by James Oswald
As predicted, the corridor was empty. Forrester’s office sat at the far end, beyond a wider space that had held a secretary’s desk when Duguid and Brooks had occupied the top seat. Before that there had been no need, as Jayne McIntyre had always left her door open. Now it stood just slightly ajar. Not welcoming all who would come, but letting McLean know that he was expected.
The chief superintendent looked up from his desk as McLean knocked once and pushed the door open. Unlike McLean’s own, Forrester’s desktop had scarcely anything on it. A phone, a laptop and one brown folder. He felt a moment’s intense jealousy that the man could get away with so little paperwork, and then he saw the look on his face.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Yes, Tony. Come in. Shut the door. There’s something I need to ask you.’
McLean did as he was told, sitting down when indicated to do so. There were no other officers present, so it was unlikely this was a disciplinary matter. Apart from spending time out interviewing people rather than in the melee of the incident room, he was struggling to think of anything he might have done wrong recently. Nothing since the winter, when he’d gone against a direct order from his superior and broken that particular case open.
‘How’s the investigation coming along?’ Forrester asked after an uncomfortably long pause. ‘You’ve been following up questions about the truck mostly?’
McLean could tell that this was just the warm-up to what the chief superintendent really wanted to talk about. Forrester had spent most of the day in the incident room himself, when he hadn’t been updating the media with regular press briefings.
‘Yes, sir. We’ve turned the search of the haulage company’s compound over to Health and Safety since technically it’s their jurisdiction. I’ve been trying to pin down where the tanker load came from. Can’t do much else until forensics have worked out exactly what it is.’
‘And the cause of the crash.’ Forrester slipped a pair of thin spectacles on to his nose, reached over for the folder and flicked it open with shaking hands. ‘Post-mortem suggests heart attack.’
‘Myocardial infarction is the preferred term these days, but essentially yes. He’d been passed fit just a couple of months ago, but these things can hit without warning. Couple that with the tampering to the brakes …’ McLean left the sentence unfinished, the silence in the room making his point far more eloquently.
‘We any further on with that?’ Forrester asked.
‘Still waiting on the forensic report, and anything Health and Safety find out at Broxburn. I want to bring Mike Finlay in for a more thorough questioning, too. There’s something he’s not telling us, I’m sure, but I need more background info on the company before I can really put the squeeze on him.’
‘Aye, well, sooner we can get someone arrested for this mess the better. Twenty dead? Fifty seriously injured? Christ, you can just imagine the fun the press’ll have if it turns out we can’t charge anyone.’
‘Is that what this is about, sir? The press?’
Forrester stared off into the distance for a while, not answering. McLean was happy to give him the time he needed. Something was clearly bothering him, but it wasn’t a lack of results or playing fast and loose with established procedure. Whatever it was had disrupted the chief superintendent’s sleep, though. His face was lined and grey, bags under sunken eyes. Even his hair seemed somehow weary, and less kempt than was becoming of a senior uniformed officer.
‘The press. Well. They certainly could be a problem. It all depends on how things are handled. How things pan out.’ Forrester snapped his gaze back to McLean. ‘The identification of the dead bodies. Is that all done now?’
‘All but five, sir. Two of those we’re fairly certain we know who they are, just waiting on DNA confirmation. The other three may take a while longer if they’re not on the database.’
‘No one’s come looking for missing relatives?’
‘Oh, plenty, sir. Something like this brings all sorts out. DC Gregg’s heading up a team sifting through the calls as they come in. We have to take everything seriously, of course. But when you start looking into it, a lot of the names we get are for people who’ve been missing a while. Sometimes years. No real reason why they would be at that bus stop on that day.’
Forrester had fallen silent again, his eyes glazing over as he either listened to what McLean was saying or worried about whatever it was had called him here in the first place.
‘I’ve not been here long. You know that, Tony. Of course you do. Someone had to come in and pick up the pieces after that mess with Bill Chalmers, and the chief constable, bless him, thought I’d be the man for the job. Twenty-five years in Strathclyde region. Dealing with some of Glasgow’s more colourful characters, catching speeding motorists, the tiresome but necessary administration that keeps this great organization just about functional. I haven’t a clue how you run things over this side of the country, but you don’t turn down an offer of promotion, not when you’re as close to retirement as I am.’
Forrester paused for breath, or maybe because he hoped that McLean would say something. He knew better than to interrupt, and soon the chief superintendent started up again.
‘I moved the whole family over for this job. We’ve rented a place not far from here. It’s nice. Quiet. Deirdre, my wife, is very happy to be living in Edinburgh. My son … less so.’
Something about the way Forrester put all the emphasis on ‘son’ set the alarm bells ringing in McLean’s mind.
‘He’s always been a bit of a handful, has Eric. Bright lad. Well, he’ll be twenty-two next birthday so technically not a lad any more, I guess. Still living at home. Sort of. He comes and goes. Plays in a band and half the time they’re out on the road. Not famous, not earning millions. I’d be so lucky.’
Why are you telling me this. McLean wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut.
‘The thing is, Tony. He’s gone missing. Should have been home yesterday and he never turned up. I’ve spoken to his bandmates, but no one’s seen him since the morning of the crash.’
It took a while to find Grumpy Bob, but McLean didn’t mind searching. He went from empty room to empty room, marvelling at how few officers there seemed to be in the station these days. And all the while the chief superintendent’s words rolled over and over in his mind.
At first he’d been as politely dismissive as he could, not wanting to upset an anxious parent. Or his boss. But with each new nugget of information, so Forrester’s anxiety had become infectious. Still, unlikely that Eric was one of the three unidentified bodies, but there was enough circumstantial evidence to make it worthwhile looking into. It had to be done discreetly, though. If word got out to the press then the whole investigation would get complicated and messy. Actually, it had already got complicated and messy, but the press would only make it worse.
So he needed a team he could rely on not to tell tales, which meant only one person. Possibly two, though that wasn’t a conversation McLean much relished having.
‘If you’re after anything on Gregor Wishaw, I’m just waiting on a call back from Benny Thomas over at Leith nick. He was on the team that arrested the whole gang.’ Grumpy Bob had long since perfected the art of switching in an instant from feet up on the desk and paper draped over the face snoozing to alert and already having done what you wanted. The detective sergeant stifled a yawn and rubbed unselfconsciously at an armpit before blinking a couple of times and looking around the room. It had once housed the local control centre, before all that side of the job had been hived off to Bilston Glen. A pile of old computers and other electrical gubbins gathered dust in the corner, desks were piled up against the far wall and someone had drawn something rude on the whiteboards. At some point in the indeterminate past a couple of expensive orthopaedic chairs had been wheeled in here and it was one of those that Grumpy Bob had been using as a makeshift bed.
‘And this call will come here?’ McLean pointed at the desk upon which the d
etective sergeant had been resting his heels. There was a phone at one end, but the cable looping out the back of it ended in a splay of cut wires on the floor.
‘Good mobile signal in here, sir.’ Grumpy Bob held up his smartphone by way of explanation.
‘Never mind. I’ve got something else I need you to look into while you’re waiting anyway.’
As he repeated the chief superintendent’s story, so McLean felt that familiar, creeping sensation of cold in the pit of his stomach. Christ, but he hated it when things got complicated.
‘We’ll have a DNA sample from the chief super on file, won’t we?’ Grumpy Bob asked when McLean had finished.
‘Should have, aye. But I got a cheek swab anyway.’ McLean pulled the sample bottle from his pocket and held it up to the light. ‘I’ll ask Parsons to run it alongside the three bodies, but it’ll take time.’
‘Can’t you sweet-talk them into rushing it through? Thought you and the wee lassie were best of pals.’ Grumpy Bob had the decency to smile as he spoke.
‘Not with the new systems they’ve got in place now. It’s more than anyone’s job’s worth to do that. You should hear some of Em’s stories. Ever since the testing was put out to private tender you can’t prioritize anything without a hefty surcharge.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought that would be a problem. Seeing as you’ve got the chief super on your side. Sure, he’d sign off anything you asked him to right now.’
McLean shook his head. ‘No. It has to be low key. The fewer people who know the better, which is why at the moment it’s just you, me and Forrester himself. I’d keep it that way, too, but we need more people to look into this.
‘Who’d you have in mind, then? Any of the new DCs? Harrison maybe?’
McLean didn’t answer straight away. He was fairly sure he could trust Harrison, even if he didn’t know her all that well. She was sharing a flat with Amanda Parsons from forensics anyway, so chances were she’d find out sooner or later. But DCI McIntyre’s words rang in his ears. She was young, attractive and eager to please. Last thing she needed was her fellow detectives deciding without evidence that she was shagging the boss to get ahead.
‘No, I think we need to keep this high level as much as possible. Which is why I’m going to call in a favour I’d rather not have been owed in the first place.’
Prestonfield Golf Club sat at the southern edge of Arthur’s Seat, sandwiched between the university halls of residence and Duddingston Loch. McLean remembered it first from his undergraduate days, not so much as a place he had played golf as a clubhouse he and some friends had been banned from for messing about on the eighteenth green late at night. As was so often the case in his misspent youth, alcohol had been involved.
It wasn’t far from the station, but far enough for it to make more sense to drive than walk. He would have liked the time to think, letting the rhythm of his feet on the pavement order his thoughts, but time wasn’t his friend today. There was too much to do.
The new Alfa looked far more comfortable among the BMWs, Audis and Mercedes in the club car park than his old GTV ever would have. He even acknowledged an approving ‘Nice car’ from a complete stranger with questionable fashion sense, clearly heading off for eighteen holes before suppertime. He wasn’t here to talk about cars or golf, though.
No one tried to stop him as he walked through the clubhouse to the bar. Perhaps they recognized him, or possibly they just assumed he had as much right to be there as any member. McLean was happy to be left alone. Bad enough that he had to come here at all.
The bar was busier than his last visit, but the high-backed leather armchairs clustered around the unlit fireplace were empty. All except for one. McLean recognized the tweed-suited arm, long-fingered hand clutching an almost empty tumbler of malt whisky. With a sigh, he headed over.
‘You must be new. Otherwise you’d know better than to disturb me.’ For the uninitiated that voice might strike fear to the very heart, but McLean knew better. He glanced briefly at his watch, surprised that it was only just past five in the afternoon. A touch early to be hitting the hard stuff if you worked for a living, but maybe acceptable in retirement.
‘Actually, I’m not even a member. Seems they’ll let anyone in here these days.’ He settled into the nearest unoccupied chair as ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid stiffened, looked round and stared at him with a curious mixture of loathing and disbelief.
‘There goes the neighbourhood.’ He threw back the last of his whisky like a desperado in a Western saloon bar. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, McLean?’
‘And a good afternoon to you, too, sir.’
Duguid shuffled in his seat the better to glower at him. ‘It was good until you showed up. What do you want?’
‘Would you believe it if I said your help with an investigation?’
Duguid’s glower turned into a scowl. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, they shut down the cold-case unit when they realized you’d just keep digging up all the wrong skeletons. I’m retired. Leave me alone.’
‘How’s that going, sir? The retirement? Only, last I heard you were spending most of your time here. Didn’t know you were such a keen golfer.’
Duguid looked away from McLean, caught the eye of the bartender and held up his empty glass for a refill. He said nothing more until he’d been brought a replacement and indicated with a jab of one overlong finger that McLean was paying.
‘I assume this is something you need looked into off the books. No other reason you wouldn’t be bullying one of your constables into doing it. Or just doing it yourself for that matter.’
‘Not exactly off the books, but certainly low profile. The chief superintendent’s keen the press don’t find out.’
‘Chief super, eh?’ Duguid raised a greying eyebrow, his interest piqued.
‘His son’s gone missing, and his last known movements would have put him somewhere near the truck crash two days ago. We’ve three bodies so badly damaged we can’t identify them yet and Forrester’s terrified one of them might be his boy.’
‘Terrified. Interesting choice of word.’ Duguid took a sip of his whisky. ‘But why the hush hush? I mean, if the lad really is one of your bodies then it’s not going to reflect badly on him, is it? Quite the opposite. Gives the police a more personal stake in the tragedy.’
‘Funnily enough, the same thought had occurred to me. Sure, Forrester was very convincing but even I could tell there was more to the story than he was letting on. He’s trying to do damage limitation.’
‘Makes you wonder why the fuck he picked you for the job.’
‘Ha. Maybe my reputation never got as far west as the Gorbals. Or maybe it’s just that I’m in charge of the case anyway.’
Duguid did a passable job of suppressing his sneer. ‘So why would I help you? What’s in it for me?’
‘You mean apart from gratitude to me for saving your life? I’d have thought it would be obvious.’
‘Enlighten me.’ Duguid raised his whisky glass again. ‘I’ve had too much of this to think straight, otherwise I’d have had you thrown out already.’
‘Forrester’s got the ear of the chief constable. One of his Glasgow cronies. He doesn’t really understand Edinburgh, and really doesn’t want to be in charge of Specialist Crime. If you help him, there’s every chance he’ll return the favour. Plenty of folk want to see the cold-case unit back up and running. Who knows, you might even get a budget to work with, too.’
Duguid put his unfinished whisky down on the table beside his seat, turned to face McLean. The ex-detective superintendent looked greyer than when last he’d seen him, worn at the edges. He’d survived the fallout from the Bill Chalmers case, but only because he’d already retired. Now there was a light in his eyes McLean hadn’t seen in a while. An excitement at the possibilities opening up ahead of him. The thrill of the chase.
‘I thought your grandmother had brought you up better than that, but you’re a sneaky wee sod, McLean.’ Dugu
id picked up his glass again, drained it.
‘I learned from the best, sir.’
18
The city mortuary had always been an oasis of calm in the bustle of the city centre. McLean couldn’t remember the first time he’d visited, probably a trip with his grandmother and long before he’d joined the old Lothian and Borders Police Force. It was a handy place to go when he needed to get away from the station and its endless round of bullying and politics. Not so far he couldn’t walk; far enough for him to take his time getting back once summoned. It was on the way to his next destination, too. Well, sort of. And he had plenty of time to check in on his old friend Angus.
The pathologist sat in his shared office, just off the main examination theatre, peering myopically at a computer screen and munching biscuits from a packet beside the keyboard. At least he wasn’t wearing scrubs this time.
‘Tony. How nice of you to drop by.’ Cadwallader shoved the latest biscuit back into the packet as he struggled to his feet. ‘Just been working through the toxicology results from some of your lorry crash victims. Still no idea what was in that tanker, but by Christ it was nasty stuff.’
‘Thought the labs had identified it. Some kind of chemical cleaner used in the microchip industry. Not sure where it came from, though. Not yet.’
‘Oh, aye. They identified the key compound. Hydrofluoric Acid. Very nasty, very toxic and highly controlled. Well, usually. Problem is it seems to have been mixed in with a dozen or more other things. Helpful in a way, I guess. Some of them have partly neutralized the acid, otherwise we’d probably have nothing solid to do a post-mortem on for your last three bodies.’
McLean grimaced at the thought. ‘About them. Any closer to an identification?’