by James Oswald
‘In the eyes of the law we hadn’t done anything wrong, it’s true. I guess some of my guests were married and so technically being unfaithful, but that’s hardly a crime these days. And besides, most of their other halves were either watching or participating with someone else. That’s kind of how it works.’
‘You don’t sound so happy about it.’ McLean wondered how much he owed this woman. She’d bought him a coffee, so he’d talk to her for that long. Then again, he’d invaded the privacy of her home on what had turned out to be false information, so he probably owed her a bit more sympathy than that. And of course he couldn’t help feeling there was something more to the botched raid, some deeper story, more sinister. At least she’d come to him, and if the shit hit the fan he had the phone records to prove it.
‘Like I said. Wake-up call. First the raid, then you coming to the office. It made me realise I’ve been coasting, relying on others too much. It’s time to stop that.’
‘At the risk of seeming rude, what has it got to do with me?’
‘I’m a lawyer, Inspector. OK, I may be a corporate lawyer, but I know criminal law as well as anyone. You’re being made to clear up this mess, make the embarrassment go away. My boss to your boss to you. Am I right?’
‘I probably shouldn’t be discussing it with anyone outside the SCU, but that’s pretty much how it goes, yes.’
‘It must be horrible, dealing with brutality day in and day out.’
‘It certainly gives you a unique perspective on people. Let’s put it that way.’
Marchmont shook her head, just the slightest of movements as if she were trying to dislodge an image from her mind. ‘People can be … cruel. And selfish when it comes to satisfying their desires. I thought the scene I was in … The people … They were better than that. It was about sharing, consent, fun. I’m not so sure now.’
‘I’ve always thought that as long as no one gets hurt—’ McLean was interrupted by Marchmont’s phone rattling silently on the table between them. A number flashed up, an Edinburgh code but he couldn’t quite read it upside down. She looked around the cafe nervously, stared out the window at the cars parked across the road. Then, before he could say anything, she had snatched up the phone, rejected the call, blanking the screen from view.
‘I have to go. The office.’ She waved the unanswered phone once, then dropped it into the bag on the floor beside her. McLean stood up as she grabbed her coat from the back of her chair, threw it over her arm.
‘Well, I guess I ought to be at work too. Thank you, though. For the coffee.’ It seemed a rather trite thing to say, given that his drink had not yet arrived. Marchmont didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘You’re welcome, Inspector. We must do this again some time. I’ll call you, if you don’t mind?’
There was a question in her voice, but Marchmont didn’t wait for an answer. With another quick look around the cafe, she marched out just as a bemused waitress appeared from the serving counter.
‘Your coffee, sir?’
A half-hour later, and after a fruitless search for spaces in the station car park, McLean left his Alfa slotted carefully between two crowd control Transits, hoping they weren’t due anywhere for an hour or so. Most of the riot squad drivers were well trained and conscientious enough, but the vans were so heavily armoured it was almost impossible to know where the edges were. He’d seen one knock over a lamp post once, taking a corner just too tightly. What one might do to his fragile little car didn’t really bear thinking about.
The route from the back door up to the CID room was mercifully clear of senior detectives, and the room itself was remarkably devoid of life too. He located DS MacBride’s desk and was in the process of writing a note on a Post-it when he saw the whiteboard. Close by the detective sergeant’s desk, it had been commandeered for the Eric Parker case; the one McLean was supposed to be lead investigator on. He’d let it slip, too distracted by other things, but MacBride had been busy. There were half a dozen names under Parker’s, some scored through, a couple with question marks by them. DNA was underlined twice and circled in red. Another line of enquiry suggested Mike Simpson in the forensic IT department had Parker’s phone and was working on it. Good to see things were moving on without him.
‘Wasn’t expecting to see you here, sir.’
McLean spun round, sending a twinge through his hip as his foot caught on the stained carpet tile. DS MacBride stood just inside the doorway as a line of detectives filed in behind him. He recognised a few of them, some even smiled or nodded a greeting, and then a less friendly figure pushed his way in.
‘What are you doing dawdling in the doorway, MacBride? Oh. It’s you.’ Detective Inspector Carter held McLean’s old position of junior DI in the station, having somehow managed to wangle a promotion when Brooks and Spence each took a step up the ladder. McLean had never thought much of him as a detective constable, let alone sergeant, and by all accounts his move to inspector had not been an unconditional success.
‘Morning, Carter. Keeping busy?’
Carter just stared at him for a moment, then lumbered off to shout at some of the constables. McLean gave MacBride what he hoped was a sympathetic look. ‘I’d be surprised if he makes it to the end of the year.’
‘End of the year? End of the month would be a miracle. Never thought I’d want to see old Dagwood back, but things here are getting ridiculous.’
‘Well, maybe it would help if people didn’t keep on filing his paperwork in my office, you know? I’m sure it was very funny when whoever it was first thought of it, but I’m not there half the time, which means people are going to start missing their overtime payments.’
‘You know what this lot are like, though, sir. Once they get an idea in their heads.’
‘Aye, I remember paying the bills.’ McLean turned back to the whiteboard. ‘How’re you getting on with Parker?’
‘Early days yet. Still waiting on the DNA. Even a match between the hair and the saliva would be a start. Be a while before we can do a trawl through the database, though.’
‘What about the phone?’
‘Mike’s having a look at it. He’s also going over the car’s GPS, seeing where it was and when. Should have a map soon. Not much else we can do right now.’
‘OK. Keep me in the loop then.’ McLean paused a while, unsure whether he should be asking the question. Unsure even how to phrase it. ‘There is one thing you could do for me, though. If you’ve a minute or two spare.’
MacBride gave him a look that suggested he was heartily sick of being asked, but he didn’t say no.
‘Was wondering if you could do a background check on someone. But keep it quiet. Don’t want to ring any alarm bells.’
‘How deep do you want to go?’
‘Not deep. Just basic background would be fine. I don’t think there’ll be anything too unusual, but I’ve got a nasty suspicion I’m being set up for a fall again, and I’d like to have a bit of ammunition if I need to fight back.’
MacBride held up his omnipresent tablet computer, tapped at the screen a couple of times, his interest clearly piqued. ‘Does he have a name, this person?’
‘She, actually. And yes. It’s Heather Marchmont.’
25
She’s never really liked this place. It’s too high up, battered by the endless gales that scream in off the North Sea. Sure, the view’s nice on a good day, but there’s too few of those to make it worthwhile. Mostly it’s the haar coming in off the Forth and smothering everything in a thick blanket of white, or the rain splattering against the thin glass windows, or the wind howling around the poorly fitting frames. The neighbours aren�
�t so bad, at least in the main. Not noisy like some places she’s lived, though she’d be hard pushed to know if they were over the constant whistling of the wind. But mostly she hates this place because it’s a trap. Four floors up, right at the end of the line, one door in. No escape.
But that hardly matters. She’s Big Tam’s girl, after all. No one’s going to mess her around even if he is away in Saughton right now. A hollow laugh slips out as she thinks about him in his cell. Big Tam’s girl. Aye, that’ll be right. If only he knew the half of it. Why does she stick with him anyway? Just about the only thing he’s good for is keeping the low-lifes off her back, giving her some kind of status in this shithole of a suburb. And what does she have to give him in return? Too much, that’s what. Expects her to work the streets when there’s good money to be earned in the rich part of town. No imagination, just fists. She could do much better. Will do much better.
Another hollow laugh shakes her empty belly. He’s away, and not just for a wee while either. Nothing to keep her here except these concrete walls. She could just leave. Pack up a few things and go. OK, she’s not as young as she was, but she’s still got her looks. She kicked the habit too, not like so many of the other girls she’s met over the years. And there’s those rich folk who’ll pay good money for someone with her particular skills. She couldn’t stay in Edinburgh, but there’s other places, other fetishes.
The knock on the door is so sudden, so abrupt, she almost cries out in alarm. She looks through the peephole to see a man and a woman, standing side by side as if they’ve never been apart. They look like they might be Jehovah’s Witnesses; no one else would come a-knocking at this hour, up here at the end of the world. They don’t seem to be a threat, so she opens the door just enough to poke her head through the gap.
‘If it’s about God, you’ve just missed him.’ The joke’s old and lame, but she makes it anyway. The young woman cocks her head to one side like a dog, confused. The young man says nothing, just stands beside her like he’s made of stone.
‘Look, I’m no’ interested in saving my soul, aye?’ She relaxes a little, the sense of threat leaching away. And that’s when it all starts to fall apart.
‘You’ve been a naughty girl, Stacey.’ The woman takes a step forward, forces the door open. She steps into the hallway as if she owns it.
‘I … I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Shh.’ The woman reaches up, puts a slim finger to Stacey’s lips. Her touch is strangely comforting, reminding Stacey of her mother, even though this woman is younger than her. She yields to its gentle pressure, stepping backwards as the two of them come into the hall. Looking at them it is clear they are twins. He is heavier-set, but they have the same muddy blonde hair, the same shape to their faces, the same dead eyes.
‘We know what you did, and why you did it.’ The woman takes her by the hand, clasping it to her breast as if it’s a gesture she has seen perhaps in a film. Something she feels she should do without truly understanding why. Stacey can’t stop staring at those eyes.
‘This house. It’s so mean-spirited. It’s not a home. Why do you live like this?’
‘It’s not so bad. Once you know your place.’
‘Oh but it is. And your place isn’t here, Stacey.’ The woman moves down the short corridor towards the bathroom and the bedrooms as if she knows where she’s going. Hand still firmly clutched, Stacey can do nothing but follow. She is confused. Not scared, at least not yet, but somehow unable to think straight.
‘You’ve done such great work for us. People ask for you by name, you know?’
The woman pushes through to the main bedroom, still dragging Stacey by her hand. She goes straight to the wardrobe as if she already knows where it is, what it contains.
‘Such pretty clothes. Can I try them on?’ Without waiting for permission, she pulls something out, holds it up to herself for size. Stacey cannot stop her, though looking round she sees that the other twin has followed them into the room.
‘Oh, this is nice. Here, hold it for me.’ The woman shoves a shiny black figure-hugging dress into Stacey’s hands, then starts to undress in front of her. She wears staid clothes, as if she belongs to an earlier century. Long tweed skirt and cashmere sweater over a heavy cotton blouse, woollen stockings up to her knees, soft leather boots. She peels off the layers with surprising enthusiasm, revealing pale white skin flecked all over with livid red scars. No inhibitions whatsoever. Stacey can only stare as the woman takes back the dress, pulls it on with surprising dexterity, smoothing the soft material over her figure. It fits well, hugs her like a second skin, not damaged like the one she wears underneath.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Sweet, sweet Stacey. You know who we are and you know what we want.’ The woman wearing her clothes reaches out and takes Stacey’s hands in hers, pulls her close. She smells of the soft rubber of the dress, shampoo and something else, a scent that Stacey can’t place. It’s intoxicating, though, and bewildering. She can’t move of her own free will, can’t resist or pull away or do anything as the woman leans in, and kisses her firmly on the lips, pushes through with a tongue that tastes of childhood. Her legs give and she sinks slowly down until she is sitting on the bed. When the woman breaks away it is as if she takes something with her.
‘Iain, my clothes. I think I’ll keep these on for now.’ She twirls in the dress like a little girl who has been raiding her mother’s wardrobe. Stacey just sits and watches as the man dutifully picks up the discarded garments, folds them neatly and stows them away in his bag. When he’s done he simply nods to her, turns and leaves the room.
‘You know what to do, Stacey.’ The woman bends down, gives her a brief kiss, less intimate this time. A smile that almost reaches her eyes. And then she too is gone.
26
‘It was a tip-off, wasn’t it? That’s what started the whole thing, right?’
McLean nursed a cup of unpleasant canteen coffee, his half-eaten lunch congealing on the plate in front of him. Across the table, DS Ritchie had polished off her salad and was shining a juicy red apple on her sleeve. She took a thoughtful bite, chewed a bit before answering.
‘Pretty much. Anonymous mobile phone call telling us to have a look at the address. The SCU don’t normally pay too much heed to that sort of thing, apparently, but the same place came up in an interview with a sex worker picked up for soliciting on the street a couple of months earlier. Seems she tried to offer information in exchange for a caution. Not sure why nobody looked into it then.’
‘That’s right.’ McLean remembered reading the file before going to Dexter about sanctioning the raid. ‘What was her name again? Charlene something?’
‘Stacey Craig. She was a bit of a regular a few years back, but seemed to have seen the error of her ways.’ Ritchie intoned the last few words like a judge handing down sentence. ‘We’ve locked up her boyfriend a couple of times too. A bit too free with his fists. Can’t see why Stacey stayed with him, really.’
‘Sometimes people mistake attention for love.’ McLean waited for Ritchie to take another bite of her apple. She certainly seemed to have picked the better lunch. His lasagne had been cold in the middle, the chips soft and flaccid. His stomach rumbled and he wondered whether he shouldn’t have taken Marchmont up on her offer of cake earlier. There was no way he was going to chance his luck with the chocolate stodge on offer in the station canteen. ‘Do we know the boyfriend’s name? If he’s inside and what for?’
‘Not sure. I can check.’
‘Thanks. And get an address for this Stacey Craig too. But don’t put it in the report. Or her name.’
Ritchie stopped mid-bite,
took the apple away from her mouth. ‘Don’t put it in?’
‘Not yet. Maybe not at all.’
‘What do you want the address for then?’
‘I think we ought to go and pay her a visit.’ McLean stood up, motioned for Ritchie to stay sitting when she went to do the same. ‘Don’t rush your lunch. Half an hour’s fine. I need to make a call anyway. Think there’s someone we might invite along.’
He was on his way back to his office, in search of a little privacy, when his phone went. McLean stared at the number on the screen, trying to work out if he recognised it, but all he could tell was that it was a mobile number. He half thought about letting it go to voicemail; if it was important they’d leave a message, and if not he’d have saved himself ten minutes getting annoyed with a telesales operative in a call centre halfway around the world. But then again, they usually came through as ID withheld. Reluctantly, he thumbed accept, held the handset up to his ear.
‘McLean.’
‘Going to have to work on your telephone manner, Tony. Is that any way to greet an old friend?’
McLean pushed through his office door, slumped into his chair. No matter how often he programmed her number into his address book, or more accurately got MacBride to do it for him, somehow she always managed to catch him out. ‘A very good afternoon to you too, Ms Dalgliesh.’
‘Aye, well, it would be if I weren’t stuck on a train to Inverness. Bastard paper wouldn’t even pay for first class, either.’
‘Inverness? What on earth are you going there for?’ McLean could hear the rattling of the train in the background now, a few muffled voices.
‘Fuck knows. Some controversial art installation is all the editor told me. Problem with cutting half the reporting staff is those of us left have to cover everything. Johnny says Inverness, Inverness it is.’