When Hell Freezes Over Read online

  I’d taken a bit of the money I’d made and gone off to be alone. I suspect that Rolly’s success in always tracking me down regardless of where I was hiding out had been because he was able to buy the info from my perennially-short-of-cash brother. It made no matter where I went, a small hotel in Paris, a pension in Vienna, an island in Greece, Thailand, even Achiltibuie in remote, northwestern Scotland, sooner or later I’d get a call from Rolly. When I’d finally emigrated to Canada, he’d obtained my phone number within a week.

  Twice he’d tried confronting me: the first time I walked away without saying a word, the second time, I popped him one.

  Since then, I’d only seen Rolly in photos or occasionally on the telly (much less so in recent years), and what I’d seen hadn’t been good. He’d had a bloated, pasty look due to his hard-living lifestyle. In his case, all the royalty money we’d received over the years had not been well spent.

  The Rolly Simpson in front of me that day was slim and looked fit and clear-eyed, although undeniably older than his forty-nine years. Tall, with a hawk-like nose, piercing blue eyes and blond hair (now back in a ponytail), his rugged good looks and devil-may-care attitude had been attracting women by the score for as long as I’d known him.

  “Hello, Rolly,” I said neutrally. “Didn’t think to find you here.”

  “Angus’s old dad wasn’t up to officially identifying the body. Since you were en route, DCI Campbell, here, asked me to deputize. I happened to be in Edinburgh, so it was no problem to pop over.” He went up and shook the cop’s hand heartily. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, sir!”

  Campbell beamed at Rolly in a way that I hadn’t yet seen from him—certainly not towards me. In fact, I had the feeling he would have regarded me as the prime suspect if I hadn’t been so firmly three thousand miles away in Canada.

  Rolly turned his smile on Constable Dickson. “And how are you today, Michelle? I’ve never seen any woman look so good in a uniform.”

  The constable dropped her eyes, blushing furiously.

  Rolly hadn’t changed one jot over the years: same bad lines delivered with such ease they could charm the pants off any woman inside of ten minutes. Judging by her reaction, he might possibly already have accomplished it with PC Dickson, or was well on the way.

  “So what do you think of poor Angus’s little museum, Michael?” Rolly asked.

  I smiled, despite my mood. “It’s like seeing old friends again.”

  Rolly looked at me sharply. “Does that include me?”

  Noticing Campbell’s attention on us, I chose my words carefully. “Yes, Rolly, that includes you.”

  He strode forward and gripped me in a bear hug, patting my back heartily. I tried to look as if this were all normal.

  Rolly stepped back with his hands still on my upper arms, looking me over. “The years have been kind to you, haven’t they? You look almost the same, Michael. God, it’s great to see you!” Turning back to Campbell, he asked, “Have you finished doing your worst on my mate here? If so, I’d really like to get him alone somewhere for a long jaw about the old days.”

  Campbell nodded, but added, “If Mr. Quinn doesn’t mind, I will probably wish to talk with him again, and I’d like to know if he makes any plans to return home.”

  Not so much the words, but the way Campbell said them, brought me up short. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d divined some of the part I’d played in Angus’s murder. He’d managed to come close to tripping me up a few times, and I wasn’t eager to give him any more chances if I could help it.

  “I will certainly be here through the funeral,” I said, then turned to Rolly. “I’m assuming there will be a funeral?”

  “Angus’s father would like one—even if Angus himself would have thought the idea bloody stupid. I’m to call later today and find out what’s been decided. One of Angus’s sisters lives in Australia, you know, so it will still take her a bit of time to get here. My guess is the funeral will be the day after tomorrow at the earliest, assuming that’s all right with you folks,” he said to Campbell.

  “It should be fine.”

  “Great! That’s settled then. Michael, do you feel up to some grub?”

  I suddenly realized that I was indeed hungry. “All right. I’ll also need to arrange for a place to stay.”

  “No problem! You can stay with me at the Hilton in Glasgow. I’ll just change to a suite. It’ll be like old times.”

  I didn’t want those old times—for several reasons. “No thanks, Rolly. I’d rather stay someplace nearby like Dunoon.”

  He flashed a quick smirk over at Constable Dickson, and I was certain from the looks that passed between them, that he’d bedded her. “Right, I remember now: your seasickness.” He turned to the two cops. “Once we decided to cross the Channel by boat, and Michael spent the entire trip with his head in the—”

  “I’m sure they don’t want to listen to old war stories. Besides, I left the car I hired back in Dunoon at the police station.”

  Rolly realized from my tone that he’d overstepped the boundaries and did a deft about-face. “Right. Let’s go, then.”

  As I would have expected, Rolly’s car was fast and expensive: a bright red Porsche Carrera coupe. His driving hadn’t changed, either: too fast, too careless and still way too lucky for him to think of smartening up.

  He didn’t take the road back to Dunoon, though, turning instead to the left in the direction of the Isle of Bute.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I’m taking the road up the side of Loch Fyne to a little place I know. They serve great seafood, especially oysters.”

  “Oysters? Good lord, Rolly! When did you start eating anything like that? You always said that plain old pub grub was good enough for the likes of you.”

  “Yes, and all it got me was good and fat. Now that I’ve got back to fighting trim, I’ll stay that way, thank you very much.”

  In better circumstances, I might have enjoyed the meal. The location was fabulous, even in winter. Loch Fyne Oyster Bar is right across the road from its namesake, and framing the scene across the water were the high hills of Argyll. It was a bit of an upmarket sort of place, but one where you felt the food was more important than the decor.

  The meal was astounding for another reason: I watched this person, whom I thought I knew, negotiate things about which he should have known absolutely nothing. He was on first name terms with the female waitstaff (not surprising), but he also knew all about what shellfish to order and could discuss the relative merits of various vintages of champagne. In short, Rolly was the complete opposite of the roustabout Brummy lad I’d grown up with.

  Two things hadn’t changed, though, his talk was still pungent with expletives—and he still drank too much.

  “You know, Michael,” he said at one point, punctuating his comments with his fork, “the world will treat you like shite if you let it. Look at us. We got fucked over by the record company. Do you realize that we paid for recording all our albums out of our advance money, and then at the end of the day, they owned the bloody masters? How do they figure that’s fair?

  “Confront them on that and they’ll tell you this is the way these things have always been done. Take a naïve group of lads with stars in their eyes, and while you’re shaking on the deal with one hand, you’re picking their pockets with the other.”

  I nodded. “These same record companies hit me up for freebie equipment rentals all the time. And what do they plead? Poverty! It would make me laugh if it weren’t so unbelievably pathetic.”

  “How right you are! My lawyers still can’t get a clear accounting of what they owe us.”

  “And at the time, if someone had told us the way things worked in this business, would it have stopped us for one second from signing on the bottom line? I don’t think so.”

  “I can’t help wondering how much we got cheated out of.”

  “You and I have done all right out of it, haven’t we? Let it
go. It’s all in the past, Rolly.”

  “Maybe for you, Michael, but I still get a charge out of standing in front of an audience, doing our music. People want to hear it again, and me and the lads want to play it.”

  “I don’t,” I said with resignation, knowing all along that this was coming.

  “Have a heart, lad! Why do you always stand in the way?”

  “Get Drew Whatsisname to play keyboards for you.”

  “It’s not the same! Don’t you get that yet? It has to be the original line-up, or it isn’t worth doing. Yeah, yeah, Drew’s an okay player, but it isn’t the same. You’re one of the great ones, Michael, and he’s not.”

  “Why don’t you add that he can’t write?” I spat out sourly. “That’s the real point, isn’t it? You’ve told me enough times in your phone messages, comments to the press and through Angus that you don’t want to be a ‘museum exhibit’—isn’t that the term you use?—and for that you need me. Don’t deny it!”

  Rolly flashed one of his thoroughly disarming smiles—disarming to everyone but those who knew him well. “I won’t, Michael, because we both know it’s true. Listen, I just had a terrific idea! Why not get the band together for a memorial concert for Angus? I think we owe him that much. I know the other lads would be up for it. Just one gig to salute our fallen comrade. It would be a great send-off for him. What do you say?”

  Under different circumstances, I might have said yes. In a very real way, I thought it would be a gesture Angus would have appreciated. I would probably have agreed because of the responsibility and guilt I felt at Angus’s death.

  But Rolly had been in the music business far too long, and even though he would have heartily denied it if I’d pointed it out, he’d absorbed too much of the thoroughly false bonhomie, its way of saying one thing and meaning something totally different. I still dealt with this crap every day at work, and I had a very low tolerance for it.

  “What do I have to say?” I ruminated. “I have to say no.”

  He looked at me closely, his gaze a bit unfocussed due to his intake of champagne. “You’ve always been a right bastard, Michael. I guess I’d forgotten.” He got up from the table, motioning for the bill. “All right! Have it your way. We’ll do a concert, and I’ll make it clear that you were asked but declined to participate.”

  “That’s great, Rolly,” I said, also getting to my feet. “You know, you may think you’ve gotten sophisticated in your old age, but one should never try to get the server’s attention by snapping one’s fingers.” I turned on my heel. “It’s very clearly the mark of a boor.”

  He made me wait out at the car for a good ten minutes. Typical. At least he had the good sense to allow me to drive. It seemed that the awareness of mortality which age brings—either that, or Britain’s DUI laws—had put a curb on Rolly’s characteristic recklessness with booze and cars.

  I took the inland road along Loch Eck back to Dunoon. We didn’t meet many cars, and I made the most of having a Porsche that handled beautifully.

  The steep sides of Loch Eck, barren, brooding pieces of rock and scrubby grass rising up six hundred feet or more, make the narrow road a winding, exhilarating sliver of pavement to drive—especially when taken above speed, which I did that day, trusting more to luck than I should have.

  Within minutes of leaving the restaurant, Rolly had begun snoring, giving me plenty of time to think while I drove.

  Back at the dock in Dunoon, I drove the car onto the waiting ferry, paid the fee and left Rolly sleeping off the champagne with a note stuck in his shirt pocket telling him I’d call in the morning to find out about the funeral arrangements. What happened when he got to the opposite side of the Clyde was not my problem.

  The duty officer at the police station recommended a few places that were open during the off-season, and I booked into the nicest one: the Argyll Hotel in the high street.

  Once settled in, I rang the shop back in Toronto first. Since it was Saturday, only one employee needed to be present. Kevin had not been happy when I’d asked him to work, but I wanted my senior man on the spot when I was out of town.

  He sounded exceptionally bored when he answered. “Oh, it’s you. How’s everything going?”

  “As well as can be expected. It’s all rather gruesome. How’s everything there?”

  “Fine. The jazz festival got back in touch, complained about the quote, but accepted it anyway.”

  “I figured they would,” I answered, taking notes. “Anything else?”

  “Well, it’s the usual slow Saturday. As a matter of fact, I’ve been taking the time to do some poking around inside your mellotron. It is quite the machine.”

  “Is that order for Montreal ready to go out on Monday? They’re coming early for it.”

  “Pulled it all this morning. I’m sitting on one of the amp cases, as a matter of fact.”

  “And you gave them plenty of extra cables? I told you what happened last time they rented.”

  “Yes, they had four cables that didn’t work,” Kevin answered in a sing-song voice, indicating I’d pounded it into their heads perhaps a bit too hard. “I gave them double what they needed and tested everything. All the paperwork is complete. We do know what we’re doing, you know.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. “Yes, I know, and you all say behind my back that I worry as much as an old woman.”

  Kevin laughed. “I never have!”

  “Well, you’re going to have to keep the place running without me until at least Tuesday, probably Wednesday.”

  I was ready to sign off when Kevin said, “Just a minute, boss. There is one thing that happened yesterday. Someone came around asking questions.”

  I was instantly wary. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I was putting away some drums when this guy strolled through the back door. I didn’t even know he was there until I looked back. He started talking to me as if we were old buddies. He might have been a cop.”

  “Did you see any ID?”

  “No, but he had that sort of feel. You know what they’re like: big, clean cut, and even when they’re wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt, it looks like a uniform. Said he wanted to rent some equipment for a charity gig he was involved in. His accent was sort of strange, too, like he was trying to imitate a Canadian.”

  “What sort of questions was he asking?”

  “How long I’ve worked there. Do I like the job. Stuff like that.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him you’re the best employer in the world and that I love working for you.”

  I snorted. “Anything else?”

  “He wanted to know how busy we are and whether we rent stuff internationally. I thought that was a bit odd.”

  “And how did the conversation end?”

  “He took the price list I made up for him and said he’d get back to us after he’d checked around with some other places.”

  “And you think he was a cop? Could he have been something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know...”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble, Michael?” Kevin asked, actually using my name for the first time in memory.

  “I wish I knew.” I made a decision I’d been mulling over since the conversation had taken this extreme left turn. “Did he ask about that young lady who came in the other day?”

  “You mean the one who slugged you?”

  I winced. It was only natural that Regina would always be ‘the woman who slugged the boss’ to my staff. “Yeah.”

  “The subject never came up.”

  Something about the way he said it made me think that Kevin hadn’t been completely truthful.

  ***

  >I had too many things to ponder to sit still in a hotel room, and since I’d told Regina that I’d call her at one p.m. Toronto time, I decided to take a walk through Dunoon and try to sort things out in my head while I waited.

  Dunoon had once been a “ho
liday destination”. Being close to Glasgow and on the water had assured it of a steady flow of visitors during the high season. When that had collapsed due to the rise of cheap package holidays to Spain, the nearby US submarine base had picked up most of the slack. With the Yanks now also gone, the little town is slowly slipping into the twilight.

  I stood for over an hour at the sea wall looking out over the Firth of Clyde. It struck me ironically that I enjoy being around open water, but somehow just can’t manage to be on it.

  Across the firth, I could see the lights of Gourock in the early winter evening, and my thoughts were drawn back to the scene etched in my memory by that morning’s trip. What had happened at Angus’s farmhouse? I was certain it had something to do with Regina, but which group of men was it? Was her father responsible for the murder? Was it the other group of men, and who were they anyway? Most importantly, had Angus told them what they wanted to know before they killed him?

  Then there was DCI Campbell. I could hear Angus’s voice in my ear. “Never trust a Campbell, laddie! As it was in Glen Coe, it shall always be with that clan.” Clearly Campbell, trustworthy or not, had guessed I knew more about the murder than I had told him. That had been why he’d taken me up there, why he’d shown me everything. Had he expected I’d fall to pieces and confess?

  Looked at logically, if I had told him what I did know, where would that put him? Regina would probably be able to identify someone out of the six who’d accosted us in Birmingham, but how could we know if they’d been the ones who’d shown up at Loch Striven?

  If Angus hadn’t been slain by “Group #1”, then what? Neither Regina nor I could identify the other three. I don’t think I would have recognized any of them if they’d walked up to me right then and there.

  Suddenly, looking around, I realized that I was the only person in sight at the moment. If those blokes were around, I’d be easy pickings. With untoward haste, I scurried to the nearest pub, where I would hopefully find safety in numbers and elucidation at the bottom of a pint glass.

  ***