by James Oswald
'I didn't come here to have my palm read, Madame Rose or Stan or whatever your name is.' McLean wanted to get out of the room, but the tall stacks of books trapped him. Madame Rose stood so close he could see the pores in her skin. His skin, dammit. This was a man, winding him up. What the fuck was he doing here?
'No. You came here to learn about demons. And I brought you in here because I can see you don't want to voice your concerns in front of the young constable back there.'
'Demons don't exist.'
'Oh, I think you and I both know that's not true. And they come in many forms.' Madame Rose pulled a heavy book down from a high shelf, cradling it in her arms like a baby as she flipped through crackly pages. 'Not all demons are evil monsters, inspector, and some only live in your mind. But there are other, rarer creatures that move among us, influence us, and yes, exhort us to do terrible things. That's not to say we can't do terrible things without their help. Here.' She twisted the book around so that he could see the page. He had been expecting an old tome, handwritten Latin script, elegantly illuminated. What he got was something that looked a bit like a high school yearbook, only on closer inspection it appeared to be for middle-aged men. One face in particular stood out, even though it was younger than the man he knew. Just the sight was enough to send a shiver through his whole body. He snapped the book shut, shoved it back at Madame Rose and turned to leave. A heavy hand on his arm stopped him.
'I know what happened to you, inspector. We're not a large community, the clairvoyants and mediums here in the city, but we all know your story.'
'It was a long time ago.' McLean pulled away, but Madame Rose's grip was strong.
'You were touched by a demon then.'
'Donald Anderson isn't a demon. He's a sick bastard who deserves to rot in jail for the rest of his life.'
'He was a man, inspector. He was like me in many ways. More interested in old books than anything else. But he came into contact with a demon, and he changed.'
'Donald Anderson was a raping, murdering bastard and that's the end of it.' McLean shook his arm free, turned to face Madame Rose as his anger began to flare. Bad enough he had to deal with the likes of Dagwood on a daily basis, but he wasn't going to put up with this. This wasn't what he'd come here for. What exactly had he come here for?
'Perhaps. But with demons you can never tell.'
'Enough. I didn't come here to talk about Donald bloody Anderson, and I really don't care if demons exist or not. I need to know what these men thought they were getting. What could they possibly gain from ritually murdering a young girl?'
'A young girl?' Madame Rose raised an eyebrow. 'A virgin I've no doubt. What could they not gain? I would guess they were limited only by their imaginations.'
'So immortality, wealth, the usual sort of thing.' McLean recalled MacBride's earlier suggestion.
'That does seem to be the way of it. Like I said, only limited by their imaginations.'
'And how does it all go wrong? Usually?'
'There is no usual, inspector. We're talking about demons here.' Madame Rose corrected herself. 'Or at least people who earnestly believe they are consorting with demons. Classically, the person invoking the demon stands inside the circle to protect themselves from it while they make their demands. Once they've banished it back to whichever hell it came from, they can leave the circle and go out into the world. That usually goes wrong when some other idiot raises the same demon sometime later. They have long memories, inspector, and they don't like being bossed around.'
'The body was inside the circle,' McLean said.
'In which case they tried to tie the demon to the girl. Which is fine as long as the circle remains closed.'
McLean pictured the scene. A wall broken down by workmen. Rubble strewn across the floor. 'And if it was broken?'
'Well, then you've got a demon that's not just pissed off at being summoned, but which you've had trapped for years, maybe decades. How do you think you'd feel about that?'
~~~~
55
The mortuary was always quiet; no chatter amongst the dead lying in their individual chill coffins. But the afternoon shift was different somehow, as if all the sound had been sucked out of the place. Even his footsteps on the hard linoleum floor echoed distantly as McLean approached Cadwallader's office. Or maybe it was just the after-effect of spending time with Madame Rose. The doctor was nowhere to be seen, but his assistant was busy typing away, headphones over her ears.
''lo, Tracy.' McLean rapped perhaps a little too hard on the open doorframe, not wanting to spook the young woman. She started slightly.
'Inspector. What a surprise.'
McLean smiled at the sarcasm in her voice. 'Is the doctor in?'
'He's taking a shower right now.' Something about the way Tracy said the words made McLean think she wanted to be taking it with him. It was a strange thought; Cadwallader was old enough to be the pathology assistant's father. He pushed the image of the two of them away.
'Long day at the office?'
'Nasty PM. Burnt bodies are never fun.'
'He's finished, then?' McLean felt a surge of relief that he wouldn't have to watch.
'Yup. Hence the shower. I'm just typing up the notes now. Not a nice case at all.'
'How so?'
'He burned to death, I can't imagine it would have been much fun. Third degree on eighty percent of his body; scarring in the lungs where he'd inhaled fire. At least he was probably drunk enough not to feel a lot of the pain. Or I hope so, anyway.'
'Drunk?'
'Blood alcohol level was point one eight percent. Well on the way to being unconscious.'
'Time of death?'
'Difficult to be completely accurate yet, but days not hours.'
McLean cast his mind back to when he'd seen the van. It was within the timescale. 'What about identifying features? Are we anywhere near an identification?'
'Oh ye of little faith.' Tracey pushed herself off her chair and went to the counter that ran along the far wall of the office. A stainless steel tray was heaped with a number of items, all wrapped in plastic bags, all blackened with the fire. She brought it over. 'We found his wallet in his inside pocket. It's quite charred on the outside, but good old fashioned leather takes a lot of burning. Driving licence and credit cards are in the name of a Donald R Murdo.'
*
'Mr McAllister's in a meeting, inspector. You can't go in there.'
McLean was in no mood for waiting around. He pushed past the secretary and slammed open the door to McAllister's office. The man himself was on the far side of the desk, deep in conversation with a grey-suited businessman who looked as out of place as a nun in a brothel. They both stared up at him as he entered; the businessman with the haunted eyes of a guilty schoolboy caught smoking behind the bike shed, McAllister with a flash of fury swiftly doused.
'Inspector McLean. This is a surprise.'
'Mr McAllister, I'm sorry. I tried to stop him...'
'Calm yourself Janette. My door's always open for Lothian and Borders' finest.' McAllister turned back to the businessman, who looked even more alarmed as the words sunk in. 'Mr Roberts, I think everything's in order now, don't you?'
Roberts nodded, seemingly unwilling to speak, and gathered up his papers from the desk, hurriedly putting them into a leather satchel. Every so often he would glance up at McLean, never quite meeting his eye. After what seemed like minutes but was likely no more than a few seconds, he stuffed his still open case under his arm, nodded swiftly at McAllister and scurried out.
'And what do I owe this pleasant surprise to, inspector? Have you come to tell me I can start work on the house in Sighthill again? Only it's too late. I've just sold it to Mr Roberts there. Or at least the company he represents. Made a bit of a profit on the sale, too.'
'Even with it being the site of a brutal murder?'
'Oh, I suspect because of that, inspector. The buyer was anxious to know all the details I could give him.'
&
nbsp; McLean knew that McAllister was trying to goad him into asking who the buyer was. Then the developer would be able to pretend that was confidential information and refuse to divulge it. Petty, really, especially since he'd seen a logo on the top of several sheets of paper that Roberts had shoved into his case. It shouldn't be too hard to reproduce and pass around until someone recognised it.
'We've found something of yours,' he said instead.
'Oh aye?' McAllister settled back in his chair. He hadn't offered McLean the vacated seat.
'A white Transit van. Well, it was white once. It's mostly black now.'
'A Transit? I don't use them, inspector. My brother runs the Fiat franchise across town, does me a nice line in Ducatos. I wasn't aware that I was missing one.'
'This van was in a hit and run incident. It mounted the pavement on The Pleasance and ran down a police constable. She died two days later. Do you remember Constable Kydd, Mr McAllister?'
'Let me guess. The bonny lass who was here with you last time? Oh, that is a shame, inspector.' McAllister's insincerity would have made a politician blush. Then his face hardened. 'Are you accusing me of having something to do with that, inspector?'
'Where's Murdo?' McLean asked.
'Donnie? I've no idea. He's not worked for me since you were last here. We had a bit of an argument over the house in Sighthill. I fired him.'
McLean felt the wind knocked out of his sails. He'd been so sure, and now he had the horrible feeling he'd made a complete twat of himself.
'You fired him? Why?'
'If you must know, he was using illegal immigrants as cheap labour. Cash in hand, no questions asked.' McAllister's eyes flashed dangerously, his earlier anger stoked once again. 'I don't run my business that way. Never have and never will. My reputation's all I've got. If you'd asked around you'd know that. I've had nothing but hassle from the police since I reported that body, and now you barge in here with your groundless allegations. Do you have any proof? No of course you don't. Otherwise you'd be arresting me. You haven't got shite but your half-arsed theories and you dare to come in here, blackening my name with them. I'll be sure to make my complaint at your behaviour official. Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do.'
~~~~
56
The station was quiet when McLean pushed his way in through the back door, which suited his black mood. Nothing worse than being shown up for an idiot to make you angry at everything and anyone. One of the admin staff scurried away in terror after she'd told him that Chief Inspector Duguid had called a meeting. Apparently there was some new evidence that could dramatically change the direction of the investigation, or something. Impressed at how quickly Cadwallader, or more likely Tracy, had come up with confirmation on the blood, he headed down to the small incident room the back way so as to avoid being seen. It didn't do him any good. Chief Superintendent McIntyre was waiting for him.
'How is it I knew you'd come here rather than go home?'
'Ma'am?'
'Don't you ma'am me, Tony. I've just been on the phone with a very irate gentleman by the name of McAllister. It seems one of my officers barged into his office and verbally harassed him.'
'I...'
'Just what part of keep out of this investigation do you not understand?'
'Ma'am, I...' McLean tried to head off the superintendent before she completely lost her temper. Might as well grab a tiger by the tail.
'I'm not finished yet. What the hell were you doing at McAllister's anyway? What's he got to do with your missing teenager?'
'He...'
'Nothing. That's what. Nothing whatsoever. Bad enough that you went to see him. What the hell were you doing snooping around a burnt out van in Newhaven? Pestering Angus Cadwallader for ID on the driver?'
'I'm sorry ma'am. It was the van that ran down Constable Kydd. I had to see it.
'You're a victim of this crime, Tony. You can't be anywhere near the investigation. You know what a half-decent defence lawyer will do to our case if they find out. Jesus wept, it was bad enough you going after McReadie.'
McIntyre slumped against the table, sighed heavily as she pressed the heel of her hand into her eye. She looked tired, and McLean had a sudden insight into what life must be like for her. He moaned about having to juggle the overtime rosters for his small team; she had to deal with the whole station. She'd lost a constable, someone was posting crime scene photographs on the internet, she was co-ordinating god alone knew how many other investigations, and here he was making life even more difficult for her.
‘I'm sorry. I never meant to give you a hard time.'
'With power comes responsibility, Tony. I recommended you for inspector because I thought you were responsible enough for the job. Please don't make me think I made a mistake.'
'I won't. And I'll apologise personally to Tommy McAllister. That was my bad. I let my emotions get the better of me.'
'Leave it a couple of days, eh? Go home.'
'What about Chloe?' McLean wished the words back as he said them, but by then it was too late. McIntyre looked up at him with a mixture of disbelief and desperation.
'You're not the only person on the force looking for her, you know. We're shaking down the usual suspects and working on the CCTV footage to try and identify that car. We'll find her. And it's Grumpy Bob's case anyway. Let him get on with it.'
'I just feel so useless.'
'Well go and speak to her mother then. She's your friend. Maybe you can convince her we're doing all we can.'
*
Late afternoon in the middle of the festival season, but the shop was closed. McLean peered in through the window, trying to see if there was anyone about, but the place was empty. Alongside the shop, a door lead to the tenements above, and one of the buzzers bore the name 'Spiers.' He pressed the button and was rewarded after a few moments with the tinny sound of a voice.
'Hello?'
'Jenny? It's Tony McLean. Can I come up?'
The door clicked open and McLean pushed his way in. Unlike his own tenement block just around the corner, this hallway didn't smell of cat piss. The floor was swept, and someone had put houseplants on the windowsills looking out from the stairwell into a neat drying green and garden at the back.
Jenny stood in the open doorway to her flat, her face a picture of apprehension. She was wearing a dressing gown over a long nightdress, her feet bare. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red-rimmed and sunken.
'Have you found her?' It was a whisper laden with both hope and fear.
'Not yet, no. Can I come in?'
Jenny stood aside, letting McLean into the tiny hallway. He looked around, noting the disarray. How soon chaos descended on the disrupted household. Turning back, he saw Jenny still staring out the front door at the stairwell, as if willing her daughter to come flouncing up the steps.
'We'll find her, Jenny.'
'Will you? Will you really? Or are you just saying that to try and comfort me?' Jenny's voice hardened, the anger beginning to show through. She closed the door and pushed past. McLean followed her into the tiny galley kitchen.
'We picked her up on CCTV cameras walking along Princes Street after the show,' McLean said. Jenny had started to make coffee, but she stopped, turning to face him.
'She was meant to get a taxi.'
'She's a teenager. I bet she's been saving her taxi fares for years now.'
'What happened? Where did she go?'
'A car slowed down. She spoke to the person driving, then got in. We think she might have been in contact with him before. On the internet.'
Jenny's hands went to her face, her fingers pressing deep into her cheeks, leaving white marks on the skin. 'Oh my god. She's been abducted by a paedophile. My little girl.'
McLean stepped forward, taking Jenny's arms and pulling them away from her face. 'It's not all bad, Jenny. We've got a partial number plate and a make and model of car. We're tracking it down right now.'
'But my little girl... She's... He's...'
'Listen to what I'm saying, Jenny. I know it's bad. I won't lie to you about that. But we've got a lot of information to work with. And this was pre-planned, not some random thing. That's good news.'
'Good? How can you see any good in this?'
McLean cursed himself for being so insensitive. There was nothing good about the whole situation, only bits that were less bad.
'It means that whoever did this wants Chloe alive.' For now, at least.
*
The phone rang as he was pushing the keys into the lock of his front door. McLean thought about letting the answering machine take it, an hour trying to calm down Jenny Spiers had left him drained. Then he remembered that the tape was still in his desk drawer. Rushing through, he managed to grab the handset before it rang off.
'McLean.'
'Ah, sir. Glad I caught you in. It's DC MacBride here.'
'What can I do for you, constable?'
'It's Dag... er, DCI Duguid, sir.' McLean guessed the MacBride must have been in the company of senior officers.
'What's he done this time?'
'He's gone to the SOC offices with a search warrant, sir. Taken all our computer tech boys with him. He's going to arrest Emma Baird.'
~~~~
57
He arrived just too late to do anything but get in the way. Duguid had gone to town, no doubt hoping to show his superiors in Force HQ that he was thorough in his work. It had probably never occurred to him that the men would be better used searching for Chloe Spiers.
The entrance to the SOC lab was blocked by uniformed constables, and as McLean approached, Duguid pushed through and back out into the car park, closely followed by a pair of sergeants flanking the handcuffed Emma Baird. She looked terrified, her eyes darting this way and that, trying to find a friendly face.
'What the blazes are you doing here, McLean?' Duguid found him first.