The
Good Son
The
Good Son
Russel D. McLean
Minotaur Books New York
To Mum and Dad
With huge amounts of love.
But, sadly, still not enough money
to buy that house in France.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters,
organizations, and events portrayed in this novel
are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE GOOD SON. Copyright © 2008 by Russel D.
McLean. All rights reserved. Printed in the United
States of America. For information, address St.
Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y.
10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McLean, Russel D.
The good son / Russel D. McLean. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-57668-4
1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6113.C545G66 2009
823'.91—dc22
2009028711
First published in Great Britain by Five Leaves
Publications
First U.S. Edition: December 2009
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I could kill him.
It would be easy.
I’m pointing this gun right between his eyes and he looks like he’s laughing at the best joke he ever heard.
The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that I won’t pull the trigger. He said it himself: I don’t have the balls.
Prove him wrong.
Pull the trigger.
It’s no less than he deserves.
I’ve already shot a man this evening, so what’s the difference now? Like smoking, it gets easier after the first one, right?
The image is still clear in my brain. The bald bastard, the look of surprise on his face, the way his body stops moving suddenly like he’s walked into a wall. The way he just crumples, lands in a heap on the sodden ground.
The rain stings my skin, a thousand pins falling from the sky point first. There’s a weight behind them that threatens to push me down into the sod. Root me in the ground like one of these gravestones.
The man in front of me is laughing. Beaten. Battered. But laughing. When he grins I see he’s missing a tooth.
My leg buckles.
He sees it, and his grin widens. He thinks he’s spotted a weakness.
Not that it matters. Because he’ll be dead before he can do anything.
Forget your fucking principles. Think about Kat. The ragged hole in the centre of her forehead.
Her body left in some empty shitehole of a flat.
Broken.
Violated.
Think about Daniel Robertson. Hanging by the neck. Only realising what a mess he made of his life as he struggled to take that final breath.
I hear voices nearby.
The police.
The fucking cavalry.
Which means it’s now or never.
No more thinking.
Just act.
Kill the prick.
Think about the people who’ll never know justice.
Bill, who might never walk again.
Elaine.
Jesus Christ, Elaine.
I’ve been looking for someone to blame. And who gives a crap that this isn’t the guy?
Might as well be.
Might as well be every prick who ever took a human life.
Might as well be every messed-up fuckbag who killed for kicks or got his fucking rocks off watching his victims plead for mercy.
And that’s why I should do this.
That’s why this bastard should die.
Chapter 1
Nearly a week before the night I found myself ready to kill a man in cold blood, I was angling for the security of a job that paid up front.
Which is why I was grateful for the business of any client. Especially the man who huffed his way into the offices of McNee Investigations.
James Robertson stuffed himself into the sixties-style recliner I’d picked up a few weeks earlier at the Salvation Army store on West Marketgait. He was sweating, even though it was a cool day. As if he’d swum across the Tay rather than taking the bridge. The handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his suit jacket looked damp.
I offered my hand. His was slick and threatened to slip from my grasp.
It wasn’t his size, even if he was a large man. No, the sweat came from agitation. Robertson was tense, his muscles practically humming they were stretched so taut.
After I introduced myself, he bobbed his head up and down as though agreeing with me. “It’s a climb up those stairs, Mr McNee,” he said, a strong Fife accent making him sound accusatory. His little eyes regarded me suspiciously. “For a man like myself, of course.” His features crumpled in thought. “McNee,” chewing the name over. He smiled. “Like the actor!” I shrugged the observation off, having heard it a hundred times before. “You’re younger than I would have thought.”
Did he mean this merely as an observation or as something more subtly insulting? I let it go, and showed him into my private office. He followed, even though he seemed reluctant to leave the recliner.
Robertson looked around the private room, nodded approvingly at the minimalist decoration.
“Are you okay?” he asked. Hadn’t taken him long to notice.
I shook my head.
“Bad looking limp.”
Not so bad. Not now. Could have been worse.
I could have lost my life.
“Doesn’t interfere with the job, Mr Robertson, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He shook his head like the thought had never crossed his mind.
Aye, right.
I gestured for him to sit down. He took one of the padded chairs in front of my desk. I stayed standing, asked him why he was here.
“The other fellow,” he said. “The one who used to work here. He had a reputation, you know?”
I nodded. “Sure. You knew him?”
“Not personally. He did work for some… people I know.”
I didn’t ask what kind of work or what kind of people. That would have been unprofessional.
The other investigator had been in business at least a decade, using these same offices. The centre of Dundee. Prime location. Down the road from the Sheriff’s Court, too. It wasn’t just the location, of course, that had helped build him a local reputation.
I met him before I took over the property, thought he looked old before his time. He said, that’s what the business does to you. The implication was clear: I wouldn’t keep my fresh-faced looks for too long.
Then again, maybe I’d keep them longer than he expected.
“I can give you references,” I said. “I used to be a copper.”
“Aye?” Robertson took out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead. “Surely that’s a wee bit more respectable than all this?” He gestured expansively and then let out a sigh.
I wondered, did he mean the office or the lifestyle?
Probably the lifestyle. In the UK, the life of an investigator is hardly seen as glamorous. We don’t have the same lone-wolf mythology as our counterparts in the US. If people think of us, it’s as sleazy, cheap last-resorts. And in Scotland, we’re barely even thought of at all.
I waited, watching my client: how he moved, the set of his face, the way his eyes darted about
the office. Afraid to settle anywhere, especially on me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“You can tell me about my brother.”
I pulled out a tape recorder, placed it on the table. Robertson looked at the device, and then nodded his consent. I wasn’t writing anything down. This was a friendly wee chat. Recorded for posterity.
Funny how people open up to a recorder and yet clam up when they see you scribbling.
“Your brother?” I prompted.
“Do you read the papers?”
“I keep up.”
“The Tele?” he asked, meaning The Evening Telegraph: local paper for local people.
“Sure.”
“Then you know my name,” he said. “Or you should. Nosy bastards slapped it all over the front page couple of nights ago.”
I nodded, then; realised who he was.
“James Robertson,” I said, like I’d just heard his name for the first time. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Chapter 2
Like I said, people open up to a recorder. All I had to do to get Robertson’s story was prod him once or twice in the right direction. Keep him focused.
The Robertson family farm, he told me, sat out across the bridge near St Michaels; a small hamlet on the outer edges of Tentsmuir Forest. Robertson — out of habit more than anything else — took a quick pint at the local pub most nights.
Two weeks earlier, Robertson had run into the pub. Ready to collapse from a coronary. Not just through exertion, either.
The barman gave Robertson a drink, calmed him down enough for the man to explain what had happened. He described how he’d found a body out in the woods and how the poor bastard swinging from the branch of a long dead tree was his brother, who he hadn’t seen for over thirty years.
The police responded within twenty minutes. Two bobbies out of Cupar — the nearest town with a sizeable station — walked into the pub, their swagger of authority tempered by an air of apprehension. They talked to Robertson briefly and he led them to the body.
As one of the policemen moved to investigate the swinging corpse, the other tried to keep Robertson from passing out. The farmer was on his knees, the harsh rasp of his breathing mutating into a deep hyperventilation. The copper tried to persuade the farmer to breathe easier and make him feel like he had a friend. Robertson wasn’t alone.
Except he was.
“Maybe it’s in the genes, aye?”
“What’s in the genes?”
Robertson looked at me like I was stupid. “Suicide,” he said. “Depression. All that nonsense.”
“You’ve had suicidal tendencies?”
“No, not me!” Agitated, his eyes bugging. “My — our — father.”
“Your father killed himself?”
“Rest his soul.”
“Why?”
His brow rumpled. “I couldn’t tell you for sure.”
There was nothing else to say except, “I’m sorry.”
“Spare me,” he said. “Christ, please, anything but that.”
“What I don’t understand is why you require the services of an investigator.”
“I told you, me and Daniel didn’t talk. Not properly. The occasional letter, but even then… Our father had a heart attack a few years back.”
“But I thought —”
“He survived. Pulled through. Stubborn man, Dad. At least he was… after the attack, it just took everything out of him… Makes you wish the heart attack had been fatal.” Robertson looked on the verge. Ready to jump. The tears waiting to flow.
But it didn’t happen.
Real men — Scots men — don’t cry.
I waited as Robertson composed himself.
Finally: “I always thought that would be how he’d go. A heart attack, I mean. Better than suicide, right? I wrote to Daniel and told him. To let him know. That the old man was all right. Got back a one-line letter.”
“What did it say?”
He hesitated. Then, whispering the words as though afraid of reprisal: “It said, ‘No worse than the old cunt deserves.’”
“How old was your brother when he left?”
“Sixteen. An argument with Dad.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Down to England. London.”
“I still don’t see what…”
“Mr McNee, I don’t know what happened to my brother down there. I don’t even know what he did for a living. I know nothing about him, the man he became. All I know is that he had a forwarding address. A place I could reach him. That, and two months after our dad dies, I find Danny’s corpse swinging from a tree.”
I could have forgiven him the tears earlier.
“You want closure.”
“The police don’t seem to…”
I understood that.
“They’re happy to know how. But they don’t care why.”
“Aye,” said Robertson. “Aye, that’s the problem.”
I sat back in the chair, kept my eyes locked on him. He continued looking down at his belly.
“What I find could be even more upsetting than…”
“Peace of mind,” he said. “That’s what’s important here.” There was finality in the statement. An answer to every objection I could raise.
I laid out my fee structure. He listened, nodded, said, “Of course, Mr McNee,” pulled out a cheque-book from his inside pocket.
I looked out the office window onto Ward Road. The DSS office across the way was a foreboding block of dark concrete that edged onto North Lindsay Street. Robertson walked past the building and down towards the car park at the rear of the new Overgate Shopping Centre, part of Dundee’s recent rejuvenation. Sandstone from the rear, glass and steel from the front. The gently curving structure hooked round the City Churches and St Mary’s Steeple like the protective arm of a mother round the shoulders of a child.
The Centre was a far cry from the decrepit block of 1960’s concrete that had preceded it. The mall was just one sign of a city looking to forget its industrial roots and move forward; part of the new, modern Scotland. Forget the tat that feeds the tourist trade: we’re out on the cutting edge.
Jam, Jute and Journalism — the heritage of the city every child is taught in school — was history. The Overgate and Riverside Developments were in line with Scotland’s new cosmopolitanism. Embracing the modern world. They’d called Dundee the City of Discovery. Not just a reference to Captain Scott’s ship, permanently anchored down by the Riverside. Scientific and medical research had been pumping cash into Dundee since the late nineties. Computer programmers had found their Mecca — Grand Theft Auto was created here. An unexpected financial boon for the city so many Scots had been ready to write off.
Bill, whose official title is administrative assistant, smiled as I walked into reception. “That looked like a man with problems.”
I nodded.
Bill smoothed his hair down with an unnecessary gesture. He took great stock in his appearance, each item of clothing chosen carefully. Never a crease. His hair was held in place by so many products you could have set him alight by flicking a lighter under his nose. But his voice was what defied expectations. It was down in his boots; a gravelly native rumble that could stop a bar brawl.
I took his copy of the previous evening’s Tele off the desk, checked the by-line on the lead story.
Daniel Robertson’s suicide still dominated the local news, but the tone of the article made it clear that the police had come to the end of their inquiries. It had become a non-story. To everyone except the dead man’s brother.
Much of an investigator’s work these days is sedentary. Technology has made it a static job. The bread-and-butter work doesn’t involve much action. You sit at a desk, you check files. You wait for hours in the driver’s seat of a car for just the right moment, your camera ready to capture the evidence.
Sometimes you get out. Photograph accident sites for insurance claims. Talk to people. Try and get information.
But much of that can be done over the phone just as easily as in person.
I started locally.
Called the Fife constabulary media inquiries office.
“How can I help?”
I glanced at the Tele, used the name of the reporter whose name appeared on the Robertson story. “My name’s Cameron Connelly. I’m calling regarding the suicide of Daniel Robertson.” For a moment, I worried the woman on the other end might know Connelly, realise I was pulling a fast one. Relying on the fact they were across the other side of the river. Fife Constabulary wouldn’t deal so much with Dundonian journalists. I was taking a gamble.
Either I was right, or the girl on the other end was new, hadn’t played the getting to know you game with the local hacks. “Haven’t you got anything better to write about?”
I almost sighed with relief.
Instead, I said, “Slow news week.”
“Must be.”
“I heard a rumour today…”
“You should know better…”
“There’s more to this man’s death than the police are telling us.” There always is. The police and the media play an odd game of cat and mouse as reporters fight for more information and the coppers try to hold it back.
The woman on the other end of the line paused. Just a little too long. Then: “It was a suicide. The coroner confirmed it. I don’t know what else you want, Mr Connelly.”
“No evidence of foul play?”
She laughed. “Really scraping the barrel over there, aren’t you?”
“Guess so,” I said. And hung up.
Confirmation of suicide. But they were holding something back. Didn’t want to give it to the press. Check the hesitations and the avoidance strategies.
I didn’t have much. But I had a name. And an address.
Could have been worse.
Daniel Robertson’s mail was forwarded to a nightclub in the heart of Soho. His brother had been writing to the address for years. A quick search gave me the club’s website. Glitzy, expensive, with an overly busy design. It took me a while to find the information I needed.
The Good Son Page 1
