Games People Play Read online

  We rarely spoke. Okay with me because, even on the odd occasion when he tried to be nice, he still managed to shoehorn a criticism in somewhere. “You’re throwing it away” he’d tell me, making no secret he considered I’d let the side down; squandered my gifts, evaded my responsibilities and gone to live in a backwater he couldn’t leave fast enough. Jackie had failed to pick up on an important detail: it was my father who had money, not me, and he had no intention of sharing it with his errant son.

  But real though it was, the tension between us was a smokescreen. His disapproval had deeper roots. Our relationship difficulties went all the way back to Cramond.

  He lifted the telephone, no doubt as reluctant as I was. ‘Charlie, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, you?’

  He avoided answering. ‘Your mother makes a fuss. You know how women are. So you’re all right? How’s business?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘What...case are you working on?’

  ‘Got a couple right now.’

  ‘Wherever evil raises its ugly head, that kind of thing?’

  The mockery was impossible to miss; the man couldn’t help himself. I felt my chest tighten. ‘Yeah, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Making money?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘No such thing, Charlie.’ A line his well-heeled friends would find funny when Archie played to the gallery.

  ‘There’s more to life than that.’

  ‘Is there?’

  We had been down this road more often than I wanted to recall. I changed the subject.

  ‘Six months to the election: the polls are predicting a close run thing.’

  ‘We’ll be ready for ’em. We’re ready now.’

  ‘So you’re confident?’

  ‘Mmmm, quietly. Still got to get the message across, of course. Could always use another good man if those SNP idiots haven’t brainwashed you. Wouldn’t survive five minutes on their own.’

  Something else we disagreed about.

  I said, ‘No thanks, I’m happy where I am.’

  ‘Playing silly buggers in Glasgow. Your mother would like you nearer to home.’

  ‘I am home.’

  A mirthless laugh came down the line. ‘Well there’s a place for you as soon as you come to your senses.’

  I counted to ten. It was always the same, both of us primed for an argument. Under starters orders Patrick Logue would call it.

  ‘How much longer do you intend to run up and down Buchanan Street with your arse hanging out?’

  ‘That isn’t what’s happening, father.’

  ‘Your mother and I have talked about it. We know exactly what you’re doing.’

  His voice rose, close to shouting, close to breaking down.

  ‘And you’re wasting your time, you won’t find her. She’s dead, Charlie, she’s dead!’

  ‘I’m not trying to find her, I... Put mum back on, will you?’

  It had taken seconds, a record even for us.

  My mother took over.

  ‘Charles? That was my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to get you two together. Not now.’

  ‘I tried, mum, it’s hopeless. He’s hopeless.’

  ‘He’s concerned about you.’

  ‘Got a queer way of showing it.’

  ‘No he doesn’t, he’s sad. Your father’s sad. We both are.’

  For as far back as I could remember she had been the arbitrator in our family, the peacemaker, standing between the men she loved. Never giving up. Some things didn’t change. I rang off as soon as she would let me, feeling like shit.

  The weather man was right: the rain started late on Tuesday night and didn’t stop. Next morning, NYB was deserted; the sun worshipers might have been a scene from a pleasant dream. Private investigation was often a juggling act. Nothing for weeks then I was swamped. I was in the nothing-for-weeks phase – why sitting in the garden had been possible. I ordered breakfast, coffee and a roll and sausage, and sat near the piano watching Jackie float around like queen of the fair. At eleven thirty she buzzed me. Her mood was better and I wondered why.

  ‘Someone for you, Charlie. I’m sending him up.’

  Someone was a thin man in his thirties. He seemed familiar. Like everyone in the city his face was tanned. That didn’t disguise the dark pockets at the corners of his eyes, the lines and the shadow on his jaw. His shirt was grubby, trousers creased in a hundred places; a guy who had given up caring for himself just as sleep had given up on him. He held out his hand. ‘Mark Hamilton. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.’

  The name meant nothing; our paths hadn’t crossed, but I’d seen him: on a beach with his arm round a woman in a bathing suit. It was his expression I remembered, a mix of confusion and fear. He’d brought it with him.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Hamilton.’

  He was bound to assume I knew about his trouble. Since Monday what had happened at the coast was everywhere; paper sellers shouted it from street corners, STV news opened with it and I’d even overheard snatches of conversations between customers in NYB. I had only a vague idea of the details and was happy to keep it that way.

  ‘I saw your advert in Yellow Pages. It says you find people, although I expect your advice will be to speak to the police.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice; it’s a police case. I’m sorry, Mark. I’d like to help but I can’t get involved.’

  His head went down, his shoulders heaved, and he cried. ‘Please. Please, let me get it out at least. If I don’t my head will explode.’

  By some superhuman effort he drew himself together. ‘You’ll know about Lily,’ he said.

  ‘Only what I read in the press.’

  ‘I haven’t bought a newspaper. Seeing it in black and white would be too much. As it is we’re out of our minds. My wife...’

  ‘Start at the beginning. Take your time.’

  Over the years many people had bared their souls to me. My job wasn’t to judge. What he told me tested that premise. The quiet voice became a whisper.

  ‘I know who took my daughter. I know who and I know why, and it’s driving me insane.’

  He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault.’

  I shifted in my chair. ‘The beginning,’ I said again, ‘go back to the beginning.’

  Hamilton spoke without looking at me. ‘We’d had a perfect day. Lily loved it, she’d never been to the seaside. We were a family. It was wonderful.’

  He pulled two photographs from his pocket and handed one of them to me. A baby, pretty in pink, grinned a toothless grin. Against my better judgement I accepted it.

  ‘It’s strange, you can’t see yourself as a parent, the responsibility, the sacrifice, and it’s scary. Then a child comes along and life without them is unimaginable. Jennifer and I resisted the idea. Lily was an accident. The best accident.’

  ‘So Sunday was great. What went wrong?’

  ‘Jen was worried it would be too hot for the baby. Lily didn’t seem to mind. We arrived in the afternoon – a whole day would’ve been pushing it – the beach was more crowded than I’d ever seen in Scotland. My wife hadn’t been in the sea since our last holiday. She went swimming. I stayed with Lily. We bought ice cream that melted and made a mess.’

  His voice cracked. I was sure he was going to cry again.

  ‘It was well after seven when we packed up. Most people had gone home. The last thing we did was walk along the sand.’

  ‘How far?’

  Hamilton thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. There was a rowing boat, near it. Jennifer fancied going in the water again. Lily was tired and the red flags were out. I should’ve stopped her.’

  Guilt clawed at Mark Hamilton.

  ‘Everything was fine at first. Jen waved to us; we waved back. Then I realised she wasn’t waving, she was in trouble. It was late. There was nobody to help. With the baby I mean. I put her in the push-chair and ran into the sea. I didn’t find my wife, she found me. I dra
gged her to the shore. She was pale and so still. I was certain she was dead. I’m not religious but I’ll tell you I prayed on that beach. I was determined she wouldn’t die. I kept breathing into her and pressing her chest. One of the ambulance men said I’d saved her life.’

  ‘How long were you in the water?’

  ‘Minutes. Four at the most.’ His eyes closed. ‘I thought it was over. It wasn’t; it was just starting.’

  ‘The baby.’

  footsteps...racing

  ‘Somebody had taken her. And that’s why I’m here.’

  He stroked the stubble on his cheek. Behind his story was a greater horror. His wife had almost drowned, his child had been abducted, and still there was more.

  ‘I said we resisted having a family. The main reason was our relationship, Jennifer and I... we’ve been through some rough times. We almost ended the marriage. We didn’t, instead I had an affair. More than one if you want the truth.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re telling me.’

  ‘Donna Morton has Lily. You need to find her. Find her and get Lily back.’

  He was asking the impossible. Hamilton handed me the second picture, the camera had caught him and an attractive brunette with their arms round each other.

  ‘Mr Hamilton...Mark, you believe you know who has your child. All right. Go to the police. Let them deal with it.

  ‘I knew you’d say that. I knew you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t. Why would she steal Lily?’

  ‘To get back at me.’

  ‘To get back at you for what?’

  ‘Breaking her heart. We were drinking wine one night in her flat after making love.

  Stupidly I promised I’d leave my wife. I didn’t mean to say it, it just came out. The alcohol I suppose. Then Jennifer announced she was pregnant and I finished with Donna. She called me every name you’ve ever heard. Swore to get even.’

  I wondered if Hamilton wasn’t deluding himself, taking comfort in the unlikely belief that Donna Morton – someone he’d known – had stolen his daughter. A better option than a paedophile.

  He bowed his head. ‘They’ve taken Jen to the Royal Infirmary, she’s in bad shape. Heavily sedated. The doctors are worried about her. If this came out it could put her over the edge. You see, she believes that when we made the baby we made the marriage right. Everything will be fine if we get Lily back. I realised on Monday it must be Donna. Who else could it be?’

  ‘How long did the affair last?’

  ‘The best part of a year.’

  ‘Threats aren’t proof.’

  He wasn’t convinced. ‘I’ve spent two days trying to trace her. She’s disappeared. Doesn’t that tell you something? Her sister wouldn’t even open the door. She despises me. I can’t do this alone, it needs a professional. If Lily’s been...Jen would never get over it and neither would I. You say bring in the police. Jennifer would have to be told. One way or another it means disaster.’

  ‘Was there anything about Donna that makes you think she would harm the baby?’

  ‘No. Never. But I let her down badly. She said she’d never forgive me.’

  ‘Did she harass you, threaten you?’

  ‘There was no contact. None at all. I assumed she was getting on with her life.’

  ‘And she wasn’t on the beach?’

  Hamilton’s mouth moved. No words came out.

  ‘You didn’t see her on the beach yet you’re convinced she abducted your daughter. Does that really make sense?’

  His face had the hollowed out look of a Halloween pumpkin. He didn’t answer my question.

  ‘You think I’m imagining it. My wife is clinging to her sanity because of me.’

  ‘That’s not what I think at all.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to get involved in the official investigation. I want to hire you to locate a missing person. I want you to find Donna Morton. I’ll tell Jennifer when she’s better and Lily’s safe. Help me.’

  First the blonde kid on the ferry, now this. Forces too powerful to resist were gathered against me, taking me where I didn’t want to go. I understood. I shouldn’t touch this one, yet I felt the decision slipping away from me.

  Hamilton hadn’t shirked; he accepted his actions were the reason his family had been torn apart. Self-justification never entered into it. He had wronged not one but two women; blame for his daughter’s disappearance was his alone. I could take the job on the basis that, if I was unsuccessful, he would come clean no matter what it cost him. At the start of the affair Donna Morton didn’t realise her boyfriend was already married. When Hamilton told her it was too late: she was in love with him.

  ‘I should’ve ended it, and I wish I had. It was selfish and wrong. I didn’t. The night I told her it was over she cried and cried then she got angry, shouting and screaming all kinds of stuff about what she’d do. It was a mess.’

  ‘The sister, did you ever meet her?’

  ‘Lucy. Once. We had a drink together. She had her own problems.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just that. Drink.’

  ‘Donna told you that?’

  ‘Yes. Been in and out of AA for years.’

  ‘You thought Donna and Lily might be with her?’

  ‘It was all I could think of.’

  ‘How did you meet Donna?’

  ‘She did some secretarial work for us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Templeton Warwick. I’m an accountant.’

  ‘Have you got her mobile number?’

  ‘No, I didn’t keep it in my phone in case Jen found it. We had an arrangement, we didn’t phone.’

  I asked him about friends, workmates, anyone close enough to know where Donna could have gone. Why Lucy Morton despised him became clear; he was unable to add much, as if we were discussing a stranger, someone he’d known casually, not the woman he’d promised to leave his wife for. In spite of his tragedy I began to dislike him.

  Over and over the voice in my head said turn him down, though at face value it was straightforward: find his former lover, stay clear of the abduction, and, however it went, don’t let it get to me.

  A fine line.

  3

  Andrew Geddes watched me guide my latest client to the door. When Hamilton left he tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Charlie. Don’t go there.’

  He’d been sitting at his usual table talking to Pat Logue. The two men could hardly have been more different. Patrick, a Glasgow fly-man one step ahead of the law who worked for me when I needed him, and Andrew, a DS with Police Scotland CID, at war with a soon-to-be-ex-wife. Stocky and moody with an unshakeable concept of right and wrong, divorce had given him a singular view of the world he shared at every opportunity. Patrick was certain the detective had his eye on him and he wasn’t wrong. The policeman in Andrew never slept. He could laugh at Patrick’s jokes, even share a beer with him, without changing his opinion – that Pat Logue was just another small-time wide boy whose luck would eventually run out. When it did he’d be waiting. It was an uneasy relationship that left me in the middle. Yet they had more in common than they realised: both were generous, shrewd and completely committed to their side of the tracks. But they would never be friends.

  ‘Go where, Andrew?’

  ‘Whatever he was after, stay clear.’

  ‘Have I done something I shouldn’t?’

  ‘I hope not. The man who just left is part of an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘And?’

  He bit his lip. ‘I’m trying to help, Charlie.’

  ‘What makes you think I need help?’

  ‘You always need help, and you’re not slow to ask for it as I recall.’

  ‘Mark Hamilton’s the victim. Or one of them at least.’

  ‘It’s not that simple and you know it.’

  He glanced at Pat Logue. Patrick got the message. ‘If you don’t want to know the score,’ he said, ‘look away now’ and went to the bar for a refill.

/>   ‘So how do you know it’s not simple?’

  ‘Listen, reputations, careers even, are made on cases like this. Unless you want to be trampled by a herd of stampeding egos it’s better to keep your distance.’

  ‘I’m not on the Force. Why should I worry?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, I’m putting sugar on it. You know what I’m saying. No kids. We agreed. Leave it, man, leave it.’

  ‘All right Andrew, thanks for the concern.’

  Andrew Geddes was a good guy. A friend. A man worth listening to. So why wasn’t I? And I did know what he was saying.

  Pat Logue sidled back over. For a while he’d been heading for divorce too. His wife threatened to kick him out unless he made some changes, starting with his drinking. He realised Gail was serious and cut back, which still left him NYB’s best customer and a fixture at the bar. Before, he drank heavily every day; now he just drank every day. Glasgow was full of characters like him, gifted with extraordinary insight into other people, blind to the chaos of their own lives. He was a couple of years older than me. His dark hair was peppered with grey: he wore a thin moustache and sometimes a goatee. An animated character who dressed as if he was on holiday, short sleeved shirts and sandals: the costume of an optimist. Between fights with his wife he spent his life in the pub doing deals. Gail Logue had hitched her star to a womaniser, a chancer who always had an angle, and a story, usually a funny one. No luck, Gail.

  Patrick was a born under-achiever. None the less he had gifts. Well known around the city he could lay his hands on anything, anything at all – he knew a man who knew a man. A black marketeer par excellence. But he couldn’t hold on to money: it slipped through his fingers; he was always skint. I used him because he could go where I never could. His street cred was unimpeachable. Compared with him I was a kid-on Celt. Pat Logue was the real McCoy. He dished out advice on life in sporting terms, emphasising the importance of keeping the ball on the ground, or playing to the whistle. I didn’t understand half of it. Yet I liked him; it was impossible not to. He was the most tolerant person I’d ever known; kind, intelligent and generous. Behind the wide boy façade was a sharp mind. Some unnamed insecurity had held him back. He could have been anything. Instead he’d chosen to be nothing.