Cry Uncle

by Russel D. McLean

  ‘And don’t think I don’t know how you look at us when we leave the house, or that I don’t see you at the window when the police cars come up. Don’t think I don’t bloody well know you were judging us. At the same time as you were using us. Pretending to be our friend. All for the thrill of knowing a gangster. Oh, aye, bet that made you feel like a man. A real man, eh, Jim?’ She leaned forward. ‘Still taking those pills? Annie says they don’t really make that much difference. But she likes to pretend, eh?’

  The man, on all fours, looked like a dog who’d been caught pissing behind the couch.

  Downstairs, the hammering stopped. The noise had merely been a prelude. The real show was about to begin.

  I said, ‘Do you have a loft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take her up there.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Do it!’

  He and Mary went into the hall. Keeping low, so their heads didn’t appear above the line of the window-sills from outside. The man – Jim – pulled down the loft hatch and the extendable ladder. Climbed up first, of course. His own safety above that of an older woman.

  Mary followed. Crouching in the cramped space above, she turned to look down at me. ‘Come on, then?’

  I shook my head. Folded the ladder and pushed the hatch shut again. Mary’s mouth opened to say something, but I didn’t listen.

  I took a breath, stood up straight, walked down the stairs. Calm as you like.

  The glass on the front door shattered. An arm reached in, undid the lock from inside. I waited at the bottom of the stairs.

  Special delivery.

  The lead thug said, ‘Where the fuck is she?’

  I stood my ground.

  ‘Give her up, you won’t get hurt.’

  Aye. Right.

  Four of them. They spilled in the narrow hallway. I couldn’t fight. Couldn’t win. Not even if there had just been one of them. Check the shoulders, the thick necks, the tattooed forearms. The original heavies right there.

  How long could I hold out?

  How long before they figured they could just steamroller past me?

  I figured there were worse ways for things to end.

  On the street, a car engine roared and cut. Car doors slammed,

  The thugs turned.

  Voices yelled. ‘On the ground. On the fucking ground!’

  I made a dash for it, up the stairs. No point hanging around. One of the fuckers tried to follow. I turned, gripped the bannister, steadied myself against the wall and kicked out. Got him in the face with the heel of my boot. He fell back, toppled arse over tit and twisted badly as he fell. The wooden bannister couldn’t take the strain, cracked and buckled as he slammed against it on his way down.

  Six plainclothes. Not announcing themselves as coppers. Playing hard men to the hilt. The thugs probably figured them for Burns’s men. Way they dived in, they seemed to be enjoying the rammie.

  Aye, well. Most police work is dull. Does everyone good to cut loose once in a while.

  I could have helped. Maybe should have.

  But the truth was, I wouldn’t have been any use. I’d just have got in the way.

  Story of my life.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Susan drove us west.

  Beside me, in the back seat, Mary said, ‘I thought you said you didn’t talk anymore.’ A little teasing in her tone, but it was strained. She was still processing what had happened.

  ‘I try,’ Susan said. Watching us in the rear view. Mary Burns looked out of the window at the city passing by. All of us trying to think about anything except where we were going and why.

  ‘What will you tell your husband?’ I asked.

  Bringing her back to reality. We couldn’t keep talking around the situation. ‘Be straight with me. Are you working with the police?’

  ‘It’s more complex than that.’

  ‘It always is.’ The bitter voice of someone who’s been betrayed before. And of course she had. By Ernie.

  ‘Steed isn’t working for us, Mrs Burns,’ Susan said. ‘He called me because we’re friends. Because he needed someone he could trust. Right now, given your situation, what you need is to be with someone who isn’t caught up in the middle of your husband’s war. He’s too close. I’m not. My people are not.’

  Mary Burns didn’t say anything.

  The safe house was in Birkhill, north west of the City. A small bungalow with subtly enhanced security measures, including enforced doors and a secure entry system. The back garden was enclosed by thick hedges, making it tough to launch a rear assault. Susan and I stood just outside the re-enforced French windows to the rear of the property. I was aching for a cigarette. Funny the cravings you get when you think how close you came to death. Most people would expect they might need a good, stiff drink.

  I said, ‘Thanks for lying.’

  ‘Think she bought it?’

  ‘She’s tough to read.’

  ‘Dad always said he could never understand why she was so devoted to the old man.’

  ‘He has another side to him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Everyone does. Even the worst monsters in this world are kind to someone.’

  ‘Is that a note of optimism?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s really an optimistic thought.’

  Susan nodded. ‘Like Hitler being a vegetarian.’

  We stood there in silence for a while.

  I said, ‘I’m worried about Griggs.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘The obsession.’

  ‘He should have pulled you from service. He should have put an end to the operation months ago. This is out of control.’

  ‘And why hasn’t he? Pulled me? Ended this madness?’

  ‘I don’t know. Steed … I’ve been asking around … quiet, like. But … no one … there’s no record of this operation. I’m supposed to be assigned to some other case under his authority. But as far as I can see, Sandy has been filing false reports. Giving updates that bear no relation to what he’s actually doing. I just …’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Steed, Sandy hasn’t informed anyone about this project, about your working undercover. There are no records of an informant in Burns’s gang since my father died. There’s no funding. My father’s death effectively ended the operation. He’s been diverting cash from other projects. I’ve seen the records. I just …’

  ‘You just don’t know what to do?’ They had been sleeping together. She had been compromised by personal involvement. I could understand.

  ‘I care for him. He’s a driven man.’

  ‘You haven’t learned by now? About driven men?’

  She forced a smile. ‘My father. Always was a daddy’s girl.’

  ‘So there’s no record that I was coerced into this situation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And there’s no funding for an op against the old man?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘So why? What’s in this for Griggs?’

  She shook her head.

  Neither of us could answer the question.

  All we could do was react to what we now knew. Try and figure a way to resolve the mess we were in.

  And hope to hell it wouldn’t get us killed.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘So she’s safe?’

  I nodded. The old man, in the passenger seat, seemed happy with that answer.

  ‘She’s with people I trust.’

  ‘Then I trust them.’ No doubt in his voice. If I even thought about betraying him, I knew the consequences. So he trusted me. Because I would have to be stupid to try and pull the wool over his eyes.

  Lucky he didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.

  ‘He’s a slippery little bastard,’ Burns said. Meaning Craig Nairn. ‘No one seems to know where the fuck he is.’

  ‘Our new friend might.’

  ‘You might be right, son. Even a fucked clock’s right twice a day, eh?’

/>   We pulled up outside the old hotel. City centre location. Across from the rail station, prime views of the river. The building was closed. Had been empty for over a decade before that. When it reopened, the plan was for it to be a premier destination for the new Dundee. There was talk of the city applying for City of Culture status for 2017. The hotel was part of the planning stage. With the V&A coming to the city and a virtual regeneration of the waterfront already underway, the new Dundee was to be an aspirational and shining beacon for Scotland’s future.

  But the foundations were only just being laid.

  And as with any foundation, there were bound to be a few bodies hidden in the darker recesses.

  Burns had a skeleton key for the building. He’d called ahead, turned off the security cameras. There would be no record of what happened.

  Inside, you could see something of what the building had once been: the grand sweeping staircase, the expansive lobby, and the chandelier fittings in the high ceiling. But there was a sense of abandonment, too. The dust motes that danced in the light of torches. The odd stillness punctuated by the occasional creak from contracting old boards.

  We climbed the staircase to the third floor. I thought of The Shining. The long and endless corridors of the Overlook. The sense that suddenly something might just appear before you; a horrific image that might just send you out of your mind.

  But the only ghosts were the ones I brought with me.

  As is the case for everyone.

  Room 305.

  Inside, the big bastard raised his head to look at us. His face was bloodied. His nose was pulped and cauliflowered across his face. Can’t say it made him any more or less ugly. The fact that he wasn’t wearing any clothes didn’t help matters.

  He looked at me as I walked in. His lips parted. He might have snarled. He knew who I was.

  I didn’t look at him. Not directly.

  He had been my price. My negotiating tool. The cops who raided the house would say he was the one who got away. But they had no idea where he was. They thought I just wanted to talk to him. They didn’t know that the old man was involved. That the bruiser might not see the morning.

  Malone was leaning on the cricket bat in the same way that Patrick MacNee would lean on his umbrella during the glory days of The Avengers. He smiled as we entered the room. ‘A good workout,’ he said. ‘Nothing like it.’

  Burns said nothing. He crouched before the naked man and looked into his eyes. The two men stared at each other. The big bastard was defiant. He was in pain, but remained resolute in his silence.

  Burns said, ‘You know who I am?’

  The man spat. His phlegm was red.

  Burns smiled.

  I stood near the door. Watched. Remained impassive as I could.

  ‘No one can hear us,’ Burns said.

  ‘I think he’s worked that one out,’ Malone said. Smug. He stepped away. Bowed his head towards Burns. An invitation.

  The old man rarely got his hands dirty. Only in the most extreme of situations. Like the year before when he personally took it upon himself to murder a child killer. His morals so offended that he didn’t want anyone else to have the pleasure. Some things you have to do yourself.

  Burns got in close to the other man. ‘Whatever you tell me, it remains here. Between us. No one will know you talked. And if they do find out, no one will blame you. My friend here, the cricketer, he can be … persuasive.’

  ‘He’s a fucking pussy.’ Spitting out the words. Real effort to talk.

  Burns said, ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Fuck … you.’

  ‘A little food? I can send one of my pals here for a pizza. Or a kebab. You look like a kebab man. A few pints and a doner? Can’t blame you.’

  Silence.

  Burns said, ‘Oh, I can’t touch you, can I? You’re a hard man.’ He stood up. ‘Oh, yes, Mr White. You’re a hard man. I know all about you. About your wife. Divorced, of course. She didn’t like the idea of you doing what you do. She thought you were a security guard. A night watchman. That all you did was hang around empty building sites – much like this one – and maybe listen to some music. Read magazines. She wouldn’t even have minded if they were dirty magazines. After all, books require too much thought, don’t they? And you’re not big on thinking. I know why she divorced you. I know the reasons on the papers and the reasons that no one ever fucking talked about. Especially you. Because you think she exaggerated the truth. Maybe I should ask her one day. You wouldn’t mind me talking to her? Or maybe one of my associates?’ He talked calmly. Conversationally. The words tripped lightly from his lips. This was how he got before the real violence began. The snake ceasing its rattling.

  I wondered when he had the time to learn about this man’s life.

  There were resources he had that amazed me. He understood the power not just of physical strength, but of knowledge.

  White continued his defiant stare, although he knew better than to try and stand. In this place, he was without power. All he could was stay down and stay quiet. Hope the end came quick.

  I had promised Susan that no one would die.

  Had she known I was lying?

  Had I?

  Burns said, ‘Maybe that doesn’t upset you. And maybe she wouldn’t tell me the truth, anyway. There must be someone else we could talk to? Maybe … your daughter?’

  That did it. White roared and clambered to his feet. Halfway up when Malone swung that bat, caught the big bastard in the stomach. White roared, doubled and collapsed again.

  Burns said, ‘Are you ready to talk now, Mr White? We don’t have to talk about you at all. Just a friend of yours. Craig Nairn. Tell me where he is, no one will hurt you again. I promise. And no one will need to talk to your daughter. How old is she now? Thirteen? How long since you last saw her?’

  The big bastard’s head dipped. For a moment, I could see his eyes and see the defiance fade. Every man has a weak spot. And it’s not always physical. Watch enough movies, you start to think that every conflict can be resolved by fisticuffs. But most men are stopped by their emotions. Even the ones they refuse to talk about.

  Burns hunkered down again. He said, ‘Just an address. That’s all.’

  White talked.

  When he was done, Burns nodded. He stood up. ‘I said no one would ever hurt you again. That’s almost true.’ He nodded at Malone. Malone grabbed the defeated man’s head and pulled it back. In his free hand, he had a knife. He plunged the blade through the man’s eye and into his brain. The man struggled for a moment and then went limp.

  The smell of shit and piss filled the room. Tickled at the nostrils, made you want to vomit.

  I tried not to react but my legs started to give way. I swallowed a sour taste.

  As we left the room, Burns put his arm around me. ‘If they want to ignore the rules then we have to do the same. Except we have to be even worse than they are. You don’t win a gunfight armed with a fucking cricket bat. They think I’m a tired old fucker resting on his reputation. They’re going to learn the fucking truth.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  The old high rises were coming down. Once dominant on Dundee’s skyline on approach from the West, the old symbols of poverty and hopelessness – in the twenty-first century, it was hard to believe they were conceived as part of a shiny, utopian future – were being demolished. One by one, they were disappearing. Old mistakes being erased in the hope that no one would remember them. In their place, the council had created shiny little villages and called them estates. With the blue plastic window frames and the clean brickwork, these new council houses felt cleaner and safer than the old high rises with their rickety lifts and corridors daubed with graffiti. But it was tempting to wonder whether all anyone had done was brush the old problems under the carpet, and apply a fresh coat of paint. Sooner or later, the old issues would come back to the surface. But for now these new estates seemed hopeful, busy and thriving.

  The address that White gav
e us was a low-roofed bungalow along a street of similar looking houses. A small driveway, but no sign of a car. A trampoline dominated the front garden, such as it was. The woman who lived at the address had two kids. Rumours said the children were Nairn’s, but she had always claimed the father to be another man who had vanished some 8 years earlier, after the birth of the second child. A waster. A drug addict. A man who was bound to disappear sooner or later. Probably not through his own volition.

  I walked to the front door myself. The old man waited further down the street with Malone. Out of sight.

  I tapped out six short raps. Stepped back. Resisted the urge to pull out ID, like I was still on the force.

  The woman who answered wore hooped earrings and a fake tan that was beginning to streak just a little. Her naturally dark hair showed at the roots, contrasting with the bottle blonde curls that were sprayed to within an inch of their lives and hooked stiffly around her shoulders.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I’m looking for Craig Nairn.’

  ‘Nut,’ she said. ‘Don’t ken that name.’ Bad liar. She did, of course. Her eyes gave it away. She was terrified. Of me? I was sure she wasn’t scared of Nairn.

  ‘I’m not police.’

  ‘Don’t care. No one here called Craig, right? So fuck off. Sharp-like.’

  I shrugged. Shouted past her, ‘Tell him it’s McNee.’

  Nairn came down from upstairs. Slow. Cautious. His head forward so he could get a good look and see it really was me. ‘The fuck d’you want? The fuck did you find me here?’

  ‘Jesus, Craig, someone’s going to see—’

  ‘Shut up, and go watch telly. Me and this man need to have a wee chat.’ He was smiling. Maybe still convinced of his own hard man image. Thinking he’d fooled me the other night.

  The woman looked ready to argue but then just shook her head and walked away. Her bare feet didn’t make a sound on the laminated wood flooring.

  Nairn said, ‘You really are a detective. How the fuck’d’you work out I was here? Or did we rattle your brain pan so hard you actually got smart?’ Cocky. Arrogant. Believing his own press.

  ‘A wee birdie told me.’