Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Chambers took a couple more steps until he was standing alongside a sleek-looking Bentley. He reached out to touch it, then stopped at the last minute, shoved his hands in his pockets.

  McLean did a quick count, made it to twenty-four before he was distracted. All the cars were new, though some were beginning to attract dust. They were all expensive, mostly German or high-end British as far as he could tell. Their number plates were gone, and over in the far corner a couple of two-post lifts and some heavy-duty mechanic’s tool trolleys suggested some kind of workshop.

  ‘How the fuck did we not know about this?’ Chambers asked the question to the open space. McLean knew better than to offer an explanation. Let the NCA puzzle that one out for themselves. A few things were beginning to come together in his mind though, and the sight of a high-spec Range Rover at the end of one of the rows of cars left him with a particularly unpleasant suspicion.

  ‘Think we should leave this to forensics, sir.’

  Chambers turned to face him. ‘What? Oh. Yes. You’re right. Don’t want to contaminate this any more than we have already.’

  ‘Best not to,’ McLean said. ‘And besides, there’s someone I need to talk to. Think you should meet her too.’

  55

  Charlie Christie had obviously found solace in the bottle of wine McLean and Ritchie had left her with the afternoon before, but now it looked like it was getting its revenge. Her face had a pallid green shade to it, with dark bags under her eyes and no make-up to hide them. She wore a full-length towelling dressing gown, squinting as if she’d only just recently crawled out of bed. Glancing at his watch, McLean realised it was just gone ten, so chances were she had.

  ‘You again?’ Christie looked at McLean, then shifted her glance across to where Chambers stood beside him. ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Chambers. National Crime Agency.’ Chambers showed his warrant card, eliciting the sort of response he no doubt had been hoping for. Christie pulled her dressing gown tight, even though it hadn’t exactly been revealing anything.

  ‘Please, come in. I’ve got some coffee on.’

  McLean trod the familiar path to the kitchen at the back, this time with Chambers rather than Ritchie in tow. Christie busied herself with mugs and milk, pouring fine-smelling coffee from a jug that would have been enough to supply half of CID. How a lone, single mother thought she was going to drink it all he had no idea. Her hangover must have been of epic proportions.

  ‘You’re not overly fond of Ms Grainger, the company secretary,’ he said after they’d all settled at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Company secretary? That what she’s calling herself these days? Witch wouldn’t know shorthand if it bit her on her scaly arse.’

  ‘Are you saying she wasn’t the secretary, Miss Christie?’ Chambers cradled his mug of coffee like a small kitten. ‘What was she then?’

  ‘Joe always introduced her as a partner. She turned up round about the time his mum died. Sort of inveigled herself into the business.’

  ‘Inveigled?’ McLean asked the question, but he could see by Chambers’ one raised eyebrow that he’d been thinking it too.

  ‘Mind, this was a good few years back, when me and Ben were at uni. I only saw Joe from time to time then. I remember the funeral though.’

  ‘She was there? Ms Grainger?’

  ‘Oh, aye. She was there. Holding up old Jock like she’d been a family friend all his life. Poor man took Cat’s death hard. I didn’t see either of them for maybe a year after that, and when I did, Ms Grainger was in there with her feet under the table, just about running the place.’

  ‘You think she and Mr McClymont senior …?’ McLean let the question tail off as a look of horror spread across Christie’s face.

  ‘Good God no. Jock would never so much as look at another woman after Cat died. Doted on his son, mind you.’

  McLean was about to press further. The story Christie was painting was quite at odds with what Grainger had told him herself. But Chambers cut in, changing the subject with no subtlety whatsoever and even less sensitivity.

  ‘The car McClymont was driving. Had it long, had he?’

  For a moment Christie was taken aback. McLean imagined it couldn’t be easy thinking swiftly with the mother of all headaches.

  ‘His car? What’s that got to do with anything?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s part of an ongoing investigation,’ Chambers said. ‘We’re fairly sure it was stolen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Christie swallowed a mouthful of coffee, holding the mug up to her neck like a shield. ‘Well, no. He’d not had it long. Joe never did keep his cars long. Always trading them in for the latest model.’

  ‘Do you know where he got them from?’

  A short pause before answering, as if she were trying to work out where this was going. McLean almost pitied her. ‘Never occurred to me to ask. He gave me my Range Rover what, four months ago? I just assumed it came from the local dealership.’

  ‘You’ve got all the documents. Registration and so forth?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Of course. Why?’

  McLean looked sideways at Chambers. He didn’t know the man, had never worked with him before. Wasn’t really sure if this counted as working with him now. On the other hand, he was a chief superintendent, so could make life awkward if he wanted. Even more so than Duguid and Brooks.

  ‘I’d like one of my forensic specialists to have a look at it, if that’s OK?’ He decided on the less confrontational route. After all, sometimes his hunches didn’t play out. Just not often.

  ‘Umm. OK. I guess. Will they need to take it away? Only I’ve not got anything else to take the girls to school in.’

  Or go to Waitrose for smoked salmon and organic fair-trade chocolate bars. ‘She should be able to look at it here. I’ll get someone to phone and arrange a time.’

  Chambers had been silent through the exchange, but the expression on his face suggested he didn’t like not knowing what was going on. He was about to say something, but Christie beat him to it.

  ‘There was one thing I thought a bit odd.’ She left the thread dangling. Perhaps the coffee was working its magic.

  ‘Go on,’ McLean said.

  ‘Well, you see, Joe used to take his dad up north a lot. Every couple of months, at least that I know of. And he’d always drive those flash cars of his. I went with them once. Me and the girls. I told you about it, remember?’

  McLean nodded, unwilling to break her flow now that she was talking.

  ‘Well, we all went up in a Mercedes estate that time. I remember it was like a barn inside, and all plush leather and stuff. The girls loved it. Only, we came home on the train after a week. It was all getting too much, and I thought Joe needed his time alone.’

  ‘So what was the odd thing?’ McLean asked, sensing Chambers about to jump in.

  ‘Well, it’s … I don’t know. I never saw that car again, and far as I can tell Joe came home by train too. Not the first time, either. I picked him up from the station a couple of times, off the Inverness train, when I was sure he’d driven north.’

  They let themselves out not long afterwards, leaving Christie to her coffee and hangover. She seemed to have hit the numb stage of grief; dealing with the deaths of two people who had been close to her couldn’t have been easy. McLean made a note to make sure a family liaison officer accompanied Amanda Parsons when she went round to check over the Range Rover. Quite what having her one solid link to Joe McClymont taken away would do to her didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘What was that all about, McLean? Duguid told me you were prone to flights of fancy, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen—’

  ‘Do you know the story about the wheelbarrow thief, sir?’

  ‘I … what?’

  ‘I don’t remember the full details, but it was something along these lines. Bloke works in a factory, and every evening when his shift’s over he wheels a barrow full of straw out throu
gh the gate. The security guards knew him, and every day they’d check the barrow, making sure he wasn’t stealing stuff from the factory and hiding it in the straw. He never was, so they’d let him through.

  ‘Come his retirement, the bloke finishes his shift and leaves. On his way out, one of the guards stops him and asks: “Five years you came and went. We were sure you were stealing something, but we never found out how.”

  ‘The old man looked at the guard and smiled. “You always raked through the straw, every evening as I was going home. The thing is, I wasn’t smuggling anything in the wheelbarrow. It was the barrow itself, see?” ’

  ‘Not sure I see your point. McClymont was a drug dealer, not a wheelbarrow salesman.’

  ‘It’s just a story, sir. The idea is the old boy was hiding something in plain sight. We’ve been looking at McClymont the wrong way, treating him like a drug smuggler. What if he was just a car thief?’

  ‘A car thief? That not a bit low rent?’

  ‘Not when you’re nicking stuff worth fifty grand or more. Give it a new identity, ship it overseas. I’ve heard there’s a big market for high-end motors in the Far East. Africa’s quite keen on them too. The job they did on McClymont’s own motor, they could’ve sold it here and nobody would have known better.’

  ‘Why take them north? Why not ship them out of Rosyth or Leith? Or drive them down to London and stick them through the Channel Tunnel?’

  ‘I think that’s something for your lot to figure out, don’t you? The point is he was taking cars north but coming home by train. If our forensic expert’s right, and I’m inclined to trust her, then the cars were ringers. That car,’ he pointed at the all-too-familiar-looking Range Rover parked on the driveway in front of the house, ‘is a ringer too. I’m fairly certain it really belongs to Detective Superintendent Duguid, as it happens. Or at least his insurance company.’

  Chambers stared at the car as if he’d never seen one in his life before. ‘This? But surely there’s thousands like it out there.’

  ‘Maybe. But they don’t all have a dent in the back door there. I saw Duguid reverse into one of the Transit vans back at the station, six months ago? Something like that. Dent in exactly the same spot.’

  Chambers said nothing for a while, just kept looking at the back of the Range Rover and stroking his chin.

  ‘OK. Since you seem to have all the answers. Where does Ms Grainger fit into all this, then?’

  ‘Brains of the outfit?’ McLean offered, getting a sceptical look in response.

  ‘Look, did you ever meet the McClymonts? Speak to them?’

  Chambers shook his head.

  ‘Well I did. Just the once, but it was probably enough. I didn’t get the impression they were the types to think out of the box much. The plans they had for my place were unimaginative, just trying to cram as many flats into the space as possible. Probably as cheaply as possible too. For all I know, they might have been dealing drugs, might have been doing anything they could to get money. Laundering it through the development company. But the moment they died, Grainger does a runner? Sounds like she knew what they were up to at the very least.’

  ‘And now she’s disappeared completely. Fucking marvellous.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve decided to show up for work after all. You do know you’re supposed to be conducting a murder investigation, right?’

  McLean had barely stepped through the back door to the station before the words rang out across the hallway. Detective Superintendent Duguid stood by the stairs, his face dark and threatening. A couple of uniforms chatting nearby looked around nervously before scurrying off, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. McLean glanced at his watch, already knowing that it was approaching noon.

  ‘Actually I was in at half-five this morning, sir, preparing a briefing for six. I’d have invited you along, but it was all a bit last-minute. Didn’t think you’d appreciate a call that early.’

  Duguid’s scowl deepened, the tic of a vein on his forehead a sure indicator that someone was going to get a tongue-lashing or worse.

  ‘What’s so bloody important it takes precedence over two dead bodies?’

  ‘My “friends” the McClymonts, sir.’ McLean made bunny ears with his fingers. ‘Seems there was more to their business than even the NCA suspected.’

  ‘What are you going on about? Since when were you working on that case anyway?’

  ‘Since you and the DCC sent me up to Inverness to ID the bodies, sir. Since I got a call from forensics and found out the car was stolen.’

  ‘Stolen? How?’ Duguid’s rage bled away, replaced by bewilderment. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t have the full details, sir. As you can see, I’ve just got back in. I’m hoping there’s a full forensic report waiting for me in my office. Once I’ve had a chance to look at it I can bring everyone up to speed. Oh, and I might have found your old Range Rover, by the way.’

  Duguid’s mouth had dropped open, giving McLean an unenviable view of the detective superintendent’s chipped and yellowing teeth. He looked like he was struggling to process all the information that had barged its way into a brain fully prepared for tearing off a strip from whomever he could find.

  ‘Wh—’ Duguid began, but before he could say anything more, the back door to the station banged open. McLean turned to see a worried-looking DC MacBride tapping wildly at his tablet. At the same moment as the constable looked up, McLean’s phone pinged a message. Duguid’s did the same a second later.

  ‘Sir. Ah, sirs.’ MacBride looked momentarily confused, then rallied. ‘I’ve just messaged you. Sorry. Need to get back to Sighthill. We’ve found another body.’

  56

  The building looked nothing special from the outside, much the same as McClymont Developments across the car park. Tucked into the far corner, close to the railway line, its windows were boarded up and a faded ‘To let’ sign hung at a drunken angle from the frontage. The only way in was through a solid metal door set into a much larger roller shutter concealing a loading bay beyond. DS Ritchie must have seen him coming, as she met him out past the edge of the police tape boundary.

  ‘How did anyone even know to look in here?’ McLean asked. He’d parked a good distance away from the squad cars and forensic vans. The car park might have been large, but the individual bays were narrow.

  ‘Stuart had some of the uniforms go door to door round the other businesses, like you asked, sir. Overzealous constable knocked on this one even though it’s obviously empty. Found it wasn’t locked and thought he’d check it out before calling the letting agent. He found … well, I’m not really sure how to describe it. A body, for certain.’ DS Ritchie had more of a spring in her step than McLean could remember seeing in a while, no doubt at the prospect of getting her teeth into a particularly interesting case. Either that or Daniel hadn’t made it home to the rectory as early as might be expected of a man of the cloth.

  Shaking the idea from his head, he followed her across the car park and ducked under the crime-scene tape, almost immediately receiving a complaining cough from the nearest scene of crime officer.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to put on some overalls if you’re going in there.’ The SOCO herself was dressed in a full white boiler suit, hood pulled up tight over her hair. McLean could only tell it was a she because her face mask hung around her neck on its elastic string. She was sitting in the back of one of the Transit vans, munching on a sandwich, but put it carefully back in its Tupperware box before reaching around and pulling out white paper overalls and something that looked a bit like a cross between a shower cap and the bag you brought your curry home in.

  ‘Grubby in there, is it?’ he asked as he passed a pair of overboots to Ritchie.

  ‘Quite the opposite. Place is cleaner than a Labrador’s dinner dish. Doubt we’ll find anything in there unless you lot traipse it in. Could do without the hassle of working out what’s what.’ The SOCO picked up her sandwich and took another bite, conversation over.

/>   McLean waited until they had reached the door before climbing into the paper suit and slipping the overshoes on. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves for good measure before ducking into the darkness beyond. It was a large loading area, as might be expected for such a place. Looking around, however, he started to see what the SOCO had meant. In marked contrast to the dust and grime of McClymont Developments, it was spotlessly clean. More like the sort of laboratory where they build satellites than a storage room for a firm of electricians. Arc lights overhead reflected off a smooth floor that squeaked under his feet as he walked to the far side and an open doorway. A bunny-suited SOCO was kneeling by the door, brushing at the frame with a fingerprint kit. She looked up as his shadow passed over her, and McLean recognised the face of Amanda Parsons.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. Thought you were doing the cars across town.’

  Parsons grinned. ‘They’re no’ going anywhere. And we’re a bit short-staffed right now, with all these bodies you keep finding. I’ve got fingerprint training. Overtime’s always handy.’

  ‘Well I don’t think there’ll be a problem with that. The pathologist here?’ McLean asked.

  ‘In there.’ Parsons cocked a head towards the entrance.

  ‘You been in?’

  ‘No. Not sure I want to, from what I’ve been hearing.’

  ‘I’d best see for myself then,’ McLean said, and stepped through.

  ‘Good Christ. What is this place?’

  McLean stood just inside the open door, staring upon a scene that might have been from a modern horror movie. Half a dozen intensive care beds were arranged in a semicircle, each attended by their own motley collection of life-support machinery. Much of the kit seemed last generation, or perhaps older, but the effect was chilling regardless, especially given the setting. This was a disused warehouse in a bad part of town, after all. Not exactly the Western General Hospital.

  Of the six beds, five were obviously unoccupied, the machinery pushed neatly to the walls at the head of each. The last bed was obscured by the city pathologist and his assistant deep in discussion about the body they were examining. McLean was about to head over and see what all the fuss was about when a voice distracted him.