Father Confessor (J McNee #3)

By Russel D McLean

The third J McNee mystery finds the Dundonian detective forced to co-operate with an old nemesis when his mentor is murdered, in a terrifying conspiracy that will change McNee's world forever...

DC Ernie Bright is dead. A good cop gone bad? Not everyone believes that one of Tayside Constabulary's longest serving detectives was leading a double life.

One of those looking to vindicate the dead copper is Bright's protege, private investigator J McNee, who has his own reasons for trying to prove Bright's innocence.

But as the evidence piles up and McNee makes enemies on both sides of the law, he finds that justice and the law are not always the same, and that good people can make bad decisions.

Dark, violent and psychologically gripping, the third in the critically acclaimed J McNee series will change the Dundee detective's world forever.

This edition is the author's preferred text, revised and updated in 2020 with a new introduction by the author.

Praise for Russel D McLean and Father Confessor

"Carving out a place for himself in the blossoming world of Scottish crime writing, McLean writes with bite and casts Dundee in a light that suits this type of thriller in which trust and loyalty are very slippery concepts." The Herald (arts magazine, 22 September 2012)

"McLean has created a sympathetic yet flawed character who tries to do the right thing and sometimes hits the mark but, more often than not, doesn't (as he comments himself, ‘so many people I knew seemed to wind up dead’). Loyalties count in his world; loyalty to friends and more particularly to family. If you’re after a dark slice of Dundee noir then you can’t go far wrong with this" Shots Magazine

"...grabs you by the throat... and doesn't let go until you reach the climax." Undiscovered Scotland

"[McNee is] a complex, contradictory character... there's enough darkness in him to run a good while yet." Crime Fiction Lover

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russel D McLean
• Release date: Jul 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005699413

Russel D McLean

Russel D McLean was born in Fife, and moved to Dundee where he studied philosophy at the University of Dundee. His speciality was philosophy of mind, but after he discovered the difficulty of funding a PhD he fell into the disreputable company of the booktrade.Russel's path to publication started at sixteen when he submitted his first full length novel to Virgin Publishing New Doctor Who Adventures. The novel was summarily rejected and he spent the next fourteen years perfecting his style before finally switching genres and writing dark crime fiction. His first paid credit was in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine in 2004 and his first novel, THE GOOD SON, was released in 2008.He has since been published in the US, translated into Italian, French and German, and was nominated for best first PI novel by the Private Eye Writers of America.He spent over a decade as a bookseller in Dundee and Glasgow, writing at night. Now he spends his days working as a development editor for various publishers, large and small, on a freelance basis, and his nights continuing to write fiction and screenplays.​In 2018, he was part of the Write4film initiative from the Scottish Film Talent Network, which helps writers from other forms to learn about screenwriting. He is currently working on various projects intended for the screen.For two years (2014-16) he wrote a monthly crime fiction column for the Scottish Herald.​And yes, he really did once share a flat with a cursed mask.

Book preview

FATHER CONFESSOR

Russel D. McLean

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Father Confessor by Russel D McLean

Digital Edition

Copyright © 2012, 2020, 2022 Russel D McLean

Previous edition of this title were published in 2012 by Five Leaves Publications (UK)

http://www.russeldmcleanbooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Cover design by JT Lindroos

Interior Layouts by Jay Stringer

Contents

INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW EDITION

. Chapter

1. Chapter 1

1. ONE

2. TWO

3. THREE

4. FOUR

5. FIVE

6. SIX

7. SEVEN

8. EIGHT

9. NINE

10. TEN

11. ELEVEN

12. TWELVE

13. THIRTEEN

14. FOURTEEN

15. FIFTEEN

16. SIXTEEN

17. SEVENTEEN

18. EIGHTEEN

19. NINETEEN

20. TWENTY

21. TWENTY-ONE

22. TWENTY-TWO

23. TWENTY-THREE

24. TWENTY-FOUR

25. TWENTY-FIVE

26. TWENTY-SIX

27. TWENTY-SEVEN

28. TWENTY-EIGHT

29. TWENTY-NINE

30. THIRTY

31. THIRTY-ONE

32. THIRTY-TWO

33. THIRTY-THREE

34. THIRTY-FOUR

35. J McNee returns in Mothers of the Disappeared

NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS FOR THE NEW EDITION

. Chapter

INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW EDITION

Father Confessor is the third novel to feature dour Dundonian investigator, J McNee. Contractual obligations after I sold my debut, The Good Son, meant I had six months to finish its sequel, The Lost Sister. I did it, and I was bloody proud of the result, but after that I thought that I wanted to take longer for book 3, which was an ambitious project for me.

The McNee novels were always intended to be a quintet. I knew what I wanted each book to achieve. Book 3 was the turning point, where McNee would experience things he couldn’t turn away from. It was intended to cement the idea that his real nemesis was David Burns, the hard man turned Godfather who’d been a presence in the books since The Good Son. Here, we would see the control that Burns had over the city, and see that not even a conspiracy of cops were strong enough to bring him down.

With hindsight, the book was maybe overly ambitious for my skills at the time. While well enough received, there were a few eagle-eyed readers who spotted errors in timing and action that had sneaked into the text. There were also some scenes that never made it into the final product as, after discussions with a few people, it was decided that McNee needed to leave behind the trauma of having lost his fiancée. Scenes were trimmed and discarded, and I always felt like I wanted to fight harder for their inclusion. Sadly, I didn’t keep the original text of those scenes, but I felt I could adjust and add to what did exist.

So, this edition sets out to resolve these issues as much as possible, while retaining the things that people loved about the original version. It is, in some ways, a director’s cut of the original book. Nothing major has changed, but some details of character and event have been altered for reasons of continuity and drama. It’s been an odd project to embark on, but also lovely to have the opportunity to correct a book I loved writing and felt never quite worked on publication.

Most times, I would be happy to let a story live, warts and all, and I don’t want to fault the book’s first publishers, either, who were – and remain – magnificent. Much of the responsibility for some of the issues the first edition faced is mine. That said, it’s nice to come back and make the work more in tune with my original intent, using and employing a few tricks I’ve learned over the years. In my other life, as an editor, I often tell authors I work with that writing is a constant learning process – there is always some new way to bring a story to life and to think about our craft; I learn something new almost every day I write or work with authors.

I hope that returning readers enjoy the additions and corrections. And I hope that new readers will feel love the book as much as – maybe even more than – those who got the chance to read it first time out.

Add in the fact that the book has a stunning new cover by JT Lindroos, who has redesigned the look of the series for uniformity with a series of absolutely gorgeous images. He’s one of the finest and most generous cover designers in the business, so thank you so much for helping me to do this.

So strap yourselves in, and get ready for a heart-warming tale of murder, corruption, compromise and redemption.

This is Father Confessor.

This is Dundee.

This is J McNee.

Russel D McLean

Glasgow

March, 2020

This one’s for Jon, Ruth, Jen, and Paul Jordan

Who welcomed a beardy Scot with open arms

(and who know that pork is good…)

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Iwasn't there.

If I had been, things might have turned out different.

I’d like to believe that.

Some might argue, of course, that I’d only have fucked things up.

Maybe I’d even be one of them.

For months afterward, I would spend the hours past midnight – the hours when I couldn't sleep, when the guilt of the past always seemed at its strongest and when I felt at my most powerless and insignificant – thinking about what must have happened.

Seeing events through his eyes.

Trying to imagine the chain of events that ended in a moment of blood and fear and pain.

He was my friend.

My mentor.

And I wasn’t there.

As I tried to imagine how he felt, my heart would pound as his must have. A surge of adrenaline. Expectation.

He must have known that he was going to die.

One way or the other, he must have known how things would end.

Looking back over his last few months, talking to friends and colleagues in the aftermath of his death, it seems obvious that something was wrong with. People had sensed his growing unease. They had noticed that he was more tense than usual. Most people said that they put this down to pre-retirement nerves. After all, he was due to quit the force in the next year. Like any good copper, he had a lot of unfinished business.

No one would realise just how much.

Walking into that warehouse, he might have called out, perhaps listened to the echo of his own voice; a ghost-like echo, as though he was already dead. His own footsteps – polished shoes striking hard concrete – would have bounced and echoed around the wide space, as though there were others walking alongside him.

Maybe there were.

Those for whom he was responsible.

Maybe he was thinking about why he had come to this place. The reasons he was alone in this warehouse, meeting a man he must have known could kill him.

Thinking about his career. And his daughter.

His daughter who was under investigation for possible criminal conspiracy. His daughter who had always been the centre of his world, who had idolised her father so much she followed him into the force.

I would wonder what he was thinking.

How he felt.

And I could never know for sure. But I had to pretend, to try and gain some insight the hard facts could never uncover.

I do know that he took the stairs to the mezzanine slowly. His shoes clanking off the metal grille, his hand running up the banister. A feather touch. More for reassurance than balance.

Maybe was afraid of falling away. Of losing his grip.

Maybe he came knowing that he faced death.

He would do that on his own terms.

The idea makes me feel better in a way.

There were no signs of a struggle when the coppers arrived on the scene. He did not fight back. He did not try to run.

On the metal walkway high above the main floor, he would have been confronted by the man with the shotgun.

Did they speak?

Did he understand why the man was there to kill him?

I don't know. I wasn't there.

And I wish I had been.

Some nights I wish it had been me and not him.

The impact of the shot knocked him over the safety rails. Did he have time to register what was happening?

Did he say a prayer as he fell?

I wonder about his final thoughts. What was revealed to him as he lay crooked on the floor of the abandoned mill, his blood pooling around his hand, his limbs twisted.

Did he think of his killer?

His daughter?

I would have been the furthest thing from his mind. But if he felt a small twinge of disappointment, perhaps he was remembering me and the last time we spoke, the things I said to him.

But I don’t know any of that.

I just believe that I could sleep easier if I knew what he was really thinking in those last moments.

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ONE

DI George Lindsay stood in the close. Unshaven. Suit and shirt wrinkled. Bags under his eyes. His high forehead jutted, tiny eyes glaring out malevolently from underneath.

He said, I need to talk to your girlfriend.

Complete sentence. No swear words. Whatever he wanted to talk about, it was important.

I said, She isn't here. All bravado, but my heart was jacking in my chest. Nausea kept rising in waves, and I had to fight to keep from puking all over his shoes. Not that it would have made much difference to his image that morning.

Call it guilt.

The fear of being caught in a lie.

We’d been waiting months for an official decision. I wouldn’t believe it could be delivered like this. But then, life has a way of knocking you on your arse when you least expect it.

Lindsay said, It’s official business.Was this it, then?

Susan had been under investigation since covering up a murder nearly sixteen months earlier. She took the rap for a killing that would otherwise have implicated a terrified fifteen-year-old girl.

She did this to protect the girl.

And to protect me.

That was the worst part. Mary Furst hadn’t been in her right mind when she thrust an axe into the spine of the man who had, ten minutes earlier, beaten her mother’s skull open. But I had been when we agreed that I would take the blame, claiming self-defence.

But Susan had stepped forward at the last moment, claiming she was the one who had killed the man we knew only as Wickes.

Putting herself on the line.

Personally and professionally.

Is she being formally charged?Lindsay shook his head. Fuck that. He had been her partner in CID during her first year as a DS. He cared for her in his way. All the same, he held anyone in the job to high standards. If she was found guilty, he’d be the first to turn his back.

As a matter of pride.

It’s her dad. Ernie. The poor bugger's been murdered.

That did it.

That blindsided me.

Made me blink.

Made me reach out to grab the wall.

Like I said, life has a habit of knocking you on your arse.

Consider me down.

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I knew where to find Susan.

Didn't tell Lindsay that, of course. The burden lay with me. It seemed right that I should tell her.

Nothing to do with the antagonism between me and a certain DI who could have been mistaken for a missing link in the wrong – or even the right – light

I drove to Riverside. Walked east along the curve of the river with the dark water silent on one side and the rush of cars along the dual carriageway on the other.

Found her taking a breather, leaning on the stone dyke that stood between the unwary pedestrian and a watery grave. A light sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was flushed from the run, grinning from the adrenaline high.

To look at her, you wouldn’t know what she was going through.

Susan sucked down water from a plastic bottle, nodded as I approached. It was a cool day, the skies overcast, but she was still sweating, soaked through her grey cotton t-shirt.

She said, You're not out for the exercise. Gave me a smile. The kind that said she knew something was wrong, didn’t want it to intrude.

I like to think I have what they call a poker face. If I do, it never works with Susan. She’s one of only two people who’ve ever been able to read me.

I leaned on the stone beside her, facing out to the river. She mirrored me. Neither of us looked at the other. Just at the splintered reflection of the early morning sky in the water.

I said, You need to call Lindsay.

You forget I'm suspended. He can’t even ask me for help wiping his nose.

It’s not about the investigation.

When I’d been a copper, the job I hated most was delivering bad news to families, loved ones, friends. It used to get passed out amongst attending officers like a lottery. Except no one wanted the winning ticket.

But the worst was delivering the news to the family of a fellow copper. I knew some life-long police who’d rather take early retirement than face that situation.

It’s your dad. He's dead. Flat. Laying it out there. Figuring she’d understand. Appreciate the honesty.

Figured I owed her enough to dial down the drama.

She was silent. I twisted my neck to look at her. Her expression was set neutral and her eyes remained locked on the water.

Dead? As though she was saying the word for the first time, realising how it sounded coming from her lips.

I told her what I knew. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions.

She didn't cry.

She wouldn't until I was gone.

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I took her to FHQ.

Ernie Bright was dead, and I was driving his daughter to the cop shop where she’d have to deal with the sympathy of those who’d worked beside her and her father. Worse still, she’d have to face colleagues who didn’t know or understand the situation surrounding her suspension.

Susan was silent as the car slipped through the city. Looking out of the passenger side window, no expression on her face.

The radio was dialled low.

Maybe she understood that. Knew that any words would be pointless, now.

As we drove past the Tay Hotel – long ago abandoned, now an empty shell – she looked up at the grand old building and said, Before they moved to Dundee, my mum and dad stayed there a few times. He said that was when he fell in love with the city.

I concentrated on the road ahead. For lack of anything to say.

She said, They don’t know who killed him, do they?

I said, No.

She was silent again for a few seconds. You find out, Steed, you tell me. Alright?

Sure.

Blinked a few times. To clear my vision.

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I parked at Marketgait, outside FHQ. Walked Susan to the main doors. Outside, the wind blew strong. The skies were grey. The city had undergone a severe winter, was only just beginning to come out of the other side. During the last months of the previous year, it had been as though civilisation was coming to an end; snow piled deep on the streets and shops unable to open in the centre.

The worst was behind us, but the temperatures were still low.

A headache burned right behind my temples.

Susan told me I didn’t have to come in with her. That she would prefer to do this on her own. I offered to wait, but she shook her head. I watched her walk across to the main building, using the doors that were locked to the public. Still acting as though the place was her own.

Someone was waiting to meet her.

Sooty.

I don’t think he looked my way.

When Susan was gone from sight, swallowed up by the forbidding, grey 1960s architecture of FHQ, I looked at my watch. Still morning.

There was no one there to say, so I told myself: this wasn't my case. I had no reason to get involved. Except the worst kind.

And I had a business to run.

Such as it was.

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While she was inside, getting the full story from fellow detectives, I hung around in the drizzle. Called Cameron Connelly at The Dundee Herald.

What's up?Off the record, I said. You heard anything about a polis getting killed?

There's rumblings, he said. We've got Laura Thomas heading over now to ask questions. What have you got?

I'd rather not say. Conjecture. Rumours. Nothing concrete.

Piss up a drainpipe. You know something, McNee.

I learn anything more, I'll let you know.

Good. I'll do the same, you know. It’s what friends do. I got the feeling there was something else behind what he was saying. He still felt burned after I failed to keep him in the loop on the Furst case several months earlier. Tell me, McNee, Cameron said, they done investigating your girlfriend, yet?

I hung up.

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TWO

Sixteen months earlier, I had been sitting in a windowless room at FHQ, watching the cameras in the corners and trying not to look guilty.

It’s a hard thing to do when you know you’re being watched.

My father had been Catholic, lapsed by the time I was born. He told me the worst part about being raised in the faith was the idea that God was always watching. He’d been a nervous child because no matter what he did, God could see it. The idea horrified him. He told me how one of his friends had suffered from constipation because of the fear.

The day I stopped believing, he told me, was the day I felt free. He escaped the all-seeing eye.

Sitting in that interview room, I knew how he’d felt as a child.

There would be someone watching, I knew. They’d be watching me to see if I acted like a guilty man. They’d be watching me and analysing everything I did in that room. And that in turn made