The Accused (PI Charlie Cameron)

by Owen Mullen

  Lennox opened his collar and dragged the tie away. Suddenly it was too hot for him.

  ‘You’re trying to fucking scare me.’

  ‘In your shoes, anybody would be scared.’

  I pushed him to the limit and moved towards the door. ‘Suit yourself, except know this: my next stop is her.’

  He cracked. ‘Wait! For Christ’s sake, wait!’

  I stopped with my hand on the doorknob and turned to face him. He was shaking. Fear had worn the urbane polish away. What was left didn’t impress. Graham Lennox was a sorry excuse for a human being.

  But nobody’s perfect.

  40

  Geddes cut me off before I could tell him why I was calling. He was wired about his promotion interview. ‘This is not the best time, Charlie. Up to my eyes in it, mate. Need to finish my presentation for the shit show tomorrow. Bloody nonsense. Wasting time telling these wankers stuff that’s in my file instead of doing the job.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock at Helen Street.’

  I tried to reassure him. ‘Your record speaks for itself. Wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’

  He laughed a bitter laugh. ‘Nice of you to say so. I’m sure that’ll carry a lot of weight with them. Except my record as a policeman isn’t what concerns me.’

  ‘What does?’

  He sighed. ‘Listen, the interview panel will be three people: two detective superintendents – probably from the east – who don’t know me from a hole in the ground, and somebody from Personnel. Senior officers with a tonne of experience between them. They’ll spot bullshit a mile away.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re bound to ask why I’ve waited so long to go for promotion. I would. Thing is, Charlie, I don’t have a decent answer for them.’

  He might not, but I did.

  Geddes hurried on, keen to be rid of me. ‘Okay, how can I help this time? And make it quick.’

  ‘What if I was to tell you Dennis Boyd—?’

  Andrew could be a cheeky bastard when he felt like it, and today he felt like it.

  ‘D’you know your problem?’

  I didn’t, although he was about to tell me.

  ‘Every case has to be tied in a great big fucking bow. Otherwise you’re not happy.’

  I let him dig the hole deep. When he finished his nippy assessment of me, I continued. ‘What if I was to tell you Dennis Boyd was framed by Diane Kennedy? And what if I was to tell you I could prove it?’

  I laid the story out, beginning with Diane discovering Joe was done with her and was planning to leave her with nothing. Andrew listened at the other end of the line as my tale gathered momentum, the pieces slipping into place: the robbery that had ended in the jeweller’s murder, setting up Dennis Boyd to take the fall for it, and offering him money to go away when he came out of Barlinnie.

  ‘Boyd refusing to go sealed Hughie Wilson’s fate. The fifteen-year-old pigeons were coming home to roost unless they got him out of the way.’

  Geddes wasn’t a believer – not yet – but the impatience was gone. ‘Which meant they needed to silence all three.’

  ‘Right. And they did.’

  He interrupted again. ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’

  I knew. Of course I knew. ‘Yes. Not hearing proof, Charlie.’

  ‘Exactly right.’

  ‘I tracked down the guy who fenced Joe Franks’ stones.’

  Whatever Andrew had been expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. The sharp intake of breath gave him away. ‘You’re kidding. How the hell…?’

  I told him Graham Lennox’s back-to-the-wall confession about who he’d fenced Joe Franks’ diamonds for: the missing link, blowing the lid off the whole mess.

  Andrew was suddenly animated. ‘Right, meet me at the house. I’ll have Lennox picked up before he decides to go walkabout. Remember, from here on in this is police business. You’re an observer, nothing more. Don’t get involved or we’ll be having words for real.’

  ‘Understood, Andrew.’

  He hesitated before he hung up and said, ‘You’re one of a kind, Charlie. Don’t let me or anybody else tell you different.’

  The red Audi was parked where it had been on my last visit. In a minute, faces would appear at windows and the neighbours would discover the kind of people they’d been living next to. As I walked up the path the curtains rustled, the door opened and Diane stood looking at me. ‘Charlie? Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.’

  She was wearing a white trouser suit over a sky-blue blouse, sunshades pushed back on her head: Diane Kennedy had got over the shock of her husband’s arrest pretty damned quick.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  We both heard the siren at the same time. Before she could reply, Geddes’s car screamed round the corner. Diane raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Well, well. And to think it was me who persuaded you to take on the case. I underestimated you, Mr Cameron.’

  She’d expected me to fail and Boyd to have had to leave Scotland.

  Andrew got out and strode towards us, his face set hard. The words should’ve fazed her; they didn’t. ‘Diane Kennedy, I’m arresting you on suspicion—’

  She held her hand up to stop him. ‘I’m talking to Mr Cameron, do you mind?’

  To me she said, ‘You put it all together. How very clever of you.’

  I didn’t say it out loud, though I thought so, too.

  Geddes broke in. ‘It’s over, Diane.’

  ‘Is it?’ She laughed. ‘Had you all looking the wrong way for years, didn’t I? Do you actually think a jury will be any different?’

  The sun dipped behind a cloud and suddenly I felt cold. Or maybe it wasn’t about the sun. There was no guilt, no remorse and, as they led her away, head held high, I wondered what it must be like to have such influence over people. There was more to the story than a handful of diamonds. Diane Kennedy was a singular woman, talented and flawed and, when it suited her, completely captivating. Seeing through her act had cost Joe Franks his life. But the awesome power remained; the spell she’d cast had only been broken when Lennox gave her up to save his own worthless skin. Diane had missed her vocation – as well as being selfish and ruthless, she was a consummate actress, her defence of her old lover Dennis Boyd a tour de force, so convincing it seemed impossible to believe anything other than that Ritchie had dragged her into the robbery and the cover-up against her will.

  Wrong! It had been her from the start.

  Far from being poor at picking men, she was brilliant – an unmatched manipulator: Kennedy, Boyd, Graham Lennox.

  Yeah, even me.

  Tony blinked and tried to stay awake. In the past week he could count on one hand how many hours’ sleep he’d had. When his tired eyes gave in and closed, he saw Vicky pushing him to the door, pleading with him to go, and they snapped open, wild and afraid. He’d done what she’d wanted, listened to her, and would regret it for the rest of his life. But she’d been right: Rafferty would’ve killed the three of them without a moment’s hesitation. He’d heard his men shouting to each other as he was going out of the back door. In another minute – less – Tony would’ve been trapped on the stairs with the unconscious Kim in his arms. They’d been lucky. Yet the truth brought no comfort. Vicky had sacrificed herself to save them. Part of him hoped she was dead. Thinking what Sean Rafferty would do to her if she wasn’t was more than he could stand.

  Kim had been burning with fever, seriously dehydrated from vomiting and diarrhoea, barely clinging to life. Without help she wouldn’t have survived to walk the streets, the fate her husband intended for her. Getting her to hospital out of the gangster’s reach had been the priority.

  The following day he’d waited at the café until late, downing coffee after coffee until he couldn’t taste them any more, desperately willing Vicky to come through the door and throw her arms round him. Gradually, hope died, replaced by paralysing fear. Returning to the vile decaying house in Renfrew
Street was the one option left. Rafferty’s men had been across the road, waiting for him to come back, but there was no sign of her. A beating would be worth it. Except they were obviously expecting him and would have taken a knife to Vicky’s throat long before he’d got close enough to rescue her.

  Since then, he’d been parked down the street from the brothel in her car, blinded by anger, tortured by guilt. Eventually, the thugs left. Believing he wasn’t coming or because it was a trap? Every atom of his being was urging him to throw common sense to the wind. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and went to the door.

  Noah was exactly as Vicky described him – a slovenly sleaze of a man. He instinctively knew who Tony was and started to get up from behind the desk. The punch broke his nose with a crack like a twig in the forest; blood sprayed over his magazine, he cried out and fell to the floor, howling. Tony followed him down and grabbed him by the throat. ‘Where’s Vicky? Where is she? Tell me, you bastard, or I’ll beat you to a pulp.’

  Noah didn’t fight back – his kind never did. Terrorising helpless women was his stretch. His ugly teeth were stained red. He screamed, ‘Sean took her!’

  ‘Took her where?’

  ‘Somewhere in the city.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  ‘Last chance.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tony drew his fist back, the agony of knowing he’d lost Vicky, maybe forever, powering the blow.

  ‘Wrong answer.’

  41

  Geddes straightened his uniform and inspected himself in the mirror. Not bad, considering he’d had less than three hours’ sleep. He didn’t need his watch to tell him he was running late for the most important interview of his career. The DS couldn’t have cared less: the job – the real job – had got in the way. Most of yesterday and well into the night, he’d interviewed Graham Lennox and Ritchie Kennedy, moving between the two, saving Diane till last. At half past five in the morning, he’d called time on the marathon sessions, satisfied he’d nailed it.

  The contrast between the suspects was marked: Lennox was a lily-livered bastard who would’ve confessed to anything if it meant not going to prison. Geddes had taken that option off the table and watched the man crumble before his eyes. Two doors down, Kennedy had put on a very different show, sticking to his original story: Joe Franks had come home unexpectedly, they’d struggled, he’d fallen and hit his head.

  ‘Whose idea was it to set up Dennis Boyd?’

  Kennedy couldn’t have been more definite or less convincing. ‘Mine.’

  ‘Where did Diane fit in?’

  The deception started and his credibility faded. ‘She didn’t. Diane had nothing to do with it.’

  The detective let him talk, recording every word. Along the hall, Lennox had told a different tale, putting Kennedy’s wife squarely in the frame. It didn’t matter; the mystery of Joe Franks’ death had finally been solved.

  One down.

  Geddes had glanced at the clock on the wall – twenty-five to three – and moved on. ‘Okay, Ritchie, for what it’s worth, I believe you about Franks. So, who beat Hughie Wilson’s brains out in the car park? Not going to tell me that was an accident, too, are you?’

  ‘Dennis Boyd killed him.’

  ‘Liam McDermid and Willie Davidson?’

  ‘Boyd.’

  ‘Not possible; he was miles away.’

  Two hours later, Kennedy had realised the game was up. ‘All right, it was me.’

  ‘Then, I’ll ask you the same question again. Where did your wife fit into it?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  Geddes had settled for what he had: it was a result.

  But Diane had been the star turn. When they’d brought her to the room, she’d been confident there was nothing to fear because, just like Dennis Boyd, Ritchie would go down for her, except he’d do it knowingly. A couple of times, going over the details of how Joe Franks had died, she’d broken down, sobbing into her hands. Geddes had been chilled by her performance: the black widow, deadlier than the male, sacrificing one mate after another. It wasn’t enough – Graham Lennox’s testimony about who had brought the diamonds to him damned her and connected her directly to the crime.

  Hearing the subject was going to be late raised a few critical eyebrows – the three-man panel wasn’t used to being kept waiting. Assurances the officer was on his way did little for the mood. One voiced what the others were thinking. ‘Bad start. Pity – the word is he’s a good man.’

  His colleague agreed. ‘Not giving us much option, is he?’

  At twenty past nine, the door opened and DS Andrew Geddes came in, saluted and apologised. It didn’t go down well. ‘Very glad you could join us, Detective Sergeant. Can we assume you’ve a solid reason for your tardiness?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Care to share it?’

  Geddes let them wait. Inside, he felt like cheering; it couldn’t have played out any better. Thank you, Charlie. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve just charged Diane Kennedy as an accessory to the unlawful killing of her husband, Joe Franks, fifteen years ago.’

  He paused to let it sink in.

  ‘I’ve also charged Ritchie Kennedy with the murder of Hughie Wilson, Liam McDermid and Willie Davidson. When I leave here, I’ll be charging Mrs Kennedy as an accomplice in those murders. She’s in the cells downstairs.’

  I saw Dennis Boyd just once more before he drifted out of my life.

  I was reading The Herald and didn’t notice him standing beside me until his shadow darkened the sheets in my hand and his ragged voice rasped a question.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  The eyes watching me were clear and, though the suntan had faded, the grey pallor of the prisoner was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. His hair was longer and there was an ease about him that was new. Boyd’s journey hadn’t ended with the arrest of Ritchie and Diane Kennedy; in some ways that was only the beginning.

  The publicity surrounding his case had made him a celebrity and a crowd of reporters had been waiting when he’d left the Big House for the second and last time. Since then, he’d become public property, an innocent man convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed, who’d refused to stop fighting for the justice he’d been denied: the stuff of myth. A heavyweight Sunday supplement had already featured a black-and-white photograph of Boyd staring challengingly into the camera on its cover. Beginning on pages six and seven and continuing on twenty-eight, his remarkable story had caught the nation’s imagination, opening doors beyond his wildest dreams.

  Dennis Boyd was famous.

  In every interview I’d read – and I’d read a few – he’d given me credit for his freedom. My phone was ringing off the hook. At this rate, I’d have to hire a secretary. I folded the paper and laid it aside. ‘Sure. Sit down, Dennis.’

  ‘Guessed you might be here.’

  ‘Good guess. How are you?’

  He dropped into a chair and considered his reply. ‘I’m well, Charlie.’

  ‘Where’re you staying?’

  ‘With my sister. Least, I was.’ Boyd fingered the canvas bag at his feet. ‘Left an hour ago. Need to find out who I am and all that.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds poncey when you say it out loud. I’m not comfortable being The Amazing Dancing Bear.’

  ‘That how it feels?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, thought I’d get out of the city, disappear up north.’

  ‘To Oban?’

  ‘Worked before.’

  ‘It did, didn’t it? You’re done with Glasgow?’

  ‘Pretty much. Annie’s been through a helluva lot, one way or another, she deserves a break. That’s what she’s getting. Besides, they say you should never outstay your welcome.’

  I doubted he was in danger of doing that.

  ‘I’m reading about a book deal – any truth in it?’

  A smile spread slowly across his face. ‘An Edinburgh literary agent h
as offered to represent me.’ The idea amused him. ‘Cart before the horse. I haven’t written a word. Not sure I will, either. More interested in putting the whole thing behind me. Starting fresh.’

  ‘Any idea what you want to do?’

  ‘Buggered if I know. I’ve spent the last few days trying to answer that. Suddenly, I’m flavour of the month. Apart from the book thing, an art gallery in London has approached me about an exhibition of the work I did in prison.’

  ‘Did you take them up on their offer?’

  His laugh was like someone breaking rocks. ‘Said I’d think about it.’

  ‘What’s to think about?’

  He was pragmatic. ‘No rush. It’ll be there when I’m ready or it won’t.’

  if you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same

  Pat Logue’s obsession was rubbing off.

  Boyd became serious. ‘I owe you, Charlie. Won’t forget it.’ He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Something to remember me by.’

  Bold charcoal strokes formed a picture of a young man. The artist had been kind to his subject; the face was handsome, shining with optimism. Somewhere in there I recognised myself.

  ‘Shaved a few years off. Thanks for that, Dennis.’

  He grinned. ‘Right back at you, Charlie. Take care of it, might be worth a couple of bob someday.’

  We talked for a few minutes more, then I said, ‘How do you feel about Diane now?’

  Boyd’s answer told me he’d learned the destructive power of resentment and wasn’t willing to go there. ‘We do what we do to survive, though, I have to admit, she had me fooled. Then again, maybe I fooled myself.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  Dennis Boyd and his determination to go after the men who’d falsely testified against him had been the problem that refused to be resolved. Killing him was the obvious solution, yet she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Diane wasn’t stone after all. Underneath the primal instincts of greed and self-preservation, a tiny ember of humanity still burned.