The Good Son by Russel D McLean

known he was capable of killing her.
    I felt like I was close to some revelation, but couldn’t quite clear that final hurdle. I tried to sleep, thinking my mind could sort itself out on its own. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t get still. Couldn’t stop thinking.
    Everything came back to what Daniel Robertson had done. The thing that got him fired from the club had been what killed him. What fucked up his brother’s life. What killed Kat, the woman who had claimed she loved him.
    There were answers to all my questions. But I feared they were in the grave.

Chapter 16
    At eight o’clock, I awoke to hear my mobile ringing on the bedside table through in the other room. Rolling off the sofa and struggling to my feet, I found I’d fallen asleep the wrong way. My muscles were stiff. The only movements I could coax from them were tentative and uncertain.
    Nevertheless, I limped through to the bedroom and took the call.
    â€œI want to talk to you,” Robertson said.
    â€œAbout the report?”
    â€œFace to face. I think I know who killed that woman.”
    â€œYou should call the police,” I said, deferring to common sense. “Talk to DI Lindsay. He’ll be able to —”
    â€œI can’t… I… Christ, McNee, I don’t know if I can talk to the police.” He sounded ready to break down in tears. Maybe he already had.
    I took a deep breath, thought about what had happened to Kat. The fear in Robertson’s voice wastransparent. I said, “Okay, we’ll talk,” and named a café where we could meet.
    He hung up without saying goodbye.
    I wasn’t going back on my word if I talked to him. At the very least I could tell him what Susan had told me. His problems couldn’t be solved by private parties. The police weren’t out to crucify him, they were out to find the truth.
    And I could do nothing else to help him.
    My part was over. I wasn’t going to get involved.
    And I wondered if, like me, he’d find my resolution hollow.

    The Washington Café on Union Street was small, with green, vinyl-covered pews and plastic tables. It shouldn’t have survived past 1950 and as such felt homely and welcoming. Like a time capsule. It was comforting to think that among all the changes that had occurred in the city centre, some places just kept on going.
    Robertson had slipped behind a table at the rear. I ordered a black coffee for myself. The wee woman behind the till told me she’d bring it over.
    I sat opposite Robertson, who sipped from a mug of milky-white tea. His eyes were supported by bags. I knew how he felt.
    His hands shook, in danger of letting his cup slip from between his fingers. I could smell the whisky on his breath.
    â€œYou didn’t sound good on the phone,” I said.
    â€œI had no reason to sound good.”
    â€œYou’ve been holding back since our first consultation. There’s something else going on.”
    â€œNo. Nothing else.” I would have believed him except his eyes were focused on the plastic table top and his voice trembled despite his best efforts at composure.
    â€œIf you know something…”
    â€œLast night I got a phone call.” He looked up at me again. Bloodshot eyes made him look like he’d drunk enough booze to re-float the
Titanic
. “A Cockney accent, you know, like that bloody
EastEnders
shite.” He sipped from his cup, winced. Then blew on the hot liquid to cool it down. “Asking about my brother.”
    â€œYou mean his suicide?”
    â€œNo. This… this bastard…told me my brother had stolen something.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike money. I don’t know how much,” Robertson said, and I thought he was a little too quick with that information. “He just said money. That was all. He said I knew where it was.”
    â€œYou don’t know what he was talking about?”
    â€œThe first time I saw my