04-Mothers of the Disappeared

by Russel D. McLean

  Made sense.

  And it made sense that the SCDEA would look into me. Burns and I had a long, complex history, but it was clear that he had a strange fascination with me. More than once he’d asked me to work for him. He’d told me to my face how we were the same, his tone like a father who just found his long-lost son.

  I wondered how far up in the agency Griggs had to go to sanction his scheme. How long had it taken him to realize that I was the man for his job? Maybe he’d been looking at me for a long time, just waiting until I was close enough to desperate that he could approach me. Or it’s just possible I was his last hope; a final, desperate throw of the dice.

  Either way, getting close to Burns was the last thing I wanted to do. I was finally putting my life back together. And even with Susan gone, the idea that she would come back kept me going. Susan had stuck by me through all the bad shite, and while she needed her own space for now, I thought that we might be good for each other.

  That maybe the timing was right.

  If I went along with Griggs’s scheme, it would be a step backwards. I was not the same man I had been when I killed a London thug in the midst of a thunderstorm. I was not the same man I had been when I lied to the police about my involvement with David Burns.

  I was someone better. Someone stronger.

  And I didn’t want to go back.

  Griggs was staying at the Apex Hotel, down near the old docks.

  It’s an odd-looking building, just across from the Quayside shopping complex. The Quayside is one of those developments that never quite took off. It was meant to be a new shopping hub, but the shops were never too popular, and the only business that seemed to thrive was the Chinese Buffet. A few contenders had moved there in recent years including a pizza franchise and an Indian restaurant, but something about the whole place had the sad air of a potential that was never realized.

  The Apex Hotel overlooks both the old docks and the shopping complex. Whoever had the bright idea of putting wood panels on the upper levels never really thought through what the strong winds and proximity to the Tay would do. The wood hasn’t aged well, and the structure still looks temporary. But inside, it’s a small slice of luxury.

  I stood outside one of the rooms on the upper floor, and knocked. Hard.

  When the door opened, Griggs said, ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘I’m a detective. You didn’t make it difficult.’

  He nodded. Stood aside to let me in.

  The room was a suite, the bed cordoned off from the rest of the room, the main living area all hardwood floors and elegant furniture. He grabbed a long-backed chair. I sat on the sofa. Kept my body language loose, showing him I wasn’t afraid.

  He smiled.

  ‘You worked it out, then?’

  ‘I don’t remember you being this underhanded. They give you courses at the agency?’

  ‘Times change. People change.’

  I let that one hang in the air.

  ‘What happens if I don’t agree to your proposal?’

  He stood up, went to the mini-bar. Grabbed a couple of beers, lifted one in the air and waggled it in my direction. When I didn’t respond, he tossed the bottle. I caught it easy, unscrewed the top.

  He drank standing next to the bar.

  I waited.

  He said, ‘There’s no one left on your side. Any allies you had were lost during that incident last year.’

  Incident.

  He was talking about when I exposed the deputy chief constable, Kevin Wood, as a drug-dealing arsehole. The force was still reeling. He’d been one bad apple, but everyone felt the repercussions from his actions. More than that, everyone was at a loss to explain how he had risen so far up the ranks.

  Some folk wondered if I had doctored the evidence. Those people were looking for any excuse to take me down. That was where I initially assumed the heat came from. Now I knew better, of course.

  Looking at Griggs, I wondered whether he’d been the one to tip off Cameron Connelly. The two had history. Griggs had been there when Connelly lost the use of his legs.

  ‘And if I agree?’

  ‘Then it goes away. When you’re done.’

  ‘When I’m done?’

  ‘We need you on Burns’s good side. He needs to believe that you have abandoned your principles. That you’re bitter and angry enough to finally accept what he has to offer.’

  ‘I’ve seen The Departed,’ I said. ‘I know how this ends.’

  Griggs laughed.

  I didn’t.

  ‘You want to take him down the same as me,’ Griggs said. ‘Maybe more so.’

  ‘I’m not a copper any more. I don’t want to join the SCDEA. I just want to live my life.’

  ‘It’s a pity you’re not an alcoholic,’ he said. ‘That would help with the cover.’

  ‘Or turn me into a crying, walking, talking living cliché.’

  ‘To misquote Cliff.’

  ‘If I accept your offer,’ I said, ‘there’s going to be impact on my business. My life. Even if you clear me of any wrongdoing, when this is over there will still be people who can’t forget the things I would have to do working for that fucker.’

  ‘Think on it,’ Griggs said. ‘I’m not a complete bastard. There’s a handsome retainer. Enough to cover any loss of expenses.’

  He was a cold bastard.

  Had he always been like this?

  Or was it just for my benefit?

  Back when I knew him, I’d been a uniform. More, I’d been green. Still learning the ropes. He’d been a legend on the force; the man who’d seen some of the worst shite that the world could throw at a copper. He’d been investigated by Discipline and Complaints at least once regarding his methodology. And yet he came through it all smelling of roses.

  The man I remembered was decent. Honourable, even.

  Had that all been a cover?

  Or worse, had I been too blinded by the legend to see the man?

  I swigged back the beer, then stood up. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m going to pass.’

  ‘Let the dice fall as they may?’

  ‘You should get out more,’ I said. ‘Stop reading books and watching TV. Maybe make you better at persuasion.’

  He didn’t stop me leaving, but I have a feeling now that he already knew what was going to happen. And I wonder if he even felt the tiniest moment of regret or human conscience.

  Downstairs, in the lobby, two guys in jeans and white shirts got up from a leather sofa and walked over to me as I exited the lift. I clocked the way they walked – faux-cowboy gait that looked like a bad case of rickets – and knew where they’d come from.

  ‘Mr McNee?’

  No point in pissing about: ‘He knows I don’t want to talk to him.’

  The bigger of the two – he had a baby-like face that might have been jolly if it wasn’t pitted with the marks of the teenage-acne veteran – blinked a couple of times. Trying to figure how I knew who they were.

  His companion was smaller, thinner, with a lip that constantly curled upwards in a poor attempt at a sneer. Thought he looked badass. Looked more like he had a bad cold sore inside his upper lip. He didn’t care whether I knew who they were or how. Just said, ‘When he wants to see you, pal, you go and see him. What you want doesn’t bloody well enter into it.’

  I could have laid them both out. Over the last few years, I’d been in my share of fights, and these two weren’t in the best of shape.

  But we were in a public place.

  And I was realizing that I’d just been played by Griggs. What I wanted from life really didn’t matter any more.

  I was a pawn.

  But I still wasn’t sure quite whose side of the board I was on.

  FIVE

  I followed them out to the east of the city. Not that I needed directions. I knew where we were going. The last place I wanted to be.

  Burns’s house was ex-council, but he’d expanded it so that the house stuck out from those around it, mad
e you realize that here lived a man who loved his neighbourhood, but had risen above his neighbours.

  Police statistics claimed that Burns’s street was one of the most crime-free in the city. Officially, this was just a statistical anomaly, or perhaps even proof that the local force were doing their job pretty damn well. The unofficial reason, and the one that made far more sense, was that no one in their right mind wanted to cross the old man or his family. A few years ago, some kids with grand ambition and little sense tried dealing drugs around the corner from the Burns family home. The schmucks had died hurting, their assailants never caught, their stash stuffed into broken, dead jaws.

  I parked outside, just behind the car I’d followed, took a deep breath before getting out. The old man sat in a lawn chair outside his front door, sipping a beer. Waved it at me as I opened his front gate and walked up to him.

  ‘Fair weather,’ he said. ‘We should enjoy it while it lasts.’

  ‘Scottish summer,’ I said. ‘Ten minutes of sunshine a year.’

  ‘We’d complain if it was too hot,’ he said. ‘But you know, this isn’t about the weather, son.’ He sipped at his beer. Closed his eyes and let loose a long sigh. The way he sat, you’d think he was just another pensioner enjoying his retirement. Here, close to his family, he was just another old man enjoying the later years. You’d never imagine this was the same man who, in his youth, had nailed a priest who owed him money to a cross inside his own church. You’d never imagine that this serene old man had ordered the deaths of people he’d never even met, had spilt blood with his own hands.

  I waited for his pitch. It was coming sooner or later. Always did, with Burns. He’d been obsessed with me for years. Claiming he saw something of himself in me. Perhaps because his own son had turned out so different from him. He was looking for a replacement. Decided I would be the best candidate.

  First time anyone ever thought that about me. And it had to be the meanest old bastard I’d ever met.

  Burns opened his eyes to look at me. ‘What did Griggs want? A recruitment drive?’

  ‘He has it in for you,’ I said. ‘Something personal?’

  ‘Old business,’ said Burns. ‘Men like Griggs have long memories. So, are we to see you decamping to the west coast? Off to join the good fight with the men and women of the SCDEA?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You’d be missed,’ he said. ‘By some folks.’ Adding that last bit like an afterthought, making sure I knew he wouldn’t get too sentimental.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Friendly warning. That’s all,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t trust Griggs as far as you could punt him. He’s not above pulling out dirty tricks if the mood takes him.’

  ‘I worked with him for a few years,’ I said. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ said Burns. ‘Was. People change.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that today.’

  He sipped at his beer. ‘I’ve always respected you, but sometimes you can be a real pain in the arse, McNee. Anyone else, I’d know their price. What they wanted. What they desired. But you, I don’t know you as well as I used to think I did.’

  ‘I’m full of surprises.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ He smiled. ‘But know this: I’ve let you run around free for the past few years. Even as you called me names and slapped my hand away when I only offered friendship. But if you even think about working with a shitebag like Griggs, then it’s over. No more Mr Nice Guy. You and me, we should have been friends, McNee.’

  It was the same old pitch, with a whole new angle. The tone was no longer paternal. It was aggressive, adversarial. Griggs had the old man worried. Which told me that the detective was a serious man. That his offer to me had been serious. If he had done enough already to rattle Burns, then he had to have an end game in mind.

  And he also had to know that Burns would be watching me.

  How much did the old man know about what the fair-haired copper had offered me? Did he know about the undercover operation?

  They were stuck in their own cold war, Griggs and Burns, both aware of what the other was up to, but afraid to make a move in case they showed their hand.

  ‘If that’s it, then,’ I said and turned to leave, thinking about asking him for money for wasted petrol.

  But I didn’t.

  And he didn’t have any last moment words of parting advice.

  Burns always liked to have the last word. His silence was more threatening than anything he could have said.

  SIX

  When I got back to work, a woman was waiting for me. She sat patiently in reception, hands placed lightly on her lap, back straight, eyes staring at something no one else could see. Dot was over at her computer, not working too hard to disguise her discomfort.

  ‘I told Mrs Farnham that you would call her to arrange an appointment, but she insisted on waiting.’

  The name sounded familiar. I tried to figure if I knew her face. She was dressed in dark colours, and the way she sat made me think of a woman in mourning. Her lipstick was dark red against pale skin and her hair was close to black, although the lines in her face and the skin on her neck gave her age away. Her earrings were heavy but not ostentatious. She could have stepped out of the 1950s with her fashion sense.

  We’d met before. But I couldn’t place her.

  Memories were bubbling somewhere in my mind. But they weren’t breaking the surface.

  She stood. Didn’t offer a hand. Maybe she expected me to recognize her. But there was no expression on her face for me to read. I sensed a sadness in her, but it wasn’t recent. It was old, had become a part of her. ‘I just need five minutes of your time.’

  I ushered her into my office and shut the door. Offered her a seat and a drink. She took the seat. Same straight-backed pose as outside in reception.

  I perched on the edge of the desk. Informal. ‘Before we even begin, I should tell you that I am currently on suspension from the Association of British Investigators.’

  ‘Suspension?’

  ‘There have been allegations made against this company. I am legally obliged to—’

  ‘Are they true?’

  ‘No.’ The word slipped out. I hadn’t known how I’d respond to the question.

  She nodded. ‘Then I’m fine with that.’

  I must have looked confused. She said, ‘You have a good face, Mr McNee. A little sad, maybe, but good. It’s not scientific, really, but I have found you can tell a lot about a person by their face. Besides, I know you. I remember you. You were a kind man.’

  The bubbles in my brain broke the surface. Memories took on recognizable shapes. I remembered her name. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t … it’s been a long time. You’re Elizabeth Farnham?’

  Her head bowed.

  I stood up. An automatic reflex. A strange kind of attempt to show respect for the bereaved.

  It had been almost six years, now.

  So much had happened since I last saw her.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  She licked her lips, as though suddenly dehydrated. She could no longer look me in the eyes.

  She said, ‘You can find my son’s killer. You can clear Alex Moorehead’s name.’

  I wished I’d kept the beer that Griggs had given me earlier. Or asked for something stronger.

  Justin Farnham had been ten years old when he disappeared.

  He lived with his mother – his father, her husband, had left six years previously with a blonde ten years his junior – in a small village a few miles outside the city. The village was tight-knit, and if it had been the 1950s and not the 2000s, everyone would have kept their doors unlocked at all times, wandered freely in and out of each other’s houses with a cheery ‘good morning’.

  Elizabeth Farnham had been frantic with worry. She’d told her son to come back at a certain time, but he never did.

  She told the police he’d been out playing with some friends in the fields. T
hey liked to play among the farmer’s bales, jumping from one to the other, hiding in the nooks and crannies, playing acrobatic games of tig. Once or twice, they hurt themselves. One of the kids had cracked a collar bone after mistiming a jump. But that was just the way things were; kids played and sometimes they hurt themselves. No parent can protect their child for ever.

  But Elizabeth always told her son that he had to stay with other kids, that he couldn’t go off on his own or with a stranger. He’d always been sensible, but when Mrs Farnham rang some of the other parents, she found their kids had been home on time.

  Only Justin was missing.

  Three hours later, she called the police. We responded quickly. A missing child is every parent’s and copper’s worst nightmare. Logistically and emotionally.

  The search brought out everyone in the local community. Elizabeth Farnham’s direct neighbour – a freelance IT technician called Alex Moorehead – spearheaded much of the local effort. He was a relatively young man, well liked by everyone in the village, although he was regarded as something of an oddball. No one ever knew him to have a girlfriend or any other kind of significant other. It wasn’t the kind of village where accusations of homosexuality would result in ostracism, and the generally perceived belief was that Alex simply didn’t have an interest in sex with anyone.

  The cops took to him like a hunting dog who’d tasted blood.

  I say the cops, I mean Ernie Bright.

  He got the scent fast.

  I remember seeing it in his eyes, first time he met Moorehead.

  I was there to observe only; part of Ernie’s plan to groom me for CID.

  Moorehead fitted the stereotypical profile.

  Single.

  No reported sexual preference.

  Computer geek.

  Regarded as pleasant enough but no one knew him.

  Occam’s razor?

  Maybe.

  But it was more than just snapshot profiling. Ernie sensed something about Moorehead; an uneasiness that set him apart from the crowd. If he wasn’t directly responsible, then he knew something.

  It was Moorehead who found the body. He was leading a search party out in the woods near the field where the kids had been playing. At the head of the pack, sweeping slowly with a long stick to move aside the grass and plantlife. When he found the body, he was reported to be out of view of the rest of the party, yelling back, ‘Over here! I’ve found … Oh God, I think it’s him! It’s Justin!’