by James Oswald
‘Evening, sir,’ one of them said as the other opened the door for him.
‘You two do something to piss off your sergeant?’ he asked, which at least got him half a smile from one of them.
‘Something like that.’
‘In which case, shouldn’t you be asking me for ID before letting me in?’
The constable holding the door shrugged. ‘We know who you are, Detective Inspector, sir. And that was a bloody nonsense, knocking you back after you shut down that gang out Penicuik way. Should’ve been a promotion, not suspended for months.’
McLean shrugged awkwardly. ‘I didn’t follow procedure. Can’t haul my constables over the coals for cutting corners if I do it myself now, can I?’
‘My point exactly, sir.’ The second constable saluted, then motioned for McLean to go in.
It had been an odd exchange, a clever joke too, but as he stepped over the threshold, he was grateful for the small show of support. McLean stood for a moment in the relative safety of the inner porch. Beyond it, the large hall buzzed with conversation. Some people revelled in this kind of thing, but he would far rather be at home, in his favourite armchair with a dram of whisky and a good book. Although given the way his stomach was rumbling, some food might have been a good idea first.
Shadows danced across the wall as someone came across the hall towards the door. He couldn’t stay in the porch for ever. Taking a deep breath, he set off into the fray.
‘Tony, you’re here. I was beginning to worry you might not show.’
Any lingering thoughts he might have had that this was a formal police reception to celebrate DI Ritchie’s promotion evaporated as McLean saw the deputy chief constable striding towards him. She had discarded her uniform in favour of a figure-hugging black cocktail dress, and held a champagne flute loosely in one hand. In his work suit, and smelling like he’d been wearing it since five that morning, he felt immediately on edge. He had to remind himself that this was not a party, and he wasn’t the socially awkward teenager who didn’t think he knew anyone and certainly didn’t know what to say to any of them even if he did. He wasn’t here to socialise, whatever Gail Elmwood might think.
‘I was told seven.’ He looked at his watch without really seeing the time, shrugged. ‘Might have got a bit carried away reviewing some evidence.’
‘Well, never mind. You’re here now. Come join everyone in the front room.’ Elmwood slipped her free arm into the crook of his elbow before McLean could react. His instinct was to pull away, but he was also aware that this was her house and he was a guest, however reluctant he might be in that role, so he allowed himself to be steered across the hall and in through an impressively large doorway.
The room beyond was busier than he’d expected, at least two dozen, maybe thirty guests and an army of liveried waiting staff wandering around with trays of drinks. McLean scanned faces, looking for familiar ones. He recognised the chief constable, although they had only met once before. A few other senior officers would probably be more readily identifiable if he hadn’t been so adept at avoiding the regular strategy meetings his previous rank of detective chief inspector required him to attend. Over in the far corner, DI Ritchie and Detective Superintendent McIntyre were chatting away like two people who hope if they appear absorbed in their conversation they won’t be interrupted by anyone else.
More surprising was the number of civilians present. Again, McLean was struck by the idea that this was more of an old-fashioned drinks party than an official Police Scotland reception. Before he could mention it, the chief superintendent had grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses and shoved it into his hand with such force a little liquid sloshed over the rim.
‘Have a drink. Loosen up a little. We’re here to celebrate Kirsty’s promotion.’
McLean carefully extricated his arm from Elmwood’s, transferred the glass to his now free hand, then wiped the other one on his jacket. He looked around for the waitress to ask for something soft, since he’d driven over, but she had disappeared.
‘Ladies, gentlemen.’ The chief superintendent tapped a fingernail against her own glass to bring the hubbub of conversation to a close. All eyes turned to her, and as they did so McLean could see the faces of the rest of her invited guests. There were a couple he remembered from the Safe Streets reception, and through a gap in the crowd he briefly spied Mrs Saifre at the back of the room. It made a certain sense that she would be here; Elmwood was exactly the type of person Jane Louise Dee would try to sink her corrupting hooks into. More surprising, though, was the man McLean saw standing beside her. What on earth was Lord Bairnfather doing here?
‘Thank you all for coming along this evening,’ Elmwood continued. She stood beside McLean, almost uncomfortably close still. So much so that he could feel the heat coming off her, smell the champagne on her breath as she spoke.
‘It’s been almost two months now since I arrived in this city. A stranger, unknown and unknowing. Each and every one of you here has helped me in one way or another. By welcoming me warmly,’ and here the chief superintendent waved her glass in the direction of the chief constable. ‘By managing the transfer from my predecessor,’ she swung the glass around like a searchlight until it pointed at McIntyre. ‘By introducing me to this wonderful city. And this wonderful house.’ The glass swung back until it wavered in the direction of Lord Bairnfather, which at least explained why he was there. ‘And by keeping me on my toes, eh, Tony?’
McLean froze as Elmwood reached around his shoulders and pulled him to her, which had the unfortunate effect of upsetting her balance so that she ended up leaning heavily into him, almost falling over. Never particularly happy in the limelight, even so he had no choice but to either catch her and help her steady herself, or let her tumble to the floor in an undignified mess. The latter was sorely tempting.
‘Oops. Silly me,’ Elmwood said once she had extricated herself. ‘I always forget how to wear heels after a week in sensible shoes.’
As she said those last two words, she darted a look across the room towards where Detective Superintendent McIntyre stood. McLean was sure he couldn’t have been the only one who understood the veiled insult.
‘Anyway. Where was I?’ Elmwood stood up straight again, her attitude professional, not a hint of what he had assumed was a touch too much to drink about her any more. ‘What we’re really here for is to celebrate another milestone in the career of one of Scotland’s foremost female officers. Kirsty? Are you there? Or should I say Detective Chief Inspector Ritchie?’
The room spluttered into a round of applause that sounded more embarrassed than heartfelt. Was this something they did regularly in the Met? McLean couldn’t be sure, but he doubted it. The contrast with his own promotion couldn’t have been more marked. That had been born out of desperation after the then head of their branch of Specialist Crime Division had gone off the rails and almost beaten a man to death in the cells. There’d been no party, no presentation, and he’d been absolutely fine with that.
Newly anointed DCI Ritchie came forward as the chief superintendent beckoned her. She raised the ghost of an eyebrow at McLean as she passed him, and he took the opportunity of her being the focus of attention to slip away. He made it to where McIntyre stood before Ritchie began to give a carefully rehearsed impromptu speech.
‘We should all be down the pub with the rest of the team,’ he muttered.
‘There’ll be time enough for that, Tony. You can buy everyone a drink when the Cecily Slater case is wound down.’
‘About that. How did we not know that Elmwood and Lord Bairnfather were connected? He’s Slater’s nephew. What if he decides to kick up a fuss?’
‘Then I’m sure your new best friend will smooth things over. Really, Tony, you want to watch yourself with that one.’
‘I seem to remember it was you insisted I come to this . . . thing.’ McLean shrugged at th
e room. ‘I can think of much better ways to be spending my evening, and I’m sure you and Susan can too.’
McIntyre grimaced at the mention of her wife. ‘Sensible shoes, my arse.’ She threw back the last of her champagne and looked around for another.
‘Here.’ McLean handed her his own, untouched drink. ‘Never did much like the stuff anyway. Something to eat wouldn’t go amiss though.’
Another round of applause dragged their attention back to Ritchie, who was being congratulated by the chief constable. As if by magic, the waiting staff who had been plying everyone with drinks now reappeared with trays of canapés. He grabbed what he could, but drew the line at filling his pockets when McIntyre suggested it.
‘I’ll pick up a kebab on the way home. Not hanging around here any longer than I actually need to.’
‘Make an effort, Tony. It’s only one evening, and it’s not as if Emma’s waiting at home for you.’ McIntyre went to look at her watch, then realised doing so would tip her champagne on the floor. ‘You heard from her much? She getting on OK?’
‘Yes, she called yesterday. Sounds like she’s having a whale of a time. Can’t say that digging through trenches of decaying bodies is my idea of fun, but I think she was feeling a bit stifled here in Edinburgh. Change of scene’s doing her a world of good.’
‘You should go join her.’ McIntyre must have seen the look of horror on McLean’s face, as she quickly added, ‘Once she’s finished at the dig. Take a couple of weeks’ holiday. Maybe a month. Go on safari or something.’
McLean opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. It wasn’t all that mad an idea when he thought about it. Except that he’d just spent the best part of three months on suspension. Taking leave so soon after that wouldn’t go down well with those overworked sergeants and constables who still gave him filthy looks when he passed them in the station corridors.
‘I’ll think about it. If I ever escape from this place alive.’
McIntyre rolled her eyes like the hammiest of actors. ‘If you’re that bored, just go. I’ll tell Gail you were called away on urgent business. See, she’s busy talking to that dreadful MSP right now. What’s his name? Sits on the Justice Committee. She’ll be distracted for ages.’
McLean was sorely tempted. He’d still have to run the gamut of the room to get from where he was to the door and back out into the hall. Perhaps if he made a show of talking to one or two people on the way it would look like he was mingling, or at least trying to. He looked around, searching for a suitable target, and spotted just the man.
‘Thanks, Jayne. I owe you. I just need to have a quick word with someone first.’
‘Surprised to see you here, sir.’
McLean pitched his voice loud enough to carry through the hubbub. Lord Bairnfather turned to see who had spoken, his mouth full of half-chewed vol-au-vent. The old man munched upon it industriously for a few moments before swallowing heavily, eyes narrowed as he stared at McLean all the while.
‘Mac – something. Detective chappie. You’re the one looking into Sissy’s death, aren’t you?’
‘Detective Inspector McLean, sir. Yes. I’m SIO on that investigation.’
Bairnfather made an odd growling gurgle that might have been disapproval but might equally have been indigestion. ‘And how is it coming along?’ he asked, once the noise had subsided.
‘If I’m being honest, sir. It’s not. We have no leads, no clear idea as to why anybody would want to do such a senseless thing. If your aunt had any enemies, we’ve not been able to find them. And the fire left nothing useful for the forensics team to work with.’
That strange noise again, and this time McLean realised it was Bairnfather clearing his throat. ‘You’re closing the case, then?’ His words dripped with disapproval, verging almost on contempt, but there was none of the anger McLean might have expected.
‘Far from it, sir. Murder cases are never closed. We’re reviewing what we have at the moment, and I’ve still got officers working on Lady Cecily’s recent history. I just wanted to be candid. Unless something new comes to light soon, it may be a while before her killer is brought to justice.’
Bairnfather harumphed, but made no other complaint. McLean tried to read the man. It wasn’t easy to see beyond the ruddy complexion and wobbling jowls, the standard features of a country laird. He was even wearing a tweed three-piece suit. Stick him on a grouse moor on the Glorious Twelfth and he’d fit right in.
‘I couldn’t help noticing that Gail – the chief superintendent – thanked you for this house. I wasn’t aware you owned it.’
‘I don’t,’ Bairnfather grunted. ‘Well, not exactly. It’s one of the company assets.’
‘It used to belong to a fellow called Alan Lewis. Did you know him?’
‘Know him? Of course I bloody knew him, McLean.’ Something about speaking the name brought Bairnfather up short. ‘McLean. Of course. You were the one who found him, weren’t you? Uncovered that money laundering racket he had going. I owe you a debt of gratitude then.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Lewis’s company dissolved after he topped himself. Coward’s way out, if you ask me. Picked up quite a few choice assets in the fire sale, mind you. This house was one of them. Probably paid only half what it was worth on the open market.’
‘Does she know?’ McLean indicated the deputy chief constable, deep in conversation with someone McLean had a suspicion might have been in a cave in the Moorfoot Hills back in the summer.
‘Know what?’
‘That Alan Lewis died in her bath?’
Bairnfather stared at him for a few seconds, his face a picture of puzzlement. Then he let out a great bark of a laugh that momentarily silenced the room. ‘Good God, no. Why would I tell anyone that? Hard enough renting out a place this size as it is.’
‘You could always sell it. Realise that hundred percent profit.’
Bairnfather shook his head slowly. ‘That’s not how my family does things, McLean. We’re in it for the long run, not fly-by-night merchants like Lewis.’
‘And the hotel business is very different from hedge fund management, I’d imagine.’ McLean watched a frown of confusion work its way across Bairnfather’s florid features. ‘That is your main business, is it not? Hotels?’
‘One of ’em, I suppose.’
‘Only, I was in the Scotston earlier today. I remember it being a terrible place back in the nineties. You’ve done great things with it. Not surprised Tommy Fielding likes it so much. It’s a great conference venue now.’
The frown changed from puzzled to wary. ‘What are you up to, McLean? How do you know Fielding?’
‘Know him?’ McLean feigned innocence. ‘I don’t know him, sir. Had to go and see him about a small matter. The disruption to his most recent symposium. You must have seen the protests outside.’
Something like fear widened the old man’s eyes for a moment. Then he seemed to collect himself. ‘Heard something about it. You moved them on, I take it?’
‘Eventually, yes. Sorry we couldn’t do more sooner, but we have to work within the law.’
‘Of course.’ Lord Bairnfather shook his head ever so slightly, as if he disagreed. Then he looked past McLean to the far side of the room. ‘If you’ll excuse me, McLean. There’s someone I’d like to speak to.’
McLean stood aside to let him pass, said nothing as Bairnfather elbowed his way in the direction of the chief constable. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He glanced around the room, seeing the chief superintendent deep in conversation with Mrs Saifre. Heads close together, their body language was unambiguously conspiratorial. Another complication he could have done without. Not pausing to say goodbye, he slipped out of the room and made good his escape.
45
McLean was almost home, the hot chilli sauce and garlic aroma of the kebab he had picked up en ro
ute chasing away the last of the new car smell of the little Renault, when his phone ring tone boomed out through the speakers. A glance at the screen in the dashboard showed a name he would once have happily ignored, but now found himself surprisingly glad to be hearing from. He reached out and tapped the accept call button.
‘It’s a bit late for you, isn’t it, Dalgliesh? I’d have thought you’d be tucked up in your bed by now.’
‘Ha bloody ha, Tony. An’ who’s to say I’m no’? I could be snuggling up wi’ some wee toy boy jus’ the now while you’re home all on your own.’
McLean didn’t like the mental image that conjured. ‘I’m in the car, actually. Won’t be home for ten minutes yet. You just calling to brag about your sexual exploits, or was there a reason for this?’
A moment’s silence, which was probably the reporter taking a drag on her foul-smelling e-cigarette. ‘Aye, look at the two of us, sad old lonely buggers that we are. Working late into the night ’cause we’ve nothin’ better to do.’
‘I’m on my way home from a party, actually. Think I’d rather have been at work.’
‘A party? Who am I speaking to and what have you done wi’ Tony McLean?’ Another short pause, another drag.
‘Kirsty Ritchie got promoted to DCI. About time too, if you ask me. The chief superintendent threw a little reception for her. I think Kirsty would’ve been happier down the pub buying a round for the team. I’d have preferred that myself, but Elmwood’s the boss. We have to do what she says.’
‘Aye, well. It was her I was calling about. See when you mentioned her name and Tommy Fielding’s to me. That was just desperation, wasn’t it?’
‘Am I that easy to read, Jo?’ McLean glanced at the Sat-Nav. He didn’t need it to find his way home, but it was useful for estimating how long it would take to get there, and how much charge the car would have when he arrived.