Dead Men's Bones

by James Oswald

  ‘Yes, run along, Jennifer. There’s a good girl.’ Mrs Saifre dismissed the PA with a casual wave of the hand. It reminded McLean of an old friend of his grandmother’s who had dismissed him in similar fashion once he’d been presented to her on one of her infrequent visits. The condescension had hurt him even as a ten-year-old, and yet Miss Denton merely nodded, her eyes flicking to his with a look of horror in them before she turned and fled.

  ‘Such a mousy little thing, don’t you think?’ The way Mrs Saifre spoke the words, it was all but impossible to disagree. ‘Quite what Andrew saw in her, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  ‘I knew him a long time, if that’s the same thing. My late husband left me a great deal of money. Andrew was well placed to turn it into even more. We worked together.’

  ‘And what about play? Did you know Mr Weatherly socially?’

  ‘Ah me, am I being interrogated?’ Mrs Saifre let out a tiny laugh like the distant cawing of crows. ‘And here I was thinking the investigation was all over.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Force of habit. And you’re right, the case is closed. I can’t stop myself from wondering why a man with so much to live for would suddenly flip like that, though. I guess I’m just trying to flesh out his character, find out what made him tick.’

  Mrs Saifre opened up a black patent leather bag slung over one elbow, and pulled out a business card. That was when McLean realized that she’d taken off her gloves. She handed the card over. ‘Here. I’m going to be away on business until the end of next week, but call me after that. You can buy me lunch and I’ll tell you all I know about Andrew Weatherly. Investigation or no.’ She held out her hand again, and when McLean shook it this time, she merely pinched his fingers lightly, her touch playful now as she dismissed him with much greater panache than she had used on Miss Denton.

  ‘There was just one thing, Mrs Saifre, if you don’t mind?’ There was that flicker of irritation across the eyes again. McLean hurried to ask the question while his nerve held. There was something about this woman that made him want to recoil. ‘My people interviewed everyone involved with Mr Weatherly’s businesses, but I don’t recall your name coming up.’

  Mrs Saifre laughed again, and far away something died. She nodded at the card, still clasped between his fingers. ‘I spoke to Detective Sergeant Ritchie. Nice girl. Ask her about me.’ And then she turned and left. McLean watched her progress through the crowd, which seemed to part before her. Finally he looked down at the card. Her married name was Saifre, but she’d told him already her husband was dead. Now it seemed she had reverted to her maiden name, and that was what was written on the card in blood-red ink. Jane Louise Dee and a mobile phone number. Nothing else at all.

  25

  The massed ranks of the press were never a welcome sight. If you wanted their help, with finding a missing person or identifying someone from a CCTV image perhaps, you’d get a small turnout. Unless it was a slow news day or a star reporter had done something stupid and was on punishment duty. If there was no story, then they were nowhere to be seen, and that was how McLean liked them best. This, however, was the other thing.

  They’d had to move the press conference down to HQ, with its bigger conference rooms. Any hope that the change of venue might mean some input from top brass was forlorn, though. Looking around the room, Detective Superintendent Jack Tennant was the most senior officer present, and lowly Detective Inspector McLean was next in line.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming.’ Sergeant Dan Hwei, the Press Liaison Officer, kicked things off with the usual instructions about not interrupting, waiting until your name was called before asking questions, where the fire doors were and what to do in an emergency. McLean knew all this was important, but it was also a waste of time. He could almost guarantee he’d be interrupted before five minutes were up, and if there were a fire then it would turn into a bloodbath. These were reporters, after all.

  ‘As you know, we released the bodies of Andrew Weatherly, his wife Morag and two daughters Joanna and Margaret a couple of days ago. They were buried yesterday. I think one or two of you might have been there.’ McLean scanned the front few rows of the audience, spotting most of the usual suspects.

  ‘The sharper of you here will realize what that means. Our investigation into the deaths at Mr Weatherly’s house in Fife has been concluded and a report has been sent to the Procurator Fiscal.’

  ‘Inspector, can you confirm that Weatherly shot his wife and daughters?’

  Not even five minutes. Barely one. McLean sighed, rubbed at his eyes. ‘If you’d give me a chance to finish, Mr Truman, I will let you know the results of the post-mortem examination of all four bodies. There were traces of a barbiturate sedative in the girls’ blood, but they died from suffocation. It’s our belief that Mr Weatherly spiked their evening milk, then when they were too sleepy to resist put a pillow over each of their faces.’

  ‘Was it true they were found together in the same bed?’

  McLean didn’t recognize the voice, and no one had put their hand up. Almost certainly a tabloid, though.

  ‘How they were found is irrelevant.’ Jack Tennant interrupted, his irritation at the question obvious. ‘They were only eleven years old, for Christ’s sake. Have a bit of respect for the dead.’ He slumped back in his seat, looking almost as tired as McLean felt and just as pissed off.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ McLean spoke close to the microphone, his voice echoing about the conference room. ‘And in answer to the original question, I will add that I’m not in the habit of describing the crime scene as we found it unless that is pertinent to our enquiries. I’ve seen some of the more lurid speculation and I’ll say this much for you lot, you don’t lack imagination.’

  There were a couple of muttered comments at the back, but no more interruptions, so McLean continued with his prepared script. ‘Morag Weatherly died from a single gunshot wound to the head. Forensic analysis confirms that the bullet was a .243-calibre from a stalking rifle belonging to Mr Weatherly. He had a licence for it, along with a number of shotguns and a .22-calibre rifle for shooting vermin. All these other weapons were found locked up in a gun cabinet on the premises. The keys were in Mr Weatherly’s pocket.

  ‘Andrew Weatherly himself died from a single gunshot wound to the head, we assume fired from the same weapon as that used to kill his wife, although the bullet was not recovered from the scene. The evidence as presented in my report suggests that Mr Weatherly smothered his children, shot his wife and then turned the gun on himself. There is no evidence of any outside party being involved.’

  ‘Inspector, can you give us any indication as to why Mr Weatherly would do such a thing?’

  McLean looked to the back of the hall, where the question had come from. One of the less sensationalist Scottish papers, if he remembered rightly.

  ‘Mr Weatherly’s business was in rude health, and his political career seemed set for better things than being a useful member of the opposition. We’ve spoken to his friends and associates and there was no indication of pressure being put on him.’ McLean swallowed, trying not to think about the photographs and the obvious conclusion the press would draw if they saw them. When they saw them. ‘It’s one thing to take your own life. Quite another to take your loved ones with you. I can say that Mr Weatherly was a deeply disturbed man, but I cannot, I will not, speculate as to why he did what he did. That’s your job.’

  That brought a low chuckle from the throng, which was helpful. Always better to keep the press in a good humour.

  ‘Do you think he was being blackmailed?’

  ‘If he was, then he left nothing behind to show that was the case. Of course, he might just have been tired of being hounded by the press.’

  That got him another low round of chuckles, but McLean was wary enough not to relax just because things seemed to be going well. That was when the shit usually hit the fan, after all.

  ‘Inspector, were you awa
re of the rumours regarding Mr Weatherly’s sex life?’

  Ah yes. That question. And it had to come from the scruffy, leather-coated form of Jo Dalgliesh, of course. Who else would Special Branch leak their tawdry information to? Unless, of course, she was just fishing.

  ‘Which particular rumours would those be, Ms Dalgliesh? Mr Weatherly was a politician, after all.’

  Another ripple of laughter ran around the room, louder this time. Dalgliesh scowled in irritation, and McLean realized he’d pay for that jibe later.

  ‘The sex parties, Inspector. The swinging lifestyle. In all your investigations, did it never occur to you to work up a history on the man?’

  ‘I see what you’re getting at, Ms Dalgliesh, but as the inspector has already said, our investigations have revealed no evidence of an attempt to blackmail Mr Weatherly. Whatever he may or may not have done in the past, the fact remains that his was the only criminal act here.’ Judging by the way he came to McLean’s defence, DS Tennant had locked horns with Jo Dalgliesh before.

  ‘Were someone trying to blackmail Mr Weatherly, that would, of course, be a crime. And if you had any evidence to suggest such a thing, I am sure you would bring it to our attention so we could investigate and if necessary prosecute. The fact remains, however, that Mr Weatherly, for reasons unknown, took it upon himself to murder his family and kill himself.’ McLean focused all his attention on Jo Dalgliesh, looking for any hint that she knew something she wasn’t saying. ‘That was the scope of this investigation, and that’s our conclusion. Should any fresh evidence come to light, we will, of course, consider it and reopen the case if necessary.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had worse days.’ Jack Tennant leaned back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head for support. ‘Can’t rightly remember when, but I must have had, sometime.’

  ‘Life must be very quiet indeed in Fife if you thought that was bad.’ McLean gathered his papers together, slipping them into a slim brown folder that was probably intended only for a particular kind of archive filing and not as a general carry-all. Somewhere in the building lurked DC MacBride, perhaps the only policeman within five miles who would either know or care.

  ‘Fife has its problems, Tony. But you’re right, it’s pretty easy really. Can’t remember the last time we had a murder wasn’t a domestic gone too far. It’s mostly speeding tickets and dope these days. A little casual violence at the weekends.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic. Where do I apply for a transfer?’

  Tennant laughed, dropping his seat forward and bringing a hand round to his mouth as it turned into a cough from deep in his lungs. It took far too long for him to recover.

  ‘You’d go stir crazy in a week. And besides, what would you do without Jo Dalgliesh to get under your skin? She really doesn’t like you, that woman.’

  ‘The feeling’s entirely mutual.’ McLean stood up, ready to leave. A few journalists were still milling around, talking to camera or manically tapping reports into notebook computers. The last thing he wanted was for someone to approach him for an impromptu interview.

  ‘Rushing back to the front?’ Tennant thumped his chest a couple of times, coughed, swallowed and grimaced.

  ‘You OK, Jack? That’s a nasty cough.’

  ‘Winters don’t get any easier when you’re my age, Tony. And this one’s been bad.’

  ‘Let me treat you to a mug of Edinburgh’s finest tea before you head north, then.’

  ‘You’re too kind, but I’ve tried that pish you call tea here before. Think I’ll wait till I’m home and have something a little stronger.’

  Tennant pushed himself up out of his chair with perhaps rather more effort than it should have taken. McLean thought back to the last time he’d seen the detective superintendent, at Weatherly’s house just a few days earlier. Had he been so unwell then? He couldn’t remember. Maybe it was the same lurgy that had laid Ritchie low. If so, he hoped he was immune. The last thing he needed was a hacking cough and pounding headache to go with his permanently aching hip.

  ‘Well, I need to get back to my own station anyway. There’s a stack of paperwork the exact size and shape of my office needs dealing with, and we’ve got a heavily tattooed corpse we’re still trying to identify. No rest for the wicked, eh?’

  Tennant gave him a weak smile before picking up his own papers and shuffling them together. Unlike McLean, the detective superintendent was organized enough to have a briefcase to hide them in.

  ‘That question, at the press conference. The Dalgliesh woman,’ he said, speaking into the open case rather than face McLean. ‘You know the case is closed now, right?’

  ‘Of course. I handed the report over to the PF myself.’

  ‘Only I couldn’t help noticing you left the possibility of reopening it … well, open.’

  ‘If some new evidence came to light, we’d have to really. Or at least open a new one if it turned out someone had been blackmailing Weatherly.’

  Tennant closed his briefcase, clicked the locks shut and finally turned to face him. ‘Yes, of course. If someone brought that to our attention. But we’re not going looking for it, are we?’

  McLean studied the detective superintendent’s face. He’d thought of Jack Tennant as a friend. Someone he could turn to in a crisis, rely on for an honest opinion. But here he was toeing the party line like a good boy. Well, he was due to retire soon. Maybe he just didn’t want to rock the boat.

  ‘Not any more. No.’

  ‘So that little trip out to the house the other day. That was just you getting it out of your system?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ McLean thought about the photographs locked in the top drawer of his desk, the second set and the DVD still at home in his grandmother’s old safe. Someone wanted him to keep looking, someone else wanted him to stop. Stuck in the middle was never a nice place to be. Whatever he did he was going to piss someone off. And get him the blame.

  ‘Good.’ Tennant reached up and patted McLean on the shoulder with a hand that looked older than it should have, the skin thinner, bones and tendons showing through. ‘I knew you’d see sense, Tony.’

  26

  He’d switched his mobile phone to silent before the press conference, which was why McLean wasted half an hour wandering around HQ looking for DC MacBride so that he could get a lift back to the station. It wasn’t until he’d been to the IT department and been told the constable had gone already that he remembered, and checked the screen to find both a text and a voicemail message saying he’d had to leave early. Cursing his forgetfulness, McLean set about finding a patrol car headed towards the city centre that he could bully into giving him a ride.

  It was always a risk, hitching a lift that way. You never knew if an emergency call was going to come in mid-journey. A considerate driver would at least pull over and let you out, but McLean also had happy memories of attending incidents the other side of town from where he’d wanted to be.

  This one at least dropped him in the New Town before heading off up Queen Street with the full Blues and Twos going, its destination the site of a collision between a tourist bus and one of the new trams, which had ground all city centre traffic to a standstill.

  McLean shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders against the cold and started walking. It wasn’t long before he realized he wasn’t heading in the right direction. Quite without realizing it, his footsteps had taken him on a slight detour, ending up in the street where Andrew Weatherly’s terrace house sat empty, awaiting its fate.

  There wasn’t really any reason to go and look, other than that he was there. He did anyway, jogging across the road just ahead of a black taxi, his steaming breath hanging behind him in the frigid air.

  The house was unchanged from the last time he’d been there, apart from the lack of a uniform constable standing at the top of the steps that led up to the front door. The windows reflected the harsh white brightness of the afternoon sky, and from pavement level you couldn’t see inside anyway. If memory served, the
backs of all these terraces looked on to a large, private, communal garden that you couldn’t easily access, and anyway he hadn’t come here to go inside. Wasn’t really sure why he’d come, except that the patrol car had dropped him off nearby.

  ‘Thought the Weatherly case was closed. Got your man bang to rights.’

  As puns went it was weak, and brought back the uncomfortable image of Andrew Weatherly’s dead body, propped up against the statue in the middle of his lawn, the back of his head painted all over the stone.

  ‘Are you following me, Dalgliesh?’ McLean replayed the last few moments in his mind, realizing that the black taxi he’d crossed the road in front of had pulled in to the kerb a bit further on.

  ‘That depends on whether you’re going the same way as me.’ The journalist fished a packet of cigarettes out of her coat as she sauntered up, tapped one out and shoved it in her mouth. Then went from pocket to pocket until she found her lighter. She nodded at the steps and the front door as she lit up. ‘You going in?’

  ‘Haven’t got the key.’

  ‘What you doing here, then?’

  McLean thought about his conversation with Jack Tennant after the press conference. ‘Just laying some ghosts to rest.’

  ‘What if they don’t want to be?’

  ‘Not my problem. Unless you’ve got some more evidence you want to bring to my attention?’

  Dalgliesh laughed, a crackly cackling sound like a child’s nightmare of a witch. ‘I’ve got nothing, and that’s God’s honest truth. I’ll tell you this much for free, though. This isn’t finished. Not by a long chalk.’

  ‘That your fine-tuned journalist’s instincts twitching, is it?’

  ‘Fine-tuned bollocks. This whole thing stinks. There’s no way Weatherly was as pure as driven snow.’ Dalgliesh kicked at the grey, salty slush the council hadn’t bothered sweeping from the pavement. ‘And shutting down the investigation when it was hardly started? Give me a break. Youse lot are covering up something.’