Free The Good Son by Russel D McLean Page A

fault she had lost her child.
    And maybe that made it worse on her.
    I thought of myself as cool, calm and detached. Put up a good front, too. And then I did something like that, judging a man in a moment. Letting anger dictate my actions.
    Outside the station, I’d almost done it again. Assuming he was guilty.
    Rachel never assumed. She loved her husband, seeing past who he had been to the man he really was.
    Rachel and her sister: so close, so alike. Elaine had done the same for me. Seen something no one else could.
    â€œAye, everything sorts out,” I said after a pause that went on too long. And instantly hated myself for doling out platitudes to someone I cared for.
    Rachel looked at me strangely, as though I’d just given away something she’d never expected.
    But I was saved by the barman bringing over our meals.
    I dug into the steak pie. Rachel ate her chilli with deliberation while the air between us settled.
    â€œI guess you sorted things out, you and Harry.”
    She shook her head. “We moved on. That’s what you do. You deal with things and move on. And what happened, in the end it was nobody’s fault.”
    â€œHe’s alright. For a Weegie prick.”
    She smiled at that. The smile turned into a laugh. Her eyes sparkled and her lips parted, displaying perfectly formed teeth. Then she stopped and frowned as if puzzling over a particularly tricky problem. She looked at me with her head cocked to one side. That same look she’d given me just a few minutes earlier. “I never really got it. What she saw in you.”
    â€œNeither did I. I was just grateful.”
    â€œBut right there,” she said. “Just for a moment, maybe I saw something.” She looked at the surface of the table, her expression that of an embarrassed schoolgirl. “Sometimes, McNee, I might believe you’re as human as the rest of us.”

Chapter 13
    Driving past St Michaels you would hardly notice it, except for the pub that sits on the junction right at the heart of the hamlet. The St Michaels Inn has a local reputation, well deserved, for good food and a relaxed atmosphere.
    Other than that, there isn’t much to the place. A few houses nearby. The forest just across the way. A smattering of houses with a main road running between them.
    I parked the car outside the inn as the weather began to clear. The sun wasn’t looking to show its head, but the temperature was pleasant.
    Walking into the lounge, I noticed a middle-aged man in a checked shirt and blue jeans playing darts on his own. Tucked into a corner table, a young couple dressed in walking gear shared a quiet pint.
    The barman was in his early twenties, maybe even late teens, with fair hair gelled into the approximation of a hedgehog. His face was open, honest and welcoming. The kind of face a family pub like StMichaels probably relied on. He was soft spoken, polite and deferential when he said hello. I ordered a Stella. As he pulled my pint, I said, “You know James Robertson?”
    â€œThought that story was dead.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYou’re a reporter, right?”
    I shook my head, pulled a business card from my wallet. He examined it closely, pursing his lips and nodding.
    â€œSo what has this got to do with Mister Robertson?” he asked, handing me my pint and slipping the card into the breast pocket of his shirt. His eyes lit up. For this lad, there was whiff of danger and excitement about a job he’d only seen people do on the telly.
    â€œI’m working for a private client. Clearing up a few loose ends.” Conspiratorial.
    â€œAye? Like what?” The lad bought it without question.
    â€œLike why Robertson’s brother committed suicide.”
    He nodded. “It’s a puzzler. I didn’t know he had family. Except his son and ex, like. All I know is he likes to come in for a pint every now and then. I think he takes a wee walk across his fields,