The Good Son (3 page)

“It's fine. Been nearly nine months, now. Accident. Some prick ran her car off the road.”

“They ever catch him?”

“Like on
Taggart
?”

He took the admonishment surprisingly well. “Got to be hard on you.”

“I'm surviving.” I switched the subject. No subtlety involved. No need. What else did he have to know? “I'm calling to ask a favour. I know it's been a while, but…”

“What do you need?”

“It's a case I'm working on… just background shit, really… we have a suicide here. Came up from London, and I think he might have been involved in a few dodgy dealings on your patch.”

“He have a name, this suicide?”

“Daniel Robertson.”

“I'll see what I can find. That all you called for?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “You were the best contact I could…”

“Contact,” he said, and didn't even bother to hide any bitterness. “We were friends, yeah?”

“This was kind of urgent. I…”

“Nah, leave it with me. I'll get back to you.” His voice light again, but it was an affectation, maybe thinking he didn't want to upset the poor bereaved fuck on the other end of the line.

“Thanks.”

“One colleague to another, yeah?”

“Sure.”

I gave him my number and he hung up without saying goodbye. Taking it personally, the fact that I only called after so long to discuss a case. Maybe he was right. We'd been good friends. I'd been an usher at his marriage to a girl called Jennifer. Pretty young Irish lass with short, blonde hair and blue eyes that sparkled with a maliciously good-natured wit.

After the marriage, Dave and his wife moved down south. There were promises made about keeping in touch.

I thought about Elaine telling me that I wouldn't have any friends if I didn't work with them, and even then I was never really one of the lads, was I? She had me pegged. Every fault and every insanity. And still she acted like she loved me.

For that I was always grateful.

There was a knock at the door. I looked up to see Bill pop his head through. John-Lennon-style reading glasses sat halfway down his nose, and he peered at me over the top of the frames like a stern English teacher. “You okay, boss?”

“Aye, sure. I'd forgotten how knackering it was making phone calls.”

He bought it, or at least bulldozed past the subject. “There was a phone call while you were on the other line. Bloody odd. Some woman. Sounded like a Londoner, could have been auditioning for EastEnders. Calls up, asks what we want with ‘Danny'.”

That got my attention. “Danny?”

“Aye. I said I couldn't help her, but I remembered the name of that suicide…”

“Daniel Robertson.”

“Yeah, that's him… but he's dead… And why would we —?”

“I don't think everyone knows it, yet. That he's dead.”

Bill looked ready to say something. But he stopped himself. Turned his head to the side, licked his lips.

Like he was thinking about something.

Finally: “Making progress?”

“Some.”

“You don't hang about.”

“Motivated by cash.”

“Aren't we all?”

“Did she leave a name and number, this woman?”

“No. She hung up. But I did a 1471.”

He passed a scrap of paper. London code. Familiar number. I checked it.

Egg's club.

“Thanks, Bill.”

He left without another word. I dialled, got the same gruff Cockney who answered before.

He recognised me, too. “Told you already, mate, Daniel ain't here.”

“Someone called me back. Might have been someone who knew Daniel. A woman.”

“Nah, mate, nobody's called you back. No woman here. Not today.”

“If there's anyone you can—”

Forcefully, this time: “I'm telling you, it's a fucking mistake.”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear, looked at it as though it held all the answers I could ever want.

I played a game of solitaire while I waited. Relaxing. Distracting.

Aye. Right.

I listened to the answer phone message I'd kept for the past three days.

“McNee, it's Rachel. I know you think you're not welcome here, but… Jesus, he just needs someone to blame. She would have wanted you to come. She would have wanted you to be with us.”

Elaine's sister was right. Elaine had always seemed proud that I was accepted by her family. That the man who made no personal connections, had no family of his own, would make an effort to fit in with such a tight knit clan as the Barrows. But I had done it for her, and now that she was gone, I was slipping away from them again.

Exactly what some of them might have wished for.

I turned off the machine.

Massaged my forehead for a moment.

Grabbed the phone when it rang.

“You're a lying prick.” It was Dave.

“Sorry?” Playing it innocent.

“You're no longer with the force.”

“I wasn't sure that you'd want to share with an investigator. Besides, I didn't lie.”

“Just omitted the truth. Sure, mate. Right enough.”

“This means you're not going to help me?”

“I'll tell you what I can. Email you the reports. And then I say you're not calling me again. Got it?”

“Sure.”

What Dave told me wasn't much. Daniel had been a bouncer at one of Egg's clubs in the 90s. He was close to the man, became head of security when he got older. Because of his criminal record, he failed to get his license when the law changed.

I asked, “What kind of record?”

“Violent. ABH, GBH, the usual suspects.” He was quiet for a moment. “Tell me why you need to know again?”

“He left behind family. Family who didn't know him.”

“They don't want to.”

“Not my decision.”

“I like it,” said Dave, his voice flat. “Lack of responsibility. Confirms everything I ever thought about your lot.”

I was the enemy, now. No longer even an ex-friend, I had become the force's antagonist. The guy who stepped on their toes, who fucked them over. A simple thing that changed relationships I thought I could rely on. The real reason I'd failed to mention my new profession when we talked earlier.

“Think that if you like,” I said.

“Our friend Danny Robertson was top of the watch
list,” said Dave. “A heavy hitter. If you've got any sense left, you'll stay clear of this shit. Tell your client you pass on his generous payment and take on someone else's misery.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“I should go,” said Dave. “Got some real work to take care of.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Give Jen my best.”

“We're separated.”

Five minutes earlier I might have said I was sorry. Maybe even meant it. I cleared the line before he beat me to it.

The header of Dave's email: “Now fuck off.”

Cute.

Attached were arrest reports and photographs.

I read the reports.

Didn't even notice Bill leaving for the evening.

My eyes strained.

I went through to reception, walked around a bit waiting for the kettle to boil. Sat on the recliner Robertson had used. Closed my eyes for just a moment.

It wasn't the usual nightmare. I was grateful for that until I realised I was standing in the city centre, outside
Fat Sam's
nightclub.

The sky was a dark grey, lost somewhere between evening and night. I couldn't see a sun or a moon. The streetlights were off, but it was bright enough to see.

People queued up outside the club. I stood where I was, just scanning the faces. They were blurred, unreal.

Jesus, not like real people queued up to get into the clubs anyway.

What I couldn't figure was why so many of the voices that drifted across the street to me in garbled fragments sounded like Cockney hard men. No local accents at all. As if the whole scene had been displaced.

My eyes moved to the front of the queue.

I didn't recognise any of the bouncers.

Until one of them looked directly at me.

The eyes caught my attention first. Grey, intense. Below a heavy brow on a face lined with anger.

His body had developed in direct contrast to his brother's. Daniel Robertson was lean, not an ounce of fat on him. His stance was confrontational; a soldier in the middle of a combat zone.

I looked away.

He saw it, recognised fear.

And he was standing over me. Crossing the space between us without appearing to have moved at all. I could hear him breathing.

Slow.

Heavy.

Intense.

He said, “Your name's not down.”

I backed away.

Into a wall.

The crowds were gone. Now the club was closed up and it was just the two of us standing on the street.

Looking past him, it wasn't even Fat Sam's any more. It was another club, one I'd never seen before. I noted the name above the door.

Egg's
.

“You think he'd let a prick like you inside?”

“I don't want in.”

“Then what do you want?”

I couldn't say.

“Then what do you want?” he repeated.

He was a giant, now, looming above me, his features hidden by shadow. The world around us had turned black and the only other sound was the pumping music that came from the club.

I wanted to fight back. But I was no longer in control of my own body.

“If you don't know what you want, what are you doing here?”

All I could see now was his fist. I could count the hairs on the backs of his knuckles.

My stomach jumped not only with fear but with another strange sensation. A mix of loss and guilt that made me feel as though I was about to explode.

I closed my eyes.

Waited.

And then the sky was bright, once more. And someone was standing over me. He smirked when he saw me. His nose was recently broken, pressed flat against the rest of his face. It might have been comical if I hadn't known him.

He shook his head, like he was disappointed with me.

“Really,” said DI George Lindsay. “Just stay away from that prick. Unless you want to get yourself killed.”

I forced my eyes open, found I was sitting in the recliner. My leg protested. I made a low groaning
noise as I stood up. My arms were heavy and useless and my vision was still blurred with sleep.

I felt restless, as though there was something else I should have been doing.

The phone screamed.

I stumbled into my office, noticed the black skies outside the window, didn't even think to look at the time.

“McNee Investigations.”

“You called the club.”

“I did.”

“What do you want with Danny?” The voice was female, somewhere in her early fifties, perhaps. She croaked from years of cigarettes and alcohol. Boozy, broken, oddly fragile. Made me think of Marianne Faithfull.