My voice shook when I spoke about the incident and how it involved David Burns, who was the Godfather of the girl. But I kept the truth to myself, all the while focussing my gaze at the back of the court, where Susan sat watching, her eyes always on me.
SIXTY-ONE
One year later.
David Burns was serving life. In solitary. For his own protection. Rumour mill said that he was also on suicide watch.
I tried not to care.
My appeal was under consideration by the ABI in regard to my suspension. I was trying to get my business back together.
The SCDEA was disbanded, as Griggs had predicted it would be. Nothing to do with corruption but the First Minister was set on streamlining the police forces, creating a unified service: Police Scotland. No one was entirely confident about the prospect.
My work as an investigator was beginning to build again. Small scale. A few divorce cases. A couple of missing person jobs. The irony of the investigative business is that the more people know who you are, the less they want to employ you. How can you be discreet when everyone knows your face and your name?
All the same, I managed.
I was sorting notes on a missing daughter job. A local builder had employed me to find his missing girl. She had fallen in with the wrong crowd, and, one too many arguments with Dad later, decided to split. My contacts has spotted her down in Manchester where she was smoking too much weed and getting piercings. Not the worst-case scenario. The builder had gone to fetch her himself. Turned out the girl had run off after her dad remarried and spent too much doting on the wife who wasn’t much older than the girl.
Teenage rebellion.
Age-old story.
But simple.
Simple was what I wanted.
The buzzer rang from the front desk. Dot told me that Susan was here. I said to send her on through.
Susan came in, sat on the edge of my desk. Dressed in civilian clothes. She’d allowed her hair to grow out, had tied it back in a loose pony tail and let some stray strands frame her face. I took her hand, stood up and kissed her.
She said, ‘I’m surprised you’re here today.’
‘Aye?’
She nodded at the calendar.
I looked at the date.
Every year for six years on this date, I had driven out to a lonely field in Fife and stood there, thinking about what I had lost in one night of bad decisions and bad luck.
For six years, my life had been about trying to find a way forward. A few times I had come close, but I had kept slipping. Unresolved issues holding me back.
And now?
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
Susan shook her head. ‘We all move on.’
I nodded. ‘New beginnings?’
‘A new story. A different one.’
She didn’t say ‘a better one’, perhaps because we both knew it was a tough one to hope for.
New beginnings. I had been looking for one for years, but sometimes things happen only when you stop looking, when you allow yourself to be open to possibility.
I squeezed Susan’s hand.
We talked about our plans for the evening.
The world moved on.
The future was filled with possibilities. More than just blood and pain. More than despair and darkness.
There was hope.
NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It’s that time again – the bit at the back of the book no one bothers to read except the author, their family, and people they once met on the street hoping they’ll sneak a mention. But it’s something of a tradition, and as I’ve said before, it may be my name on the front of the book, but it doesn’t get there without the help and support of a lot of people.
I always said I had a five book plan for McNee, and here we are. Not that it’s necessarily the very end (never say die!), but certainly it brings to a close the themes and the stories I wanted to tell. It’s all wound up a little different than I expected and that last scene is not the one I thought it would be, but I think perhaps it’s more satisfying than if I went the obvious route. McNee has been through a lot in five books and here he is, out the other side and perhaps, finally, he’s going to have a little happiness. At least, for a while.
Burns, on the other hand, well, his fate was always going to be thus. I didn’t quite realise all the details, of course, and again there’s one subtle difference to what happens that I think is more emotionally satisfying than the initial plan. But the five books have really been about him and McNee and now, that’s it. We’re done.
Let me just, before we go any further, thank the city of Dundee for allowing me to play so fast and loose with my fictional version of the city and to all its citizens for your support over the years.
None of this would have been possible without so many people, so let me start with:
Mum and Dad – who still don’t have that house in France but are still endlessly supportive.
Lesley McDowell – For all the best reasons … J’t’aime, mademoiselle.
And move on to:
Allan Guthrie – who helped get McNee into print and more importantly helped him stay there.
Kate Lyall Grant – for allowing McNee to reach book #5 intact! Thank you for all your help and support.
Anna Telfer – who has the thankless job of whipping these books into shape; thank you for your patience and advice.
Ross Bradshaw – who was the first publisher to believe in McNee … and whose bookshop in Nottingham is well worth a visit!
Gail Mitchell – who made the winning bid for a cameo in this book way back in 2013 at the World Child Cancer (www.worldchildcancer.org) dinner. Brilliantly generous, and so enthusiastic; I do hope she enjoys the book!
Booksellers everywhere – the beautiful people. You are all marvellous!
Librarians everywhere – there is nothing I enjoy more than visiting a good library!
And finally, in no special order, a few people who contributed in ways they may or may not realise – moral support, plot suggestions, answering daft questions and just buying me a pint: Robert Simon Macduff Duncan, Jay Stringer, Dave White, Charlie Stella, The Booksellers (past and present) at Waterstones Dundee and Newton Mearns (far too many of you to list, but you know who you are!), the red and blue shirts from Bookworld (again, so many brilliant people, so little word count!), Ross McLean, Linda Landrigan, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Jen Jordan, Janet Boyle, Chris Ewan, James Oswald, Stuart MacBride, Gary Smith, Kimberley Smith, Becca Simpson, and, of course, Moriarty McDowell-McLean (I can’t believe I acknowledged a cat, but it just goes to show that writing eventually sends you completely mad).
Anyone I missed out – and there will be someone, there’s always someone – because frankly I have a Swiss cheese memory. But you know who you are. And you know what you’ve done!
And of course, the readers. All of you. Thank you for your support and kind words. Even those of you who think I use far too many naughty words.
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