‘You’d know better than most.’
She’d always been there for me. That was what still ate at my heart. I hadn’t been there for her. She’d needed me when her father died, and what I did was take her grief and make it into my own. Shutting her out even more than I had before. If I hadn’t done that, maybe things would have worked out different.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Life can become a series of regrets. If you let it. No one knows the shape of their world until they look back on what went before. What most of us see are paths not taken, choices never made. How we should have acted. We curse ourselves for being blind to those choices as though somehow we should have seen the consequences. Even though it would have been impossible at the time.
Are we fated to always make the choices we make?
Does it matter that we have the illusion of free will?
Are our lives determined by outside forces?
We are determined by biology, social standing, other people. We are never completely in control. We’re barely able to keep a handle on our interior state, never mind what’s happening around us.
Or is that merely an excuse?
Susan licked her lips. Swallowed. ‘If we do this, we take down David Burns for good. We do what my dad always wanted. But we have to do it properly. We have to know he’s not going to slither out from under us. You know that, right?’
‘And what do we sacrifice for that? I can’t allow more people to die.’
She seemed about to say something, but then she stood up. ‘I don’t know why …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t … I should …’
She walked to the door. I got up, ran to catch her. In the hall, I placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned round.
My breath caught.
I wanted to say something. Didn’t know what.
Didn’t need to say it.
After, she sat on the edge of the bed. Didn’t wrap herself in the sheets. Didn’t grab her clothes. Just planted her feet on the floor, kept her back to me.
I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Takes two, aye?’
‘Guess so.’
‘Always been a problem for us.’
‘Guess so.’
More silence.
I got on my knees and shuffled across the mattress so I was beside her. Said, ‘You and Griggs, still …?’
‘Not for the last few months. You talked about righteousness. You and him, Steed, you’re more alike than you realize. You’re obsessives.’
‘At the expense of everything else?’
‘A modicum of self-awareness?’ She let herself smile, and fell back on to the bed. ‘Wonders never cease.’
‘People can change,’ I said. ‘Sometimes they can grow.’
‘It just takes a while.’
‘Sure,’ I said. I brushed hair from her temples. She was covered in a light sweat. Her breathing was a little ragged.
‘Can we just lie here for a while?’ she said. ‘Not say anything.’
That was fine by me.
More than fine.
SIXTEEN
Susan left at ten that evening. I sat around for a while in the front room, lights off, thinking about what had happened, what it meant. If anything.
The same old mistake?
For both of us?
I thought about what she’d said about Griggs. Or rather what she hadn’t said. As a copper, you soon realize that you can learn more about what a person has to say by their silences. It’s the unsaid that matters. When you’re always looking for the truth of a situation, it becomes an instinct. Even when you don’t want to.
When I’d talked about Griggs blackmailing me, she’d shut the conversation down as best she could. Maybe feeling the same way.
She had said that me and Griggs were similar. I understood what she was talking about. Both of us were blinkered by a personal campaign that mattered more to us than procedure or due course. A campaign that mattered more to us than the people we knew, the people we loved. And the people who loved us.
My obsessions had taken me to dark places. I had killed a man because of them. Whether or not the gun belonged to him and whether or not he had threatened my life was immaterial.
The fact was that I had wanted to kill him. In that moment, when I pulled the trigger, I had done so with a clear head and an absolute purpose.
Taken a momentary pleasure in what I had done.
Because it was the only thing at that time that I thought would bring me peace.
The years since that night have all been about coming to terms with that moment. I have realized that it didn’t give me what I wanted. That nothing I did could have brought me the satisfaction I had pursued. Nothing except time. And the grace of the universe.
I thought about all of this as the dark embraced me, broken only by the streetlights outside. I sat in the armchair in the front room, a poured but untouched Laphroaig on the coffee table. No TV. No radio. Just the sound of the city outside.
The bell rang about eleven, and I answered, my heart catching a moment like it used to when I was a teenager confronted with a girl I liked.
‘You’re awake, then.’
No such luck. There was no pretty girl on the other end of the intercom. The deep voice made my heart sink instead of sing. I swallowed my disappointment, buzzed the old man inside.
‘Someone’s got to Findo.’
‘Aye?’
‘He’s not speaking to McArdle. He’s not speaking to anyone. Which, in the plus column, means he’s also not talking to the cops.’
‘So why do you think someone’s got to him?’
‘I know the lad. His parents, too. I know when something’s wrong. Fin would talk to McArdle. He knows the procedure. What he’s supposed to do. So he’s either already done something so fucking stupid he’s afraid there’s no way out. Or else he’s not being allowed to talk to McArdle because the police are turning the wee fucker.’
We were in the kitchen. I’d poured a second Laphroaig for the old man. We sipped as we spoke.
Burns swirled his glass. ‘You heard that about the bar in Edinburgh?’ A non-sequitur, but maybe just thinking about what Fin might or might not have been saying was enough to give him the fear. The best way to deal with it was to change the subject. We were just two men having a nightcap.
‘Which one?’
‘The one … Christ, it was in those books … the ones with the detective. Ribs, or whatever the fuck. The author made him drink in this bar … real place. Anyway, the story goes about how two wee American tourists went in and asked for the best whisky they had. Barman gives them two fine glasses. Fifteen-year-old single malt. Beautiful stuff. The Americans look at the drinks, then say, “Can we have ice with that?” Bartender takes away the glasses without a word and pours them down the sink. Turns back and says, “We’ll not be wanting your custom, then.”’
‘That true?’
‘Shite if I know, but it sounds good. Can’t beat a good whisky. Wee bit of water to make it sing, and you’re all set. To shite with ice, right?’
I raised my own glass. ‘Right.’ We clinked.
He didn’t want to talk about Findo. Yet that was exactly why he showed up at my door. The old man was an expert in not speaking directly about things. Maybe that came with his line of work, his lifestyle. Or maybe it was a natural skill. Something inherent in his nature.
I said, ‘He’s not turned.’
‘No?’
‘One thing about Findo, he’s loyal.’
‘He didn’t like you.’
‘I posed a threat. Vouch for me all you like, he was still looking out for your best interests.’
The old man nodded.
‘Took us a long time to get to where we are,’ I said.
‘And where are we?’
‘At a mutual understanding.’
He nodded. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Right.’
‘All this
shite with Findo, it’s going to draw attention. And I know you weren’t happy with the situation. So I want you to do me a favour.’
‘You already said.’
‘Don’t get cheeky, son.’
‘Sorry.’
He sipped at his drink. ‘My nephew’s coming to town.’
‘The one who owns the limo service?’
‘That’s the prick. And given the situation, I think he needs a new friend.’
‘Close protection.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the gig you’re asking me to take on. Close protection. Bodyguarding.’
‘Sounds melodramatic.’
‘But accurate?’
He took another sip. ‘It’s not too hard. Keep an eye on him when he’s out, that kind of thing. Make sure he gets left alone, if that’s what he wants. But I doubt it. You could at least make sure he’s talking with the right kind of people. Some folks, especially round here, they can get excited, you know?’
‘Especially when you’re the nephew of a local celebrity.’
He shook his head. ‘A businessman, son.’
‘And business is good.’
‘Only as good as you make it.’ He raised his glass. ‘That’s the only secret to success. Things are only as good as you make them.’
Trite bollocks. But the scary thing was, he believed what he was saying.
SEVENTEEN
Robert Burns.
Aye, who said the old man’s family didn’t have culture running through their veins? Or a sense of humour?
Call him Rabbie, though, and all you’d get was a cold stare and the feeling he’d like to rip out your spine and smack you across the face with it.
He was in his late twenties, ran a limo hire company in Edinburgh. Traded a little on the notoriety of his family name, although his father famously had as little to do with his brother as possible, and his sister refused to have the old man’s name even mentioned in the family home.
Remembering that David Burns called himself a ‘family man’.
Whatever, that notorious uncle probably fascinated young Robert when he was growing up. In our hearts, we’re all fascinated by rogues. It’s why we keep perpetuating those myths about girls loving bad boys or men secretly desiring to be trouble-makers and lawbreakers.
He climbed in the back of the car and we made eye contact in the rear-view. He pushed his glasses up his nose. I hadn’t expected the glasses. Made him look less like a would-be gangster and more a trainee accountant. ‘You look as though you’ve at least read a few books.’
‘One or two. They had pictures, though.’
‘Can’t stand books myself,’ he said. ‘Novels … what the fuck’s the point reading about something that never happened?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Hey, man, lighten the fuck up!’ He rubbed his fingers along the bridge between his upper lip and his nose. As though checking for something there. He was just getting over a bad cold, or he’d just dumped his face into a mountain of flour, still hadn’t quite got it all off his face. I figured even money.
He was an unassuming man, round about the belly, and with the kind of face that would start to sag in middle age. He’d probably end up looking a little like David Cameron or the lead from Midsomer Murders. In his head, he probably figured himself for Robert De Niro’s double. De Niro in his box-office ruling hey-day, naturally.
Something about this assignment felt like a punishment. Maybe Burns had started to cotton on to something approaching the truth, was trying to keep me out the way until he could ascertain the truth of his own suspicions.
What I had done to Findo was a mistake. I knew that. No matter if Findo talked or not, Burns would know he couldn’t trust me when push came to shove. Maybe he’d always suspected that. Everyone has lines they won’t cross.
I can live with the deaths of those who deserve it.
But there are limits.
Robert gave me an address in the city centre. I set off, doing the whole limo driver bit, not making conversation unless he started it, ensuring I kept my tone disinterested at best. Burns didn’t want me to be his nephew’s best friend. He just needed to ensure that no one messed with the lad. Robert Burns believed himself to be a hard man. His uncle wasn’t so sure.
As I drove, Robert checked his phone in the back seat. Texting. Glasses reflecting the glow of the tiny screen, obscuring his features.
When we arrived, I waited in the car. The address was residential. New build apartments. I offered to check the lay of the land. He laughed it off. ‘Anyone who wants my uncle won’t come through me. Not here. Who gives a fuck about me here?’
Maybe. Maybe not. But from the little I knew about Robert Burns, he’d made a few efforts to follow in his uncle’s footsteps over in Lothian. The limo business was good, but intelligence pointed towards drivers dealing en route and a few less than legal fares being taken without question.
When he came back, he had a girl with him. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Dark hair, red dress, good legs. Dressed in the kind of heels that meant she had to lean on Robert for support. The way they walked, I figured they knew each other. Or at least had got intimate over the last few minutes. All power to him working so fast and looking so ordinary.
From the back of the car, Robert introduced the girl to me. Her name was Eileen. She laughed, and I could hear from the birdlike chirp that she was already a little tipsy. ‘You don’t have a first name?’
‘Not that I like to use, no.’
She laughed at that. ‘Like Mulder.’
I started the engine.
She said it again. ‘Like Mulder. Fox Mulder. X-Files. Didn’t like his first name, either.’
I said, ‘I can understand.’
In the rear-view, Robert had this look I recognized, wondering why the girl was talking to me and not him. Probably best, then, that I stayed quiet.
As I drove, I got more of a feel for this man. Robert Burns liked to think he worked and played hard. He liked girls in red dresses who smelled of cheap perfume. His idea of a night out was meeting old friends at the club that used to be known as the Mardi Gras.
More commonly called, the Manky Bra.
The club had been a real meat market. I’d been in once or twice during my last few years of school, when it was still cool to sneak into the clubs. Then later, when I was working the late beat as a copper. It hadn’t seemed much different either way. The unholy trinity of too loud, too crowded, too hot. People getting pissed and aggressive.
The more things change, the more they … aye, well, we all know how that one goes. The place hadn’t changed too much in the years since I’d last dared go inside. Despite the brand new name and the interior redesign.
On the floor, the music had a physical presence. It thrummed through your bones, set your teeth chattering. So loud, it bent the room. Distorted the world around you.
Made me sick to my stomach.
Before we went in, Robert asked if maybe I could hang back a bit. He didn’t want anyone asking questions. He was just some guy out with friends for the night. Kicking back, listening to some tunes, downing a few drinks. Like anyone else. He told me that he didn’t want anyone to give a fuck that he was David Burns’s nephew. Assured me that no one even knew. Probably.
Part of me was inclined to agree. I’d been given this gig to sideline me for a while. Keep me out of the old man’s hair. Such as he had left. Burns wasn’t sure he could trust me. He wanted me where I could do the least damage.
Watching his nephew playing at being a gangster for the night was the very definition of busywork.
And the lad really was playing at gangster. Coming out to places like this, dancing with girls in red dresses who were pissed before they even got out their own front door. Swanning into clubs like he owned the place. And every time he went to the bathroom, I knew it wasn’t just for a piss. But my job wasn’t to monitor his drug intake. I had to make sure that he was safe.
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I hung around the edges of the dancefloor. Sipped at never ending water bottles and ignored anyone who tried to talk to me. My eyes always on Robert Burns and his ever-growing crowd.
There were four of them at first, with more gathering round their orbit as the evening went on. They grabbed a bunch of sofas and lounged out.
No one seemed to bother them.
No one bothered me.
Maybe I looked like a bouncer.
Maybe I just looked boring.
‘Home, James!’
‘Whose home?’
‘Mine.’
‘Right.’
‘You can’t come up.’
I was already pulling out. ‘Sure.’
‘He’s got to wait outside?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Like you have a butler!’ That laugh again. Guess good legs and a red dress made up for a lot in the world of Robert Burns.
I kept my eyes on the road. They shut up in the back seat. I considered telling them to put their seatbelts on, but what did I care. I caught flashes of their activity in the rear view, easily resisted the urge to perv. There are some people you just don’t want to see getting off, and Robert Burns was one of them. His companion might have been able to pull off attractive when half sober, but sloshed and uncoordinated she just looked plain daft.
Then again, most people lose their dignity in the throes of passion. Throw drink into the mix, and you’re laughing.
As she unlocked the door to her place, Robert came back, leaned in against the driver’s side window. ‘So, like, what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve got plans.’
‘Aye?’
‘Oh, aye.’
He gave me a wink, trotted off after the girl in the red dress.
I waited until they were inside, switched on the stereo, sat back and let loose a long sigh. Then, I pulled the battered paperback from the glove compartment. The Killing of the Tinkers.
Jim White drawled from the speakers. I lost myself in the book, amid the dirt and sleaze of a noir-tinged Galway.
Forgot about my life.
Cry Uncle Page 7
