The Good Son

by Russel D. McLean

  “We’re not buddies, no,” said the lad. “I don’t really know much of his business, like. Just the usual pub talk.” He leaned over the bar. “What is this about, huh?”

  “I want to get to know him, you know? Understand him a little better.”

  “You could try talking to him.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  I tapped the side of my nose. “I need to know him without, uh, knowing him.” The lad didn’t even realise I was playing him. Would he have answered these questions from anyone else?

  “He’s not an unfriendly man,” he said. “A bit stand offish, I guess. You know, I’m behind the bar, he’s getting a drink and that’s it. Even if he is in here every night. His wife left him about six years ago.”

  “Before your time,” I said, not even bothering to make it a question.

  “Aye, well,” said the lad. “I’ve only worked here about a year, now.”

  “But you know about the divorce.”

  “Sure. The old hands, they let you know about regulars when you start. They said his wife was one hell of a battleaxe.”

  “So everyone expected him to start chasing after the local talent?”

  That earned me a grin. “Aye, well, you haven’t seen some of the lasses that work here at nights, huh?”

  I raised my eyebrows; I knew what he was talking about.

  “Some people, even the happily married ones, like, they get a little frisky sometimes. Harmless banter, mostly. All the same Mr Robertson, he’s not like that.”

  “He’s not interested?”

  “I guess. Not like he’s, you know, gay or anything, like. Just that it doesn’t matter to him.”

  “He was never frisky. How about aggressive?”

  “Not really in his nature,” said the lad. “I’ve never seen him get excited one way or the other. Most nights, he’ll come in, grab a pint and sit in a corner. If someone talks to him, he’ll talk back a bit, but mostly I think he just wants to be on his own. Enjoy his pint, you know?” His curiosity about my business with Robertson and the death of his brother still wasn’t sated. “Seriously, man, you can tell me what this is all about. I’m the soul of discretion.”

  I drained the pint, paid him and made to leave.

  “You need anything else, come back,” said the lad as I was halfway out the door. “Ask for Ally.”

  It was coming on for half four. The weather had degenerated once more to dull grey and the warmth from earlier had been replaced by a nip that made me dig my hands into my pockets and pull my jacket tight around me. There was the hint of rain in the air. My skin goosepimpled. Thunder threatened for later in the evening.

  My leg muscles felt stiff as I walked out of the car park, crossed the road and followed the edge of the forest. Bird calls echoed in the open air. Occasionally the rumble of traffic tumbled from the main road, which was hidden by a thick line of trees.

  I thought about Kat.

  I should have known. Should have protected her. I heard her on the phone, how she reacted to those other voices. I knew the kind of man Robertson had been, the kind of men she must have known.

  I’d failed her while she was alive. I couldn’t afford to do it again now that she was dead.

  When I had taken the ABI courses after leaving the force, I kept insisting that I was simply moving into another area of law enforcement. A good percentage of investigators, after all, are ex-coppers.

  The course leader had been quick to stress that there were differences between policing and private investigation.

  “Investigators don’t solve crimes. We don’t arrest people. We don’t get involved with murder. We can uncover the truth. We can help prevent crime. Provide security, perhaps. Assist police with their inquiries. Gain evidence on behalf of solicitors or private clients. But our powers don’t extend to police work. Wherever possible we work with law enforcement agencies rather than against them.”

  That last statement was lip service. After all, they didn’t want to work with us, so why should we work with them?

  When Robertson cut me loose, my professional interest in him, his brother and Kat’s murder should have ended.

  I should have banked the cheque. There were other cases, other clients.

  But I realised that I felt a sense of responsibility for what I saw as the fallout from my investigation.

  If I had not made that one phone call, Kat would never have come to Dundee. She might still be alive.

  All I wanted was to rectify my own mistake. Anything I found, I told myself, I’d take to Lindsay. To hell with my personal feelings, I wasn’t equipped to handle something like this.

  Funny thing was, I hadn’t even liked Kat.

  And yet, here I was.

  There was a connection between her death and Daniel’s suicide. I could feel it. Tantalisingly close but just beyond my reach. I had to go back. Examine everything.

  And it all started with a body swinging from a tree.

  I took the path Robertson had walked on the evening he discovered his brother’s corpse. Followed it slowly.

  Walked past the remains of crime scene tape left scattered by the side of the path. Caught up in the undergrowth. An ugly reminder of what had happened here.

  I stepped off the path, pushed past thick branches and leaves.

  In front of me stood the tree where Daniel Robertson’s corpse had been found. A black, ugly mockery of nature that erupted from the earth as though it had clawed its way up from hell, the tree stood there, a dead thing in the centre of the living forest. Leaves carpeted the muddy ground at its base. They cracked and broke beneath my weight.

  I closed my eyes, tried to visualise the body that had swung from the blackened branches.

  The wind picked up.

  The silhouette of Daniel’s corpse appeared and disappeared like a ghost who didn’t want to be seen. Even my mental image of the tree slowly melted away to be replaced by some other scene of horror.

  Painted on the back of my eyelids: Kat on the rug. When they turned her over I saw a face that I thought was becoming familiar again these past few days.

  It wasn’t real, I knew, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept seeing Elaine’s face imposed on that battered, broken body. And her expression was alive with a sadness that took my breath away.

  Chapter 14

  “You want to tell me what this is about?”

  I didn’t quite know how to answer. “I hear you’re on Lindsay’s team.”

  “I’m looking to join CID. Get a promotion to DS.”

  “You’d be good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  I had called Susan that afternoon. We had met at the University Quadrangle. Most of the students were home for the summer. The place was sheltered. Peaceful.

  On four sides, Victorian buildings enclosed us. Plant life grew thick and beautiful, soaking up the sun.

  Her long fringe fell forward and covered her face.

  “This isn’t about catching up. It’s about the dead woman?”

  I thought I might as well be honest. “Aye.”

  “Lindsay went off on one earlier. Told me that he didn’t give a shite if we were still friends. If you started sniffing around, I was to give you a smack in the pus and tell you to go home. That’s a fairly direct quote.”

  “Well?”

  She shook her head. “It’s none of your concern. The suicide. The murder. Any of it.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why?”

  “My client feels terrible about what happened.”

  “We went to see him this afternoon. Just for a chat. All the same, he seemed prepared. Like someone had coached him. That was you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Lindsay’s going to want your head on a platter.”

  “Sure. Like he didn’t already?”

  “You can be a prick, sometimes.”

  “Aye, I get that a lot.”

  “Just leave this al
one.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  Susan looked like she was ready to leave. She turned her head to look at a bed of flowers nearby. Rich and vibrant, reds and yellows.

  She looked back at me.

  “You saw how she died.”

  “Beaten. Slashed. Shot in the head.” I tried to keep my tone professional. Dispassionate. Couldn’t stop my stomach turning or a sweat breaking out beneath my shirt.

  “What does that tell you?”

  “Whoever did it wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

  “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They took their time. Kept her alive as long as possible.” She took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds. “That last thing, the bullet in the face…”

  “Why suspect my client?”

  “Motive. Opportunity.”

  “But no means.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  Susan started cracking the knuckles on her left hand. “The only gun on the property was a licensed shotgun. For shooting grouse. He takes the proper precautions.”

  “A shotgun didn’t kill her.”

  “No. That’s the unanswered question if your client is responsible… where did he get the gun that did kill her?”

  “Her murder was professional.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Instinct. Something about the way the body was left out in the open. Like whoever killed her wanted us to find the corpse.”

  “Aye, that’s it. All we have on Robertson is motive, but… it’s enough to make you stop and think.”

  “You know as well as I do…”

  “I’m not saying he’s guilty, Steed. Pretty much crossed off the list, in fact. He acts guilty, you know, but even the DI doesn’t think he’s a murderer…”

  “Then who…?”

  She seemed to have to gather up the nerve to ask, “Do you know who she is?”

  “I don’t know much except her name… Kat…”

  “Short for Katrina, Steed. Her maiden name was Campbell. But she took the name of her husband. Gordon Egg. ”

  I thought: fuck. Said: “She told me she was Daniel’s girlfriend.” Came to the logical conclusion. “They were fucking behind Egg’s back?”

  “Aye, right enough. That’s a subtle way with words you have. I’m surprised Lindsay didn’t say anything.”

  “Maybe it slipped his mind.”

  Or maybe he thought that would have only encouraged me.

  “Maybe it did. But you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “Loud and clear.” This was too big for me to get involved. Something Lindsay had tried to tell me earlier.

  “Wish it was that simple,” she said. When I asked what she meant, she added, “Believing you.”

  This was the first time we’d talked properly in months, and here I was using her as a resource. Not a friend. Acting as though all I cared about was what she could tell me. No wonder she’d looked ready to walk away.

  So I had to ask myself what it was that had made her stay.

  I couldn’t answer.

  As the sun shifted across the sky, the shadows in the quadrangle fell to new angles. The shadow that was above us had moved slowly, and now the sun shone on Susan’s face and she half-closed her eyes so that it wouldn’t blind her.

  I thought about her face in the moonlight that came through the slats of blinds. About the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin.

  “So who killed her? Not the man himself.”

  “Like we could get it back to him through anything other than supposition.” She seemed to think about it, then shook her head. “We just don’t know.”

  “You must have an idea.”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Locally, he had ties to Martin Kennedy and his boys in the eighties. But Kennedy Sr’s dead.”

  “And his last remaining son is in prison.”

  “So that leaves…”

  “Aye, David Burns.”

  “Jesus fuck.”

  “I’ve never met him. I’ve heard Lindsay talk about him.”

  “I was at his house once.”

  David Burns. Entrepreneur. In both the legal and illegal senses. An old school hard bastard who made sure the shite never stuck long enough to get him locked up.

  “His wife spat in my face. Not for any other reason than I was the first copper she saw.”

  Susan said, “The thing is… Burns has been playing up his public image recently. The organised crime days are long gone, so he claims. He’s legit. Far as a man like him can get. And why would he go around fouling on his own doorstep?”

  “Why, indeed.”

  “Do you understand, Steed, the reasons I’m asking you to back off?”

  I understood. Didn’t mean I cared for it. Call me stubborn. Susan was probably thinking about calling me much worse.

  “How about this? I back off. You keep me up to speed.”

  I stood up. “The way things are between us, now, I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  Chapter 15

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Lying on top of the bed covers, I turned on the bedside light and watched a spider crawl across the ceiling. A big fellow with a fat body and long legs.

  How did he get inside the flat. Where did he live? Where did he think he was going? What was he thinking every time he paused on his journey?

  Was he taking stock of his surroundings? Figuring out a plan? Or merely drawing breath?

  But he wasn’t thinking. He was acting on instinct.

  He was thinking after a fashion, of course. But not overdoing it. Not intellectualising or trivialising the reality of his situation.

  Realising that made me jealous.

  I closed my eyes, tried to empty my mind.

  But I kept churning over scenarios and possibilities, still obsessed with a case I should have left behind the moment Robertson scrawled his angry signature on the cheque.

  I’d spent seven years on the force. Not a lifetime, but long enough to know when I was being lied to. And when someone was telling me the truth. Susan knew it, too. And Lindsay.

  James Robertson hadn’t killed Katrina Egg. He’d thought about it, I was sure. But he hadn’t done it.

  But if not him, then who?

  The attack had been bloody and violent. Malicious. No hesitation. No doubt. It was planned.

  Like Susan said: professional.

  And yet, enough ferocity that it still felt… personal.

  I couldn’t leave it alone. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would have backed away long before now, but I had this urge to keep pressing forward. I’d told Susan to keep me updated. Saying, if she did that then I’d leave it alone.

  Even that compromise left me itching.

  I didn’t have all the answers my ex-client had asked for.

  Daniel had been on the run. Why else would he come back? Not because of lingering guilt. Certainly not because of any family connections. Look at the reaction to his father’s heart attack.

  It had been panic. He had nowhere else to turn.

  I remembered the voice of the man at the club. His tone had darkened when I mentioned Daniel.

  Danny-boy, what did you do?

  Was it really something as simple as sleeping with the boss’s wife?

  But then, she hadn’t seemed nervous when she stood in my office. Not in that way. Concerned, perhaps, for Daniel, worried about what he’d done. But surely she would have been as scared of her husband as anyone else. She would have known he was capable of killing her.

  I felt like I was close to some revelation, but couldn’t quite clear that final hurdle. I tried to sleep, thinking my mind could sort itself out on its own. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t get still. Couldn’t stop thinking.

  Everything came back to what Daniel Robertson had done. The thing that got him fired from the club had been what killed him. What fucked up
his brother’s life. What killed Kat, the woman who had claimed she loved him.

  There were answers to all my questions. But I feared they were in the grave.

  Chapter 16

  At eight o’clock, I awoke to hear my mobile ringing on the bedside table through in the other room. Rolling off the sofa and struggling to my feet, I found I’d fallen asleep the wrong way. My muscles were stiff. The only movements I could coax from them were tentative and uncertain.

  Nevertheless, I limped through to the bedroom and took the call.

  “I want to talk to you,” Robertson said.

  “About the report?”

  “Face to face. I think I know who killed that woman.”

  “You should call the police,” I said, deferring to common sense. “Talk to DI Lindsay. He’ll be able to —”

  “I can’t… I… Christ, McNee, I don’t know if I can talk to the police.” He sounded ready to break down in tears. Maybe he already had.

  I took a deep breath, thought about what had happened to Kat. The fear in Robertson’s voice was transparent. I said, “Okay, we’ll talk,” and named a café where we could meet.

  He hung up without saying goodbye.

  I wasn’t going back on my word if I talked to him. At the very least I could tell him what Susan had told me. His problems couldn’t be solved by private parties. The police weren’t out to crucify him, they were out to find the truth.

  And I could do nothing else to help him.

  My part was over. I wasn’t going to get involved.

  And I wondered if, like me, he’d find my resolution hollow.

  The Washington Café on Union Street was small, with green, vinyl-covered pews and plastic tables. It shouldn’t have survived past 1950 and as such felt homely and welcoming. Like a time capsule. It was comforting to think that among all the changes that had occurred in the city centre, some places just kept on going.

  Robertson had slipped behind a table at the rear. I ordered a black coffee for myself. The wee woman behind the till told me she’d bring it over.

  I sat opposite Robertson, who sipped from a mug of milky-white tea. His eyes were supported by bags. I knew how he felt.

  His hands shook, in danger of letting his cup slip from between his fingers. I could smell the whisky on his breath.