Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  Inside, the bookies showed just as much promise as expected. The smoking ban had long since cleared the air, but a yellow nicotine stain still clung to the ceiling and walls. Burning tobacco would probably have been preferable to the medley of aromas that assailed his nose as McLean stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene. It wasn’t exactly a hive of activity, just a couple of old men in opposite corners staring up at old-style bulky television screens screwed to the walls, a spotty-faced youth behind the counter. One other punter stood at a table in the middle of the room, tongue protruding from the side of his mouth as he concentrated on the tiny print in his Racing Times.

  ‘What’re we …?’ Ritchie began to ask, but McLean quieted her with a wave of his arm as he stepped fully into the room. One of the old men looked at him with a distrustful glare, but the other one didn’t take his eyes off the television. He walked up to the punter at the table.

  ‘Got any tips?’

  ‘Eh?’ The man looked up, surprise widening his eyes.

  ‘What’s on this afternoon? Ayr?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then his gaze softened. ‘Ayr, aye. Not much of a turnout, mind.’ He folded up his paper so McLean couldn’t see the horses he’d picked, then turned and walked away.

  ‘Friendly,’ Ritchie whispered.

  ‘Doesn’t want to chance his luck, does he?’ McLean smiled at his own joke, headed for the counter and the spotty youth.

  ‘The boss in?’ he asked before the lad could speak. The youth looked up at him, startled, then saw the warrant card McLean had pulled out of his pocket.

  ‘I … I’ll just get him.’

  He scurried off, disappearing through a door at the back just as McLean felt a presence by his side.

  ‘He going to be long?’ It was the punter with the Racing Times, now rolled up into a tight tube and clasped in a nervous hand. ‘Only the race starts in five.’

  McLean looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. You got your runners all picked out then?’

  ‘Yeah. Reckon.’ The punter tapped his rolled up paper against his arm. He was short, wiry. A face like a shaven ferret. Malnourished might be the right word. It wasn’t hard to see where most of his money went.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The manager had arrived, shadowed by the spotty youth. ‘Only I already spoke to youse lot last week.’

  ‘Take the man’s bet first, aye?’ McLean stood to one side, letting the punter in with his slip. Money changed hands, and then the man sidled off, the faintest nod of thanks as he went to find a stool from where he could see his luck run out on the racecourse. McLean watched him go, then turned back to the manager.

  ‘Anywhere quiet I might have a word?’

  27

  The manager’s office had the dubious honour of making the run-down betting shop beyond it look well kept. There was a desk, not large, and covered with a stack of paperwork that could give McLean’s own one back at the station a run for its money. A couple of tall filing cabinets filled the back wall, a broken printer balanced precariously on top. Boxes cluttered most of the available space. There was certainly nowhere to sit other than the chair behind the desk, which the manager dropped himself into like a man whose legs have had enough. Given his size, McLean could only sympathise with them.

  ‘Don’t really know how I can help you, Inspector. It is Inspector, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, yes. Mr …?’

  ‘Ballard. Johnny Ballard.’ The manager made the most minimal of efforts to get up, almost raised a hand to shake, then collapsed again into his chair.

  ‘Well, Mr Ballard. I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t waste too much of your time. Like you said, you’ve already spoken to one of my constables.’

  ‘Aye, young lad, scar on his forehead like that chap in the film.’

  ‘You’re not that busy today.’

  ‘Today, every day.’ Ballard rocked back in his chair, making room for his gut behind the desk. ‘Who needs a bookies when you’ve got the internet, eh?’

  ‘People looking to be paid in cash, I’d guess.’

  ‘Now look here …’ Ballard would have sprung to his feet, McLean was sure of it. Had his belly not been in the way.

  ‘Calm down, Mr Ballard. I’m not here to make life difficult for you. Quite the opposite. I imagine business has been even slower since our lot set up in the caves downstairs. Not much of a betting man myself, but I’d wager the two old blokes don’t spend more than a fiver at a time, and the lad whose brew money you just took probably doesn’t bring in any more.’

  ‘Keith’s all right. Even wins a bit now and then. Just enough to keep him going.’ Ballard slumped back into his seat again. ‘And you’re right enough. Business isn’t exactly booming here, but that stuff with the journalist? Well, let’s just say it’s not helping.’

  ‘Sooner we’re gone, the better?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt, aye.’

  ‘So tell me then, Mr Ballard. In the month up to the body turning up in the caves. You notice any new people through the door?’

  ‘What d’ye mean? We get new customers every day.’

  ‘You sure of that? Every day?’

  ‘Well, maybe not—’

  ‘You have a core of regulars. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in them. I’m looking for anyone who might’ve come in more than once over the last month or two. Maybe asking questions, maybe just looking around the place.’

  Ballard furrowed his brow in a good impression of a man who found thinking hard. McLean knew it was an act, even if just a subconscious one. You didn’t get to run a bookies in this part of town without having an above-average intelligence and a way with people.

  ‘Kind’ve hard to remember it all. What, two months back? That’d be when they were working on the drains, digging up the road down the hill a bit. Had a few of the workmen come in. Not big spenders, and one of them cleaned up on a three-way accumulator if I remember right.’

  ‘Roadworks down the hill?’ McLean looked across at DS Ritchie, who was leaning against the wall by the door. ‘Why’ve I not heard about this before?’

  ‘No idea, sir. I’ll find out.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and started tapping at the screen.

  ‘There was a bloke, now I think about it,’ Ballard said, dragging McLean’s attention back. ‘Strange little fellow. Came in with the road crew sometimes. On his own others. Not sure he ever placed a bet though.’

  ‘He speak to anyone? Meet anyone? Bookies is a good place to arrange to meet someone if you don’t want to go to the pub.’

  ‘Aye, could have been that, I guess. Bit bloody cheeky, mind.’ Ballard furrowed his brow again, his eyes almost disappearing in the folds of skin around his face. ‘No. Thought I could remember what he looked like, but it’s gone. Just got an idea of a person, nothing more.’

  ‘Well, it’s better than nothing. We can speak to the road crew, see if any of them remember.’ It wasn’t much – probably wouldn’t come to anything – but it was more than anyone else investigating the case had managed so far. ‘I’ll send an e-fit specialist up to see you too, if you can spare a half-hour from your busy schedule.’

  ‘Never had you as a betting man, sir.’

  ‘Can’t remember the last time I put money on anything. And my knowledge of horse racing could be summarised neatly by the phrase “bugger all”.’

  ‘But …’ Ritchie half-turned towards the now-closed door to the bookies.

  ‘Bullshit with confidence, Sergeant. That’s the trick.’ McLean set off in the direction of the car park, anxious to get back to his precious Alfa before someone could drop something on it from a great height.

  ‘No way that was bullshit. How’d you know all that stuff about Ayr racecourse? Not exactly your home turf, is it?’

  McLean stopped mid-stride. Turned back to face Ritchie. ‘I was three years on the beat, Sergeant. Not like some of you fast-track youngsters these days. Most of that time I spent with old Guthrie McManus.
No one else had the time of day for him, but he was OK once you got to know him. Helped if you weren’t completely useless at the job too, I guess.

  ‘Thing is, Guthrie was fond of a flutter. I must have followed him into pretty much every betting shop in the city back then, watching while he placed his bets, claimed his occasional winnings. You don’t do this job if you’re no good at noticing things, so I picked up enough to get me by. Learned another useful thing, too. See Guthrie liked a bet now and then, but he also knew a good source of information. Wasn’t a bookie out there he couldn’t tap for answers if he needed. And he was good enough to more or less make it pay.’

  Ritchie stared at him, jaw slightly slack, but McLean’s attention was caught by the man exiting the bookmaker’s, head down with the despondent weight of someone who’s just lost the weekly food money on a horse that was a dead cert to win.

  ‘Stay there a minute,’ he said to the sergeant, then raised his voice to the ferrety little man. ‘It’s Keith, isn’t it?’

  At the sound of his voice, Keith stopped walking, looked up with that familiar guilty expression, mixed with confusion.

  ‘It’s OK. You don’t owe me anything.’ That seemed to relax the man, at least a little.

  ‘What then? Only I’m—’

  ‘Busy? Aye, I noticed that. So I’ll not keep you long. You go in there a lot, I reckon. Make a bit, lose a bit?’ McLean had positioned himself so it was difficult for the young man to move on without being obvious about it. Now he spoke more quickly than normal, giving him little room to get a word in.

  ‘What’s it to—?’

  ‘Reckon you notice stuff, too.’ McLean nodded at the tightly rolled-up Racing Times Keith was clutching as if it still held the secrets to all happiness. ‘You look for the patterns, am I right?’

  ‘I … yeah. Do my best.’

  ‘And you like that. Noticing stuff, aye? Like when the road crews were in a few weeks back. When the police came round after they found that body in the caves.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Keith finally looked up at McLean’s face, took in his dark suit and began to reach a conclusion. Maybe not as observant as he thought he was.

  ‘I’m Tony,’ McLean said. ‘And I’m trying to find out who killed that reporter.’

  ‘You’re polis.’ It wasn’t a question, and Keith finally seemed to understand something of his situation. As he moved to step past, McLean took a hold of his arm, as lightly as he dared.

  ‘I’m not here to bother you, Keith. I’m looking for help, and if you can help me maybe I can help you in return.’ He looked up, past the young man’s head towards the door to the betting shop. Keith’s head twitched involuntarily as his eyes started to follow, a haunted look on his face.

  ‘What you want then?’ he asked eventually.

  McLean let go of the arm. ‘Like I said, I reckon you notice things. See the patterns. You’ll have noticed the road crews coming in and placing bets from time to time, and I reckon you’ll have noticed someone else come in over the past couple of months. Someone who didn’t quite fit in. Maybe didn’t even place any bets.’

  ‘Like someone casing the joint?’

  ‘That’s the one. Maybe even just hanging around to see who comes and goes and when.’

  Keith shook his head. ‘I dunno. Can’t really think of anyone, right enough. I mean, there’s always folk coming and going.’

  ‘Well, give it some thought, OK?’ McLean dug into his jacket pocket for a business card. There was a folded ten pound note in there too, another of Guthrie McManus’s tips. He pulled both out together, hiding the money under the card as he handed it over like a magician. ‘Give us a call if anything sparks a memory.’

  ‘You think that was wise, giving him cash like that? He’ll only lose it on the horses. Come back for more.’

  They were making slow progress back towards the station, traffic backed up along Clerk Street by an accident, or just too many buses. McLean found it hard not to keep his eye on the temperature gauge, waiting for it to tip into the red like it always used to, but so far it had held perfectly steady in the centre of the dial.

  ‘It’s a risk, but you never know. If I were a betting man, I’d lay you a tenner he calls me in the next couple of days saying he thinks he remembers someone. I’ll get him to do an e-fit, same as the manager. If we get two different people, we’ve just lost a bit of time and ten pounds. If they both come up with something similar …’ It was thin, and McLean knew it. But then the whole investigation was thin. The harder they looked, the less evidence there was that anyone at all had killed Ben Stevenson. No forensics in the cave, nothing at his home but the all-too-obvious signs of his obsession, no motive, not even the slightest hint of a suspect.

  ‘We’re really clutching at straws, aren’t we, sir?’ Ritchie summed up the hopelessness in a simple cliché.

  ‘Still one or two to go.’

  ‘There are?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s Douglas Ballantyne for one.’

  ‘Douglas … oh, aye. I’d forgotten about him. The conspiracy theorist.’

  ‘The same. He should be back from the US by now. Think we should pay him a wee visit tomorrow.’

  ‘And you really think he’ll be able to help us?’

  ‘He was in contact with Stevenson. At the least he should be able to tell us what he was working on. Jo Dalgliesh has been looking into that, too. If we can piece together Stevenson’s movements and motives leading up to his death, then maybe we can have a guess at why someone might want to kill him.’

  The traffic started moving again, and McLean eased the car forward to keep with the flow.

  ‘Straws,’ Ritchie said as the acceleration pushed her gently back into her seat. ‘Clutching.’

  28

  I gave the child a week. If it hadn’t died by then I would have helped it along, but it only managed three days in the end. I’d have preferred five, if I’m being honest. That would have given me a little more time to prepare. But God’s will cannot be gainsaid, and the child however flawed was one of His creations too. He has set me this task to perform. It is not for Him to make it easy.

  People fall apart in surprisingly predictable ways. Jim, for all his years of medical training, had allowed himself to get too close, too emotionally attached to his patients. Losing them felt to him like failure, as if it were somehow his fault that the child had got cancer in the first place. This child was particularly special to him. I’ve no idea why. Maybe he had a friend who suffered a similar fate; that might explain his interest in medicine. The whys are unimportant, only the hows matter.

  I find him where I expect him to be, at the glass wall where we had our little chat just a few days ago. He looks unwell, like a man who’s not slept in days. He stares through at the empty bed as if he thinks that staring might make it unhappen.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I just heard.’ Not true, of course, but timing is everything. He turns at my voice and I can see the red around his eyes and nose, the tears threatening to come back at any moment. He wipes a sleeve against his face, sniffs hard. Says nothing.

  ‘I tried,’ I say. ‘We might have been able to do something, if we’d had a little more time. There was a trial, but …’ I let the words tail off, leave the next step to him.

  ‘It always takes too long. Endless committees wringing their hands. If I could just bring them here. Show them this.’ He slams an angry palm against the glass, making it wobble. A passing nurse starts to scowl, then realises who it is, bobs her head and hurries away.

  ‘It doesn’t have to.’ I pitch my voice low and quiet, but he still hears. I can see the change in his posture. This is what he’s been waiting for.

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘Not here.’ I reach into my pocket, pull out the card I wrote earlier. An address, my assumed name. Nothing else. ‘This evening at eight. There’s some people I’d like you to meet. Some things you might like to see.’

  I hold his gaze as he takes the card from
me, slips it into his pocket. He nods once, just the slightest tip of the head, but it’s enough. If he takes this step, he will be free. His redemption will be complete. Now only time can tell.

  29

  If his house was anything to go by, then making stuff up for a living was very lucrative. At least if you were as convincingly creative as Douglas Ballantyne. McLean had tried wading through the book that he’d taken from Ben Stevenson’s flat, the mad ideas wrapped up in a plausible presentation of carefully selected facts. Like so many others, Ballantyne was obsessed with the Masons, the Knights Templar and all the associated nonsense that clung to them like body odour to a teenage boy. It was a rich market of paranoia to feed.

  Nestling in a quiet glen about a half-hour’s drive south of the city, Ballantyne House was surrounded by acres of parkland. Scraggy-looking sheep sheltered under ancient trees, doing their best to escape the withering summer sun. A small herd of deer peered nervously at the car as McLean navigated a narrow driveway that took him and DS Ritchie away from an already minor road and brought them finally to the house itself.

  ‘Remind me to get started on that misery memoir when we get back to the city, sir.’ Ritchie’s gaze didn’t shift from the building as she climbed out of the car and closed the door behind her. Even McLean had to admit it was impressive, as Scots Baronial piles went. Three storeys of red sandstone and harling radiating in the afternoon heat. It was almost picture perfect, although he reckoned it would be a bugger to keep warm in the winter.