by James Oswald
And then finally the truck stalled.
The sound echoed for a while, amplified by the tunnel before dying down to a soft sigh of wind. The roller door creaked ominously, still hanging in its guide runners, but bent and twisted out of shape. Light spilled in around it, illuminating row upon row of rusty metal barrels, piled to the stone arched roof above them. McLean could see drips oozing from most of them, streaks of decay running down the bubbling paint, puddling on the hard packed soil of the floor. The overpowering stench made it almost impossible to breathe in here. He could feel the squat headache bunching at the top of his spine, ready to grab his brain and squeeze it until his eyeballs popped out. Beside him, Harrison swayed, put a hand out to steady herself on one of the barrels.
‘Don’t.’ He grabbed her, almost falling over as her legs buckled and she slumped into his arms. She was lighter than he had been expecting, but still weighty enough.
‘Come on, Janie. Get yourself together.’ He heaved one of her arms over his shoulder and around his neck, struggling back the way they had come. It was worse now, more difficult to manoeuvre the two of them, and he could see better the seeping effluent that neither of them really wanted to touch. It was a miracle they’d not been burned already, but he was fairly sure he’d just condemned yet another suit to the trash.
It took all his effort to carry DC Harrison outside and away from the mess of the truck. Air had never tasted sweeter, and he took deep lungfuls of it after propping her up against the side of the cutting. She stirred woozily, like a Saturday night reveller once the ambulance has arrived.
‘Take it easy. We’re out of there now. Safe.’
Harrison either nodded her understanding or was having difficulty controlling her neck muscles. Either way, McLean left her to recover and returned, reluctantly, to the truck. With it half wedged into the steel shutter, there was no way he was going to be able to open the driver’s door, but he could clamber in through the back. The airbag had gone off, and now its deflated white balloon splayed across Gregor Wishaw’s face, as he slumped over the steering wheel. McLean reached forward, felt a pulse behind the man’s ear. Alive. Good. He had a lot of questions to answer.
Stumbling slightly as he climbed back out of the pickup truck, McLean caught movement in the corner of his eye, turned to see a car approaching slowly along the disused track. For a moment he thought it was someone else come to run them down, then the familiar blue lights on the roof began to flash, the car stopped and a uniform officer climbed out of the passenger side. He wandered up slowly, staring at the tunnel mouth, the twisted metal door, the crashed pickup and then at DC Harrison, still slumped against the steep rock side of the cutting. Finally he stopped, not more than a yard away, spoke in the slow, measured drawl of an East Lothian native.
‘Detective Inspector McLean, I presume.’
48
‘You have a rare talent for upsetting people, you know that?’
Once again he found himself standing in Chief Superintendent Forrester’s office, wishing he was anywhere else. A cup of tea would have been nice, even a chance to get changed. Or a chair, he wasn’t fussy. His suit didn’t smell as bad as the last time, but McLean was still reminded of the stench of the tunnel every time he moved. Some of the chemical waste had got on to one of the arms, and now the fabric was fraying around a large hole. The shirt underneath was probably going to have to be thrown away, too.
‘I would say it comes with practice, sir, but that might be taken the wrong way.’
Forrester rubbed at his face with tired hands. He’d aged a year in the past week, his hair showing far more grey now than McLean remembered.
‘It’s good work. There’s no denying that. If what we suspect is true, then you’ve uncovered an organized network for disposing of highly hazardous waste illegally and very dangerously, but I’ve just had a call from the chief constable, who’s just had it in the ear from one of the country’s leading pain-in-the-arse politicians berating him for the cost of the clean-up operation.’
Forrester smiled wearily at that, and McLean relaxed a little.
‘They do so like to shoot the messenger, sir. I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s not your fault. Not mine or the CC’s either, dammit. Doesn’t stop everyone moaning about it, though. So how’s this going to play out, then?’
With me going home to a shower, a dram and my bed? McLean tried not to let his shoulders slump too obviously. ‘I asked DCI McIntyre to get a warrant to search Extech Energy, sir. Reckon that’s where the stuff is collected first, before being shipped out under the disguise of inert digestate. Still not sure where they’re getting it from, but the number of trucks going back and forth from that place makes it an ideal distribution hub. All those big stainless-steel tanks, too. Could be storing stuff until there’s enough to make it worth a trip.’
‘Extech?’ Forrester’s brow wrinkled as he struggled to remember something. ‘You had one of the constables looking into their financials, didn’t you?’
‘Until you told him to stop, yes.’ McLean kept the accusation out of his voice, but only just.
‘Oh, that lot. Aye.’ Forrester rubbed at his face again, his unease evident in every motion. ‘I probably shouldn’t have interfered, and the senior officer who called me about it probably shouldn’t have either. I’m afraid we’ve all of us got buttons that can be pressed.’
‘If it’s any consolation, sir. I don’t think this will come back to haunt you. Could even be a feather in your cap. If my theories as to what’s going on are correct.’
‘You really think so?’ Forrester’s glum demeanour brightened a little, then fell again. ‘It’s no matter. I’ll not be here for much longer. It’s a week now since Eric went missing, and you and I both know the can of worms that’s opened. My own fault. I should have known it would come back to haunt me.’
‘So the warrant?’ McLean tried to steer the meeting back on topic. ‘Do you think there’ll be any trouble getting it?’
‘Given what you’ve just uncovered out in the wilds? I wouldn’t have thought so. You’ll be wanting to go in at first light tomorrow, I suppose?’
‘Aye. Better in daylight, and it gives us time to put a decent team together. We can get Health and Safety on board, too.’ As he said it, so McLean could see that shower, that dram and his bed receding ever further into the distance. He’d already called Emma to let her know he was running late, but it would be nice to see her awake so he could thank her for the work she and Parsons had done on the satnav.
‘And Eric?’ The chief superintendent finally came to the point.
‘Duguid’s helping Grumpy Bob follow up on all Pothead Sammy’s known associates, where they hang out, that sort of thing. If he’s holed up somewhere, we’ll find him. Going to put a lot of noses out of joint at the drugs squad, but omelettes and eggs, eh?’
Forrester’s expression was one of bewilderment for a while, then understanding dawned. ‘Well, like I said, it’s not like I’m going to be around for much longer. And I don’t think Charles ever cared much what anyone thought of him. Bob will have to tread carefully, though.’
‘He’s a master of deflecting blame. You’ve no need to worry about him.’ McLean paused a moment, unsure whether the audience was over.
‘We’ll find him, sir,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’
‘I wish I had your optimism, Tony. I really do.’ Forrester went back to rubbing at his ashen face, eyes focused on the past. Then he stopped and sat back up straight, reaching for the phone on his desk. ‘Go home, aye? You’re all done in and you smell like shit. I’ll have Jayne sort the team out for tomorrow morning. Sure she’ll jump at the chance to get out of the office for once.’
McLean opened his mouth to argue, then realized that he was being told to do exactly the thing he wanted to do.
‘Aye, sir. Thank you.’ He left as swiftly as decorum would allow, not wanting the chief superintendent to change his mind.
Forrester might have ordered him to go home, but there were still a few things McLean had to do before he could leave. It was long past knocking-off time for the day shift, so the major-incident room was quiet when he stepped in through the door. The helplines had more or less gone quiet now, just a few crazies phoning about loved ones who had been missing for years and how they were certain they must have perished in the terrible accident.
There was only one body left to identify anyway. Not-Pothead Sammy. Misfiled on the database, but there nonetheless. McLean was relieved that the swab he’d taken from Forrester and given to Cadwallader had proved it wasn’t Eric, but that still meant it could be anyone else. Whoever’s body it was lying in cold storage at the city mortuary, they had come into contact with the forces of law and order before, otherwise their DNA wouldn’t have been on the database, mislabelled or not. It was a small clue, but it was something they could work with.
‘Any news on DC Harrison?’ McLean asked of the duty sergeant manning the main desk in the centre of the incident room. She looked up at him with a start.
‘Oh, sorry, sir. Thought you’d gone home. Yes. Had a call about half an hour ago. She’s fine, just breathed in too many fumes. Sure she’s done worse on a Saturday night oot wi’ the girls, aye?’
McLean didn’t feel qualified to make a comment. ‘She having tomorrow off then?’
‘Doubt it. Not if there’s going to be a big raid. Heard the DCI was after a warrant for that place out Livingston way. I reckon half the station would like to be in on that one.’
‘Well, tell them all to keep a lid on it, OK? Last thing we need is them finding out we’re coming.’
‘Aye, I’ll do that, sir. There’s a fair buzz about it, but this lot know better than to go mouthing off outside of work.’
McLean didn’t hold great hopes. They’d carted Gregor Wishaw off to hospital under police guard and a squad car was keeping an eye on the tunnel to make sure no one found out that the secret had been uncovered. But, even so, it was a week since the truck crash and he’d visited Extech twice. If they hadn’t already started dismantling whatever illicit operations were going on, then quite frankly they deserved to be caught. Just as long as they hadn’t finished. Raiding a site that had been opened by the Environment Minister and touted as the great white hope of the modern Scottish economy was hardly going to go down well if it turned out there was nothing in those big tanks but shit.
He left the incident room in search of DCI McIntyre, even though he knew the first thing she would do would be to tell him to go home. Halfway to the canteen, he met ex-Detective Superintendent Duguid hauling his wiry frame up the stairs towards him.
‘Didn’t think you’d have gone home yet.’ Duguid’s greeting wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.
‘On my way. I’m surprised you’re still here.’
‘Waiting on a call from an old friend.’ The way Duguid pronounced ‘friend’ made it abundantly clear whoever he was referring to wouldn’t be getting an invitation to the golf club any time soon.
‘Any joy?’ McLean asked.
‘Yes, as it happens. Which is why I was looking for you. Your drug dealer, Saunders. I had a wee chat with him earlier. Almost a complete waste of time.’
‘Almost?’ McLean hoped that Grumpy Bob had been present at the interview. Until the cold-case unit was back up and running, Duguid’s clearance for things like interviewing suspects wasn’t exactly on firm ground.
‘He’s a shifty wee bugger, so he is. But he let slip a wee nugget about a squat in the West End. Reckon if your boy Eric’s anywhere, then it’ll be there.’
‘You got an address?’
‘That’s why I was waiting for the phone call.’ Duguid held up a slip of paper torn from a notepad. ‘How’s that fancy new car of yours working out?’
49
McLean glanced at the glowing screen on the dashboard of his new Alfa as he drove through darkening streets towards the West End. Somewhere in the maze of menus was a hands-free option for his mobile phone, but he had no more idea how to make it work than half the other functions in this overly complicated car. Perhaps it was a failing, but he’d always been one to learn just enough about a new piece of equipment to get it to do what he wanted. Until now, that hadn’t included making hands-free calls, but a little voice in the back of his head was telling him that phoning Emma to let her know what he was up to might be a good idea.
He could have asked his passenger to make the call for him. Glowering in the passenger seat as he stared out at the slow-moving traffic, ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid would probably have just growled at him. McLean wasn’t sure he wanted Duguid to listen in on any conversation he might have with Emma anyway, so he left the call unmade. He’d find a way to apologize; he always did.
‘You’d be quicker cutting up Broughton Street and then into the Colonies.’ Duguid pointed to a turning a hundred feet up the road. Traffic was always bad in the city centre, and the ongoing demolition of the St James Centre didn’t help. Neither did the trams or the ever-changing one-way systems. It was almost as if the council didn’t want cars in their city, despite the millions in parking fees they brought in every year.
‘Six of one,’ he said as he indicated, then waited for the crowd of pedestrians to get out of the road. Edinburgh’s population pretty much doubled in the summer, and sometimes it felt like all of those people were getting deliberately in his way.
‘At least we’re moving.’ Duguid settled into his seat as they accelerated over cobbles, the suspension coping with the uneven surface far better than McLean’s old car ever had.
The address the ex-detective superintendent had been given was a terraced town house overlooking Dean Gardens and the Water of Leith. Edinburgh’s rise as an international banking hub had brought wealth to many locals, but it had also seen properties snapped up by offshore companies and other shady financial concerns more interested in sinking cash into stone and slate than actually living in the Athens of the North. From the outside it was often impossible to tell which of the grand old Georgian buildings were inhabited, which were offices still, and which were just empty shells waiting to be used in the next round of money laundering. Somehow the city’s underclass knew, and squatters popped up with the frequency of molehills after a rainstorm.
‘Fifty-three, fifty-five, fifty-seven. Ah yes. Here we are.’ Duguid counted off the numbers as they drove slowly down the street. Lights shone from less than a third of the windows, some of the houses completely dark, but number fifty-nine shone bright into the evening gloom. McLean pulled the car into a resident’s parking space and killed the engine.
‘How do you want to do this?’ he asked, but Duguid already had his seatbelt off and the passenger door open, and was climbing out. McLean followed as quickly as he could, plipping the remote lock as he half ran across the road to catch up. The ex-detective superintendent pulled on a pair of thin leather driving gloves as he trotted up the stone steps to the front door, pausing only to make sure McLean was still with him before turning the handle and pushing it open.
That the door was unlocked was confirmation they were in the right place, but the sweet smell of cannabis smoke and the haze in the air of the large hallway beyond was another clue. McLean had always thought of squatters as scruffy ne’er-do-wells, who left the houses they occupied in such a state they often had to be gutted before they could be used again. Not so the people in this place. A pile of coats had been dumped on a wide Chesterfield sofa in the hallway, but other than that it looked fairly tidy.
A well-furnished room on the left lay empty, the only sign of occupation a couple of sleeping bags draped over armchairs near a large fireplace. Back across the hall, the other front room had been converted into some kind of dormitory, the chairs moved to the walls and a series of mattresses laid out on the floor.
‘Where is everyone?’ McLean crouched down to inspect one of yet more sleeping bags. The house wa
s deathly quiet, even the distant roar of the city outside muted by heavy secondary glazing to the tall sash windows.
‘Upstairs? Kitchen? Who knows?’ Duguid set off across the hall once more, towards the back of the house this time. The haze of smoke and smell of weed intensified as they entered a large kitchen, and it was here that they found the first signs of life.
‘Who’re you?’ A young woman in a skimpy T-shirt and tie-dyed skirt stood at the sink, washing up a pile of bowls. Her arms were like sticks, skin so pale it was almost white. She looked them up and down with a slightly unfocused gaze, not quite in the same room as them.
‘Just passing through,’ McLean said. ‘Looking for a friend’s son. Eric Forrester. Sometimes known as Raz. You seen him?’
The young woman’s eyes widened, pupils big black circles. ‘Raz? Aye. Think I saw him here a couple days ago.’
‘He still here?’
‘Search me.’ The young woman pulled her hands out of the soapy water and held them out as if inviting the attention. ‘Don’t know where everyone’s gone. Place is kinda quiet right now.’
‘I guess we carry on looking, then.’ McLean left the kitchen, Duguid lingering behind, strangely fascinated by the stoned young woman. Unless the heavy smoke in the house was getting to him, of course. McLean’s head still ached with the chemical stench of the tunnel.
The higher up the house he went, the more like the kind of squat he was expecting it became. The lack of people was still peculiar, but the damage to the rooms was more extensive. Bathrooms in particular didn’t seem to fare well when a bunch of self-declared anarchists used them. It was a shame to see such a fine house trashed, but he couldn’t help thinking that it would be equally a shame for it to sit empty, mouldering away as just one more asset on some oligarch’s spreadsheet.