Chapter 18

“Get it over with.”

Ernie sighed, sat back and locked his hands behind his head. I might have called his expression one of fatherly concern, but maybe that was reading too much into things.

Wishful thinking.

I never thought about my parents.

A conscious decision?

Can’t say I remember making it.

Ernie seemed about to say something and then stopped. Unlocked his hands and leaned forward.

Restless.

“I should do it, too. Arrest your arse. Charge you like the eejit you are.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Things are more complicated than that.”

“Really?”

I wasn’t even going to ask what he was doing at Burns’s house. Dressed up like he was over to the neighbours for dinner. Like the scheming old prick was a friend.

Deep cover?

Aye, believe that if it makes you feel better.

Ten, fifteen years ago it might have been close to the truth. These days, there was no excuse. The backroom deals the Scottish police made with high level gangsters in the late eighties and early nineties were legendary.

Unless…

But why would I believe that of the man I had called my mentor?

“Susan’s worried about you.”

I tried to shrug that off. “She always has been.”

“She said you were making progress. Getting better.”

“I wasn’t ill.”

Ernie chuckled. No real humour. “Sometimes we all wondered.”

I leaned forward. Conspiratorial. “Tell me Ernie…” A whisper: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He sat back. On the defensive. “We don’t talk about that.”

“No?”

“I take you in, it’s because I was in the area and heard the commotion.”

“Shite. You were a guest. At his house. Afternoon fucking tea?”

He took in a breath between gritted teeth. Looked ready to start shouting, but spoke softly when he said, “I told you, it’s complicated.”

Christ, I’d already made the insinuation, figured I might as well go all the way: “Something tells me it’s not your superiors you’re afraid of.”

Hell of a punch. Check the shift in his expression, the way his eyes darted. Searching for the exit.

We were having a nice friendly chat in the upstairs spare room of Burns’s house and not down at the station because Ernie didn’t want his daughter to know that he’d been here. If not exactly sleeping with the enemy, then certainly drinking with him.

The question was why.

Keeping tabs on Burns?

Or something else?

I see-sawed between wanting to forgive Ernie and grabbing him by the collar, yelling about how I’d trusted him. How he’d been the kind of copper I fucking aspired to be when I was on the force.

In the end, I stayed stuck between both those options, just wanting to get out of there, head home and lock the damn door.

Sod the investigation.

Sod Wickes and his sob story.

Sod everything.

“So what happens, now?”

“You tell me you’ve calmed down. You apologise. You leave.”

“Fuck that!” I was almost out the chair again.

“Calm down, McNee.” Three words, spoken quietly, but with a power behind them that could have flattened a bus.

I sat back in the chair. Starting an incident here would be counterproductive at best.

Aye, check Mr fucking Calm.

Ernie said, “You know I worked deep with the old man in the 80’s. Back room deals. All that shite.”

I said, “But it pays not to…” There was no better phrase, bad as it sounded in the circumstances, “burn your bridges.”

Ernie had led a raid on Burns’s home a few years back. I’d been part of the team. Remembered the frost between the two men. Like they knew each other but hadn’t spoken in years.

An act? Oh, aye. A bloody brilliant one and all.

Ernie sighed. “You want me to arrest you?”

I said nothing.

“You want to apologise to the man? Make this easy on everyone? He’ll accept it. Like nothing ever happened.”

Again, I kept schtum. Figured if I couldn’t knock Ernie’s block off, I could make him sweat some at least.

There was just the two of us in the upstairs room. No sound except for the guests downstairs. Talking loud and drinking hard.

Burns said, “I didn’t touch your office.”

Did I believe him?

Did I shite.

Not that it mattered. I’d taken the safe road. Told Ernie I’d do the whole shake-hands gig and then get out.

Deal with the devil?

Better the one you know.

Across the other side of the wee office room, Burns waited patiently.

Looking around, you would think this was the office of any small businessman. A room in the house dedicated to files and folios and figures. You wouldn’t guess at what this man did.

What he had done.

You’d look at the photograph of the man’s son on the desk, never realise that the lad had left town ashamed of his heritage, of what the old man had done to get him through accountancy school.

Burns was standing between me and the door, his hand outstretched. Not looking like a monster. Just a man waiting for his apology.

Christ, that thought alone killed me.

I said, “I’m sorry,” tried not to wince as I stepped across and offered my hand.

Did I look like I meant it? No idea, but Burns seemed to buy into it. His grip was firm and his hands were hot, like he was burning up on the inside.

I hoped he was.

Hoped it hurt like hell.

Outside, I drove away from the house fast. My hands hurt from the tension, and I stopped a few streets away, drawing in fast and bumping the pavement with my tyres.

I dialled a number on the mobile. Dropped my head so my skull smacked the padded headrest.

I breathed out long and slow as the line beeped in my ear.

Susan answered: “Steed?”

I didn’t say anything.

“What do you want?”

That churning in my gut again.

I pulled the phone away from my ear, hit the cancel button.

Lashed out with my fist on the dashboard rather than let loose the tears I could feel stupidly gathering in my eyes.

Second time that day.

Maybe the car was the problem.