The Good Son (2 page)

“Maybe it's in the genes, aye?”

“What's in the genes?”

Robertson looked at me like I was stupid. “Suicide,” he said. “Depression. All that nonsense.”

“You've had suicidal tendencies?”

“No, not me!” Agitated, his eyes bugging. “My — our — father.”

“Your father killed himself?”

“Rest his soul.”

“Why?”

His brow rumpled. “I couldn't tell you for sure.”

There was nothing else to say except, “I'm sorry.”

“Spare me,” he said. “Christ, please, anything but that.”

“What I don't understand is why you require the services of an investigator.”

“I told you, me and Daniel didn't talk. Not properly. The occasional letter, but even then… Our father had a heart attack a few years back.”

“But I thought —”

“He survived. Pulled through. Stubborn man, Dad.
At least he was… after the attack, it just took everything out of him… Makes you wish the heart attack had been fatal.” Robertson looked on the verge. Ready to jump. The tears waiting to flow.

But it didn't happen.

Real men — Scots men — don't cry.

I waited as Robertson composed himself.

Finally: “I always thought that would be how he'd go. A heart attack, I mean. Better than suicide, right? I wrote to Daniel and told him. To let him know. That the old man was all right. Got back a one-line letter.”

“What did it say?”

He hesitated. Then, whispering the words as though afraid of reprisal: “It said, ‘No worse than the old cunt deserves.'”

“How old was your brother when he left?”

“Sixteen. An argument with Dad.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Down to England. London.”

“I still don't see what…”

“Mr McNee, I don't know what happened to my brother down there. I don't even know what he did for a living. I know nothing about him, the man he became. All I know is that he had a forwarding address. A place I could reach him. That, and two months after our dad dies, I find Danny's corpse swinging from a tree.”

I could have forgiven him the tears earlier.

“You want closure.”

“The police don't seem to…”

I understood that.

“They're happy to know how. But they don't care why.”

“Aye,” said Robertson. “Aye, that's the problem.”

I sat back in the chair, kept my eyes locked on him.
He continued looking down at his belly.

“What I find could be even more upsetting than…”

“Peace of mind,” he said. “That's what's important here.” There was finality in the statement. An answer to every objection I could raise.

I laid out my fee structure. He listened, nodded, said, “Of course, Mr McNee,” pulled out a cheque-book from his inside pocket.

I looked out the office window onto Ward Road. The DSS office across the way was a foreboding block of dark concrete that edged onto North Lindsay Street. Robertson walked past the building and down towards the car park at the rear of the new Overgate Shopping Centre, part of Dundee's recent rejuvenation. Sandstone from the rear, glass and steel from the front. The gently curving structure hooked round the City Churches and St Mary's Steeple like the protective arm of a mother round the shoulders of a child.

The Centre was a far cry from the decrepit block of 1960's concrete that had preceded it. The mall was just one sign of a city looking to forget its industrial roots and move forward; part of the new, modern Scotland. Forget the tat that feeds the tourist trade: we're out on the cutting edge.

Jam, Jute and Journalism — the heritage of the city every child is taught in school — was history. The Overgate and Riverside Developments were in line with Scotland's new cosmopolitanism. Embracing the modern world. They'd called Dundee the City of Discovery. Not just a reference to Captain Scott's ship, permanently anchored down by the Riverside.
Scientific and medical research had been pumping cash into Dundee since the late nineties. Computer programmers had found their Mecca —
Grand Theft Auto
was created here. An unexpected financial boon for the city so many Scots had been ready to write off.

Bill, whose official title is administrative assistant, smiled as I walked into reception. “That looked like a man with problems.”

I nodded.

Bill smoothed his hair down with an unnecessary gesture. He took great stock in his appearance, each item of clothing chosen carefully. Never a crease. His hair was held in place by so many products you could have set him alight by flicking a lighter under his nose. But his voice was what defied expectations. It was down in his boots; a gravelly native rumble that could stop a bar brawl.

I took his copy of the previous evening's
Tele
off the desk, checked the by-line on the lead story.

Daniel Robertson's suicide still dominated the local news, but the tone of the article made it clear that the police had come to the end of their inquiries. It had become a non-story. To everyone except the dead man's brother.

Much of an investigator's work these days is sedentary. Technology has made it a static job. The bread-and-butter work doesn't involve much action. You sit at a desk, you check files. You wait for hours in the driver's seat of a car for just the right moment, your camera ready to capture the evidence.

Sometimes you get out. Photograph accident sites
for insurance claims. Talk to people. Try and get information. But much of that can be done over the phone just as easily as in person.

I started locally.

Called the Fife constabulary media inquiries office.

“How can I help?”

I glanced at the
Tele
, used the name of the reporter whose name appeared on the Robertson story. “My name's Cameron Connelly. I'm calling regarding the suicide of Daniel Robertson.” For a moment, I worried the woman on the other end might know Connelly, realise I was pulling a fast one. Relying on the fact they were across the other side of the river. Fife Constabulary wouldn't deal so much with Dundonian journalists. I was taking a gamble.

Either I was right, or the girl on the other end was new, hadn't played the
getting to know you
game with the local hacks. “Haven't you got anything better to write about?”

I almost sighed with relief.

Instead, I said, “Slow news week.”

“Must be.”

“I heard a rumour today…”

“You should know better…”

“There's more to this man's death than the police are telling us.” There always is. The police and the media play an odd game of cat and mouse as reporters fight for more information and the coppers try to hold it back.

The woman on the other end of the line paused. Just a little too long. Then: “It was a suicide. The coroner confirmed it. I don't know what else you want, Mr Connelly.”

“No evidence of foul play?”

She laughed. “Really scraping the barrel over
there, aren't you?”

“Guess so,” I said. And hung up.

Confirmation of suicide. But they were holding something back. Didn't want to give it to the press. Check the hesitations and the avoidance strategies.

I didn't have much. But I had a name. And an address.

Could have been worse.

Daniel Robertson's mail was forwarded to a nightclub in the heart of Soho. His brother had been writing to the address for years. A quick search gave me the club's website. Glitzy, expensive, with an overly busy design. It took me a while to find the information I needed.

A name leaped out.

The club's owner.

Gordon Egg.

Even north of the border, I'd heard of him. A new wave London gangster, born too late to have power when the Krays ruled the underworld, but old enough to have amassed a reputation and even make a late grab at respectability.

His book — he called it
Hard Boiled
, the best kind of double pun — had hit the shelves two years earlier. It played on his violent past, appealing to a market that didn't want to read, but idolised men like Egg.

The website didn't disguise the facts. Instead it played them up. Made a big deal about the business being run by an “ex” East End gangster. A wide boy made good.

I thought: men like that don't go straight.

If Daniel was involved with Egg, maybe his brother wouldn't want to know the truth.

I'd already said I wasn't going to lie. And Robertson had claimed he was ready to accept whatever I told him.

I grabbed the phone, rang the club. It was still early, but there was every chance someone would be around, getting the place ready for the evening. A caretaker, at least, who might know something.

A rough East End voice answered the phone.

“I'm looking for Daniel Robertson,” I said.

A pause.

“He don't work here no more.”

“It's important. I'm calling on behalf of his family.”

“Gotcha,” said the voice. “Thought you sounded fuckin' Scotch, mate. But all the same, he ain't workin' here no more. Got his arse fired, didn't he?”

“When did that happen?”

The guy on the other end hesitated before saying “Three weeks ago.”

“No wonder we can't get hold of him.”

“He said he wasn't that close to his family.”

“What did he do? I mean, that he got fired?”

“Confidential information, that is, mate. Don't know you from Adam. Could be anyone callin' us, asking for info on someone's done something you don't like.”

“Aye, of course.” Keeping my voice breezy. “If you hear from him, tell him his brother wants a word.”

“Sure thing.” He hung up.

I kept the receiver near my ear for a few moments. Listening to the dial tone. Daniel had been fired from the club three weeks earlier. Whatever happened, his departure hadn't been under the best of circumstances. A bite to the Cockney's voice told me his opinion of Daniel Robertson. More than just antagonism towards the Scots.

I placed the receiver back in the cradle, stood up and hit the kettle that sat on top of a four-drawer
filing cabinet.

Thought about Daniel Robertson. Tried to find a point of connection.

Who had he become?

If the company he kept was any indication, he hadn't found the streets of London paved with gold.

There was a guy I used to know on the force who'd transferred down south to the Met. We said we'd keep in touch, but that was never one of my strong points. We hadn't talked in three years.

Last I knew he'd been working with the drugs squad. I called around, asked questions, waited on extensions until finally I reached the man himself.

His voice had become corrupted by an encroaching English twang. The mixed accent sounded artificial and unpleasant. He used my first name.

I winced.

“Dave,” I said. “How are you?”

“Jesus, mate, haven't heard from you in donkeys…”

“Tell me about it.”

“You still in Dundee?”

“Aye.”

“Christ, you should have transferred out while you could. That prick Lindsay still about?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You mean you haven't tried to kill him?”

“They don't look kindly on murdering a superior officer.”

“Guess not.” He sounded happy to hear from me. And evidently still believed I was on the force. Which also meant he wouldn't know about…

“How's Elaine?”

Last time we spoke, we'd been down the pub. Drinking his health, wishing him luck.

Elaine had kissed his cheek.

I pictured the scene.

Held it.

Said, “She's dead.”

Sounding flat and emotionless.

Must have knocked Dave on his arse. He went quiet enough.

The phone went off in reception.

“Jesus, mate, I'm sorry.” He sounded hollow. False. But then so did everyone when they told me that, and I had to wonder whether it was more me than him.