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.