But for the residual adrenaline that kept me awake.
Kept me focussed.
Wondering where the hell I went from here.
NINETEEN
It was past ten when I pulled up outside Ernie’s place. I’d slept for a while in the car, coming awake cold and tired. My skin was tender where it had bruised, and my mouth felt dry. But I was alive. And rested.
It was enough.
Ernie’s house was empty. No lights. No movement.
I left the car on the street, made sure no-one was watching when I walked up the drive. I took the keys from my pocket. I’d taken Susan’s spares earlier, knowing I’d be coming here sooner or later.
To look for leads. Or absolution.
Either one would do.
I opened the front door, moved to the alarm box. Part of me panicking suddenly, wondering if Ernie had changed the code. But he hadn’t. It was still the same. Susan’s birthday. Maybe not the most secure of codes, but memorable enough for both of the Brights to remember.
I stood in the main hall. Listened to the house. The silence.
Most places have a heartbeat. A background hum that you never really think about, but that’s always there. This place didn’t. It had died with the man who used to live here.
I stood there for a long time, barely drawing breath. As though doing so would somehow insult Ernie’s memory. When I stepped forward, the creak of old floorboards was like an earthquake.
I closed my eyes for a moment. Half-expected to see Ernie standing down the other end of the hall when I opened them.
I used the light from my mobile screen as a torch, not wanting to touch the light switches.
Who was going to be looking here? Who was going to report a trespasser? Aye, so call it paranoia if you like. Sometimes you just know when something’s wrong. If I was a thriller writer, I’d say it was a gut feeling and act like that was a good thing. But it was merely instinct. And instinct is not always infallible. Just ask any good investigator.
On the upper landing, I moved down into the master bedroom. The bed was made up neatly as though expecting Ernie to return.
Through there again, a small back room: Ernie’s office. Views across a conservatory extension, onto the back garden and down, out onto the river Tay. A faux-pine top desk by the window. The surface neat. Everything filed and squared away. A photograph of Susan as a child. Seven years old, smiling away on a farmyard, while a pig troughed about in the dirt behind her.
I checked the tray system. Nothing in the outbox. He was caught up, it seemed. Everything minimal and squared away.
I moved to the filing cabinet. The drawers were locked. I gave them a few good tugs just to be sure. They rattled loudly. It echoed through the empty house, sounding mournful.
In the books or the movies, I’d have been taught lock picking by a friendly criminal with a heart of gold. A good kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Fact was, I didn’t know anyone like that. I could still go to work on some basic locks, sure. You pick up some skills on the force that you don’t expect. But I wasn’t equipped for something so small and fiddly. I could maybe open a poorly-designed front door if I had to, given time and space. But chances were I’d be caught before I had a chance to prove my skills.
I looked around the room. Saw the box on the window. Round, wooden, decorated with faded paintwork. I pulled off the lid. Inside, paperclips, old stubs, pen lids and…
Keys.
Small keys. Maybe five or six. No marks to show what they were.
The windows were double-glazed. Would take keys around the same size as the filing cabinet, I reckoned. Meaning I had choices. But also the time to make them. I grabbed the keys, tried them one at a time.
Nothing. But they got the windows open. As much use as that was to me.
I felt a swelling in my chest. Old anger and frustration. Threatening to overwhelm me; make me lose control. But I held on. Left the keys on the windowsill.
Looked around.
He wouldn’t keep the keys on him. He’d keep them somewhere safe. Somewhere personal. Somewhere no-one else would look.
Where?
I figured he wouldn’t want Susan or his wife to find it. But he’d need easy access.
I looked around the room. On the wall, framed photographs caught my eyes. Photographs of a younger Ernie. Official-looking. Taken on the steps of FHQ. I realised they were pictures of milestones in his career. His graduation from police college. His reassignment to CID. His promotion to DCI.
That last one caught me. He was with other men that I knew, all of them smiling, or trying their best to. Looking like they’d rather be getting on with the work they knew they had to do.
I reached for that last picture, took it off the wall. Felt behind the frame.
Found the key in a small pocket down in the left-hand corner, a stitched on fold of paper you wouldn’t notice at a casual glance.
I gave it a shot in the filing cabinet. Finally got that top drawer open.
The files inside were arranged and in a way I guess Ernie understood. Shorthand and initials that spoke of a personal system he either didn’t want or need anyone else to understand.
Susan had told me that, growing up, her father’s office had been a no-go area. She understood in no uncertain terms that it was his space. His sanctuary. He needed somewhere he could escape from the world, where he could consider things in seclusion without distractions. Or maybe he just didn’t want his daughter to know the truth about the work he did.
How do you bring up a child when you know all the worst things that people are capable of doing to each other?
I took a deep breath, pulled out the files from the drawer.
Looked at the labels, trying to find some pattern.
K. Wood.
I pulled the folder, spread the contents out on the desk. Looking for some pattern. Unsure what that would turn out to be.
What I got were old newspaper clippings. Names and phrases highlighted in different colours. Maybe there was a code. Maybe he just couldn’t find the same pen twice.
The earliest clippings were dated 1971. Most of them concerned property developments within the city. Big deals to big companies. Certain names were ringed in red pen. The rings were loose, hurried. The red of the ink added to the impression of a scrawl made in anger.
David Burns popped up more than a few times. As a local businessman, of course. While his name was associated with much of the city’s criminal activity, no paper dared print his name in that respect for fear of being sued.
Or worse.
There were other names I recognised, too. Many of them wheelers and dealers, most with reputations that made you question their motives for doing anything. Only one name stood out to me; a prominent member of the local council: Peter Keller.
Keller was a Tory MP, younger than most of the other men in the articles which was why his name popped up later, still ringed with the same angry red circle Ernie had reserved for men like Burns and others who had come and gone from the landscape of Dundee’s underworld.
One name, of course, seemed conspicuous in its absence.
Begging the question, why put these clippings in a folder marked K. Wood?
I put the articles to one side.
Found photocopies of old deeds and contracts. The copies were poor; a rush job as though whoever took the copies had done so with little thought for quality control.
Maybe worried they’d be caught.
I checked the names. Found a paper trail, every page signed by Wood.
Safety certificates.
Account transfers.
Purchases on land and business addresses.
Other documents I couldn’t begin to understand.
There were bank details, too. Accounts Ernie couldn’t have accessed legally. The documents all copies. Transfers and balances going back decades. The names changing. I was no financial expert, but I had a feeling many of the named accounts were placeholders. Diversions.
A n
oise from the other side of the house made me look up.
It came from outside. The front drive. The gritty crunch of a car on gravel.
I moved through to the bedroom, keeping low and in the shadows. Looked out the windows onto the drive, keeping my head down in case someone looked up and saw me.
Headlights arced through into the bedroom. I was careful to remain hidden, twisting my neck to get a good view.
The car was dark-coloured, in good condition. Might have been new. There were no tell-tale scuff marks, the bodywork reflecting ambient light. I couldn’t see the plates. The engine noise was little more than a purr. It had been the crunching of its weight on the gravel that had alerted me. If Ernie had paved his drive, I might never have known anyone was there until it was too late.
Three men climbed out. Two from the front, one from the rear passenger door. Dressed in dark clothes. Check their builds: bruisers, all of them.
Shite!
I ducked away from the window.
Maybe they were just making a house call. Well-built Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or Mormons. They had a big presence in the city. Sometimes they tried to stop me in the city centre, tell me about God. I’d usually body-swerve them with the excuse that I just didn’t have time for the Almighty. At that moment, though, I was ready to pray to Him.
I couldn’t face a physical confrontation. My body still ached from my earlier encounter outside the hospital. It was only painkillers and sheer willpower that allowed me to keep on the move. The rush of adrenaline was going to help some, of course. I ducked down just beneath the sill and held my breath.
The men’s feet crunched to the front door. Then stopped. When they spoke, their voices floated up as deep, low rumbles. Native accents. Dundonians tend to have a unique pitch to their voice. It could knock down walls if anyone figured a way to control it.
The voices stopped. Just for a moment. Enough for the first bang on the door.
A unique sound. One you recognise if you’ve ever been on a drugs raid. The sound of a miniature battering ram lamping it against a heavy front door.
The training says:
Two thumps and in.
You don’t fuck about.
Two thumps. Swearing. Footsteps downstairs.
Shite.
Even if they were on-the-level coppers here on legitimate business, it wasn’t going to look good if they walked in on a local investigator indulging in a spot of recreational B&E. I had, from their point of view, no good reason to be here sneaking through a man’s private papers.
Besides, Lindsay always wanted to be the one to send me down for something. And he’d be pissed off not to get the chance.
TWENTY
I had to move.
I could hear them downstairs. Angry tones rumbling up through the house.
Why were they here? Off their own back? On orders?
There were three coppers I already knew about under investigation. One of them was currently AWOL thanks to David Burns. But logic said there had to be more, that the rot went deeper than I could guess at.
If Discipline and Complaints didn’t have anything on Wood, I had to wonder if he was the one who’d set up Ernie, who’d started the ball rolling on the events of the last few days.
Wood was corrupt. I had no doubt on that score. Not only did Ernie’s paperwork point towards his suspicions concerning Wood’s connections, but David Burns had flat out told me the man was corrupt. And inclined as I was not to believe a word that came out of the old bastard’s mouth, I knew he rarely lied to me. Except through omission.
And he was good at omission, the wily old bastard.
In the office, I grabbed the keys from the wooden box.
Went for the windows. Couldn’t remember which of them I’d already tried.
First key fit but didn’t turn. I tried the rest, forcing myself to work logically, keep my breathing and heart-rate down, stop my hands from shaking.
The voices were getting louder. So far no footsteps on the stairs. But I didn’t have long. Whatever they were looking for, I had a feeling it was in the office. Sooner or later they’d figure that for themselves.
None of the keys worked.
Christ.
I heard footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Heavy.
Fuck!
One of these keys had to work on the windows.
Had to...
I quit fumbling with the keys, examined the lock more closely. Forcing myself to be thorough. One of my teachers at school had been like a walking cliché, but the one he used most was: Less haste, less waste.
Thank you, Mr Dow.
I examined the lock. Tried not to think about the bruisers downstairs. The hole for the key was in a small plastic protuberance for the handle. Like my own windows, you had to press the plastic in while you turned the key.
I acted fast. Second attempt, the window opened.
The big bastards were on the second floor, now. I could hear them in the hall just off the master bedroom. They weren’t worried about being subtle. Guess they thought no-one was home.
“Fucksakes, man, this is a joke.”
“You want to give him a call, tell him you can’t be arsed?”
“Get to fuck.”
An argument was good.
An argument wasted their time.
And gave me more.
I stuffed a few of the papers in my pockets. Didn’t matter which papers they were. It would be enough to give me something to go on. I could fill in the blanks later.
I clambered onto the desk. Put too much weight on my right hand. Couldn’t hold my own weight. I fell, knocked over the filing trays and a pencil holder.
No way those bastards in the hall didn’t hear.
I righted myself, taking care to use my left hand to take the weight. It was unnatural for me. I was a right-hander, so found my movements off balance and uncertain. Thing was, I needed to get this right or I would fall through sheet glass. The conservatory roof below was probably doubleglazed, but that didn’t meant I could just throw myself onto it.
I’d gone through enough this evening. Didn’t know if this would be pushing it too far.
“Through there!”
They’d figured it out. Big didn’t always mean dumb like in the films.
Bloody well wished it did, though.
I looked out at the drop again. My recently bruised skin seemed to pulse, trying to tell me this was a bad idea. But it would be worse to wait for those big bastards to find me. I’d suffered bad enough with a beating from one man.
I went for it, trying to keep my weight spread even. Aiming for the structure’s supports. Hoping they’d hold my weight.
I slipped down. Feet first. Slowed a little with friction.
The last foot or so, I pushed against one of the solid supports and rolled. Off the edge.
Bloody stupid idea.
Could have been anything below.
Concrete. An abandoned mower.
What I hit was grass. Well maintained. A spring in the sod that served to lessen the impact. Not by much, though. I still got the wind knocked out of me. Couldn’t move for a moment, as I tried to catch my breath.
Thinking?
Did I hear something break?
In my head, I pictured a rib snapping, the loose end puncturing something. Maybe a lung.
But it was simple paranoia. I forced myself to roll over, get up and lean back against the conservatory.
Voices from above:
“Out the bastarding window!”
“Jesus shite!”
“Think it was a burglar?”
“Fucksakes, just our luck. Don’t give a toss who it was, we can’t afford to –”
“So get the fuck downstairs and find him. He fell off that, he’s no got far. Unless he’s… like that bastard, Superman.”
I didn’t have long. And I didn’t feel like Superman. All the same, I urged my protesting legs to start working again. Stood up. My left leg protested, refusing to take my weight
properly. Another old wound. Another pain in the arse.
Could I make it across the garden?
What choice did I have?
I pegged it across the lawn. Exposed and open.
Stumbling more than running, spending as little time as possible putting weight on my right side. Heading for the bushes that formed a boundary between Ernie’s house and next door’s property. There used to be a weak spot there where next door’s daughter used to crawl through when Ernie had a barbecue. The wee girl was nineteen now, no longer in the habit of sneaking through to get a free sausage from the soft-touch neighbours, but I had to figure the weak spot was still there.
I crashed through the bushes, into shadow, hoping I got away before those bastards saw where I’d gone. On the other side, I slowed down, suddenly aware there could be motion-activated lights out here. I sneaked round the side of the neighbour’s house, hugging the wall. Made it to the street without incident. And only then allowed myself to breathe.
I limped to the car, trying to look casual, as though I was just out for a night-time stroll. But I was feeling wary, wondering when and if anyone was going to see me.
Waiting for the inevitable lamping I’d get if the three stooges back at Ernie’s house managed to spot me.
How much pain can one man take before he just gives up?
The last few years, I’d taken my share of punishment. Some of it, I suppose, could have been avoided. Much of it was my own fault.
Much of it should have killed me.
Did that make me lucky? Some days I wasn’t sure.
In the car, I switched on the engine, made myself drive at normal speeds. Like I was a resident off out for the evening.
If I’d been one of the three housebreakers, I wouldn’t have been checking the street. I’d have been keeping a low profile. hoping all that had happened was I’d disturbed an opportunistic burglar who’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All the same I wasn’t happy until I was at least six streets away, with nothing and no-one in the rear-view.
###
Burns had given me a number.
A mobile.
I knew it was a disposable. Or belonged to someone else. Someone whose relationship with the big man was deniable.
Father Confessor (J McNee series) Page 11
