by James Oswald
‘Nonsense, it’s the least I can do. You helped me in my hour of need.’
He had done, McLean had to admit. But then she had helped him and Emma both. He pulled out the chair, slipped his jacket off to hang it over the back, then remembered what he’d been meaning to do all along.
‘Well, it smells delicious but it’ll have to wait two minutes.’
Madame Rose gave him something halfway between a scowl and a questioning look as he headed swiftly out of the kitchen. McLean had put on a clean jacket that morning, the previous one smelling rather too much of the Leith Walk fire. What he’d forgotten to do in the rush was transfer the contents of his pockets. It wasn’t usually a problem; he had a few pairs of latex gloves and some small plastic evidence bags in all his jacket and coat pockets, except when they were fresh back from the cleaners.
This one hadn’t made it that far yet, and he hauled it out of the growing pile in the corner of his bedroom, fishing in the pocket for what he wanted before returning to the kitchen and the unexpected meal. When he arrived, it was to find a glass of beer poured and waiting beside his plate, Madame Rose seated across the table with her back to the Aga.
‘Not having any yourself?’ McLean asked as he tucked in to one of the best chillis he had tasted since Phil had finally moved out of the flat in Newington.
‘Had mine earlier.’ Madame Rose glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall, but said no more. There followed a silence while McLean ate for a while, then he unfolded the sheet of paper he had fetched, smoothing out the creases.
‘What do you know about this?’ He pushed the paper across the table. Madame Rose picked it up, read it through.
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ she said after a while. ‘Where’d you get it from?’
‘The door to your shop. It managed to survive the heat of the fire, too. Somehow I don’t think that’s on account of the paper.’
‘I tried to get back in today but they wouldn’t let me. Said it needed to be signed off by Health and Safety. It’s my house and they won’t let me in.’
‘Standard procedure after a fire. I’m sorry.’ McLean took back the flyer whilst spooning another mouthful of chilli into his face. It was cheaply produced, a line drawing of a shouting man with an exclamation mark in a speech bubble above him. Below it, the words ‘!!!Stop the Developement!!!’. Bad spelling apart, it was easy enough to see what it was about. Plans had been lodged to knock down the empty shops and redevelop some of the tenement blocks. Remembering the general air of run-down seediness about the place, McLean couldn’t help thinking it would only be an improvement, but obviously enough of the locals disagreed.
‘Your place on Leith Walk. You own that, right?’
Madame Rose nodded.
‘And has anyone approached you about buying it?’
‘Buying it?’ The look of horror on the medium’s face was enough of an answer.
‘So you’ve not had any offers recently.’
‘No. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked. And I wouldn’t sell even if they did. It’s my home. No, it’s more than that.’
An image of the house, untouched by the fire and yet surrounded on all sides by destruction, swam unbidden into McLean’s mind. Much more than a home, it would seem.
‘Well, I’ve an idea I might know why you’ve been getting grief recently. Why they shoved shit through your letterbox and killed one of your cats.’
‘You do?’ Madame Rose clasped a large be-ringed hand to her ample chest.
‘I don’t know who. Not just yet. But I suspect the why is a rather crude attempt to soften you up. Someone’s waiting for you to get the hint and put the place on the market. Then they’ll swoop in and buy it at a knockdown price.’
‘But who would do such a thing?’
McLean picked up the flyer again. At the bottom was a name, a contact email address and a mobile phone number. ‘Right now I don’t know. But I’ve a suspicion there’s someone who might.’
The needle crackled quietly on the vinyl as it spiralled into the centre of the record. McLean sat in his favourite high-backed armchair, a glass of whisky on the table by his side, and let the repetitive hiss-thunk hiss-thunk wash over him. It wasn’t often he had a chance to sit and think these days, even less so with a stomach pleasantly full of good food. A shame really that he had to go back to work the next day.
‘Your grandmother had a keen eye.’
McLean opened his, only then aware that he’d closed them and was drifting off. Madame Rose had come in silently to peruse the bookshelves. She reached up and pulled out a hefty leather volume, one large finger caressing the spine like a lover.
‘Can’t be sure that wasn’t one my grandfather bought. Might have been in the family for generations.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Madame Rose extracted a pair of half-moon spectacles from her ample bosom, where they were dangling on a fine silver chain. She slid them on before opening up the book. McLean reckoned it must have weighed at least a couple of kilos, and yet she held it as if it were no more substantial than a slim paperback collection of poetry.
‘Did you ever get around to cataloguing them all?’ he asked. He knew Madame Rose had begun the task, with Emma helping, but events had conspired to put a stop to that. And then Emma had left.
‘I barely scratched the surface.’ Madame Rose laughed as she closed the book and put it back where it had come from, lining it up perfectly with the others on the shelf. ‘We made a start on this room, but there’s plenty more in the old study, and boxes up in the attic that look like they’ve not been touched in a century. This whole house is a treasure trove.’
‘It’s too big and costs a fortune to heat in the winter. I really would be better off selling it and moving someplace smaller. Maybe more central.’
A look of horror spread across Madame Rose’s face. ‘Sell? Surely you can’t mean …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not serious. Selling and moving would be far more disruptive than staying here. And it’s not as if I can’t afford the bills.’
‘It’s more than that, though. Isn’t it? This is your home, same as it was your grandmother’s before you. It would have been your father’s too, had he not …’ Madame Rose hesitated.
‘Died? Abandoned me? It’s OK. I don’t mind talking about it. It was a long time ago.’
‘And yet a part of you is still back there. Stuck in the past.’
‘Isn’t a part of all of us?’ McLean took up his whisky, needing the fortification if this was going to turn philosophical. There wasn’t much left in the glass, but pouring another one might not be wise.
‘We are all defined by our past. That’s not the same as living in it. You can move on if you want to. There’s nothing holding you back.’
McLean downed the last of the whisky, hauled himself out of the chair and went to the record player. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said as he lifted the needle carefully back into its rest and switched everything off. ‘But now I think I’d better get some sleep. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a busy one tomorrow.’
Madame Rose took another book from the shelf, caressing it as she had the first. ‘They always are, Inspector. They always are.’
41
‘I’m going to my dad’s old school soon. It’s gonnae be cool.’
We’re sitting under the old cedar tree in his garden, Norman and me. I like his garden better than Gran’s. It’s smaller and the trees are older, like the house I suppose.
‘You’re not coming back to our school then? Next term?’
‘Nah. Going down to some place in England. Near London, I think.’
‘England? Wow.’ Norman says it like it’s someplace far, far away, and for the first time since Gran told me the news I realise that it is. It’s further than I’ve ever been before. Further than I can really imagine.
‘Come on. Let’s go see if we can get to the top of the tree again.’ Always easier to be doing things than thinking about them. And th
e view from the top’s brilliant.
‘Race you.’ Norman scrambles to his feet, but I’m quicker. Stronger too, he’s always been a bit weedy for his age. He goes for the lowest branch while I try to shimmy up the thick trunk. The trick to climbing the old cedar is getting to the first fork. Then it’s easy. You can get there along a branch if you can jump up and pull one down far enough. Or you can shove your hands in the cracks and haul yourself up the trunk like those men Gran let me watch on the telly, climbing the Old Man of Hoy.
I’m almost at the fork when I hear a loud crack. Norman doesn’t scream, but then maybe the solid thud of him hitting the ground has winded him. I’m not that high up, really. Looking round I can see a thick branch, a pale hand poking out from under a thick blanket of dark green needles. I jump down and hurry over, terrified that he might have broken his neck.
‘Norman, you OK?’ The branch is heavy, thick as my thigh where it’s broken under his weight. It’s a silly detail to notice, but I can see where something has attacked the wood, sticky sap oozing around a deep wound. That’ll be why it’s broken; Norman’s not that heavy, after all.
He groans as I haul the branch off him, reaches up to his head. For a moment I think he’s fine, and then I see the cut on his hand. It’s deep, dark red blood flowing freely, smearing on his face as he pushes needles out of his hair.
‘Shit. That looks bad.’ He winces at the rude word, same as he always has. It gives me a thrill saying it though. Even if I know Gran would clip me round the ear if she heard me. I reach out and take his other hand, haul him to his feet. He sways, stunned by the fall or my cursing, it’s hard to tell with Norman.
‘Come on. Better get you back to the house. Get that cleaned up.’
‘Mum’s gonnae kill me.’ Norman looks at his clothes, bloodstained and torn. His face is very pale, more so even than usual.
‘No she won’t.’ I try to sound reassuring, even though I know how different Mr and Mrs Bale are to my Gran, to how I remember my own mum and dad. ‘Well, maybe a little bit.’
42
‘You know anything about common repairs, Bob?’
The tiny room they had commandeered for the fire investigation was a sharp contrast to the two major incident rooms a floor down. As was the manpower available for the job. Grumpy Bob made up the entire team at the moment, and he looked up from his desk at McLean’s question like a man who had only just got comfortable enough for a quick nap.
‘Tenements and stuff like that?’
‘Aye. Used to be the council would serve a repair order. Not sure if they’re doing it still. You know, when all the residents in one block couldn’t agree what needed doing. Had it happen to my old place in Newington a good while back, but there’s been nothing from them this time around. I wasn’t sure if it still happened.’
‘You’d be better off asking the lad. He’d have an answer for you in a couple of taps on that wee screen of his.’
‘Didn’t really want to load him up with any more work. He’s already doing too much as it is.’
‘Fair point. He’s been looking a bit run-down lately.’ Grumpy Bob scratched at his chin where the morning’s razor had missed a bit. ‘Doesn’t help that he’s so keen. Shows all the other constables up.’
‘Christ, Bob. He uses his brain, shows some initiative, and people think that’s keen? It’s the bloody job, isn’t it? Least it was when I signed up.’
Grumpy Bob sat up straight, his face reddening slightly at the rebuke. ‘Just telling it how it is, sir.’
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just … this place, sometimes. People get an idea and run with it. Never seem to know when enough’s enough. Like all those stupid pranks they played on me last year.’
‘You got a nice car out of it. And a couple of suits.’
‘Not helping, Bob. And you know that’s not the point. I’m thrawn enough to weather it out, but MacBride’s not coping so well.’
‘Aye, I know. Been keeping an eye out. He’ll get over it, mind. He’s tougher than he looks.’
The door opening behind him put an end to the conversation. McLean spun around, expecting to see the object of their discussions. Instead it was DS Ritchie who shuffled into the room backwards, an awkward box under one arm, coffee in the other hand.
‘Here, let me.’ McLean thought of relieving her of the coffee, but took the box instead. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Depends what you find interesting. It’s mostly just photos from the scene.’
‘Any news from the fire investigation team?’
‘Report’s in there, too.’ Ritchie nodded at the box, then took a sip of her coffee. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think there’d be anyone in here yet.’
McLean put the box down on the nearest table and started leafing through the contents. The report was a thick sheaf of paper, densely packed type giving him a headache before he’d even started reading it. He flicked through, looking for the executive summary, gave up and turned to the photographs. These had been printed on glossy paper, which probably meant the budget for the investigation was blown already. The problem with digital cameras was a tendency of crime scene photographers to rattle off a dozen or more pictures of exactly the same thing. Fortunately someone had already been at this lot and only printed up a few duplicates of each.
‘Definitely arson then?’ Grumpy Bob had picked up the discarded report and begun flicking through.
‘Double arson, if you’re being technical,’ Ritchie said. ‘Someone shoved lighter fluid through the letterboxes for the betting shop and chippy both. They’re not sure how the fire spread to the two houses either side of number twelve but left it untouched. Most of the report goes into technical details about stone wall thickness, safety gaps, stuff like that. To be honest, I think they’re scratching their heads on this one.’
McLean took a series of wide-view photographs and pinned them to the wall. One taken from the far side of the street showed a line of vehicles parked in front of the burnt-out shop fronts and houses. ‘We get anywhere with the vans?’
Ritchie guddled around in the box and came out with a handful of papers. ‘Some of them are local. Had every right to be parked there. These three are untraceable as yet.’ She handed the sheets to McLean, who scanned them for salient details. Two Ford Escort vans and a Fiat Doblo. Common enough that finding out who owned them without proper identification would be a pain.
‘Let me guess. These were right outside the door to number twelve. Madame Rose’s place.’
‘That’s the one. Forensics have got them all back at their labs. Might be able to get something useful from them. The plates are clones though, and they’ve all had their VINs removed. Might get lucky with the Fiat. Apparently some of the parts are individually numbered and they can cross-reference with the actual vehicle build number. They’ll get the VIN from that and then we’ll know who owned it.’
‘Sounds technical,’ McLean said.
‘Well, you know me and cars, sir.’ Ritchie smiled, took another sip of coffee.
‘I presume this will take some time.’
‘Could be a couple of weeks. Depends a lot on who we speak to at Fiat. Even then it’ll probably turn out to have been stolen from down south a year ago.’
McLean fished the flyer out of his pocket, unfolded it and pinned it to the board next to the photographs. ‘We’ll have to try some other avenues of enquiry then.’
About five minutes into their questioning, McLean realised that Dudley Sanderson and Douglas Ballantyne had probably been separated at birth. They didn’t look much alike, and Sanderson was a good ten years younger than the bearded conspiracy theorist, but the two of them shared a world-view with remarkable exactness.
He’d asked DS Ritchie to call the number on the flyer, hoping that she would take up that strand of the fire investigation and run with it. Mr Sanderson had volunteered to come in to the station immediately and answer all their questions. That should have set the alarm bells ringing; Mc
Lean was well experienced in nutters and could usually spot them before he had to interact. Perhaps he was more tired than he realised, tired enough to agree to sit in on the interview at least.
And so here they were, stuck in a hot and stuffy interview room three. It still smelled overpoweringly of fresh paint, and the hot sun shining through the small, high window was just enough to cook all the goodness out of the air.
‘So what you’re saying, Mr Sanderson, is that numbers ten and fourteen are owned by two different development companies. Number twelve is, of course, owned by the individual who lives there.’
Sanderson dragged his gaze away from Ritchie, or at least Ritchie’s chest, at which he had been staring almost constantly for the whole interview. The expression on his face was almost as if he had forgotten McLean was there, which was perfectly possible given the rambling nature of his monologue. There was a hint of irritation in his eyes, too. Clearly not a man used to being interrupted, although that might have been because nobody ever listened to him at all.
‘That is correct, Detective Inspector. Brightwing Holdings owns the freehold of number ten, and a company called Wendle Stevens owns number fourteen. They—’
‘So if two different companies are involved, what makes you think there is any development in hand? These are big houses. Most of them have already been split into flats. I’m sure they’re going to do the same to these, but that’s not what you’re claiming, is it?’
Sanderson left a short pause before answering, as if he were checking to make sure McLean wasn’t going to say anything else.
‘As I was trying to say before I was interrupted, Detective Inspector, the two companies are both registered with the same firm of solicitors. They both filed plans at the same time and they’re using the same architects.’
‘So you think they’re actually the same organisation acting under two different names.’ Foolishly, DS Ritchie asked the question. Sanderson’s head snapped around, his attention once more fixed on her chest. McLean suspected that he was less fascinated with her breasts than embarrassed at looking into a woman’s eyes. He could have been wrong though.