What Will Burn

by James Oswald

  ‘He should have gone to jail for what he did.’

  McLean was surprised by the sudden anger in Carter’s voice. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. As I heard it, he cheated on you, which is certainly grounds for divorce. But jail?’

  ‘Cheated on me? You make it sound so quaint, Detective Inspector. You know Brian was a rock star, right? Mad Bastard, lead singer of the Idle Lunatics. Scotland’s answer to Oasis.’ Carter spoke in a kind of sing-song voice as she recounted the potted biography. ‘Cheating on me was part of the deal. He was away on tour for months at a time. Groupies throwing themselves at him. Hell, I was one of them, right at the start of it all. I knew about the cheating. But Jenny? The babysitter? She was only thirteen when he raped her. Right here in this very house.’

  McLean had taken the opportunity of Carter’s monologue to sneak a biscuit off the plate. Now it was poised halfway to his mouth. It might have only been a few hours since he’d been sent to the tiny house in Fountainbridge, but one of the first things he’d got the team to do was run Galloway’s name through the system. After the mess with Whitaker it had seemed prudent. There’d been a few brushes with the law over the years, but it was all the sort of thing you might expect a rock star to do, and the most recent caution was for possession of marijuana over ten years ago.

  ‘We don’t have a record of that offence,’ he said. By the look on both Carter and Mrs Galloway’s faces, it wasn’t perhaps the best response.

  ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to make a rape charge stick?’ Carter asked, not angrily but certainly aggressively.

  ‘I do. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It was a stitch-up from the start. Brian got himself some fancy lawyer who somehow managed to smooth the whole thing over. I was presented with an ultimatum. Divorce, the kids and the house. Plus a substantial payment to her if I persuaded Jenny to withdraw the allegations.’ Carter’s hands rested on the table, either side of her teacup, and she clenched them into tight fists as she spoke. ‘I didn’t give a damn about divorce or the house. But he was threatening to take my children away. I made a deal, but only if he agreed to keep away. No visiting rights. It wasn’t until after I’d signed the papers that I found out Jenny wasn’t the first. Who knows if she was the last?’

  Mrs Galloway spoke into the silence that fell. ‘Like I told you before, Detective Inspector. Brian was an angry child, and an angrier man. He never could keep a control of his passions or his anger for long. That might have made him a good artist, I don’t know. But it made him a bad man. Maybe I could have done better by him. I tried my best.’

  McLean let the words sink in, aware of both women watching him uncomfortably closely. A scream punctured the moment, followed by a loud splash as one of the boys managed a spectacular dive bomb on his brother. He could only hope the two of them turned out better than their father.

  ‘Does the name Gail Elmwood mean anything to you?’

  Both women looked blank. Carter shook her head slowly. ‘No. Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  So much for that link. McLean opened his mouth to ask the next obvious question, but Harrison beat him to it.

  ‘You said Mr Galloway got himself a fancy lawyer who stitched up this whole deal.’ She raised both hands to indicate the house and all it represented.

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘You don’t remember his name, do you?’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Horrible slimy man. Made me feel dirty the way he looked at me.’ Carter almost shivered as she spoke. ‘Fielding, he was called. Tommy Fielding.’

  DS Harrison kept her comments to herself until they were once more in the car and driving back to the station, for which McLean was grateful. He could see that she was pleased with herself, and no doubt wanted to call him out on his earlier scepticism about the link between Galloway and Fielding. It didn’t change the fact that she’d stepped over the line.

  ‘I know it’s a bit speculative, sir. But am I the only one beginning to see a pattern here?’

  ‘You are? How?’

  ‘Well, see how Galloway’s wife divorced him, kept the house and the kids, aye?’

  ‘And he stayed out of prison thanks to Tommy Fielding.’

  ‘Aye, but that’s not what I’m on about. That chappie Steve Whitaker? That lad who burned himself to death? Seems his wife divorced him not so long ago, took the kid with her, no visiting rights. Same with Purefoy at the building site.’ Harrison waved her hand in the direction of Liberton Brae. ‘He had two wee boys, but his wife got sick of him playing away from home. And there was Christopher Allan too, now I think about it. You know? The guy Izzy kicked in the nuts so hard he’ll probably always walk with a limp now. His wife divorced him and took the kids to Australia.’

  ‘What? You think Fielding defended them all? Doesn’t say much for his skills as a lawyer if they all lost.’

  Harrison shrugged. ‘Fair point. But like you said, Galloway could have lost way more. What if the same was true for the others? What if they all owe Fielding? What if they all have a grudge against women?’

  McLean tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in thought. ‘Allan and Galloway both claimed they’d fallen down the stairs, but you reckon your friend beat the crap out of them, right?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Izzy was very clear about the damage she inflicted, and those two both ended up at A and E with those injuries not more than an hour or so later.’

  ‘And she claims they were put on to her by Tommy Fielding because she disrupted his conference?’

  ‘Reckon there’s maybe a wee bit more to it than that, but she was trying to lobby one of the MSPs at Holyrood about Fielding’s men’s rights activist organisation. Something about getting its funding cut or de-platforming it or whatever. That’s why she was in that part of town.’

  McLean negotiated a roundabout, then floored the throttle as the road opened up ahead of him. No great surge of power pinned him into the seat, and the noise was more washing machine spin cycle than roar of untamed Italian horses.

  ‘I need to speak to her, to Izzy. Soon as possible.’

  Harrison reached for her phone. ‘I can give her a call. Ask her to come to the station.’

  McLean shook his head. ‘No. Best keep this unofficial for now.’

  ‘Well, she’s staying at my place right now, but I can bring her over to yours after work if that’s better.’

  McLean considered it, then remembered the state he’d left the kitchen in that morning. Not that it really mattered. Izzy DeVilliers was a teenager after all. ‘Where did you say she was staying before she came to you? With Madame Rose?’

  ‘With Rose, aye.’

  ‘OK. There’s still plenty to get done before your shift ends. Give Izzy a call and ask her to meet us at Rose’s place. Eight o’clock should be fine.’

  39

  As he pulled it out of his pocket and tossed it on to his desk, McLean’s phone buzzed and its screen lit up. For a moment he thought he might have broken it, then he saw the name on the screen indicating an incoming call. He was sorely tempted to let it go to voicemail, but he knew some nettles were best grasped straight away. Before it could ring off, he grabbed the handset up again.

  ‘Afternoon, Jo. It’s been a while. I take it this isn’t a social call.’

  McLean was only half joking about it having been a while. Jo Dalgliesh, sometime reporter for the Edinburgh Tribune, although more freelance these days, had been all over his story in the summer, thwarting all attempts by the high heidyins to hush the whole thing up and hope nobody noticed. He had fed her a few choice details on the understanding she kept his name out of it as much as possible, and fair play to her, she’d stuck to the deal so well this was the first time they’d spoken in months.

  ‘You driving? Only I heard that posh car of yours got nicked and then parked in a shop
window. That’s got to be embarrassing for Police Scotland, hasn’t it?’

  ‘That what you wanted to talk about? My stolen car? Only, I’m not exactly in the loop on that investigation.’

  ‘No, no. You’re still trying to find out who killed that old wifey up at Bairnfather, aren’t you? Heard that wasn’t going so well. What’s it been? A month? Two? Shouldn’t you have arrested someone by now?’

  McLean had known Jo Dalgliesh a long time, and the fire of hatred towards her that had burned for years had more or less extinguished itself. She had her uses, and was on balance one of the more reliable and less back-stabbing of the journalists he’d dealt with in recent years. There were times, however, when she reminded him of why she had been such a thorn in his side for so long, even if she had saved his life from a homicidal maniac with a very sharp knife once.

  ‘Cut to the chase, will you, Dalgliesh? I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Aye, well. Fair enough. We’re all busy these days. And being the busy kind, I heard on the grapevine that you attended an unexplained death this morning. Over Fountainbridge way.’

  ‘We’re not viewing it as suspicious, if that’s what you’re after. Can’t really comment until the post-mortem’s done.’

  ‘So you can’t deny or confirm that the deceased in question is Brian “Mad Bastard” Galloway then?’

  Sometimes he wondered why Dalgliesh bothered calling him. She’d not have asked the question if she hadn’t already known the answer, and so this was either a bid to get a little extra inside knowledge, or her annoying way of letting him know the story was about to hit the papers and other news media. He was surprised it hadn’t already. Social media usually knew what was going on long before the police did.

  ‘There’ll be an official announcement soon enough. But since next of kin have been informed, I guess I can confirm it.’

  ‘Rumour has it he overdosed and died in his armchair. Staring out the window at the wreck of his life.’

  ‘We haven’t found any evidence of anything stronger than a prescription painkiller. The exact cause of death won’t be known until they’ve carried out the post-mortem. I expect that’ll be tomorrow, after which there’ll be a full press release for you lot to spin however you want.’

  ‘Is that a note of sarcasm I hear in your voice, Tony?’

  ‘Not really, Jo. I know how you operate. This is celebrity gossip, not news. You need to put as much lip gloss on it as you can, right?’

  A moment’s pause as the barb sunk deep. ‘Anyone ever tell you how much of a cynic you are?’

  ‘It may have been mentioned a few times. Mostly by you.’ McLean knew the conversation was coming to a close if Dalgliesh was resorting to old insults. He was relieved at the thought of dismissing her from his mind, whilst oddly grateful to her for reminding him that the press would have more interest in Galloway’s death than they might in Don Purefoy or Steve Whitaker. Or Cecily Slater for that matter. He was about to say goodbye and hang up, when a thought occurred to him.

  ‘You’re looking for an angle on Galloway, right?’

  ‘Is the Pope Catholic? Aye, of course I’m looking for an angle. Not that you’d ever give me much.’

  McLean ignored the insult. ‘Well maybe I can point you somewhere. It’s nothing I actually know, so don’t come crying to me if it doesn’t pan out. But let me give you two names to add to Mad Bastard.’

  ‘Hang on. Let me get a pen. Need to write this down. A lasting memento of the one time Tony McLean was helpful.’

  ‘Very funny, Dalgliesh. Two names. That’s all I’ve got. The rest you’ll have to find out for yourself.’

  ‘Go on then. The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘Tommy Fielding. Gail Elmwood.’

  Another silence, longer this time. McLean glanced around the office, saw the door wide open on to the corridor that led a short distance to his superior’s office. This wasn’t how he liked to work, but she was forcing his hand.

  ‘Gail new chief superintendent Elmwood?’ Dalgliesh’s voice was husky and McLean pictured her drawing on her vape.

  ‘And Tommy Dad’s Army Fielding. Yes. Like I said, might be nothing, and you didn’t get it from me if it turns out to be something. I wouldn’t mind a heads-up, though.’

  ‘Aye. Sure. I’d better be off then. Speak later, Tony.’

  McLean opened his mouth to say ‘bye’, but the line was dead.

  Perhaps to try and atone for his conversation with Dalgliesh, McLean spent the rest of the afternoon diligently working his way through the paperwork that had begun swamping his desk. Every few minutes he’d pause and glance at the door, but no one came in. No one even walked past, as far as he could tell. Chances were that the chief superintendent was away at Gartcosh anyway, and nobody had heard him mention her name and Fielding’s to one of the city’s more persistent muckraking journalists.

  Finally it was time to head to the major incident room to catch up on the day’s lack of progress in the Cecily Slater case. He closed his office door behind him as he left, confident there’d be more work waiting for him the next day.

  DS Harrison and DC Stringer were busy at one of the workstations when McLean entered the incident room. Harrison’s sixth sense must have kicked in, as she looked up almost immediately. He crossed the room to join the two of them, not failing to notice how quiet everything was. Little point in having a briefing when there was no measurable progress.

  ‘I’m guessing we’ve nothing more on Cecily Slater,’ McLean said. ‘You dig up anything useful on our two dead men yet?’

  Harrison glanced back at the screen. ‘Not a lot, sir. Plenty of calls made and messages left, but it’s not easy finding the right people to speak to. Whitaker’s wife confirmed Fielding was his lawyer for the divorce. She reckoned they were maybe planning an appeal or something, too.’

  ‘Remind me what the grounds were for that one?’

  ‘She found child abuse photos on his computer, caught him doing something to his own daughter. Never got the full story of what, and I don’t really want to know. The only reason he wasn’t locked up was because Fielding managed to argue she could have planted the images herself. And the accusation of abuse was his word against hers. Still enough to deny him access, though.’

  McLean compared Harrison’s words with what they’d learned about Galloway earlier. The parallels were striking. ‘What about the estate agent, Purefoy?’

  ‘Still trying to track down the full details, sir.’ Harrison shook her head slowly. ‘Divorced two years ago. Lost access to his kids. Ex-wife claimed he’d been mentally abusing her for years. Jay spoke to his current girlfriend who wasn’t exactly sad he’d died. Said, and I quote, “He could be lovely at times, but he also scared the crap out of me.” She also said she sometimes worried he’d hunt her down and kill her if she ever left him.’

  McLean recalled the post-mortem report, Cadwallader’s veiled suspicions. ‘Could she have killed him?’ he asked.

  ‘She wasn’t in town when it happened,’ Stringer said. ‘Not sure she could have done something like that anyway. She’s a tiny thing.’

  ‘What about Fielding? He have any connection to Purefoy?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve managed to establish so far.’ Harrison finally noticed she was fiddling with her phone, held it up and stared at the blank screen. ‘I’m still waiting on a couple of calls, but Fielding wasn’t involved in Purefoy’s divorce. There was one thing, though.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘It was about Izzy DeVilliers, see? I was at the hotel not long after she and her fellow protesters were arrested. We had a complaint from Fielding. Me and Lofty landed the short straw of going to placate him.’ Harrison looked down at her phone again, but only to avoid McLean’s gaze this time. ‘That might have had something to do with why I did my best to get Izzy off. I’d have done the same for the rest of them if I co
uld, but I heard the charges were dropped anyway.’

  ‘Is this going somewhere?’ McLean asked.

  Harrison’s head jerked up as if she’d been poked. ‘Sorry, sir. Aye. It was when we were at the hotel being lectured by Fielding. Fair made my skin crawl to be in the same room as him. Breathing the same air. Euch.’ She shuddered. ‘But he was with a bunch of blokes who’d been at his conference or whatever the hell it was he was doing. A seminar? I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t really pay that much attention to them at the time. But when I saw Purefoy at the building site? See, I was sure I’d seen him somewhere before, and recently. It’d been bugging me for days and then going over his file just now it suddenly clicked. He was there, at the hotel, with Fielding and a bunch of others.’

  McLean was about to ask whether or not Harrison was sure, but he stopped himself. She was a trained detective, and good at it. She noticed things, remembered people. ‘We’ll need some kind of corroboration,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve asked the hotel if they’ve still got CCTV from the event. You never know, might get lucky.’

  ‘What are you thinking then? With these connections to Fielding.’

  ‘That’s what I can’t work out, sir. These three deaths are weird but not obviously murder. Galloway’s probably overdosed on his painkillers, Whitaker dropped a fag in his lap when he was pished, and Purefoy just got unlucky.’

  ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It stinks something rotten. We going to do something about it?’

  ‘Not sure what we can, right now. Keep on the hotel for that footage. Maybe see if you can get hold of a guest list for the conference. If Galloway and Whitaker were there too, then I’ll take it up higher, see if McIntyre reckons it’s worth looking into. Meantime we need to concentrate on Cecily Slater, right?’ McLean waved a hand at the general lack of busyness in the room. He was only half joking when he added, ‘And if you can find a link between her and Fielding, then we’re all set.’