The Gathering Dark: Inspector McLean 8

by James Oswald

  ‘Aye, that’s about the size of it.’ The technician clambered down carefully to the garage floor. ‘Thing’s a bloody death trap.’

  McLean stared at the truck without really seeing it, his mind going over uncomfortable possibilities. ‘Could this have been done deliberately?’

  ‘Tampered with? Why would someone …?’ He shook his head, then clambered up to inspect the brake lines a bit more closely. McLean watched him for a moment, then took a few steps back to get closer to the open door and the slightly fresher air blowing in through it. He’d only taken a few welcome gulps before the technician’s voice called him back.

  ‘Fuck me sideways till Tuesday. That’s a bastard thing to do.’

  ‘What is it, Tom?’ Manda Parsons asked. She and McLean both inched closer as the technician held up the disconnected main brake line, running a thumb around the edge.

  ‘Could be bad maintenance, but this looks like it’s been tampered with. That’s why it didn’t connect properly even though it might have looked OK. Secondary line probably worked a while before that hole blew out and took the brakes with it.’

  ‘So it was sabotage, then?’ McLean asked, hoping that the answer would be no even as he knew life was rarely that easy.

  ‘Can’t be a hundred per cent. Not with all the damage done in the crash. But it sure looks that way.’

  11

  McLean expected the chief superintendent to be in his office, but instead found him in the major-incident room. To an unskilled observer it might have looked like he was directing operations, but mostly he was getting in the way and pestering junior officers for information. When McLean interrupted him, he was berating a terrified young constable for not having a complete list of the names of all the victims yet. His mood didn’t improve when he heard the news about the truck.

  ‘I should have listened to what they told me when I took this job.’

  ‘What was that?’ McLean asked, knowing full well the answer.

  ‘That anything you’re involved in gets complicated and messy fast.’ Forrester pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘You really think someone sabotaged that truck? They meant for it to crash into that bus stop?’

  ‘Someone tampered with the brakes, yes. But I don’t think it was meant to crash into that bus stop.’

  ‘How no?’ Forrester’s confusion made him look a bit like a startled ferret.

  ‘If the pressure fails on an air brake system, it locks on, sir. Not off. Whoever tampered with the brakes must have known that. There should have been warning lights flashing all over the dashboard, too.’

  ‘Unless whoever fucked around with the brake lines disconnected the warning lights, too.’

  ‘They still couldn’t have known when the brakes would have gone, or where the truck would have been when that happened. And the driver had a massive heart attack. Sure, finding your truck’s brakes don’t work might set that off, but, again, it’s impossible to predict where and when. It’s not as if they knew he had a dicky ticker.’

  Forrester frowned. ‘Hate to admit it, but you’ve got a point. Bloody thing shouldn’t even have been driving through the centre of town.’ He gestured in the direction of a large map on the wall, and McLean saw three points clearly marked. He walked over for a closer look.

  ‘Hauliers are based in Broxburn. The stuff that was meant to be in the trailer came from a site near Livingston.’ Forrester tapped a thin finger against the paper, the fingernail chewed almost to the quick. ‘It was supposed to be going here, near East Fortune.’ He ran the finger across the map to the location, even though McLean knew well enough where all three places were.

  ‘Should have gone round the bypass,’ he said. ‘Unless he was using one of those traffic-monitoring satnav units. Do we know if there were any other accidents on the route yesterday?’

  ‘Big pile-up at the Loanhead junction. That’s why it took so long for the emergency services to get to the Lothian Road.’

  ‘So unless whoever’s behind this is incredibly devious, we’re looking at a series of unrelated incidents adding up to the worst traffic accident since …’ McLean shook his head, partly because he couldn’t think of a worse one, and partly because the coincidences piled too uncomfortably upon each other.

  ‘You need to speak to the hauliers. Someone there knew the cargo was illicit, and someone knew the truck had been tampered with. We need to find out who and charge them.’

  Something about the look on Forrester’s face, the anger in his tone, struck McLean as odd. It was almost personal, as if the crash was his fault until it could be pinned on someone else.

  ‘Health and Safety are going to audit the haulage yard this afternoon.’ He checked his watch, surprised at how much of the day had already gone. ‘I’ll be interviewing the boss at the same time. We’ll keep at them until we’ve got answers.’ McLean stared at the map, not really taking anything in. ‘Still don’t get why someone would tamper with the brakes like that. What were they hoping to achieve?’

  Forrester nodded towards the opposite wall, where photographs of the dead were being pinned up in rows, awaiting identification or notification of next of kin. ‘Not that, I hope.’

  ‘What do we know about this haulage company? Finlay McGregor? Isn’t that it?’

  Heading out of the city towards the bypass and then Broxburn beyond, McLean had the first chance since his new car had been delivered to open the throttle a bit. He couldn’t help but notice Detective Constable Harrison clutching the door handle every time they went around a corner a little faster than was perhaps sensible. She kept the fear out of her voice, though.

  ‘That’s them, aye. Not much to say except that it’s an established firm. Third generation of the Finlay family running it now, I’m told. No one remembers McGregor.’

  ‘Maybe there never was one. Wouldn’t be the first company to add a name just to make themselves sound more legitimate. Do we know anything about the current boss?’

  ‘Mike Finlay?’ DC Harrison pulled out her notebook and flipped the pages. ‘Had a chat with my uncle about him first thing this morning. Word is old man Finlay, Mike’s dad, was honest as the day, reliable. Paid his bills on time. Died about five years back and the church was packed at his funeral. He was a pillar of the community. Folk liked him.’

  ‘I take it they don’t feel the same way about his son, then?’

  ‘Uncle Jim, well. He doesn’t like to speak ill of people, sir. You know, if you can’t think of something good to say about someone, don’t say anything? That’s kind of how he’s always been. He was very quiet about Mike Finlay.’

  McLean said nothing, concentrating on the driving for a while. He knew Harrison’s uncle was in the motor trade; the man had delivered the Alfa in person. He operated out of an industrial estate in Broxburn, and Finlay McGregor Hauliers and Logistics, as their somewhat amateur-looking website had put it, were based on the neighbouring estate, so it was hardly surprising the company, and its owner, would be well enough known in the area. The compound had been sealed tight pending an investigation by the Health and Safety Executive. It made sense to co-ordinate with them and interview the boss at the same time, hence the afternoon drive out into the countryside. That and it was an excuse to get out of the station for a while.

  As they neared their destination, the massive shale bings rose up out of the flat land to greet them, James Young’s most enduring legacy. McLean had seen the great slag heaps of spoil left over from the shale mining and paraffin refining many times from afar, but it was only when you got close that you felt the scale of them and understood the sheer human effort that had gone into their formation. The route took them ever closer, first through the tarmac streets of the town and then into the grimy tracks of a decaying industrial landscape. His car was far too new and shiny, splashing through muddy potholes as he drove along the rutted lane towards the compound gates. They stood closed, a heavy chain and padlock denying entry to all. A squad car
blocked the entrance just to make sure no one could get in, and as he pulled up to it, the two occupants climbed out.

  ‘Heard you’d got a new car, sir. She’s a beauty isn’t she.’ Sergeant Gatford was a bit far from his usual beat, but a welcome sight anyway. If he’d been in charge of securing the compound then McLean could be confident no one had been in since he’d arrived.

  ‘Just getting used to her, Don. A fair bit more power than the old one.’ He looked around the empty lane, petering out a few tens of yards away where it opened on to scrubland and a handful of derelict buildings, the last remnants of Young and Company’s paraffin works.

  ‘Aye, that’d be why you’re here early.’ The sergeant glanced at his watch. ‘Health and Safety team are on their way. Mike Finlay, too. That might even be him the now.’

  McLean looked the way the sergeant pointed, back down the lane, to see a shiny new Range Rover weaving from side to side as if the potholes might swallow it whole. As it came closer he noticed that its number plate sort of spelled out the name M FINLAY, but only by breaking the law on how the numbers and letters were meant to be spaced. A white transit van and a couple more cars following along behind meant that there’d be no getting back out unless the gate to the compound was opened first.

  ‘Mr Finlay?’ McLean asked as the tinted side window of the Range Rover purred downwards. The driver was a young man with thinning black hair pasted to his scalp. It could have been some expensive product, but might just as easily have been sweat.

  ‘Aye. You’ll be the polis, then.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Got the Health and Safety boys behind me, ken.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the van. Sergeant Gatford had already gone to speak to the driver, his uniform colleague busy with the padlock and chain on the compound gates.

  ‘Head straight to the office,’ McLean said. ‘I’ll follow you. Let the experts give the place a once over while we have a wee chat.’

  Finlay squinted as if thinking was something he had to concentrate on. ‘You no’ need a warrant for that?’

  ‘I do,’ McLean said, then nodded at the team already clambering out of the van and cars behind. ‘They don’t.’ He tucked a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper he’d been careful to collect before leaving the station. ‘But, if it makes you feel better, I’ve got one anyway.’

  Mike Finlay might have dressed like a hedge-fund manager, driven a car that cost six figures and spoken with a clipped, almost Morningside accent, but McLean could see through the disguise easily enough. His voice had an underlying tone that suggested he’d been faking it for a while, and the suit wasn’t nearly as impressive up close. He smelled too overpoweringly of scented soap to be taken seriously either, but he had a firm handshake and didn’t try to avoid looking you in the eye.

  They had followed his Range Rover across the deserted compound to a set of grey portable cabins that made up the company offices. Finlay had let himself in with a key, glanced briefly around the empty room as if the lack of activity pained him, then led McLean and Harrison through into an office at the back of the cluster, taking up an entire cabin. He’d insisted on making coffee from an expensive-looking machine before settling down to business. It had all been quite professional until he dropped into the chair behind his desk with a whoopee cushion noise that was perhaps not the impression he’d been trying to make. McLean could see Harrison trying to hide her smirk behind her mug.

  ‘First off, can I say that I’m as horrified as anyone about what’s happened and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to help you with your investigation, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Mr Finlay. You’ll understand that this is a very serious matter, though. One of your trucks has been involved in the deaths of twenty people.’

  ‘Now come on, Inspector. This is a tragic accident, horrific even, but it’s an accident. You can’t think that I have anything to do –’

  ‘That’s for the HSE inspectors to decide, at least in the first instance, Mr Finlay. I’m just here to get a picture of how you run things. The chain of events that led up to yesterday.’

  Finlay slumped back in his seat. ‘Should I have a lawyer present?’

  ‘Up to you.’ McLean shrugged. ‘You’ve not been arrested, not been charged with anything. You could refuse to answer any of my questions if you wanted to. Or we could get this cleared up quickly and I can get back to the task of identifying the dead and informing their relatives.’

  A long silence stretched between them, and for a moment McLean thought Finlay might actually call his lawyer. He picked up his mobile phone from the desk, looked at it for a while without switching it on. Perhaps it would have been better hauling him into the station and making him sweat in an interview room for a while. Given the circumstances, they would have been well within their rights.

  ‘What do you need to know?’ Finlay put the phone back down again, the smile on his face about as sincere as a politician on the campaign trail.

  ‘The truck that crashed,’ McLean asked. ‘You keep it well maintained?’

  ‘We keep all our trucks maintained to the highest order, Inspector.’ Finlay straightened up in his chair, and had his hair not been so stiffly gelled, McLean was sure his hackles would have risen, too.

  ‘What about the driver? His medical certificate up to date? He was quite old to be hauling dangerous goods, wouldn’t you say?’

  Finlay stiffened a little more, the insult getting under his skin. And then something like relief spread across his face. Had he been a toddler, McLean might have thought he’d just filled his nappy.

  ‘Two things, Inspector.’ Finlay leaned forward, elbows on the desk as he counted on his fingers. ‘First, the cargo wasn’t dangerous. Least, not according to the manifest signed by the company we were hauling it for. Second, I’d always give the more important jobs to my best drivers, and Bernie was one of the best. Used to drive for my dad. Reckon he’s been here longer than I have. Getting close to retirement, but he had his medical just a couple of months ago. I’ve got it all on file.’

  ‘Did he often drive that route? That truck?’

  ‘Well, there’s the thing, see. Bernie wasn’t meant to be driving that truck at all, Inspector. Wasn’t even meant to be working yesterday.’

  ‘He wasn’t? So who was?’

  ‘Wee Hamish Tafferty was on that route, but he was meant to be driving another rig. He made the collection. Came from that new power plant over by Livingston. Should have gone straight from there to East Fortune, but he wasn’t feeling well so he brought it back here. Idiot managed to break a headlight parking up. We’re still waiting on a replacement. Swapped the trailer over to the old truck, but by then it was too late to make the delivery so we left it parked up in the compound. He should have been back yesterday morning to finish the job, but he called in sick. Probably didn’t fancy going all the way to East Fortune in that old thing. The old trucks aren’t so much fun once you’ve driven something new.’

  ‘So you got Mr Wilkins to do the job instead.’

  ‘Aye. Bernie’s old school. Was old school, I guess.’ Finlay shrugged as if the death of one of his employees was an inconvenience more than a tragedy. ‘He was fine with the old trucks. Didn’t mind the extra work either.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the driver who made the initial pickup?’

  ‘Hamish? Aye, I have. He’s still at home with that noro thing. His wife says he’s not been ten feet from the cludgie in the past forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I’ll need his contact details anyway.’

  ‘Of course.’ Finlay picked up his phone again, tapped it on this time and navigated to the relevant page before handing it over to DC Harrison to note down the name and address. McLean waited until she had finished before continuing with the interview. ‘The truck. You said it was carrying digestate. That’s what all the documentation said, too. Any idea how it came to be transporting something so toxic it could melt through skin and bone, turn the tarmac into a sti
cky mass?’

  Finlay shrugged and bobbed his head apologetically. ‘It’s like I said, Inspector, the whole thing’s a mystery.’

  ‘The truck was parked up all night? Here, in the compound?’

  ‘It was, aye.’

  ‘You have CCTV?’

  ‘Of course. We contract that out, but I can get the tapes pulled for you.’

  ‘You do that. And while you’re at it, I’ll need the names and addresses of everyone who works for you, everyone who has access to this compound. I’ll need the details of the contract to transport the digestate, too. Where it came from, where it was going.’

  With each new demand, Finlay’s face fell a notch further. No doubt he had thought this was a minor inconvenience that would soon go away, a slight embarrassment to his company that people would soon forget. The stench of burning chemicals and the image of broken people fresh in his mind, McLean wasn’t in any mood to comply.

  ‘I’ll … Of course … My secretary. I told her not to come in today. Like everyone else.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you get on the phone and call her.’ McLean looked past Finlay, out of the window to the yard beyond where Health and Safety inspectors were clambering over trucks and poking their noses into everything. ‘Reckon we’re going to be here a while.’

  12

  Hamish Tafferty lived in a grubby little ex-council semi on the edge of Broxburn, surrounded by streets of identical grubby little ex-council semis, each with its own variation on a theme of unkempt front garden. Some had been paved over, cars and bikes in various stages of being dismantled and leaving oil stains on the concrete paving. More cars lined the narrow streets, but none of them looked like they’d been anywhere recently. McLean was all too aware as he pulled to a halt outside that his shiny new Alfa Romeo looked as out of place as a Catholic priest at a gathering of the Wee Frees.

  ‘You want me to go and talk to him while you stay with the car, sir?’ Harrison asked. ‘Or, you know, I could just sit here and make sure nobody tries to key your paint while you go and talk to him.’