Macallan went to the canteen, not for the wet sludge they advertised as coffee but to run it all through her head. She kept thinking about Jacquie Bell but couldn’t work out why. The one thing she did know was that she didn’t want to lose touch with her. In Northern Ireland they’d used leaks to the press as just another way to get things done, and where necessary hurt people who needed to be hurt. More than one political career had come to a grinding halt after their nocturnal habits had been dropped to a friendly reporter. She thought that Bell might appreciate an inside brief on Mr Barclay, depending on what they could dig up.
Back in her flat Macallan picked up the phone twice and put it down again as she struggled with the idea of giving Bell more inside information. There was something else bothering her, but it was indistinct and she couldn’t work out what the problem was.
‘Fuck it.’ She picked up the pay-as-you-go phone she’d bought, called Bell’s number and closed her eyes, still trying to work out whether being involved with her was a good idea or just creating one more problem in her life.
When Bell answered, the sound of her voice soothed and confused Macallan all at the same time. They made small talk, and Bell sounded genuinely pleased to hear from Macallan, but they both knew there was more to the call.
‘Look, I’ve had a shit day, and I’m positive you have too, given what you’re up to, so how about a fine red wine at my expense? I can still catch the off-licence so you can either come here or I’ll jump a fast black and come to you. Sound good?’
‘That sounds perfect and here’s the deal – you get the wine and the taxi and that’ll give me time to have a shower and open a packet of something and stick it in the micro.’
‘I’m on my way.’
45
Macallan wrapped the towelling robe round her, rubbed her wet hair and thought about having real time with John O’Connor. Time to really get to know each other – not the 24/7 obsession they currently had with a sick bastard who liked to torture women.
Not tonight though.
She felt a stab of guilt because the person coming to her door was Jacquie Bell, and there was a nervous orchestra playing in her belly. She looked in the mirror and fretted over the dark circles under the eyes, deciding it must be the harsh light above the bathroom mirror playing tricks.
‘What the fuck are you like, Grace?’ She pulled a grotesque face and was smiling back at her reflection when the knock at the door startled her. She wasn’t ready, and the plan had been to at least make herself look less knackered than she did. She sighed. ‘No time for the Polyfilla then. I hope the sight of you doesn’t frighten the poor woman.’
She pulled open the door and found Bell with a bottle of wine in each hand. Macallan thought how similar the scene was to her visit from JJ, and the guilt orchestra kicked off in her stomach again.
‘I’m sorry I’m not ready; I didn’t think you’d get here so quickly.’
She felt like a schoolgirl, and Bell sensed it and seized the moment. She put the wine on the hall table and pulled Macallan towards her.
Macallan was shocked by the suddenness of it all but gave in to her instincts and let her feelings run free. The next couple of hours were a dream, and at one point she shed tears, but not from guilt or fear, just the pleasure of giving in to her own desires. She’d lived a life of control, even when she’d been involved with her lover in Northern Ireland, and the Troubles, plus her own strict Presbyterian upbringing, had left her afraid of herself and what she might really want in life.
They lay quietly while Macallan tried to work out what it all meant, but for the moment she felt warm, satisfied and didn’t want to move. Bell had dozed for a few minutes and there was just a hint of a very low-level snore. Macallan smiled and pushed the hair off her forehead, and Bell woke, smiling at Macallan as she pulled herself up onto one elbow.
‘Don’t worry. We don’t have to be in love or get married or anything – and for God’s sake, don’t feel guilty! I know they don’t have lesbians in Northern Ireland but you’ll be okay. I think you’re just a bit confused and maybe this’ll help to clear it up in your head.’
‘It was amazing; it’s just that I’ve never been with a woman before.’
Bell wasn’t surprised, and she laughed and kissed Macallan lightly. ‘I kind of guessed that, but I’m more worried about that wine going off so I’ll go and get glasses and bring it back to bed.’
Bell had no hang-ups. Macallan watched her walk naked to the kitchen and decided this wasn’t the night to worry about her sexuality, although she was now trying to get to grips with the term bisexual. ‘Jesus, what would my mother, Ian Paisley and the PSNI think of me now?’
Bell came back to bed with very large glasses of red wine and for the next half hour they talked and giggled like teenagers before they each fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
46
Bell struggled to open her eyes but the smell of toast and coffee brewing kicked her off as she padded through to the kitchen.
‘Christ, you’re up early. It’s only six thirty. Are you always so domestic?’
She walked over to Macallan and gave her a bear hug. ‘Thanks for last night by the way. It was what we both needed so let’s leave it at that and feed me some breakfast. Normally I just have a fag and coffee, but if you want to be Mum then that’s good for me.’
After Bell had ignored Macallan’s protestations and smoked her first cigarette of the day, she pulled on her jacket and made her goodbyes. There was no embarrassing guilt, no false promises, and Macallan realised that this was someone worth knowing. Bell hugged her at the door and held her face in her hands.
‘It was a good thing last night, so like I said, we can just leave it like that. But if you want me anytime, just call – there are no strings. I’m not the type to get involved anyway, so hopefully whoever the lucky man is, they’ll realise you’re a prize. Anything you need on the murders, just let me know.’
Macallan asked her to come back into the kitchen, poured her another coffee and told her what they knew about Jonathon Barclay. Bell pulled out another cigarette, though Macallan insisted on opening a window and letting the cold morning air take care of the fumes.
‘Jesus. He’s a fucking gold-plated lawman and bastard of the first order. We’ve had the stories for years that he played away and liked the odd hooker, but the guy is very well connected and very careful. He also has some seriously bad people who owe him favours, so all in all he’s a very bad enemy. I’ll do a bit of quiet digging and if he becomes a real suspect maybe we can run something in the paper to try and stimulate interest.’
Macallan had already thought it through. ‘Why don’t you run something like it’s understood that a number of significant suspects are being investigated, including a prominent lawyer and a police officer? The last one is true by the way, but we’ve almost ruled him out. We always turn up a cop or two when hookers are involved. It never fails. I’ll keep you informed but I’ve got a feeling for this one.’
Bell threw the last of the coffee down her throat and made for the door. ‘Have to run, but let me know how it develops. I’ve a story to do on a local councillor with a drink problem. It won’t get me a literary award, but it’ll keep me in red wine and fags for a bit.’
Macallan felt fresh and alive and there was no guilt, at least for now. In fact, she felt like something had been freed up in her, but what surprised her was that she couldn’t wait to see JJ again, and she was more certain than ever about wanting to spend time with him.
The dark memories of Northern Ireland were beginning to fade. There would still be dreams, but they were passing, and she started to remember that there had been good things there too. She thought about her friend Bill Kelly. She’d only spoken to him twice since leaving Belfast and on both occasions it had been him who’d called. He’d been her greatest support there and she’d almost cut him off. It was time to make amends.
She lifted the phone and knew that calling him this e
arly wouldn’t be a problem, unless he was out doing his morning run. The phone rang too long and she was about to hang up when Kelly answered – but she could hear there was something wrong in his voice.
‘Bill, it’s Grace. Sorry I’ve not been in touch, you know how it is.’ She said it all too quickly.
She told him that she was fine; that she was sorry for ignoring him and that her life was getting back on track. The response was not from the Bill Kelly she knew; the voice on the other end of the phone was fragile and wavering.
‘Bill, is everything okay with you?’
‘Grace, I’m just happy to hear you – and don’t worry about not being in touch. You needed to get this place out of your system, and I knew that better than anyone. I’m glad that you’re getting a new life – hopefully with people in it. Unfortunately I’ve discovered that I’m human and not immortal. The Provos couldn’t get me but Hodgkin’s lymphoma can. Looks like my career is over.’
He explained it all, calm as he always was and without a trace of self-pity, but then that’s why she cared so much about the man. She couldn’t stop the tears as she struggled with the implications of what he was telling her. He stressed that she shouldn’t worry – he had no regrets and the investment in his family had paid off: they’d become what he’d hoped for and so had Grace Macallan.
She struggled to speak and told him that she would come to Northern Ireland to see him as soon as she could get time away from the investigation.
‘I’ve been following it and it sounds like a tough one. I remember you saying that you would never come back to Northern Ireland, but I knew you’d have to lay the ghosts to rest at some point. This place is improving out of all recognition and you can take a pint of Guinness almost anywhere now. I say almost because a lot of those nutters who were released under the Good Friday Agreement have to live somewhere.’
They said their goodbyes and promised a weekly call – and that she would come back to Northern Ireland.
47
Macallan picked up the phone. On the other end, Jonathon Barclay identified himself in a calm, polite tone, which caught her off guard. No aggression, no complaint, all he wanted was to make an appointment to meet Macallan. She signalled to Harkins, pointing at the phone and mouthing, ‘It’s him.’
‘Would you like to bring a lawyer along with you?’
Again the answer threw her – this wasn’t going to script. He didn’t want anyone with him and was happy to attend a police station. She made the appointment, put the phone down and Harkins walked towards her desk.
‘Are you sure you’re describing the right guy to me? Unless I’m much mistaken, that was a perfect gentleman who just volunteered to come in of his own accord. Given Jacquie Bell’s story this morning about a lawyer being a suspect, I thought he would be seriously pissed off.’
Harkins looked as puzzled as Macallan. ‘Not possible in this world, Grace. Just not fucking possible where he’s concerned. The bastard must have some horrible plan. No other explanation.’
Jonathon Barclay pulled up near St Leonard’s station and stared at the red-brick building that looked like a million others dotted on modern industrial estates around the country. Still, not as bad as some of the cesspits he’d had to visit his clients in when he was a much younger and permanently struggling lawyer.
The older he got, the more he reflected on those days, when he defended anyone who could bring in a few notes. It was usually the housebreakers, assault and robbery merchants and the general clientele that gummed up the Sheriff Courts almost every day of the year. He’d hated them, but he was a good lawyer and therefore a good actor. They’d all thought he was their best friend. He was the guy who answered any call, and it had never mattered what despicable act they’d committed as long as the bills or legal aid had been paid on time. Within ten minutes of briefing Barclay, he’d convinced them that they’d been fitted up by Lothian and Borders or whatever force had lifted his clients. He’d entered their world of self-delusion, and he’d enjoyed accusing police witnesses of everything but starting the Second World War, relishing the tremendous power he had as a defence lawyer to say whatever he liked to whomever he wanted.
He’d matured with his clients, and when he’d eventually entered the Faculty of Advocates, he’d walked into the world he was destined for – the big stage, complete with theatrical wigs and gowns. He’d managed to win a couple of stonewall cases against all the odds, and his power to mesmerise juries meant they forgot the actual evidence. He had the gift good criminals paid top dollar for, and the real bad men started to hire him as their personal brief.
In many ways, he saw himself in the most talented criminals. They may not have had the benefit of his education, but it took balls and nerve to get to the top of the organised crime league. In any other life they’d have been a success, and he often thought that they must have something special carved into their DNA – or was it a flaw? They didn’t feel pain or emotions when it came to business. If someone got in their way, they just removed the problem or fell to their rivals. Real dog eat dog.
Barclay’s problem was that he preferred the company of these men, and sometimes women, to his own circle of friends or colleagues. He didn’t see it happening – the thrill of drinking the best champagne with men who were prepared to kill their rivals blinded him to a simple fact. They were outside the law and he was with them. He forgot that they were predators – had to be; they studied him for weak spots, and normally after the third drink it was easy. The women who lived in their world were like a drug to Barclay. He couldn’t hide it, and some of the women who hung on the arms of the top men made him tremble with embarrassment and excitement. He wanted to experience these creatures that would do anything with anyone as long as they could flash the cash. He’d been told that police investigators often had the same problem with women who were criminals or associated with criminals, and now he understood why. It was the forbidden fruit, the things you’re told not to touch as a child – everything that we’re told is bad for us but would take if no one was looking.
A well-connected drug trafficker who had walked from court courtesy of Barclay had spotted the look in his eyes and given him what he wanted. He ran some top-of-the-range escorts and had instructed one he used himself to seal the deal. She had been well briefed to make sure Barclay got whatever he desired and was made to feel special. All she’d had to do was convince him he was irresistible then leave it to human weakness and the power of self-delusion. By the end of the night, she’d managed to get a drunken Barclay to take her to a five-star hotel and, as a bonus for her employer, helped him to his first snort of cocaine.
The next morning he’d been full of self-loathing, and like any other addict he was hooked, but it was the women he craved rather than the coke. He’d decided there and then not to touch the nose candy again, but it made no difference to the man who’d supplied the girl and the contents of her handbag. He fell down on the cocaine – but to be fair, only rarely – and that was fine with his supplier. They wanted him clear-headed when they needed him, and under control.
In the years that followed, he found he could only get the high he needed by being with women who sold their bodies and souls for cash. The gangsters never asked him to do anything other than defend the indefensible, and that was okay for him. His problem was that despite all the outward signs of success he felt empty, a failure, but he was locked into a road with no turn-offs. To the outside world he was something else: a big player and a feared courtroom specialist. It was the place he was made for, and even his critics admired his ability if not his charm.
He walked to the counter in St Leonard’s and told the clerk that he was there for an appointment with DCI Macallan. The whole situation worried him. Normally a call like this would have kicked off a storm, but his instincts told him there was a real threat to him and it was near. Smart men knew when to fight and when to simply hold their ground. This was not a time for taking on the local constabulary. Not yet anywa
y.
Macallan was in the control room watching the monitor at the front of the building. ‘Not bad, Mick, not bad at all, but just a bit too smooth a dresser. His hair looks like something out of a male fashion shoot.’
‘Not my type, Chief Inspector.’
When Macallan walked into the interview room, Barclay stood up and offered her his hand. ‘Chief Inspector, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Harkins walked in behind her and though Barclay’s face hardly changed, Macallan did notice the slightest of movements there. He’d demonstrated enough control to show her he knew how to act depending on the occasion. Whether he hated Harkins or fancied the pants off him, he had suppressed the emotion, but something had clicked, though that wasn’t surprising – Mick tended to have a strong effect on people.
‘And Mr Harkins,’ Barclay added. ‘I thought maybe you’d be retired by now and writing your memoirs.’
It was impossible to know if he was taking the piss. ‘Mr Barclay,’ Harkins acknowledged him. ‘It’s been a while. Think the last time was that murder on the Calton Hill – your client walked away from it, despite the overwhelming evidence against him.’
Barclay smiled and relaxed. This kind of banter was fine by him. ‘I think he was found not guilty by a jury of his peers, therefore innocent and justice done.’
Macallan gave Harkins enough of a look to bring their fencing to an end.
‘Let’s get to it, Mr Barclay, and of course you are only here as a possible witness. Cards on the table, we know that you’ve associated with prostitutes in the past, including escorts and street girls. We know you drive a Mercedes, and we just want to ask you a few routine questions at the moment. It may be that you can give us enough to let us leave you in peace.’
Barclay smiled and Macallan wondered how often he’d practised it in the mirror. In another life, she might have been impressed but not this time.
Cause of Death Page 18