by James Oswald
'I'm trying to stop you making a big mistake, sir. She's not the one you're looking for.'
'Tony, what's going on?' Emma asked. Duguid turned as he heard her voice, directed his orders at the two sergeants.
'Take her back to the station. Get her processed as quickly as possible.'
'Are you sure that's a good idea, Chief Inspector?' McLean emphasised the 'chief' in the title.
'Ah, the gallant knight, riding in to save his girlfriend. Don't tell me how to run my investigation, McLean.'
'She's one of us, sir. You're treating her like she's some kind of crack-head junkie.'
Duguid rounded on McLean, prodding him in the chest as he spoke. 'She's an accessory to the murder of Jonas Carstairs. She knows who killed him, I'm sure of it, and I intend to get that information out of her before anyone else dies.'
Crap. The blood results hadn't come through after all. Once again Duguid was barking up the wrong tree.
'She's not accessory to anything, sir. And Sally Dent killed Jonas Carstairs.'
'What are you blabbering about, McLean? It was you who fingered her in the first place. Don't try and weasel your way out of it now.'
'Is that true?' Emma stared straight at him. Her bewilderment was still there, but it was only a step away from fury.
'Why is this woman still here?' Duguid asked. Before McLean could say anything, the two sergeants had dragged her off to a waiting squad car.
'You should have let me handle this, sir.' McLean had to speak through gritted teeth. As he stood out in the car park, technicians began filing out of the SOC building with computers, loading them into a waiting van.
'What, and let you warn your squeeze so she could cover up her tracks? I don't think so, McLean.'
'She's not my 'squeeze' sir. She's my friend. And if you'd left it to me I could have used that to find out what was going on without any need for this.' McLean pointed at the melee of policemen and bemused-looking SOC officers. 'Right now you've closed down our entire SOC operation, as well as lost any goodwill we might ever have had with the staff who do the bulk of our crime-scene investigation work. That's fine policing, sir. Well done.'
He stalked off, leaving Duguid open-mouthed behind him. And only then did he see Emma, staring out of the open window of the squad car, well within earshot. Their eyes met too briefly for him to read her expression, and then she pointedly turned away.
*
McLean wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, or failing that climb outside a bottle of whisky. Everything had gone to shit, his head was full of demons, Chloe Spiers had been missing almost twenty-four hours and he couldn't actually remember the last time he'd seen his bed. Emma being arrested was just the icing on the cake, Duguid's most spectacular cock-up to date. He couldn't think straight, but there was one more thing he needed to know. So instead of flagging down a taxi to take him home, he hitched a ride in a squad car back to the station. Despite the late hour, down in the basement, the place was frenetic with activity as a dozen computers from the SOC Photographic lab were logged in, stripped down and searched. Mike Simpson looked up from a dog's breakfast of wires and scowled at him as he stepped into the room.
'What do you want?' His tone was angry, accusing. McLean held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
'Whoa, steady on Mike. What've I done to deserve this?'
'How about grassing up Em? Or landing us with all this shit.' Mike looked around at his fellow technicians, all peering bleary-eyed at flickering monitors or doing strange things with crocodile clips to the innards of computers.
'I didn't grass up Emma. I was trying to protect her.'
'That's not what Dagwood says.'
'And you believe him over me? I thought you were smarter than that.'
Mike's scowl softened a little. 'I s'pose. But you did suspect her.'
'I'm a detective, Mike. It's what I do. Someone with access to all the crime scene photos, who uses the initials MB to identify themselves? Of course I was going to investigate. I just figured it would be easier to ask her myself, quietly. Would have avoided all this for certain.'
Mike shrugged. 'We've still got a heap of shit to wade through because of it.'
'Well, if it's my fault, I'm sorry. I'll buy you a beer to make up for it.'
That seemed to cheer Mike up remarkably. It was quite probable no-one had ever offered such generosity to him before.
'You're on, sir. Now if you don't mind, I've got to get this stripped down and checked before midnight. We're trying to get SOC back up and running for tomorrow morning.'
'There was one thing...' The technician slumped his shoulders with amateur theatricality.
'What?'
'Fergus McReadie. You still got his PC?'
'It's a Power Mac, but yes, we've still got it. Why?'
'We know about Penstemmin Security, but how many other back entrances has he got? Who else did he do security work for?'
'How far do you want to go back?' The technician looked weary and hard-pressed. 'He's been in the security game for over a decade.'
'I don't know. Just the last year maybe. Who was he working for when we caught him? What about his emails?'
Mike pushed himself out of his chair and wandered over to another computer tucked away in the far corner of the room. McLean followed him and watched as the technician pulled up screen after screen of information. Finally a list appeared, sorted alphabetically.
'Here we go, sir. Emails sent and received in the week before we seized Mr McReadie's computer. Looks like he may have had quite a few clients.'
But only one caught McLean's eye. At least two dozen messages sent back and forth between Fergus McReadie and a man by the name of Christopher Roberts of Carstairs Weddell Solicitors.
~~~~
58
Interview room four was a dark little space, its tiny, high window obscured by the later addition of ductwork to the outside of the building. The air conditioning unit clonked and burbled, but didn't seem to be conditioning any of the air it dribbled into the room. At least it wasn't too warm yet, the full heat of the sun some hours away.
Christopher Roberts looked as if he hadn't slept a wink since McLean had seen him at McAllister's the day before. He was wearing the same suit, and his face was frizzed with a dark shadow of stubble. He'd been picked up by a patrol car at the Bridge Motel in Queensferry, which was an odd place to stay for a man who lived in Cramond. The number plate on his shiny red BMW matched the partial DC MacBride had managed to lift from the CCTV footage of the car that had picked up Chloe Spiers. It might have been a coincidence; plenty of dark coloured BMWs with that year number and first two letters. But lately McLean had been seeing rather too much coincidence to believe in it any more.
'Why didn't you go home last night, Mr Roberts?' McLean asked after the formalities of the interview had been dispensed with. Roberts didn't answer, instead studied his hands and picked at his fingernails.
'OK then,' McLean said. 'Let's start things simple. Who are you working for?'
'I work for Carstairs Weddell, the solicitors. I'm a partner in their conveyancing department.'
'That much I know already. Tell me why you were in Tommy McAllister's office yesterday. You were arranging the sale of Farquhar House in Sighthill. Who was the buyer?'
Roberts' face went pale and beads of sweat started to swell on his forehead. 'I can't. Client confidentiality.'
McLean grimaced. This wasn't going to be easy. 'OK, then. Tell me this. Where did you take Chloe Spiers after you picked her up on Princes Street at eleven thirty the night before last?'
'I... I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Mr Roberts, we have CCTV footage of Miss Spiers getting into your car. Even now our forensic experts are taking it apart. It's only a matter of time before they find evidence that she was in it. Now where did you take her?' This was a lie. The car was in the police garage, it was true, but how long it would take to persuade the forensic experts to get
to work on it was anyone's guess.
'I can't say.'
'But you did take her somewhere.'
'Please, don't make me say anything. They'll kill me if I say anything. They'll kill my wife.'
McLean turned to Grumpy Bob, who was leaning against the wall behind him. 'Get a patrol car around to Mr Roberts' house and take his wife into protective custody.'
The sergeant nodded and left the room. McLean turned his attention back to Roberts.
'If someone's been threatening you, Mr Roberts, then it's best you tell us who they are. We can protect you and your wife. But if you keep silent and Chloe Spiers is hurt, then I'll make sure you go to prison for a very long time.' He let the words hang in the air, falling silent for the long minutes it took for Grumpy Bob to return. Roberts didn't say a word.
'Tell me how you persuaded Chloe to get in,' McLean said after a while. 'She's a smart kid, so I'm told. She wouldn't just jump into a car with any old stranger.'
Roberts kept his mouth shut, his eyes wide with fear.
'It wasn't a chance meeting, you were looking for her weren't you.'
'I... It shouldn't have been me. They made me do it. They said they'd hurt Irene.'
'Who should it have been, Mr Roberts? Should it have been Fergie? Did they make you pretend to be him?'
Roberts said nothing, but his head nodded imperceptibly, as if he wasn't even aware of it.
'So who's Fergie? And why couldn't he do it himself?'
Roberts clamped his mouth shut, twisting his hands together in his lap like a schoolboy who needs to be excused. The fear was like a fever on him, God alone knew what had been used to scare him so. McLean knew it was no good; he wouldn't say anything at least until he knew his wife was safe. Maybe not even then. But he also reckoned he knew why Fergie had failed to turn up for his appointment with Chloe Spiers. Now all he had to do was prove it.
*
HMP Saughton was not a place you would want to visit often. McLean hated it, and not just for the inmates he'd put inside its lifeless walls. There was something about the prison that sucked the joy out you, drained your will to live. He'd visited plenty of other jails in his career, and they all had it to some extent, but Saughton was worst.
They were shown into a small room with a single, high window and no air conditioning. Even though it was still morning, the heat was enough to be uncomfortable. McReadie's lawyer was already there, waiting. His gaunt face, hooked nose and long mane of silver hair made him look like a vulture; no doubt why he had chosen his profession in the first place.
'You understand that this constitutes harassment of my client, inspector.' No handshake, no nod of greeting or casual hello.
'Your client is a suspect in a child abduction. If that becomes a murder investigation, then I'll show you the meaning of harassment.' McLean stared at the lawyer, who sat impassively and did not respond. Grumpy Bob lurked in the corner, leaning against the wall. After a few minutes, a guard arrived, pushing Fergus McReadie ahead of him. He shoved the prisoner into a seat, jerked his thumb at the door, presumably to indicate that he would be outside if needed, then retreated. The lock clacked shut, just the four of them alone.
McReadie looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well since he'd been placed here on remand. It was a far cry from his usual haunt, the penthouse apartment, neighbour to the stars. He bent towards his solicitor, who whispered something in his ear, then straightened up again, shaking his head and scowling.
'Prison suits you, Fergus,' McLean said, leaning back in his chair.
'That's a pity. I wasn't planning on staying here long.' McReadie sat uncomfortably, his hands cuffed together, his prison clothes ill-fitting for a man used to designer wear.
'You must think you're on easy street, Fergus. White collar crime, a little bit of hacking, a bit of light burglary. Your record's pretty clean, so the judge'll go easy, even if I ask the chief constable to put in a word. You never know, a good lawyer and you might get away with five years. Knock that back to eighteen months for good behaviour. An open prison, since you're not a violent man. Not much, really, for robbing the dead.'
McReadie said nothing, just stared insolently. McLean smiled at him, leaning forward. 'But if word got out in here that you'd been grooming a fifteen year old girl for sex. Well, prisoners are an odd lot. They have this strangely warped moral code. And they like to make the punishment fit the crime, if you see what I mean.'
Silence fell on the room, but McLean could see that his words had got through. The look of insolence disappeared, replaced by a worried stare. McReadie's eyes darted to the door, to his brief, then back to McLean, who leant back in his chair and let the silence grow.
'You've got nothing on me. It's not true.' McReadie broke first.
'Mr McReadie, I'd advise you not to say anything,' the solicitor said. McReadie stared at him, an angry scowl on his face. McLean read the animosity and decided to play it.
'We've got your emails, and Chloe's too. Oh, I think we've got plenty on you, Fergie. Was that wise, using your own name?'
'It... It wasn't like that.'
'What was it like, then? Love?'
'I cannae tell youse. He'll kill me.'
'Mr McReadie, as your solicitor I must insist...'
'Who'll kill you?'
McReadie didn't answer. McLean could see the fear in his eyes; it would be hard to break that. Roberts he could understand, but McReadie was a hard man. What had they done to get to him so badly?
'We've picked up Christopher Roberts, Fergus. He had quite a lot to say about you. How you groomed young Chloe. What was it about her that attracted you? She's almost of age. I thought you lot liked them a bit younger.'
'What d'you mean, you lot? I'm no' a kiddie fiddler.' Anger blazed in McReadie's eyes. McLean had hit a nerve.
'So you just like to hang around teenage girls' internet chatrooms, that it?'
'I didnae choose her. They gave me her name. I was just doin' my job.'
'Who gave you her name? What job?'
McReadie said nothing, but McLean could see he was scared of something, worried he might have said too much already. He decided to change tack.
'Why did you try to set me up, Fergus? Was it just petty revenge because I'd caught you?'
McReadie laughed, a nervous little wheeze. 'And waste all that money? You're joking. It was my stupid mistake you caught me. I don't hate you for that.'
'All part of the game, eh. So why'd you do it then? You saying someone set you up to it? They give you the drugs too?'
McReadie's face was a picture as competing emotions fought across it. He was scared, true. Someone had put the wind up him good and proper. But he was also a chancer desperate to play his way out of this hole. 'What's in it for me, eh? Get me out of this shite-hole. Get me on a witness protection scheme an' maybe I'll tell youse.'
'I think I'd like to talk to my client alone for a moment,' the solicitor said. His vulture face looked like he'd been sucking lemons, his eyes popping wider and wider as McReadie had incriminated himself.
McLean nodded. 'That's probably not a bad idea. Try and talk some sense into him. If the girl's hurt, then all deals are off.'
He stood up. Grumpy Bob knocked to have the door unlocked. Outside in the corridor, they were accosted by another prison guard.
'Inspector McLean?'
'Yes?'
'Phone call for you, sir.'
McLean followed him out, along the corridor to an office, where a telephone handset lay on the desk. He picked it up. 'McLean.'
'MacBride here, sir. I think you might want to come over. They've found a body. It's just round the corner from your grandmother's house.'
*
He remembered playing in this dark little cul-de-sac as a child. Back then it had been a regular haunt of walkers, the road giving way to a leafy track that angled down the steep side of a narrow glen to the river. Without adequate street lighting, it had fallen out of favour in recent years and was now so overgrow
n as to be almost impassable. Discarded coke cans, chip pokes and used condoms showed the use it was being put to nowadays.
Squad cars blocked the road completely, forcing them to park some distance away. McLean and Grumpy Bob walked down the uneven pavement in the shade of huge mature sycamores towards the knot of uniforms clustered at the end
'Over here, sir.' DC MacBride waved them towards the dense bushes and a couple of paper-overalled figures kneeling down.
'Who found it?' McLean asked.
'Old lady walking her dog, sir. It wouldn't come when she called it, so she came down to see what was so interesting.'
'Where is she now?'
'They've taken her off to hospital. She had quite the shock.'
At the sound of the detective constable's voice, the white-overalled figure with his back to them stood up and turned. 'You do bring me the most interesting bodies, Tony,' Angus Cadwallader said. 'This one seems to have been beaten heavily with fists. I've seen similar bruising on men injured in bare-knuckle boxing fights. Only there doesn't seem to be enough damage to have killed him.'
McLean stepped forward to view the body. He had been a short, stout man, though perhaps bloating had made his stomach stretch at his pale blue shirt a bit more than it would have done in life. He lay sprawled in the leaf mould, arms thrown out as if he had just rolled onto his back to have a snooze. His head was tilted over to one side, his face bruised, nose broken. His clothes were tattered and dirty, a tiny red 'virgin rail' insignia on his dark blue jacket.
'Have we got an ID?'
DC MacBride handed over a slim leather wallet. 'He was carrying this, sir. Face fits the photo in his driver's licence.'
'David Brown, South Queensferry. Why does that name ring a bell?'
Grumpy Bob came forward, knelt down and looked at the dead man.
'I know who this is,' he said quietly. 'I interviewed him just a few days ago. He was driving the train that hit Sally Dent. What in God's name is he doing here?'