The cops worked the scene with dutiful respect for the dead. But no one mourned her passing. Her name passed before the eyes of so many people who just shrugged and accepted her death as part of the cycle of things. It wasn’t that these people didn’t care. It was that the weight of the things they saw every day was so much greater than the death of a person who seemed to have done little to try and save themselves. To them, the dead girl seemed to have been seeking death more than living life.
And then her name passed before Sandy Griggs.
The Burns project was winding down. Griggs had tried to fight it, but the powers that be were insisting that the old man and his operations could no longer be classed a priority. Griggs and a few others continued to work the old man’s files. They would do so until someone told them to stop. They had feelers out on the streets and in the police station. They read the official reports. Kept an eye on the old man. His suppliers. Their customers.
Any business relating to Burns came to them. And finally, it simply came to Griggs. The last man standing. The last man with the energy to care about an operation no one wanted any more.
The man who dealt to the dead girl went by the name of Damon Oliver. He was thirty-three years old, had a business degree and was working off a big debt to one of the old man’s enforcers. At the same time, he was chancing his arm by working as a police informant. Figuring he could play both sides against each other. In his head, Oliver was the smartest guy in the room. It was the kind of lie people tell themselves so they don’t just give up.
Hence why, when the girl died, Oliver held up his hands and said, ‘The batch was good. It was her system that was fucked, couldn’t handle it.’ Figuring he had to get ahead of this one before they thought she was violating the terms of his agreement with the cops. It was a double bind, but in Oliver’s mind, he wasn’t the one at fault.
Oliver supplied the drugs.
Oliver was in hock to David Burns.
The girl’s name was CeeCee McKenzie. She kept her married name even after the divorce. Because it embarrassed her brother. Her brother who was a cop.
She wasn’t born CeeCee. She was born Catherine.
Catherine Griggs.
FIFTY-TWO
We stood by the barriers and looked out across the Tay to the city’s lights. There was something beautiful about this particular view of the city. It was easy to laugh about Dundee, but at night, from across the water, the lights had a strange, translucent quality of hope.
My dad used to say that if you looked at the city from across the water you might be fooled into admiring the place. Speaking the way only someone who truly loves and understands a place can. He was a native, had seen the city through good and bad and never left, despite his moaning and his stated desires to travel to far off places. He could badmouth the place all he wanted because he still loved it, saw beneath all of that cynicism to the very heart of the place.
Griggs, looking across at those lights, said, ‘CeeCee. I think she heard the name on TV once, thought it sounded exotic. I told her it just sounded daft. Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe that was the turning point. Just one wrong word. One moment. But then again …’ He shook his head. He wasn’t really talking to me any more. He was inside his own head. Thinking about things he’d spent a long time trying to forget. ‘I read a study, years ago, about children from abusive relationships and the ways that they wind up. They have a lot in common with children of alcoholics. More often than not, you know, there’s an overlap . Anyway, seems they wind up either vowing never to allow themselves to become that way, becoming campaigners for an end to such behaviour or …’
‘… or they reflect their parent’s behaviour.’
He looked at me as though only just remembering I was there. Turning his head just enough so that he could get a look at my face, maybe trying to figure out if I knew more than I was letting on. He’d have to keep wondering.
After a moment, he looked away again, back across the water. ‘CeeCee and I both witnessed what happened between our parents. It wasn’t pleasant. It ended badly. I’m sure you know.’
‘As much as I need to.’
He smiled at that. Humourless. Lips pressed tight together so that the blood rushed away from them. ‘She was too young to really process what was happening. But I knew. Tried to fight back. But I was always too small, too young, too powerless …’ He stopped himself there, as though realizing that he was oversharing. ‘And then … well, you know what happened.’
As much as the official reports would say, of course. Some of the records were still sealed.
‘Catherine … CeeCee … was still too young to grasp the truth. Maybe that’s what messed her up. Didn’t help that they sent us to separate foster homes. I was her brother. I was supposed to protect her. How could I when they tore us apart like that?’
Griggs had always been a man with a strong sense of responsibility. A man of honour. He did not lie, cheat, break his word. Not without good reason. I had wondered what changed that about him, but now I understood. He had not changed, but he had lost his focus. Allowed personal feelings to overshadow larger responsibilities.
‘We lost track of each other. We would write, but over time, while I wrote every week, her letters became infrequent. Sloppy. She was thirteen or fourteen, when she stopped the letters completely. She’d tried to escape from the foster homes they were sending her to. Fallen into bad company. Had this boyfriend a few years older who’d discovered the joys of dealing pot. The guy had big ambitions. You know, wanted to be like Johnny Depp in Blow. Guess he didn’t see the end of that one, because he wound up in Perth prison and then he wound up dead. Killed over a measly two hundred quid.’
‘CeeCee told you that?’
‘No. I didn’t know what was going on with her. But the people I was staying with at the time knew what she meant to me, kept what tabs they could on her. When they told me, it was three weeks after he was pronounced, and I could see in their faces that keeping this from me had been difficult. Guess they didn’t know what to tell me. How to tell me. How do you tell a sixteen-year-old kid that his sister’s boyfriend got her hooked on drugs, wound up dead in prison and left her all alone in the world? And how do you tell that kid that you’re sorry, there’s nothing you can do? The system won’t allow you to interfere.’
‘What happened to CeeCee?’
‘Vanished. In the wind. Not for the first time, but this time no one was able to trace her. It was four years before she contacted me again. Showed up at my house, in fact.’
‘Where had she been?’
‘Here and there. I could piece some of it together. I was a copper, then. Had contacts. Did a little out of hours investigation. She stayed in the city. Never thought about moving on. Mostly squats and communes. You know, the kind of thing might be exciting for a while when you’re young, but fucks you if you don’t get out in time. When she came to my door – I don’t know how she tracked me down – she was strung out on all kinds of shit, looking for a hand-out. Maybe just so she could keep getting high. Or maybe she really did want a fresh start. What I offered her was a place to stay and a chance to find some work. Get clean, you know. Some of the outreach workers I knew could have helped. I just wanted my old sister back. Calling her CeeCee, the way she wanted, she just didn’t seem like my sister.’
‘Did she accept the offer?’
‘She stayed on my couch for three days. Then ripped off some of mum’s old jewellery I had stored away, and bolted. It hurt, really. Not losing the jewellery. But the idea that she would take advantage of me, that maybe she’d planned it that way. Sponge off her brother until she could figure out the next scam. I felt like an idiot for loving her, and that’s what hurt.’
I never had brothers or sisters. Growing up it had been me, Mum and Dad. I had never quite understood that odd bond that exists between siblings. Particularly distanced ones. Never quite got how you could love someone at the same time as you can hate who they might become. Knowing siblings w
as like knowing that your friends are having a party and they might try and invite you, but you still wind up outside a dirt-smudged window, looking in and trying to see what a great time they’re having.
‘That was it. She was gone, then. I had to let her go, know that she would find her own way. Maybe I always knew she’d wind up the way she did. You’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to figure it out. And even then you’d still have to not be paying attention. All the same, men like Burns, men who let shit flood the streets, who have no thoughts for the consequences of what they do …’
‘Your sister always had a choice.’
‘You’ve never known addiction,’ he said. ‘Choice doesn’t really enter into it. That’s the kicker. The heart-breaking thing. That someone can want to quit but the urge to do whatever it is that’s destroying them over-rides their own self-preservation. If they can stay away from triggers, maybe they have a chance, but when those triggers are around them every day or within reach, then it’s so damn easy to slide and …’
He stopped talking. Took a deep breath. ‘She died, and there was no one to blame. Not even the fucking dealer.’
The problem with police work is that you see the bigger picture. How things come to be the way they are. You understand the network that grows around drug dealers. You view crime from the top down, seeing not just the street level impact of crimes, but the network of events that leads to one isolated act of violence or neglect. You can’t just blame the dealer. You blame the money. And you blame the money men. And you know that there are some people you just can’t touch no matter how hard you try.
Men like David Burns.
The root cause of a criminal act is often utterly isolated and removed from the act itself. Like a blood-soaked version of the old game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.
‘I figured you would know what it’s like. Knowing that someone out there destroyed something you love. Being unable to do a damn thing about it. They never found the driver of that car, McNee. You never knew who killed your fiancée. Just that it happened. I was already gone when she died. Working out of the Glasgow office. But you know the police: word travels. I heard about what happened. I felt for you. I really did. And I guess that hung around the back of my mind, because it was your name that came to mind when I needed a new way to get to the old man.’
He was right. I understood Griggs’s obsession. Better than most. We were the same. In so many ways.
Except, what he failed to understand: I had moved past my despair and my need for revenge. Perhaps because at some point I finally accepted that I would never find the person responsible for the accident. That they were a ghost; a half-glimpsed thing that you could never say for sure had ever really been there.
Griggs was reminded every day of his sister’s death. And of the man he knew was to blame. He had the means and the opportunity to gain his revenge. He had taken it. Who wouldn’t have?
He came so close. He had the bastard in his sights. Only for his opportunity to be snatched away. By men in suits. By changing political winds.
How would I have felt?
What would I have done?
Whatever it took.
I wouldn’t have cared about the inconvenience to other people. Not back when my wounds were fresh and raw.
I said, ‘So what happens now?’
‘It’s over, right?’ His shoulders were slumped. His words came out like an extended sigh.
‘Maybe you can work a deal.’
He snorted. ‘I’ve seen what happens to coppers who make deals with D&C. It’s never pleasant.’
‘So what else can you do?’
He nodded. ‘What else can I do?’ He stretched, as though he was tired. And maybe he was. Everything he had been through had come crashing down around him. He couldn’t rebuild. He couldn’t walk away. He had to live with the consequences. One way or another. ‘Maybe you’re right. I should just turn myself in. Maybe someone else will bring him in. We have a case.’
‘They’ve not forgotten about him.’
‘He’s too old for prison. Get a slap on the wrist, maybe a cushy retirement home.’
‘Think he wants to go out like that? He sees himself as an old cowboy. Wants to die with his boots on. I know he tells Mary different, but that’s the truth. He thinks the best way to die is while he’s still in the game. Taking him out of it, letting him die like any other old codger, maybe that’s the best punishment there is for a man like Burns.’
‘Maybe. Maybe.’
I said, ‘Whatever happens, the war is over. The Zombie is in prison.’
‘Normality resumes.’
‘It’s always the way.’
The wind chilled a little. I said, ‘It’s time to go. Time to end this.’
‘You still have the phone?’
I nodded. ‘Who paid for it?’
‘SCDEA. A little creative accountancy.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s going to count against me, too. The fuckers, they’ll come at me with everything.’
‘You pays your money …’
‘You takes your chances. Aye, aye, aye. Who’d have thought it would come to this?’
‘You can bounce back.’ Even I didn’t believe me.
‘You think?’
He rolled his head as though getting rid of a kink in his neck. Extended his hand. I took it. His long fingers wrapped around mine, like tightening cords of rope.
He pulled me in, slammed his knee into my belly. Fast. Brutal. Unexpected. No chance to brace myself.
I doubled. He grabbed my hair and flung me back. I was off balance, had no choice but to follow the momentum. I landed awkward, hit something hard. No pain. Just a dull sensation at the back of my skull and a feeling like the world was a badly edited film where the frames were starting to stutter.
I rolled over.
He started to go through my pockets.
Maybe I said something.
Maybe I was already gone.
FIFTY-THREE
First thing I noticed: the pain was sharp. At the back of my skull. Insistent. Someone gently scraping a razor across bone. My hair was thickly matted with blood. I could feel its slowly spreading warmth.
I opened my eyes. Saw Susan, looking down at me. ‘It’s a habit,’ she said. ‘People punching hell out of you.’
‘Love you, too.’
She reacted like she’d caught her finger in a mousetrap. But her recovery was fast as she tried for a grin: ‘Oh, aye, you’ve got some of the old brain-shake, then?’
I tried to sit up. There was a jacket beneath my head to make up for the lack of pillow, but I could feel the gravel beneath me. I was nauseous, wondered if I should even be trying to move.
Concussion.
A condition I’d become familiar with over the last few years. We were getting to be friends.
‘Griggs?’
‘Aye,’ said Sooty. Standing close, but facing away, arms folded. Gaze on the distance, as though he could see something that wasn’t quite in focus. Whatever it was, he didn’t look too happy about it. ‘Prick took off.’ He turned to look at me. ‘None of the told-you-so’s, right?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘Right.’
He didn’t crack a smile. Just shook his head. If you couldn’t trust a rogue SCDEA agent, who could you trust these days?
I sat up. Slowly. Tried not to touch the back of my head. Susan, crouched beside me, placed her hands on my shoulders as though afraid I’d just go right back over.
McNee might wobble, but he doesn’t fall down. Not when it matters.
When I went down, Griggs had searched my pockets. I remembered that much before I shut down completely. What had he been looking for?
I patted down my jacket. Trying to think what the hell it was that he would want from me.
‘Fucksakes!’
‘Steed?’
‘You know you said you always chose the wrong fucking men? Aye, well, this one was a right catch and no fucking mistake.’
She didn�
�t say anything.
I felt heat rise to my face. Burning.
‘I’m sorry. I …’ Was there any point saying anything? The damage was done. ‘Look, Griggs knows he’s made a mistake. The trouble is, I think he believes there’s no way out, now. He’s started, so he’ll finish. And I’m worried what that will mean for him.’
Susan said, ‘Burns?’
I nodded. ‘I need your phone. Please. I have to try and make this right.’
I didn’t want this night to end in blood. There had been enough spilled over the years. Enough people had died. Just once, I wanted to try and make things better.
Susan passed me her phone. I dialled through to Burns’s home number. No reply. 1571 cutting in after maybe twenty seconds.
No one at home?
Or already too late?
I said, ‘Give me the keys,’ talking to Sooty.
‘No way. You’re bleeding. That was a bastard of a knock to the head. We’re waiting for the amb—’
‘—Give me the fucking keys.’
Sooty looked ready to lamp me. But instead he threw his car keys towards at me. They arced high in the air. I almost let them drop. ‘Take them,’ he said, ‘We’re all buggered anyway. Right?’
FIFTY-FOUR
I drove back across the bridge. The car was buffeted by strong cross-winds. My touch on the steering wheel was distant, as though the nerves in my hands were located some distance away from my body.
I’d taken a whack to the head. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel.
I’d had my share of knocks over the years. My body was scarred in places I never expected. My right hand couldn’t close properly after someone had broken it. The limp I gained after the crash came and went, but on cold nights I still felt like my muscles were seizing up. They’d told me it was psychosomatic. I’d never been that convinced.
I was a mess. Always had been. One wrong blow would be all it took to completely fuck me up. And still I kept going.
I’d known it happen to a guy once. One of those cautionary tales that got bandied around at ABI conventions. The guy wasn’t officially an eye. He’d been an ex-con who decided to get into the security business. In over his head. He worked mostly for bad people down in Manchester, would never have made it past ABI checks even if he’d wanted to. But the nature of our business has always meant that a number of people operate off the books. That’s why the calls for official regulation had been so loud in recent years. Ours was a profession that needed to protect its reputation.
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