The Good Son (4 page)

“Who are you?”

“I knew him.”

“How well?”

“Jesus fuck! You're a nosy bastard.”

“It's my job.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm an investigator.”

“'Course, yeah.”

“I'm working for his family.”

“All his family's down here…”

“His brother.”

“Bloody hell, those two don't even —”

“There's something I need to talk to you—”

I heard other noises in the background.

“Fuck! I need to go. Jesus, but you're right, yeah? We need to—”

The line went dead.

I hoped it was just the line.

I woke up around six the next morning. Stretched, working out the kinks in my muscles. Fell to the floor and straight into a sequence of push ups before rolling over and crunching the stomach muscles.

My leg ached with the exertions. I did my best to ignore it.

According to the doctors at Ninewells, I shouldn't be feeling any pain. I should be céilidh dancing without breaking a sweat. But what did they know?

They'd told me to throw away the crutches months ago. I never did. They were still back at my flat. Because no matter what the doctors said, I knew my leg was fucked for life.

Another hour before Bill started work.

I cleaned up, made it look like I'd arrived early. I didn't want him to think I'd been here all night.

I felt more comfortable staying at the office than my own place.

Maybe that made sense. I still lived in the flat I had shared with Elaine. At nights, when I sat on the sofa and let my mind relax, I thought I could see her
sitting across from me with her legs curled up and a book in her hands.

She was still there in my bed. I would awake at night and feel the heat from her body.

I had been offered the chance to join support groups after her death. Even though I had refused at the time, I still wondered whether what I experienced was only a natural part of the grieving process. A refusal to admit she was gone.

It seemed better — healthier even — to remain at the office and throw myself into a world where I could escape her memory. At least for a while.

It's an escape tactic that has worked well for the McNees. Certainly for my father, who distracted himself with work rather than face any real emotional issues. It was a side of him that my mother had simply accepted.

There was something of my father in my features. Just a touch.

I wondered what I would look like if I ever stopped moving long enough to truly consider what Elaine's death had meant to me.

Remembered how my father looked before the end.

Was that what awaited me?

I smoothed out my hair with my hands and looked closely at myself in the mirror. Somewhere close to human.

I moved through to my office, powered up the computer. Browsed my emails.

Distractions.

At half past one, Bill rang through from the front office.

“There's—” he paused —“a woman to see you.”

I swallowed the last of my pie, told Bill to send her through.

She tottered into my office, looked around and sniffed, unimpressed. “I've come a long way to see you,” she said. Cockney trying to sound educated. Low pitch. Familiar.

“I understand,” I said. “Can I get you a drink, Ms…?”

“Kat'll do just now,” she said. She didn't answer my other inquiry.

But I knew who she was; recognised the voice. The woman who had called from Egg's club. She looked the part, too: heavy makeup. Perm. Fur coat. I'd guessed her age about right. Looked like she was trying to forget it.

“You came all the way from London?”

“Yeah.” Her green eyes dared me to make something of it. “Overnight. Soon as I could make it.”

“You knew Daniel?”

“I wouldn't have come all this way if I didn't —” She stopped herself, bowed her head. “We were close.” She played with her hair. Self-conscious.

“Did you know he was heading north?”

“No one knew where he'd gone.”

“No one thought he'd come home?”

“His family,” she said. “They hated him.” Pronouncing her ‘h's with deliberation. “He didn't think much of them, neither.” She rubbed the material of her jacket between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

“Sure.” Digesting what she had to say, watching her reaction. “How did you meet?”

Did I really want to know, or was I just delaying telling her about Daniel's suicide?

“What business is it of yours?”

“I'm just curious.”

“Why'd you call the club?”

“Part of an investigation.”

“What kind of investigation?”

“I can't say.”

“Fucking tell me why you called the club.” Trying to act tough, but she looked scared. She wouldn't have made the journey if she didn't think something had happened to Daniel.

I thought about the last phone call she'd made. The sound of other voices. The panic when she cleared the line.

She knew Daniel. And the people he worked for.

Over the line, she'd sounded scared. In person, she hid it well. But not well enough.

“I didn't come all the way up to this fucking armpit of an excuse for civilisation to be arsed about by a fucking cunt like you!” Even her anger seemed half-hearted. And I saw it in her eyes; she already knew. She'd guessed. Or she just felt it, somehow.

“Kat,” I said. “Daniel's dead.”

I could have stabbed her instead. It would have been more merciful.

She let go of her coat. Her mouth slackened. Her petite shoulders jerked up and down. Once. Twice.

“I'm sorry,” I said. At least the third time in the last two days…

She bowed her head. A noise escaped her lips. Hesitant. High-pitched and keening.

I kept my distance, wanting to reach out. But I didn't.

Would she even want me to?

She had been standing all this time. I hadn't even
thought to offer her a seat, but now she slumped into the chair on the far side of the desk, hid her face from me with her hands.

Finally, she stopped crying, looked up and said, “They catch who done it?”

I hesitated.

“They even know who done it?”

Not even questioning whether his death was accidental or from natural causes. “Yes,” I said. “They know.”

“Tell me who.”

I told her.

She was on her feet fast, slapping me across the face. “Fuck you,” she said. “He'd never do that.” She slapped me again. “Fuck you.”

I took it. Each blow stung, but I refused to react. Absorbing her anger and pain. A human punching bag.

When she was finished, her green eyes locked onto mine. But the challenge there was non-committal, and she looked away and down at her feet.

“His brother found him,” I said. “Not the kind of reunion anyone would welcome. He came to me, asked for my help.”

“What could you do?”

“Find out who his brother had become. Tell him what had happened to Daniel in the three decades since they last spoke.”

“Daniel wrote him all the time.”

“You ever read the letters?”

“No. They were private.”

“Sure. But it wouldn't have mattered if you did. He told his brother nothing. Two or three lines. A little less than you get on a postcard.”

“They weren't a close family.”

I didn't know what to say to that. From Daniel's point of view, I guess they weren't. But Robertson talked like family was all that had ever really mattered to him.

“Maybe not, but Daniel's suicide would have opened up a lot of old wounds.”

“I get that,” she said. She moved to a chair, sat down. “The coppers just ignored it?”

“It was a suicide,” I said. “Nothing suspicious. Just the question of why. Not something they seem too interested in answering.”

“Just another body.”

I hadn't seen the pictures, but in my mind I could see Daniel Robertson with his eyes wide, his mouth open as though he were screaming.

“It's the way they have to look at it,” I said.

“Funny thing,” she said. “I met you on the street, I'd take you for a copper.”

“I used to be one.”

“Oh?”

“I walked out.”

“You walked or they pushed you?”

I didn't answer.

“If you just walked, then you're a fuckin' wimp.” She smiled, then, and said, “That was rude, Mr McNee. I'm sorry. It's just…”

“I understand.” But I wanted to tell her I had my reasons.

“You said his brother was the one what found him? You think maybe I could talk to him?”

“If you give me a contact number I'll have him call you.”

“Leave it to his discretion?”

“Something like that.”

I passed her a pen and a piece of paper. She wrote
down a mobile number. Her script was deliberate, the numbers large and bold. “I'll be in town a little while. I guess I need to do my grieving is all.”

“If you need anything…”

She pulled a hankie from her handbag and dabbed delicately at her eyes. The white tissue came away smudged with the black of her mascara.

“She knew my brother?”

“Aye.” I was walking west along Ward Road. Holding the phone tight against my ear as I strained to hear Robertson's voice. “Says she did, anyway.”

“Christ,” he said. “A wife?”

“Girlfriend,” I said. Except she wasn't much of a girl any more. Fake fur and thick makeup hiding the mature woman underneath. It should have been repulsive. Instead, I felt sorry for her.

“How long…?”

“She didn't tell me much. Insisted she'd only speak to you. I told her I couldn't make that decision on your behalf.”

Silence on the other end of the line, except for the sound of his breathing.

“If you want my opinion,” I said, “I don't think it's a good idea. Give me some time to feel around. I can find out if she's genuine.”

“Why would she lie about knowing Daniel?”

“I don't know.” A half truth, but I didn't want to
burden him with details of his brother's life over a phone line. A cold way to conduct such personal business.

“Has she given you any reason not to trust her?”

“She hasn't given me a reason to trust her.”

“Give me the number.”

I stressed again that I didn't think this was a good idea. “Mr Robertson, the facts of your brother's life are… unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” I could picture his already red face turning a deeper shade of scarlet, the fat of his forehead crinkling around his little eyes.

“I hoped we might discuss this in person.”

“This woman — his girlfriend, bidey-in or whatever she is — she's the last link to my brother. If anyone can tell me who he was, then it's her.”

He was right. She was tangible. Our last link to Daniel Robertson.

“At least let me have another talk with her… I can—”

“No,” he said.

“Then I should be present, at least—”

“I don't think so. This is something I have to do for myself.”

There was no talking him out of it.

By the time I walked up the two flights to my office, I'd reluctantly given Robertson Kat's number and ended the call. He was my client. I wanted to serve his best interests, but it was hard when he failed to appreciate my efforts.

He didn't really want an investigator. He wanted someone who would reassure him that his brother's
life had been peaches and cream and what happened out in the woods was an aberration, perhaps even some perversely heroic gesture.

That was why he wanted to talk to this woman. Maybe she would colour the story just right. Make everything seem perfect. Make Daniel's life more palatable.

Maybe she would lie.

Bill updated me on admin. He mentioned that he would be leaving early. It was his boyfriend's birthday and he'd booked an early meal at a restaurant on Brook Street.