by James Oswald
Even as he said it, he realised it was far-fetched, but a knock at the door stopped McLean from digging himself in further. He looked around to see a uniformed sergeant poking her head into the room, as if she didn't want to commit herself any further lest some awful fate befall her.
'Ah, sir, I thought I might find you here. The chief superintendent would like a word.'
McLean stood wearily, reaching for his crumpled jacket as the sergeant disappeared.
'Let's work the obituary angle first. Get onto the next of kin. Whoever was interviewed when the burglary was reported. Find out how well known these people were. When Grumpy Bob gets in, the both of you can contact everyone in those files, see if there's a common theme. I'd better go and see what Her Majesty wants. And Stuart?' The young detective looked up from the open case file. 'Well done.'
*
McLean remembered Jayne McIntyre from when she had been an ambitious sergeant on a fast track up the promotion ladder. Even back then she'd made time for those beneath her in the hierarchy. She didn't socialise much with her peer group, preferred to hobnob with the inspectors and the chief constable, but if you needed her help, she'd give it. Always wise not to piss people off on your way up, in case you met them again on your way down. Somehow McLean didn't think that would be a problem in McIntyre's case, both because she was almost universally respected and because she was heading for the very top. She was only eight years his senior, and yet here she was, chief superintendent, running the station. There was little doubt that she would take the deputy chief super's job when he retired in eighteen months' time. She understood the politics, knew how to impress the important people without laying on the bullshit. That was maybe her greatest skill, and McLean didn't begrudge her the success it had brought. He just wished he could keep under her radar.
'Ah, Tony. Thanks for popping in.' McIntyre stood as McLean knocked on the open door. That was a bad sign already. She walked around her desk, holding out a hand to be shaken. She was short, perhaps only just the minimum height requirement for an officer. With her long brown hair tied back in an aggressive bun, he could see streaks of grey beginning to show around her temples. The layers of foundation around her eyes couldn't hide the lines when she smiled.
'Sorry I didn't come earlier, I had a bit of a rough night.'
'Never mind. Have a seat.' She motioned towards one of two armchairs set in the corner of the spacious office, then settled into the other one herself.
'Chief Inspector Duguid spoke to me this morning. He tells me you were sniffing around the Barnaby Smythe scene the other night.'
So that was what it was about. A terrible thing, professional jealousy. 'I was in the neighbourhood, I saw that something was up and thought I might be able to help. I grew up around there, I know some of the local residents. DCI Duguid invited me in to see the crime scene.'
McIntyre nodded her head as McLean spoke, her eyes never leaving his face. He always felt with her like he was a naughty schoolboy being hauled up in front of the headmistress. Without warning, she stood up and walked across the room to a low wooden sideboard with a percolator on it.
'Coffee?' McLean nodded. McIntyre busied herself with measuring ground coffee beans from a kilner jar into the filter, pouring in the exact amount of water required for two cups, and clicking the machine on.
'Barnaby Smythe was a very important man in the city, Tony. His murder's caused a lot of anxiety at high levels. Questions are being raised in Holyrood. Pressure is being brought to bear. We need to get a result on this one, and we need it fast.'
'I'm sure DCI Duguid will be very thorough. I see he's got a substantial team helping him with the investigation already.'
'It's not enough. I need my best detectives on this case, and I need them to co-operate with each other.' Thin brown liquid began to drip from the percolator into the glass jug beneath.
'You want me on the investigation?'
McIntyre walked back to her desk and picked up a manila folder, opening it up on the table in front of him. There were a couple of dozen large colour photographs inside, taken in Barnaby Smythe's library. Close ups showed his opened chest; his staring dead eyes and blood-stained chin; his hands resting on the arms of the chair; his entrails pooled up in his lap. McLean was glad he'd not yet eaten.
'I saw all this already,' he said as McIntyre poured two mugs of coffee and brought them over, settling herself back down in her armchair.
'He was eighty-four years old. Over the course of his life, Barnaby Smythe contributed more to this city than anyone I can think of, and yet someone did that to an old man. I need you to find out who did it, and why. And I need you to do that before they decide to cut open some other prominent citizen.'
'And Duguid? He's happy to have me on his team?' McLean sipped at his coffee, then wished he hadn't. It was hot, but weak, and tasted of dirty water.
'Happy's not the word I'd use, Tony. But Charles is a senior detective. He won't let personal animosity get in the way of something this important. I'd like to think you'll be the same.'
'Of course.'
McIntyre smiled. 'So how are your other cases coming along?'
'Constable MacBride's come up with a good theory about the burglary. He reckons there's a connection with several earlier ones, going back about five years. We've still no identity on the dead girl, though the doctor reckons she was killed about sixty years ago. I've a meeting with the builder later this morning.' McLean went through his caseload quickly, but he could see that the chief superintendent was only half-listening. This was the show; pretending to be interested, pretending to be his friend. It was a good sign, because it meant she thought he could be of use to her. But he wasn't so stupid as to miss the subtext. He was on the Smythe investigation because there was a possibility it might fail. There might be other murders of prominent people, or worse, the killer might disappear and never be found. But if it did go wrong, it wouldn't be Chief Superintendent McIntyre's fault. Neither would DCI Duguid feel the heat. No, he was being invited into the investigation so that Lothian and Borders Police would have someone expendable to throw to the wolves if that should become necessary.
~~~~
9
McLean decided he didn't like Tommy McAllister within two minutes of meeting the man.
It didn't help that neither of his two assigned officers were about when he had extricated himself from the superintendent's office. He'd wasted several minutes searching for them before remembering he'd told them to interview the earlier burglary victims. The station was almost deserted of uniforms, everyone seemed to have been drafted onto the Smythe investigation, but eventually he tracked down a young constable and persuaded her it would be in her interests to find him a pool car. She was standing in the corner of the room now, notebook in hand, visibly nervous. She'd have to work on that if she wanted to make detective.
'Can I get you some coffee, inspector? Constable?' McAllister slouched in a high-backed black leather executive chair he no doubt thought made him look important. He was dressed in a suit, but the jacket had been thrown over a nearby filing cabinet. His shirt was crumpled, sweat darkening the cotton around his armpits. Loosened tie and rolled up sleeves gave the impression that he was relaxed, but McLean could see the nervous darting of his eyes, the way he played with his fingers and bounced his feet.
'Thankyou, but no,' he said. 'We shouldn't be long here. I just wanted to clear up a few facts about the house in Sighthill. Is Mr Murdo here?'
A scowl passed across McAllister's face at the mention of the name. He leant forward, hitting a button on the ancient intercom on his desk.
'Janette, can you put a call out for Donnie.' He lifted his finger off the button and looked back up at McLean, jerking his head backwards to the window behind him. 'He's out in the yard somewhere, I think.'
A woman's voice, muffled by the glass, announced over the tannoy for Donnie Murdo to come to the office. McLean looked around the room, seeing nothing that looked particular
ly out of place. It was cluttered, overstocked with filing cabinets. Safety notices, bills, post-it notes and other detritus covered the walls. One corner was piled up with tripods, striped poles and other surveying equipment.
'Who owns the house?' McLean asked.
'I do. Bought it for cash.' McAllister settled back into his chair, a look of something like pride on his weathered face.
'How long have you owned it?'
'About eighteen months, I'd say. Janette could give you the full details. It's taken long enough to get planning through. Time was you could do pretty much what you wanted, if you knew the right people to talk to. But now it's all committees and reviews and appeals. It's getting so a man can hardly make a living, if you know what I mean.'
'I'm sure I do, Mr McAllister.'
'Tommy, please, inspector.'
'Who did you buy the house from?'
'Oh, some new bank that's just set up in the city. Mid Eastern Finance, I think they're called. I don't really know why they wanted to sell it. Probably decided it was time to get out of property and back into shares. Don't think they'd owned it long themselves.' McAllister leaned forward again, jabbing the intercom button. 'Janette, can you dig out the paperwork on Farquhar House.' He didn't wait for a response.
'It's a bit of a change of direction for you, isn't it, Mr McAllister,' McLean said. 'Renovating an old house, I mean. You made your money putting up all those boxes in Bonnyrigg and Lasswade didn't you?'
'That's right, aye. Good times they were. But it's getting that hard to find cheap development land round the city these days, ken? People moan about us ruining the countryside, then they complain about house prices going through the roof. You can't have it both ways, can you inspector. Either we build more houses, or there's no' enough for everyone and the price goes up.'
'Then why not knock down that old house and put an apartment block in its place?'
McAllister looked like he was about to answer, but a tap at the door stopped him. It opened and a surly-faced man stood uncertainly in the doorway.
'Come in Donnie, have a seat. Don't be shy.' McAllister didn't get up. Donnie Murdo looked at McLean, then at the constable, a trapped expression on his face. He was a man who had come up against the law many times before in his life. He held himself defensively, shoulders hunched, arms hanging loose at his sides, legs slightly flexed as if ready to run at the slightest prompting. His hands were huge and across his knuckles faded tattoos read 'LOVE' and 'HATE'.
'Here's the file you wanted, Tommy.' The secretary who had shown them in earlier bustled past and laid a thick folder down on the desk. She looked at McLean with silent disapproval, then stalked out of the office, closing the door behind her.
'You were working at the old house in Sighthill the night before last, Donnie?' McLean watched as the foreman's eyes darted across to his boss. McAllister was sitting upright now, his arms resting on his desk. The nod was almost imperceptible.
'Aye. Ah wiz there right enough.'
'And what exactly were you doing there?'
'Well, we wiz clearing oot the basement, see. Goin' tae put a gym doon there.'
'We? I thought you said you were alone when you discovered the hidden room.'
'Aye, well, ah wiz. True enough. The lads were helpin oot earlier, like. But ah sent them hame. Ah wiz jest cleanin' up like. Finishin' the job so's they could get started on the plasterin' in the morning.'
'It must have been quite a shock, seeing the body like that.'
'Ah didnae see much, ken. Jest a hand is all. That's when ah called Mr McAllister here.' Donnie inspected his hands, picking at his fingernails, eyes down so as not to have to make contact with anyone in the room.
'Well, thank you Donnie. You've been very helpful.' McLean stood, offering his hand to the foreman, who looked momentarily startled, then took it.
'Is there anything else I can do for you, inspector?' McAllister asked.
'If I could get a copy of the title deeds, it would be useful. I need to try and track down who owned that house when the poor girl was murdered.'
'It's all in there. Take it, please.' McAllister motioned towards the file with an upturned palm, but didn't get out of his chair. 'If it's no' safe with the polis, then where is it safe, eh?'
McLean picked up the file and handed it to the constable.
'Well, thank you for your co-operation, Mr McAllister. I'll make sure you get this back as soon as possible.'
He made to leave, and only then did McAllister stand. 'Inspector?'
'Mr McAllister?'
'You wouldn't know when we can get back onto the site now, would you? Only we've had enough delays with the project as it is. It's costing me money every day now, and we can't do anything.'
'I'll have a word with the forensic people. See what we can do. It shouldn't be more than a day or two more, I'm sure.'
Outside, McLean climbed into the passenger seat of the pool car, letting the constable drive. He didn't say anything until they were on the road.
'He's lying, you know.'
'McAllister?'
'No. Well, yes. He's a property developer and they're always hiding something. But right now he just wants to get his building site back. No, the foreman. Donnie Murdo. He might have been in the cellar last night, but he wasn't working. Not hefting a hammer anyway. His hands were way too soft. Don't reckon he's done any hard graft in years.'
'So someone else uncovered the body. Who?'
'I don't know. And it's probably not relevant to the murder, either.' McLean popped open the folder and started to leaf through the random jumble of legal papers and letters. 'But I intend to find out.'
*
'Don't you ever switch on your bloody mobile?' A fat vein pulsed at Chief Inspector Duguid's right temple; never a good sign. McLean fished in his jacket pocket, dug out his phone and flipped it open. The screen was blank; pressing the power button elicited no better response.
'Battery's gone again. That's the third this month.'
'Well you're an inspector now. You've got your own budget. So get yourself a new phone. Preferably one that works. You might even consider an Airwave set.'
McLean shoved the offending article back into his pocket, then handed the folder to Constable Kydd, the PC who had accompanied him to McAllister's building yard and who now looked like she wanted to escape before she was dragged into an argument between two senior officers.
'Can you take that to DC MacBride. And tell him not to lose it. I don't want to end up beholden to Tommy McAllister in any way.'
'Who's McAllister? Another one of your dodgy informants?' Duguid looked past McLean's shoulder at the retreating constable, no doubt wondering why she wasn't working on his investigation.
'He owns the house where they found the young woman's body.'
'Ah, yes. Your ancient ritual sacrifice. I'd heard. Well that should be right up your street, I guess. Rich folk and their unseemly perversions.'
McLean ignored the jibe. He'd heard worse.
'What did you want to see me about, sir?'
'This Smythe case. You've spoken with Jayne, I understand, so you know how important it is that we get a result, and fast.'
McLean nodded, noting Duguid's casual use of the chief superintendent's first name.
'Well, the post mortem's in half an hour and I want you there. I want you to keep on top of all the forensic information as it comes in; attack the problem from that direction. I'll be interviewing the staff, trying to find out who might have had a grudge against someone like Smythe.'
It made sense to split the investigation up that way. McLean was resigned to the fact that he was going to have to work with Duguid, and decided it would probably be best to try and get off on the right foot.
'Look, sir. About the other night. I'm sorry I stuck my nose in; it was out of line, I know. This is your investigation.'
'It's not a competition, McLean. A man's dead and his killer's walking the streets. That's the only thing that's impo
rtant right now. As long as you get results, I'll tolerate you on my team. OK?'
So much for building bridges. McLean nodded again, not trusting his mouth to speak only the words Duguid should hear, rather than the ones he was thinking.
'Good. Now get down to the mortuary and see what your ghoul of a friend Cadwallader's come up with.'
*
Tracy the mortuary assistant looked up from her desk as McLean walked in. She smiled at him then went back to the game of solitaire on her computer.
'He's not back yet. You'll have to wait,' she said to the screen. He didn't mind, really. Watching dead bodies being cut up wasn't much fun at the best of times, but the building had air conditioning that worked.
'Did you get back any results on the dead girl yet?' he asked. Sighing, Tracy clicked off the screen and turned to an overflowing in-tray.
'Let's see...' She leafed through the mess, pulled out a single sheet of paper.
'Here we are. Hmm. More than fifty years ago.'
'Is that it?'
'Well, no. She was killed less than three hundred years ago, but because it was more than fifty years ago we can't pin it down any closer, I'm afraid. Not with carbon dating, anyway.'
'How's that work then?'
'Thank the Americans. They started doing nuclear testing in the forties, but the really big stuff happened in the fifties. Filled the atmosphere with unnatural isotopes. We're full of them, you and me. Anyone alive after about 1955's full of them too. And once they die, the isotopes begin to decay. We can use that to tell how long ago death occurred, but only back to the mid fifties. Your poor wee girl died before then.'
'I see,' McLean lied. 'What about the preservation? What was used to do that?'
Tracy shuffled in the tray until she came up with another sheaf of papers.