The Good Son (5 page)

I asked him to pass on my best to Andy and locked myself in my office. Tried not to think about birthdays. Or the message on the answerphone.

I spent the afternoon working on what little I knew about Daniel Robertson. Doing my best not to be judgemental but finding it hard to remain distanced.

The truth: Daniel Robertson was a violent, self-serving bastard with little or no redeeming qualities.

I couldn't sugar coat this. And neither could I afford to shake my client's fragile delusion that his brother had merely been a victim of circumstance.

About nine o'clock, after Bill had left the office, my mobile rang. I answered quickly, not recognising the number.

“I'm down on the street. The lights are on. I guess somebody's home.” A Dundonian accent, thick with unrestrained contempt.

I'd been hoping I wouldn't have to hear those dulcet tones again. But in a city the size of Dundee you can't avoid anyone forever.

“You and me, we need to talk.”

Like fuck we did. Dreaming about him had been
bad enough.

All the same, I went down to street level, and let him in. He followed me up the stairs in silence.

In the front office, I didn't bother offering him a seat. Just stood there and waited for him to say his piece.

His muscles were tense, as though he was ready to run at a moment's notice. I couldn't blame him. Last time we'd been this close, I'd clocked him one. Broke his nose. Almost nine months later and it was still misshapen.

The slightly bulbous bridge of his nose aside, he looked exactly as I remembered. He stood with his head slightly forward, his shoulders curved. His dark hair was cropped short and his suspicious eyes stared out from below his jutting forehead.

If it weren't for the suit, he would be proof, if any were needed, of Cro-Magnon man's existence in the world today.

“I got a call,” he said. “From an inspector working out of Cupar. He wanted to know why some arsehole is calling his station, pretending to be from the local paper.”

I folded my arms, straightened my back. “Nice to know.”

“Don't fuck me about.”

I kept quiet.

“The call came from this number.”

“Seems an awful waste of resources, tracing one prank call.”

“One prank call that could impede an ongoing investigation.”

“Into a suicide?”

That was enough to give him pause. Like he'd given away too much.

He raised his gaze to meet my eyeline as he continued. All confrontation. Giving nothing else away. But it was too late to throw me off the scent. So he went straight for the jugular. “They were, of course, very interested to learn about your, uh, past.”

“I'm sure you took a great delight telling them about it.”

“Listen to me, you wanker,” he said, stepping forward, tilting his head up so I wasn't just looking at the wee bald patch in the centre of his skull. “You were always a trouble maker. Surprised me you stuck things out as long as you did. This investigation crap, it's a game to someone like you.”

“Sure, the best games are the ones that leave you worrying how you'll pay the electric bill at the end of the month.”

“Always with the fuckin' smart mouth, aye? But this shite is best left to the professionals. You know, the ones the public trust to uphold the bloody law? You think you're some kind of vigilante? Fuck that!”

I stepped back. “You're getting awful worked up over a simple suicide.”

“I take my work seriously.”

I remembered the satisfaction I felt cracking Lindsay's nose.

Real justice, I remember thinking.

My fingers flexed as I resisted the urge just to smack him one all over again. It wouldn't be worth it. No witnesses and he'd have me hauled down for assaulting an officer of the law.

So instead of fists, I settled for words.

“You just came here to tell me what an arse I am. Face it, Lindsay, you get some kind of fucking perverse pleasure out of hassling me. I dunno, maybe I remind you of the kid who bullied you in school. Aye,
the one you've been trying to get back at all your adult life.”

“Check out fuckin' McFreud there.”

“Get to business or get the fuck out. I'm working.”

“Listen to me, you prick. If you're half as good as you think you are, you'll have worked out that our wee dead friend wasn't the nicest of men.”

“The police reports say a lot more than that.”

“And what the fuck would you know about that?”

I smiled. “Lucky guess.”

“You want me to search this place?”

“Go ahead.”

He seemed to consider this. I kept myself relaxed.

Finally: “This isn't the kind of thing where you want to be getting in people's way. Let the professionals handle it.”

“It wasn't a suicide.”

“Don't fuckin' question that, McNee. The daft prick killed himself. No danger.” Lindsay stepped back. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket, made to spark up.

I flicked it from his mouth.

“This is a place of business.”

He stepped back. His eyes wide. The colour draining from his cheeks. “Aye, sure, for all the work that gets done.” He forced a smile. Too late, though, to fool me. “All I'm asking is that you take other people's interests into consideration for once.”

“James Robertson came to me. Asked me to look into his brother's life,” I said. “He needed closure. Something I could provide. Unlike you lot. You only gave him more grief.”

Lindsay's jawline pulsed. That false smile vanished. “Given the sensitivity of—”

I steamrollered over his bullshit. “Which leads me
to ask a few questions. Like whether there isn't something else going on here. I know a little about who Daniel became. And you wouldn't be round here beating your chest like an extra in
Planet of the Apes
without a very good fucking reason.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're smarter than you look?”

“Daniel was good friends with Gordon Egg. The Met wouldn't just ignore a man that close to the power centre of London's gangland. His suicide's bound to have raised some red flags. They'd have been on the phone to you the minute —”

Lindsay stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at me like he'd found something amusing. “Don't get cocky. Aye, the Met got their knickers in a twist when they found out the bastard was up here. Worse, he'd come back home without them having a bloody clue. Really pissed them off when they realised he'd topped himself.”

“He's not the type,” I said.

“Right enough, that's what the big brains are saying. Which means you sniffing around like a drug-dog in a crack-house is causing no end of trouble. This isn't just about you pissing on my feet. You're soaking everybody. So, what if I offer you a deal? Just between the two of us, aye? You back the fuck off and give us what you have on Daniel Robertson.”

“What's in it for me?”

“You don't find yourself charged with obstructing police enquiries.”

“You know I could walk that.”

“Shit sticks. Think about your reputation. Your business.”

I didn't even pretend to consider it. “This sounds like more than a pissing contest to me. You want to
tell me why you're really so interested in Daniel Robertson?”

“Even I don't know, McNee. And do I give a flying fuck if you believe me or not? Think on this: would I come round just to hassle you? It's a waste of my time and yours.”

“So you do this out of the kindness of your heart?”

Lindsay' lips curled: a grimace, not a smile. “Get to fuck.”

“Say I agree; what do you suggest I tell my client?”

Lindsay raised his hands. “What do I care?” He walked past me. “I'll see myself out.” He stopped in the doorway. “By the way, how's the leg?”

Midnight.

My eyes were heavy, but my body refused to accept sleep. I'd tried turning in early. It hadn't worked.

Soon enough I'd realised what it was that was keeping me up, whispering around inside my head, preventing me from drifting off.

I was still dressed, lying on top of the covers.

I guess I already knew where I'd be going.

At the bridge, the guy in the booth took my money with a bored, limp gesture. Night shift. Every worker's bane.

There's an old joke that Fifers tell about the toll on the Road Bridge: people are happy paying to get out of Dundee but there's no way in hell they'd ever pay to go there.

I drove the back roads of Fife, my eyes focused on the roads ahead even though I could have made the
journey blindfolded.

Some time later, I pulled the car over to the side of the road, two wheels up on the overgrown embankment. I climbed out, awkward, as always. Clambering like an idiot, my hands splayed on either side of the door for balance.

Tell me again that there's nothing wrong with my leg. Tell me again I came out of the accident un-fucking-scathed.

They'd rebuilt the dyke. The stones were new; perfectly smooth. I stood on the overgrown verge, ran my hands across the fresh stonework.

On the other side of the road, the trees stood close together; thick trunks casting dark shadows in the spaces between. Small animals rustled among dead grass and leaves, the light from the moon failing to penetrate those dark spaces.

Out here, there was no feeling of the city across the waters. No sense of encroaching industrialisation. No constant rush of traffic.

I closed my eyes. There were sounds more urgent than the call of animals and the gentle rustle of disturbed vegetation. But these other noises were merely echoes in my head from another time that I had not entirely left behind.

Dean Martin sang it: memories are made of this.

Memories.

I couldn't escape them.

Maybe I never really wanted to.

I opened my eyes again, blinked away the tears that had started to gather.

A voice in my head said:
She's gone
.

I had to keep reminding myself of that one simple fact. So easy to forget if I didn't keep thinking it: Elaine was dead.

Nothing could bring her back or atone for such a senseless fucking waste.

Something flitted in the shadows of the trees. Bats flew toward me from dark spaces. My muscles tensed, as if these tiny winged creatures might attack me. But they pulled away at the last instant, perfectly in control. They soared up above my head and circled in the sky, their forms silhouetted in the light of the moon, before returning to the trees.

I let out a long breath, watched it turn to mist.

I returned to the car, feeling sad but unburdened, as if something in that place had absorbed the pain that had been welling within me and preventing me from sleep.

My leg throbbed dully. When I pressed the accelerator, my calf muscles cramped.

Back home, I crashed on top of the bed again.

The flat was cold and empty. I had gone out to find her tonight, as though she would be waiting for me in that field. Telling me she was all right.

In the months after the accident I used to make that same journey, driving in a daze, half-asleep and functioning on auto-pilot. It was a wonder I never killed myself.

There were too many holes where memories used to be and I noticed every one of them. People told me I was maudlin to stay in the flat we had bought together, that I needed to move on.

I told them I would. When I was ready.

Seven-fifteen a.m., I was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt. Refreshed and ready for the day ahead.

My flat was to the west end of the city, in a refurbished tenement building. Close to a hundred years ago a one bedroom flat would have housed a whole family. Now even a two bedroom felt enclosed to a man who lived on his own.

The street itself was quiet enough. The neighbours, like me, kept themselves to themselves. Sometimes you saw kids from other buildings playing out on the streets. There's something reassuring about that.