by James Oswald
‘There you go. Get that down you. Should settle your nerves.’
Izzy seemed to be coming back to her senses now, the shock of whatever had happened beginning to wear off. In the poor light of the pub, she looked a mess. Of course, she’d looked a mess the first time Janie had seen her – wasn’t that part of the whole hippy chick grunge look? – but Janie was fairly sure that didn’t include scrapes and bruises on the face and hands, and certainly not a cracked and swollen lip.
‘Thanks,’ she said, then winced as she tried to take a sip of her wine. She paused for a moment before going for it again, taking a decent gulp this time and grimacing as she swallowed. ‘Ugh, maybe not. What is that?’
‘You’re welcome.’ Janie ignored the comment and took a sip from her own glass. It was horribly sour, but the alcohol would numb her tastebuds soon enough. ‘So tell me. What happened to you?’
Izzy shuddered slightly, then pulled herself together. ‘There were two of them,’ she said, after another gulp of the foul wine had disappeared down her throat. ‘Jumped me as I was walking up the Royal Mile. I’d been down at Holyrood trying to get a chance to speak with someone about that bloody man, Fielding.’
As she spoke, Janie studied the young woman’s face, trying to get an idea of her injuries. She was bruised, shaken, but also angry, which suggested any physical harm was superficial.
‘Did you get a look at them?’ she asked.
‘They had their faces covered with those stupid bandana things.’ Izzy shook her head. ‘One of them’s got at least three broken fingers and I’m pretty sure I broke his nose. The other’s going to need surgery on his right knee. Oh, and he’s probably got a ruptured testicle too.’
Something about the way she said it, her delivery perfectly deadpan, utterly serious, made Janie burst out laughing.
‘I meant it,’ Izzy said, a faint hint of annoyance in her voice.
‘Sorry.’ Janie pulled herself together, chugged back too much of the wine to help give her a little time. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe because that’s what I’ve wanted to do to Fielding every time I’ve been in the same room as the wee scrote.’
‘Scrote?’ Izzy’s puzzled frown lasted for a few seconds, then realisation dawned. ‘Ah. Apt.’
‘Seriously though, Izzy. You really inflicted serious injury on them? Your attackers? You fought back?’
‘Of course I did. I’m not going to let any man push me around like that. They had it coming.’
Janie heard the defensiveness in the young woman’s voice, back-pedalled as quickly as she could. ‘Not trying to suggest you should have done anything different. Honest. They deserved it, like you say. I meant you seemed, I don’t know, frightened when you caught up with me out on the street. And your injuries . . .’ She raised a hand tentatively towards Izzy’s face, but didn’t touch her.
‘Like I said, they jumped me. Stupid, really. I should have been paying more attention, but I was that pissed off with the bloody politicians refusing to see me. If I’d been thinking straight those two would never have got anywhere near.’ Izzy clenched her hands into tight fists, the grazes on her knuckles beginning to ooze a little fresh blood. ‘I legged it while they were down. Knew the police station you worked out of was close by and hoped you’d still be at work. Saw you just leaving, didn’t I? Had to run to catch you up.’
Janie reached into her pocket and pulled out her trusty notebook. Most policing was done with electronic PDAs these days, but technically she was off duty, and the batteries were always flat when you most needed them not to be. Flicking forward to an empty page, she opened it up on the table.
‘These two men who attacked you. I know you said you couldn’t identify them, but can you give me a few more details?’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Don’t know if it’ll be easy to press charges, mind you. Men like that . . .’ Izzy tailed off, her eyes going to a faraway place Janie couldn’t even imagine. She took another swig of her wine to fill the silence, and something of the motion must have brought the young woman back to the here and now.
‘Maybe not. But if you can give us a detailed description of the injuries you inflicted, then that might be interesting if any of Fielding’s associates turn up limping, or with a bandaged hand, wouldn’t you say?’
Izzy’s face brightened at the thought. ‘That would be something, wouldn’t it? Yes. That’s a great idea.’
It took the best part of an hour, going back and forth over the details. Janie knew that she should really have walked Izzy back to the station, lodged a formal incident report and taken a statement from her there. But she also knew the connection with Fielding was entirely conjecture, and that an attempted attack on a young woman wouldn’t get the full attention it deserved. If they’d found her body in one of the narrow closes off the Royal Mile, then there would have been a full investigation, but Izzy had escaped relatively unharmed. Any search for her assailants would be cursory at best.
‘Where are you staying at the moment?’ Janie asked as they picked at the remains of their fourth packet of crisps and second glass of wine. As she’d expected, once you’d had one, the next didn’t taste so bad. Or, indeed, of anything much at all. Still, she was aware that the time was marching on, her night in front of the telly disappearing rapidly.
‘That’s the thing. I was staying with Con’s friend, Rose? You know her?’
‘Aye, I know Rose. You want me to arrange someone to take you back there?’
‘Christ, no. I don’t think I can bear to stay in that house any longer. It’s too weird. She’s too weird. And all those cats, always watching you. Swear they’re all reporting back to her the whole time.’
Janie wanted to laugh again, except that everything Izzy said was true.
‘Do you not think she’ll worry, if you’re not there?’
‘Nah. I left a note. Half expect to see one of the cats sitting on a wall outside keeping an eye on me anyway. Told her I’d find digs somewhere else, but that was before all this happened.’ Izzy indicated the notebook, the wine, the packets of crisps. ‘I’m not really in a position to turn up at the North British and get myself a room for the night.’
‘Really? I thought you were loaded. What with . . .’ Janie left the sentence unfinished, suddenly embarrassed.
‘I wish.’ Izzy didn’t seem to have taken offence at the statement. ‘Maybe someday. Right now all the DeVilliers money is locked down tight in all manner of legal cases. Charlotte, my half-sister, she’s doing her best to sort it all out, and she’s way better at it than I’d have ever believed possible. Mum’s moved in with Con’s dad, which is all kinds of awkward, let me tell you. Long and short of it is I used to be a trust fund kid in a posh private school and now I’ve barely two beans to rub together.’
Far from being upset by it, Janie could see that Izzy was happy at the freedom not being one of the country’s wealthy elite brought to her. Perhaps it was the folly of youth, although she wasn’t that much younger than Janie. Not really. If you squinted. Maybe it was the certain knowledge that she’d be rich again soon enough. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem bitter about it, which given all the things that had happened in her life showed a remarkably wise head on those young shoulders. Christ, she was beginning to sound like her mum.
‘Don’t suppose you know anywhere I can crash?’ Izzy asked. ‘Sure I’ll find somewhere tomorrow, but it’s getting kind of late now.’
For a moment Janie thought about the boss, with his big old house and all its spare rooms. He’d put up waifs and strays before. She’d almost reached for her phone to give him a call, but then she remembered what had happened to his car. He’d either be out dealing with that, or home and pissed off. She’d check in with him tomorrow.
‘Come on then.’ She made up her mind as she stood and reached for her coat. ‘It’s only a couch in the living room, but you can crash at my place
for the night.’
28
Early morning, and McLean drove Emma’s little Renault ZOE to the station. He’d thought long and hard about taking it, since she’d not had the car long before heading off with Professor Turner to Africa. For the past few weeks it had been sat by the old coachhouse, plugged into its own special charging point. He only hoped Emma wouldn’t be upset with him when she got back, but it was either that or a lot of taxis.
He took the long way to the station, pretending that it was so that he could view the crash site on the way. After the deep-throated V6 growl and twitchy throttle of the Alfa, the electric Renault was noticeably quiet. It was surprisingly comfortable too, and being small was much easier to navigate through the snarled up roads around Tollcross.
The Alfa had been removed from the shop front it had demolished, no doubt taken away to the forensics labs out by the airport. Would Manda Parsons be the one to examine the wreckage? Even if she wasn’t assigned the job, she’d probably barge her way into it anyway. Poor Manda, she’d been begging him for a ride in the car since he’d got it. That wasn’t going to happen now.
A horn blaring behind him dragged McLean’s attention back to the here and now. He glanced briefly in his mirror, contemplating trying to memorise the number plate of the offending car, then moved off as swiftly as he could. The route took him over the Meadows, and he couldn’t help but glance up at the trees as he passed the entrance to Jawbone Walk. No dead bodies in them this time, but the leaves were beginning to pile up on the grass beneath them now. Winter wasn’t far off.
A chain had been hung across the normally open gap, and a uniformed constable greeted him at the entrance to the station car park. He held up an unnecessary hand, indicating for McLean to stop, while simultaneously mouthing something into the collar microphone of his Airwave set. Probably reading off the number plate before letting him in, although that smacked somewhat of horses and stable doors. He found the button to wind down the window, then held up his warrant card for the young lad to see.
‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t recognise the car,’ the constable said, then promptly turned a curious shade of red. ‘I . . . Umm . . . That is, of course . . .’
‘No need to apologise. Can I come in, though?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ The constable scurried away to unclip the chain, and McLean drove silently in. He considered taking the same space where his Alfa had been the day before, then remembered what car he was driving. Since acquiring an electric pool car, the station had installed a single electric vehicle charging point. Usually it had a petrol squad car parked in front of it, but today of all days it was free. He parked, then spent a frustrating ten minutes trying to work out how to plug the car in before realising it was almost fully charged anyway. Still, it wasted a little more time before his inevitable dressing-down from the chief superintendent.
Tempted though he was to go straight to his office and hide, McLean had already seen the angry text summoning him before the headmistress. Elmwood might have looked like she was enjoying herself when he’d left the Safe Streets Committee event the previous evening, but he was well aware that he was meant to be her second. His excuse for bailing was sound, but that didn’t necessarily mean she would accept it.
The chief superintendent’s office door was closed, Helen sitting at her desk outside, typing up some notes. She looked up and smiled as he approached. ‘Go on in, Tony. She’s expecting you.’
‘Is it bad?’ McLean asked.
‘I have no idea. She’s not an easy one to read, that one.’
‘Wish me luck then.’ He knocked lightly, then opened the door and stepped inside.
The chief superintendent sat at her impressively large desk, head down as she studied some report that was clearly of great interest. McLean closed the door behind him and walked across the room towards her. He’d only made it a couple of feet before she spoke.
‘A bit casual, waltzing into work this late, isn’t it? Almost lunchtime.’ The chief superintendent looked up at him, her face inscrutable. A totally different character to the one he’d met in the North British Hotel the night before. McLean knew better than to look at the clock on the wall, even as he also knew it wasn’t yet eight o’clock in the morning.
‘I swung past the crash scene on my way in. Hadn’t appreciated just how bad the traffic would be.’
‘Your car. I heard. That would be why you slunk off and left me with that Saifre woman last night, I take it?’
McLean nodded. ‘Did you get on OK?’ He meant at the event as a whole, but the chief superintendent took it to mean something else entirely.
‘She’s very pushy, that one. Said a lot of nice things about you, though. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was a little jealous you were my plus one and not hers.’
McLean hadn’t been aware that he was anyone’s plus one, and the casual way the chief superintendent used the term put him on edge.
‘I’d be careful around her if I were you. She has a way of making you indebted to her, then calling in those debts at the least convenient time.’
The chief superintendent cocked her head to one side as if unsure what to make of this. Then she shrugged away the thought with a little ‘hmph’ noise, reached for her phone and picked it up. On the other side of the door, McLean could hear the secretary answer.
‘Helen, tell the driver we’ll be leaving in ten minutes. And can you let Gartcosh know our ETA. Ta.’ She hung up and looked straight at McLean. ‘You can tell me everything about Jane Louise Dee she didn’t tell me herself on the way to the Crime Campus. Meet me downstairs at the back door in ten.’
‘I . . .’ McLean started to speak, then realised he had nothing to say that wouldn’t have been a whiny complaint. The chief superintendent was ready with her answer anyway.
‘Kirsty’s got the major incident room under control for now. Your team are chasing down leads as best they can. There’s nothing you can do to help them. And there’s a detective inspector from the NCA who’s very interested in talking to you about last night.’ She stood up as she spoke, straightened her uniform and grabbed a heavy black leather case from beside the desk. Hefting it up, she swung it in his direction. ‘Here, you can carry this for me. Ten minutes. Downstairs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a piss.’
McLean understood why the chief superintendent might need a driver. She was a busy woman and her job involved endless meetings, pre-meeting discussions and long-winded telephone conversations. At any moment she might be called by the first minister or any of a dozen cabinet ministers, committee First Minister MSPs, Police Authority members, the Procurator Fiscal’s office – the list was endless. She couldn’t be expected to drive herself and waste valuable conversation time. What he couldn’t understand was why she needed two constables to accompany her, although as he settled into the back seat and she squeezed in alongside him rather closer than was strictly necessary, he began to have an inkling of an idea.
At least it wasn’t a limo, with a motorised partition to cut off the passengers from the chauffeur. Anything said or done on their trip across the central belt to Gartcosh was going to be witnessed by two uniformed officers. That didn’t really make him feel any better about it, and he still couldn’t understand quite why he was being dragged along. It couldn’t be that obvious, could it?
He spent the first twenty minutes or so of the journey texting various members of the investigation team, pulling together what few advances had happened over the course of the morning. Which was to say none at all. DS Harrison wasn’t answering her phone, which was unlike her but not enough to be a worry, and DC Blane had called in to say his wife was being induced that day. Small things, easily managed, but he would much rather have been in the incident room reviewing their lack of progress and discussing different avenues of approach than driving ever further west and away from the city.
‘So then, Tony. How wou
ld you feel about having a more active role in the liaison team between Specialist Crime and the chief constable’s office?’
Might as well ask him how he felt about having his leg cut off without anaesthetic, but McLean was all too aware that he was trapped here in this moving metal box, with the deputy chief constable sitting uncomfortably close, her expensive scent making the air difficult to breathe. And she was his boss. His boss’s boss, if he was being correct about things. She could make his life hell if she wanted to, although the more he thought about it, she was doing a good job of that already.
‘Are you sure that would be a good use of my skill set?’ he asked. ‘There’s plenty other more senior officers in Specialist Crime who’d be much better at the job.’
‘Really?’ The chief superintendent didn’t try to hide the disbelief in her voice. ‘Can you name any?’
‘Well, there’s Jayne McIntyre for a start. She really should be doing that job, shouldn’t she? And I know for a fact Jo Dexter would be happy to move out of Vice if there were an opportunity. That’s not a job you want to get stuck doing for long, and she’s been in it years now. Kirsty Ritchie’s got a much better head for the bureaucracy than me, too.’ McLean silently cursed himself for potentially throwing any one of his colleagues under the bus, but in truth any of them would be better for the job than him, and if there was a promotion in the mix then maybe they’d even forgive him.
‘Hmm. I’m not sure any of them really fit my criteria.’
McLean was about to ask her what her criteria were, even though he suspected he already knew. He was saved by her phone ringing, a different tone to the one he’d heard before. Whoever it was, they were clearly important enough to have to answer.
‘Dammit. What now?’ she muttered under her breath, then hitched a smile on to her face that McLean could tell wasn’t intended for him. ‘I have to take this.’