Cry Uncle Read online

  He recoiled.

  The pyromaniac – the man who didn’t care who he hurt, what he burned – recoiled from me in fear.

  And I didn’t care.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Gemma Fairstead.

  Forty-three. Never married. Graduated with a degree in medicine, but never held down a job for long. Like she got itchy feet. Got bored.

  A degree in medicine. Many psychopathic individuals have an interest in medicine or anatomy. Something to do with power, maybe. Many of them are highly intelligent. Power and knowledge. A good combination. So why did she never do anything with her education? Why not even an attempt at a normal life?

  She had records from childhood. Sealed, of course. Could have been anything from shoplifting to assault. Clearly nothing serious enough to prevent her attempt at a medical career. But I had an idea what she’d been up to.

  You can infer a lot about a person by the company they keep.

  Pyromania starts early. There’s a list of warning signs developmental psychologists are asked to watch for. But, like all psychotics, the specifics of pyromania vary from case to case. There’s no age where you see the warning signs flashing on and off in neon. Taken on their own, several of the indicators are little more than normal adolescent angst. Sometimes, in figuring things out, kids can go a little crazy. A sealed record doesn’t have to mean anything.

  Except, of course, when it does.

  Her previous address was a front. But I knew that already. To all intents and purposes, Gemma had vanished. Leaving behind a mess of false leads and unverifiable information. Only natural considering what she did for a living, the kind of people she worked for. And, of course, the number that Teale had used to contact her was no longer in service. I didn’t have time to sweat the information out of him. Man like that would cave only so far and no further.

  So how did I go about finding Gemma Fairstead? How did I find someone who didn’t want to be found?

  On my business cards, one of the quoted specialities was ‘skip tracing’. Finding people who were deemed untraceable. Bad debts. Missing spouses. That kind of thing. If you covered your tracks, I could and would uncover them.

  Officially, of course, it was all done through the correct legal channels. But sometimes you buck the system a little. In the name of expediency.

  A good investigator requires a strong moral compass. You might bend the rules, but you have to know how not to break them completely. The News Group International trial brought that problem to the fore, when some of our number used the unofficial bag of tricks for investigations that were morally suspect. Just because you can do something doesn’t always mean that you should.

  But there are times when you do bad – or at least legally grey – things for the right reasons. I needed to find Gemma Fairstead. Talk to her. I already knew why she’d set the bomb. But I needed to hear it from her. I needed detail. More than hearsay and guesswork.

  In the back of my mind, I was asking questions:

  Who do you need to know for?

  Yourself?

  Or the old man?

  David Burns. A man I considered repellent, less than human. And now, having seen him broken and vulnerable, was I looking to help him? To gain revenge on those who had struck at his family?

  I had never been much of a sleeper, but now, at night, I slept less and less. The hours growing shorter. Often, I’d just lie there and stare at the ceiling, lost in my own doubts.

  Wondering how I would be judged.

  I always claimed to be an atheist, or at the very least, agnostic. But something about the old Catholicism that had come down through my grandparents still stuck with me. That sense that I was being constantly judged. Whatever I did, I would be punished for it.

  God is always watching. Waiting for you to slip up.

  Heaven is for the pure. For those who repent. But how can you repent when you’re uncertain what your sins are? When you’ve done the wrong things for the right reasons?

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Where are you?’

  Crossing the Tay Bridge and heading into Fife. But I wasn’t about to tell Griggs. He could go hang for all I cared.

  ‘Driving.’

  ‘For him?’

  ‘For myself.’

  ‘I’ve got people breathing down my neck, McNee. They need answers. Results.’

  ‘This could have ended long before now. You know that. Your bosses have to know it, too.’

  ‘Aye, it could have. But not the right way.’

  His constant refrain. The insistence was worrying. He didn’t just want to see Burns behind bars. He wanted the old man to suffer. This was old-school justice. Did Griggs give a damn about the legality of his operation?

  What had fuelled this obsession?

  Griggs had crossed a lot of people in his time. He’d nearly been killed during the final days of the Kennedy brothers’ reign in the city’s east end; a long-held grudge spilling over and landing him in hospital. In those days, the old man had been keeping his head down, waiting to see the end of his rivals as their empire imploded. Griggs had never been involved in the investigations into Burns’s activities, except on the periphery. They had no reason to deal with each other.

  So what happened?

  Was I asking the wrong questions? Looking in the wrong places?

  In the bad old days I had been searching for surrogate bad guys: people I could blame for all the bad shite in the world. Maybe Griggs was the same, fixating all his anger on someone he had never really known, but who fit a certain profile.

  Maybe that was it. But it didn’t sit right. Didn’t feel true.

  ‘You have to trust me,’ I said. ‘Some things that I do …’

  ‘I’m better off not knowing?’

  ‘Deniability. It works for the old man, right?’

  ‘Just remember why we’re doing this.’

  ‘Never leaves my mind.’

  When I cleared the line, I was on the dual carriageway, heading deep into Fife. I turned off the main roads, on to winding country tracks. Flicked the headlights on full, illuminated the farmland before me. The crops cast long shadows.

  I drove through small villages, past Guardbridge, hitting the oddly angled roundabout, taking the long way round to Cupar. Using the drive to clear my mind. The roads were quiet. Lambchop provided the soundtrack. The sound low, the music twisting in my brain.

  Cupar’s a small market town that’s seen better days. Its home to one of Fife’s biggest secondary schools, and while the council operates its offices from the town, there’s a feeling like it’s little more than a commuter base. Nothing ever happens. If you want quiet, it’s the place to be.

  I drove through the main artery, turned off at the war memorial, tripped alongside the river Eden and out to a small estate on the edge of the town. New buildings. A hope for the future when they went up in the sixties, now they looked tired and ready for their end. Small, boxy bungalows. Lawns in various stages of trim. Some resolutely proud. Others despondently forgotten.

  I found the house I wanted. Same as the rest on the outside. A beat-up looking Fiesta parked on the street. Second-hand or long cared for? Hard to say.

  I walked to the front door. Someone was in. Light sliced out from behind the dark curtains that swung across the living room window.

  I rang the bell. Waited.

  When she answered, Gemma Fairstead had to fight not to do a double take. But for just a moment, her eyes went wide and the blood rushed from her cheeks. Maybe she had expected me to be dead along with the mark. Maybe she thought I’d never make the connection.

  Maybe she just never thought about the consequences of her actions.

  On that, at least, I could relate.

  But she couldn’t know why I was here. Not if she was to maintain the innocent act. She had to keep up the bluff she’d played the night we met.

  I wasn’t going to make it easy on her.

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘You do
n’t remember me?’

  ‘I … no. No, I don’t.’

  ‘Two nights ago, you were in Dundee. Round the back of Tay Mills, heading towards the clubs, I think. Liquid. Sams, maybe.’

  ‘Right. Maybe.’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘I had a wee bit to drink. But … I don’t give out my telephone …’

  ‘On the street. We met on the street.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘I was with a friend. He was a little the worse for wear.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I hope he’s feeling bett—’

  ‘He’s feeling dead.’

  She licked her lips. You wouldn’t see the sweat if you weren’t looking for it. She could keep cool even after the initial shock. In her line of work she had to develop that skill. You work with incendiaries, you quickly learn the dangers that panic can bring. You suppress the natural instincts that come with fight or flight. If you don’t, most likely, you die.

  I used to know a guy worked bomb disposal for the army. Best poker player I ever knew. Because he could suppress his tics. Control his involuntary twitches. He had to. One wrong twitch on the job, he wouldn’t have the hands to hold his cards.

  It was the same thing with Gemma. Her obsession was dangerous. If she didn’t respect that, she’d have been dead long ago. She had the cool, collected nature of someone accustomed to extreme pressure.

  Talk about transferable skills.

  ‘What happened? To your friend.’ Like she didn’t know. But I could have believed her if I allowed myself a moment of doubt.

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know who you are.’

  I pulled my wallet, showed her my ABI card. Of course I was no longer a member of the Association – they suspended my membership when the questions about my legal conduct were first raised, and while no one had officially made a statement, I assumed from the long silence that my suspension was probably a permanent expulsion – but I still had the ID, and most people wouldn’t bother to check any further than that. It’s the same phenomenon that allows you to walk in almost anywhere wearing a suit and carrying a clipboard. People are lazy enough to assume that if you look like who they think you are, there’s no way that you could lie to them.

  I had one more advantage as I talked my way through the front door of Gemma Fairstead’s place: she was trying to appear normal. She was the one with something to hide; lying just as much to me as I was to her.

  She wanted to be duped.

  Just to appear normal.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The house was decorated in neutral colours. Greys and creams. The front room had a shag carpet, a white leather sofa, matching recliners. A big screen TV in one corner played The Xtra Factor on low volume. The one that no one really watches unless they’re obsessed, drunk, bored, or not that interested.

  Which was she?

  Judging by the CD racks on the wall, she wasn’t a music fan: Tesco and Asda’s idea of the top selling artists of all time dominated. Phil Collins. Meatloaf. Bonnie Tyler. A little Beyoncé to show her modern side. A bland kind of normalcy.

  If there is one sign of a true sociopath, it’s this: they will always have at least one Phil Collins album in their collection.

  If they have more than one, chances are they’ve killed at least two people. Probably while listening to Phil. The only thing worse would be a Sting solo album.

  I scanned the shelves more closely.

  Check.

  Gemma offered me a seat on the sofa beneath the window. I took it. Our eyes remained locked. Did she blink?

  She sat on the other sofa, crossed her legs. Maybe trying for sexy, but the effect was neutered by her eyes. They looked at me with the kind of gaze a butterfly collector might reserve for their latest specimen right before it goes under the glass.

  ‘Your friend was killed?’

  ‘He was my client.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There were a lot of people who might have wanted to harm him. I’m just …’

  ‘He was a singer, then? Or actor? Didn’t recognize him.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Sounds juicy.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about the night we met. Maybe you saw someone else hanging around?’

  ‘Someone who could have killed your friend?’ Her voice was carefully neutral. Her head moved forward. Made me think of a praying mantis. To become so detached takes a natural predisposition and a lot of practice.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking …’

  She nodded. ‘Sure you don’t want a tea?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Still, think I could do with one. Maybe with something a little stronger in there, too?’

  I nodded. She stood up and walked to the door. She stopped, looked back at me over her shoulder. ‘You never did say how you found out who I was …’

  I didn’t say anything. Let her leave.

  Did she know that I knew? Was she going to make a run for it?

  I waited for a moment. Then stood up. I checked those CDs again. Not wanting to appear too eager. We were playing Chicken. First one to give away the fact that they knew what the other was hiding was the loser.

  After a few moments, I walked through to the back of the house. Slow and casual. She was filling the kettle. Perfectly ordinary. The kitchen was long, galley-style with clear glass-fronted cabinets and a table that folded out from the wall. The back door was at the far end, with a frosted glass porthole at head height.

  Gemma said, ‘You think I was going to make a run for it?’

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  ‘You mean, dropping all the shite?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr McNee. Tell me why the police aren’t outside. Tell me why they’re not chapping on the door right now.’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘Is it true what they say about you?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘That you used to be one of the good guys. You were polis, and now you work for whoever pays the most?’

  ‘I work for the people I choose to work for.’

  ‘Not really an answer.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want any tea? Or just the whisky?’

  I shook my head.

  She turned the kettle on. ‘Tea’s good for you. Relaxing. Nothing like it. Got to be good and milky, though. A touch of sugar when you’re feeling indulgent. And, well, the other bit’s optional …’

  ‘I’m not interested in you,’ I said. ‘I’m interested in who hired you.’

  ‘You were a professional investigator,’ she said. ‘Before they chucked you out of the Association.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  ‘They give me a job, I like to know what I’m up against. The preparation …’

  ‘Is part of the thrill.’

  ‘You get it, then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  And maybe I did. There was something to be said about the prep work on an investigation. Whether the case was as simple as a cheating spouse or more complex, such as a skip trace, it was the work you did before diving into the investigation that intrigued.

  The foreplay.

  And that was how she saw it. It was clear. She delighted in the lingering time before the main event. The fire and the explosion and the flames got her off, but the delay of the event was just as enticing in its own way.

  She smiled. ‘Once I tell you what you want to know, who’s to say you won’t just call the cops, anyway?’

  ‘I have an honest face?’

  ‘Maybe you did when you were younger. But you’re getting lines, Mr McNee. Bags under the eyes. How do you sleep at night?’

  ‘How do you sleep?’

  ‘Would you like to find out?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I could set your world
on fire.’

  ‘I bet you could.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  I smiled. ‘Because if you don’t talk to me, someone else will be here.’

  ‘And what if you don’t walk out of here?’

  ‘Oh, we have an arrangement. You know who I work for. You know that the man you were hired to kill was his nephew. And you know what will happen if he ever finds out who you are. He won’t care that someone paid you. He won’t care that you didn’t know who you were sent to murder.’

  ‘So I tell you, and you call off the bloodhounds?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She finished her tea. Lots of milk. No sugar. Sipped at it swiftly. Little pecks. A hummingbird grabbing pollen from a flower. ‘Jesus,’ she said. As though He could somehow help. ‘Sophie’s choice, eh?’

  I didn’t say a word.

  Was this what I had become?

  The man who judged others? The man who chose who got to have a choice and who didn’t? A good man would have called the police and told them what he knew. Instead, I alienated the authorities and delivered my own justice. As though I didn’t trust the police to follow through on their own remit.

  I was a stubborn bastard. Because I believed my own bullshit. In my head, I was the white knight, the one person who could make the world better. Who could wade through the sewage of the world and rescue the things worth saving. The flotsam and jetsam of decency and morality.

  The white knight can do no wrong. Sometimes you have to do the wrong things for the right reasons. Those were the lessons I had learned from movies in the eighties when I was growing up. You can kill the bad guys and everything will still be all right because they were bad and you were good. Anyone can do anything for the right reasons.

  I had got away with it once.

  Twice, in fact.

  Now I believed in my own immunity.