The Good Son (19 page)

Or he'd finally had enough?

“Each time she'd come running back to her man. Apologetic, teary-eyed. And he'd forgive her. The thing was, this time she wasn't going to come back. She was leaving with Daniel. That was the plan. But of course, with Liman and Ayer getting wind of it… everything got fucked up. Daniel got out, but she didn't.”

Except Daniel didn't leave empty handed. If he and Kat were going to make a new life, they'd need cash, a way of keeping themselves afloat. Two days prior to his arrival in Dundee, Daniel ripped off a small fortune from the old man's personal stash.

“After that, no turning back, eh? Just a pity those two fucks dropped him in it. Egg confronted his wife, Daniel got scared and disappeared with the money.”

“And then he killed himself?”

Burns didn't seem to worry about the contradiction between Daniel's apparent desire to escape the life and his suicide shortly afterwards. “Looks that way, aye.”

Something didn't sit right, but Burns either didn't give a shit or had just never considered the question.

Burns had never made the connection to Daniel Robertson's suicide. He read something in the paper about a farmer's estranged brother hanging himself
in the woods and never gave it a second thought. The police had made sure any mention of Daniel's life in London stayed out of the papers.

It was only when Gordon Egg called him to ask a favour that Burns realised what was going on.

My phone call to the club had got Katrina Egg's attention. She'd been there that day, under the watchful eye of Egg's boys. She'd overheard my first phone call to the club, then called me back to try and see if I could tell her anything about Daniel. She didn't know where he'd gone by then. Their plan had been fucked, and all she knew was that her lover was running scared from her husband.

The next day she'd slipped out from under the eyes of her minders and made for the North. Egg, no fool, worked out where she was heading, piecing together the information in the same way as his wife had done. He knew there were only two people he could trust to sort out this mess: the men who had told him about his wife's affair in the first place.

“He called me, said he was sending those two bastards up here. Told me why. It was only after they arrived that I realised what had happened, who that cunt in the forest was.”

But Liman and Ayer weren't here for Daniel Robertson. They wanted Katrina Egg. And they knew that she could lead them to the money as well.

Burns gave them everything they needed. “And they fucked me over.”

Leaving the body in the flat Burns had “loaned them”.

It wasn't her death that concerned him. Burns didn't care about that. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter why they killed her, either. Whether they were acting under Egg's orders or whether
things got out of control.

All that mattered to Burns was that they'd left a trail of evidence that led right to his door.

“You want to know something about those two bastards?” said Burns. “I'll tell you all you need to know, son. They're stone cold psychopaths. They don't think like you and me. If they want you dead, then you're dead. They won't fucking blink. My advice for you and your… client… is to get out of the town. Just fucking walk. You should know, son, the police can do fuck all to help you.”

“Tell me what happened this afternoon,” I said.

“What more do you need to know?”

“I need to know why Egg told his men to hurt you. Because if they've done this to you, then…”

Burns grinned, lips parting to reveal yellow wolflike teeth. “They really fucking got to you.”

“Just tell me.”

When Burns talked about the events of that afternoon, I saw something in his face. His jaw seemed tight and his eyes focused on mine, trying to hold me, make me understand the importance of what he was telling me.

He didn't care about the death of Katrina Egg.

But he cared about his own mortality.

After I left his house, he'd thought about what I'd said. Burns could be described as an arrogant man, but his ego wasn't big enough to make him stupid. He could see that some of what I had said made sense.

If he allowed the situation to go unchecked, he might as well let these two Cockney Rotweiller's fuck him in his own backyard.

So he called two lads who did door work at one of his pubs. Took them to see Liman and Ayer.

Taught the two Cockney bastards a lesson. Taught them respect.

Afterwards, he had a quiet pint with the two lads who had provided the muscle. “Hardly conversationalists,
aye, but good boys. Know their place, eh?”

Despite his earlier protestations that these two were some mother's sons, he never once referred to them by name.

Burns tried to call Egg several times. Every time the phone rang out. He left messages. He waited.

He got nothing.

When he arrived home that afternoon, he asked the two lads to wait with him.

“I wasn't scared. But if those two Cockney cunts came looking for revenge, I wasn't facing them alone. I'm no exactly a young man any more, aye?”

Everything he told me was qualified; backed up by some excuse for behaviour he saw as weak or cowardly.

He couldn't tell me outright that he had been scared.

Burns had been in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast bar and reading that day's
Tele
. Katrina Egg's murder dominated the news, but she had not yet been named. For “legal” reasons, according to the report. He allowed himself a smile at that.

When he heard a knock at the door, he sent one of the two lads to answer. Expecting some journalist prick or maybe the police back again to harass him.

There were raised voices and a gunshot.

Burns headed for the back door. Like the man said, he wasn't stupid.

More voices. A second gunshot.

Burns's hand was on the door handle. He was ready to run out into the back yard.

A voice said, “Don't even fucking think about it.”

Burns knew that it was over. And he'd be fucked if he was going to die with a bullet in his back.

He turned, slowly, with his hands raised.

Let the bastards look into his eyes before they killed him.

Liman stood in the doorway, holding a shotgun. The psychotic, bald prick was smiling.

“Take a picture,” said Burns. “It'll last longer.”

Another gunshot from the hallway.

Then Ayer came through, dragging one of Burns's bodyguards. He had the younger man by the hair, his free hand holding the handgun that was clearly responsible for the blood seeping out of the lad's belly.

“If you're going to shoot me,” Burns said, “just fucking do it.”

Burns had stepped forward, his arms open wide. These two men were cowards, he knew. He believed they wouldn't shoot him if he invited them to. Their pride wouldn't allow it.

They didn't shoot.

Ayer let go of the man with the bleeding stomach. The lad collapsed on the floor.

Burns looked Ayer in the eyes. “Fucking do it, then. Kill me.”

Ayer slammed the butt of the handgun into Burns's face.

The old gangster was on his knees before he knew what was happening. Someone kicked him in the chest and he was on his back. He tasted blood thick in the back of his throat. His eyes watered and the whole world turned to a blur.

He was nearly deafened by a final gunshot.

He knew the lad they'd dragged in from the hallway was dead.

And he thought, as he felt the two Cockney hard men kicking him about the head and ribs, that he would be dead soon, as well.

He lost all sense of place, only aware of the pain as their boots smashed into his body.

And when he thought it was nearly over, that his body was ready to simply give up and die, he heard a voice say, “Gordon Egg says fuck you, you cunt.”

When he was finished, Burns looked at me. “You wanted to know, son.” Mouth set. Gaze steady.

“Do you still think you can just give these pricks what they want and they'll walk away?”

I didn't even try to answer. Instead, I asked, “Why didn't they kill you?”

His lips parted. Might have been a smile if he hadn't killed it so quick.

“I have a son. He's not like me. He's an accountant, aye? Moved away from the old man, tried to pretend he was someone else. Christ, I never knew where he got that from… But a prick like you… I see something in your eyes that reminds me of who I was when I was a young man.”

“You should cut back on the morphine,” I said. “You're beginning to hallucinate.”

“Did you jump or were you pushed? I told you I thought I could see the answer. You don't want to give these cunts what they were after. Or turn them in to the police. No, I see what you want. You want to fuck them up. Show them who the real hard man is. And you can dress it up however you like, because you like to pretend you're the hero. Makes you feel better, right? But in the end, it comes down to one simple thing: you're spoiling for a fight.”

I didn't tell him he was wrong.

Instead, I stood up and walked out of the room. I had everything I needed.

He didn't throw out a parting shot. And that worried me more than anything he could have said.

Bill's bed was in a bay of six, positioned at the far end, close to the large window that would allow the ward to be flooded with light during the day.

He was upright, with his eyes closed and a battered paperback discarded on his lap.

There was a strange air of peace surrounding him. Despite the bruises and the discolouration of his face, he might have been asleep.

Asleep and hooked up to an IV.

A nurse stood beside me, her brow furrowed. “Visiting hours ended at eight.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I wasn't thinking. I just…”

“Unless you have business here, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

“How's he doing, the man in the end bed?”

“Are you a relative?”

“A friend.”

“He's doing well. Recovering.”

“Yeah, he looks good.”

The nurse didn't say anything. She bit her bottom
lip and kept her gaze fixed on Bill.

“If you want, I can take a message. Let him know you were here.”

“No. Not yet.”

As I turned to leave, she placed a hand on my forearm, but the touch was fleeting and I slipped away fast.

Back at my flat, I grabbed a nap on the sofa. The alarm on my mobile set to wake me up in an hour.

I was exhausted, physically and mentally. In need of a recharge.

And then someone started hammering the front door.

Blearily, I answered, saw Burns's polite gorilla from the hospital. His expression might have been carved in granite. His deep set eyes stared straight over my head. We stood there for a long time before he held out a paper bag and said, “A present.”

“A present?”

“Just take it.”

Relenting, finally, I took it from him. Felt a dead weight in there.

“I wasn't here,” said the gorilla. “And you never had a wee chat with the boss. Aye?” He walked away before I had a chance to reply. I waited until I heard the downstairs door slam shut before slipping back inside my flat.

I hobbled through to the kitchen, thinking I must have been lying the wrong way. Pins and needles fired up and down my leg.

I put the bag on the worktop. Hesitated for a moment before I reached inside and pulled out a
handgun; semi-automatic. I'd never handled one, but you don't spend a few years on the force without picking up a little firearms knowledge.

I laid it down on the worktop, reached inside the bag once more. Found a handwritten note.

 

McNee

We have a common purpose, you and me. You would deny it but we're closer than you'd like to admit. We both have that fire within us. I saw it in your eyes.

Liman and Ayer are no joke. Someone should have dealt with them long before now. They're not scared of you or the police. They're not scared of anyone. There's one language they understand and you have to convince them that you speak it well, before they kill you. This wee gift should help.