The Good Son

by Russel D. McLean

  It’s an escape tactic that has worked well for the McNees. Certainly for my father, who distracted himself with work rather than face any real emotional issues. It was a side of him that my mother had simply accepted.

  There was something of my father in my features. Just a touch.

  I wondered what I would look like if I ever stopped moving long enough to truly consider what Elaine’s death had meant to me.

  Remembered how my father looked before the end.

  Was that what awaited me?

  I smoothed out my hair with my hands and looked closely at myself in the mirror. Somewhere close to human.

  I moved through to my office, powered up the computer. Browsed my emails.

  Distractions.

  At half past one, Bill rang through from the front office.

  “There’s—” he paused —“a woman to see you.”

  I swallowed the last of my pie, told Bill to send her through.

  She tottered into my office, looked around and sniffed, unimpressed. “I’ve come a long way to see you,” she said. Cockney trying to sound educated. Low pitch. Familiar.

  “I understand,” I said. “Can I get you a drink, Ms…?”

  “Kat’ll do just now,” she said. She didn’t answer my other inquiry.

  But I knew who she was; recognised the voice. The woman who had called from Egg’s club. She looked the part, too: heavy makeup. Perm. Fur coat. I’d guessed her age about right. Looked like she was trying to forget it.

  “You came all the way from London?”

  “Yeah.” Her green eyes dared me to make something of it. “Overnight. Soon as I could make it.”

  “You knew Daniel?”

  “I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t —” She stopped herself, bowed her head. “We were close.” She played with her hair. Self-conscious.

  “Did you know he was heading north?”

  “No one knew where he’d gone.”

  “No one thought he’d come home?”

  “His family,” she said. “They hated him.” Pronouncing her ‘h’s with deliberation. “He didn’t think much of them, neither.” She rubbed the material of her jacket between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

  “Sure.” Digesting what she had to say, watching her reaction. “How did you meet?”

  Did I really want to know, or was I just delaying telling her about Daniel’s suicide?

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Why’d you call the club?”

  “Part of an investigation.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Fucking tell me why you called the club.” Trying to act tough, but she looked scared. She wouldn’t have made the journey if she didn’t think something had happened to Daniel.

  I thought about the last phone call she’d made. The sound of other voices. The panic when she cleared the line.

  She knew Daniel. And the people he worked for.

  Over the line, she’d sounded scared. In person, she hid it well. But not well enough.

  “I didn’t come all the way up to this fucking armpit of an excuse for civilisation to be arsed about by a fucking cunt like you!” Even her anger seemed half-hearted. And I saw it in her eyes; she already knew. She’d guessed. Or she just felt it, somehow.

  “Kat,” I said. “Daniel’s dead.”

  I could have stabbed her instead. It would have been more merciful.

  She let go of her coat. Her mouth slackened. Her petite shoulders jerked up and down. Once. Twice.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. At least the third time in the last two days…

  She bowed her head. A noise escaped her lips. Hesitant. High-pitched and keening.

  I kept my distance, wanting to reach out. But I didn’t.

  Would she even want me to?

  She had been standing all this time. I hadn’t even thought to offer her a seat, but now she slumped into the chair on the far side of the desk, hid her face from me with her hands.

  Finally, she stopped crying, looked up and said, “They catch who done it?”

  I hesitated.

  “They even know who done it?”

  Not even questioning whether his death was accidental or from natural causes. “Yes,” I said. “They know.”

  “Tell me who.”

  I told her.

  She was on her feet fast, slapping me across the face. “Fuck you,” she said. “He’d never do that.” She slapped me again. “Fuck you.”

  I took it. Each blow stung, but I refused to react. Absorbing her anger and pain. A human punching bag.

  When she was finished, her green eyes locked onto mine. But the challenge there was non-committal, and she looked away and down at her feet.

  “His brother found him,” I said. “Not the kind of reunion anyone would welcome. He came to me, asked for my help.”

  “What could you do?”

  “Find out who his brother had become. Tell him what had happened to Daniel in the three decades since they last spoke.”

  “Daniel wrote him all the time.”

  “You ever read the letters?”

  “No. They were private.”

  “Sure. But it wouldn’t have mattered if you did. He told his brother nothing. Two or three lines. A little less than you get on a postcard.”

  “They weren’t a close family.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. From Daniel’s point of view, I guess they weren’t. But Robertson talked like family was all that had ever really mattered to him.

  “Maybe not, but Daniel’s suicide would have opened up a lot of old wounds.”

  “I get that,” she said. She moved to a chair, sat down. “The coppers just ignored it?”

  “It was a suicide,” I said. “Nothing suspicious. Just the question of why. Not something they seem too interested in answering.”

  “Just another body.”

  I hadn’t seen the pictures, but in my mind I could see Daniel Robertson with his eyes wide, his mouth open as though he were screaming.

  “It’s the way they have to look at it,” I said.

  “Funny thing,” she said. “I met you on the street, I’d take you for a copper.”

  “I used to be one.”

  “Oh?”

  “I walked out.”

  “You walked or they pushed you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “If you just walked, then you’re a fuckin’ wimp.” She smiled, then, and said, “That was rude, Mr McNee. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

  “I understand.” But I wanted to tell her I had my reasons.

  “You said his brother was the one what found him? You think maybe I could talk to him?”

  “If you give me a contact number I’ll have him call you.”

  “Leave it to his discretion?”

  “Something like that.”

  I passed her a pen and a piece of paper. She wrote down a mobile number. Her script was deliberate, the numbers large and bold. “I’ll be in town a little while. I guess I need to do my grieving is all.”

  “If you need anything…”

  She pulled a hankie from her handbag and dabbed delicately at her eyes. The white tissue came away smudged with the black of her mascara.

  Chapter 5

  “She knew my brother?”

  “Aye.” I was walking west along Ward Road. Holding the phone tight against my ear as I strained to hear Robertson’s voice. “Says she did, anyway.”

  “Christ,” he said. “A wife?”

  “Girlfriend,” I said. Except she wasn’t much of a girl any more. Fake fur and thick makeup hiding the mature woman underneath. It should have been repulsive. Instead, I felt sorry for her.

  “How long…?”

  “She didn’t tell me much. Insisted she’d only speak to you. I told her I couldn’t make that decision on your behalf.”

  Silence on the o
ther end of the line, except for the sound of his breathing.

  “If you want my opinion,” I said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Give me some time to feel around. I can find out if she’s genuine.”

  “Why would she lie about knowing Daniel?”

  “I don’t know.” A half truth, but I didn’t want to burden him with details of his brother’s life over a phone line. A cold way to conduct such personal business.

  “Has she given you any reason not to trust her?”

  “She hasn’t given me a reason to trust her.”

  “Give me the number.”

  I stressed again that I didn’t think this was a good idea. “Mr Robertson, the facts of your brother’s life are… unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant?” I could picture his already red face turning a deeper shade of scarlet, the fat of his forehead crinkling around his little eyes.

  “I hoped we might discuss this in person.”

  “This woman — his girlfriend, bidey-in or whatever she is — she’s the last link to my brother. If anyone can tell me who he was, then it’s her.”

  He was right. She was tangible. Our last link to Daniel Robertson.

  “At least let me have another talk with her… I can—”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then I should be present, at least—”

  “I don’t think so. This is something I have to do for myself.”

  There was no talking him out of it.

  By the time I walked up the two flights to my office, I’d reluctantly given Robertson Kat’s number and ended the call. He was my client. I wanted to serve his best interests, but it was hard when he failed to appreciate my efforts.

  He didn’t really want an investigator. He wanted someone who would reassure him that his brother’s life had been peaches and cream and what happened out in the woods was an aberration, perhaps even some perversely heroic gesture.

  That was why he wanted to talk to this woman. Maybe she would colour the story just right. Make everything seem perfect. Make Daniel’s life more palatable.

  Maybe she would lie.

  Bill updated me on admin. He mentioned that he would be leaving early. It was his boyfriend’s birthday and he’d booked an early meal at a restaurant on Brook Street.

  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. “Gi
ven 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?”

  Chapter 6