by James Oswald
‘What’s up, Bob?’ In the background he could hear a hubbub, most probably the CID room downstairs, although normally that was a hive of inactivity at this time of day. Then the noise muffled, as if Grumpy Bob were shielding the handset.
‘Not good things, sir. Sorry to be the bringer of bad tidings, but the DCC just arrived with Jo Dexter and headed straight for Brooks’ office. I expect you’ll be getting a summons any moment now.’
As if on cue, the phone half-buried under paperwork on McLean’s desk started to bleep weakly.
‘Sounds like that’s them now. Thanks for the heads-up, Bob. I reckon I know what this is about. Do me a favour though, will you?’
‘Aye?’
‘If you see Stuart about, tell him he’s not seen me today. Might be better if you can find something he’s meant to be doing on the other side of town.’
‘Detective Sergeant MacBride? Sure I heard him say he was going to be checking up on a reported sighting of that missing teenager over Cramond way. Headed out first thing and I don’t expect to see him much before shift end.’ Grumpy Bob had clearly taken his hand away from the phone as he spoke, the muffled background sound of busyness returning with a vengeance. He’d raised his voice too. No doubt MacBride was with him and would soon be departing by the back door.
‘Thanks, Bob. I’ll let you know how I get on. May be my last chance to buy you a beer.’
He hung up as the phone on his desk started ringing again. There was a screen that was supposed to show the number of the extension calling within the building, but it had given up the ghost. McLean ignored it, squeezed out from around his desk and went off in search of whatever trouble he was in now.
Detective Superintendent Brooks had yet to discover the benefits of an open-door policy, which meant that McLean had to knock before entering. He stood outside the door for a moment, listening to the low murmur of voices within. At least nobody was shouting, not yet.
‘Enter!’ Brooks’ low baritone barked out the command. McLean put on his best innocent schoolboy face, took a deep breath and went in.
‘I was told you were looking for me, sir,’ he said before anyone else could speak. Jo Dexter and Stevie Robinson were sitting on one side of the small conference table by the large window wall of the office, DCI Spence on the other side. Brooks himself was at his desk, staring at the screen of his mobile phone which was doubtless telling him that his call to McLean had been rejected. He didn’t look up as he spoke.
‘About bloody time. We’ve been phoning you for the last half-hour.’
‘You have?’ McLean feigned innocence with the skill of a man who’s spent a lifetime observing others trying to do the same. Brooks ignored the comment, finally meeting his eye.
‘What’s your relationship with Heather Marchmont?’
The question threw McLean, at least momentarily. He’d been expecting a bollocking for visiting Stacey Craig and then her boyfriend in Saughton.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand the question.’
‘Should be easy enough, McLean. How long have you been seeing this woman?’
‘Ah, now. That’s a different question. Might I ask why you want to know?’
‘I’d have thought that would have been obvious, wouldn’t it? We get information her house is being used as a brothel, only when we raid it we find it’s nothing of the sort. Then it turns out you’ve been fucking her all along.’
‘Is this some kind of joke? I’d never met the woman before the night we raided the place.’ McLean looked around the room. Most eyes were on him, except for Dexter, who was picking at her yellow fingernails and finding her hands fascinating.
‘Why don’t you have a seat, Tony.’ The DCC gestured to a chair at the table opposite where he was sitting. Figuring it unwise to disobey, McLean sat down, leaned back and folded his arms.
‘You’ve been seen with Marchmont on several different occasions. Most frequently at a cafe in Stockbridge just around the corner from her home. The same home that we raided, is that not correct?’
McLean looked around the small collection of senior officers. There was no real reason for Spence to be there except that he was Brooks’ lickspittle. Jo Dexter seemed to be as embarrassed about the whole thing as he was angry about it. The DCC, Call-me-Stevie, had a smug paternal expression on his face that suggested he knew exactly what was going on. That left just Brooks himself to do all the talking. Quite why he was involved at all McLean wasn’t sure, but the absence of anyone from Professional Standards hadn’t gone unnoticed. No summary execution, this; there was something more being played.
‘I’ve met Miss Marchmont a couple of times, yes. We interviewed her first during the raid, then again not long after. Well, I say interview, but it was more of an apology. After what happened at her house I felt that was the least we owed her.’
‘And then what? True romance blossomed between the two of you?’ Brooks made a noise like a fat man spitting into a bucket. ‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘If you’d let me finish, sir.’ McLean kept his voice as calm as he could. ‘Miss Marchmont contacted me the day after our interview. She requested a meeting, informal. I got the impression there was something she wanted to tell me. About the raid.’
‘And did she?’ the DCC asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘So why did you call her? Why arrange another meeting?’
‘I didn’t. I’ve only ever met her when she has called me. I’m only interested in hearing what she wants to say about the raid. Nothing else.’
‘Likely bloody story.’ Brooks rumbled away like a spoiled child who’s had his toys taken from him.
‘Now, now, John. There’s no need for that. If Tony says there’s nothing more to this, then I’m inclined to believe him.’ Call-me-Stevie silenced the detective superintendent with a hand not quite slapped, but placed firmly on the table. He leaned forward, dragging everyone’s attention to him. ‘There is however a small matter of propriety to consider.’
Always a ‘but’ in there. McLean looked up, meeting the DCC’s eyes; a far more calculating intelligence than Brooks, or even Spence. The two of them just hated him, but Robinson was something else entirely.
‘Propriety?’ he asked, although he had some inkling as to what was coming.
‘See it from my perspective, Tony. An important and expensive SCU operation goes spectacularly tits up. It happens from time to time, and we try to smooth things over, but the lead investigator seems reluctant to accept that it was just a simple error. Maybe he’s trying to cover his own arse, or maybe he’s trying to divert attention from something a bit more sinister. I don’t know. Either way, it’s suspicious when that same investigator appears to be engaged in some kind of relationship with a key suspect in the initial investigation, wouldn’t you say?’
McLean decided it was best not to. Besides, his brain was having a hard time keeping up with Robinson’s convoluted reasoning, trying to work out what the DCC’s angle might be. Just as well he’d managed to get some quality sleep the night before; if he’d faced this inquisition yesterday God only knew what he’d have made of it.
‘It’s no matter. As you’ve pointed out, Miss Marchmont could have raised a serious complaint against us, but for whatever reason she has chosen not to. I for one think it wise not to rock that boat, which is why I asked you to wind up the case as quickly as possible. You’ve done that now, haven’t you?’
McLean thought about the questions hanging over Stacey Craig’s unfortunate condition, the things he’d learned from his conversation with Tam Roberts.
‘Detective Sergeant Ritchie has been preparing it this m
orning, sir. All I need to do is sign it off and the case is closed.’
‘Then that can be your last act as a member of the SCU team.’ Robinson smiled like a headmaster doling out detentions.
‘My last?’ McLean asked.
‘You what?’ Jo Dexter said at the same time.
‘You’re a good detective, Tony. Thorough. Some might say dogged. But this affair with Marchmont, it’s very ill-advised. I can’t leave you in the SCU, not with that hanging over you. Better to move you somewhere that keen mind and hunger for the truth is well suited.’
McLean knew a back-handed compliment when he saw one. He also had a horrible feeling he knew what the DCC was going to say next. There was a terrible logic to it.
‘We’ve been setting up a new unit. Should really be a DCI in charge, but I’m sure you’re up to the job. Play your cards right and you could see promotion in a few months. You’ll be working with Detective Sergeant Laird on a day-to-day basis, and we’re drafting in some retired detectives to do the rest of the work.’
‘The Cold Case Unit.’
‘That’s the one. I think it’ll be perfectly suited to your skills, Tony.’ Robinson grinned again as he delivered the coup de grâce. ‘And you’ll get to work with your old friend Charles Duguid again.’
‘They can’t do this. How am I meant to run a fucking investigation if they keep reassigning all my team?’
The inquisition had broken up quickly after the DCC’s announcement. McLean had just been glad to get out of the room, wanting some time to think his way through what had happened. He wasn’t surprised when Dexter had followed him out, asking for directions to the smoking hut even though she knew perfectly well where it was. She hadn’t said anything all the way through the station, but let rip as soon as they were outside.
‘I’m sure you’ll find someone. I heard Brooks was quite keen to find Carter somewhere he could shine.’
‘Don’t you fucking start. Carter’s a useless streak of piss and you know it.’ Dexter lit a cigarette, drew in deeply, calmed down a little as the nicotine hit. ‘You know it’s your own stupid fault. You wouldn’t let it lie.’
McLean tried to stand upwind to avoid the worst of the smoke. There were a couple of uniform constables in the hut, but they were puffing as quickly as possible to get their fix and away from the obviously agitated senior officer. Jo Dexter had something of a reputation, even away from her own station. McLean knew it was mostly just bluster.
‘I know. Sorry. But there’s more to it than just me seeing how far I could push that report into an investigation. I’m still not sure why they want it all swept away. And don’t tell me it’s because admitting we made a mistake is too embarrassing for the suits. I don’t buy it. If that was the case I’d be hung out to dry. No, there’s something else going on here.’
‘Why’d you have to go and see her, anyway? You that desperate for a shag?’
‘Oh come on. You don’t believe all that shite, do you? I’ve met the woman four times, and three of those times Ritchie was with me. She lives in the house we raided on false information. Why the hell wouldn’t I talk to her if I’m trying to find out how that happened?’
‘You – what? Ritchie was with you?’ Dexter had been about to take another drag, but now she held the cigarette, glowing end down, halfway towards her open mouth. ‘Why didn’t you say so? In there?’ She flicked her head backwards to indicate the bulk of the station and the office of Detective Superintendent Brooks in particular.
‘Credit me with some intelligence, Jo. Someone’s been spreading malicious rumours. If Ritchie was implicated, she’d have been in there with me, and there’d have been a union rep too. She wasn’t, so I’m not going to get her involved unless I really have to.’
‘That’s very … noble. But don’t you think you’re being a touch paranoid?’
McLean watched the two constables squeeze out the back entrance to the smokers’ shelter to avoid having to make eye contact with either him or Dexter. ‘Not really, no. This feels very much like someone doesn’t want me digging any deeper into the brothel raid and will do whatever they can to stop me. Looks like it’s worked, too. Now who do we know who was very keen to have it all tidied away and forgotten about?’
Dexter shook her head, dropped her cigarette to the ground and stood on it to put it out. ‘Now I know you’re paranoid. The DCC? For fuck’s sake, Tony. He’s no’ bent. Stevie can be a bit of an arse at times, but he’s one of the good guys.’
‘So you keep saying. And I guess he didn’t sack me, so I’ve that much to thank him for. If it’d just been Brooks, he’d have called in Professonal Standards on me. I’d be suspended and under a full investigation right now. As it is, I have to work with Dagwood. Not sure which I’d have preferred, to be honest.’
Dexter patted McLean on the arm. ‘Ach, you’ll be fine. And Stevie’s right about one thing; guddling about in old cases is something you’ll be a natural at. No, it’s me who’s come off worst here. I’m down an inspector and the only one going spare’s a waste of space.’
‘Why not ask your new pal Stevie if he can get Ritchie a temporary promotion?’ The idea came to McLean almost as he spoke it, but he could see it take root in Dexter’s brain just by the expression that spread across her face.
‘Now there’s an idea. And I could maybe pinch one of the more competent detective sergeants from Brooks’ team too.’ She slapped McLean on the arm again, harder this time. ‘I like your thinking, Tony. Now give us a lift in that wee sports car of yours. We can head over to HQ and tell Ritchie the good news in person.’
34
McLean looked around the office he’d been assigned on joining the SCU. It wasn’t much to write home about, what with the mouldy carpet tiles and interesting collection of ceiling stains. The desk had seen better days, probably sometime before Margaret Thatcher rose to power, and he suspected most of the furniture was there only because nobody else wanted it. He’d not been using the room long, had only been back at the SCU for a few months and spent half of that shuttling back and forth between this and his tiny little broom cupboard at his old station. But it was a place where he’d found peace and quiet, a place where he’d managed to think. He was going to miss it.
‘I can’t believe they took you off the unit, sir. I mean, just because …’ DS Ritchie stood in the doorway, a slim folder clasped in one hand. No, not DS, acting DI. McLean smiled at the thought that at least something good had come of the whole fiasco.
‘Office politics, Kirsty. You’d better get used to it now you’re playing with the big kids.’
Ritchie raised an invisible eyebrow at the joke. Or maybe it was because he’d used her first name. McLean couldn’t explain it, even to himself, but he’d often had trouble with that. Now they were both the same rank it felt more natural.
‘That the final report on the brothel raid?’ He nodded at the folder Ritchie was carrying.
‘Aye, for what it’s worth.’ She waved it about unconvincingly, then handed it to him. ‘Just need a signature and then it all goes away.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe that?’
‘Guess I’ve been hanging around with you too long, sir … Tony.’ Ritchie handed over the folder. He took it, opened it up, saw a slim sheaf of papers, the text double-spaced. He folded it back up again and dropped it on to the desk.
‘You deserve the promotion. Probably would have happened a while ago if you hadn’t got sick. I just hope it gets changed from acting to permanent quickly. You don’t need me to tell you to tread carefully, though. At least for a while. I expect upstairs will be keeping an eye out to see what happens next.’
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‘I’ll be as good as gold. It’s going to be strange, not having you around, mind.’
‘I’m only over at the old station, you know. I’m not retiring just yet.’ McLean lifted the box he’d been filling with all the important files he needed to keep, placed it on the chair by the door. It wasn’t very full, or particularly heavy.
‘Aye, I know. It’s just all a bit sudden and a bit brutal, if I’m being honest.’
‘Brutal? How so?’
‘You know the cold case squad’s a dead end, right? And making you work with Dagwood, too.’
‘Ach, he’s not so bad.’ McLean couldn’t quite believe he was saying it. ‘And technically I’ll be his boss. That could be interesting. Grumpy Bob’s the one I worry about; he’s going to get all the work to do and that’s not really his style.’
‘No. I guess not.’ Ritchie pointed at the report she’d brought in. ‘I’ll leave that with you. Don’t think there’s any great rush to sign it, except for maybe drawing a line under this whole sorry business.’
McLean fished in his jacket pocket for a pen, opened up the folder again. ‘I’ll sign it right now. Can’t imagine you’ve put anything in there I wouldn’t endorse.’ He scribbled his signature on the top page in the space provided, closed the folder and handed it back.
‘I’ll give you good odds that’s not the last we’ll hear of it all, though.’
He caught a familiar whiff of tobacco smoke on the breeze as he was loading the last cardboard box into the back of the little Alfa Romeo. Not Dexter’s brand of cigarette, this was something rougher. Taken from a packet and rolled into a crisp Rizla paper. No filter if he was any judge.
‘Heard a rumour you’d had the boot. Wouldn’t have believed it if I wasnae seeing it with my own eyes.’
McLean closed the boot with a dull metal clang, turned to see Jo Dalgliesh standing a few yards off.