by James Oswald
'Any reason why he'd suddenly decide to murder his boss?' McLean nodded towards the hulking form of Jethro Callum. They were watching him through the one-way mirror that looked into the interview room. He had a good idea why, but it wasn't a happy place to go.
'I guess we'd better ask him.'
'OK, Bob. Let's get this over with.' McLean grimaced out of the chair; he'd managed to crack three ribs and had picked up a bruise the size and shape of Poland in the fight. He began to have some inkling of just how David Brown might have felt before he died.
Callum didn't move when they pushed open the door, neither did he register their presence when McLean settled himself down gingerly into the chair opposite. Grumpy Bob unwrapped two tapes and slipped them into the machine, setting it to record their interview, and still the burly chauffeur said nothing. McLean went through the formalities, then finally leant forward, resting his elbows on the table between him and the murderer.
'Why did you kill Gavin Wemyss, Mr Callum?'
Slowly, the bodyguard lifted his head. He seemed to have difficulty focussing his eyes, and his expression was one of shock, as if he had only just noticed where he was.
'Who're you?' he asked.
'We've been through all that, Mr Callum. I'm Detective Inspector McLean, and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Laird.'
'Where am I?' Callum pulled at his cuffs. 'Why am I here?'
'Are you seriously expecting me to believe you don't know, Mr Callum?' McLean studied the bodyguard's face. It was something only a mother could love, scarred from numerous fights, nose flat and squint, eyes just slightly too close together to have any hope of conveying intelligence. But there was something in there, lurking behind the bewilderment. He could sense it, and in that instant, McLean knew that it sensed him too. Callum stopped straining against his handcuffs, instead slumping forward as his whole body relaxed.
'I know you. I've smelled you before. You drew the circle around yourself but it won't protect you from me. We're destined to be together, you and I. It's in your blood. His blood.' Where Callum's earlier words had been slurred and hesitant, now he spoke clearly, clipped. It was a voice of control and power, used to being obeyed. Another person entirely.
'Why did you kill Gavin Wemyss?' McLean repeated his earlier question.
'He was their leader. The last one. I killed him to be free.'
'The last one? You've killed others?'
'You know who I've killed, inspector. And you know they all deserved to die.'
'No, I don't. Who did you kill? What were their names? Why did they deserve to die?'
Callum stared straight at him, face set like stone. And then his features softened again, as if he were remembering something highly emotive. His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. He looked left and right, around the small interview room with panicked twists of the head. He pulled at his restraints once, twice, then realising it was hopeless, slumped forwards. Tears filled his eyes, rolling over the scars on his cheeks as he started to mumble in a frightened, childlike voice.
'OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.'
McLean looked at the big man, rocking gently in his chair. Had his hands not been in cuffs, he was sure Callum would have curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. There had been something there, briefly, but now whatever mad instinct had driven the man to commit such a brutal murder was gone, and he was left alone with the memory of what he had done.
'Interview suspended at twenty-one fifty-two.' McLean stood up, gasping as his ribs protested, and clicked off the tape recorder. 'Have him escorted back to the cells. We'll try again in the morning.'
Grumpy Bob opened the interview room door and called in a couple of uniformed constables. They flanked Callum before one of them reached down and began to undo the cuffs.
It happened in an instant. The bodyguard roared a great scream of rage, exploded out of his chair and lashed out with his fists. The two constables went flying, crashing into the walls. Behind him, McLean could hear Grumpy Bob move to block the doorway, but far from making a break for it, Callum turned to the large mirror that hung on the wall, behind which was the viewing room. He lurched towards it, pulling his head back as he did, and butted it with all his might. Cracks speared up from the point of impact, but it didn't smash. Enraged, Callum pulled his head back again and hammered it once more into the fractured glass. This time the mirror gave, breaking into long shards of lethally sharp glass. One poked up from the bottom of the frame, fully a foot long and needle-sharp. A glistening bead of Callum's blood balanced on the point of it. The bodyguard turned, facing McLean with that powerful, controlled stare. Not scared, not mad, but knowing. Not the prey here, but the predator.
'You'll understand soon,' he said in that voice that wasn't his. Then pulled his head up, arching his back ready to smash forwards and plunge the glass shard deep into his brain. But the two constables were on him, grabbing his arms and wrestling them behind him. Suddenly the room was full of bodies, swarming over Callum like ants. The big man writhed and screamed, but was slowly pushed to the ground, his hands cuffed tightly behind him. When they finally pulled him to his feet and turned him back around, McLean could see ugly cuts in his forehead and nose. A glass splinter had pierced his left eye, leaking aqueous humour down his cheek in a parody of tears.
'Jesus Christ,' he swore. 'Get him to hospital, quick. And keep him restrained. I don't want him having another chance to do that.'
*
Out in the corridor, McLean leant against the wall and tried to suppress the shaking that had taken hold of him. Grumpy Bob stood by his side, silent for a while.
'He wasn't trying to escape, was he,' the sergeant said finally.
'No. He was trying to kill himself. Like all the others.'
'Others? What do you mean?'
McLean looked up at his old friend. 'Forget it, Bob. I think I need a drink.'
'I second that. It's hours past the end of my shift, and we've at least one success to celebrate.'
'Where's MacBride?' McLean asked. 'He could do with one too.'
'Probably down in the incident room feverishly typing up reports. You know what he's like. Keen as mustard.'
'Don't knock it, Bob.'
'Far from it, sir.' The old sergeant grinned, throwing off some of the shock of recent events. 'If he wants to do the work of two detectives, that's just fine by me. I'm quite happy to be the other one.'
They set off into the bowels of the station, finally arriving at their destination after fending off many congratulations. News of Chloe's safe discovery had spread quickly, unlike the more recent events. The door to the tiny incident room was propped open with a metal chair to let the heat out. Low voices murmured in conversation from within. McLean stepped inside and saw DC MacBride sitting behind his table, the laptop in front of him. Another figure stood talking to him, and she turned as she saw his eyes flick up to meet the inspector's. Emma Baird took two steps towards McLean and then slapped him hard across the face.
'That's for even thinking I could do something so perverse as post crime scene photos on the internet.'
He lifted his hand to his face, accepting that he probably deserved it. But before he could reach his stinging cheek, she had grabbed him, pulled him towards her and planted a long, wet kiss on his lips.
'And that's for finding a way to prove me innocent,' she added once she had broken away. McLean felt his ears turning bright red. He looked to DC MacBride, but the constable was suddenly very interested in his report. Grumpy Bob was staring off down the corridor in a purposeful manner.
'Ah, sod it, Stuart. You can write that tomorrow,' McLean said. 'Let's go to the pub.'
~~~~
65
The tinny little buzzing of his alarm clock broke through the pain in his head, reminding him with far too much enthusiasm that it was six o'clock and time to get up. McLean groaned and rolled over to hit the snooze button. Perhaps his hangover would go away in the next ten minutes. It was worth
a try. He bumped into something solid beside him and couldn't for the life of him work out what it was. Then it grunted and moved and he was suddenly very wide awake.
Sitting up in bed and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he looked down on the prone form of Emma Baird and felt a curious mixture of anger and fear. He'd slept in this bed alone for so long, always keeping his relationships professional, always keeping people at arms length. A therapist might have said he was afraid to commit, and they'd be right. After Kirsty, the thought of getting close to anyone else was just too painful. And now, after a couple of dinners and a night spent drinking with half of the station, she was asleep alongside him.
He tried to remember the night before. They'd both celebrated having found Chloe safe, but that was another part of his barricade; he never let himself get so drunk he lost control. Never so drunk he couldn't remember what he'd done.
She'd been angry with him, Emma. She'd heard all the things he'd said to Duguid outside the SOC offices at Force HQ. About how he had planned to use his friendship to investigate the leaked photographs. It didn't matter how much he explained, how much he tried to persuade her that what he had meant was different to what she had assumed. From her point of view he had been playing her. She'd only really relented when he'd apologised and begged her forgiveness. But that was women for you, wasn't it?
Then they'd been thrown out of the pub by the cleaners. God only knew what time it was in the morning, and there'd be a fair few sore heads in the station come shift change. Had he suggested whisky at his place, or had it been Grumpy Bob? That memory was a little hazy, but he did recall thinking that company of any sort would be better than returning to the cold, empty, silent flat alone. So a gang of them had come back, and most likely finished off his entire supply of malt. That, at least, would explain the pounding in his head.
Trying not to groan, McLean rolled over and out of bed. He was still wearing his boxer shorts, which was something. His suit was folded over the back of the chair, his shirt and socks in the laundry basket. These were automatic things; he didn't have to think about the routine. But equally, he wouldn't have been so conscientious had he been half cut the night before, or gripped in a fever of unlikely passion. And the more he thought about it, the more he remembered going to bed alone. Grumpy Bob had stayed the course, but MacBride had passed out on the floor, and Emma? Yes, Emma had fallen asleep in the armchair. He'd dug a blanket out of the closet and draped it over her before putting himself to bed. She must have woken up in the night and crawled in under his duvet. Well, that said something pretty loud and clear.
The shower managed to shift some of the grey fog from his mind, but he was still slow when he stepped out and dried himself down. His cracked ribs protested, the bruise around his torso turning yellow at the edges. Towel round his middle, he filled the kettle and set it to boil. Then, taking a deep breath, he went back into his bedroom. Emma was still asleep, but she had rolled over, throwing the duvet askance. Her short black hair covered her face, but pretty much everything else was on view. A trail of clothes covered the floor from door to bedside; items of underwear he'd not seen in a good few years. Not this side of a crime scene, anyway. As quietly as he could, he gathered up his suit, fetched a shirt and a clean set of underclothes from the wardrobe, and retreated to his study to dress.
The dictaphone sat on his desk, accusing him of callous disregard for the memory of the dead. He ignored that part of his mind, knowing it was just self-indulgence, a protective cocoon of guilt. He knew he'd never throw away the tape, just as he knew he would never forget Kirsty. But perhaps after all these years he really should be taking the advice of all his friends and trying to move on. Shit happened in the world, but sometimes things came good. They'd found Chloe Spiers alive, after all.
Dressed, he went through to the kitchen and made coffee. The carton of milk in the fridge hadn't yet given birth, but it would need inducing soon if it wasn't going to explode. Poking his head into the living room and the spare bedroom revealed one sleeping detective constable and one snoring detective sergeant, both of whom would need coffee and bacon butties. He grabbed his keys from the table in the hall and headed out to the corner shop.
By the time he had returned, the bathroom door was firmly closed and the sound of the shower running hissed through it. Grumpy Bob sat at the kitchen table looking like he'd slept in his suit, and as McLean began making bacon butties, DC MacBride stumbled in, looking slightly nervous.
'Morning, constable,' McLean said, noting how the MacBride winced in pain at the sound. Well, fair enough. He'd drunk the most. But his liver was still young. He'd survive.
'What was I drinking last night?' he asked.
'In the pub, or here?' Grumpy Bob scratched at his chin. He'd be needing the electric razor he kept in his locker at the station.
Confusion spread across DC MacBride's face, but before he could say anything, a light knocking came at the door.
'Take over the butties, Bob. There's brown sauce in the cupboard.' McLean went through to the hall and opened the door. Jenny Spiers stood on the communal landing.
'Tony. I...'
'Jenny. Hi...'
They both spoke at the same time, then both stopped speaking to let the other one go first. McLean moved aside from the door.
'Come on in. I was just making bacon butties.'
Before he could say any more, she had wrapped him in a huge embrace. 'Thank you for finding my baby,' she said. Then burst into hysterical sobs.
Emma chose that moment to come out of the bathroom. She was wearing McLean's old towelling dressing gown, which revealed rather more thigh than perhaps it should have done. Her hair was spiky where she had rubbed it dry, and she smelled strongly of tea tree oil shampoo. The temperature in the hallway plummeted as the two women stared at each other in silence. McLean could feel Jenny tense as she still held onto him.
'Umm. Jenny, this is Emma. Emma, Jenny.' The tension didn't ease. Then a voice shouted 'coming through!' and DC MacBride stumbled out of the kitchen, pushing past Emma on his way into the bathroom. The door slammed and behind it they could all hear the noise of the toilet seat being lifted, followed by quiet retching.
'We had a bit of a party last night.' McLean tried to tactfully extract himself from Jenny's embrace, though she seemed reluctant to let him go. 'It looks like young Detective Constable MacBride may have had a little too much cask strength Bowmore.'
'More likely the tequila slammers he had in the pub,' Emma said, and padded off in the direction of McLean's bedroom.
'How is Chloe, by the way?' He asked, hoping to distract Jenny, who's gaze had followed the other woman with a sort of haunted, disbelieving look. She dragged her attention back to him, fixed a smile onto her face.
'The doctors say she'll be fine, physically. She was badly dehydrated when you found her. Thank God you did. I really don't know how to thank you enough.'
'It's my job, Jenny.' McLean steered her into the kitchen where Grumpy Bob was standing at the cooker, wearing a long apron with an amusing bikini motif printed on it.
'I just don't know how she'll cope mentally. Being chained up like that. With a corpse.'
McLean wondered just how much Jenny knew. 'She told you?' he asked. She nodded, accepting a proffered mug of coffee. 'Then she's taking the right steps towards dealing with it. She's a tough kid. I'm guessing she gets that from her mother.'
Jenny sipped her coffee, sitting at the kitchen table and saying nothing. Grumpy Bob kept his silence, diligently constructing breakfast for an army. Somewhere in the background, the toilet flushed. Then Jenny put her mug down on the table and looked McLean straight in the eye.
'She said they chose her because of you. They wanted to get to you through me. Why would they do that? I hardly know you.'
'You came to my grandmother's funeral.' It was the only thing he could think of. 'Wemyss must have been watching me even then. He was behind it all from the start, trying to discredit me, hiring McReadie to s
et me up, Killing Alison to slow us down. He needed to get me off the investigation into the dead girl, and he needed someone to take her place. Chloe was just the right age. I'm sorry, Jenny. If you'd never met me, they'd have found someone else.'
*
'One of these days, Tony, you're going to have to tell me how you do it.'
McLean stood in the post mortem examination theatre for what felt like the millionth time in the past fortnight. He liked Angus Cadwallader, enjoyed the older man's sharp wit and sense of humour, but he'd rather have met him in the pub. Even the Opera would have been preferable.
'How I do what?' he asked, shifting on the balls of his feet as the pathologist went through the motions of examining the body of Gavin Wemyss.
'Peter Andrews. You knew that there'd be traces of blood and skin under his nails, didn't you.'
'Call it a hunch.'
'Did the hunch tell you whose blood and skin it would be?'
'Buchan Stewart.'
'You see, that's what I mean, Tony.' Cadwallader stood up, staring at the inspector, quite oblivious to the fact that he was holding Wemyss' liver in his hand. 'We've got all this expensive technological wizardry here, costing millions of pounds of taxpayers money, and you already know the answer before you ask the question.'
'Do me a favour, Angus. Keep that nugget of information to yourself.' It was bad enough that Jonathan Okolo and Sally Dent were down in the annals of history as murderers when it was far more likely they'd been unwitting pawns in Wemyss' sick game. There was no need to cause Peter Andrews' family any more anguish.
'Gladly.' Cadwallader finally noticed the dripping liver and placed it on a stainless steel tray to be weighed. 'It would be very embarrassing to have to admit I missed it in the first place.'