Cry Uncle Page 15

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ That wasn’t me. Another voice from behind me. Low baritone. Cracked with age but still conveying the strength and brutality on which its owner had made its name.

  Nairn made to bolt.

  I lunged in, grabbed at his legs, tripped him on the stairs. Poor man’s rugby tackle. But it worked. He landed hard.

  ‘What the fu—’ The bottle blonde came back out to have a go at me and her man, stopped talking when she saw Burns and Malone.

  Malone said, ‘You and me, darling, are going to go check on the kiddies, aye? While these lads have a little chat.’ He stepped towards her. She backed off.

  On the stairs, Nairn made a moaning sound. Sounding like a child who’s been caught hiding the remains of his mother’s good china under the bed after weeks of protesting his innocence as to where it had gone.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The bedroom upstairs. Curtains drawn. Nairn on a seat in a corner. He already knew he was dead. His eyes were red. His cheeks wet.

  He said, ‘So what now?’ Still shooting for defiance. Still missing.

  ‘Now what happens is that you tell me how a little bumshite like you managed to become some kind of black market genius.’ The old man no longer taking the softly-softly approach. Not with this one.

  Nairn hesitated.

  The old man kept his distance. ‘Forget the girls. Forget the details. None of what you claim to control is within your power. You’re a front, son. A friendly, local face. Right? Those girls, the ones we’re going to forget, you wouldn’t have the nous to get them inside the border never mind set them up in a wee pad like that. You were never smart, son. I remember how you used to come round begging for work. How you’d do anything to get in with me and mine.’

  ‘And you turned me away.’ A flash of anger there. A spark of defiance. But short-lived and half-hearted.

  ‘Aye, and can you blame me? You’ve been in and out of the wee lad’s courts all your life. Petty fucking shite every time. You’re pond scum, Craig Nairn. You think you’re a fucking shark and the truth is you’re nothing more than a goldfish arsing around in its bowl. Forgetting every three seconds just how limited its life really is.’

  Nairn didn’t say anything.

  ‘You’re not working alone, lad. Tell me who’s backing you. Maybe I can find it in my heart to show some mercy. You know, for the sake of the wee kids downstairs.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Tell me, son. This is your last chance. You get that, aye? You’re not so dense that you can’t?’

  ‘And what, you’ll let me live?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I know about you,’ Nairn said. Fighting back tears. Cheeks scarlet. Every breath was an effort as he tried not to burst into tears.

  It had been too easy to find Nairn. His attack on Mary Burns had been blunt and obvious. Not in keeping with the strategy that had been used to attack the old man’s empire.

  We could kill Nairn. But it wouldn’t make a difference. I could see that, now. Before the old man even thought about ending Nairn’s life, he needed to know who the real enemy was.

  ‘I know about you,’ Nairn said, again. ‘You’re a fucking monster. A liar. You always lie. You kill people because they’re no longer useful to you. You’re just like the Zombie. Just fucking like him.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘The Zombie?’

  ‘Fuck you, old man. Your time is past. You know that, aye? You’re not the biggest and baddest fucker around anymore.’

  ‘That so?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  Burns turned to look at me. ‘You know who the Zombie is, right?’ He looked ready to laugh. Same as if Nairn had said he was working for Dracula or Lucifer.

  I knew the name. Of course I knew. The Zombie was an underworld bogeyman. A myth. A constant reference in police files across the country, but never seen or caught. He had been implicated in some of the biggest international conspiracies that the authorities had ever known. His name was attached to drug cartels and weapons deals and people-trafficking. He was linked to trade in organs, and murder for hire. But every time the authorities heard his name, he was nowhere to be found.

  Like T.S. Elliot’s Macavity the Mystery Cat, every time they turned around, the Zombie wasn’t there.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Zsomobor Bako

  The Zombie.

  One of Hungary’s most vicious gangsters, he had cut a path of blood and misery across eastern Europe. The eldest son of a poor family living in one of Budapest’s most deprived areas, he made his name as a killer by the time he turned twenty. Killed without emotion and without hesitation. They called him the Zombie because nothing affected him. When one of his victims’ families killed his parents in retaliation, Bako approached one of the most senior men in the Hungarian mafia and asked for permission to kill the family in revenge. The senior gangster asked Bako if he was looking for revenge for himself. Bako said that it was not about revenge. It was about showing that he could not be touched. There would be consequences for anyone who crossed him.

  Within two years the senior gangster was dead by Bako’s hand. He had failed to learn the lessons of that first meeting. Had treated the Zombie like he would any other psychopath for hire. Failed to see the man’s ambition.

  International effort across Europe appeared to do little to dent Bako’s organizations. He dealt in drugs, people, weapons, organs, whatever his clients could afford to pay for. Cross his palm with currency and anything was possible. When one of his many ventures was halted, another sprung up in its place. Through fear, intimidation and outright brutality, the Zombie absorbed others’ criminal enterprises, made them his own.

  The man disappeared into modern legend. Like a wraith. A shadow. A ghost. At first the authorities had thought he was just another would-be kingpin who would disappear like the rest; a victim of his own overstretched ambition and greed. But the dead-eye certainty with which he had built his reputation served Bako well. He resisted the temptations and ego-fuelled mistakes that others might have made. He built his empire slowly. Carefully. Brutally.

  The more power he gained, the more invisible he became. The police would often come close to finding him, only to have him vanish at the last second. Always leaving some little sign of his presence. Enough to taunt the authorities. Like the Cheshire cat’s smile, but the teeth were bloodied and rotten instead of gleaming and white.

  In recent years, some of Bako’s organizations had tried to infiltrate Scotland the same way they had managed to gain a foothold in London and the South of England. Most of these efforts had been unsuccessful. But Bako was not one for backing down.

  And now he was gunning for the old man.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘You’re not lying to me, are you?’

  ‘Whatever you do, you old fart, it’s nothing compared to what he would do to me if I rolled over.’

  ‘Oh you’ll roll over, you prick. Like a good wee dog. Tell me, whose idea was the fucking bomb?’

  Nairn shrugged. ‘Everything would have been fine if you hadn’t started this. If you’d left me alone, there would have been enough for everyone.’

  That wasn’t the way Bako worked, of course. The psycho wouldn’t share the land with anyone.

  Then again, neither would Burns. Not unless it suited him to do so. I still remembered the turf wars he’d engaged in while establishing his own operations. The long list of names of those who had opposed him.

  It was just that he used a surgical knife where men like Bako used dynamite.

  ‘It was the bogeyman’s idea,’ Burns said. ‘Wasn’t it? You wouldn’t know an original thought if it kicked you in the bloody balls.’

  Nairn said nothing.

  ‘How do you and Bako communicate?’

  Nothing.

  ‘What kind of a cut do you get?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Oh, you’re a hard man,
now? Fine. That’s fine. You won’t talk to me, it doesn’t matter. But you’ll talk to my friend.’

  Nairn laughed. Looked at me. ‘Him? Little goody two shoes? All he can do is watch and keep his mouth shut. He’s not like you, old man. Fucking hell, he’s not even like me. Had to call for help rather than take care of business himself.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Who were they, anyway? They weren’t with this old fart.’

  I said nothing.

  Burns left the room.

  Did the old man expect me to do something? To prove his faith in me?

  Nairn and I regarded each other. Lions sizing up the opponent.

  I said, ‘I read your file. I used to be police. I still have friends. Want to know something, Nairn? You were a nobody. Now you’re acting like king shite. Even if you do have a little help from the Zombie. And I know you think that Burns will kill you anyway. That whatever he does, it won’t be worse than what Bako has in store for anyone who betrays him. You’re in over your head. And you’re scared shitless. I mean, you’re putting up a front, but it’s there. In your eyes.’

  ‘You have a point?’ He hesitated just a little. Maybe I was getting to him. Pop psychology paying off.

  ‘Aye, I do. You think you have only two options. I’m your third.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Like I said, I still have connections. I can ensure your safety.’

  ‘Those cunts turned up at the old fart’s place?’

  I smiled. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Police,’ he said. ‘I fucking knew it. You’re a strange prick of a man, McNee.’

  Was that a compliment? His voice sounded warm with admiration.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘You tell me what he wants to know. I tell him I’ll take care of you. And you disappear.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Bus. Train. Whatever. You get the fuck out of here and don’t come back. No one ever looks for you because everyone thinks you’re dead. Buried somewhere out in Templeton Woods, maybe. Or face down at the bottom of the Tay, pockets filled with rocks and eyes bulging out of your skull.’

  ‘And what’s to stop me from telling the old man what you’ve done? What’s to stop me telling him that you’re a traitor?’ He sounded eager. Brain cells firing. Thinking he had an advantage.

  I leaned forward. ‘He’ll kill us both. We both know how strong your sense of self-preservation is. And I might just kill you my fucking self if you try.’

  He thought about this for a moment. I let him stew.

  What would Burns be expecting to find on his return? That I had beaten this poor prick to a bloody pulp? That I had threatened his family? His friends?

  Was this a test? What happened if I failed?

  The old man was in the middle of a war he had never wanted to fight. His defences were up. His enemies had committed the ultimate atrocity. All bets were off.

  What did he expect of his soldiers? What did he expect of me?

  The door opened.

  Quicker than I thought. Had he been listening for the sounds of screams?

  Burns and Malone walked in. The old man smiled. Showing off his incisors. Said, ‘Oh, I wasn’t talking about this one.’ He nodded at me to get out. Then turned to Malone. ‘This here is the man who will get you talking. I don’t think anyone’s ever not told him what he wants to hear.’

  ‘You lying fuck!’ Nairn yelled. At me. ‘You fuck! You promised me! You promised—’

  The rest of his words were muffled as Burns shut the door behind us. ‘Come on, son,’ he said. ‘Let’s go have a wee coffee. Have a little fun with the bairns. Forget about this wee cunt for a while.’

  We walked down the stairs. The noises from behind the closed door made me want to run.

  FORTY

  The kids buzzed toys around the floor, occasionally lifting them and waving them around as though desperate to share the joy. The old man hunkered down with them for a while. He pushed the toys around, imitated the noises they made and laughed with them. The kids took to him as though he were a favourite uncle who came around every day.

  I was a more uncertain presence. They stared up at me with wide eyes as though I was a giant come down from the beanstalk with the express intention of grinding their bones to make my bread. I tried my best to smile with them, but I didn’t understand the toys, and the sheer uncomplicated joy they expressed made me feel sad. A nostalgic emptiness. For lost innocence I could no longer remember.

  Their mother – her name was Chantelle – sat on the edge of the sofa. She didn’t take her eyes off the boys once. Her body language was tense: posture stiff and unyielding. She wanted me and the old man out of the house, but was too afraid to speak up. And the old man’s apparent pleasure in playing with her children was even more unsettling.

  We all knew what was happening upstairs. But what could any of us really do about it? Burns was the man in control. We followed his lead.

  The sounds that came from upstairs were muffled, but unsettling. The kids didn’t seem to notice, but Chantelle and I jumped in our seats at every thump and moan. There were some sounds that might have been screams, but they kept cutting off with a sense of finality that made us wonder whether it was finally over.

  The old man didn’t react. He laughed and joked and stole the kid’s noses.

  Finally, we heard footsteps. Malone was drying off his hands with a towel when he came through the door. ‘It’s done,’ he said. Like he’d just repaired the boiler.

  Burns stood up. Ruffled the hair on the two wee boy’s heads. Said, ‘They’ll be taken care of, lass. Don’t you worry about that.’

  Chantelle looked at him, eyes wide, stuck between shock and hatred. She let us leave without saying another word.

  In the car, we were silent. I was in the back seat. Kept my eye on Malone the whole journey, worried about what he might say.

  What had Nairn told him?

  I’d taken a risk talking to Nairn the way I had. But I meant what I said. He was a nasty wee prick, but he’d been in over his head. One way or the other, he had to disappear. I wasn’t about to have a third man’s death on my conscience.

  I had thought I could save Nairn. From Burns, if not from himself. But I must have known what would happen. Looking back, I saw the inevitability of it all. Nairn was a footnote. He was a pawn. A small player in a far larger game. From the word go, he’d been destined to end his life

  Burns called for a clean-up crew before we left the house. After he’d done that, he gently told Chantelle what would happen if she talked to the police. She understood, of course. Given who her boyfriend had been, she was well aware that talking to the coppers was the equivalent of sticking a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger.

  Kind of like offering mercy to a man that David Burns wanted dead.

  We drove through the city. Parked at the rear of the city-centre office block that housed Burns Enterprises. Walked to the third floor. In the lift, I stood between the two other men. Trapped. No way I could get out of this one.

  To get to Burns’s private office you walked through an open plan workspace that was busy during the day with office drones on phones and computer screens. Officially Burns ran a construction business. How he’d managed to get so deeply involved in the city’s rejuvenation plans. How he became so integral to the lifeblood of Dundee. He pumped money and funds to those who needed it. In public he spoke of his pride at being from the city. He attended games at Dens Park. Donated part of his legal profits to the club. Acted like he meant every word. ‘Dundonian through and through,’ he once said, when asked to describe himself. ‘And proud of it.’

  No wonder the police hated him. He was a symbol of civic pride at the same time as being a drug dealer and a known criminal. The disparity between those public images should have been impossible to maintain, and yet he managed it with apparent effortlessness. He was every copper’s worst nightmare: a criminal beloved by the people.

  The old man made su
re the office door was locked before he sat behind the desk. Malone moved smoothly, as though he knew what he was doing. Unlocked a battered old cabinet unit, pulled down the rolltop and poured three glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter. Took one straight to the old man, indicated I should help myself to one of the others remaining.

  I did so.

  We drank in silence. And quickly.

  Burns said, ‘Bako.’ He shook his head. His eyes were focussed somewhere on the middle distance. He didn’t care if we were listening. He needed to work this through in his own mind. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. Say what you like about me – and people have – but I’ve got rules. This new breed of arsehole doesn’t give a fuck. Get off on the pain they cause.’

  I’d heard people say similar things about Burns. But maybe it’s also true that old age mellows a man.

  Burns said to Malone, ‘What did Nairn tell you?’

  ‘That this prick tried to offer him a deal.’ Nodding in my direction.

  This was it, then. No way out. Like Nairn, looked like my life had only ever been leading in one direction. And this was it.

  The old man laughed. ‘A deal?’

  ‘Said that our pal here would let him live if he gave everything up. All Nairn had to do was pretend he’d been knocked around.’

  ‘Priceless,’ Burns said. Then he looked at me, expression stony. ‘You still think you’re one of the good guys, don’t you? Maybe you are. I know enough cops on the job would have hurt a man like Nairn without thinking twice. But even without the constraints of your own rules, you still look for an alternative. It’s touching. Stupid, aye. But touching.’

  Jesus, it didn’t even cross his mind that the deal I offered Nairn might have been serious.

  What did that say about how he saw me?

  Malone said, ‘He also said that he never met Bako face to face. Only talked to the bastard through representatives. First time, it was three Ukranian fucks. Offered him a choice. He could do what Bako asked, or be an example to the next man.’

  ‘Maybe our wee friend wasn’t so stupid after all,’ said Burns.