Cry Uncle

by Russel D. McLean

  It’s an odd sight if you know the city, because Dundee has great whacking expanses of greenery through its structure. The city has adapted around the green rather than absorbing it.

  I slipped through on to the Kingsway – the ring road that runs round the city – and headed round to the North as though making my way to Aberdeen. I hit an industrial estate, slowed, and pulled into the near empty mass of old buildings and concrete car parks.

  The building I wanted was the only one with a vehicle parked outside; a black Merc with 2012 licence plates. One of the old man’s indulgences.

  The warehouse was, ostensibly, a storage facility for Burns Construction. Kept clean with regular security checks carried out by the big man himself. Walls have ears, so the saying goes. So do telephones, chairs, windows and floorboards. When he asked for a cleaning crew, he meant people to check for signs of the cops. The rats. Pest control had a different meaning in his world.

  I walked into the building, was met by a heavy I’d never seen before. Young lad, looking ready to tear off that tie and loosen that collar. The old man was a stickler for appearance, insisted that people who worked for him looked at their best. He was a conservative crook; the kind of man who pined for the good old days when kids showed respect for their elders. The good old days where people turned a blind eye to criminals who were just looking to earn a living.

  The thug gave me the traditional pat down. I said, ‘You know who I am?’ meaning it like a joke and not getting a response never mind any hint of a smile. Maybe the joke wasn’t that good. Maybe the kid had heard it before. Maybe.

  When he was done, he gestured for me to walk up to the mezzanine level, where I could see the office lights were on. I got lightheaded as my fingers touched the cold steel of the bannister.

  My mentor had died in a warehouse like this.

  I always used to wonder if he had any knowledge of his impending death.

  Burns didn’t stand as I entered the lean-to office at the end of the gangway. He merely smiled and gestured at me to close the door. No warmth in his smile. He wanted me to know that he wasn’t going to make this easy on me.

  Of course not.

  Had he already talked to Findo?

  There was a bottle of Grouse on the desk, maybe a quarter gone. Two deep bottomed glasses beside it. He poured himself a belt, then waved the bottle at me. I refused. I’d been drinking less than usual since this assignment started. Best to keep my wits about me. I’d never been much of a drinker to start with, so it didn’t seem too out of character. But there were moments – and this was one of them – where all I wanted to do was neck down something strong, lose myself a little while, take the edge off the seemingly constant adrenaline.

  ‘So tell me what happened.’

  I did. Taking my time. Keeping the details clear. Not getting carried away with embellishments. Stick as close to the truth as possible, you don’t have to remember too many lies. The old man listened, sipping at his whisky, sometimes nodding.

  When I was done, he said, ‘That’s what Fin says, too. Except he was the calm one in his version.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Oh, he wanted to impress me. Lad like that, doesn’t look good he didn’t know what to do. But your version sounds about right. That’s all I needed.’

  I remembered the importance of keeping witnesses separate when interviewing them regarding certain incidents. The stories didn’t need to line up exactly. People’s retelling of the same event can differ on details. It’s human nature. Anything too exact is as suspicious as a wild divergence.

  I wondered what else Findo had expanded on in his telling. And what I had consciously or unconsciously added to my own narrative.

  ‘Did you know? About the girls, I mean?’ After all, he had sent us there. And everyone who worked for him knew that sometimes the old man lied.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Far as I knew, this bunch of pricks were small time, trying to muscle in on the powder trail. Shaking down loyal customers, offering cut price product.’

  ‘At cut price quality?’

  At least that gave him an excuse for what passed for a smile. ‘Aye, what can I say? The drug connoisseur has gone the way of the dodo. Now you could give them powdered dog worming tablets, say it was finest Bolivian, and they’d say thank you. If the price was right.’ He belted back the last of his dram. ‘Standards, lad. Standards have gone out the fucking window, you ask me.’

  It was hard to disagree.

  ‘There have always been … grey areas … in my business. Always. Some things that give you pause. Some schemes where you have to wonder whether what the coppers say about you isn’t true. But this shite,’ he said. ‘This shite you and the boy Findo came across … I don’t like it. Never have. Men who trade in women like that … they’re scum, lad.’

  Burns wasn’t above prostitution. Most of the local pimps, and some of the independents who plied their trade on the wrong streets, kicked a cut back up to the old man’s outfit. Which worked out fine, most of the time. The girls under his protection were safe. Anyone who stepped out of line soon knew about it. He was the caring criminal. All part of his redeeming self-image, you see. He had standards. An ethical sense.

  There were lines. Even for men like Burns. And this was one of them.

  ‘The girls are fine,’ he said, as though I’d just asked the question. Maybe to reinforce the fact that I hadn’t. ‘Thank God.’ He still had his own lines into Tayside, a few cops on his payroll who kept him up to speed on affairs. One of the reasons I had been approached by an outside agency, at least according to Griggs. As far as anyone was aware, Burns didn’t have anyone on the inside at the SCDEA. Much as he kept trying.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He looked at me for a moment, and I had to wonder if he knew or suspected my secret. The old man had been perfectly aware of Griggs’s overtures to me, but when I proved myself to him, he’d never mentioned the DI’s name again.

  All the same, there had to be some suspicion.

  In deep as I was, I still wasn’t deep enough. Not for Griggs, anyway.

  What was it between Griggs and the old man? Back when all this started, I’d got the idea that they somehow knew each other. Which made sense. Griggs was a former Dundee cop, the old man had been around nearly forever. There had to be some connection.

  But I always got the sense that Griggs was taking his investigation into the old man far more personally than even an embittered ex-cop had any right to. Like maybe there was some deeper reasoning to his need to put David Burns behind bars.

  Or perhaps I was just getting paranoid. Given the events of the past few years, it was surprising I wasn’t seeing conspiracies in every shadow.

  Burns said, ‘They’re fine. The girls. So I hear. Shaken up. Scared. Malnourished. But in no immediate danger.’

  ‘Except from deportation.’

  He smiled. ‘Tell you who I’d deport, the bastards who forced them here.’

  ‘I thought you said these guys were a small time crew.’

  ‘Who graduated too fast. Strange, isn’t it? And there’s the other thing … these fuckers were supposed to be strictly local. Both you and Fin said about the fat guy …’

  ‘The accent.’

  ‘European.’

  ‘Hungarian.’

  That got me a raised eyebrow. ‘Oh, you’re an expert, now?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just … back when I was in uniform, I used to do some community work round where a lot of Hungarians had moved to. You learn to recognize things. Like accents.’

  ‘And the girls were Hungarian, too?’

  ‘I think so. Wish I’d paid more attention to the language.’

  ‘They come here, they should speak English.’

  ‘I don’t know that these girls really had much chance for a distance learning course.’

  There was silence for a moment. The old man and I looked at each other. The only thing worse than accidentally revealing my intent in getting
close would be showing disrespect.

  Had I blown everything with just one sarcastic remark?

  ‘Maybe you have a point,’ he said. ‘The girls aren’t to blame. It’s just … fuck!’ He poured another belt. Then straight into the second glass, which he held out to me, his face telling me there was no way I could refuse this one.

  ‘There’s something else,’ I said, taking the glass, nursing it. ‘Something you’re holding back. From me and Fin. You didn’t know about the girls. But we’ve hit three houses in the last month. Always small time. The same crew, I’m guessing. Someone you want to send a message to. But this is the first time we’ve found something on this scale. To traffic people like that, it takes a tight network and some very big connections. And I don’t think someone could be that well connected without you being aware of their activities.’

  ‘No flies on you.’

  ‘I’m an investigator.’

  ‘Aye, and tell me, how’s that working out for you?’

  It was a low blow. My official status with the Association of British Investigators was on hold. Pending potential criminal charges.

  That had been Griggs’s doing, of course. His way of getting me closer to Burns, of convincing the old man that I was no angel despite what I tried to make out.

  When this was over, I didn’t know what was going to happen. The ABI was strict on matters concerning membership ethics, and even if I’d believed myself innocent before the charges were brought forward, I’d done things since hooking up with Burns that I couldn’t undo. Even if Griggs had those quashed, there would still be a stain on my professional character that would be hard to wash out.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  He took a deep breath. ‘A few years back, this young prick came to me. Balls on him, you wouldn’t believe. But the brains of a fucking mental midget. Said he was looking to expand his little business, that he had good contacts in Eastern Europe, could move some decent gear.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I had some associates check him out. You know how I work, McNee. All business. No fucking with people. No making arrangements with people I don’t believe can follow through on their promises. You deal with my people, you know what you’ll get.’

  Fucked up or dead, in my experience. But I wasn’t about to say that.

  ‘Little prick had a record. Nothing wrong with that. I believe in second chances. But it was a record for assault. On his own sister, you believe that?’

  The word ‘assault’ can bring a variety of associations. But from the way Burns said it, I got the impression that this young prick wasn’t just about using his fists.

  ‘That why you didn’t work with him?’

  ‘Never make an uninformed decision.’ The tone of his voice like he was Lord Sugar passing on business advice to one of his apprentices. ‘Some of my own lads vouched for him. Said he was changed. That they knew about him from word on the street. So I took a few deliveries. Discovered he was keeping me sweet and some of my own men even sweeter.’

  Meaning he was shifting some of his product direct through dealers, not kicking the full vig back to Burns. Letting the dealers keep a little themselves as an incentive.

  Dangerous game. For everyone involved.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone dropped the wee prick in it. Anonymous, of course. He did his time in Perth prison. And I figured maybe that would give time to think on his approach to life. A bit of solitude can be good for the soul.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘You’re the investigator. The ex-copper. The man who unearths people’s secrets. You tell me.’

  ‘He’s out.’

  Burns didn’t say anything.

  ‘And someone’s trying to muscle in on your territory. Probably using supplies from Eastern Europe. Which makes you think it’s the same prick.’

  ‘You always get there eventually.’

  He offered me a second belt. I refused. He poured a third for himself. Hard to tell how many he’d had already. He was one of those drinkers who didn’t really change when they got drunk. Probably had a tolerance after all these years. Men of a certain generation have a tolerance that no one else can understand. ‘So you and the boy Fin have been doing my legwork. That’s what I’ve been hiding: that I’ve got a bona fide reason for hitting these particular operations. I really didn’t want the wee prick muscling in. Figured someone gives him a skelp, he might finally get the message and move on.’

  ‘But now …?’

  ‘He needs more than just a skelp. The girls … I won’t stand for that kind of shite. I’m a family man, McNee.’

  Aye, if that family’s the Manson family.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘His name’s Nairn. The prick, I mean. Craig Nairn.’

  ‘Craig Nairn.’

  ‘You were always good at finding people, McNee. Why don’t you find this cunt?’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Have a quiet word in his ear.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘What kind of a man do you think I am?’

  Talk about your loaded questions.

  I stood up. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘There’s a bonus in this one.’

  I shook my head. ‘No bonus.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Like you said, this is about the girls.’

  ‘Good lad,’ Burns said. He smiled. ‘Good lad.’

  SEVEN

  Back at my flat, I tried to make a start on finding Nairn. But I was exhausted, ready to give up before I even started. Even firing up the PC, all I did was stare at the homepage and think about what I could type into Google, none of the possibilities exciting any action in my fingers.

  So I threw myself on the couch, channel surfed until I dozed off. Woke around nine and moved to the bedroom, where I collapsed on top of the covers and passed out completely.

  I don’t remember dreaming, but when I woke again about half-three, I was drenched in sweat and tangled in the covers. Like I’d been fighting them in my sleep.

  I had told the old man I’d find Craig Nairn.

  And what then?

  The two of them have a nice wee chat, sort things amicably?

  Aye. Right.

  Griggs had told me he would clear me of any criminal charges, ensure that I was allowed to do what was needed without fear of reprisal. But there were limits. Not just for what he could clear me of, but for what I could stomach doing.

  What worried me most was the idea that I could stomach it. That I felt something of the old man’s righteous anger. I wanted to find Craig Nairn. Punch his face into hamburger meat. Use my bare hands. Make it hurt.

  We’d both said it, the old man and I: This was for the girls.

  I used to think there was a line separated me from men like Burns, but the more I pretended to work with him, the more uncertain I became that I was pretending.

  Were our intentions so far apart? Were we so different, as I had always claimed?

  I had slept only a few hours, but I couldn’t force myself to relax enough to pass out once again. I hit the bedside light, walked through to the living and turned the TV on for company.

  Twenty-Four-Hour News Cycle. Even the presenter looking bored, aware that at this hour most people were drunk and tuned to Babestation or wired on coffee and economic anxiety, trying to solve the pay-per-play quizzes on some of the higher up channels for a quick cash-hit.

  I just needed the sound of a human voice. Something about the BBC news was comforting. There was a house style that was almost reassuring.

  I pulled out the hidden laptop from where it was taped behind the sofa. Let it whirr into life. Took me two tries to get the password, the mix of capitals, numbers and symbols dancing about in my groggy, sleep-deprived brain.

  I opened files. Read details. Reaffirmed my moral superiority. Reminded myself why I was doing this. Whose side I was really on.

  David Burns. Born in one of the failed social expe
riments popularly referred to as ‘schemes’. Brought up hard, despite being the middle son of a hard-grafting family. Saw his friends fall to drugs. Learned from their failures. Not that drugs were bad, but that the right man could make a good profit shifting them. He saw other’s weaknesses and realized there was a living to be made exploiting them. But he wasn’t dumb enough to simply dive in feet first. Burns had a natural understanding for the order of power, knew he couldn’t just make it to the top in a single bound. The only people who did that were jammie bastards or psychotic bawbags. More usually both. And while some people would have called the old man psychotic, the truth was far more complex than that. So Burns played the long game. Ingratiated himself with local gangs. Worked his way up from thug to trusted confidant to man tipped for the top. Became privy to the city’s other political system. Learned that the real world and the underworld weren’t so separate as people believed.

  He played a long game. And played it well. Just the right mix of business savvy and inescapable violence. When power came his way, he consolidated his grip on criminal activities while simultaneously cultivating a more respectable public persona. He was a businessman. That was his line. A businessman. And who could blame him for a rough past given his upbringing?

  It was a necessary fiction. A reimagining of his early years. Not just for the good of his legal status, but for himself. Burns began to believe his own lies.

  He was a family man. That much was true. But it was only his own family that he was concerned for. No thought was ever given to the families of those whose assaults and deaths he ordered, and occasionally participated in. But that didn’t matter. He became an expert at separating his actions and his beliefs, somehow able to balance what he did with what he claimed to believe.

  I had to wonder if he would look at the reports of his own crimes and recognize the truth in them, or if the moral outrage that would explode from his aging but still deadly frame would be genuine and absolute. Had his own lies now become more real to him than the truth?

  When I was young, my gran was the one who told me about heaven and hell. She was a believer, of course. In the fine traditions of the kirk and the Church. She told me once that even if you behaved like a decent person on the outside, presented a fine public figure to all those you encountered, then God would still know the truth. Would still judge you and find you wanting. Because, inside, you can’t disguise your own guilt. She said that God knows the truth about us because we know the truth. We can’t escape it. We can tell all the lies we want and become so good at telling them that we can fake belief in our own delusions. But when it comes to Judgement Day, none of that will matter, because we cannot hide the truth inside ourselves. Sooner or later, as the song says, God’s gonna cut us down.