by Owen Mullen
I didn’t have the word for it.
Some might call it love.
Boyd slung the bag over his shoulder and got up to go. I went with him. At the door, we didn’t say goodbye. We didn’t say anything. Outside on the concourse, women in print dresses and sunshades toyed languidly with espressos under umbrellas advertising Absolut Vanilia; summer was coming and it felt good. The bank book the accountant had given me was in my pocket, along with the letter of authority he’d need to access the funds. What was in it was a long way short of fifteen years of a life. I’d already withdrawn my expenses. It seemed only fair Dennis Boyd should have the rest. I was sure his old boss would agree.
Boyd accepted it, an ironic smile playing on his lips, picked his way between the lounging bodies and walked into the sunshine; he didn’t look back. Despite the lost time, it seemed a promising future lay ahead of him. With uncharacteristic brevity, Patrick Logue had summed it up in two words.
Re sult.
Later in the afternoon I took on a new case and turned down three more. Strange times, indeed. Where was everyone on those rainy Tuesdays when I twiddled my thumbs and wondered if I’d ever get another job? Just as I was shrugging on my jacket, getting ready to call it quits, a thought hit me: Dennis Boyd was going to ‘disappear to Oban’. Why couldn’t Kim Rafferty do something similar? Scotland wasn’t safe for the ex-wife of the gangster and probably never would be, but I might just know the very guy who could help.
Yannis Kontogiannakis’ Mediterranean voice rippled down the line. ‘Charlie, this is a surprise. How are you? And how is my new friend?’
‘We’re both good, Yannis. You?’
He laughed. ‘Yannis is always fine.’
Somehow, I believed him.
‘How can I help you?’
‘There’s something I want to ask. If someone needed to drop out of sight…’
He jumped straight in. ‘The south of the islands over the mountains to the coast is not only beautiful, Charlie, even Interpol won’t find you down there. We’re not speaking about you, are we?’
‘No, not me.’
‘Tell me what you need me to do and it’s done.’
His offer was generous. Too generous without understanding what he’d be getting into. ‘This person has powerful enemies, Yannis. Dangerous enemies.’
He dismissed my warning. ‘Life is dangerous. We Greeks have learned how to live and deal with such threats. And you, Charlie, who knows better than you?’
Pat Logue had been talking.
‘And if this person had a child?’
‘Even better. To save a young life is the best any man can do.’
I’d only met him briefly and I’d liked the Greek. Now, he had my admiration.
‘Someone is going to be very happy to hear this. We’ll speak soon.’
The conversation meant I had one more call to make. Turning Kim Rafferty away hadn’t sat well with me and still didn’t. Her husband was an angry man; the violence towards his wife would only get worse.
Living on a sunshine island was a lot of people’s idea of heaven – Kim might see it as a prison sentence. I’d never know: her number was unobtainable and I guessed she’d figured out a way to escape without my help.
Pat Logue would be pleased.
42
The world kept turning. And in NYB, nothing had changed. Or so I thought. Jackie was on her own, busy with a drinks order; she seemed edgy. I picked up on her energy and wanted to ask again if she was okay. I remembered how my last attempt had gone and kept my distance. Jackie crying was a shock to the system – the Jackie Mallon I knew didn’t do tears. Caused them? Absolutely.
I hadn’t seen her man around lately – a good guy called Alan Sneddon – and wondered if they were having problems. It happened. She saw me checking her out, broke off from what she was doing and came over. ‘I’m okay, Charlie, really. Thanks for the concern. It’s hormones.’
‘Hormones?’
‘Yeah, I’m pregnant.’
I went round the bar and hugged her. ‘That’s wonderful.’
She made a face. ‘I thought so. Now, I’m not so sure. I’m being sick fifteen times a day, my boobs are huge, and my feet are killing me. And this is only the beginning.’
‘What’s Alan saying to it?’
‘Just what you’d expect. Delighted and scared.’
‘Sounds about right. Shouldn’t you be taking it a bit easier? Where’s Michelle?’
‘She left. Got a job with Santander.’
Patrick Logue arrived in time to catch the last part of the conversation. ‘Who’s got a job with Santander?’
‘Michelle.’
He hadn’t known. Michelle hadn’t told him. Whatever had been going on was over. If he was hurt, he didn’t show it. Pat was a survivor. With Michelle out of the picture, his marriage would probably survive, too.
Jackie said, ‘She sent me a text, would you believe? Sorry, Pat, you’ll have to make do with me.’
It was too good an opportunity for him to pass up. He said, ‘Well, it’s a bit unexpected, Jackie. You’ll have to forgive my rough, manly ways, but don’t worry, I won’t tell Alan if you don’t. Oh, and before it goes any further, you need to know, I’m a screamer.’
It got the reaction it deserved, though it made me laugh.
I lifted the early edition of the Glasgow Times from the bar, took it to my table and thumbed through it. On page nine, an item about the opening of a crèche in a factory in Stepps caught my attention. In the black-and-white picture a man held a child in his arms, smiling for the camera. Rosie Rafferty curled into her father.
Her mother wasn’t in the shot.
Kim had been desperate to escape. When I hadn’t been able to reach her, I’d assumed she had. That wasn’t how it looked; the mother in her wouldn’t have let her leave without her daughter. I didn’t understand what it meant, but it didn’t feel right.
I went back to the bar and showed it to Patrick. He blew the top off his pint. ‘Not your problem, Charlie. Never was. As soon as she got herself involved with Sean Rafferty, Kim was in trouble.’
He was right. It didn’t change the feeling in my gut.
‘I could’ve done more. Should’ve done more.’
‘And ended up in the river?’
‘Not to help her was a mistake.’
A look I’d seen too often came into his eyes. ‘“We make mistakes. But we’re human. And maybe that’s the word that best explains us.” Who said it?’
His timing was off. I’d heard enough of his bloody quotes and didn’t appreciate hearing more. ‘I don’t give a damn. Do me a favour, put a match to that bloody book.’
‘It’s appropriate. Who said it?’
‘Don’t know, don’t want to know.’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Nelson Mandela? Gandhi? Who?’
‘Captain James T Kirk, Commander of the starship Enterprise.’
Epilogue
Rain fell relentlessly in thin sheets on the ‘A’ listed buildings on Blythswood Square, once the town houses of wealthy cotton merchants and shipping magnates. Sean Rafferty liked this part of the city. In another age, he’d have lived here; the history of the square appealed to him. Over his shoulder in No 7, Madeleine Smith had poisoned her lover with arsenic-laced cocoa and got away with it. Good for Madeleine. Rafferty was waiting for somebody who very definitely hadn’t got away with it.
A taxi splashed to a halt outside the Kimpton Hotel, where a well-dressed couple sheltered in the doorway of the former home of the RAC Club under a black umbrella held aloft by the concierge. The man was bald, decades older than the woman. She was blonde and pretty, young enough to be his daughter, clinging to his arm as if they were on the edge of an abyss, instead of a wet pavement in the centre of Glasgow. Rafferty smiled – money got you just about anything. Which was why everybody wanted it. The concierge proved his point, slipped the tip into his waistcoat with the dexterity of a pickpocket and shepherded them t
hrough the puddles. An orange indicator flashed and the cab drew away, no doubt returning them to their comfortable lives in Whitecraigs, Dowanhill or Bearsden. Sean imagined them sharing a nice bottle of Chateaux What-The-Fuck with dinner, selected specially for them by the sommelier, the female fluttering her lashes, coyly pursing her lips, secretly hoping the wine, the two glasses of Courvoisier before the meal, and the Drambuie he’d drink after it would get her out of spreading her legs later.
Rafferty’s driver pointed to a bedraggled figure coming up the hill from Waterloo Street, her cropped hair matted to her skull, the short skirt and high heels out of place in the filthy weather. She stopped at the corner, looking up and down, swaying slightly, obviously on something. Sean didn’t blame her – if he spent every night doing what she was doing, he’d be on something, too.
The driver said, ‘Is that her?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Christ Almighty, she’s pathetic.’
Rafferty smiled a second time. ‘Isn’t she just?’
A white Mondeo pulled into the kerb. The guy behind the wheel rolled the window down and leaned across to speak to her. The exchange was brief and the car pulled away. Rafferty understood why – one look at her face would be enough to put anybody off.
The driver said, ‘He didn’t fancy it. Know where he’s coming from. You’d have to be desperate to take that on. Bloody desperate.’
‘Fortunately, some people are.’ Sean Rafferty tapped the dashboard. ‘I’ve seen enough. Take me to Bothwell.’
Vicky was hurting. Every joint in her body ached; she needed a fix. Two hours, three at the most, to earn. After that, the city closed down and it would be too late. Thinking about not being able to score panicked her; an iron hand gripped her chest, her fingertips tingled with the anxiety attack already on its way. The guy appeared out of the rain and was beside her before she realised he was there. Something about him was familiar, though she couldn’t place him. He squinted, amused, hard eyes assessing her. ‘Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.’
Vicky’s brain wouldn’t function.
He saw the confusion in her eyes. ‘Don’t remember me, do you? I remember you. How could I forget?’ He laughed and stepped closer. ‘No bells? That is disappointing. Made a lasting impression on your scrubber, though, didn’t I?’
He grabbed Vicky’s arm and slapped her against the railings. ‘Kelvin. Got a right doing because of you. Spent five days in the Royal.’ He slapped her; she stumbled and fell, tearing her tights, skinning her knee. Kelvin Hunter hauled her to her feet, caught a handful of her wet hair, and dragged her head up to the light. ‘Jesus Christ! What the hell’s happened to you? You weren’t bad for a tart. Pick a fight with a bus, did you?’
Kelvin was enjoying himself too much to hear the car stop and the man get out. He threw Vicky to the ground, mocking her. ‘Wear a mask. Who in their right mind would pay for that? Nobody—’
A hand gripped him and spun him round. The first blow broke his jaw, the second put Kelvin Hunter down – he wouldn’t be getting up again any time soon.
Tony lifted Vicky Farrell to her feet and held her close as she sobbed into his shoulder. It had taken longer than he wanted, but he’d found her. He said, ‘Come on, baby, we’re done with this town. Let’s get you home.’
Acknowledgments
The fingerprints of many talented people are on this book. My thanks to the wonderful team at Boldwood books, especially, Sarah, and my editors Sue Smith and Candida Bradford, whose knowledge of the English language far outstrips my own. You make me better than I am. Beyond them and the fantastic energy they bring to everything they do are other people, too numerous to mention, who have made a telling contribution to the work. But, first, last, and always must be my wife, Christine. Writing is, by nature, an imperfect thing. Any errors that remain are my own.
More from Owen Mullen
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Also by Owen Mullen
The Glass Family Series
Family
Insider
Hustle
PI Charlie Cameron
Games People Play
The Wronged
Whistleblower
The Accused
Mackenzie Darroch
Deadly Harm
In Harm's Way
Standalone
Out Of The Silence
So It Began
About the Author
Owen Mullen is a highly regarded crime author who splits his time between Scotland and the island of Crete. In his earlier life he lived in London and worked as a musician and session singer.
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First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
Copyright © Owen Mullen, 2021
Cover Design: Nick Castle Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock
The moral right of Owen Mullen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-80162-704-7
Large Print ISBN 978-1-80162-703-0
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80162-702-3
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