-hand furniture and the cobwebs hanging from the dusty bulb were unchanged. But the figure on the bed was a different Kim, her eyes dull, set back in dark sockets, the once glorious hair lank and lustreless. Except for when the pains in her body got too bad, she didn’t struggle to free herself or cry, and when the guy with the syringe came through the door, her arm went out to receive what he’d brought.
On the days he didn’t come, Vicky Farrell’s shame was more than she could bear.
Drugs had never been a part of her story; she’d seen what they could do and was afraid of them. Witnessing Kim Rafferty’s craving up close was a reminder it could so easily have been her climbing the walls, moaning, willing to do anything to make it end.
After his last visit, Sean had stopped calling, as though the terrible vengeance he’d authored no longer interested him. That wasn’t it. His will was being done – all he needed to know.
Kim whimpered, ‘Where is he?’
Vicky gave the answer she’d given a minute earlier. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘When? Tell me when. I need it.’
‘Soon.’
Kim buried her head in the filthy pillow. ‘I’m bad. You don’t know how bad.’ She retched. ‘I’m going to be sick. Give me something. Please. Please!’
‘No, you’re not. There’s nothing in your stomach.’
A wave of abdominal cramps gripped her insides and sweat broke over Kim’s body; she cried out and drew herself into a foetal position. ‘You’re killing me. I’m going to die. Where is he?’
Vicky heard herself and wanted the ground to open up under her. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
‘I need it NOW! NOW!’
‘Soon.’
Contacting Sean again would be a dangerous mistake – he’d made very clear what he wanted her to do and wouldn’t appreciate it. Vicky had no choice. People mistakenly thought becoming hooked took time. It didn’t. For some, just once would do it. Giving Kim a fix every other day meant the drug never cleared her system. Instead of diminishing, her dependence grew until she was a full-blown junkie. She was probably close to that now. And bad as that was, it wasn’t the main problem – something in the woman had died. Kim Rafferty was fading fast.
Sean sounded irritated, even before she spoke. ‘I’m busy, Vicky. What do you want? And before you start, choose your words carefully or me and you will be falling out.’
‘She can’t handle much more. Her body won’t take it.’
‘Since when did you become a doctor? Must’ve missed that bit.’
‘I’m with her all the time. I see what’s happening.’
‘You’re getting soft, Victoria. She deserves everything she’s getting and more.’
Vicky bit back what she wanted to say. Rafferty lowered his voice. ‘Don’t question me. It’ll be over when I say it’s over and not before. Get her through it. If it’s too much for your delicate disposition, I’ll get somebody else, and you and I can have a chat about your future, how about that?’
‘I’m trying to help. She’s sinking.’
‘Good. Tell me when she’s sunk. Meantime, like I already said, put some customers her way.’ He laughed. ‘If nobody will take her, give her to Noah. See how she gets on with him. Can’t imagine it’ll be a problem for her.’ He paused. ‘Thing is, Vicky, you know fuck all about her, or what she’s done. Don’t call me again unless you fancy going down the same road. That can be arranged.’
Vicky had been one of the most dependable people in his organisation.
Had been.
Threatening her cost him nothing and Sean had meant every word. In his universe, unconditional loyalty was a given. They’d had good times – he hadn’t forgotten them – but if she was going soft, she was no use to him. He tapped his mobile and spoke to the man at the other end of the line.
‘Vicky Farrell’s wandered off the reservation. I want eyes on her, day and night.’
Seeing Dennis Boyd wasn’t something I was looking forward to; he’d trusted me and I’d let him down. Finding himself back behind bars on a murder charge was his reward.
In the waiting room, tired acceptance on the faces of dull-eyed women told the real cost of breaking the law. To many of the kids with them, their father would be a barely remembered stranger, who smiled and said their name a lot. The smaller ones – not yet old enough to understand – clung to their mothers and cried for attention they couldn’t give. What must it be like to go through this twice a month?
I didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
Everybody was given a seat allocation and, after a short wait, we were led upstairs to the visiting room. Vending machines along one wall and a play area softened the experience. But not by much. Then, the prisoners were brought in.
Boyd came towards me and sat down across the table. I hadn’t expected him to shake my hand and he didn’t. With the way things had gone, I had to be top of Dennis Boyd’s shit-list. But when he spoke any resentment was under control. ‘Had an unexpected visitor yesterday.’
I feigned surprise. ‘Yeah? Who?’
‘Your not-so-friendly policeman pal. DS Geddes.’
‘It isn’t his case. What did he want?’
Boyd bared his teeth in a failed smile. ‘Fucked if I know. Maybe thinks he should have heard me out before calling his mates.’
‘Did he say that?’
Boyd glanced at the other visitors. When he brought his attention back to me, he was grinning. ‘’Course not, but you were mentioned. Got the impression he rates you.’
Just not when it counted.
‘What did he say?’
Boyd shrugged. ‘Some guff. I switched off and let him talk. So, where are we with this?’
His question took me by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, where are we?’
Our eyes met, his were hard and clear; he was serious. He said, ‘What’s done is done, Charlie. We both acted in good faith and we both got screwed. Get over it. But this thing isn’t finished. I didn’t kill those lying bastards. Only wish I had.’
He leaned towards me to make his point and I smelled cigarette smoke on his breath. ‘Although unless you start doing your job I might as well have.’
That statement revealed the truth about how he really felt. Boyd wasn’t as fatalistic as he was making out. Throwing accusations of blame around, even with some justification, wouldn’t get him anywhere and he was sharp enough to appreciate it. Dennis Boyd needed me and he knew it. I was all he had, all there was.
‘Okay. After Joe Franks was murdered what happened to the diamonds, any ideas?’
He drew away. What I was asking amused him. ‘I had a long time to think about that. Some nights it was the only thought in my head.’
‘So?’
‘Two options: pass them on to a single buyer or shift them a bit at a time.’
‘What would you do?’
‘Wouldn’t steal them in the first place.’
‘Suppose you had.’
Boyd looked around the room. When he returned, he gave me an answer. ‘A bit at a time is easier. Handing them
off as a parcel is quicker. Arguably safer with only one person involved. More control of where and when the stones surface. If they do surface. Could still be in somebody’s safe.’
‘Fifteen years on? Not likely.’
‘Everything that’s happened to me isn’t likely.’
He was on the edge of feeling sorry for himself; nobody would grudge him that, only it wouldn’t get us anywhere. I steered the conversation back to the robbery.
‘Were there dealers Joe didn’t trust, maybe someone he’d had problems with in the past?’
Boyd shook his head. ‘No. Joe Franks was in business a helluva long time. He only worked with people he trusted.’
‘Give it some thought. Up ’til now, the focus has been on the murder. I want to concentrate on the diamonds. Find who bought them and we’re a giant step closer to finding who sold them.’
I stood. Boyd stayed where he was. Again, neither of us offered to shake hands. He grinned up at me.
‘Something funny?’
‘Not a fucking thing. Just glad to see you’re still on it, Charlie. Knew I’d picked the right man.’
Driving into the city, Dennis Boyd stayed with me. His strength was admirable. For a guy who’d spent a decade and a half behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit he was doing all right. Better than all right. Freedom had been short-lived. He’d been on the run from the first day. On my say-so, he’d turned himself in, expecting his side of the story would be heard; a promise – mine – that proved to be false. Yet, he’d still been able to smile. If the circumstances were reversed, I doubted I could stand being in the same room as me.
By the time I got to Glasgow I wasn’t in the mood for work. Reluctantly I climbed the stairs to the space Alex Gilby had given me to compensate for losing the office above NYB, which had been finished in a got-a-great-deal-on-this-paint colour. Nothing else explained the dodgy shade; the smell hung in the air. When he’d told me the decorator he intended to use was an old friend called Matt Black, I only just managed to keep my face straight.