Free The Good Son by Russel D McLean Page B

just to check everything’s okay, you know, and pops in for a quick pick-me-up.”
    â€œBut you know him well enough?”
    â€œLocal man,” he said. “In a place like this you get to know everyone in a ten-mile radius.”
    â€œBut not too well?”
    â€œWe’re not buddies, no,” said the lad. “I don’t really know much of his business, like. Just the usual pub talk.” He leaned over the bar. “What is thisabout, huh?”
    â€œI want to get to know him, you know? Understand him a little better.”
    â€œYou could try talking to him.” As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
    I tapped the side of my nose. “I need to know him without, uh, knowing him.” The lad didn’t even realise I was playing him. Would he have answered these questions from anyone else?
    â€œHe’s not an unfriendly man,” he said. “A bit stand offish, I guess. You know, I’m behind the bar, he’s getting a drink and that’s it. Even if he is in here every night. His wife left him about six years ago.”
    â€œBefore your time,” I said, not even bothering to make it a question.
    â€œAye, well,” said the lad. “I’ve only worked here about a year, now.”
    â€œBut you know about the divorce.”
    â€œSure. The old hands, they let you know about regulars when you start. They said his wife was one hell of a battleaxe.”
    â€œSo everyone expected him to start chasing after the local talent?”
    That earned me a grin. “Aye, well, you haven’t seen some of the lasses that work here at nights, huh?”
    I raised my eyebrows; I knew what he was talking about.
    â€œSome people, even the happily married ones, like, they get a little frisky sometimes. Harmless banter, mostly. All the same Mr Robertson, he’s not like that.”
    â€œHe’s not interested?”
    â€œI guess. Not like he’s, you know, gay or anything, like. Just that it doesn’t matter to him.”
    â€œHe was never frisky. How about aggressive?”
    â€œNot really in his nature,” said the lad. “I’ve never seen him get excited one way or the other. Most nights, he’ll come in, grab a pint and sit in a corner. If someone talks to him, he’ll talk back a bit, but mostly I think he just wants to be on his own. Enjoy his pint, you know?” His curiosity about my business with Robertson and the death of his brother still wasn’t sated. “Seriously, man, you can tell me what this is all about. I’m the soul of discretion.”
    I drained the pint, paid him and made to leave.
    â€œYou need anything else, come back,” said the lad as I was halfway out the door. “Ask for Ally.”

    It was coming on for half four. The weather had degenerated once more to dull grey and the warmth from earlier had been replaced by a nip that made me dig my hands into my pockets and pull my jacket tight around me. There was the hint of rain in the air. My skin goosepimpled. Thunder threatened for later in the evening.
    My leg muscles felt stiff as I walked out of the car park, crossed the road and followed the edge of the forest. Bird calls echoed in the open air. Occasionally the rumble of traffic tumbled from the main road, which was hidden by a thick line of trees.
    I thought about Kat.
    I should have known. Should have protected her. I heard her on the phone, how she reacted to those other voices. I knew the kind of man Robertson had been, the kind of men she must have known.
    I’d failed her while she was alive. I couldn’t afford to do it again now that she was dead.
    When I had taken the ABI courses after leaving the force, I kept insisting that I was simply moving into another area of law enforcement. A good percentage of investigators, after all, are ex-coppers.
    The course leader had been quick to stress that there were differences between policing and private