by James Oswald
‘What’s that over there?’ DC Harrison pointed to a spot at the far end of the site from the entrance, where a couple of smaller storage tanks stood alongside a low building with roller doors along one side. A wide tarmac area in front of them was surrounded by lines of pipework.
‘That? That’s the washout area. Once the trucks have pumped out all the shite into the storage tanks, they head over there and get cleaned out. The waste all gets filtered, an’ anything that can be eaten by the wee bugs is pumped back into they tanks. Sheds are where we store all the maintenance gear and stuff.’
‘Must have cost a bob or two, to build this place.’ McLean turned and started walking away from the point where they had stopped, halfway between his car and the washout area. If that was what it really was.
‘Twenty-five million pounds. That’s what I was told anyways.’ Bobby hurried to catch up, and soon they were back at the visitor car park. McLean took off his tabard and hard hat, handing both back to the security guard. Harrison had been dawdling behind, but she caught up as McLean fished his keys out of his pocket and plipped the unlock button.
‘Whoa! Alfa Giulia Quadrifoglio. This is yours? Sweet.’ Struggling with the hats and tabards now that Harrison had handed him hers as well, Bobby still managed to goggle at McLean’s car.
‘Thanks. I think.’ McLean opened the passenger door and threw the keys to Harrison. She caught them with a reflex that would have done a slip fielder proud. Left hand, too, even though she wrote with her right. That was holding on to the brown folder Ms Ferris had given them, so it was fair enough. She said nothing, but he could tell by the look on her face that she was both surprised and a little worried. The car cost more than twice her salary, so maybe she had a point.
‘Thanks for the tour, Bobby,’ McLean said as he climbed into the unfamiliar passenger seat. ‘Tell Ms Ferris I’ll be in touch. Don’t expect there’ll be anything to report, but if there is I’ll be sure to let her know.’
The security guard nodded his understanding, but said nothing. He was too busy staring wide-eyed at the car. It didn’t help that Harrison blipped the throttle a little more enthusiastically than was strictly necessary when she fired up the engine. McLean was too busy adjusting the passenger seat back so that there was room for his feet. He’d never noticed quite how short the detective constable was. Then with a click of the gear change paddles and a ‘How does this work? Oh’, they were off.
By the time they reached the entrance gate, slowing down to allow the barrier to rise, Harrison seemed to have got the measure of the car. Turning out on to the road that would take them to the motorway, she gave it a little gas, then backed off as the wheels chirped and spun against the tarmac.
‘Oh. Right. Yes. I can see what they mean.’ Her words were directed at the windscreen, eyes fixed on the road and the controls directly in front of her.
‘They?’ McLean asked. He wasn’t quite sure why he was enjoying her discomfort, but he was. It was counterproductive though. The whole reason for making her drive was so that he would have time to think, to process what he had heard and seen in the past hour.
‘Umm … Just the other constables, sir.’ Harrison didn’t turn to look at him, and for that he was grateful.
‘They used to say all sorts of stuff about your old car,’ she added. ‘Some of them used to call you Morse, but it never really stuck. Mostly they just couldn’t understand why you drove that and not some soulless old Mondeo or Astra that wouldn’t matter if it got broken. There was a sweepstake on what you’d get to replace it, the old GTV.’
‘There was?’ It didn’t surprise McLean that someone had organized one, but it did that he hadn’t heard. ‘Who won?’
‘They’re still arguing about it.’ Harrison indicated, clicked the downshift paddle behind the steering wheel and accelerated on to the motorway. ‘PC Harker had you down for a brand new Giulia, but he didn’t specify the model. Closest anyone else got was Sergeant Gatford. Reckoned you’d buy a secondhand Giulietta.’
‘What about you, then?’
Harrison risked a sideways glance. She was relaxing into driving the boss’s car now, swiftly coming to terms with the way it worked. She’d been through the Police Driver Training course, too, he could tell.
‘I thought you’d get the GTV fixed.’
‘Believe me, I was tempted. There’s not enough left to mend, though. Better if the parts that can be salvaged go to keep a few more on the roads. And you never know, I might just buy myself another one some day.’
Harrison opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. McLean could easily enough guess what she’d been going to say. Something about his wealth, the ability to afford things like the car they were driving in right now and to so casually suggest buying another that could cost him equally as much. She’d seen where he lived. Wouldn’t be the first officer to wonder why he bothered with the job when he was so obviously loaded. He sometimes wondered it himself.
‘What did you make of that meeting?’ he asked, as much to move the conversation on as anything.
‘Ms Ferris, or Bobby the Plook there?’
McLean smiled at the word. Scots could be so harsh sometimes. Accurate, but harsh.
‘Both, but let’s focus on Ferris first.’
‘She was well-rehearsed, I’ll give her that.’
‘Well-rehearsed?’
‘You know what I mean, sir? The folder with all the information in it? Young Bobby there with no clue as to what’s really going on?’
McLean settled into the passenger seat, enjoying the comfort of being driven for a change. ‘I thought I was cynical.’
‘Aye, but she was. If that’d been one of my employees drop down dead like that, I think I’d show a little more … I dunno, sadness? It’s almost as if she’d known he was dead long enough for it not to be such a shock any more.’
‘Maybe she’s not the emotional type. Maybe she’s got that many people working for her one dying is more of an inconvenience than anything else.’
‘Oh, she’s cold all right. But it’s more than that. You saw the men’s changing room, right? I counted fifteen lockers but only five of them were closed. How many workers did we see on site while wee Bobby was showing us around? How many folk in the main building.’
McLean nodded his understanding. It was pretty much what he’d thought the first time they had visited, backed up by their more recent experience. The site might have cost twenty-five million to build, but it certainly wasn’t employing all that many. Losing one of the team, especially one who’d been with the company a while, should have been more of a shock. He retrieved the slim brown personnel file Ms Ferris had given them, flicked it open. The top page was basic details, a photograph of James Barnton that looked more like a mugshot than a passport photo. Apparently he’d been thirty years old, educated to Higher level, but not exactly outstanding grades. He’d worked for Extech for six years, and before that for a company called Omega Security. His work record was good, no sick leave in the past four years. Company health check done two months ago, just as Ferris had said.
‘I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the post-mortem comes up with.’ He settled back into the comfortable passenger seat, relaxing as they sped back towards the city. ‘Knowing my luck this will all have been just an unfortunate coincidence.’
Concentrating on the road, DC Harrison said nothing. Even so McLean could tell she didn’t believe it any more than he did.
39
The major-incident room had a slow buzz to it, like a machine that’s been oiled well, but maybe not as recently as everyone thinks. McLean had worked enough investigations over the course of his career to recognize the signs of slowing, the loss of that initial surge of enthusiasm.
‘Still no luck on the last two?’ He glanced up at the whiteboard.
‘Aye, mebbe. Your young wifey whose hairbrush DC Harrison brought in and the older woman. Might have a potential for her, too. Alicia Dennis. Tourist from Am
erica travelling Europe alone. Family’s not heard from her in a week now. The US Consulate are sorting out a sample for DNA cross-referencing.’ DC Gregg held a clipboard like the responsible adult at a school outing. The image was compounded in McLean’s mind by the list of names printed in a column on the top page.
‘That all of them, then?’ he asked.
‘Aye, sir. All nineteen accounted for, if we’re right about the two women. God rest their souls.’ Gregg handed over the clipboard. ‘Plus the driver, Wilkins.’
‘Does his soul not get to rest? We don’t know if he was to blame yet.’
‘Figure of speech.’ Gregg frowned as if she had just been told off for something she hadn’t done. McLean ignored her, reading the list of names. They meant very little to him, but the column alongside, with funeral details, caught his eye.
‘This your idea?’ He pointed at the list.
‘DCI McIntyre said we should send a wreath, maybe even a couple of uniforms if we can spare them. Just to show we care.’
Ever the politician. McLean had to admit it was wise. They were getting enough criticism from the press for the accident as it was, even if there was nothing the police could have done to prevent it. They were the visible face of authority, though. Getting it in the neck came with the job.
‘It’s a good idea.’ He made to hand back the clipboard, then noticed the name of one of the churches. Scanning back to the name of the man being buried didn’t help, he had no idea who Philip Jacobs was, but he knew the church well enough. It was just across the road from his house after all.
‘Maybe I’ll represent Police Scotland at this one.’ He pointed it out to Gregg. ‘If he’s from my part of town, there’s bound to be someone there who’ll recognize me even without the uniform.’
‘You’ll need to hurry up then, sir. It’s on this afternoon.’
‘It is?’ McLean took back the list, peered at it more closely.
‘Next page,’ Gregg said, flipping the paper for him. He looked at the time, then at his watch. He could make it, if he hurried.
‘OK. You man the fort here. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. And if anyone asks, they can find me at the kirk.’
‘It was good of you to come, Tony. I know you and God don’t exactly see eye to eye.’
McLean caught the smile in the minister’s words and knew that she was teasing him. For all her belief, Mary Currie was the sort of person he had a lot of time for.
‘I’ve never really thought of funerals as being about God. More about letting the bereaved know life can still go on.’
‘An interesting point of view. Did you know Philip well?’
McLean glanced around the emptying church and the collection of sombre-dressed people who had come to see the dead man off. ‘Actually, I don’t think I ever met him, but a high-profile case like this, a tragic death. It’s sort of expected that someone from the police turn up. And this being my home parish …’ He shrugged.
‘You drew the short straw? Or you took one for the team?’ Crow’s feet crinkled around the minister’s eyes as she smiled at her own joke. It didn’t last, her face turning serious once more. ‘He was younger than you. Philip, that is. Such a waste. Maybe not the most regular of worshippers, but his family have had a plot here since the church was built. I think I’m right in saying the first one was the master mason who oversaw the building. There’s many a Jacob buried here, but I’ve a suspicion Philip will be the last.’
‘No children?’ McLean had noticed there were none at the funeral, but sometimes it was best to keep them away.
The minister shook her head sadly. ‘Let me introduce you to his wife.’
Before McLean could make his excuses and run, the minister had grabbed him by the arm and was dragging him through the thinning throng to where a slender young blonde-haired woman in a black dress and pillbox hat was talking to a somewhat more familiar figure. McLean had arrived late to the funeral, tucking into an empty pew at the back of the church where he thought he’d be able to see all the rest of the congregation. Somehow he’d managed to miss Madame Rose, though.
The transvestite medium spotted them both approaching, and her glance in their direction alerted the young woman. McLean had only seen her from the side, but when she turned to face them he was struck by how young she looked. But then sudden death was no great respecter of age. He knew that better than most.
‘Mary, that was such a lovely service. Thank you. Philip would have been very pleased.’ Her accent was soft, almost as anglicized as his own. A Scot who had spent as much time out of her native country as in it.
‘I would far rather not have had to conduct it at all, Lucy. But we do our best.’ The minister tilted her head slightly as she spoke, her every mannerism gentle and soothing. ‘Have you met Tony McLean? He lives in the big house over the road.’
The young woman looked up at him with a slightly startled expression, pausing a moment before holding out a black-gloved hand. ‘You’re the policeman, aren’t you?’
McLean copied Mary Currie’s head tilt as he took the offered hand gently in his own. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Will you catch them? The people who killed my Philip?’ She held his gaze with a steady stare it was hard to break from, still holding on to his hand.
‘We’re doing our –’
‘Not the police. You. Will you catch them?’ There was an intensity to the question that took McLean by surprise. He’d seen grief take many forms, but never quite such focused rage before.
‘I am in charge of the investigation,’ he said. ‘And I won’t give up until those responsible are brought to justice.’
The widow Lucy Jacob stared directly at him for what felt like years but was probably only a second or two longer than was proper. It was her husband they had just buried in the graveyard outside, though, so he was prepared to forgive the lapse.
‘I do believe you will. Thank you.’ She finally relinquished his hand, and before the moment could become any more awkward, Madame Rose stepped in, the unlikely hero.
‘Lucy, it was lovely talking to you again, but might I possibly steal away the detective inspector? I really wanted to have a word.’
The sun shone high in a cloudless sky as they stepped out into the graveyard. The church itself had been cool, a pleasant haven from the oppressive summer heat, but even in the shadows McLean felt the sweat start to prick on his back.
‘Surprised to see you here, Rose. Did you know the Jacobs well?’
‘Better, I think, than you did, Tony.’ The medium produced an elegant lacquer compact from the depths of her patent-leather handbag and dabbed at her face with a little foundation to hide her own perspiration. ‘Philip did my accounts. A very well-mannered gentleman. And his wife, Lucy, is an absolute poppet. I feel devastated for her.’
‘She seems, I don’t know, very young.’
Madame Rose chuckled. ‘Don’t let Emma hear you talking like that.’
McLean ignored her. ‘She was very earnest, too, insisting I personally catch those responsible. It sounded like the sort of thing you’d say, now I think about it.’
‘A compliment?’
‘Perhaps. Now’s not the time and place to tell her, but we’ve some promising leads. And I meant it when I said I’d not give up until those responsible were brought to justice.’
‘Oh, I know, Tony. You’re quite the wee terrier when you get hold of something like that. It’s an admirable trait in a detective, although I imagine it drives your superiors to distraction.’
‘You’ve been speaking to my boss now?’
‘Jayne and I go way back, but I speak to everyone, Tony. You should know that. Even the dead.’
A chill ran down McLean’s spine at Madame Rose’s words. They were spoken with such a deadpan, serious voice he knew that she wasn’t joking.
‘And what do they say?’ He had not meant it to sound flippant, but he winced as he spoke all the same.
‘They are disturbed. Their deaths were sudden, unexpected, violent. Very few are at rest now, not even Philip here.’ Madame Rose gestured across the headstones to where two council workmen were shovelling earth on top of the coffin. No room here for a mini-digger. McLean didn’t envy them their task in this heat. ‘They want to be named.’
‘But we have named them. We’ve identified almost all of them. Possibly have names for the last two.’
Madame Rose placed a massive hand on McLean’s arm. ‘Are you sure of that? The spirits tell me something else. Anger walks the streets, vengeance on its mind. It comes from the same place as all these poor souls, but it has no name.’
McLean had taken a step back as Madame Rose moved in close, her voice filled with stage show menace. Now something hard stopped him, and looking round he saw a headstone, darkened by centuries of soot and Edinburgh winters. He knew that the old medium believed everything that she said, and in that moment he almost did, too.
‘The dead cannot rest easy unknown, Tony. You must find the soul that is still out there. Find it before it finds you.’
40
‘This is getting to be something of a habit, Tony.’
Late afternoon and McLean found himself once more in the air-conditioned cool of the examination theatre at the city mortuary. Laid out on the stainless-steel slab, the late James Barnton was ready to reveal his final secrets. The stiffness in his arms and fingers had eased a little now, but his face was still a mask of horror.
‘Should he not have, you know, relaxed a bit by now? Don’t muscles usually slacken off after a while?’
‘Indeed they do.’ Cadwallader bent to his task, working his way slowly around the body, examining it in minute detail. ‘Rigor mortis can sometimes leave more permanent effects though, and if he died of a seizure, as I suspect is the case, then that would account for his grimace.’
‘What about the other thing. You know? How we think he might have died elsewhere and been moved to the graveyard.’