by Owen Mullen
Except that wasn’t how it had been. Mrs Franks wasn’t the only one in the marriage who’d been unhappy.
I threw the bankbook on the desk, wondering what fifteen years of compound interest looked like, and sat down. The pages were dry, discoloured with age, with entries every six months as regular as clockwork. My finger followed them to the end and read the total.
Diane’s husband hadn’t been the fool she’d taken him for.
For a time, it had looked as though the forecast was going to be wrong. The steady drumming on the windowpane confirmed it wasn’t. One of the things I’d never understood about Scotland was how, as soon as it started to rain, it suddenly, almost immediately, felt colder. Winter was still a long way off, at least in theory, but the temperature in the office seemed to have gone down.
The conversation with Anthony McCabe played in my head. In spite of his illness, he’d been determined to fulfil his responsibility. For a decade and a half, he hadn’t known how until I’d given him the opportunity.
But what did it tell me, beyond the fact his old client, the jeweller, intended to get his retaliation in first? Diane had been in the dark about what was coming, blissfully unaware her husband was planning to leave her homeless and penniless. The accountant was clearly with Franks, his phraseology skewed in his favour, the disapproval of the woman he’d married undisguised. ‘Diane’s carrying-on made it easy for him,’ he’d said, and followed it with an off-colour comment which I guessed was out of character – ‘I doubt it was her feet she landed on, Mr Cameron.’
Then again, there was another way of looking at it: Diane hadn’t known – still didn’t know – Joe’s wife had been pregnant when she hooked up with him. From everything I’d heard, being a husband wasn’t his forte. Franks had proved it, not once but twice. Precious stones rather than people had done it for him. For a passionate woman a relationship with a man who sometimes didn’t come home and slept in his office would be an unfulfilling experience. Seeking and finding attention outside their marriage was inevitable. And her husband wasn’t blind; he had to have decided he could live with it. Until something changed his mind.
Maybe Diane had become too brazen, rubbed his nose in what she was doing. Maybe discovering he had a daughter was a painful reminder of his shortcomings as a spouse and he’d resolved to make things right, starting with the girl he’d fathered but never known. Or, unlikely as it seemed, perhaps it had been good old-fashioned jealousy. His wife taking Dennis Boyd as her lover had plunged her infidelity to a new low: betrayal. Affairs with strangers he could turn a blind eye to, an affair with the man he employed to protect him and his merchandise was something else.
The call from Pat Logue brought good news. ‘Struck gold, Charlie. You were spot on. There is a connection, a very definite connection.’
Knowing who made it easy to guess why. As usual, the hard bit was the bit in the middle, the thing DS Geddes was obsessed with: proof.
Time to take it to the next level.
Andrew Geddes leaned his elbow on the table, a hand supporting his head. While he wrote, his lips moved as he muttered to himself. When he saw me, his expression didn’t change; he nodded, crushed the sheet into a ball and dropped it on the floor beside the others. I’d no idea how long he’d been at it. I took a seat and waited. A stranger would’ve been hard-pressed to guess we were friends. Andrew said, ‘Bloody paperwork. Never had any patience for it.’
‘Still working on the promotion?’
He put the pen down, pinched the corners of his eyes and stared. ‘Is that what I’m doing, Charlie? Been so long I’d forgotten.’
‘Making progress?’
A noise at the back of his throat answered for him. ‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘What’s the problem?’
The wrong question. Geddes couldn’t hold his frustration in check. He kicked a paper ball and watched it roll across the floor. If Jackie caught him making a mess of her bar, he’d be hearing about it. ‘It’s rubbish. A right load of old bollocks. Fuck all to do with anything. Yet, this is how they judge you. Who can tell the tallest tales, fib the biggest fibs.’
‘Just play the game, Andrew. Whatever they want, give it to them.’
He pursed his lips and looked at me like a boy studying an insect he was about to squash: with a mix of fascination and pity. ‘You really don’t get it, do you, Charlie? I despise the whole fucking process from start to finish. They’re asking me to make myself acceptable. They’re asking me to lie.’
He was right, I didn’t get it. ‘Give them what they want. Lie if that’s what it takes.’
‘That what you’d do? Misrepresent yourself to get ahead?’
‘What’s to misrepresent? You’re a first-rate detective, that’s the truth. Sometimes we have to jump through hoops, so jump. In the end, all that matters is that Police Scotland has a new detective inspector 100 per cent committed to the job. And, with you, they will.’
Andrew held up a form and pointed to a question. ‘This is the problem. Give an example of your leadership qualities.’
Off the top of my head I could think of a dozen.
‘It’s about selling yourself and I struggle with that. Anyway, enough about me. What do you want?’
I feigned offence. ‘Well, that’s nice.’
‘Might not be nice. Bet it’s accurate. What do you want, Charlie?’
‘What would you say if I told you I’d found a link between the three witnesses?’
Andrew gave me another of his sad-case smiles. ‘Since you ask, I’ll tell you. I’d say that, as usual, you can’t let it go.’
‘Boyd needs somebody in his corner.’
‘And that somebody happens to be you.’
‘Proof isn’t always easy to find. Wasn’t that what you were just saying?’
‘Not exactly. And it isn’t the same thing.’
‘No? Maybe I didn’t hear you right. If you can’t convince the people you want to convince, you’ll be a DS for the rest of your career. If Boyd can’t convince the people he needs to, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a cell. So, yeah, it’s not the same. Not the same at all.’
Andrew lifted the pen. ‘Ever thought of going into the used car game, Charlie? Okay, I’m buying. What’s the link?’
38
Andrew would’ve contacted DI Campbell and gone to the house in Newton Mearns. The policemen would be out of luck. I’d already tried; there was nobody home.
I’d left the city at the tail end of the rush hour, now dusk was falling, and in the gloom the approach to Daltallin House was impressive: a meandering single-track road overhung by trees. My tyres crunched over gravel, startling a pair of foraging rabbits. A crow swooped noisily from a branch and passed low in front, reminding me I was an unwelcome stranger in his territory.
Ritchie Kennedy was a workaholic who spent most of his time at his hotel. If he wasn’t already here, sooner or later he’d show up. When he did, he’d find me waiting.
Suddenly, a black granite monstrosity rose against the darkening sky. Light blazing from leaded windows lent a charm the building would lack in the day. If gargoyles were your thing, you’d like it. I didn’t.
All I saw was Joe Franks’ money.
A line of expensive cars sat at the far side under a twenty-foot-high hedge. Kennedy’s was one of them. He was a greedy man, greedier than most, and he’d drawn other greedy men to him: Wilson, McDermid and Davidson. Stealing the jeweller’s wife hadn’t been enough, he’d wanted it all.
I hoped it had been worth it, because it was over.
I pulled in beside a blue Lexus, got out and walked through the front door like I belonged. Inside, the staff on reception kept their heads down, too busy to notice me. When a fresh-faced waiter carrying an empty tray drifted past, I guessed he was on his way to the bar and followed. The décor was dark wood, polished brass and curtains it would take two strong men to carry: a male space. Not for me. To prove the point a group of business guys – ties loo
sened and jackets off – drank over-priced whisky their companies would be charged for from cut-glass tumblers, laughing like schoolboys at dirty jokes. One of them whispered the punchline, savouring the reaction. In an hour or two, whispering would be abandoned and the polite man behind the bar would cast anxious glances at the group, wishing they would call it a night before they offended somebody other than him.
At the door to the restaurant, a maître d’ asked my name, ready to check it against a list of reservations. I stopped him before he could get started. ‘I’m meeting Mr Kennedy.’
‘Certainly, sir. Mr Kennedy’s party is over by the window. Shall I tell him you’re here?’
I smiled. ‘That would spoil it.’
The Kennedys were at a table with four people I didn’t recognise. Diane saw me first. ‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘this is a surprise.’
Her husband swivelled in his chair, and when he realised who it was, his expression was hard to describe. He glanced at his dinner companions, regretting they were present, maybe sensing what was coming. His wife certainly didn’t. She lifted her glass and said, ‘So what’s Charlie Cameron doing in darkest Ayrshire?’ There was humour in her voice. ‘Has our culinary reputation reached you?’
She was wearing a cream blouse with a double-string of pearls at the throat and in the subdued light her eyes were wine-warm and provocative. I didn’t answer. I was about to ruin her evening.
‘The food isn’t why I’m here, Diane.’
I ignored the other people at the table and spoke to Kennedy. ‘Joe Franks was a simple man. Ever wondered what he would’ve made of how you spent his cash?’
Kennedy threw his napkin down in a show of frustration and disapproval. ‘What do you want, Cameron? Just what the fuck do you want?’
Before I could answer, a collective gasp went up from the diners as police officers poured into the room. DI Campbell certainly liked to make an entrance, almost swaggering past the dumbstruck guests. He’d dreamed of moments like this and was enjoying himself. At the door, Andrew Geddes hung back, letting him make the collar that could so easily have been his. To climb the greasy pole, you had to be willing to play by different rules. Andrew wasn’t. When would he learn?
Campbell drummed his fingers on the brilliant-white tablecloth, his eyes travelling over Kennedy and his friends. When he got to me, he paused; the DI was having a good day and didn’t want it to be over too soon. He greeted me like an old pal. ‘We must stop meeting like this, Charlie.’
The pleasure he’d taken arresting Dennis Boyd – a man who’d turned himself in – was fresh in my mind. I didn’t like Campbell and wasn’t amused.
‘Suits me, Detective Inspector.’
‘People could get the wrong idea.’
The joke fell flat and the smile disappeared – like everything about him, it had never been real – and he got on with what he’d come to do.
‘Richard Kennedy, I’m detaining you…’
The familiar words drifted through the silent room. Two officers grabbed Kennedy’s arms and handcuffed him. Diane seemed not to understand what was happening; she started to object. Her husband halted her in her tracks; his apology, an admission of guilt, silenced her. ‘I’m sorry, Diane, it was an accident. I liked Joe. I never meant to hurt him.’
As they led him through the stunned restaurant his wife lost control, screaming, lashing out at the nearest policeman, tearing at her hair and, in the process, breaking the strand round her neck. Pearls bounced and rolled across the table and onto the floor. Her hands flailed wildly, knocking over her wine glass, her breasts heaving under her blouse.
‘Bastard! Fifteen years, you lying bastard!’
She buried her head in her hands and cried, overwhelmed by the shock of discovering she’d married the person who’d murdered her husband and put an innocent man behind bars for a huge chunk of his life.
Her friends tried to comfort her; there were no words.
A sign hanging from the ceiling of the Bombay Cafe in St Vincent Street told anyone interested that ALL CHAI IS COMING STRICTLY WITHOUT OPIUM.
We were in a booth. Patrick was sipping a lager and studying the menu. I’d called to let him know what had happened at the Daltallin House hotel and he’d insisted on celebrating. This part of the city had upped its game in recent years and the Bombay Cafe stood out from the many burger joints surrounding it.
When I got there, he shook my hand. ‘Two words, Charlie: re sult. Did the impossible, solved a fifteen-year-old case. You’re some man. What do you fancy? Last time I was here I had the lamb Madras. Excellent. Could do worse.’
‘Lamb Madras it is.’
He raised his glass in a toast. ‘This is on me.’
There was something different about him; he seemed younger. Then I realised what it was: no goatee. He read my mind, stroked his smooth chin and answered the question I hadn’t asked. ‘Felt like a change. Must admit it takes a bit of gettin’ used to.’
‘Does Gail like it?’
He turned away. ‘She hasn’t said. Don’t think she’s noticed.’
I’d known Gail Logue almost as long as her husband. She was sharp – there was no chance she’d missed it. When it came to other women Patrick had form. Shaving the goatee was so obvious I wondered if he wanted to get found out.
‘You’re wrong. She’ll have spotted it right away.’
He shrugged like he didn’t care and returned to Ritchie and Diane Kennedy. ‘How’s she takin’ it? Must be pretty shook up.’
‘Devastated. How do you come back from something like that? DI Campbell’s interviewing Kennedy as we speak. Some time tonight he’ll be charged with murdering Joe Franks.’
‘Because you kept pluggin’ away Dennis Boyd’s off the hook.’
‘For the original crime, yes. Proving Kennedy killed the witnesses might not be so easy.’
He disagreed through a mouthful of pakora. ‘The guy had motive and opportunity. He’s goin’ down. Will Boyd have been told?’
‘Too soon. But I’m seeing him in a couple of days. He’ll know by then.’
‘The police were happy to let it all fall on him. Not you. Your pal must be pleased. Ungrateful bastard. Bet he takes the credit for Wilson, McDermid and Davidson as well. Does his promotion chances a helluva lot of good.’
Pat Logue wasn’t there or he’d have seen Andrew let Campbell have the glory.
‘He’s a great detective, give him that at least.’
Further than Pat Logue was prepared to go; when it came to policemen, and Andrew Geddes in particular, his heart was hardened. The arrival of our main courses delayed his rejection of my assessment. ‘If you say so, if you say so. Except nothin’ would’ve been done if you hadn’t kept with it. The people I know don’t talk to coppers. Code of the West. His “great detective skills” would’ve got him exactly nowhere.’
‘They wouldn’t have spoken to me either, Patrick.’
‘True enough, but I wouldn’t have gone there if you hadn’t pushed me to dig deeper.’
I let it go. Patrick’s opinion wouldn’t change. We gave our attention to the meal, which was, indeed, excellent. Any time the conversation got too close to Michelle he steered it back to the case. Patrick was incorrigible. He was going to do what he was going to do. It would take more than me to stop him.
At eleven-thirty, just as I was thinking about bed, Andrew showed up. It had been a long day and, in the doorway, he looked tired: there were lines on his face and at the corners of his eyes and mouth I hadn’t noticed before. He handed me a bottle of Bell’s. ‘Thought we might need this.’
I weighed it in my palm. ‘This celebration deserves better, don’t you think?’
He smiled a knowing smile. ‘What’ve you got?’
When I brought out the Johnnie Walker Gold Label Reserve, he nodded appreciatively. ‘Won’t argue with that.’
The whisky was clean and smooth; we enjoyed it in silence until Andrew said, ‘Kennedy signed a confession an hour ago
. Claims the jeweller was an accident.’
‘A robbery that went wrong.’
‘Yeah. And time’s on his side. After fifteen years, premeditation won’t be easy to prove.’
‘What’s he saying about Wilson and the other two?’
Geddes shook his head. ‘So far, nothing. Campbell has another session scheduled for tomorrow. By then, hopefully, he’ll have Kennedy’s phone records. With any luck they’ll show he talked to the victims shortly before they died.’
‘Will that be enough?’
‘Not nearly. Unless we can place Kennedy in the Elmbank car park, the garage at Bellshill, or on Arran, he might well get away with it.’ He drew his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘Good work on that, by the way. Bloody obvious now. What put you on to it?’
I told him. ‘If Dennis Boyd was telling the truth, the witnesses had to be lying. Nothing else made sense. So why? What did a barman, a joiner and a nightclub bouncer have in common? Wilson didn’t work where McDermid tended bar. And where did a joiner fit in? Only Davidson wasn’t just a joiner, he specialised in shop-fitting.’
‘Shops, clubs and pubs: Ritchie Kennedy.’
‘Right. Kennedy used the money he’d got from Joe Franks’ diamonds to buy a country house hotel with a Michelin-starred restaurant, but his roots had been humble: a couple of spit-and-sawdust pubs. Three of them and a club, to be exact. At some time, the witnesses – dodgy characters to begin with – were employed by him. When the robbery went wrong, he paid them to lie under oath.’
‘And sent an innocent man to prison. Heartless bastards. Wonder if they ever gave a second thought to what they’d done.’
‘Doubt it. For a decade and a half, they went on living their lives. Everybody would’ve been happy to hear that Boyd had died inside. Except it didn’t happen. Dennis Boyd was a hard man – the reason the jeweller used him as a bodyguard – revenge kept him going. When he got out, he was coming after them and they knew it.’