Whistleblower by Owen Mullen

Author:Owen Mullen [Mullen, Owen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

The drive back from the borders was uneventful. Late afternoon. I had the road to myself. On the horizon, dark clouds heavy with more rain scudded towards me. With luck I’d be in Glasgow before they arrived.

Meeting McMillan had been interesting. At one point, the bitterness he had to be feeling came through. Otherwise I’d found him remarkably candid. So far, the people I’d spoken to were either for Gavin Law or against him. McMillan struck me as being neither. Praise and criticism were offered in equal measure: Law was a pretty fair surgeon with a less than wholesome reputation as a womaniser that wasn’t a secret.

Before I left, in almost the same breath, he’d made two suggestions: the rape allegation could be something James Hambley had invented to keep Law from causing trouble for his beloved Francis Fallon. Or, Law was guilty and had gone into hiding leaving the Coopers high and dry.

I liked Colin McMillan though I wouldn’t want to be him. Whatever he told himself, he was drinking too much and, in the rain, on the banks of the Tweed, it was clear the man was dying of loneliness.

My mobile rang and a voice with an accent that wasn’t from north of Hadrian’s Wall said, ‘Charlie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s Alile. Do you remember me?’

She couldn’t be serious. It wasn’t every day you met a goddess.

‘I’ve been asking people around here about Gavin if you’re still interested.’

In her, yes. In Gavin Law, not so much. This woman from Africa could be a movie star. I pretended my mind was on the case and tried to be cool. ‘Sure. I can use anything you can tell me.’

‘Good. Are you around? I’m finishing at four. Fancy a coffee?’

The clock on the dashboard told me it was three-forty-five. The city was thirty minutes away and rush hour traffic would swallow me up.

‘Great idea. Where do you want to meet?’

‘Was thinking of Sonny and Vito’s in Park Road.’

‘What time?’

‘Four-thirty sound all right?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Okay.’

For the rest of the journey, my foot was hard on the accelerator while my brain processed images of a beautiful Malawian female who wanted to have coffee with me. At ten past the hour, I arrived at Newhouse and joined the motorway and the stream of cars heading into the city. The rainclouds I’d seen in the distance had taken a different direction – the sky was a brilliant blue – and I almost persuaded myself I was going to make it. Then I hit Junction 16 and crawled my way past the Necropolis, the Royal Infirmary and on to Charing Cross, cursing my stupidity.

I could have suggested five o’clock. What difference would it have made? Instead, I’d chosen to make it difficult for myself and race like a madman across the country.

Alile was leaving Sonny and Vito’s just as I turned into Park Road. When she saw me she smiled. ‘They’re throwing me out. They close at five.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘I am a bit.’

‘There’s an Italian deli on the corner. Want to give it a go?’

‘Why not? I thought you weren’t going to show up.

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