by James Oswald
‘You’re not a suspect, Mr Temperly. No.’ McLean cut in to defuse the sudden tension in the small room. Across the table, Temperly slowly pushed his phone back into his pocket. ‘You’re helping us with our enquiries. Nothing more. If I thought you had anything to do with the fires, you’d be under caution and you would, as you so rightly pointed out, be fully entitled to have your solicitor present during all questioning. I’ve a feeling neither your firm nor Wendle Stevens wanted this fire to happen. It was set by a third party, and I’m trying to find out why. Then I can hopefully find out who.’
‘McLean. My office. Now.’
McLean was barely out of the interview room, watching as DS Ritchie escorted Basil Temperly from the station, when the all-too-familiar voice boomed out down the corridor. He turned slowly, knowing full well who it was had shouted at him.
‘Is it urgent, sir? Only I was hoping to grab something from the canteen before they ran out of lunch.’
Duguid stared at him with puzzled, piggy eyes for a moment, as if the idea of someone not immediately jumping to attention at his command was inconceivable.
‘Yes it is bloody urgent. Now get your arse up to my office. There’s someone needs to talk to you and you really don’t want to keep him waiting.’
Trying hard to keep his sigh inaudible, McLean closed the interview room door and headed in Duguid’s direction.
‘Who wants to see me, sir? Why?’
‘Not here.’ Duguid growled the words as they climbed the stairs. As far as McLean could tell, there wasn’t a soul within earshot, but he’d long since given up trying to understand Duguid’s moods. He’d find out soon enough.
Three flights up and they reached the door to Duguid’s office. It was closed, the admin desk just outside it unmanned. Duguid reached for the door handle, grasping it before finally speaking. ‘This had better be a huge misunderstanding, McLean. I’m not covering for you if it isn’t.’
Bemused, McLean was going to ask what he was talking about, but without another word, Duguid opened the door and ushered him inside.
Two men were waiting for him, one in uniform and sitting in Duguid’s expensive leather executive chair, the other in a dark suit and with his back to the door, staring out at the view. McLean had met the deputy chief constable a few times before, generally speaking when he’d done something wrong. The other man he didn’t recognise, not from behind at least.
‘Ah, Detective Inspector McLean.’ The DCC leaned back in his purloined chair, swinging it gently from side to side. ‘So good of you to join us.’
‘Sir. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘Very possible, Detective Inspector. Very possible.’ The suited man turned from the window. McLean still didn’t recognise him, but the English accent, cheap suit and general demeanour meant it wasn’t hard to guess. He’d met enough detectives from Serious and Organised, or whatever they were calling themselves these days, to know one when he saw one.
‘Tell me, how are your friends the McClymonts these days?’
‘I’m sorry. Who are you?’ McLean asked.
‘Answer the question, McLean.’ The DCC growled the words, irritation creasing his face.
‘Happily, sir. When I know who I’m being interrogated by.’
The DCC’s scowl deepened and he was about to speak when the other man butted in. ‘Fair enough. Tim Chambers.’ He held out a hand to be shaken. ‘I head up the drug task force. NCA. We’ve been watching your friends the McClymonts for a while now.’
McLean took the proffered hand, stared Chambers in the face. He was perhaps early fifties if the lines were anything to go by, but fit, hair showing only the faintest of grey in among the dark brown. If he was National Crime Agency and accompanied by the deputy chief constable, then chances were he was a chief superintendent at the very least, which made the implicit accusation all the more serious.
‘Sorry to be so defensive, sir. It’s just that’s twice you’ve referred to people I don’t know as my friends. That kind of puts my back up.’
‘Really? You’re telling me you don’t know Joe and Jock McClymont? But you had a meeting with them just a few weeks ago. You’re listed as a partner in their latest development here in Edinburgh.’
‘I … what?’ McLean looked to the DCC and Duguid who was still standing by the door. He genuinely had no idea what Chambers was talking about. And then the penny dropped.
‘The tenement block in Newington.’
‘Ah, so now he remembers.’
‘But that’s mad. I’m not a partner in that. Well, apart from the fact I own a share of the site. And as for the McClymonts, well, yes I’ve met them. Just the once. I didn’t like the plans they’d drawn up for the site, told them as much. Haven’t heard anything back since, but then I’ve been a bit busy investigating a couple of rather unpleasant murders.’
Chambers raised a single eyebrow, Roger Moore style. He pulled a slim smartphone from his pocket, swiped it on and tapped the screen once, lifting it to his ear.
‘The file on McLean. How many meetings?’ A pause, during which his face darkened visibly. McLean had been on the receiving end of Duguid’s anger before now, but he reckoned whoever had briefed Chambers was going to get it far worse when the man himself got back to HQ. ‘One. That’s it? And the documents lodged with planning. They’re signed?’ Another pause, then without another word, Chambers cut the call, slid the phone back into his pocket.
‘I owe you all an apology, gentlemen. Particularly you, Detective Inspector. I was led to believe you had a long-standing relationship with the McClymonts. It would seem that’s not the case.’
‘You could have just asked.’
Chambers managed a thin smile. ‘You know that’s not how we do things.’
‘Well, for the record, as I said, I’ve met them just once, didn’t care for them or what they’re trying to do to my old home. What’ve they done that’s brought them to your attention?’
Chambers said nothing for a while. McLean knew he was supposed to think this was the senior officer deciding whether he could divulge operational secrets or not, but he also knew it was just for show. He stood and waited; some people couldn’t help but fill a silence.
‘We’ve had our eyes on them for a while now. Suspected they were bringing cocaine and other nasties into the country, using their development company to launder the proceeds. They were a canny pair though, almost like they knew what we were doing and when. That’s why we got very interested when your name turned up on a planning application amendment document they submitted a couple of months back.’
‘They what?’ McLean found he’d clenched his fists, struggled to relax them. ‘So that’s how they got their planning permission. Christ, the cheek of it. When I get my hands on them …’
‘That’ll be difficult, I think,’ Chambers said.
‘You’ve arrested them, have you? I’ll settle for that. For now.’
‘No, we haven’t arrested them. We won’t be arresting them any time soon, sadly. Not ever. They’re both dead.’
45
‘Just why exactly do we have to do this?’
McLean stared out over the steering wheel at the road rumbling north towards Inverness. They’d left Perth long ago and were stuck behind a truck struggling to go faster than walking pace. Beside him in the passenger seat, Grumpy Bob had dispensed with his newspaper, finished the cup of half-decent coffee he’d managed to find at the last service station and was now fidgeting like a schoolboy needing to be excused.
‘I have to do it, apparently, because I’ve dealt with the McClymonts before. And probably because the deputy chief constable was pissed off at being dragged away from his comfy office. Makes no bloody sense. Not when I’m meant to be heading up a murder investigation, but when the DCC says jump, it’s a question of how high.’ McLean gripped the steering wheel tight, his knuckles whitening in frustration. ‘You’re here because you weren’t quick enough with an excuse and I didn’t fancy maki
ng the trip on my own.’
The road opened up into dual carriageway and he dropped a gear, ready to overtake. Before he’d even checked his mirror the peace was shattered by a loud blaring of horn as the car behind squeezed through the narrow gap, one set of wheels on the dead zone where the central reservation began, the driver gesticulating wildly in his rush to get past, get on.
‘Bloody hell. He’s in a hurry to kill himself, isn’t he?’ Grumpy Bob made a rude gesture as McLean looked over his shoulder, checking there were no other idiots about before overtaking the truck in a less hurried fashion, pulling back in just before the dual carriageway ended again.
‘You want to go after him?’ he asked. They were in an unmarked squad car, complete with blue flashing lights hidden in the grille and not-so-discreet siren under the bonnet.
‘Nah. It’s not our patch, after all. Maybe just make a note of his number and have a word with someone when we get there.’ Grumpy Bob fished his notebook out of a pocket and scribbled something down. ‘There’d be a weird kind of justice if we passed that car upside down in a ditch a bit further up the road, mind you.’
‘Don’t joke about it, Bob. This road’s a bastard. Sooner it’s dualled the whole way, the better.’
Grumpy Bob said nothing in return, and McLean went back to his musing. This whole trip was a complete waste of time, a punishment detail if ever he’d seen one. He just wasn’t sure why he was getting it in the neck for a cock-up on the National Crime Agency’s part. They had been the ones watching the McClymonts, the ones who’d not managed to actually pin anything on them in months of investigation.
‘Why aren’t Serious and Organised doing it?’ Grumpy Bob voiced the question that hadn’t been far from McLean’s mind all the way.
‘And spend some of their own budget? Christ only knows. Sooner we get there, the sooner we can get back to some serious work.’ He accelerated, safely overtaking the next lorry, pushing the car up over the speed limit while the road was clear.
‘Still seems a hell of a waste of time.’
‘You won’t find me arguing with you there, Bob. The whole thing’s a complete fiasco.’
It took another hour to get to Raigmore Hospital, park and then find their way to the mortuary. Grumpy Bob moaned all the way, and McLean began to plot ways of leaving the curmudgeonly old sergeant behind. He would probably have preferred a train ride back to Edinburgh anyway.
‘DI McLean and DS Laird. We’re looking for a Dr Gilhooly?’ McLean showed his warrant card to the receptionist, but before she could reply he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.
‘Detective Inspector, eh? Your men in there must be important.’
McLean turned to see who had spoken, noticing for the first time a little waiting area tucked in behind the door he had just entered. A uniformed officer had been sitting there, and now he unfolded himself, standing so tall he almost had to stoop under the ceiling tiles.
‘Sergeant Tanner, sir.’ He held out a hand the size of a glutton’s dinner plate. ‘Was told you were coming. Anything you need, just ask.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Seeing the bodies will probably be enough. Sooner I can get this done and stop wasting all of our time, the better.’
‘Of course. Follow me.’ Tanner raised his head a little and spoke to the receptionist. ‘Buzz us through will you, Janice.’
The mortuary was perhaps not as well equipped as Angus Cadwallader’s den down in the Cowgate, but it was functional enough. Sergeant Tanner had to stoop through each doorway, but he moved with a slow gait that was at least easy enough to keep up with.
‘Hear they’re some kind of criminal masterminds, these two,’ he said.
‘Hardly,’ McLean replied. ‘All I know about them is they’re a couple of property developers who’ve likely greased a palm or two over the years. NCA’s had their eyes on them a while though, suspected drug-running, but they’ve not been able to pin anything on them.’
They had reached the examination theatre, a much smaller space than McLean had been expecting. The table in the middle of the room was already occupied, a body covered in a heavy white sheet.
‘You’d be the Edinburgh police then?’ A man in a white coat approached from the other side of the theatre, meeting them in the middle. He was slight, a fact made even more obvious by the looming presence of Sergeant Tanner. ‘Was expecting you an hour ago.’
‘Dr Gilhooly, I presume.’ McLean didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This one of our crash victims?’
‘Certainly is, and you’re welcome to him.’
The doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal a man’s head and shoulders. McLean had seen more than his fair share of car crashes, and they rarely left a body unscathed. The man he looked down upon had been badly cut across one cheek, almost losing an eye in the process. His nose had been flattened to one side and he was smeared in blood. His shoulders sat all wrong, suggesting worse to view under the rest of the sheet. The doctor was about to reveal more, but McLean reached out a hand and stopped him.
‘That’s OK. I’ve seen enough. It’s Joe McClymont all right. This his dad?’ McLean pointed to a gurney by the wall, another body covered in a white sheet.
‘Reckon so.’ The doctor pulled back the top, revealing the much less badly damaged face of Jock McClymont. He looked strangely peaceful in death.
‘Yup, that’s the old man.’
‘Well I could’ve told you that. Saved you the trip.’
‘I know. But there’s a procedure has to be gone through. Talking of which, is the van here?’
‘Ready and waiting,’ the doctor said.
‘Then we’ll take these bodies off your hands. Get them back to Edinburgh where they belong.’
Dr Gilhooly walked back the way he had come, stuck his head through the open door and shouted something McLean couldn’t quite make out to someone beyond. A moment later they were joined by two orderlies with a trolley. Joe McClymont was swiftly transferred from the examination table, then one of the orderlies fetched his father from his spot by the wall.
‘Sign and they’re yours.’ The doctor produced an official-looking form attached to a clipboard, handed it over as the orderlies wheeled the bodies out of the examination theatre. McLean scribbled his signature, took the top copy.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a ton of PMs to do this afternoon.’ And with that Dr Gilhooly turned and left.
‘He always like that?’ McLean asked as they retraced their steps back through the hospital, Sergeant Tanner leading the way.
‘Pretty much. Can’t be fun, dealing with dead bodies day in, day out.’
McLean was going to say that it didn’t seem to have done his friend Angus Cadwallader any harm, then realised it would be lost on the sergeant. ‘What happened to the car?’ he asked instead.
‘What’s left of it’s down the yard. Forensics are sending a covered truck up to fetch it back to their labs. Should be with them by the end of the day.’
‘What’s left of it? How bad was the crash?’
‘As bad as a car hitting a rock at eighty miles an hour can be. Fire crew had to cut the roof off to get the bodies out. The younger one had most of the engine in his lap, poor bastard.’
McLean looked out across the car park to the pool car he had driven up in, remembering the idiot overtaking him and the long, monotonous hours stuck behind slow-moving lorries. Suddenly the train seemed like a much more sensible idea.
‘You want to see it? The car?’ Sergeant Tanner asked. ‘It’s not far to the lock-up from here.’
Grumpy Bob looked at McLean with a questioning expression, no doubt hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. He wished it were so, but the one thing Detective Chief Superintendent Chambers of the NCA had asked was that he inspect the car and see that it wasn’t tampered with before their forensics team could get a crack at it. For some unaccountable cloak-and-dagger reason, Chambers hadn’t wanted anyone else to know that was what he was doing.
Almost as if he didn’t quite trust the old Northern Constabulary. Rude, and a waste of time, but then a favour done was a favour owed by the NCA. That might come in handy some day.
‘Better had. Since we came all this way.’
It was a struggle getting Sergeant Tanner into the back of the pool car, but he didn’t complain. McLean drove, unable to see anything in the rearview mirror but face. At least the journey was short, ending up near the waterfront. Security fencing surrounded a compound filled mostly with half-wrecked cars, making it look more like a breaker’s yard than anything.
‘Your man’s car’s inside. Trying to keep it as clean as possible for the forensics boys.’
McLean didn’t have the heart to tell him that most of them seemed to be women these days. He wasn’t too keen on leaving the shiny new pool car parked so close to so many wrecks, either, but he locked it up and followed Sergeant Tanner into the large workshop anyway.
It wasn’t exactly a hive of activity. Sound fizzed in and out of static from a radio, badly tuned into some pop station. There were half a dozen bays, each with a vehicle lift much like a well-stocked garage anywhere in the country. Two squad cars were undergoing repairs, various important-looking bits of machinery piled up around them. Three other bays were empty, and the last one held a large flatbed trailer with a tarpaulin hiding whatever it was that lay beneath.
‘Aye, Boaby. How you doing?’ A short man in greasy overalls appeared from the far end of the workshop, rubbing black-stained hands on an equally manky piece of rag.
‘Got some detectives from the big city come to see that wreck, Tam.’ Tanner gestured over to the tarpaulin as the mechanic eyed up McLean and Grumpy Bob. He must have found them worthy as he gave them a curt nod, then walked over to the trailer and began rolling back the cover.