by James Oswald
‘I’m Rachel,’ she said, holding out a hand to be shaken. ‘Do you work with Tony?’
‘I …’ Marchmont froze for a moment. ‘I’m Heather. And no. Not directly, anyway. I’ve been helping him with a case.’
‘How exciting. He never tells us anything about what he’s working on. Says it’s either too gruesome or too boring.’
Marchmont’s gaze flicked momentarily from Rachel to McLean and then back again. ‘I’m sure there’s a lot he just can’t tell you at all. The law’s like that sometimes.’
‘Oh, you’re a lawyer, are you?’
‘Commercial law, yes. Company contracts and dull stuff like that. I know enough about the criminal side of things, though.’
‘Is the kettle long boiled? I’d kill for a cuppa.’ Rachel turned her attention back to McLean. Enough time had passed that he thought it would be safe to stand, so he set about the task, glad of something to do.
‘I should probably be getting home,’ Marchmont said, clutching her bag tightly to her as if it were filled with gold. Or maybe the source of that heady scent, overpowered now by the smell of newly filled nappy.
‘Can I call a taxi for you?’ McLean asked at the same time as Phil said, ‘Oops, looks like Tony’s dropped a fresh one.’
Marchmont frowned, looking from one man to the other. ‘Tony?’
‘Young Anthony Junior.’ Phil bent down over the car seat and lifted out his infant son. ‘I do apologise, but he’s not house trained yet. Probably best if I deal with this back in the laundry.’ He hefted the baby on to his shoulder and headed out the door. McLean couldn’t help noticing the look on Marchmont’s face as they went. Part wonder, part terror.
‘There you go, Rae.’ He plopped a mug down on the table, turned to Marchmont. ‘You want that taxi?’
‘I … A baby …’ She stood up so sharply her chair tipped over, clattering to the floor. She didn’t seem to notice, her eyes fixed on the door where Phil had just left. ‘You never said … I never knew …’
‘Rae and Phil are just staying here ’til they get themselves sorted out. They’ve been out in the US.’ McLean wasn’t sure why he bothered to explain, Marchmont was clearly not listening to him. She backed away from the table, somehow managing to miss the tumbled chair despite never taking her eyes off the door on the other side of the room. McLean caught up with her at the entrance to the passageway that led to the front hall, took her gently by the arm. At his touch, she seemed to regain a little control of herself, shuddering slightly as she looked at him. ‘You never said.’
‘He’s not my baby, Heather. Come on. I’ll give you a lift home if we can’t find a taxi for you.’ He cursed himself for the offer even as it was coming out. Close up, he could smell that delicate, heady scent on her, clinging to her like the latex he knew she was wearing beneath her overcoat. Bad enough the two of them alone in the kitchen. In the cramped confines of his car there was no telling what might happen.
‘No. It’s fine.’ Marchmont pulled herself away, the apparent shock at seeing a baby beginning to wear off. ‘It’s a warm night. I’ll walk. Goodnight, Rachel. It was nice meeting you.’
‘Oh. Do you live nearby?’ Rachel half stood, then slumped back into her seat.
‘Near enough. Say goodbye to Phil for me. And little … Tony?’ She turned and headed down the corridor at such speed that McLean had to half skip to catch up. He reached her at the same time as she reached the front door and pulled it open.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here,’ she said before he could speak. ‘What I did back there. It was wrong. I can see that now. You’re not like the others. I thought you were, but you’re not. Don’t let them make you like they are. Like I am.’
‘Heather, I don’t know—’ McLean started to speak, but she put her finger over his lips to silence him again.
‘Let it go, Tony. I’ll explain it to them. They’ll have to understand. You won’t see me again.’
And with that, she turned and was gone.
‘You sly old dog, Tony. Thought you were still burning a torch for Emma.’
Rachel had finished her tea and taken the baby upstairs, declaring herself exhausted. McLean felt the same way, and confused as well. He knew better than to leave his old friend in the dark, or worse, telling just his half of the story to his wife, who would no doubt then tell it to Jenny, so instead he had suggested a nightcap. Phil had said nothing until they were both in the library, drams poured and the door firmly closed.
‘It’s really not like that, Phil.’ McLean held up his hand to stop the inevitable objection. ‘Yeah. I know what you saw. Trust me, I know what I felt too. But it wasn’t my idea and I certainly didn’t invite her.’
Phil gave him his best sceptical frown. ‘So who is she, your latex-clad beauty? That was some kinky outfit, you know.’
‘I told you. Her name’s Heather and she’s a corporate lawyer. At least, that’s what she says she is. I’m beginning to have my doubts about that. We interviewed her a few weeks back. You know I can’t tell you why, but we didn’t press charges in the end. Thing is, she’s been calling me up ever since, trying to tell me something. I thought that was what tonight was about, when she showed up out of the blue. Turns out she had something else on her mind. Unless that’s what she’s been trying to tell me all along.’
‘Some people get all the luck.’ Phil let out a little wistful sigh, then took a sip of his whisky.
‘You interrupted us, remember?’ McLean had a drink from his own glass. ‘For which I will be forever in your debt, by the way. That’s not the sort of complication I need right now.’
‘Really? Looked like kind of a fun complication to me.’
‘You’re a married man now, Jenkins. With a young son to think of. Behave yourself.’
‘I will if you will, Tony.’
‘Seriously, though. There’s something going on there and I just can’t work out what it is.’
‘You mean aside from putting on a latex catsuit and throwing herself at you to get your attention?’
‘No, it’s not that. And if I was being mean I might say she’s a bit young for me anyway. There’s something else going on, though. I can’t shake the feeling I know her from somewhere, and she’s clearly got some issues she needs help with.’
‘I’m guessing this is the stuff you know about here that you can’t tell me.’
‘Exactly so. More’s the pity.’
‘Well, if you ever need a wingman to come to your rescue.’ Phil raised his glass in a mock toast. McLean followed suit. Not quite like old times, but then you never could go back. This was the closest he was going to get.
‘Don’t worry, Phil. I know who to call.’
44
Bleary-eyed and thick of head, McLean pushed his way through the back door into the station, far too early yet again. He’d hardly slept a wink, drifting in and out of strange nightmares of writhing bodies, choking black hair and a whiff of unidentifiable perfume that still lingered on the air after he finally gave up, got out of bed and stood for a long time in a cold shower. He’d have preferred it hot, but it was too early for the boiler to have kicked in, and someone appeared to have drawn a long bath late the night before. He couldn’t have said with utmost certainty that it had been Rachel, but he’d known Phil more than half of his life and his old friend had never been the most conscientious when it came to washing.
‘Morning, sir. Heard the news?’ A far too cheerful Detective Sergeant MacBride accosted him in the corridor leading to his tiny office, tablet computer tucked under one arm.
‘Which particular news would that be, Sergeant?’ McLean didn�
�t really feel up to much station gossip right now, and hoped using MacBride’s rank rather than first name would broadcast his current state of mind.
‘The Pentland Mummy. You know how we thought it might be a bloke called Daniel Calton?’
It was news to McLean that MacBride was on the cold case team, but he wasn’t unhappy about it. ‘Duguid said he was trying to find living relatives so we could check DNA.’
‘Aye, that’s right. And he did find one. A living relative, that is.’
‘He did? Never said anything the last time I saw him. Who is this mysterious relative, then?’
MacBride consulted his tablet computer, even though McLean was sure he had no need. ‘Miss Eileen Prendergast. She’s Calton’s niece.’
‘I take it you’ve got an address for her?’
‘Aye. She lives in Duddingston. Runs a B&B or guest house or something.’
McLean consulted his watch, even though he knew exactly what the time had been five minutes earlier when he’d parked his car. ‘You busy this morning?’
‘That depends on whether I can keep out of DI Carter’s way.’ MacBride didn’t smile, and McLean could tell he wasn’t joking.
‘Is he that bad?’
‘Worse. I can’t see him lasting much longer. It’s the mess he makes while he’s in charge that the rest of us have to clean up.’
‘Well, see if you can rustle us up a car. I need to get a coffee first, then we can go pay this Miss Prendergast a visit.’
He had no idea how MacBride had managed to secure it, but the car was perhaps the newest McLean had ever sat in. Judging by the seats and the smell, it had only just been delivered. It was a BMW, and he spent the first ten minutes of the journey looking around the interior, wondering if something similar would do him as a less fragile alternative to his Alfa Romeo.
‘You know much about cars, Stuart?’ McLean patted the dashboard in front of him as MacBride carefully turned on to Peffermill Road. The detective sergeant didn’t answer, just let out a long, slow breath as McLean realised he’d asked the same question many times before. ‘Sorry, I know. I’m just going to have to grit my teeth and get on with it. Can’t keep driving that old Alfa around forever. There just never seems to be a good time to go and look at anything.’
‘A lot of the junior detectives would be very upset if you did, sir. They’d lose their favourite way of taking the piss.’
‘They would?’ McLean considered a moment. Of course they would, that was how a copper’s mind worked. ‘Ah well. If it stops them picking on someone else.’
They fell into silence as MacBride turned down towards Duddingston and their destination. No point asking him if he knew where he was going; the detective sergeant would have checked a map before leaving. There was one subject he’d been meaning to broach, though, and this was probably as good a time as any.
‘You get any further digging up info on Heather Marchmont?’ He thought he’d dropped it casually into the conversation, but he could tell just by the way the detective sergeant stiffened, twitching the steering wheel, that he’d hit a nerve. MacBride looked up at the tall buildings surrounding them before answering, as if he too believed their every move was being watched.
‘I really should know better than to do stuff like that for you, sir. Could have got me sacked.’
‘Really? How so?’
‘Soon as I put her name in the PNC my phone was ringing. Only the bloody DCC asking me what my interest was.’
‘Call-me-Stevie? What did you tell him?’
‘What could I? Said you’d asked for some basic background for your final report on the brothel case. He said that was all done now, so I didn’t need to bother. Sorry if I dropped you in it, sir.’
‘Christ, no. It’s me who should be sorry, Stuart. If I’d known she was flagged I’d never have asked.’
‘I did manage to find a few things out, though,’ MacBride said after a while. ‘Did some searching on other systems, away from prying eyes. On the surface she looks like a normal person. School records, Glasgow University, a stint overseas in an American law firm. It’s a good cover. I’m sure some of it’s even true.’
‘I’m sensing a but here.’
‘For the age and where she grew up, there’s only one birth record with that name. The real Heather Marchmont died aged six weeks in April 1984. Whoever your new friend is, she was given the identity of a dead child, and given it a long time ago. Possibly when she was a child herself.’
‘Witness protection?’
‘That’s my working assumption, but as a child?’
‘Born in ’eighty-four. So she’d be ten in ’ninety-four.’ McLean stopped talking as the pieces started to fall into place in his mind, the familiar chill sensation in his gut. Could it really be that simple? That obvious? Christ, but he could be an idiot sometimes. Just thinking about it, about her the night before, made his ears burn.
‘’Ninety-four?’ MacBride asked, at the same time indicating and slowing as they approached a narrow lane flanked by tall hedges. ‘What’s so special about ’ninety-four?’
McLean was about to reply, but his attention was grabbed by the scene in the lane ahead of them. Two squad cars sat half on the road, half on the pavement beside a gateway that he just knew opened on to the house they had come to visit. A couple of uniform officers saw them, one approaching, the other mouthing something into his airwave handset.
‘Looks like someone got here before us,’ MacBride said.
McLean didn’t recognise the uniform constable, which meant he was probably from the local nick. He was halfway through his spiel, telling them this was a secured area and they couldn’t come in, before MacBride managed to interrupt him with his warrant card.
‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t realise. The car …’
Well, it was shiny and new, so the mistake was understandable. MacBride pulled in on to the kerb behind the nearest squad car and they both climbed out.
‘We were looking for Eileen Prendergast,’ McLean said. ‘I’ve a nasty feeling we’re not going to be able to talk to her, are we?’
‘The old lady? Aye. She passed yesterday. Up on yon hill.’ The constable pointed to Arthur’s Seat as his colleague approached.
‘Was it an accident?’
‘Search me. They only found her this morning. There’s a team up there looking at her. Me and Bob got sent down to secure the house. Hadn’t been here five minutes before Detective Inspector Carter showed up.’
‘Carter’s in there?’ McLean nodded towards the large house set back from the road and mostly obscured by the tall hedge that surrounded the property.
‘Aye, sir, and DS Langley. They’re talking to one of the lodgers. Dare say they’ll not be long.’
‘Thanks, Constable. Let Carter know I was here when he’s done, will you? I’d like to have a chat with him about Miss Prendergast.’ McLean looked away towards the slope of Arthur’s Seat. Halfway up, past the trees and Queen’s Drive, he could just about make out the white shape of a forensics van. There wasn’t really any reason why he should go and stick his nose in, apart from up there was where DI Carter wasn’t. That and his gut telling him he needed to know what had happened. ‘Meantime DS MacBride and me are going to go for a little walk.’
‘Dog walker found her first thing. Said her spaniel wouldn’t come out of the bushes. Cut herself something rotten trying to get in there and fetch the damn thing out.’
The climb up from Duddingston had been harder than he expected, and McLean found himself thinking of MacBride’s words about spending too much time sitting at a desk. At least the action all seemed to be below the road, a steady
stream of white-overalled forensic technicians wending their way down a path cut through the waist-high gorse. He’d waylaid one of the uniform constables who were wandering about aimlessly.
‘Who’s in charge then?’
‘Car … Detective Inspector Carter’s SIO, sir. Only he’s gone off to look at the old girl’s house.’
‘Any other plain clothes here? Any sergeants?’
The constable looked a little lost. He was young, early twenties at most. Probably fresh out of training college. His face was enough of an answer.
‘OK. You’ve set up a perimeter? Keeping the public away?’
‘Aye, sir. Not many round here this time of day anyway.’
‘Good, well just keep at it. DS MacBride here will sort out teams and assign duties. Meantime I’d better go and have a look at the body. Just as soon as I’ve found a set of overalls.’
The Scene of Crime team had cut a narrow path through the gorse, but it still tore at his paper overalls as McLean followed the twisting route from the road down to the tent. A couple of technicians were on their knees, inspecting the ground. One of them looked up as he approached, smiled. He recognised Amanda Parsons.
‘Morning, sir. Lots of shit round here,’ she said with a wide smile. ‘Mostly fox, a bit of badger and some dog. Got to love an outdoor crime scene.’
‘Well, I’m glad someone’s happy. OK for me to go in?’ He nodded at the tent.
‘Sure. She’s not going anywhere. Just don’t touch anything that looks like a clue, eh?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
He pulled aside the flap and stepped inside. The white plastic sides and roof of the tent filtered a lot of the light from outside, casting a gloom over the scene. It covered a small natural gap in the gorse that blanketed most of this face of the hill, centred around a large rock with a round, flat top. And sitting on the rock as if she’d been out for a walk and had just rested a while to enjoy the view was an elderly lady.