‘So what happened?’
No sign of the old man. No, this was the kind of shite he stayed well away from. Instead I was dealing with Malone, the buffer between the old man and his less than legitimate businesses. Bald head, white goatee, tattoos on his arms he liked to show off with short sleeved T-shirts. Used to work as a bouncer at some of the rougher clubs during the eighties. Still looked like he could hold his own if he had to. Short, but tough. Not exactly a wee man complex, but more like he had compacted the muscles of a man twice his size. Had this thing about baring his teeth when he got impatient. Used to be that was the warning to anyone stepping out of line. So far, he’d resisted with me.
But only because he’d likely been told to go easy.
‘What happened was we got caught up in a raid.’
‘A raid?’
‘Seriously. Findo, he didn’t … I mean, he didn’t fucking think. You know how he is. He was in the zone. Neither of us thought. But he was right in there, and then the cops and then …’
‘And then?’
‘And then I got the fuck out of there.’ Like he had to ask.
We were in the backroom of a barbers near Dens Park. The owner had watched us walk through the front shop with his eyes narrowed. He didn’t like us being here. But then he probably had no choice. Like so many people, through accident or design, he was clearly in debt to the old man. A gambler or a John, maybe. Didn’t look like he had issues with drugs, anyway. The eyes were too clear. Just a normal man who made some stupid mistake.
But then isn’t that the way with most folk who get dragged into the wrong side of the law? It’s never so much a conscious decision as it is a perfect storm of circumstance: interior and exterior influences in perfect alignment.
Malone nodded. ‘You used to be polis.’
‘Aye, I did.’ I was seated on a swivel chair. Even walking from the car across the road had been an effort. The fabric of my shirt had brushed against the bruises, lighting them up, reminding me of the punishment I was putting myself through.
‘No favours?’
‘Ask the old man if you like. I’ve been a pariah for a long time when it comes to Tayside’s finest.’
‘Stand up.’ No emotion there. No hint he gave a toss about my explanations.
I did as he asked.
‘Take off your shirt.’
‘Not without dinner and flowers.’ Didn’t get a smile, so I pushed it. ‘Even a movie would do.’
‘Take it off.’ Sounding bored. Humour not his thing.
I undid my shirt, took it off. Slipped off my T-shirt, too. Gave him a pirouette that wouldn’t trouble Wayne Sleep. ‘Happy?’
Malone nodded his head down the way.
‘Fucksakes.’
‘You going to make this hard?’
‘For you or me?’
Malone smiled. ‘Guess.’
I undid my belt. Dropped the jeans. Held my hands high. ‘Happy.’
‘Can’t be too careful.’
‘No. You can’t.’
No wires. No recording devices of any kind. That was the rule. Me and Griggs had gone back and forth on the idea, but even though I’d worked my way in close to Burns, the fact remained that the old man was a paranoid of the highest order. He regularly checked his closest friends for wire taps, hired cleaners for his home who were also trained in the art of surveillance detection. He wasn’t just scared of the police. He was a target for far worse than men in uniform.
Malone seemed happy. Gave me a wink and then pulled out his mobile. Dialled in a number. Waited. ‘He’s here. He’s clean.’ Then, to me: ‘Sit.’
I grabbed the swivel chair next to the desk.
Malone stood by the door. Like one of the Queen’s Guard, I suspected he wouldn’t have moved for anything.
I was struck by the scene. The man waiting in the room. The strong, silent type by the door. Put Malone in uniform, I could have been a suspect waiting for the lead detective to arrive.
You always keep suspects under observation. You never know what they might try. I’d seen cases of suspects trying to strangle themselves with handcuffs, battering their heads off desks and walls, all in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. The confession. By the time they were in the room, they knew it was coming
Burns arrived about ten minutes later. During this whole time, neither Malone nor I said a word to each other. We understood the situation. Knew the roles we had to play.
When Burns entered, I stood up.
The old man said, ‘Should I be worried?’
‘Findo won’t talk.’ But I couldn’t be sure that’s what he meant.
‘No, he won’t. And you?’
‘I’m here because I had the good sense to get out.’
‘Aye, Findo always was impulsive.’ Already speaking about him in the past tense. ‘The idea of getting you two together was that you might have curbed his excesses.’
And, I supposed, he might have helped me find mine.
‘But instead, McNee, you go and make him worse. What is it between the two of you? Always had you down as a people person.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He never trusted you.’
I nodded.
‘Maybe he saw you as a threat.’
‘Maybe.’
‘The new golden boy.’
‘Basic Freud.’
‘Without the bit about shagging your mother.’
‘Right.’
‘That was a joke.’
I gave him a laugh. A dutiful one. He shook his head. My laugh wasn’t enough. ‘Sit, McNee. Sit down.’ He rarely called me by name. Usually ‘son’ or ‘lad’. Made me worried. Meant the situation was serious.
I did as he asked. No fooling around. His expression was taut. His eyes impossible to read. Was he angry at me? Or someone else?
Did it matter?
‘I’ve already sent a solicitor down to the station. Fat Boy McArdle.’
Euan McArdle. Bane of every arresting officer’s life. The kind of solicitor you turned to when you wanted sleazy, sweaty, crumpled amorality. He was going to end his days either rich, arrested or at the bottom of a ditch. Even money whatever way you looked at it.
‘He talked to Findo yet?’
‘They’re playing with him just now. Delaying the inevitable. You know what they’re like. Especially if they think they can get anything on the likes of me. But McCardle will get in the room with our boy.’
I nodded. Wondered if Burns could see the sweat on my forehead. An ocean of cold shivered through the pores in my skin, drenching me, dripping in my eyes.
But if the old man saw anything, he didn’t react.
Which somehow made things worse.
‘Think he’s going to say something different to your story?’
How do you answer that?
‘God knows.’
‘Oh, He does, lad. He knows everything.’