Cry Uncle Read online

But did that still make me one of the good guys?

  Gemma Fairstead had killed a man. Not a pleasant man, but not a monster either. Just someone with a confidence issue and an impossible need to live up to the reputation of his uncle. She had killed before. I was sure of it. She may not have explicitly admitted to it, but she wanted to. Just beneath that calm exterior, the pride at what she’d done scrabbled to burst out and announce itself to the world. Like the alien in the Ridley Scott movies.

  Regardless of what she had done, who she had hurt, did I have any right to threaten her? Did I have any right to judge her with no one else to witness my decision?

  The ABI had suspended me under suspicion of breaking the ethical code of the association. Had I taken this as a licence to become a vigilante?

  I said, ‘This is your decision. Just tell me how to find Craig Nairn.’

  She smiled. ‘You knew his name all along?’

  Sometimes you go fishing when you just think there’s a shark in the water. ‘Never start an interview where you don’t know the answers you’re looking for.’

  ‘You’re good.’ She smiled, but behind those eyes I couldn’t be sure if she wasn’t mocking me.

  ‘A telephone number … an address …’

  ‘So … you send the heavies after him instead of me?’

  ‘Do you really care?’

  She was the gun. She wasn’t pulling the trigger. She was a psychopath, no question, and maybe if she hadn’t killed Robert Burns, she would have killed someone else. But it was her nature. Burns wanted someone to blame. And that person, ultimately, was Craig Nairn. The man who wanted to topple the old monarch and become the new king.

  Part of me would have left them to settle their own private war. But I was in the middle of it, now. No turning back. No getting out.

  I had started this. I would finish it, too.

  ‘Just tell me where to find him.’

  ‘There’s a number I called. All I had. These things, they don’t work by just picking a number out of the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘But you knew who he was?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me his name, but I figure it’s the same man. Be a coincidence if two men wanted your friend dead for different reasons.’

  Maybe not. But I didn’t say anything.

  She wrote the number on the back of a kitchen roll. I put it in my pocket. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  She didn’t trust me. Had no reason to. I could have called Burns and told him that she was here. She might have given me what I wanted, but that meant she was no longer useful to me. Why should I care? Just because she was the gun and not the person pulling the trigger wouldn’t really make any difference to David Burns. He’d want her and Nairn dead. He’d want Nairn’s family dead. Everyone the man had ever known. Because in his head, that would be the only thing that could cancel out the blood-soaked tragedy of his nephew’s murder.

  But would it make a difference?

  Any of it?

  I turned to go.

  The glass on the kitchen door shattered.

  I turned. Two men barged through. Heavy-set. Dark clothes. Knit hats. Rough faces. I didn’t recognize them. One of them grabbed Gemma, knocked her legs out from under her. She fell to the ground.

  The other came at me. I tried to sidestep him, but the kitchen was too narrow. He punched low, caught me in the stomach with his fist. A meat sledgehammer. Knocked the wind out of me. Nearly knocked my lunch out, too.

  I doubled over. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back. I went on my knees. Slow. He kept up the pressure.

  ‘Don’t make this any worse than it has to be,’ he said. ‘We’re here for her. But you, pal, you’re just an added bonus.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The blindfold came off. I blinked. The world forced itself into focus. Purple and grey spots bounced around like blobs of wax in a lava lamp. Shapes slowly formed an odd coherence.

  I blinked again.

  The room was small. Dull walls. Unvarnished floorboards. You wouldn’t walk around barefoot. A bare bulb in the ceiling, its wiring exposed at the root, cast a harsh light. I had been placed in a plastic bucket chair. Made me think of school; long, hot afternoons in a class that never ended. I didn’t want to think about what lessons they might want to teach me here.

  A man stood before me, arms crossed. Trying to look like he meant business. Except his forehead was gently sweating and you could see his fingers twitching. This was not a natural hardman. This was a wannabe. He was about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, dressed in blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the white Nike swoop on the left side.

  ‘Awright, Slick.’

  I said, ‘Craig Nairn?’

  He nodded. ‘Mr McNee.’

  ‘Showing respect,’ I said. ‘Good move. Pity you didn’t think of that earlier.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?’

  ‘It’s been said. By better than you.’

  ‘Funny man, too. Great. Been a while since I’ve talked to a funny man.’ He leaned forward. ‘Know what I do to funny men?’

  ‘Write them a cheque and send them on their way?’

  He turned away from me. I tried to look round the room again, get a better sense of where I was. Might have once been an office. Maybe we were in an old garage or office block on an industrial estate. Or just a back room somewhere. Hard to say. The details were too anonymous. The room too enclosed. As though nothing existed beyond its four walls.

  All I could say for certain was that there was no way I was going to get a punch in with Mr Nairn. Not with the two bruisers from Gemma Fairstead’s kitchen standing on either side of me.

  We’d arrived by car. Leather seats. Quiet engine. Good driver, too. The turns had been smooth, barely noticeable. Out of the car, they walked me up steps. We had gone inside. I could tell by the echoes of noise around me that we were in an enclosed space. Gave up counting around thirty-two steps. The steps had been uneven. My guide had practically dragged me up them. Part of the reason I lost count. What all this told me was simple: this building was old. Out of the way. Empty. Maybe not even within the city limits.

  Nairn said, ‘You’re in over your head, Slick. But you did your best to save the life of my … friends … That cunt Gaske was the one who killed them. So I’m offering you the chance to walk away. Now. With your life. This has nothing to do with you. No need to worry about whatever it is the old bastard’s holding over your head.’ He leaned in. ‘Because no one works for him willingly. Am I right?’

  ‘Care to tell me why?’

  ‘Why I’d let you live?’

  ‘I’m not as smart as I look.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, McNee. That kind of shite might work with the old man, but I’m all about business. Keep It Simple, Stupid.’ He seemed to have a bit of trouble remembering the acronym. Like someone else had taught it to him. His speech had the air of having been written by someone else. The words sounded unnatural coming out of his mouth, like an accented computer reciting words learned by rote. The sounds were there, but the intention was missing.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The goal is the thing. You get there by any means necessary.’

  ‘Including killing innocents?’

  ‘Robert Burns wasn’t innocent.’

  ‘He wasn’t part of your war with the old man.’

  ‘He was the old man’s blood. Killing him got the fucking message over, aye?’

  I’m not sure Nairn knew the kind of message he’d really sent.

  ‘And Gemma Fairstead?’

  ‘She … came highly recommended …’ He hesitated. Wouldn’t turn to look at me. But something in his stance gave away his nerves. He was talking the talk, but didn’t seem like he could walk the walk. Didn’t have the spine for it.

  Made me wonder if he really was as deadly as the o
ld man thought. Or if this was all an act. He didn’t seem like a criminal mastermind on paper. In real life the effect was dulled even further. I had the feeling that the two hard men on either side of me would eat Nairn for their breakfast.

  What was his secret?

  ‘But …?’ I needed him to open up. He was questioning me, but I knew I could turn it round, get some answers of my own.

  For all the good it would do me.

  The chances of me walking out of this room alive were slim. Even if I did agree to Nairn’s terms. Whoever was pulling his strings probably didn’t want a loose end out there to be tugged on. And I would be a very loose string indeed.

  ‘But …’ Nairn hesitated. Either forgetting what he was going to say or going for dramatic effect. He turned, gave me the full on evil-bastard look. But it was a child playing at evil. The squinty-eyes. The attitude-adjust in the shoulders. But I’d met enough evil bastards in my time to know when someone was play-acting. In his own way, Nairn was like Robert – don’t call me Rabbie – Burns. A wee boy playing in the big lad’s playground.

  He said, ‘She knew too much. Sooner or later Burns would make the connection. He’s got the nous.’

  ‘He’s got me. It wasn’t tough finding her.’

  He wasn’t about to let me get in the way of his little game. He had something to say. Something he’d been told to say. And he was going to say it. No deviations. No improvisations. ‘And before he killed her, he’d make sure she gave him my name.’

  No, this didn’t make sense at all. Craig Nairn was saying all the right things. Just not in the right tone of voice.

  Who was he? Really?

  ‘And what about me?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re going to deliver a message to David Burns.’

  ‘Aye? And what’s that?’

  ‘No one is safe, Mr McNee. No one. The old man’s days are done. He’s faded. Past it. Clapped out. Fucked.’

  ‘You’re the new king of the world?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  The bruiser on my left moved behind the chair. He pinned my arms. Held me down. The other one moved in front of me. Grinned.

  I knew what was coming.

  Tried to relax. The more you tense yourself, the worse it hurts.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Driving home, I pulled over twice. Falling out of the car in my rush to vomit at the side of the road. Tasting blood every time.

  My insides ached when I breathed too deep or shifted my weight. When I caught sight of myself in the rear view, I thought of the monster from the Frankenstein novels: cracked flesh and dried blood.

  Going over the bridge, I blanked twice. Found myself close to the edge, shaving the barriers. The car weaved between lanes. Any traffic cop would have pulled me over, but the worst I got was horn-blasts from other road users.

  I pulled up outside the flat, hauled myself upstairs. Nearly collapsed in the hall. I made it to the bedroom, fell on to the sheets and closed my eyes.

  I think I dreamt.

  About pain and guilt and foolish mistakes. Fire and smoke and fear. Maybe it was only a preview of what was to come. An early glimpse of hell. Because even though I was lapsed, part of me still believed strongly enough that I could wind up there.

  Through the best of intentions, of course.

  I woke up. Muscles stretched and aching, face thrumming like a bass amplifier at a jazz concert. My vision was bright around the edges, as though light was coming out from under my eyelids. The aftertaste of blood and vomit lingered in my mouth. The scent of sick and sweat lightly teased my nostrils. I rolled and tried to stand. Ended up back on the bed, chest tight and head empty, as though my brains had leaked out during the beating.

  But I finally stood up and made my way to the bathroom. Leaned against the sink and gulped in air, unable to look straight on at my reflection.

  Nairn had told he was using me to send Burns a message.

  The message was this:

  I can be merciful.

  He’d whispered that to me as I lay on the floor of that bare room, curled in on myself, body quaking with pain.

  I managed to shower and went to the living room. I turned on the TV to STV news. The newscaster finished a story about Alex Salmond’s latest pledge for an independent Scotland.

  Then, the sombre face: ‘A Fife woman died late yesterday evening in a house fire in Cupar, Fife. The woman – forty-three-year-old Gemma Fairstead – did not escape the blaze that spread to neighbours’ houses. No one else was injured during the incident. Police and fire officers are unsure how the fire started, but believe that it may have been set deliberately …’

  That got me moving. The adrenaline pushing past the aches and pains. I stumbled into the bedroom, found my jacket where I’d left it on the floor. Found the mobile still intact in the inside pocket.

  ‘Where the fuck’ve you been?’

  ‘I met your man Nairn.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘He had a message for you.’

  ‘Care to share.’

  ‘I think it’s the kind of thing we should talk about in person.’

  THIRTY

  ‘Let him sit down, David.’ When I’d met her a few years earlier, Burns’s wife had treated me as though I was the devil himself. Over the past few months, she had come to think of me more softly. Seeing what she believed to be another side to me. The same way she had perhaps softened to Ernie, too, the man who had harassed her husband so many times on official police business, and yet became a family friend, a dinner guest, a confidant. When I gave the old man a lift to meetings, Mary Burns would greet me with black coffee and insist I sit at the breakfast bar while Burns finished whatever it was that had distracted him that morning. Now she was fussing over me, the concern etched into her features. I’d seen her look this way before when she thought her husband had been harmed during an attempt on his life.

  Funny how things can change.

  Funny how I only felt guilt over my deception when I had the distance to think about it.

  ‘You OK to stand, son?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then let him alone,’ the old man said to Mary. ‘We need to have a wee word in private.’

  We walked out to the back garden. Stood down the far end, near the fence that backed on to scrubland, and, beyond that, the railway that led to Aberdeen and all points north. Burns said, ‘Tell me.’

  I told him what I knew. Leaving out that I had offered Gemma Fairstead the chance to escape. Fudging my motivations for seeking her out. I had simply been trying to confirm the facts before approaching him. His time, after all, was precious. Didn’t want to waste it.

  His response was simple: ‘Dangerous move.’

  I nodded. He was right in more ways than he suspected.

  Burns reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘I quit. So she thinks. But at my age, what’s the worst that can happen?’ He offered me one. I almost took it, but withdrew my hand at the last second, shaking my head.

  We stood in silence for a while. Burns said, ‘He was a chancer. Always was. But something like this …’

  ‘Not his style.’

  ‘He’s too fucking dumb. You can say it. I’m being kicked around by a fucking mental midget.’

  There was that. And nothing I had seen proved otherwise. Burns hadn’t underestimated Craig Nairn. But there was something that we had been missing this whole time. And perhaps the only person who could answer our questions was Nairn himself.

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘You get some bedrest. Jesus, look at you. Bloody sight, you are, son.’

  ‘And you?’

  He didn’t answer me. Looked across at the tracks. Had he ever considered just walking away from it all? He made a big deal about being a self-made man. Working his way up from nothing. I always wondered if he really believed that the sacrifices he made had been worthwhile. He had let go of normality and security to gain wealth and power. But with that came the
constant threat of someone like Nairn who thought that he could take it all away from Burns, who thought that he could inherit that wealth and power.

  There was always one.

  Burns had taken it from his predecessors, of course. The Kennedys had been the city’s dominant crime family for decades. Burns had been an enforcer for the old man, passing down his empire to his two sons. When the elder Kennedy died, Burns struck out on his own, knowing that the two lads were too much in love with the product that they supplied to last long in the business. Their empire and influence slowly shrunk. Eight years ago, the brothers had been murdered – executed – in a case that the police never solved. But there were rumours. There are always rumours.

  That new swimming pool down by Riverside had very strong foundations.

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘You’re not able to do what needs to be done. I’ve always known that about you, son. You’re flexible. But every man has a point where they break. I don’t think you’ve found yours yet. But I know where it is.’

  He knew about the man I had killed six years earlier. He knew that I’d willingly delivered another to his death. But perhaps he thought those were the exceptions that proved the rule. Or that killing another man would irredeemably change me. Or that the context had to be right for me to act. I couldn’t justify the deaths of faceless others in a war over drugs and territory the same way that I could justify the death of those who had inflicted pain and suffering on innocents.

  I’d always believed that Burns hid himself from the moral quandaries of his life. But the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that he truly understood who and what he was. He just chose to ignore the moral problems such duality posed.

  What’s worse?

  To become a monster and never accept that fact?

  Or live every day with the monster that you created?

  Burns looked at me for a moment, side-on. Maybe reassessing, trying to decide whether he had misjudged me. ‘You’re in no state, either way. So here’s the thing. This wee bollock’s coming after me and my family. He’s made that much clear. My wife … she knows who I am, even if she doesn’t know everything. She’s been with me through it all. The court cases, the raids, the wars, the good times, the bad times, all of it. When they’ve banged me up on suspicion, she’s the one comes every time bail me out and never says a fucking word. She means everything to me, McNee.’