There was a dog, but it was no mastiff or Rottweiler. It was a West Highland terrier with hair so white it gleamed and it scuttled towards Rebecca from a basket beside the radiator under the window as soon as she entered. The stubby little tail wagged like a royal wave in hyper drive and the dog snuffled round Rebecca’s feet, then raised itself on its hind legs to meet her hand.
‘Midge,’ said Mo, ‘back in your bed.’
The words were commanding but kindly and the little dog obediently trotted back to his basket, the tail still wagging. He whirled on the cushion and lay down, but his head remained erect as he watched Rebecca for any sign of a pat going spare.
Mo gave him a stage glare. ‘He’s all about the attention, that wee dog. Typical man.’
‘He’s lovely,’ said Rebecca.
‘Aye, he’s a good boy. Sometimes he’s the only male I can depend on around here.’
Rebecca caught Scott pulling a face, as if he was used to hearing such sentiments from his mother. There was warmth in Mo’s voice, though.
‘Take your coat off, hen, sit yourself down,’ said Mo. ‘You want something to drink? Tea, coffee? Scotty, go put the kettle on.’
As she peeled her coat off, Rebecca’s first instinct was to decline but she welcomed the chance to speak to Mo Burke alone. She didn’t like the way Scott continued to look at her, as if he was wondering how much she cost and whether he had enough in his pocket.
‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she said as she sank onto and into the settee. Getting up again was going to be undignified, she realised.
Without a word, Scott headed to a door in the far corner, which Rebecca presumed led to the kitchen. If being treated like a butler bothered him, he didn’t show it. He was probably used to it and Mo did not strike Rebecca as the kind of woman to whom you said no.
‘And put out the good cups,’ Mo shouted as her son vanished through the doorway. ‘Don’t use they bloody mugs. They’re boggin’.’
She listened for a moment as her son opened cupboard doors until she was satisfied her instructions were being carried out. Only then did she settle back in the recliner. She didn’t flick the lever to raise the foot rest – this was business and she obviously needed to be alert. She watched closely while Rebecca took out her notebook and then a digital recorder.
‘No recordings,’ said Mo. Her voice was flat, and it told Rebecca that there was no room for argument here. ‘You people can edit they things to make us say whatever you want.’
Rebecca didn’t protest and returned the recorder to her coat pocket. Her father’s words, as usual, sprang to her mind. There’s nobody more paranoid than a crook, he’d said, except maybe a cop.
‘Are you happy with me taking notes?’ she asked.
‘Aye, as long as you report what I say exactly.’
Rebecca fought the need to point out that the recording would ensure that. Mo Burke had survived by being strong-willed and careful to the point of obsession.
They think differently from us, Becks. Her father’s voice, back in her mind, where he lived. Suspicion is a way of life for the dealers and those in the life. That’s how they live. That’s how they stay living. We call it paranoia, they call it self-preservation.
Rebecca heard footsteps on the stairs and Nolan Burke appeared from the hallway, a copy of The Guardian in his hand. The day was full of surprises, Rebecca thought. The Guardian, no less. If she had thought the Burke boys could read at all, she might’ve expected a red top. But The Guardian? Who knew Nolan Burke was a liberal. She wondered if he drank green tea and ate quorn nuggets.
Then she caught herself. Maybe she was being just a tiny bit judgemental once again. The same as those who thought the Ferry was a hotbed of crime and sin.
Rebecca saw Nolan flash his mother an enquiring look.
‘This is the lassie from the Chronicle,’ Mo explained. ‘She wants to talk about this morning.’
Nolan said nothing as he settled himself in the armchair, the newspaper resting on his lap. His gaze was not quite so disconcerting as his brother’s and he did not sport Scott’s unpleasant little smile but, when Rebecca turned to face Mo again, she still felt his eyes on her, just as she had earlier in the day, outside the council building.
Mo turned her attention back to Rebecca. ‘So, what’s your name again?’
‘Rebecca Connolly.’
Mo nodded once. ‘So, Rebecca Connolly, what do you want to know?’
Flipping open her notebook with pen in hand, Rebecca said, ‘What made you want to start this campaign, Mrs Burke?’
A flicker of a smile. ‘That’s what you want to know? Jesus, hen, I’d think that’s bloody obvious, wouldn’t you? We can’t have convicted paedos in our streets, simple as that. There’s kiddies around here and putting one of they guys in here would be like giving the keys of the henhouse door to the fox. Know what I mean?’
‘But isn’t it the case that a council spokesman insisted they had no plan to—’
‘They only lie when they speak, that lot.’ Mo’s face crinkled as she showed her contempt. ‘I know they plan to lodge a perv in the scheme. I know it for a fact.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Mo paused, tilted her head. ‘Believe me, Rebecca Connolly, I know. You reporters is no the only ones who have sources. I’ve got my people, is all I need to say.’
Rebecca was desperate to learn more. Council sources? Police? Social services? The inference was someone, somewhere, was talking and she could well believe Mo had an informant in the system, perhaps more than one. Along with a well-developed sense of paranoia, families like the Burkes survived on their well-structured support systems. But she had learned enough about the woman to know that she wouldn’t tell her who it was.
Rebecca glanced at her notes. ‘So you’ve raised the petition, you’ve confronted councillors at their surgeries, you’ve had the demo this morning. Did you expect Finbar Dalgliesh to attend, by the way?’
Again that flash of irritation. If Scott had been present, Rebecca had no doubt he would be receiving another glare. ‘No, that was a surprise.’
‘A welcome one?’
Mo considered her answer, then said, ‘He helped get the point across. I’m grateful for that.’
‘And will he be part of the campaign from now on?’
‘He’s promised to take our concerns to them in the council and the Scottish government.’
‘Do you think he can help?’
‘He can get to places we can’t, speak to folk who’re off limits to the likes of us.’
‘So you’re happy to have him and Spioraid involved?’
‘If it can stop them moving some deviant bastard into our streets, then aye, I’m happy.’
‘How did he become involved?’
Rebecca did not expect Mo to lay it on her son, but she asked the question anyway.
‘We’ve no exactly been quiet, hen,’ Mo replied, with barely a pause. ‘He just heard about it, wanted to show his support, that’s all.’
Rebecca noted her words, then asked, ‘So, what next?’
‘We keep going, that’s what’s next. We’re not letting this go. They try to move just one perv in here and we let them get away with it, then they’ll move more in here. Thin end of the wedge, isn’t it? And we’re not having it.’
‘Do you rule out any further demonstrations? Perhaps alongside Spioraid activists?’
That smile flickered once more. ‘I don’t rule nothing out, Rebecca Connolly.’
‘And if the council go ahead anyway?’
Scott came back in carrying a tray with delicate floral cups and saucers and a packet of chocolate digestives. ‘We stop them,’ he said, laying the tray on the coffee table.
Mo’s gaze flicked over the tray. ‘You couldn’t put the biscuits on a plate?’ Those eyes rolled in Rebecca’s direction. ‘Men.’
Rebecca couldn’t hide a grin. Mothers are the same wherever they are. Whether it was her mum back in Milngavie or Mo
Burke here in Inverness, putting the biscuits out in the packet is fine for family but company must always have them arranged on a plate.
She thought she detected another edge to Mo’s voice and the look she gave her son confirmed it. Scott had spoken out of turn when he had answered her question. Rebecca, though, had to press the point. It was her job.
‘Stop them how?’
Scott gave his mother a look that said he wasn’t in her thrall. Mo had genuine affection for her youngest, Rebecca had picked up on that, but he had a mind of his own. She may rule the roost but he could still crow. ‘They’ll learn that we won’t stand for it, is all. They try to move a paedo in here, we’ll put a stop to it, simple as.’
‘Do you rule out violence?’
There was a silence. Rebecca already knew the answer. The Burke family reputation spoke for itself.
But Scott answered anyway. ‘We’ll do whatever it takes.’
Whatever it takes. From any other family that could simply mean perseverance, but from the Burkes it meant something else. The story was they were once again in the throes of fending off a new territorial challenge, this time from a Glasgow crew. They hadn’t reached the length of exchanging bullets but there had been unpleasantness. One of the Burkes’ people – not a family member – had been found badly beaten on a country road near Nairn. That led to a Glasgow visitor discovering that power drills have other functions in the hands of a well-motivated user. Kneecaps are painfully susceptible to such attention. According to word on the street, the DIY enthusiast was none other than Scott Burke, who was at that moment pouring tea like an old family retainer. Whether he had fired up the drill personally, and whether he did so on the orders of his mother, was open to conjecture. The family had shown that they were willing and extremely able to do whatever it took to protect their interests. When Scott said they were prepared to do the same to prevent any attempt to move a convicted paedophile into their area, did that include heading out to the tool shed again?
Rebecca felt a tingle of excitement, the kind she felt when she knew she was on to a real story, not just the routine fare of a weekly newspaper. The Burkes’ involvement was one thing, but Spioraid made this political. Add its alleged association with New Dawn, and there was a terrorism angle.
She took the proffered cup and saucer from Scott’s hand, then waited until he had handed his mother a cup. He didn’t pour anything for himself or his brother but merely stepped over to the ornamental fireplace and leaned against the mantel. Rebecca took a sip of the tea and considered her next question.
‘Mrs Burke,’ she said, ‘why are you doing this?’
Mo seemed sincerely puzzled by the question. ‘I’ve already told you . . .’
‘No, that’s not what I mean. Why you? Why your family?’ Rebecca waved a free hand, first towards Scott, who was doing his Cheshire cat act by the fireplace, and then vaguely in Nolan’s direction. He was still studying her with that cool gaze of his. She took a deep breath. ‘Basically, what I’m asking is this – you know what people think of you and your family. What you do.’
‘What we do?’
Rebecca hesitated, then thought, Bugger it – I’ve opened that box, let’s see what comes out. ‘Mrs Burke, let’s not be coy here. I know your family reputation. You know your family reputation.’ She waited for a response but nothing came. ‘So why do this? Why put your head above the parapet? You must know this will attract attention.’
Mo sucked in a long breath, then leaned forward and placed her saucer on the edge of the coffee table. She sat back again, tucked one leg under the other, gave Rebecca a long, unblinking stare. Rebecca wondered if she had overplayed her hand. She had gambled that Mo appreciated straight talking but perhaps she had gone too far in mentioning the family reputation.
Finally, Mo spoke. ‘You know why my man’s in the jail?’
Rebecca nodded.
‘You know why he took that bloke, that Sammy Lang, in such a dislike?’
Rebecca cleared her throat. Well, she thought, I opened the box, might as well give it a shake. ‘I heard he was, eh, interfering in your business.’
‘He was. But that’s not why it happened. Well, not completely. My man did it because of what that fella was. A kiddie fiddlin’ bastard.’ She paused and Rebecca thought she saw something creep into her eyes. Something unwanted. Something painful. A memory. ‘He did it for me, you understand?’
Rebecca understood. For Mo Burke, this campaign was a personal crusade.
11
Barry must have seen her pull up outside the Chronicle office building because he was waiting for her in reception as she pushed through the doors. He gave her a look she had come to know all too well. She had crossed yet another line, something she had done so often she wondered if there was a union she could join.
‘Where have you been?’
‘I went to see Mo Burke. I needed a line for the story.’
His irritation was evident. ‘Was it necessary?’
She didn’t need to give him a look. She didn’t mean to give him a look. But she gave him a look that said that they’d been over this before. Barry had come to terms with her wilfulness and knew she put in extra hours to make up for it, so there had to be something else behind his annoyance. She suspected she knew what that was.
‘Les has been looking for you, wondering where you were.’
‘I was on a story, Barry. I was doing my job. At least what my job should be.’
Barry puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘I’ve been too soft with you, Becks. You won’t get away with this shit when I’m gone. You’ve got to understand that.’
‘Barry, they’re running these titles into the ground and you know it. Look at the circulation for every one of the papers. They’ve sunk so far cruise ships could use them as an anchor.’
He sighed. ‘Digital is the future, you know that.’
‘Yes, once one of the bean counters works out how to make real money out of it.’
‘We’re in difficult times, Becks.’
‘You know something? I’ve only been doing this a few years, but one thing I’ve learned is that newspaper owners are always in difficult times. Even when they’re making money hand over fist and their profit margins are higher than supermarkets, for God’s sake.’
‘Christ, Becks!’ Barry lost it, and although he kept his voice low she could hear the anger catching his throat. ‘You’ve hardly been in the bloody job two minutes and you think you have all the answers? You don’t. You adopt your holier-than-thou stance and judge anyone who doesn’t meet your high standards. The bean counters you despise so much? They keep you in a job. They make sure you have the money to pay your rent and buy clothes and spend it on whatever the hell you spend it on. So they make tough decisions. Someone has to. Do they get it right all the time? No, nobody does. Nobody ever did. Are there people in power who really don’t know what they’re talking about? Yes, but that’s the same in every industry. But here’s the thing. Nothing has changed, not really. The glorious world of the press you seem to hark back to never really existed. It was over-staffed and over-paid and under-worked.’
‘Well, that pendulum sure has swung the other way, hasn’t it?’
He opened his mouth to say something further, then closed it again. Barry didn’t have the heart to argue with her, and she instantly regretted her sharp tone. The guy had lost his job and here she was being Little Miss Maverick. He was right, she was barely in the door and there were things she didn’t fully understand. And life in the glory days probably wasn’t as glorious as she imagined. But all she wanted to do was a decent job. To report the news fairly and impartially. To comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. To hold power to account. To uphold local democracy. All that jazz.
‘Tell you what, Becks.’ Barry sounded weary when he spoke again. ‘You go ahead, you carry on the way you have been. You know best. Everyone else is wrong. Don’t give Les the chance to make things work. Don’t wait a
nd see if he actually does know what he’s doing. You carry on the way you always do, snipe, snark, sneer without actually coming up with any real-life solutions. I’m out of it. I’ll be here the rest of the week, then I’m gone. You’re someone else’s problem now.’
He turned and pushed his way through the glass doors and walked into the grey afternoon sunlight. Rebecca had never seen him leave the office during the day. She had only worked with him for a couple of years but seeing him walk away in that manner seemed like the end of an era.
Her phone rang as she climbed the stairs to the editorial floor. She paused on the landing, glanced at the screen, saw it was a familiar name and felt a stab of something she had come to know well. As she slid her thumb across the screen to accept the call, she knew it was guilt.
‘Simon,’ she said.
The familiar voice was crisp and business-like. That made her feel even more guilty. She had hurt him, badly. That hurt was still raw. ‘I understand you’ve been talking to clients of mine.’
Her encounter with Barry had disorientated her slightly, so it took a moment to realise who Simon was talking about. Then it came to her. ‘You mean the Burkes?’
‘Yes, Mrs Burke and her sons. I represent the whole family.’
He hadn’t been involved in Tony Burke’s defence, so he must have taken them on as clients fairly recently. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, now you do. Mrs Burke has just phoned me to say that her son might have been somewhat, eh, indiscreet.’
Indiscreet. A lawyer’s word. Her mind flew through the conversation and landed on Scott’s suggestion that the family would do whatever it took to prevent any relocation of a convicted sex offender. Simon knew she would make the connection.
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