by James Oswald
‘Jesus, Tony. What were you even doing here? I thought the Prendergast death was Carter’s case.’
‘It is, but her name came up in one of the cold cases we’re reviewing. Thought I’d get a little more background on her while we wait for the DNA results. I didn’t expect to find … well.’ McLean didn’t bother finishing. McIntyre had seen the room with her own eyes. Now they were sitting in the fusty drawing room and waiting for the forensic team to finish upstairs.
‘Brooks isn’t going to be too happy, you know.’ McIntyre looked quite comfortable in the high-backed leather armchair. McLean wasn’t quite so relaxed, perching on the edge of his sofa like a young man on first meeting his girlfriend’s parents.
‘Is he ever happy about anything?’
‘Fair point. But these lodgers. Did anyone talk to them?’
‘Carter and DS Langley were interviewing them, least that’s what I was told when we first turned up. I didn’t want to interrupt, so we went and had a look at the body instead. The old dear was only a few hundred yards away up the hill.’ McLean jerked his head towards the conservatory window with its view out towards Arthur’s Seat.
‘I hope for his sake he got their name and address. You think they did for her?’
‘Miss Prendergast?’ McLean was surprised by the question. ‘It’s possible, I guess. But why? And how? She took herself off up the hill.’
‘So why did you come here? Really? Skulking around in the dark with young MacBride, sticking your nose into someone else’s case?’
‘I don’t really know. She’s tied in to the cold case we’re looking into, like I said. But there’s more to it than that. You know her mother was born at Headland House?’
It was McIntyre’s turn to look surprised. ‘Now there’s a place I’ve not thought about in a while. Let me guess, Dagwood’s been bending your ear about how they closed him down on that one.’
‘Oh, it’s more than that. I was there when they raided it. I was the one who found the little girl.’
‘I know, Tony. You were promoted to inspector under my watch, remember? I’ve read your file more than once.’
‘Do you know what happened to her? The girl?’
‘Social services took her. No one could find out who her parents were, where she was from. She went into the system and disappeared. I think that was kind of the point, really. Make it so the people who’d put her in that house couldn’t find her again.’
‘Well, I think I know who she is. I think she’s back. Living in the city. And I think she’s connected to what’s happened here.’
McIntyre said nothing for a moment, just stared out into the distance. Had he gone too far? Finally she shifted in her armchair, brought her focus on to him.
‘When was the last time you got some proper kip, Tony?’
The question brought him up short. The DCI had a habit of that; asking something completely tangential to what they were meant to be talking about. She had a habit of seeing through to the heart of the problem too.
‘Does it show?’ McLean sunk back down on to the sofa. He’d been fighting off the weariness with nervous energy, but that never worked for long.
‘You look like you’ve not slept in a month. It’s a wonder you’re standing at all, let alone making logical decisions.’ McIntyre pointed at the ceiling this time. ‘Forensics are going to seal this off and call it a day soon. Nothing will have changed by tomorrow. Go home and get some rest. Some real rest, not sitting in that draughty old library of yours listening to old records and drinking whisky until two in the morning. We’ll sort this all out tomorrow when we’ve all got clearer heads.’
‘And the lodgers?’
‘Believe it or not, there’s a night shift who can look into them. We’ll get a description from Carter and Langley. Nothing else you can do, unless you want to drive the streets in that ridiculous sports car of yours hoping you see them coming out of a pub or something.’
‘It’s tempting,’ McLean said.
‘You do and I’ll make sure Traffic pull you over. Driving tired’s an offence now, you know.’
‘OK. OK. I take the hint. I’ll go home.’ He got up again, swaying slightly as the blood rushed out of his head and the room darkened. Maybe McIntyre had a point. ‘Tomorrow then.’
‘Aye, Tony. Tomorrow. Now go. The poor old dear will still be dead when you come back.’
Jenny’s car was parked outside the front door when McLean pulled up the drive an hour later. He was so fixated on it, and the implications that came with it, that he almost drove into the small van in front of it. Swerving at the last minute, he parked up by the back door, then walked around the outside of the house to see what was going on.
‘Oh, hi, Tony. You’re home early.’ Rachel greeted him like an unfaithful wife, standing at the door with another man’s child in her arms. Young Tony Junior looked up at him with round baby eyes and smiled in a way McLean hadn’t seen since the last time he and Phil had got heroically drunk together.
‘What’s up? You nicking all the good furniture?’
‘Ha! As if. No. We got the flat back early. Tenants found themselves somewhere else to go. Thought we’d get in there and leave you to some peace and quiet.’
McLean wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. On the one hand there was an enormous sense of relief that he could have his old life back. He could come and go as he pleased without censure, not worry about disturbing people in the wee small hours by playing music, or be woken by the distant, muted but still impossible to ignore wailing of a small bundle of joy. On the other hand he had grown used to having someone other than Mrs McCutcheon’s cat to talk to. A two-sided conversation was always nice, and it was easier to justify a glass of wine of an evening if there was someone to share the bottle with.
‘You heading out tonight? Seems a bit sudden.’
Rachel laughed. ‘God, no. Unless you’re that desperate to get shot of us. Phil’s been moving our stuff out of storage. Not that there’s much of it. Me and Jen were planning on giving the place a deep clean tomorrow. Be out of here by the weekend, if that’s OK?’
McLean was about to say it was fine, but Jenny came out of the front door before he could speak.
‘Tony. Didn’t expect you home for ages yet.’ She enveloped him in a hug that was at once awkwardly familiar and surprisingly pleasant. Certainly a lot easier than running the gauntlet of the kiss on the cheek and then the uncertainty as to whether the other one needed a peck too.
‘A bit of a rough day, so my boss sent me home early.’ It was the truth, but it raised a smile in Jenny and Rachel both. Tony Junior just gurgled.
‘Well, supper’s in the oven and I’ve made enough for everyone.’ Jenny took him by the arm, guided him inside. Out of the corner of his eye, McLean saw the pile of post lying on the wooden chest in the porch. His instinct was to grab it, shuffle through the bills and junk in the hope of a postcard from Emma, but it wasn’t possible to stop. And as he was almost frog-marched across the hall towards the corridor leading to the kitchen, he realised that the hope was no longer as poignant as it had been, the disappointment less deep. Nevertheless, he broke free of Jenny’s hold before she could drag him through the door.
‘Food sounds great, Jen. But I need to change.’ He looked down at his trousers, imagining bloodstains all over the turn-ups. And that lingering scent he couldn’t quite place. That he could place, now he thought about it. He had smelled it here, in his own kitchen, when Heather Marchmont had opened up her long coat to reveal what little she was wearing underneath. The tips of his ears burned at the memory and he was certain his cheeks must have been as red as a skelped arse
. Jenny didn’t help things by pulling him close, giving him a good sniff and then pushing him away again.
‘Good idea. You might want to have a shower too. I’ll put the rice on to boil and pour you a beer.’
By the time he’d showered, changed and come back down to the kitchen the promised glass of beer was poured and waiting for him. Jenny stood at the Aga, stirring something that smelled suspiciously like chilli con carne, a pot bubbling away on the side that must have been rice. Four places had been laid at the table, bowls of grated cheese, tomato salsa and soured cream sitting in the spot in the middle from where Mrs McCutcheon’s cat usually greeted him. The table top looked well scrubbed.
‘Reckon I could get used to this,’ McLean said after he’d taken a long draught and wiped the foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand.
‘The beer, or having someone around to look after you?’ Jenny turned to face him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. He was spared the embarrassment of answering by the noisy arrival of Phil, closely followed by Rachel.
‘He’s sleeping now. I swear that baby keeps the same mad hours as you do, Tony.’
‘Well, you could have named him after someone else. Called him Phil Junior, maybe. Then you’d never get him out of bed.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m a hard-working professor of bioengineering sciences. And unlike some people round here I keep sensible working hours.’
‘You got the job then?’
‘Confirmed today. I start at the beginning of the month.’
‘What about California? They happy about you not staying?’
‘Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me.’ Phil smiled as he pulled out a chair for his wife, then sat down beside her. ‘No. That was only ever going to be temporary. And the cutting-edge stuff’s all being done over here now. I missed the drizzle too. And the food.’
‘Well, don’t get used to it.’ Jenny heaved a large bowl of chilli on to a mat on the table, followed it up with enough rice to feed an army. ‘Once you’re back in your own place, you two can look after yourselves.’
She sat down next to McLean, passed out plates and they all started tucking in. He wasn’t sure it was the best chilli he’d ever tasted, he preferred a little more spice, but it was freshly cooked and flavoursome. Better than the impossibly hot concoctions Phil had come up with back in their student days. Sitting around the table sharing a meal and good conversation, it felt like they might have been students again. Were it not for the fact that three of them were on the far side of forty now, just Rachel flying the flag for a younger generation.
‘You reckon you’ll be able to cope here all alone?’ Jenny asked.
‘I’ll muddle along. It’s not as if I’m home often anyway.’
‘You should find yourself a hobby. Something other than work to do of an evening. That job of yours will chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful.’
McLean tried not to sigh. She was right, of course. Although perhaps with Phil back in town he’d have more of an excuse to get out once in a while. He was happy enough on his own, but he could see how unhealthy a lifestyle that was.
‘A hobby, you say? Like stamp collecting, perhaps? Or maybe I should build a model railway in the attic.’
‘Or you could do something with that old car of yours. It’s far too nice to be using about town anyway.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me. I just haven’t had the time lately to find anything more suitable.’
The conversation turned to cars, then vintage clothing, running a small business, raising children and a hundred and one other topics. Not content with the chilli, Jenny had also made pudding, and evening wore on into night without McLean once thinking about his work. It wasn’t until much later, when Rachel had gone to bed and Phil was fast asleep on the sofa in the library, that the reality of the next day began to settle on him.
‘I think I’d better turn in. Got an early start tomorrow, as usual.’ McLean put down his empty glass, the taste of the whisky still peppering the tip of his tongue. Put his hands either side of the chair and pushed himself up on to his feet.
‘I should probably be going. Long day’s stocktaking tomorrow.’ Jenny stretched in her armchair like a cat, then peered at her watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time?’ She stood up quickly, swayed slightly. McLean put a hand out to steady her and she leaned a little too heavily into his touch.
‘You OK?’
‘Just a bit light-headed. I’ve probably been sitting still too long.’
‘You can stay, if you want. If you don’t fancy driving back this late.’
‘Why, Inspector McLean. If I didn’t know better …’ Jenny’s obvious tiredness was part-banished by her smile. McLean was about to protest that he had plenty of spare rooms, meant nothing by the suggestion, but at that precise moment he wasn’t really sure.
‘But no. Thank you, Tony. I’ve stuff I need to sort out for the morning. And I always sleep best in my own bed.’ She patted him lightly on the arm, leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips before breaking swiftly away. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening. It’s so nice here. Relaxed.’
She cast a swift glance at Phil’s softly snoring figure on the sofa, raised an eyebrow, turned and left.
50
‘OK, people. Let’s get things started, shall we? Sooner we’re done here, sooner we can get out there and fight crime.’
Early morning in the Major Incident Enquiry room. McLean had missed Jayne McIntyre’s pep talks. He’d missed working with a team that was more than a dozen detectives strong, too. The SCU had always been spread thin, but here there were plenty of plain clothes and uniform to go around. It helped that they were involved in three active investigations, of course.
‘First up. John Smith. Any progress on the CCTV footage from the apartment block?’ McIntyre leaned back against the table at the end of the room by the whiteboards. McLean stood beside her, DS MacBride sitting close by. The collected CID and support teams ranged all the way back to the windows. Most of the station seemed to be there, apart from a few notable exceptions.
‘We’ve got the hard drives. There’s quite a lot of footage, though. The place has more cameras than a Japanese tourist. I’ve been working with forensics and the tagging company to try and narrow down what we have to look at. Otherwise it’s a lot of man hours.’ MacBride swiped the screen of his tablet computer as he spoke.
‘Sensible. Any luck finding links between him and Parker?’
‘Not yet. We ran Smith’s name and photo past Parker’s boss and all the people in his office. None of them had heard of the man. Not surprising, really. They moved in very different circles.’
‘What about the people from the brothel raid? Do we know if any of them knew Parker?’ McIntyre asked the question, but no one answered. Then McLean realised that all eyes were on him. Fair enough; the brothel raid had been his fuck-up.
‘We’ve not had a chance to talk to them yet,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s a bit delicate.’
‘What about the woman in charge? What was her name … Marchmont?’ McIntyre asked.
‘She wasn’t …’ For a moment McLean thought the DCI was making fun of him; pretty much every other senior officer had done, after all. Her face was all seriousness, though. He’d been meaning to call Marchmont anyway, find a way to confront her about the past she had conveniently forgotten to mention to him. ‘We’ve got the transcripts of all the interviews we did with them beforehand. I’ll go through them, work out who’s worth talking to. We’ll have to get Jo Dexter involved, though.’
McIntyre nodded her agreement. ‘OK. So that’s Smith and Parker. What’s th
e score with the blood at Miss Prendergast’s? Have we found the missing lodgers yet?’
Silence descended on the room again. Looking around, McLean could see DS Langley was among the missing, DI Carter as well. It didn’t really surprise him.
‘I’ll take that as a no then.’ McIntyre pushed herself away from the desk, walked to the whiteboard and wrote ‘Blood’ in big red letters on it. McLean half expected the ink to ooze out of the lines, run down the shiny white plastic surface and drip to the carpet tiles.
‘The night shift did some preliminary work on the one that Carter managed to speak to, an Iain Angus. Nothing for him on the PNC. Least, not one who fits the description.’ MacBride swiped at his screen again.
‘Did we get an address for him?’ McLean asked.
‘I’m not sure. Haven’t been able to get hold of Carter or Langley this morning. I think they’re both over in Strathclyde on some training course.’
‘Who the hell sanctioned that? Aren’t they meant to be heading up a suspicious death enquiry?’
Nobody answered, but then McLean hadn’t really expected them to. It was clear that Miss Prendergast’s death had already been written off as tragic, bizarre, but accidental. No doubt the powers that be hoped this incident would just go away too.
‘Get on it then, will you, Stuart? We really need to talk to him. Anyone else who’s stayed at that guest house recently too.’ McLean looked around the room again, the collected ranks of detectives and uniform officers. Were they really all assigned to these cases, or had they come here because working in McIntyre’s team was better than being shouted at by Spence? What a happy ship Detective Superintendent Brooks was running. It almost made McLean wish Duguid was back in his old office on the top floor, not lurking down in the basement and making mischief.
McIntyre stepped back in front of the table, raised her voice to address the throng like a minister preaching to the faithful. ‘Right then. Anyone who’s meant to be here, see DS MacBride for your assignments. I get the feeling it’s going to be a desk day, so don’t get too excited.’ She paused a moment as the collected officers shuffled from foot to foot. ‘As for the rest of you? Nice try, but I’m sure there’s other places you’re meant to be.’