Susan left at ten that evening. I sat around for a while in the front room, lights off, thinking about what had happened, what it meant. If anything.
The same old mistake?
For both of us?
I thought about what she’d said about Griggs. Or rather what she hadn’t said. As a copper, you soon realize that you can learn more about what a person has to say by their silences. It’s the unsaid that matters. When you’re always looking for the truth of a situation, it becomes an instinct. Even when you don’t want to.
When I’d talked about Griggs blackmailing me, she’d shut the conversation down as best she could. Maybe feeling the same way.
She had said that me and Griggs were similar. I understood what she was talking about. Both of us were blinkered by a personal campaign that mattered more to us than procedure or due course. A campaign that mattered more to us than the people we knew, the people we loved. And the people who loved us.
My obsessions had taken me to dark places. I had killed a man because of them. Whether or not the gun belonged to him and whether or not he had threatened my life was immaterial.
The fact was that I had wanted to kill him. In that moment, when I pulled the trigger, I had done so with a clear head and an absolute purpose.
Taken a momentary pleasure in what I had done.
Because it was the only thing at that time that I thought would bring me peace.
The years since that night have all been about coming to terms with that moment. I have realized that it didn’t give me what I wanted. That nothing I did could have brought me the satisfaction I had pursued. Nothing except time. And the grace of the universe.
I thought about all of this as the dark embraced me, broken only by the streetlights outside. I sat in the armchair in the front room, a poured but untouched Laphroaig on the coffee table. No TV. No radio. Just the sound of the city outside.
The bell rang about eleven, and I answered, my heart catching a moment like it used to when I was a teenager confronted with a girl I liked.
‘You’re awake, then.’
No such luck. There was no pretty girl on the other end of the intercom. The deep voice made my heart sink instead of sing. I swallowed my disappointment, buzzed the old man inside.
‘Someone’s got to Findo.’
‘Aye?’
‘He’s not speaking to McArdle. He’s not speaking to anyone. Which, in the plus column, means he’s also not talking to the cops.’
‘So why do you think someone’s got to him?’
‘I know the lad. His parents, too. I know when something’s wrong. Fin would talk to McArdle. He knows the procedure. What he’s supposed to do. So he’s either already done something so fucking stupid he’s afraid there’s no way out. Or else he’s not being allowed to talk to McArdle because the police are turning the wee fucker.’
We were in the kitchen. I’d poured a second Laphroaig for the old man. We sipped as we spoke.
Burns swirled his glass. ‘You heard that about the bar in Edinburgh?’ A non-sequitur, but maybe just thinking about what Fin might or might not have been saying was enough to give him the fear. The best way to deal with it was to change the subject. We were just two men having a nightcap.
‘Which one?’
‘The one … Christ, it was in those books … the ones with the detective. Ribs, or whatever the fuck. The author made him drink in this bar … real place. Anyway, the story goes about how two wee American tourists went in and asked for the best whisky they had. Barman gives them two fine glasses. Fifteen-year-old single malt. Beautiful stuff. The Americans look at the drinks, then say, “Can we have ice with that?” Bartender takes away the glasses without a word and pours them down the sink. Turns back and says, “We’ll not be wanting your custom, then.”’
‘That true?’
‘Shite if I know, but it sounds good. Can’t beat a good whisky. Wee bit of water to make it sing, and you’re all set. To shite with ice, right?’
I raised my own glass. ‘Right.’ We clinked.
He didn’t want to talk about Findo. Yet that was exactly why he showed up at my door. The old man was an expert in not speaking directly about things. Maybe that came with his line of work, his lifestyle. Or maybe it was a natural skill. Something inherent in his nature.
I said, ‘He’s not turned.’
‘No?’
‘One thing about Findo, he’s loyal.’
‘He didn’t like you.’
‘I posed a threat. Vouch for me all you like, he was still looking out for your best interests.’
The old man nodded.
‘Took us a long time to get to where we are,’ I said.
‘And where are we?’
‘At a mutual understanding.’
He nodded. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Right.’
‘All this shite with Findo, it’s going to draw attention. And I know you weren’t happy with the situation. So I want you to do me a favour.’
‘You already said.’
‘Don’t get cheeky, son.’
‘Sorry.’
He sipped at his drink. ‘My nephew’s coming to town.’
‘The one who owns the limo service?’
‘That’s the prick. And given the situation, I think he needs a new friend.’
‘Close protection.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the gig you’re asking me to take on. Close protection. Bodyguarding.’
‘Sounds melodramatic.’
‘But accurate?’
He took another sip. ‘It’s not too hard. Keep an eye on him when he’s out, that kind of thing. Make sure he gets left alone, if that’s what he wants. But I doubt it. You could at least make sure he’s talking with the right kind of people. Some folks, especially round here, they can get excited, you know?’
‘Especially when you’re the nephew of a local celebrity.’
He shook his head. ‘A businessman, son.’
‘And business is good.’
‘Only as good as you make it.’ He raised his glass. ‘That’s the only secret to success. Things are only as good as you make them.’
Trite bollocks. But the scary thing was, he believed what he was saying.