Games People Play Read online

  “If you don’t want to know the score, look away now” was typical Patspeak. That one I got. He nodded towards Andrew. ‘What was your man sayin’?’

  ‘Just talking, Patrick.’

  ‘Anythin’ for me, Charlie?’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t know yet. ’

  ‘Make it quick will you? Funds are low.’

  ‘Funds are always low with you. You’re your own worst enemy.’

  ‘Not while Gail’s alive I’m not. I’m serious, whenever you’re ready so am I.’

  His timing was a mile off. Irritation crept into my voice. ‘I hear you, Patrick.’

  Alone in my office I unlocked the cabinet and took out the file. Every case I’d been involved in had a record with a label on the jacket: name, date, and outcome. Except one. Pamela’s was the thinnest, inside there wasn’t much: just a few newspaper clippings yellowed with age and a list of notes I’d added over time. Unlike the others there were no details on the front. No name. No date. No outcome. My eyes ran over the familiar headlines. It had been so long. Andrew’s warning had got to me, and he had the right of it. The abduction wasn’t for me. I needed no part of it.

  Mark Hamilton’s daughter had been taken in broad daylight. Three days later there was still no sign of her. The dilemma Hamilton faced was to tell his wife and the police he suspected a woman he’d had an affair with could be responsible. Then again, she may have nothing to do with it. Angry words and criminal actions weren’t the same. If he confessed, the damage to his marriage would be irreparable. As it was the strain on the mother must be unbearable. On the other hand to keep knowledge of where the child might be secret could never be forgiven – why he’d come to my door. Hamilton had given me a straw, Donna’s sister. It was a place to begin, and time to do what most of the city had already done: read about baby Lily.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  There was no news, just a rehash of what had gone before; the police had opened a Baby Lily hotline and a television appeal by the parents was being considered. The Herald filled space with an article about child abduction in Scotland, apparently it was on the increase. I hoped somebody had the sense to make sure Lily’s mother didn’t see it.

  The address Hamilton had given for Donna Morton was a grey sandstone tenement two floors up in Queens Park, south-facing which meant plenty of light, and there would be a fair old view from the bay window. As a place to stay, more than acceptable for a single woman. The flat was empty. Unoccupied. I looked through the letterbox and saw open doors and bare floorboards. A guy and a girl came up the stairs, whispering and giggling. His hair was long and dark – a wash wouldn’t have gone wrong. Hers was blonde, cropped short like a man. They were so taken with each other they didn’t notice me until I spoke. ‘Excuse me. Did you know the woman who lived here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not really, people keep themselves to themselves. Always a bit of coming and going. This hasn’t had a tenant in a long time. Landlord’s thinking of selling if you’re interested.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then sorry.’

  I knocked on the door opposite. Nobody answered. Donna Morton left around the time Lily was born, realising she’d put her faith in a faithless man: Hamilton was never going to leave his wife. I tried to imagine her resentment, her sense of isolation and the pain of accepting what a fool she’d been.

  When I got to NYB I nodded to Patrick to follow me to the office; I had something for him after all. Jackie was downright friendly, she said, ‘Alan’s here. Robbie’s replacement is with him.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Different.’

  ‘Should I prepare myself for a shock?’

  ‘Might be an idea, Charlie.’

  Patrick was keen to start earning. I didn’t tell him who the client was, he didn’t ask. We were looking for a woman called Donna Morton. His job was to check the local haunts; the shops, the video place, the pub; contact her landlord and see if there was a forwarding address or telephone number. ‘Start with the neighbours.’

  He got the information he needed and some of my money masquerading as expenses.

  The amount didn’t impress him.

  ‘Do they always have to be missing, Charlie? Couldn’t we take on some sleazy divorce stuff for a change. A quick half dozen, maybe, get the money up?’

  I didn’t reply. I had a crime scene to visit.

  In Ayr, I parked in Pavilion Road, named after a post Victorian red sandstone relic with tall Italianate towers at each corner. A hundred years ago this lady would have been the toast of the coast, with variety shows packed to the rafters during the summer. Since then the old girl had been used and abused and gone downhill; a dance hall in the forties, a rock venue in the seventies; in the eighties and nineties a place a generation of teenagers, who had lied to their parents about where they were going, raved the night away to acid house and techno, high on E. Now it was home to Pirate Pete’s kiddies indoor play area. And it was closed.

  Beyond, closer to the shore, a car park and another play area gave way to the Low Green, a stretch of grass skirting the Esplanade. Esplanades were a thing of the past; they didn’t build them anymore or, if they did, they called them something else, but Lily Hamilton’s abductor had been here. Watching. Waiting.

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine how it had been; people basking and burning in the afternoon sun and, later, with the heat going out of the day, the crowds drifting towards home, tired and happy, leaving the sands deserted until only the Hamiltons and the baby that had saved their marriage remained, oblivious to the drama about to befall them.

  All I had to go on was a distraught Mark Hamilton’s version of events. One thing Lily’s father said jumped out at me: when I’d asked how long he’d been in the water he’d reckoned four minutes. Little time for something so bold. Not in character with the woman Hamilton had described. Was it really possible that Donna, so besotted she allowed herself to be used by a married man for sex, could morph into a calculating stalker prepared to risk capture to avenge herself on her former lover?

  What kind of nerve did that take?

  And assuming she was responsible, was it a spontaneous action driven by obsession or always the plan? From her vantage point high above the water, did Donna realise before anybody else that Jennifer Hamilton was drowning and see her chance? Then what? Donna didn’t drive so unless she had an accomplice that ruled out an escape by car. I set my stopwatch and headed for the beach.

  Beaches weren’t my favourite places, even the tropical paradise kind, lapped by blue seas and edged with coconut palms. Ayr wasn’t one of those; a cold wind was coming off the water and, on a blowy day with the tide out, no surprise it was deserted.

  I stopped at the abandoned boat Mark Hamilton had mentioned and checked how long it had taken me to get here. A minute and a half, a three minute round trip. Tight.

  A stone wall, built to keep the rough winter seas at bay, ran the length of the front. The nearest access to the shore was the way I had come, the next about the same distance further on; everything else was too far. The Hamiltons walked away from the town centre, away from the Pavilion; this was where Jennifer went swimming, where her husband and daughter waved to mummy seconds before the horror that would change their lives forever.

  The timing said it, and the fact that Hamilton couldn’t find anybody to look after the baby when his wife got into difficulties. Snatching the child hadn’t been an instant decision, somebody was there, ready to move if a chance, even one as slender as this, presented itself. That much I could agree with and, though none of the possibilities called to me, they were all there was. I examined them in turn, beginning with what struck me as the least likely: that Donna Morton, a loner if her former lover was to be believed, hadn’t acted by herself. The sequence of events played in my head: Donna on the Esplanade, keeping out of sight, while her accomplice, maybe her sister, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and listened to the car
’s engine purr. When the moment came, running along the sand, lifting the baby and racing to the vehicle waiting for her, perhaps a small van with the back doors open.

  Unbelievable.

  I was mistaken about which scenario was least likely. Donna alone was even more implausible. No car meant pushing the baby through the streets to the bus or train station, yet there were no witnesses. Taxi firms would have been contacted and told to be on the look-out for a woman with a child; again nothing. The journey by train from the coast to the city takes approximately fifty minutes; the police had to have examined the CCTV footage at every stop and have officers waiting at Glasgow Central. That type of surveillance could have produced a result at the beach. Unfortunately “Safe Ayr”, an initiative using portable cameras to reduce antisocial behaviour in and around the Esplanade, had ended in August so Donna Morton or anybody else couldn’t have been filmed.

  What did I make of all that? The abduction was opportunistic – nothing else made sense. Public transport was out; the clue was in the name. Someone with a car, then. Or a local, and I saw problems there, too. A baby wasn’t an easy thing to conceal: for a start they cried, especially at night.

  But as a suspect, Donna didn’t feel right, unless she’d spent the time since her break up with Hamilton learning to drive. And useful though it would have been to speak to Andrew Geddes, that option was a non-starter. What I was doing wouldn’t get his approval.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  When I got back, Patrick was nursing a pint. ‘Nada,’ he said. ‘Nothing to find. Could’ve spun it out. Thought you’d prefer me not to.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nada with the landlord too. Wasn’t keen to answer questions. The only other person who remembers her was a neighbour. Says a guy was askin’ about her. Coincidence or what?’

  Mark Hamilton? Or me?

  I said, ‘Thanks Patrick.’

  ‘You mean that’s it? Not like you, Charlie.’

  ‘There’s a sister but I’ll speak to her.’

  He wasn’t happy. I said, ‘How many driving schools do you think there are south of the river?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Find out. Make a list and start going round them.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘One that taught Donna Morton to drive. Got to be a couple of days in that.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘Keep the money. Have one on me.’

  ‘One is right. We haven’t broken sweat. I’ve blocked off time.’

  I almost laughed out loud. ‘Really, I didn’t realise. How much?’

  ‘Three days. Minimum.’

  ‘Send me an invoice. The sooner it’s in the system the sooner you’ll get paid.’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘For fuck sake, Charlie. Play the game. I don’t do invoices. If I started that...where would it end? Before I know it I’d be payin’ tax.’ He faltered. ‘I’m under pressure, our usual arrangement.’

  I didn’t ask what pressure – with Pat Logue it was better not to know. Patrick had done a lot of good work for me over the years, and when he had it he was the most generous guy in the world. An advance wasn’t a problem. He left with my money in his pocket; that was our usual arrangement. On his way to the door he said, ‘See Paul Finnegan died.’

  ‘Saw that.’

  ‘His platinum albums didn’t save him. In his teens he was a better than okay goalkeeper. Got an offer from Celtic. The Irish connection. Turned it down and went with the music.’

  ‘Really?’ Football didn’t interest me.

  ‘Yeah. If he’d stuck at it he could’ve had his own pub by now.’

  I ate in the diner and waited until after six. During the week I rarely went to the club during the day. Without people, without the noise, it was a strange place. Curiosity got the better of me. Alan Sneddon stood in the middle of the floor talking the band through a song. He saw me and came over. We shook hands. I said, ‘Too bad about Robbie.’

  ‘Robbie who? Never heard of him.’ Alan was wearing jeans, a green and black checked shirt and a dark green corduroy cap, and looked neither young nor old. Artistic types seemed able to keep age at bay better than the rest of us. Of course the hat helped, underneath it he was bald. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ he said and walked me to the stage. ‘Charlie, this is Kate. She’s joining the band.’

  The new Robbie was a woman.

  * * *

  ------

  * * *

  I guessed she was twenty three or four, her hair falling in red tangles, past blue eyes and pale skin, to a white shirt under a black waistcoat and on down to tight jeans tucked inside snakeskin boots. I reckoned she was about five four. Even in heels I towered over her, yet she had the presence of a rock star; everything about her fascinated me. Alan said, ‘She’s better than Robbie.’

  ‘Better looking too.’

  ‘Well there’s always that.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘With Kate we’ll have more attack. I’d like to use it, become harder. She plays really good slide. We’ll get an authentic rock and blues sound going. Got one tune down already. You need to listen to this.’

  He jumped on stage, enthusiastic as any teenager, picked up his sticks and began a slow count. Need Your Love So Bad is one of my favourite love songs. Nobody ever did it like Kate Calder in NYB that night. When we were introduced her voice had been soft with an accent I didn’t recognise; now it changed to a throaty rasp. Intimate and seductive. Shadows closed round her, the club melted away and she sang. Just for me.

  At the end Alan Sneddon came over. ‘What do you think?’

  I pretended a cool I didn’t feel. ‘Yeah, it’s working out.’

  ‘We’ll re-launch as Kate Calder and Big River.’

  I glanced at his smiling face. ‘Robbie Ward will be pissed.’

  He grinned. ‘You reckon? Shame.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  I’d gone to bed tired, looking forward to a restful night. Needing it. It didn’t happen: hour after hour I tossed and turned and kicked at the sheets. Eventually I must have fallen over and for the first time in a long time I had the dream, more vivid than ever; waves crashing against the shore, gulls swooping, crying a warning I heard too late to save me. I couldn’t breathe, I was choking. Suffocating. And all the while the voice in my head, urging me on.

  Run, Charlie, run!

  I wakened with a start, bathed in sweat, heart hammering in my chest, and the taste of salt on my tongue. After that, sleep was impossible.

  4

  In the morning, out of sorts and irritable, I dragged myself into the day and drove across the river, past the Central Mosque and the Citizen’s Theatre. I hadn’t been to the Citz since an arty woman called Ziggy persuaded me, against my better judgement, to go to a performance of some heavy Scandinavian classic where the director had the bad guys dressed in Nazi uniforms in case we didn’t get it. In the bar I saw several black polo necks and more than one goatee. A bad sign. The first act went on for weeks. Ziggy whispered explanations to help me follow the plot but, even with swastikas and jackboots, it wasn’t enough to keep me interested. Nor was she. I assumed the characters all lived unhappily ever after, left at the interval and never saw her again. Relationships don’t always work out. Ask Ibsen.

  Mark Hamilton’s story wasn’t uncommon: the marriage breaks down, the husband or wife begins an affair, the affair ends and someone gets hurt. A predictable script. I didn’t envy him. Or her. Hamilton had used Donna Morton. He knew too little about her to have been in love. But his certainty she had taken the child seemed far-fetched: nothing he’d told me suggested Donna was implicated. Unless there was more.

  On the South Side traffic was light and grey clouds gave a permanent end-of-day look to the city. The abduction had already grown old. That morning it shared page three in one of the red-tops with a bare breasted medical studen
t called Kimberley who hoped to be a doctor one day. Apparently her ambition was to help people. I was sure she already had. A sidebar rewrite of Sunday’s shocking events headed Lily: Day Four, kept Kimberley’s D cups from falling off the page. When Day Four became Day Twenty Four she could have the space to herself; the baby wouldn’t feature. Newspapers fed on news and there wasn’t any. If progress had been made the police were keeping it to themselves.

  The ground floor flat showed no sign of life; the curtains were drawn. I knocked on the door. It opened, not much, just enough to let me see a dark haired woman nearer forty than thirty. Donna Morton’s sister. Hamilton mentioned alcohol. That battle had been won: the eyes peering at me were alert.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want any.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything. I’m trying to find Donna. She isn’t at her old address. I thought you’d know where she’s gone.’

  ‘Why? What do you want with her?’

  Days earlier Hamilton had stood where I stood. The connection wasn’t difficult to make.

  Her tone was hostile. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  The door narrowed against me.

  ‘He sent you, didn’t he?’

  Honesty was as useful as deception.

  ‘Yes, Donna threatened Mark Hamilton. His daughter’s been abducted...’

  She didn’t let me finish. Lucy Morton might’ve been acting but, if she was, she’d missed her vocation.

  ‘Bastard. That Bastard. After the way he treated her. I pity his poor wife.’ She turned her anger on me. ‘Get away. Get away!’

  I put my foot in the door before it closed. ‘It’s me or the police.’