Cry Uncle

by Russel D. McLean

  I wonder whether God would be able see the truth inside Burns. It often felt as though the old man had performed a miracle of ethical alchemy. For him, now, the truth was his own righteousness. His sheer strength of belief trumped any independent evidence. He would genuinely believe that his accusers were the ones deluding themselves.

  I read his biographical notes over and over. My eyes watered from the glare of the laptop screen. A needle started digging just above the bridge of my nose.

  Maybe it was stress. Brought on not by focussing on backlit screens or tiny text, but by David Burns.

  Were we really so close? Could we finally bring him down?

  Did I want to bring him down? This killer and self-proclaimed ‘family man’?

  Family, as I had found over the last few years, was not just flesh and blood, but those you surrounded yourself with. If you were close to Burns, he treated you well. I had been aware of that for a long time. During Ernie’s attempts to gain favour with the old man, Burns had treated his contemporary with grace and good will. Made him part of the family. Bonhomie and generosity had been the orders of the day. Enough that I came to believe Ernie really had fallen for the old thug’s schtick.

  I had misunderstood. Seen only what Ernie needed me – and the old man – to see in that moment. For over two years I would believe that the man who had been my mentor was in reality a corrupt and rotten cop who had fallen for the charms of a psychopath. Ernie would die before I learned the truth. Before I followed down the same path.

  Had Ernie been this conflicted? This uncertain about what he was doing?

  Burns’s solution to the people traffickers was swift and brutal. Outside the law. Immediate. Designed to satiate the natural feelings of revenge and injustice that accompanied the crimes we had witnessed.

  To take down a man like Craig Nairn by the letter of the law, the authorities would follow a slow set of precisely choreographed procedures. Unable to strike until the situation was perfect. The same procedural behemoth that allowed men like Burns to feel they were one step ahead of the law. They could move nimbly, where the law lumbered.

  What Burns offered felt like real justice. Quick. Decisive. Driven by emotion. It was what we all wanted deep down beneath our thin layers of civilized behaviour.

  Because it was easy.

  I had gained the old man’s trust by bringing him a sacrificial lamb. A child killer who had fixed up an innocent man for his own crimes. One of the sickest men I had ever encountered. His attempts to explain his crimes as a kind of illness had made me feel the old rage rise in me again. I had wanted him dead. It was what monsters like him deserved. When I watched Burns slit the child killer’s throat, I did so with the kind of cruel satisfaction I imagine crowds used to experience when viewing public executions.

  The guilt came later. The shame.

  How could I say I was so different from Burns when I had that kind of anger inside me?

  How could I know that I shouldn’t be turning myself in as well, when this operation was finished?

  EIGHT

  Findo called at my flat the next morning around seven. When I answered the door, he looked surprised. ‘You’re up?’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Had to force myself out the pit. Fucking hate mornings.’ On closer inspection, there were black lines under his eyes. His lines were cut deep into his face. Had been since his early twenties. Old face, young body. And even though he was a gym freak, he hadn’t yet given in to full-on male vanity. Moisturiser was for ‘wankers’, apparently. I wondered what he’d look like in twenty years. If he lived that long.

  ‘Yet here you are,’ I said,

  ‘You going to piss me about?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘How about you start by letting me in?’

  I relented. He came in, went to the living room, looked about. Something of the dog in the way he moved. The way that a canine will sniff around an unfamiliar room to make sure there’s no danger waiting. It was the first time I’d let him over the threshold.

  ‘The fuck is it with you and the Spartan life? And what the fuck, man? No fucking new films here? Jesus, haven’t you seen Avatar? Anything past 1995? Fucksakes!’

  I was in the kitchen, getting him coffee. Black, two sugars. I didn’t shout back a reply, just prepared the coffee and then went through. I said, ‘Most films after 1995 are shit.’ I didn’t add: especially the ones by James Cameron.

  ‘And music?’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘A few exceptions.’

  ‘The old dinosaurs still kicking on?’ he said, sniffing round the CD rack like a cat with the scent of litter. ‘Nick fucking Cave, man? Jesus. What you want is some fucking beats, man. Like, oom-cha-oom-cha, know what I mean?’

  Unfortunately, I did. He controlled his car’s radio like a prison guard controlled his keychain. Afraid it might be contaminated by anything they wouldn’t play at Liquid on a packed Saturday night. You knew when Findo was coming down the street. Hell, you knew when he was three streets away. The ground shook like Godzilla was stomping his way drunkenly down the Marketgait.

  The human beatbox turned away from the CDs. ‘Besides, no one has discs, now. All digital, man.’

  I was glad he hadn’t noticed the vinyl. ‘Guess I’m behind the times.’

  ‘Gotta get with it. Can’t be left behind. Dinosaurs, man, you know what happened to them?’

  ‘They went extinct.’

  ‘See what I’m saying?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He looked at the bookcase. ‘Like this shite. Fucking books, man. Even the nerdy bookworms know you don’t read paper any more. Get the Kindle on your mobile, whatever, take this shite with you wherever you go.’

  ‘I like the covers.’

  He picked a book off the shelf. Leered, and said, ‘Can see why.’ The cover of John Lange’s Zero Cool looked back at me; the girl on the beach with the gun. Lurid in the best pulp fashion. Of course, Findo didn’t see the history of pulp fiction in the hand-painted cover. He saw the girl with legs up to here. Thank God he didn’t pick up Christa Faust’s Money Shot. The title alone might have given him a heart attack.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Pleasantries over. You’ve seen the cave. You know I’m an out of touch old man. So what is it you actually want?’

  ‘Reckon we start the way we mean to go on. I got a lead on some of Craig Nairn’s places. He runs a couple bars, like. We go in and give the bartenders a wee message, aye?’

  I shrugged. ‘We’re the early birds.’

  He looked at me like I was mad.

  ‘Catching the worm?’

  His brow creased. I tried again.

  ‘When you were a kid, you went fishing, wanted worms for the hook?’

  He shook his head. Should have figured Findo wouldn’t have the patience for fishing. I used to try all the time down at the Dichty as a kid. But the pickings were slim, of course. Took me a few years and the first signs of maturity to realize if you wanted fish you went for deep water. By then, of course, I’d lost interest in the idea of fishing at all. Mostly because I’d discovered girls. Even if girls hadn’t discovered me.

  ‘Earthworms only come up to the surface when it’s raining. Attracted by the vibrations of the rain hitting the ground. You wanted them for bait, you’d stomp around and wait for them to come up before grabbing them. Like a bird.’

  Still not getting it.

  ‘By hitting Nairn’s places, we’re stomping the ground so he’ll show himself.’

  ‘Right. Whatever.’ He slugged back the coffee. ‘Let’s get a move on if we’re going then.’

  ‘Fine. We’re taking my car, though.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I’m going to teach you about music.’

  ‘Aw, man! Jesus fuck!’

  NINE

  Alabama 3 took us to Lochee high street. Pulling in at the side of the road, I experienced the old sense of unease that used to acc
ompany beat walks through the area. Lochee has a reputation – deserved or not – for poverty and danger. The sense that it is somehow separate from the rest of the city adds to the degree of unease. Especially if you look like you don’t belong.

  Looking up the main street towards the library, which was housed in a grand old building as you left Lochee and headed back towards the town, I saw some guys in cheap jeans and horizontal-striped polo shirts lounging around. Smoking cigarettes. Generally wasting time. One of them had a bag at his feet. The kind of bag that would clink if you kicked it. They turned to look our way, maybe wondering who we were and what we wanted. When they saw Findo, they quit looking. Guess his face was known round these parts. Or it was ugly enough that suddenly the guys figured whatever we wanted was none of their business.

  Findo didn’t pay attention to them. He had that kind of confidence. Maybe they had attuned to that. No sooner was Findo out the car, than he was walking down in the opposite direction, towards the Crow and Claw. He walked with purpose. Strong strides. Arms swinging. Anyone got in his way, he’d have walked right over them.

  The Crow used to be owned by a guy called Big Ian Machie, before he toppled over from a heart attack at 58. Machie had been neutral in Dundee’s turf wars, declared the Crow a free drinking ground for all. His one edict was that no one conducted official business on his premises. His rules were backed up by a cricket bat. And one hell of a swing. Since his passing, the pub had fallen into the hands of a guy named Coleman. On the way over, between his grudging appreciations of Alabama 3, Fin told me that Coleman was one of Nairn’s front men. ‘Fuck knows where he’s getting the money to buy off a guy like that, but that’s the word on the street.’

  Coleman was an older guy with a hearty laugh and a slap on the back for everyone. But he had always been one for dancing to someone else’s tune. One of life’s natural followers. For the most part, the old man had little interest in Lochee. Gaining a foothold there had always been hard for him, and he finally reached the decision that it was simply easier to leave the place alone. But since Coleman had fallen in with Nairn, what had been one of the quietest pubs in the city soon became a nightmare call out for any copper with a radio and a patrol car. I heard through the grapevine that nowadays, uniforms would play coin toss or scissors-paper-stone to decide who answered Crow call outs. In the old days, they’d just pop in their heads for a wee pint, rubbing shoulders with the kind of pricks they’d arrest if they saw them out there on the high street. Now, they were no longer welcome. In the brave new world of twenty-first-century Dundee, there were no longer neutral spaces.

  As we walked down the street, Findo said, ‘Those fucks weren’t so bad.’ Talking about the music again. Like he’d been considering it a long time, finally reached a decision.

  ‘Glad you liked ‘em.’

  ‘What’s with the religion though?’

  The Church of Elvis the Divine? Someone needed to get Findo a dictionary so he could understand satire.

  We hammered on the doors of the Crow. I used the old police knock. That attention-grabbing hammering that you pick up after a few years on the beat.

  We waited.

  After maybe a minute, a voice said, ‘Piss off. Don’t start serving til eleven.’

  ‘Open the door,’ Findo shouted back.

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘You know who we work for?’

  ‘Could work for the Good Lord Himself and I wouldn’t open the fucking door. Not that this time. Jesus Christ himself could be out there dying of thirst, and I wouldn’t spare a glass of Buckie.’

  ‘How about David Burns?’

  ‘Fucksakes!’

  The door opened in double quick time. Coleman sweated through his shirt. The effort of turning keys had clearly been enough to threaten a major cardiac incident. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you say so?’

  ‘You had to ask?’ Findo said. ‘When we knock like that?’

  We pushed past Coleman, into the pub.

  Coleman locked the door behind us. ‘So, what can I do for your man, then? I mean, has to be something special for him to send two fine fellows all the way over to Lochee.’ As he turned back to face us, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The sweat dripped.

  ‘Can the shite,’ Findo said. ‘Or I’ll can it for you.’

  I propped myself against the bar. Coleman’s eyes were on me the whole time, even though Findo was the one taking the lead.

  Findo knew what he was doing. Playing it like a pro. In another world, he could have been interrogating prisoners of war on behalf of the Government. Would have made the whole war on terror a lot shorter with men like Findo around.

  The bar itself was basic. Wooden floors, heavy oak bar, tables and chairs that could have come out of a church hall. In the days of Big Ian Machie, the place had style, although whether that was a good or bad thing was a matter of some debate. But under the new ownership, the Crow had gone back to basics. Pints in plastic tumblers. No food served in case customers decided to use the forks for more than just stabbing at the blackened meat of their burgers. Aye, it was that kind of place.

  Coleman said, ‘Look, we don’t have any argument with David Burns. He doesn’t give a fuck about us. He’s said so …’

  ‘Your boss has an argument with him.’

  ‘I own this place. I am the boss. And I …’

  ‘Don’t shit a shitter.’

  Coleman had forgotten about me now. His focus was on Findo. He’d figured who he needed to be afraid of. Forget me. I was the silent partner. Findo was the Voice of God.

  Coleman looked ready to make a run – or at least a stumble – for the door. Not that he’d get far. I figured on a stitch before he even reached the back office. Coleman was nothing, really, in the grand scheme. Just a front. A name on the licence. A wee man at the bottom of a very big and very greasy pole. Old, out of touch, out of place.

  And now, out of time.

  Findo hopped behind the bar, grabbed one of the whisky bottles from the back wall, unplugged it, took a swig. ‘Fuck, that’s good.’ He waved the bottle in my direction.

  ‘Too early for me,’ I said.

  He waved it at Coleman. ‘No. No, its fine.’

  ‘Your loss.’

  Findo poured the liquid on top of the bar. I stepped back. Kept watching. Thinking this was all a bluff. Findo was a mental, but I figured even he had his limits.

  Coleman was frozen. Even if he wasn’t scared before, he was terrified now. His face was grey. The sweat rivuleted down his face like Niagara Falls.

  Findo said, ‘Tell that arsehole Nairn that we’re on to him. If he wants a fucking war, we’ll give him one. It’s not too late, like. Not too late at all. So he can consider this a warning, aye?’ He casually reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver zippo. Flicked the lid. Grinned. Probably saw the move in a movie somewhere. I wondered who he thought he was at this moment in time. Which particular badass he was channelling. Someone from the eighties, no doubt.

  ‘Oh, come on, man,’ Coleman said, voice raising an octave in desperation. ‘Insurance is a bitch. You want me to talk to Craig, that’s grand. Fuck, I’ll get him to get in touch with the old man if that’s what you want. I don’t know what he’s done, but he’s not an eejit. It’s nothing worth blowing out of … oh, come on!’ Findo had flicked the flame into life.

  I forced myself to keep still. Keep my face in neutral. Observe.

  ‘Tell him we’re serious,’ Findo said. Flicked that naked flame against the bar.

  Coleman lumbered to the door.

  Findo looked at me.

  I looked at the bar. The flames whipped over the surface. I figured when they hit the booze behind the bar, we’d be in trouble then.

  Coleman was trying to undo the locks. Fumbling each one. Fat fingers drenched with sweat, slipping against the cool metal of keys and Yale locks.

  Findo was cool as a cucumber, still by the bar. ‘Come on, man,’ he said to Coleman. ‘We’ll
roast alive in here.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Aye, OK, so think of it like a steam room. You’re sweating off the pounds. Jesus, be nothing left of you after a few minutes. Big fat bag of skin, maybe.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  The last lock. Coleman fell out on to the street.

  Findo strolled. I followed. Forced myself to keep pace. Like I was in control. Like this was all in a day’s work.

  On the street, Findo walked to Coleman, grabbed him by the collar, spun him round and kneed him in the groin. As the big man went down, Findo leaned into him and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

  As we walked back up to the car, Findo said, ‘That’s how you stamp out the worm, man.’

  TEN

  Back at the flat I took a long shower. Scrubbed hard. Every inch of my body.

  How much longer?

  How much more?

  I had more than enough evidence to take to court, but it wasn’t enough for Griggs. Maybe nothing would be. The SCDEA agent wanted to take down Burns hard. Nail the old bastard for every criminal act he had ever committed. And more, besides. I got the feeling that, if he could, Griggs would have fitted up Burns for the death of Princess Di.

  The question was: why?

  I knew dedicated cops. I knew obsessed cops. Men and women who would do whatever it took to arrest the bad guys. They took cases personally, allowed themselves to empathize with victims, as though they had personally been violated by the perpetrators.