The Wronged

Owen Mullen

Description

A complex case of missing persons draws Scottish PI Charlie Cameron into Glasgow’s deadly underworld.

Private Investigator Charlie Cameron is searching for a man who disappeared after his son’s suicide. When an unidentified body turns up at the morgue, Cameron is sure it’s another case closed.

But the body laid out on the slab isn’t the man he’s looking for. And it isn’t a stranger. Suddenly, a routine investigation becomes a desperate fight for survival.

As Charlie is dragged deeper into Glasgow’s criminal underbelly, he gets dangerously close to a notorious gangster named Jimmy Rafferty. Now Rafferty wants Cameron to hunt for something that may be impossible to find. And disappointing Jimmy Rafferty is not an option...

Owen Mullen is a best-selling author of psychological and gangland thrillers. His fast-paced, twist-aplenty stories are perfect for all fans of Robert Galbraith, Ian Rankin and Ann Cleeves.

This book was previously published as Old Friends And New Enemies.

What readers say about Owen Mullen:

'Owen Mullen knows how to ramp up the action just when it’s needed… he never fails to give you hard-hitting thrillers that have moments that will stay with you forever...'

'One of the very best thriller writers I have ever read.'

'Owen Mullen writes a good story, he really brings his characters to life and the endings are hard to guess and never what you expected.'

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Santé et bien-être
• Santé mentale & traumatisme
• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Adolescence et Vie de Famille
• Relations familiales
• Soutien psychologique et conseils familiaux
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Private Investigators
• Hard-Boiled
• Traditional
• Thrillers
• Suspenso
• Escocia
• Friendship
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• Psychology
• City Life
• Crime
• Family Life
• Scotland
• Suspense
• Fiction
• Glasgow

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 10 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781801620611
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Wronged
PI Charlie Cameron Book 2


Owen Mullen
Contents



Introduction


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38


More from Owen Mullen

Also by Owen Mullen

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
Introduction

They dragged him from the boot of the car, down an embankment to the shore; gagged, bound and blindfolded. His feet scraped grass and stones; a shoe came off and was left behind. At the jetty, Kevin Rafferty waited in the boat. In a long career of violent persuasion this guy had been the hardest to break. But it wouldn’t last. When the blindfold came off he’d realise the loch was to be his grave. Then the begging would begin because pain and death weren’t the same. And he’d tell. Everything. It never failed. Plastic ties fastened the victim’s wrists to hooks hammered into either side of the gun-wale, holding him upright. His head moved, blindly drawn to every sound. With what he’d been through – the beating, the burns, the loss of blood – it was a miracle he was still breathing.
Rafferty turned up his collar, dipped the oars in the water and started to row.
After a while he stopped. Late afternoon drizzle falling from a grey sky stippled the calm surface, they would drift, but not much. He released the blindfold. They stared at each other. Rafferty broke the spell. He opened a canvas bag that lay across his knees, slowly, so the man could see the knives, the screwdrivers, the pliers: his tools. On top he placed a bolt cutter and patted it as he would a faithful dog. The thief moaned and fought against the restraints, wild terror in his eyes. The cutter trapped the first finger of his right hand between the blades. He began to cry.
‘Last chance,’ Rafferty said.
The blades tightened, a muffled wail came from behind the gag.
‘Sure? Okay.’
A thin red line appeared at the joint. Rafferty sighed fake regret.
‘This little piggy went to market...’



An opal moon hung above the loch, it had stopped raining and the night sky was clear. The thief was slumped forward, passed out. They’d been at it for hours - or five fingers - he should be pleading for his life. Better yet he should be dead. In Glasgow, Rafferty understood it wasn’t going to be easy. Something wasn’t right about this guy. He didn’t get it. Kevin’s job was to make him get it.
He peeled the sock from the shoeless foot, bleached like a corpse in the moonlight, and lifted it into position. For the moment the gag was unnecessary, he ripped it away and waited for his victim to come round; when he did it would continue. A noise took him by surprise. He tensed. At the other end of the boat the head came up, eyes blazed in the gloom and the madman grinned at him through broken teeth.
‘I’m starving,’ he said.
‘What...what?’
‘Could murder a curry.’
Rafferty’s voice cracked with desperation. ‘What did you do with the money?’
‘Chicken Tikka.’
This was insane.
‘The money! Where is it?’
The thief spat blood and sniggered. ‘Fuck off.’
Rafferty snapped. He grabbed a knife and buried it in the crazy bastard’s heart.
No,’ he said, ‘you fuck off.’



The body rolled over the side and disappeared into the dark water, Rafferty gathered the severed fingers and threw them after it; food for the fish. At the jetty, he got out and stood for a long time watching the untethered boat float away. He had been so confident, so sure. But it hadn’t worked out. He was going back with nothing. The thought of telling his father made Rafferty sick with fear – more afraid than the man he had just killed had ever been.
Jimmy would go mental.
Glasgow 2006
He was standing inside the door, watching me. The cheeky grin came naturally. He had been using it all his life. The trade mark fuck-you confidence was harder to fake but he tried. So why was I surprised? On a Friday night in Glasgow you might meet anybody; it’s that kind of place. The girl I was flirting with laughed and floated past; she was too good looking to go home by herself and knew it. She was playing a game. Later we’d play a different game.
He came towards me. ‘Get in touch with your emotions, Charlie,’ he said and gave me a hug. When he let go I caught something in his eyes; a trace of anxiety.
‘Ian! What the hell are you doing here? What’re you drinking?’
I shouted my question over the noise of the band. He waved the offer away. ‘Off it,’ he said, then changed his mind, put a hand on my shoulder and drew me to him. ‘Tell you what, seeing it’s you, a large glass of your father’s finest. Just to be sociable.’
He made it sound like he was doing me a favour.
My father’s finest was Cameron’s whisky, world famous. Archibald Cameron was the CEO. I hadn’t followed the path he’d taken and he never let me forget what a disappointment I was. Unfortunately for both of us, for the last couple of years I’d been proving him right. But my days as a waster were numbered. The money my grandmother left was almost gone. Beyond that I had no idea. All I could be certain of was that returning south with my tail between my legs to a job in the family business was a non-starter. Not happening.
Ian took the amber liquid from the bartender, swallowed half and wiped his mouth.
‘The bad penny, eh?
‘What a coincidence running into you. Where’s Fiona?’
‘In Spain. Doesn’t know I’m here. Forgot this was your local.’
No he hadn’t.
‘This was where we met a year ago.’
‘So it was.’
The club was busy. Under my feet the floor vibrated. The weekend had started. I led him to a corner where there was a chance of hearing ourselves think and signalled for another round. Across the table I watched, waiting for him to get to the point. With Ian Selkirk there was always a point. He was one of those people who sailed through at the expense of whoever was handy. For as long as I’d known him he’d been charming and funny and selfish. We’d had some good times together. Except I wasn’t a nineteen-year-old student anymore. Those Friday and Saturday nights at the Moti Mahal and our Thailand adventure, when I asked Fiona to marry me, were long gone.
He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To old friends. The best friends.’ Fiona’s words.
‘Old friends,’ I said.
He grinned. So much of what he came away with was bullshit. That hadn’t altered. He wasn’t off it, he was drunk. ‘What’re you up to these days?’
I avoided answering. ‘This and that, you know.’
He drummed his fingers on the side of the table and let it go, laughing his nervous laugh at a joke he was getting round to telling. ‘Got myself into some trouble. Wondered if you could help.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle. I need money. Not a gift, Charlie. Not something for nothing.’
I asked how much and he told me. It was a lot. ‘I don’t have it, Ian.’
‘Not even for an old pal?’
‘Why do you need it? What’s happened? You and Fiona were doing great out there.’
He smiled his disbelief and stood.
‘If you don’t have it you don’t have it, Charlie. Thanks for the drink.’
Old friend or not, I hadn’t been his first choice, more like his last. Bumping into me wasn’t a coincidence. God knows how many times he’d been in here until he eventually tracked me down. And suddenly I understood. He’d remembered my grandmother had included me in her will, put two and two together and come up with five. It wasn’t anxiety in his eyes, it was desperation.
‘Sorry, Ian, I really am.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
I never saw him alive again.
1

Those who know don’t speak. Those who speak don’t know.
Jimmy Rafferty was in his twenties when he heard that scrap of ancient wisdom. It appealed to him. He quoted it often without understanding. Or perhaps he did. The mafia had Omerta, in the east end of Glasgow, Rafferty had the Tao. It was enough. The boy from Bridgeton climbed the mountain and for over forty years his empire was held in place by the unsaid. No one discussed him or his business.
All his life Rafferty had been strong, physically and mentally, depending only on himself. Few were brave enough to go up against him. Those who had regretted it. The stroke and the stick that came with it represented what he despised most. Weakness. He had lost weight, a lot of weight; clothes hung on him like hand-me-downs, and his eyes were watery hollows that could no longer intimidate. Illness had aged him. Before, he’d stood ramrod straight, now he stooped and when he walked he shuffled. More and more he found himself thinking of the past. And it wasn’t just his body that had suffered; something at the very centre of his being was missing: the iron will of old was gone. His concentration wandered. At times he wasn’t really there.
That left a question: who would take over?
The trouble the family faced cried out for a leader but his sons didn’t have the stuff. Kevin was thick and Sean was a non-event. In a year what he had achieved would be gone. Between them they would lose it all.
It should’ve been easy. Steal from the thief and bury him where he’d never be found. Jimmy had let Kevin handle it. A mistake.
Rage built in the old man like an approaching train; a murmur on the air, a quiver in the rail, until the monster roared and thundered, unstoppable. His hands trembled, the stick danced. He screamed. ‘You moron! Fucked us right up, haven’t you, boy?’
At the end of a lawn shaded by trees and set back from the road the house held its secrets. Nobody would hear. Kevin fingered the scar running from his ear to his chin and braced himself against