by James Oswald
‘Seriously though, the company has offices on Queen Street. They use the top of the multi-storey for parking. There’s a few other companies use that level too, but it tends to be empty at the weekend.’
‘Do we know where he’d been?’ McLean asked.
‘Not yet, sir. I’m trying to arrange a meeting with his boss this afternoon. Should be able to put together his last known movements after I’ve talked to his colleagues.’
‘What about the post-mortem? When’s that scheduled?’ McLean glanced up at the clock above the door. Lunchtime, and breakfast had been a long, long time ago. What were the chances of making it in and out of the canteen without being spotted by either Brooks or Spence? Not good, given the detective superintendent’s fondness for pies.
‘They’re going to try and get it done this afternoon. I’m guessing it’ll be later, though. We’re still not sure whether there’s foul play here or it’s all just an unfortunate accident.’ MacBride flipped the lid on his tablet computer closed. Briefing over.
‘OK. You speak to Parker’s boss, find out what he was up to, who he was. The usual stuff. I’ll check in with Angus about the PM later. If it turns out he just had a heart attack then at least we’ve covered the bases.’
McLean hoped that it was as simple as that. A lonely man finding some executive relief in an empty car park. He also knew that he was kidding himself if he thought it would be an easy case. McIntyre wouldn’t have called him in if she’d thought it was, and there were other problems with the scene. For all that the police and forensics experts had joked about the man pleasuring himself to death, there was very little evidence to suggest that was what he’d been doing. No, this one was going to be complicated.
‘One other thing, Stuart.’ He caught the detective sergeant just before he left the room.
‘Sir?’
‘CCTV footage. Have we got the tapes?’ Not that it was tapes any more. Everything was in the cloud these days.
‘Wasn’t sure it would be necessary, sir. Don’t want to waste resources watching hours of cars going up and down the ramp.’
McLean raised an eyebrow at that. Time was MacBride wouldn’t have given a thought for the cost. Investigate first, worry about the budget later. How a little bit of authority could change a person.
‘Get on to the car park people anyway, aye? We probably won’t have to watch any of it, but I’d rather they didn’t record over anything that might be important.’
McLean was halfway to the back door when a familiar voice called out from an open doorway.
‘You back, sir? Didn’t think Vice would keep you long.’
Stepping backwards, he ducked into the room as the familiar form of Detective Sergeant Laird unfolded himself from a chair. A case file lay open on the desk in front of him, pages splayed as if he had been working through it meticulously. The newspaper on the floor and the warm aroma of coffee gave the lie to the carefully constructed ruse.
‘Just helping Jayne out. If anyone asks, I’m not here. Plenty to be getting on with over at HQ.’
‘Ah yes, the priapic salesman. I heard.’
‘Course you did, Bob. There’s nothing gets past you. What’s that you’re pretending to work on?’ McLean pointed at the open folder.
‘Pretending?’ Grumpy Bob feigned a hurt expression. ‘Actually it’s a cold case. Got a whole stack of them to go through, see if I can prioritise them.’
‘Jesus, who’d you piss off? And prioritise them for what?’
‘The why’s because someone in head office thinks it’s a good idea to reopen the Cold Case Unit. Reckon Dagwood will be running it once he’s got bored of going to the golf course every day. As to the who …’ Grumpy Bob looked up at the doorway. McLean turned to see DCI Spence standing just outside.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, McLean?’
‘Afternoon, Mike. How’s life on the top floor treating you?’
‘You do know you’re supposed to address a senior officer as “sir”?’
‘And yet with some people I just can’t bring myself to do so. Something to do with it being a sign of respect, I think.’
Spence held McLean’s gaze for a moment before backing down, turning his attention on Grumpy Bob.
‘You done with those files yet, Sergeant?’
‘Pretty much, sir. Just going through this last one. Headland House. Don’t know if you remember it? Might’ve been before your time.’
‘I don’t really care. Just tell me whether you think it’s worth reopening. The DCC’s going to be in later this afternoon and I promised him this lot would be sorted by then.’
‘I’ll have it finished in half an hour, sir. Don’t you worry.’ Grumpy Bob picked up the folder, shuffling the pages back together and giving McLean a none-too-subtle wink.
‘You still here, McLean?’ Spence turned on the heel of his well-polished shoe, quite deliberately knocking shoulders as he headed for the door. McLean resisted the urge to mutter ‘arsehole’ under his breath as the detective chief inspector marched out of the room. It would only end in tears and tantrums.
‘Headland House?’ he asked when he was sure Spence was gone. ‘That was the upmarket knocking shop that got raided in the early nineties, right?’
Grumpy Bob held up the folder. ‘The same. You know it?’
‘One of my first ops. I was still in uniform then. Thought the case was closed.’
‘Oh, the raid was. But that was only ever half of the story. There was that wee lass who was found there. Never got to the bottom of who’d taken her there. Reading through this, it looks like no one really tried.’
McLean was about to say something, a memory long forgotten coming to the surface, but the shrill electronic bell of his mobile distracted him. Peering at the screen showed that DCI Dexter was trying to get a hold of him. Fair enough; there was still the less than successful brothel raid that needed explaining to the powers that be, and they could only put it off for so long.
‘Do us a favour, Bob. Get me a copy of that file, could you? Only don’t tell anyone I asked for it, OK?’
‘No problem. I’ll get Sandy Gregg to bring it over. She’s shuttling back and forth between CID and Vice almost as much as you.’ Grumpy Bob closed up the folder. ‘Any particular reason why you’re interested in it?’
McLean paused before answering. Partly it was just his natural curiosity getting the better of him, but he couldn’t deny the similarities between Headland House and the New Town terrace they had just recently raided. Except that for all the excesses he’d witnessed that night, there had been no children involved. And there had been no doubt Headland House was being used as a brothel.
‘Nostalgia, maybe?’ He shook his head, knowing it was a lie. ‘And that wee girl you mentioned? I was the one who found her. Christ, I’ve not thought about it in years. Always wondered what had happened to her.’
13
He hasn’t seen this many uniforms since Police College, out at Tulliallan. Not that it’s been all that long since he graduated. His first raid, and from the look of things it’s been a jackpot.
Headland House sits, as its name implies, on a headland in Newhaven, overlooking the Forth. Time was this would have been a good neighbourhood, a couple of miles from the urban sprawl of the New Town. The sort of place wealthy financiers and merchants used to live once. It’s not quite so fancy now, the houses faded and sorry-looking. Even Headland House itself is ramshackle. Hardly the sort of place you’d expect to find a high-class brothel.
From what he can gather, it all started with a tip-off. That’s how these things usually go. Someone at the briefing said something abo
ut surveillance, what they could expect to find, but he’d not really been listening by then. Too nervous. Too excited. Probably for the best he’s been left outside to keep gawkers at bay. Not that there are many at this time of night.
He watches as they take the johns out, recognising a couple of faces who won’t find this easy to live down. Some go arguing, some hang their heads. One or two look around as if expecting paparazzi, but the press are mercifully distant. After the men, it’s the turn of the prostitutes. He can’t help noticing how young they look, and it’s not as if he’s all that old himself. Some of these girls are barely old enough to be out of school.
‘You there. McLean, isn’t it?’
He looks up to see the old sergeant, Guthrie McManus, wandering in his direction.
‘Sir.’
‘Christ, but this is going to leave a lot of people with very red faces.’
‘It is?’
‘Too fucking right it is. You see anyone you know in that lot?’ The sergeant waved in the direction of the van being used to transfer a dozen embarrassed men back to the station.
‘One or two. I think my local MP was one. Won’t be getting my vote come the election. Not that he got it the last time, mind you.’
‘That’ll be your MP who plays golf with the Chief Constable once a week. And there’s judges, lawyers, a couple of bankers. Thank fuck the press didn’t get wind of this. Don’t know how long we can keep a lid on it, mind.’
He’s not entirely sure why they should, but he’s not so green as to even think of saying it. Instead he looks up at the house, rising into the dawn-pinked sky. Lights are on in most of the windows, the occasional glimpse of policemen in silhouette as they collect evidence. He’s not sure what they’re going to need it for; they were caught with their trousers down, after all.
‘What’s that?’ Movement in an upper window, still dark. He strains to see.
‘Eh? What’re you on about?’ Sergeant McManus stamps his feet against the chill.
‘Up there, sir. Could have sworn I saw someone in the top window.’
‘Well, you’ve better eyes than me, laddie. Still, best go tell his nibs about it. Might be we’ve missed one.’
The house is full of plain clothes and uniform police. Most are milling around a large entrance hall like the one at his gran’s house; a few clustered around the bottom of the stairs. One of them, tall, thin, ginger-haired, plain clothes, sees him and beckons him over.
‘Aren’t you meant to be outside keeping the scene secure?’
‘Sorry, sir. Thought I saw something, someone, moving around up in the attic. Only there’s no lights on up there. Sergeant McManus told me to come tell you about it.’
‘Guthrie sent you in? Ah well. Get upstairs and have a look then. Just don’t move anything around without asking first.’
He scurries away before the detective sergeant can shout at him. Duguid has a reputation, he’s heard. Going to be a DI soon, and then who knows?
The house is on three floors, rooms getting progressively smaller the higher he goes. Police are everywhere, looking under beds, opening closets, tapping floorboards as if there might be hidden lairs below. If he’d not been told otherwise, he’d have taken it for a run-down old hotel, and that’s probably how it appears on the accounts. Renting out rooms by the hour to the city’s wealthy elite; just no mention of the additional services included in the price.
No one seems to be paying attention to the narrow door off the top landing. Perhaps not many police officers grew up in big houses like this one, but he did, and he knows where the servants’ quarters would have been back in the days when people still had servants. The staircase leads up into the attic, and he climbs it slowly, listening for any noise above the racket of the officers below, sniffing the air with its curious sweet scent. The walls up here are plain, a corridor running the length of the roof, with windows at either end and doorways opening on to what he knows will be tiny rooms tucked into the eaves.
The first has a pair of narrow beds that look recently slept in, a tiny wooden chest of drawers between them and nothing else. The sweet smell is stronger here, rich like flowers and honey. He sniffs, trying to place it, but it fades quickly and is gone.
The next room is even more sparsely furnished; just a single painted chair. The third room is a little bigger than the previous two, and has a metal grate built across it, making a cage of the far side. Against one wall a heap of mouldy blankets look like they’ve been chewed by whatever dog lived in this place long ago. The same dog that drank from the chipped tin bowl of water on the floor. Except that the bowl’s full of pale yellow liquid, the stench quite different from the sweet smell in the first room.
And then his eyes adjust to the pale light seeping in through the grimy window. There is a cupboard built into the eaves, doors opening on to a space too small for anything except boxes.
Or a little girl.
14
McLean weaved his car through the early morning traffic, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. He hadn’t slept well, despite being dead on his feet from far too many late nights. Rachel wasn’t a bad house guest, as these things went, but he always felt slightly ill at ease when there was someone else about. He’d lived alone too long; it was a strain having constantly to think about what he was doing. The lack of contact from Phil was troubling, too. It wasn’t like his old friend.
At least the car was working well, even if he felt a pang of guilt every time he took it out. The Alfa was more than forty years old. It should have been a weekend plaything, polished and cherished and taken to shows, not a daily driver in a busy city. And yet there was never time to look for something more sensible. Perhaps he could ask Ritchie to sort something out; she liked cars. But then that would have been a gross misuse of police resources. And it wasn’t as if he had time for playthings anyway; wouldn’t have known what to do with a free weekend.
The latest in a long line of red lights turned green and he dropped the clutch, getting an enthusiastic chirp from the tyres as they struggled to grip the tarmac. It would be hard to find something modern that was anything like as much fun to drive, it was true. Then again, most of the time he was just shuttling between home, his station and HQ anyway. An awkward slow triangle that was surely not doing the finely tuned Italian engineering any good at all.
The roads cleared a bit as he approached the outskirts to the west of the city, running in the opposite direction to the bulk of the rush hour traffic. McLean took the back roads, crossing the bypass which looked like a long, narrow car park, and headed for a small compound just past the airport. The forensic services had their large labs there, and it was where Eric Parker’s car had been taken for analysis after the priapic salesman’s body had been removed to the city mortuary. He could probably have waited for the report; it wasn’t as if the car was likely to yield much evidence. But the thought of going back to his office – either of his offices – made the weariness even worse. Better to be doing things, and killing time until the post-mortem. And if he was being completely honest with himself, avoiding the miasma of despondency that had settled over the SCU in the wake of the botched raid.
‘I can’t believe you’re using her for work.’
Amanda Parsons must have been passing by as he arrived. Either that or she spent her days staring out of a window that looked on to the car park; there was no other way she could have known he was coming. As McLean locked the door, she had already trotted down the steps and was running a hand over the car’s wing.
‘And a good morning to you too,’ he said, smiling. The forensic scientist glared at him.
‘I’m not joking, Tony. This car
should be for special occasions, not Edinburgh rush hour. Get yourself a cheap runabout for that.’
McLean just nodded his head once in agreement. Her words mirrored his own thoughts on the matter, after all.
‘When I get some free time, I’ll do that,’ he said. ‘Meantime, I was hoping you might have had a chance to look at the repmobile you brought in.’
Parsons gave the Alfa a last, loving pat on the bonnet. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. Why don’t you come around to the garage and take a wee look.’
She set off across the compound towards a modern building with half a dozen roller doors in the front. Most were closed against the chill autumn breeze whistling in off the Forth, but one was open high enough to walk inside. The salesman’s car was up on a lift and McLean waited while it was slowly brought back down to earth, keeping his distance as he had learned was best to do when dealing with forensic scientists.
‘You could do worse than getting yourself one of these,’ Parsons said as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves, handing another set to McLean.
‘Peugeot estate? Isn’t that, I don’t know, a little staid?’
‘Maybe, aye. It’s anonymous, though. Great for stake-outs.’
McLean didn’t have the heart to tell her how long it had been since last he’d sat in a car on a stake-out. Mostly they used pool cars for that sort of thing, and constables.
‘It’s probably a bit big. I’d be better off with a Mini or something.’
Parsons sniffed, as if she didn’t think much of that suggestion.
‘What about forensics?’ He tried to drag the conversation back to the actual reason he was out here. ‘Has this car yielded any useful secrets?’
‘That depends on what you consider useful.’ Parsons opened the driver’s door, then fetched an inspection lamp from a nearby workbench, picking up a couple of pairs of yellow-lensed safety spectacles at the same time. McLean slid his pair on as she directed the UV lamp at the footwell.