by James Oswald
'It's Jenny. Jenny Spiers, isn't it? I almost didn't recognise you in those clothes.'
'It's all right. We all dress up in our favourite decades. You should see Rae when she's in one of her hippy outfits. How's your gran, by the way?'
McLean looked around the shop, seeing the different eras laid out. Old clothes, made at a time when quality mattered. He couldn't imagine much of the stuff coming out of the sweatshops of India and Bangladesh these days surviving to take their place in a couple of decades.
'I didn't realise you worked here.' It sounded a bit pathetic even as he said it. Avoiding the question like a politician.
'I own it, actually. Ten years now. Well, technically the bank owns it, but...' Jenny tailed off, embarrassed. 'But you didn't come here for a chat, did you inspector?'
'Tony's fine, really. And I was wondering if you might be able to tell me anything about this dress.' He lifted the plastic once more.
'Can I open the bag?' Jenny asked. McLean nodded and watched as she deftly pulled out the garment, laying it out along the wide counter and inspecting it minutely. Her fingers paused, shaking slightly as she saw the faded blood stains.
'It's home made,' she said finally. 'Hand stitched by someone very skilled with a needle and thread. The lace was probably bought in, but it's difficult to tell. Very similar in cut to something I've seen before. Let me see.' She went off into the depths of the shop, pushing her way down a narrow aisle between two rows of dresses, swathed in plastic and hanging from long racks. Swift hands shuffled their way through the garments before alighting on one, which she brought back to the counter with an air of triumph.
'This is a cocktail dress from the late nineteen-thirties. Something rich society girls would have worn just before the war. Your dress you've got here is very similar, almost as if it's been copied. But the fabric's cheaper, and as I said it was hand stitched. There's no label, either, which suggests to me it was made by someone who couldn't afford to buy.'
'So when might it have been made? How long could it have been worn?'
'Well, it wouldn't have been made in this style much before nineteen thirty-five. Hems were lower before then, and the neckline's all wrong. It's been worn quite a bit; there's some skilled patching around the back and the fabric's thin in places. I'd say it could have been ten years old. They had to make do and mend over the war years.'
The mid nineteen forties then, the end of the second world war. McLean wondered what chance there was that anyone connected with the murder would be still alive.
~~~~
11
He was halfway across the entrance hall in the station when the duty sergeant flagged him down.
'Do you know a chap called Jonas Carstairs?'
McLean racked his brain. The name was familiar.
'Well, he's been calling you all day and leaving messages.'
'Did he say what he wanted?'
'Something about your grandmother. How is the old girl anyway? Any improvement?'
The blood drained from his face. It wasn't as if he had forgotten, exactly. More that he'd compartmentalised her illness for so long, her death hadn't really had time to sink in. He'd managed to duck the question with Jenny Spiers, but there were no secrets in a police station, not for long anyway. And, of course, the quickest way to let everyone know was to tell the duty sergeant. It would only get around quicker if he said it was a secret.
'She passed away last night.'
'Jesus, Tony. What're you doing coming into work then?'
'I don't know. I guess there wasn't a lot else I could do, really. It's not as if it was sudden or anything.' Although, in a way it was. He had grown so accustomed to her being there, comatose, in the hospital. He'd known that she would die sooner or later; there were even times when he had hoped it would be sooner. But he'd expected there to be signs that she was going. He thought he'd have time to prepare.
'Did he leave a number? This Carstairs?'
'Yeah, and he asked if you could call back as soon as possible. You know it wouldn't hurt for you to turn your mobile on from time to time.'
McLean reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. It was still dead.
'I do, but the batteries keep going flat on me.'
'What about an airwave set then? I don't know why you detectives think you shouldn't have to use them.'
'I've got one somewhere, Pete, but it's even worse. Nothing holds a charge unless it's plugged into the wall. Kind've defeats the point of a mobile, really.'
'Yeah, well. Get something that works, aye?' The sergeant handed McLean a scrap of notepaper with a name and number scribbled on it and buzzed him through into the station.
McLean had an office all to himself; one of the perks of being an inspector. It was a dismal place, with one small window that was obscured by the nearby tenement buildings and so let in very little light. Filing cabinets still full of his predecessor's case notes took up most of the available space, but some genius at geometry had also managed to squeeze in a desk. A pile of folders sat on top of this, a yellow post-it with 'urgent!' scribbled on it and underlined three times pasted to the first. He ignored them, sliding round the edge of the desk until he could sit down. Picking up the phone, he dialled the number, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was getting late for office hours, but he had no idea if this was an office number.
'Carstairs Weddell, how may I help?' The swift response and polite tone of the receptionist put him off his stride. McLean recognised the name of the firm of solicitors who had been dealing with his grandmother's affairs since her stroke. He felt a bit of a fool for not remembering.
'Oh. Err. Hello. Could I speak to Mr Jonas Carstairs, please?' Previously he'd only ever dealt with a junior clerk, Perkins or Peterson or something like that. It seemed odd that the senior partner would contact him in person.
'May I ask who's speaking, please?'
'McLean. Anthony McLean.'
'One moment, inspector. I'll put you right through.' Once again he was caught out by someone knowing more about him than he did about them. He had no time to be any more than surprised. The brief holding music was cut off by a click.
'Detective Inspector McLean, Jonas Carstairs here. I'm so sorry to hear about your grandmother's passing. She was a great woman in her time, Esther.'
'I take it you knew her, Mr Carstairs.'
'Jonas, please. And yes, I've known her a long time. Far longer than I've been acting as her solicitor. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. She appointed me as executor of her will. I'd appreciate it if you could drop by my office sometime soon to sort a few things out.'
'OK. Would tomorrow be all right? Only it's getting late and I didn't really sleep last night.' McLean rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his free hand, realising as he voiced the thought just how exhausted he was.
'Of course. I understand. And don't worry about the arrangements. I've got everything in hand. There'll be an announcement in the Scotsman tomorrow; they'll probably run an obituary too. And Esther didn't want a church funeral, so it'll just be a simple memorial service at Mortonhall. I'll let you know as soon as we can get a slot booked. Would you like me to organise a wake? I know how busy you officers of the law can be.'
McLean only half took in what was being said. He had thought about all the little things that needed to be done now that his grandmother had actually died, but there was so much else going on in his head it was easy to lose track. The cocktail dress with its floral pattern, securely wrapped in its evidence bag, lay on the desk in front of him, and for a moment he couldn't remember what it was there for. He needed food, and then he needed sleep.
'Yes, please,' he said finally. He thanked the solicitor and arranged to go to the firm's offices at ten the next day, then hung up. The evening sun painted the tenements outside a warm ochre, but little of the light made it into his tiny office. It was too stuffy, and as he leant back in his chair to stretch, resting his head against the cool wall behind him, McLean cl
osed his eyes for just a moment.
*
She is naked as the day, a skinny thing with bone-thin legs and arms. Her hair hangs lank from her skeletal head, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets. As she walks towards him, she holds out her hands, reaching forward, begging him to help her. Then she stumbles, and a wound appears in her belly, ripping upwards from her crotch to her cleavage. She stops, grasps at her entrails as they start to drop to the ground, scooping them back with one arm, still reaching for him with the other. She shuffles forward again, slower this time, her dark eyes pleading.
He wants to look away, but he is trapped, immobile. He can't even close his eyes. All he can do is watch as she falls to her knees, spilling her innards on the ground, still trying to crawl towards him.
'Inspector.'
Her voice is pain. And as he hears it, her face begins to change, her skin drying, stretching even tauter over her cheek bones. Her eyes draw further back into her head and her lips curl in a grimace parody of a smile.
'Inspector!'
She is right beside him now, her free hand reaching out to his shoulder, touching him, shaking him. Her other hand struggles to keep her intestines inside, like a lonely housewife answering the postman's knock in her dressing gown. Bits of her start to fall out; her kidneys, her liver, her spleen.
*
'Tony, wake up!'
With a snap, McLean opened his eyes, almost falling out of his chair as his perceptions shifted from the dream back to reality. Chief Superintendent McIntyre stood beside his desk, looking down at him with a mixture of irritation and concern across her face.
'Sleeping on the job now? That's not the kind of behaviour I expected when I recommended you for promotion.'
'I'm sorry ma'am.' McLean shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the disturbing image of the eviscerated girl. 'It's this heat. I only closed my eyes for a moment. I...' He stopped when he realised McIntyre was trying to suppress a smirk.
'I'm just joking, Tony. You look done in. You should go home and get some rest.' She sat herself down on the edge of the desk. There was room in the office for one other chair, but it was piled high with box files. 'Sergeant Murray told me about your gran. I'm very sorry.'
'She died a long time ago, really.' McLean felt slightly uneasy with the chief superintendent perched above him. He knew he should stand, but to do so now would be even more awkward.
'Maybe, but you have to deal with it now, Tony. And I know you miss her.'
'You know my folks died when I was four, right? Gran raised me as if I were my dad. It must have been hard for her having me around as a reminder of him.'
'And what about you? I can't imagine what it must have been like, to lose both your parents at such a young age.'
McLean leant forward on the desk, rubbing at his eyes. These were old wounds, long since healed over. He really didn't want to be picking at the scars. But his grandmother's death was going to do just that. Perhaps one more reason why he was finding it hard to accept she was really gone.
He reached out for the evidence bag and the floral dress, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else.
'We've managed to pin down the time of death to the mid nineteen forties.'
'I'm sorry?' McIntyre looked at him blankly.
'The dead girl in the house in Sighthill. Her dress was probably ten years old, and couldn't have been made before nineteen thirty-five. Carbon dating puts her death before nineteen fifty. Best guess is sometime around the end of the second world war.'
'So chances are her killer is dead already.'
'Killers. Plural. We reckon there were six of them.' McLean summed up the investigation as far as it had progressed. McIntyre sat on the edge of his desk, silently listening as he marshalled his thoughts so far. It was very little to go on.
'What about Smythe?'
The question threw him. 'You think there's a connection?'
'No, no. Sorry. I meant what about the Smythe investigation. How are we getting on with that?'
'The PM confirms he was murdered and that probable cause of death was blood loss. I'm still waiting on toxicology reports – whoever did this must have used some powerful anaesthetic. That alone should narrow down our suspect list. Duguid was concentrating on interviewing; I've not had a chance to catch up with him yet.'
'OK. We can pull it all together at the briefing tomorrow. But I want you to concentrate on Smythe as much as possible. Your young woman's trail's not going to get any colder now. Not after sixty years.'
It made sense, of course; far more important to catch a killer who had struck just twenty-four hours ago. Why then did he feel the need to concentrate on the girl's murder? Was it simply because he didn't like working with Dagwood? McLean stifled a yawn, trying not to look at the pile of papers on his desk requiring his urgent underlined three times attention. They had the suspicious look of overtime forms and expenses claims to be ratified with his budget for the quarter. He started to reach for the top one, but McIntyre stopped him. Her hand was soft; her grip firm.
'Go home, Tony. Have an early night. Get some sleep. You'll be fresher in the morning.'
'Is that an order, ma'am?'
'Yes, inspector. It is.'
~~~~
12
His mind is a whirl of confusion. He doesn't know this city, doesn't understand the harsh language they speak here. He feels sick, right down to his core. His breathing is ragged, and every gasp hurts in his throat, his chest burning. Once he was strong, he knows this even though he can't remember his name. Once he could carry a dozen sheaves of grain at a time, clear a whole field in an afternoon under the hot sun. Now his back is bent, his legs weak and faltering. When did he become old like his father? What happened to his life?
Noise spills out from a nearby building. Its tall glass windows are frosted, but he can see the colourful shadows of people moving about inside. The central door swings wide and a young woman staggers out, closely followed by two more. They are laughing, jabbering away at each other with words he doesn't recognise. Drunk and happy, they don't see him watching from the other side of the street. Their high heels clatter on the pavement as they stagger away, their short skirts riding up their legs, crop-tops revealing pale white flaccid flesh.
He catches glimpses of memory. Someone doing terrible things. More pale flesh, parted by a sharp knife. Blood welling up from the edges of the cut. Rage at an ancient injustice. Something dark and wet and slippery underneath. These are not his memories. Or maybe they are. He no longer knows what is real.
The air is warm; a heavy moist blanket under the dark night sky. Orange streetlamps reflect off dull clouds overhead, casting everything in a hellish light. He is slick with sweat and his head pounds to the rhythm of his heart. His throat feels suddenly dry and he knows now what the building across the road is.
The noise stabs at him as he pushes open the heavy door. It envelopes him in a smell of unwashed bodies, deodorant, perfume, beer, food. There are hundreds of people standing, sitting, shouting at each other to be heard over the tuneless music that fills everything. No-one seems to notice him as he steps into the throng.
He looks at his hands, so familiar. These are hands that have built walls, caressed lovers, held a tiny baby whose name is as forgotten to him as his own. These are hands crusted with dried blood, worn into the wrinkles and underneath the short fingernails. These are the hands that wielded the knife. That violated another man so completely. The hands that sought vengeance for all the wrongs done to him and his kind.
He sees the sign, understands one small thing in this foreign place. Is it the sickness that has weakened him, or the terrible images flooding his mind that drives him there? Either way, he is in the toilet, hunched over the bowl, vomiting. Or at least trying to vomit. Nothing but dry heaves, his stomach empty.
He grabs paper, wipes his face and hands, flushes. When he stands up, the world seems to tilt dangerously. He is breathless, unknowing. There are other people
in the toilet, laughing at him. Moving around him like bullies in the schoolyard. He can't focus, can only remember the terrible feel of the knife in his hand, the power that flowed through him as he used it, the righteous fury. He can feel it again, heavy against his palm.
They're not laughing now. A silence has fallen on the place. Even the droning thump of the music outside is still. He looks around, noticing for the first time the long mirror in front of him. It's hard to make out anything past the images of carnage filling his mind. But he can see a man he doesn't recognise, haggard and gaunt, dressed in filthy clothes, hair matted and grey. He watches, fascinated, terrified, as the man reaches up with one hand. A fist is clamped around a short builder's knife, the blade angled inwards towards his exposed throat. He has done this before, he thinks as he feels the welcome touch of cold steel on his flesh.
Blood sprays across the mirror.
~~~~
13
The station was in turmoil when McLean came in the next morning. A take-away curry and an early night had left him feeling much better than the previous day's brain-dead zombie. He was half an hour early for the morning briefing on the Smythe case, and had hoped he might use the time to make a start on his outstanding paperwork. As he approached the incident room on his way to the stairs, he could hear Dagwood's distinctive voice rumbling out through the open door.
'...Bloody marvellous. Can't keep the buggers out, and when they come here they're all nutcases...'
He peered around the doorframe, hoping to get the lay of the room before stepping past. The chief inspector took the same moment to break off from his conversation with a pair of uniformed sergeants and look around.