He cleared the line. I listened to the silence for a moment before hanging up. In the living room, I sat in the dark and waited.
It got light around four o’clock. I was still in the chair. Finally, I began to move. I showered, shaved, got dressed.
Replayed the conversation from the night before in my head.
These Cockney bastards were professionals. If Egg had sent them up here, then he trusted them. And if Egg trusted them, they meant business.
Next time isn’t no fuckin’ warning.
When Robertson had told me about the first phone call, I’d dismissed his fear out of hand. An over-reaction. Natural enough, given everything he’d gone through.
But now I was beginning to understand what these arseholes were capable of.
They weren’t just going to give up and go home if we gave them the run around. And they wouldn’t give a shite if they knew the coppers were after them. They’d killed Katrina Egg. Shot Bill. Enjoyed it, too. And now they were coming after me and James Robertson.
For these psycho-fucks, reclaiming the big man’s missing cash was little more than an afterthought.
Chapter 23
I always thought a city was a place you could lose yourself.
Dundee calls itself a city, but it’s hard to become lost here. Elaine, whose family came from Glasgow, called it a small town with pretensions. I guess she was right. Once you’ve lived here long enough, some days it seems you can’t walk ten steps without seeing someone you know.
Which made my staying in the city a perversity of sorts.
Every street dredged up memories of Elaine. The sight of the Law Hill rising above the buildings made me think of when we used to take walks together up the gentle slope towards the observatory.
Was I simply reluctant to let go?
Or was it something more troubling?
The morning after the two Cockney pricks had broken into my office, I found myself walking past Elaine’s old flat. It was to the east of the city, situated above a bookies. The gamblers had used her close as an unofficial urinal. The first time she invited me back, she warned me about the smell.
I stood on the street outside, looked up at the window of the third floor flat and imagined I could see her there, looking out the window, waiting for me, translucent, a ghost waiting for a day that would never arrive.
The day she moved out, I remember she took one last look at the hallway before closing the door and following me down the steps and onto the street. I asked her why she looked so sad. She smiled at me and said, “If you live somewhere long enough, you leave a part of yourself there. I was saying goodbye.”
I saw movement up there at the window where I imagined her to be standing. And I thought that it was a beautiful idea, leaving part of yourself behind.
But I knew it was bullshit.
When Lindsay answered the phone, he sounded irritated. I said, “You wanted to talk. So let’s talk.”
I told him I’d be there in twenty minutes.
He told me he’d chuck me in the cells for wasting police time.
Lindsay stood on the steps out the front of HQ at the West Marketgait entrance. He was smoking a cigarette. His gaze was fixed on the Marketgait, watching the twin lanes of traffic as they swept past. Across the way, empty jute mills had been rejuvenated; student accommodation. The town was transforming; from industry to education and innovation.
“So what do you want to talk about?”
“You were right,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. Forced the grin back off his face. “Really?”
“I’m a stubborn prick. I’m holding shit back because I don’t like you. And because of that, people have ended up dead and a man who doesn’t deserve it could be a cripple for life.”
“Have you called the hospital?”
“No.”
“Some friend you are.”
“Can we leave this alone?”
“You haven’t been looking well lately. When you saw that body, I thought you were about to fall over.”
I put weight on my left leg as though to make the point. “I’m doing fine.”
He looked like he didn’t believe me. But instead of passing comment, he took another puff on his cigarette. He couldn’t have looked like he wanted to be here any less.
“These men think I have something that belongs to them,” I said. “I don’t. Neither does my client.”
“Aye? You sure about that?” He took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Your client, the man, Robertson, that’s his name? Maybe you can tell me where he is?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking that everyone seemed desperate to find him. “You might want to try him at his home.”
He nodded. “Trouble with that is he’s no got a home any more. Last night, there was a fire. A monster from what I hear. Black smoke choking up the skies, flames that could singe the back of your eyeballs if you just looked at them. The whole place burnt to ashes. Nothing left.” I knew he could see my reaction out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know if there was anyone in there. They’re still going through the wreckage. I’m waiting to hear for sure whether it was an accident. I mean, that kind of fire, it’s got to be an accident. Unless someone wanted to prove a serious point.” He didn’t believe that it was an accident. You could hear it in his voice. See it in his face.
I hadn’t come here to play games with him. “I have a few ideas.”
“No doubt.”
“The two men are associates of Gordon Egg.”
“I figured.”
“Daniel Robertson was having an affair with the big man’s wife.”
“That’s why they killed him?”
“No. They didn’t know he was here.”
Lindsay nodded. “So we’re back to the suicide. Backing up the coroner, eh?”
“Aye. But it still doesn’t make sense.”
“No?”
“Because he didn’t just steal Egg’s wife. He stole the man’s money, too.”
“A final fuck-you, then. This was all about getting back at the big man.”
“Maybe, but…”
“But give me something better.” I didn’t know if he wanted me to shut up, or if he was asking for help.
I looked at him. He stood there, completely confident. Puffing on his cigarette and watching me like I was a suspect in the interrogation room.
I’d come to ask for help and he’d dismissed everything I said. He didn’t want to listen. Just wanted to hear me admit that he was right. Getting nothing more out of it than a cheap victory.
I turned to walk away.
Behind me, I heard Lindsay say, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m no the bad guy in all of this. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you called me!”
I pretended I couldn’t hear him.
On Ward Road, I dialled Robertson’s mobile number. I was about to give up when he finally answered: “You alone?”
“Aye. You want to tell me about the fire?”
“Do you still think it’s a good idea to go to the police?”
“I don’t know if you understand the kind of shite your brother got himself mixed up with,” I said. “That cash, he stole it from Gordon Egg.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“They came to my office,” I said. “They seem to think you and I are in cahoots. If you know something more than you’ve already admitted, you need to tell me now.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said.
I agreed to meet him. We were in this together, now.
After he cleared the line, I gripped the phone tightly in my hand.
Thought about Gordon Egg. His associates.
I had one chance to make this go away.
And if it was to work, I knew I’d be making a deal with the devil.
But at least this devil was one I knew.
Chapter 24
David Burns came to the front door wearing a thick, dark dressing gown and tartan slippers. He didn’
t look happy to receive company, even less so when he saw my face.
“I know you,” he said. “You’ve been here before.”
I was impressed by his memory. Four years previously, when I was still on the force, someone had tipped off CID regarding Burns’ involvement in less than legal pornography designed for those of a more animal bent. We’d come round, all official, knocking politely on the door. He’d invited us in like he and the investigating officer were old friends, but with a cold edge to his manner. Even if he was used to these interruptions, he was hardly going to supply us with cups of tea while chatting about the weather.
The DI in charge had talked to Burns with a familiarity that implied a long relationship. This was fairly close to the truth. Back in the mid eighties, as the police upped their campaign to deal with organised crime in Scotland, men like Burns had signed deals with the authorities to guarantee some level of protection. These backroom deals were complicated, messy and would eventually prove more trouble than they were worth. All the men like Burns would continue to believe they were not viable targets for the coppers even after the initiative was abandoned and forgotten by the chiefs. Small wonder the old man had been unhappy at our unannounced presence that morning. The DI, despite his outward chumminess towards Burns, seemed to take a delight in our host’s discomfort and agitation. It was only later that I would discover that he was the same man who had dealt with Burns back in the eighties.
The man who had grudgingly invited us into his home a few years previously had possessed a full head of shocking white hair. These days, he sported a buzz cut to hide a losing battle with baldness, and a great deal of the bulk he’d carried was gone. Despite that, he still looked as though he could snap me in two. And the ice-blue eyes were every bit as penetrating as I remembered.
Sweat stuck my shirt against my spine.
“So,” he said, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his thick dressing-gown, “you got a promotion? You’re plainclothes now? You were just a wee uniform back then. Tell me, are you still busting innocent bastards for trumped up charges of perversion?”
I shook my head. “You were never charged.”
“What a waste of a morning. For all of us.”
“I’m no longer with the police.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and produced my Association of British Investigators’ ID. He grabbed the card. Examined it carefully, his expression dispassionate.
“Must be a fucking pain, having a code of ethics in your line of work.”
“We’ll get used to it.”
“Some of yous, maybe.”
“Certain individuals had tainted the profession.” Quoting the party line verbatim.
“You’ll no be one of them?”
“I like to think not.”
“Right. They’re calling you Britain’s second police force these days?”
“Sure. That’s it.”
He smiled. “Which makes you a bunch of pricks in anyone’s eyes. A bunch of pricks without uniforms.”
I ignored him.
“So did they tell you to sling your arse? Or did you just walk? Out of the force, I mean.”
I stayed silent.
Burns grinned. I guess he didn’t mind deciding on his own version of the truth.
“I was about to have some coffee,” he said. “So why don’t you come in and I’ll see if I like what you have to say for yourself.”
I thought about earlier, in the bookshop. Said, “Actually, do you have any tea?”
“All out. The wife didn’t get to the shops today.”
Inside, the house was decorated in a muted, yet homely style. Dark wood panelling, paintings on the walls. Mostly West Coast scenes: dark and stormy ocean panoramas and craggy mountainsides. There had been a great deal of work done on the house through the years and the money showed subtly throughout.
The kitchen gleamed like new. Designed by someone who knew just how much money the customer had to spend. It was not a practical kitchen, but a statement of wealth and property. Burns had come a long way from his formative years when he had been stuck in the darkest Dundonian tenements, relying on petty crime to sustain him and his family.
But the same bitterness that drove him then still fuelled his actions. Even if he had achieved everything he wanted and more.
He gestured for me to take a seat at the breakfast bar while he trekked to the far end of the kitchen and filled the kettle. He turned back to face me, leaning against the worktop. Deceptively casual. “You can start talking.”
“About two weeks ago, a man committed suicide. Hung himself from a tree out in the Tentsmuir woods. His name was Daniel Robertson.”
“I read the papers, son. What’s that to do with me?”
“Robertson worked for an associate of yours: Gordon Egg. A few days ago, Katrina Egg — his wife — came to Dundee looking for Daniel. She didn’t seem to know he was dead, was anxious to get a hold of him.”
“If I remember correctly, Egg had a wee Scottish pal he was close to. Friend of the family and all that. I guess maybe he’s the same lad. She could have just been worried. Trying to find out what happened to him.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a possibility. And maybe I’d think so too. Except, she turned up dead within a couple of days.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Aye, it is. Murdered, you see.”
“Christ.” No emotion in his voice. All the focus in his eyes trained on me. Like he could see through my skull, make out the thoughts in my brain.
“There are details that won’t make the papers.”
“Sounds bad.”
“It was. Somebody had it in for her.”
“Aye. Or her husband.”
“Sure. It could be that.”
“But considering who her husband is and why she was here…”
“Sure, there’s that, too.”
Burns nodded thoughtfully. He turned as the kettle clicked, calmly started distributing instant coffee into two mugs. “I hope you don’t mind it black,” he said. “Like I said about the wife….”
I waited for him to bring the mugs over, took the one he offered. Kept my eyes on him as he sat himself down two seats away from me on the breakfast bar. He blew on the surface of his coffee, his face neutral, his body language casual, like I hadn’t just told him about a woman being brutally assaulted and killed in cold blood.
Death could not shake this man. Not after all he had seen and done.
Rumours and stories. Such as: a local priest with a gambling habit. In debt and presumably abandoned by the Lord, the priest had tried to run out on the men he owed. Burns, at the behest of one of the debtors, tracked down this man of the cloth and arranged an alternative payment. The priest was found in his church, nailed to the cross at the rear of the pulpit. Proper job, too. Through the wrists rather than the palms. A claw hammer had been left at his feet, in order that someone could prise the nails free and let him down.
Never let it be said David Burns didn’t have some sense of mercy.
He was older, now, but he had not allowed the years to soften him.
You looked in his eyes and you could still see the storm raging there. You wondered: what was it that had made him so angry? What makes a man like this keep going?
“The obvious suspect is Daniel’s estranged brother,” I said, trying not to back down under Burns’s gaze. “He had already been trying to dig up the facts on his brother’s life. He wasn’t going to be too happy to learn that his brother had been a heavy with some London firm.”
“And where do you come into all of this?”
I ignored him. “I don’t think that Daniel’s brother was responsible for Katrina Egg’s death. There’s the question of how her body got in the flat. I believe the property belongs to you, right?”
He sipped calmly at his coffee. He had nothing to worry about. Yet.
“I was questioned about this the other day,” he said. “A police detective by the name of George
Lindsay. You know him? I’ll tell you what I told the police: I just rent that place out. What goes on inside, I can’t be held responsible for that.”
“Aye, so maybe they broke in,” I said. “And that should have been an end to it all. A sad and unfortunate end, perhaps. But an end.”
“I still don’t get,” said Burns, “how you’ve got this coming back to me. Except by rumour and conjecture. I don’t know how these bastards got into my flat. Which was, incidentally, unoccupied at the time.” He seemed to take a moment to think about that before adding, “To the best of my knowledge. So I don’t see how I can help you, son.” Putting emphasis on the “son”, like it was an insult. “And again, I ask, what the fuck does any of this have to do with you?”
“I represent Daniel’s brother. When he wanted to know more about who his brother had become, he came to me.”
“So it’s really a step up from being copper? Muckraking, I mean?” He watched me for any reaction.
I gave him nothing.
“Tell me, was he happy when you found out? About who his brother was? The kind of people he associated with?”
“People like you?”
For a second, I thought I’d touched a nerve. His eyes twitched. Barely noticeable, but it was there.
And then he laughed.
“Very good,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not still a copper?”
“I’m sure.” I sipped at my coffee.
“You didn’t know Kat. She was a fucking black widow spider. She chewed men up and spat them out. It was a game to her, fucking all these hard men and then watching her husband do them over when he found out.”
“He never touched her?”
“No. She was perfect. In his eyes, at least. All these men she shagged, they were the ones who corrupted her.”
The Good Son Page 10