What Will Burn

by James Oswald

  ‘Is that all it takes, then? To be a witch?’ It was Harrison who asked the question, although McLean had thought it. The detective sergeant was focusing on Downham with an intensity he’d not often seen in her. Something about the old lady fascinated her.

  Downham’s smile was like a knife slash in a bloodless face. ‘Need it be more? Any woman can be a witch. Young Isobel here is well on her way. As are you, Janie Harrison.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You serve your community selflessly, you are motivated by justice for everyone, not simply your paymasters. You have a good soul and it shines brightly. So yes, I’d say you are a witch. You could be much more, if you want to be.’

  ‘I thought there was a wee bit more to it than that,’ McLean said.

  Downham laughed, an oddly bird-like trilling sound. ‘Yes, of course there is. And that is the covenant Sissy entered into. The power that she contained is free now. You have seen it, even if your male eyes cannot really understand what they have seen. Soon, though, it will need someone new to sustain it. And whoever it chooses, she will become a true witch.’

  A silence fell upon the room then. McLean’s grandmother might have said an angel was passing overhead, even though she had no time for religion. Harrison fiddled with her phone, trying to ignore the texts that kept flashing up on the screen.

  McLean considered his empty teacup, the plate from which he had eaten his delicious slice of cake. Well, two slices of cake if he was being honest. ‘Is that why they killed her, then? Because she was a witch?’ he asked.

  ‘And now you begin to understand something of our eternal struggle.’ Mirriam Downham gave a single, slow nod in his direction by way of acknowledgement.

  ‘Do you know who they are? The men who killed her?’

  This time the old lady shook her head once. ‘If I did, I would have told the police, although there are few of your kind who would listen. Like much of Sissy’s life, her death is a darkness to me, and believe me when I tell you I have tried to see.’

  McLean found that he did believe her, at least that she’d tried. The rest of the talk of witches and darkness was apt for Madame Rose’s parlour but not particularly helpful for his own line of work. There was one other thing he needed to ask.

  ‘How about Tommy Fielding? You’ve been camped outside his conference for weeks, and Izzy here has made some fairly serious allegations about him.’

  ‘Do I think he killed Sissy?’ Downham’s posture was always upright and correct, but she seemed to straighten even further as she considered the question. Even though that wasn’t what McLean had meant.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ she said. ‘If he knew what she truly was. I don’t think there’s any way you would be able to prove it, though. If I cannot see what happened, then your science and your forensics won’t help you.’

  McLean wanted to say that such pronouncements weren’t exactly helpful, but in truth he hadn’t expected much more. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, my science and my forensics are going to keep trying anyway. We might not find who murdered Cecily Slater, but we’ll be taking a closer look at Fielding now. You have my word on that.’

  Mirriam Downham stared at him for a while, her eyes dark, face unreadable. Finally she smiled, truly friendly for the first time since McLean had met her.

  ‘I do believe you will, Detective Inspector. I do believe you will.’

  48

  The major incident room was empty when McLean let himself in later. Going to Cecily Slater’s funeral had been important, if only to meet with the enigmatic Mirriam Downham. But it had wasted most of the day, and now an evening of paperwork beckoned. At least Em wouldn’t complain about him coming home late.

  A buzz in his pocket signalled the arrival of a text, and he was reminded of DS Harrison’s frantic scrolling through messages as they drove from Rose’s house to the police station. She’d have to get herself better sorted if she wasn’t going to burn out trying to do everything for everyone. A couple more detective sergeants on the team wouldn’t hurt either.

  Fishing out his phone, he peered at the screen, struggling to make out the tiny letters, and to work out who it was from. The name was there, Simon Martin, but it took a while to remember who he was. The invitation to meet for a drink later was welcome, nevertheless. Even if it meant McLean would have to get stuck in to all the work he’d not done while drinking Madame Rose’s tea.

  One thing had come out of that conversation he could follow up straight away. It bothered McLean that he couldn’t remember the name of Slater’s solicitors. It would have been one of the first actions of the murder investigation to identify them and view any will the old lady might have made. If nothing of interest had turned up, that would probably explain why he’d missed it when reviewing the case.

  He could have gone back to his office, but that ran the risk of bumping into the chief superintendent. Instead, Mclean settled himself down in front of one of the workstations, logged in and began searching through the system for the relevant details. It didn’t take long to find, although he was disappointed to see that only a detective constable had been sent to speak to the lawyers. The name of the firm didn’t ring any bells either. DCF Law weren’t one of the city’s old and established firms, which was a bit of a surprise given the Bairnfather connection. Bringing up another window on the workstation, he tapped the name into a browser and followed the links to the corporate website.

  DCF Law worked out of a modern office block in Fountainbridge. They seemed to specialise in corporate and family law, as far as his tired eyes could scan from the screen. He really needed to get them tested. Searching the annoying drop-down menu cunningly hidden within the company logo, he finally found what he was looking for, brought up the list of partners. And there it was.

  John Donaldson, Andrew Cartwright, Thomas Fielding.

  McLean clicked back to the report. DC Stringer had spoken to an associate partner by the name of Penelope Threadworth. She’d given him a copy of Cecily Slater’s will, which left the entirety of her estate to her nephew. It had been drawn up in the mid eighties by Carstairs Weddell, the same firm of solicitors McLean himself used, and not updated since. There was a breakdown of Slater’s assets which amounted to very little. The cottage belonged to the Bairnfather Trust, and it seemed all her bills were looked after by it too. A codicil to the will mentioned one other fact about the trust of which McLean had not been aware. Cecily had been both a trustee and a beneficiary. Her nephew, Reginald Corslaine Slater, now Lord Bairnfather, was listed as the other trustee, and presumably also beneficiary.

  McLean recalled the telephone conversation he’d overheard. Tommy Fielding speaking to his friend Reggie. He knew better than to jump to conclusions; it was perfectly possible Fielding knew two Reginalds, and did work for both of them. It was a coincidence though, and McLean didn’t like coincidences.

  He speed-read the report of Stringer’s interview with the solicitor. She seemed to have been helpful, had provided everything the detective constable had asked for, but there were tantalising gaps in the information. He needed to know more about the Bairnfather Trust for one thing. Were there any other trustees? And who would be appointed to take Slater’s place? How much money was at stake here? Downham had suggested Cecily Slater was keen to put her affairs in order. And yet her will remained unchanged in over thirty years.

  ‘Oh, Tony. It’s you. Thought I saw a light on.’

  Startled, McLean looked up from his workstation to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway. So much for hiding from her. She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut as she walked towards him, an unnecessary sway to her hips. Not quite sure why, he closed down the browser window with Fielding’s name on it before she could see the screen.

  ‘I was just checking something,’ he said, as if the explanation were necessary. Elmwood put a hand on his chair, fingers lightly brush
ing the fabric of his jacket as she leaned in close to have a look.

  ‘I thought all the case notes had been filed for review.’

  ‘They have. Just wanted to settle my mind on something that came up in a conversation. I went to the funeral this afternoon, got chatting. You know how it is.’

  ‘Is that why you weren’t in your office all day?’ The chief superintendent stood up, turned and perched herself on the edge of the desk, one leg raised so that her uniform skirt rode up her thigh. It was such an artless movement, McLean almost laughed. A woman half her age might have been able to pull it off, maybe.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it wasn’t something a sergeant or a constable could do? Only, I notice DS Harrison was missing all afternoon too.’

  McLean looked up at the chief superintendent’s face, not even trying to avoid her gaze. ‘I’ve no idea what DS Harrison’s been up to today. I thought she was working with Kirsty on something. It’s not like I own her or anything.’

  Elmwood raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. ‘You know there’s station gossip? About you and the young DS?’

  ‘It’s been brought to my attention. As have all manner of rumours, malicious and otherwise. I try to rise above it all.’

  ‘And yet you persist in working closely with her.’

  ‘I’ll work with any detective worth their salt. Harrison’s one of the best to come up through the ranks in a while. It’d be stupid not to use her just because of station gossip, and anyway, if I stopped now they’d all just say we’d fallen out or something. Besides, I worked with Grumpy Bob for years and nobody ever suggested we were a couple.’

  Elmwood laughed so hard she slipped off the desk and had to put a hand out to steady herself. It rested on McLean’s shoulder for too long before she finally took it away.

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t let them sack you, Tony. You’re by far the most interesting thing in this dreadful place.’ She shrugged, straightened her skirt. ‘Anyway, I’m off home. Unless you fancy a drink?’

  Drink. The question reminded McLean of the text from Simon Martin. ‘Sorry. I almost forgot. Prior engagement. If I don’t hurry I’ll be late.’

  McLean had almost choked when Simon Martin, ex-Metropolitan Police Detective Chief Inspector, had told him the name of his ‘local’. Martin had retired to Edinburgh because his wife’s family had come from the city and she had inherited a sizeable house in Newington. Martin had always been a keen golfer, so the chance of living within walking distance of a half-decent course had been more than enough reason for him to accept her suggestion they leave England and return to her home city. All this and more McLean learned in the first half-hour of their meeting at the club house of Prestonfield golf course, which also happened to be the favourite watering hole of ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid.

  ‘Not sure I’ve ever met him,’ Martin said when McLean brought up the subject. ‘Does he play here regularly?’

  ‘Play? Not so much. I think he’s more of a social member.’ Although McLean couldn’t think of many people less social than Duguid. Fortunately the man himself was not in the members’ bar that evening. At least not yet. He couldn’t help glancing up at the entrance every time the door swung open.

  ‘I’ll have to try and make his acquaintance.’ Martin leaned back in his chair, pint of beer in one hand. He was a short fellow, but wiry. Like a featherweight boxer, or a junkie, McLean couldn’t make up his mind which. He seemed affable enough, but they hadn’t quite managed to home in on the reason for the meeting yet, and that might prove more tricky.

  ‘So Gail made it all the way to chief super, eh?’ Martin broke first. ‘I guess it was always on the cards. If she didn’t get herself either fired or killed, she was always going to climb to the top.’

  ‘You don’t mind talking about her?’ McLean sipped from an extraordinarily expensive glass of fizzy water.

  ‘It’s been, what? Twenty years since I last spoke to her? More, I think.’ Martin shook his head. ‘It was a mistake, difficult time in my marriage and she exploited that. Luckily my wife is very understanding. And I got out of the job, too, which pleased her no end.’

  ‘So the rumours about an affair were true, then?’

  ‘Ah, you’re good, McLean. I’d forgotten what it was like to be interviewed by a well-trained detective. Getting old and slow.’ Martin took a long draw from his pint, wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Yes, we had an affair. Well, more of a fling, who am I kidding? She was twenty-five and I was the wrong side of forty. What red-blooded man wouldn’t, if he was offered?’

  ‘But you think she was only interested in you as a means to furthering her own career.’

  ‘I didn’t at the time, of course. Well, maybe a bit. She’s – was – very easy to be around. Good company, you know? Always knows the right thing to say. Christ, you should see her work a room full of politicians.’

  ‘I have,’ McLean said, recalling the Safe Streets Campaign. ‘And I’ve seen her switch on the charm, too. It’s like being caught in a spotlight. Disconcerting.’

  ‘You married, McLean?’ Martin leaned forward, his gaze flicking down to McLean’s hand and its lack of rings.

  ‘I was engaged once. A long time ago. She . . . died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Like I said, it was a long time ago. I have a partner. We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re working things out.’

  ‘She know about Gail?’ Martin asked.

  ‘As in her existence, yes. There’s nothing else to know, really.’

  Martin took another drink, but McLean could see the old man’s eyes on him the whole time. ‘She must be losing her touch, then,’ he said, as he placed the glass back down on the table.

  ‘She’s chief superintendent in charge of all policing in Edinburgh and the Lothians, and I’m a DI, recently knocked back from DCI for failing to follow procedure and pissing off too many politicians. There’s no good reason why she should be interested in me. I can’t do anything for her.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s changed. Maybe she’s looking for someone to settle down and grow old with.’

  ‘Why not Tommy Fielding, then? He’s living in Edinburgh now.’

  McLean had thought the name might spark a reaction, and he was right. He was wrong about the nature of that reaction, though. Far from anger, hearing the lawyer’s name brought first a smile and then a burst of laughter so loud it disturbed the other drinkers and earned them both a withering glare from the barman.

  ‘Fielding? And Gail? After what he did to her?’ Martin shook his head so vigorously McLean thought his spectacles might have flown off. ‘No, no, no. You’ve got that relationship all wrong. She despises him even more than I do, which is saying something.’

  ‘But she—’

  ‘Fell for exactly the same game she was playing on me. Fielding’s just like her. He uses people and then throws them away when he no longer has need of them. He worked his charm on her and for once she fell for it. Maybe she thought she was playing him, but we all know that’s not how it ended up, eh?’

  ‘The laptop.’

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re remarkably well informed, McLean. Who’ve you been talking to?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Yes, the laptop. Thing is, I didn’t leave it at her place. She borrowed it, along with my password and security tag. That was a lapse on my part and I got hung out to dry for it. But if she hadn’t taken it in the first place, then Fielding wouldn’t have seen what was on it. He’d probably still be a failed divorce lawyer taking out his misogyny on cheated wives. And I’d have retired on a Detective Chief Super’s pension and a broken marriage.’

  ‘That case made Fielding’s career? I thought he was already going places.’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Guys like him always seem to prosper, don’t they? And he was a nasty
piece of work. Didn’t really know what men’s rights activists were back then, but that was what he was doing. Whipping up hatred for feminists, putting women “in their place”.’ Martin used both hands to emphasise the phrase, but didn’t quite go the whole rabbit ears. ‘He was clever about it. Never too brazen, and certainly not in court. But see him with a client during an interview? Christ, it made me feel dirty just being in the same room.’

  ‘So there’s no way he’d have got back in touch with Elmwood, then. For old times’ sake?’

  The laughter was quieter this time, but no less hollow for that. ‘Neither of them would piss on the other if they were on fire. Way I heard it – and you’ll understand I was out of the Met by then, working in IT in Cambridge until I retired up here – way I heard it, soon as she could, she started making life difficult for him. Payback, I guess. And the higher she climbed, the more influence she could bring. That’s probably why he came back up to Scotland.’

  ‘He must be overjoyed to hear she’s our new chief superintendent, then.’

  Martin picked up his glass, drained what was left in it, then thumped a light belch out of his chest. ‘I imagine he’s furious. If I were her, I’d be watching my back.’

  49

  Janie Harrison hung her coat on the hook in the hall and bent down to unlace her boots. Kicking them off at the end of the day was one of life’s little pleasures. It had been a long day too, an odd one. She still wasn’t sure what had prompted her to join the boss at the old woman’s funeral. A sense of duty, perhaps? A wish to apologise for their failure to catch those responsible for her death, certainly. It had been worth it in the end, though. Seeing Izzy dressed up like a proper lady was a laugh, but meeting Mirriam Downham had been something else entirely.