'When we found her she was naked, no personal effects. Missing Persons didn't come up with a match. I'm sorry about that, they really should have done. It wasn't until we put the photograph out wider that a name came up. She was calling herself Audrey Carpenter.'
McLean could see that MacDougal wasn't really listening. He'd gone to the sideboard, poured himself a large scotch from a hideous crystal decanter. Why did villains always decant their whisky? Probably because it was cheap and they wanted to pretend it wasn't.
'Audrey was living in a squat somewhere in Edinburgh,' McLean continued. 'She'd been talking to a reporter at the Scotsman, mostly about life on the streets, I think.'
MacDougal might have been a thug, but he wasn't stupid. Two quick steps brought him face to face with McLean, staring at him with those wild eyes.
'Who? This reporter. I want his name.'
'You know I can't tell you that, sir. I can pass on your request for a meeting though.'
'Don't give me that shit, inspector. The name.' MacDougal prodded McLean in the chest with a stubby finger. The whisky in his other hand sloshed around in its glass, giving off an unmistakably Islay peat aroma. So much for that theory.
'When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr MacDougal?'
For a moment, the words just hung in the air, echoing in the silence as the colour in MacDougal's face darkened. Then he pointed at the door and growled like an angry bear.
'Get out.'
McLean held the gangster's gaze for a couple of seconds more, then nodded his head. 'Constable,' he said without turning. MacBride scurried out of the room like a frightened mouse.
'We'll speak again, Mr MacDougal,' McLean said, and then he walked slowly to the door.
*
'You'll be wanting to keep your head down, sir. Old Dagwood's looking for you and I don't think it's to give you a medal.' Sergeant Dundas smiled from behind his glass barrier as he buzzed McLean back into the station.
'What have I done this time, Pete?'
'No idea, but he's been tearing a strip of anyone who gets in his way. Right foul mood he's in.'
'No change there, then. You know where he's looking right now? So I can avoid him.'
'Haven't got a clue. Just keep your ears open and you'll be fine.'
McLean wasn't so sure as he made his way down into the bowels of the station. Those few officers he passed on the way seemed to be giving him a wary look, as if he were bad luck walking. The CID room was almost empty, just one lone figure slumped in a chair with his feet up on the desk. McLean looked around the room with a faint nostalgia. It was only a few months since he'd moved out and into his cubbyhole of an inspector's office, but he already missed the place.
'You up for some work this evening, Bob?' He asked. Detective Sergeant Laird did a good impression of a man waking from a deep sleep, almost falling off his chair in the process.
'Shit, you gave me a fright there, sir. You seen Dagwood yet?'
'No, and the longer I can put it off the better. Any idea why he wants to see me?'
'No, but I can tell you this much. He's not a happy bunny.'
'My heart bleeds for him. Did you get the PM report on Audrey Carpenter yet?'
'Who?' Grumpy Bob's face was a mask of confusion.
'The dead lass we found out at Gladhouse. Audrey Carpenter. Or Violet Audrey MacDougal if you prefer.'
'I didn't think we had an ID for her yet. When did this come in?'
McLean slumped against one of the desks. 'Just after the PM. Jo Dalgliesh made the ID, of all people. I could do without having to be grateful to her.'
'Does Dagwood know?'
'He should do. I left a message on his phone and a report on his desk before I went. I thought he'd have told you.' And slowly the pieces began to fall into place. 'Shit. He's not been into his office, and he's not listened to his messages, has he.'
'At a guess, I'd say no. And that's probably why he's on the warpath right now.'
'Well, I'd better go and find him before he does something even more stupid than usual. Meantime I need you to get the ball rolling on this one. Put a team together. Set up an incident room.'
'Erm, this is it,' Grumpy Bob said, adding as an afterthought: 'sir.'
'What? There's no spare rooms we can use right now?'
'Nope.'
'Not even that cupboard we used for the Smythe case?'
'Tech boys have got it while the basement's being damp-proofed again.'
'Nothing on the first floor?'
'All taken up with the drugs investigation.'
'Fucking marvellous. How the hell can we be short-staffed and not have enough room? No, don't answer that Bob. Just set it up, OK. I'll go see what's got up Dagwood's skirt, and then I think I'm going to need a drink.'
~~~~
17
McLean found DCI Duguid in his office on the second floor. It was warm, three times the size of McLean's tiny cupboard, and in the daytime would have a commanding view of Arthur's Seat. The privileges of seniority, no doubt.
'I believe you were looking for me sir?'
Duguid grunted something from his desk, leafing through a file of papers. McLean couldn't help but notice that his preliminary report on Audrey Carpenter had been carefully laid to one side.
'You've identified the dead girl, I see,' Duguid said after a long pause. 'Even been to see her parents.'
'We needed confirmation, sir. And...'
'Didn't anyone tell you that it's both polite and a good idea to consult with another force if you're conducting an investigation on their patch?' Duguid's tone was neutral, which never boded well.
'We did contact Strathclyde, sir. Spoke to a DS Coombes who said he'd send some support round to meet us.'
'Is that so? Then why, tell me, have I just spent an hour on the fucking phone apologising to some tosspot detective superintendent from SOCA with an impenetrable Weegie accent because one of my officers seriously fucked up his ongoing investigation?'
'Investigation?'
'What? You thought it'd be OK to just go and have a wee chat with one of Glasgow's most notorious hard men? Thought it would be fine to accuse him of murdering his own daughter?'
'I never...'
'Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, McLean.' Duguid rose up out of his chair like a volcano, hands smashing on the desk. Now he was angry, and that was much easier to deal with. 'You went to see MacDougal without any backup, right?'
'I had Constable MacBride with me.'
'Brilliant idea. Why not endanger the life of yet another new recruit. No wonder we've no bloody staff. You keep on trying to get them killed.'
Remain calm. Don't rise to the bait. Take the bollocking and move on.
'What were you even doing there, for Christ's sake? You could have faxed the photographs through to the nearest station and let them deal with it.'
Aye, and wait a week for a reply. 'I needed to speak to Mr MacDougal myself, sir.'
'Why? So you could make wild allegations about him to his face? You do know why they call him Razors, don't you?'
'The man abused his daughter. Raped her. That's why she ran away. That's why she was living on the streets. But she was talking to the press. It was only a matter of time before it all came out. I don't know about you, sir, but I think that's motive enough for a man like MacDougal.'
Duguid slumped back down into his seat, his expression changing from anger to something more like excitement. He glanced sideways at the report, then back at McLean.
'You shouldn't have gone in there without someone from SOCA. Or at least Strathclyde CID. MacDougal's a career criminal; he knows how to play the system. There's already been a formal complaint lodged about your behaviour.'
'If Professional Standards want to talk to me, I'm always available, sir. I've done nothing wrong here.'
'Aye, I've heard that about you. Go on, get out McLean. We'll pick this up at tomorrow's briefing. If we've got a suspect, that's something to keep the press o
ff our backs at least.'
'Sir, I really don't...'
'Tomorrow, McLean.' Duguid waved him quiet. 'Right now I've got to make some calls to Glasgow.'
*
Christmas shoppers thronged the lamplit pavements of Princes Street and the upper end of Leith Walk like some vast, unpredictable beast. At least McLean assumed they were Christmas shoppers, even if there was still a month to go until the day itself. Getting on for nine and the shops really ought to have been closed by now, but the St James's Centre was bursting at the seams. So much for the age of austerity.
He hunched his shoulders against the throng and tried to fight his way up towards North Bridge. It had been a long, crap day and he really needed a drink.
Deep in thought, it took a moment for McLean to register that he'd seen something through the glass doors of John Lewis. He couldn't quite say what, but whatever it was, it stopped him in mid stride, forcing muttered curses from the other pedestrians as they had to adapt to a sudden rock in their stream. He took a step back, peering through the glass at the shoppers inside, the staff in their uniforms, the mind-boggling variety of Christmas decorations and assorted seasonal tat.
And then he saw him; three-quarters turned away. Wearing jeans and leather bomber jacket combination that was atypical for the man. But otherwise unmistakable.
'Anderson!'
McLean pushed his way through the crowd, not caring who he knocked aside. The shop doors were slow, motorised rotating panes of glass that stopped whenever one of the mindless crowd bumped too close. And in his rush to get inside, they were all mindless now. He wasted long seconds shuffling impatiently, trying to peer over heads and into the shop, desperate not to lose his quarry. Finally the wheel opened, spilling people out into the warmth. McLean pushed past them, ignoring the scowls and half-muttered comments, hurrying to the stand where he had seen Anderson.
'Can I help you with anything sir? Only we're closing in ten minutes.' McLean looked around to see a young shop assistant giving him an uncertain smile.
'Actually I'm looking for someone. An old man, about so high.' He raised his hand somewhere between the top of the assistant's head and his chin. 'Wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. Grey hair, but not much of it.'
'I'm sorry sir. I really couldn't say. We're very busy, and it's been like that all evening.'
'What about CCTV?' McLean scanned the upper reaches of the atrium and saw several, all pointed at the revolving doors.
'I'm not sure it would be appropriate...'
'I'm a police officer.' McLean dug out his warrant card and noticed an immediate change in the young woman. Her eyes flicked nervously away from him and towards the tills.
'I'll just get the departmental manager,' she said, and fled.
*
'There. Stop there. Can you zoom in?'
McLean sat in the darkened viewing room somewhere in the depths of the department store and peered at the slightly fuzzy images on a bank of flickering screens. It was a far more sophisticated set-up than the makeshift viewing room back at the station, but not a patch on the city's Central Monitoring Facility, where the surveillance culture really started. The security manager stifled a yawn as he fiddled with buttons, focusing the image down to just one man. The picture deteriorated to a series of flesh-coloured blobs, but even then McLean could tell.
'No, sorry. That's not him. Go back a bit will you.'
'Is this going to take a lot longer, sir?' the manager asked. 'Only I was due to clock off an hour ago.'
McLean looked at his watch. Half past ten and they'd scarcely made a dent on the available footage. The shop seemed to be awash with cameras, all of them showing an endless bustle of desperate shoppers just slightly out of focus. It was a mammoth task, and the rational part of his brain was already telling him he was being an idiot. It wasn't Anderson, just someone who happened to look a bit like him. Perhaps he was just over-reacting because of the burial. And the dead girl.
'You're right. Sorry.' McLean rubbed at his aching eyes. He needed to do something, but perhaps staring at a flickering screen for yet more hours wasn't it. 'Look, is there any way I could get a copy of this evening's footage? Just a couple of hours leading up to closing?' Or a few minutes. He'd already seen his own hurried entry into the building immortalised on tape, or hard disc or whatever it was they used these days.
'I'm not sure. I'd have thought so, but I'll have to run it past the senior manager. Did you want it now?' The security manager gave him a look of such utter desperation that McLean had to relent.
'No, you're all right.' He fished in his jacket for a card, handed it over. 'It's not that urgent, but if I could get it in the next couple of days.'
The security manager took the card like it was a winning lottery ticket. 'Aye, well, I'll see what I can do.'
~~~~
18
McLean thumbed the number as he stepped out of the staff door into the cold night air. He should probably have programmed it into the phone's memory, but it was imprinted in his brain just fine. What he needed now was a drink anyway, not a half hour fight with some irritating but essential technology.
'Hello?' Female voice at the end of the line. Rachel. Damn, he'd been hoping not to have to talk to her.
'Hi Rae, Tony here. How's things?'
'Oh, you know, same old. Got some samples through for the bridesmaids dresses, and I need to finalise the menu. The band's mucking us about, too. I don't suppose you could, oh I don't know, give them a parking ticket or something?'
McLean laughed. 'Rae, the wedding's not for another six months.'
'Six months is nothing, Tony. It'll be gone like that. I have to have it planned.'
'You'll be fine. And anyway, I thought Phil was going to spirit you off to Vegas, get you hitched by an Elvis impersonator.'
'Don't you even start. I suppose you want to talk to him.'
'Actually, I was hoping I might be able to borrow him for the evening.' He glanced at the dark clouds, the empty, lamplit back street. 'What's left of it.'
'Please, take him. He's only getting in the way here. Just promise to bring him back.'
'OK, Rae. It's a deal. Tell him I'll be in The Arms in half an hour.'
Putting his phone away, McLean voiced an unheard thanks that he'd caught Rachel in a good mood. Lately, as the impending wedding loomed slightly closer, she'd taken to calling him at the oddest of times to ask him stupid questions. Had he organised the Stag Night? Did he have a partner for the wedding? What was she going to wear? He could only pity Phil. His ex flat-mate and best friend was surely having to endure ten times worse.
Even allowing the time it took to grab a kebab and eat it in the steamy warmth of the shop, McLean still made it to the pub first. He was halfway down his pint before the swinging doors drew in a blast of chill air and the gangly, unkempt figure he'd been expecting.
'You're late.' McLean held up the full glass that had once been twin to his own. Phil took it, draining enough to match in one long gulp.
'Cheers, I needed that.' He wiped foam from his upper lip and smiled. McLean thought he looked tired, the creases round his eyes less from laughter than from lack of sleep. 'Christ, sometimes I wonder what possessed me.'
'Rachel getting that bad, eh? She sounded all right on the phone.'
'No, not Rae. Sure she's a bit obsessed, but she makes up for that in other ways.' Phil smirked, something of his old self showing through. 'No, it's the lab. I thought being a professor meant sitting in my office all day reading papers, making life miserable for undergrads and waiting for the invitations to international conferences to come in.'
'And it's not?'
'Hell, no. I've got a budget the size of a small banana republic, a staff of overpaid academic prima-donnas, each of whom needs their ego massaging at least once a day, and that's not to mention the committees. Health and Safety, Public Relations, Ethics. I can't remember the last time I actually picked up a test tube. What's so funny?'
'Yo
u.' McLean slapped his old friend on the back. 'You sound almost grown up.'
'Yeah, well, I guess. People depend on me.'
'Tell me about it. Sounds a lot like being an inspector. Technically I'm a detective, but half the time all I'm doing is telling sergeants and constables what to do.'
'At least it's only half the time. Here, let me get another one in.' Phil had finished his pint, and McLean drained what was left of his, waiting patiently whilst it was replaced. They took their bounty to a table far away from the noisy jukebox blaring out old eighties tunes.
'So, you've got your best man speech sorted, I take it?' Phil asked.
'Can't I just wing it?'
'Depends on whether or not you want to live out the day, mate. You've not seen Rachel when she's roused.'
'Perhaps I'd better do something about that then. And I guess there's your stag night, too. Any idea what you want to do?'
'As long as it doesn't involve too many of your police friends.'
McLean feigned a hurt look. 'What's wrong with them?'
'Individually? Nothing at all. Bob's a good laugh, that young lad, Mac-whatsit. A bit earnest, but he's got promise. Big Andy's useful in a pub quiz team. But you know, get them all together at once and it can get a bit out of hand. I used to think undergrads drank too much.'
McLean remembered Big Andy Houseman's stag night, and knew what Phil was talking about. Put a bunch of off-duty policeman together in the same place as large quantities of alcohol and it was never likely to be pretty.
'I'll keep the uniform count down, Phil. You can trust me on that.'
'What're you planning then. Ten pin bowling and curry? Skating at Murrayfield? A lap dancing club down in Leith?'
'And you wish.' McLean made a mental note to get started on organising something. It was only six months since Phil had asked him to be his best man, after all. 'Rachel will kill me if I do anything involving women, you know.'
'Of course. But she doesn't need to know. Anyway, Jenny's got something outrageous organised for the hens. She was asking, by the way. Wanted to know if she should ask Emma along, to get to know some of the other girls, you know. So she's not completely lost come the day.'
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 7