Written in Bones: Inspector McLean 7

by James Oswald

  Sitting beside him, DCI McIntyre nudged McLean gently on the leg. ‘Reckon he’s going to start slavering at the mouth any minute,’ she whispered under her breath.

  ‘Now, I know a lot of you speak to reporters. Sometimes it’s just idle chit-chat, sometimes they maybe buy you a drink or slip you a little something. If it’s not too serious, I’m usually prepared to turn a blind eye. We need the press, after all, for all they like to stab us in the back every now and then.’ The DCC paused in his monologue, looking first over the bulk of the room, then turning to stare at the senior officers sat behind him. His gaze lingered on McLean for perhaps longer than was polite, though his face remained unreadable. Then he turned back to his key audience, his tone suddenly hard.

  ‘But so help me if I hear of any officer talking directly to the press about this case. So much as a squeak. That officer will rue the day he put on a uniform. There’ll be no disciplinary action. No moving to a rough posting in Strathclyde or a stretch in traffic patrol. You’ll be out quicker than you can say “union rep”. Do you understand?’

  Silence filled the room. Even the city outside paused for a moment, as if it, too, was afraid of talking out of turn.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. Consider yourselves warned.’ Call-me-Stevie pushed himself away from the lectern. ‘Now I’ll hand you over to Detective Inspector McLean, since he’s the one who knows the most about what’s going on.’

  Compared to the quiet that the deputy chief constable commanded, the murmur that spread over the room as McLean took his place at the lectern was deafening. Looking around, he could see few faces he recognized and fewer still who met his gaze without turning away or staring back with undisguised hostility. He knew he was a stranger in his own station; three months off would do that, and the months before when he had been on secondment to the Sexual Crimes Unit over on the far side of town hadn’t much helped.

  ‘First off, I can confirm that the body we found on the Meadows yesterday is that of Bill Chalmers. DNA matches his entry on the database. I can also confirm that the death was not natural, and indeed we’re treating this as a murder enquiry. So what the DCC just said about talking to the press? Well, just don’t, OK? Not this time. Everything through a senior officer first. If you’re approached for information, come to us. We’ll do our best to keep the jackals fed so you’re not being pestered for more, but this is going to be a high profile investigation, and it’s been a slow month for news.’

  McLean shuffled the papers he’d brought with him, more to give himself time to gather his thoughts than to remind himself of what needed to be said. The sooner the briefing was over the better, as far as he was concerned. There was too much to get done. Too little time.

  ‘OK, so most of you will have heard about the body being in a tree. We’re working on the assumption that it was dropped from a light aircraft or possibly a helicopter.’

  ‘Not a dragon, then?’

  McLean scanned the room, looking for the source of the comment. It was inevitable that the young boy’s claim would have spread like wildfire, although he was at a loss as to how anyone who hadn’t been at the interview or in the senior officers’ meeting the night before could have known. Maybe that young PC had let something slip, or it could just have easily been DCI Spence.

  ‘If anyone has evidence of a dragon in the vicinity of the city, please let me know. I’ll be happy to put them in charge of a team tasked with arresting it. In the meantime, let’s not get distracted from the crime here. A man’s been killed, and in a very unusual and public manner. Who did it? Why? What message are they trying to give by dropping the body like that? Is it a warning? A message? If so, for whom? How Bill Chalmers ended up in that tree is an important question, yes. But it’s only one of many.’

  The rumble of voices from behind the closed door to Detective Superintendent Brooks’ office suggested that at least someone was not happy with the way things were turning out. McLean could distinguish the different tones of Brooks himself, Mike Spence and the deputy chief constable, although individual words were harder to make out. There were at least two other men in the room but apparently DCI McIntyre had been excluded from the discussion, as she was sitting on one of the low, comfortable chairs that clustered around the meeting area just outside. For his own part, McLean stood, unsure whether he should wait for the meeting to finish or just knock on the door and go in.

  ‘Ants in your pants, Tony?’ McIntyre closed the crime scene report folder she had been leafing through and laid it down on the table beside her.

  ‘I just need to get started. Sort out some actions, get people assigned to their teams and, well, just do something.’ He looked at his watch; it was still early in the morning, but late enough for normal people to be at work. ‘It’s more than twenty-four hours since Chalmers was killed. You know as well as I do how important those hours are, and we’ve lost them already.’

  ‘I know, I know. Detective chief inspector, remember?’ McIntyre hauled herself out of the chair with a groan. ‘But trust me, Tony. You’ll just give yourself an ulcer fretting while those old women bicker among themselves. What’s the real problem? Why can’t you just get on without them, like you always do?’

  McLean stopped mid-pace. McIntyre was right, of course. Time was he’d have just ploughed ahead with his own investigation, and hang the consequences. But that was when he had some officers to help him.

  ‘You know as well as I do how short-staffed we are, Jayne. I need more detectives, but we’ve damned few sergeants and all the constables are running around at Mike Spence’s beck and call. None of them dares work with me, either. They all think I’m some kind of pariah.’

  ‘Well, you do have something of a reputation, Tony.’ McIntyre smiled as she spoke, smoothed down the creases in her jacket. ‘You’ve got Grumpy Bob and technically Ritchie’s available, if you need her. I’d suggest if you need some DCs you’d be better off talking to the duty sergeant. See how many uniforms might like a temporary transfer. I can’t see any of this lot making too much of a fuss, as long as you keep a tight lid on overtime costs.’

  ‘Brooks actually suggested I steal some constables from uniform. Thought I’d better make sure he was OK with it before I went ahead.’ McLean nodded half in agreement with McIntyre’s suggestion, half in the direction of the closed door. ‘What are they all nattering about in there, anyway?’

  ‘Christ knows. Probably trying to work out what their response to the press will be. They all worked with Chalmers before he fell from grace. Well, except Mike. He’s too young. Brooks was on some drug-law-enforcement liaison committee that dealt with Morningstar, and Stevie just likes to be in control.’ McIntyre put a reassuring hand on McLean’s arm, looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Go talk to the duty sergeant. Get yourself a half-dozen constables to play with and get stuck into finding out who did this, OK? I’ll square it all with the boys.’

  9

  ‘Oh, excuse me, sir. Sorry.’

  If she hadn’t said anything, McLean might not have noticed the PC as she walked swiftly up the corridor in the opposite direction to him. There were so many new faces in the station he hardly knew anyone in uniform these days. And yet they were still understaffed, almost to breaking point; as many experienced officers had left as new recruits come in. All that skill and expertise gone to waste. Or to highly paid IT and finance jobs.

  ‘It’s Harrison, isn’t it?’ He was fairly sure he recognized the young woman who had accompanied him to interview John Johnston the morning before. Her smile suggested he’d got it right.

  ‘Just heading up to the incident room, sir. Got the latest reports from Traffic.’ Harrison held up a sheaf of papers that would tell McLean, in intricate, dry detail, exactly how much closing down one of the city’s central traffic arteries had buggered up everyone’s day. Information that would move the investigation on no further at all but which had to be collated to tick a box somewhere on someone’s performance appraisal.

 
‘I’ve a better idea. You serious about transferring to Plain Clothes?’

  Harrison’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, sir. Completely.’

  ‘Right, well, come with me then. We’ll see how you get on with looking for evidence.’ He set off down the corridor without waiting to see if the constable was following. It was stupid, perhaps, taking a complete novice along with him. But then everyone had to start somewhere, and it wasn’t as if there were any seasoned detectives around to help.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ Harrison asked as they reached the door that opened on to the parking lot at the back of the station. McLean stuck his hand in his pocket, felt the keys to his Alfa nestling there. Did he really want to take it across town at this time of day?

  ‘The West End. Up near the National Gallery.’ He shoved the keys deeper down into his pocket, looked around the car park in vain for a pool car. ‘Don’t suppose you know anyone on patrol who could give us a lift?’

  ‘Who exactly is Bill Chalmers, sir? I mean, I know about the charity work and stuff, but everyone keeps going on about prison? And he was a detective?’

  McLean stared out the window of the squad car that was taking them across the city, glad of the warmth on what was a bitter cold and grey day. Constable Harrison’s question surprised him; he had assumed everyone knew the story and those that didn’t would have been swiftly brought up to speed as soon as the dead man’s identity had been confirmed. Then again, Chalmers’ history before his charity work was old news, and there weren’t many serving officers who would remember him as a detective.

  ‘He was one of us. CID, as it used to be called back then. Lothian and Borders. By all accounts he was a good detective, too. For those times. But he took a bad beating working undercover. Nearly died. The way I heard it, he started taking drugs to help with the pain, then moved from being a user to being a dealer. Only he didn’t stop working for CID all the while. Gave him a bit of an advantage. I can’t remember who took him down; that was before my time. He spent five of an eight-year sentence in Saughton and came out a reformed character. Set up Morningstar while he was still on licence and he’s been running it ever since.’

  Harrison sat silent for a while before speaking again. ‘So who’d want to kill him?’

  ‘That, Constable, is the million-dollar question. And if we’re lucky, we might just find one or two answers here.’ McLean nodded in the direction of the windscreen as the squad car pulled to a halt. In front of them, the road dipped and curved away towards Douglas Gardens and the Water of Leith. To the right, a narrow cobbled street disappeared into the shadows. Rothesay Mews sat in a quiet spot of the city’s New Town, a row of stone buildings originally designed to house the coaches of the well-to-do Georgian and Victorian gentlemen who lived in Rothesay Terrace, higher up the hill. Modern garage doors filled most of the wide carriage entrances now, but it was easy to see what the place might have looked like when horses were still the main way of getting around. Walking down the hill from the spot where the squad car had dropped them off, McLean could almost smell the manure on the cobbles, treacherous under slippery ice.

  ‘How the other half live, eh? This is a bit nicer than my folks’ place in Restalrig.’ Constable Harrison’s head moved in a series of swift jerks as she took in the scene, like a nervous bird looking for predators. Given that his own home had a coach house larger than any of these, dedicated solely to the storage of empty cardboard boxes and the ever-multiplying wheelie bins, McLean decided it was best not to answer. Instead, he led her down the street to where a bored uniform officer was guarding a white painted door. He looked up as they approached, and McLean recognized Sergeant Don Gatford. He wondered what he’d done this time, to be handed such a menial duty. Then again, it might just have been a ploy to get out of something worse.

  ‘Afternoon, sir. Wondered when someone might turn up. Bloody freezing just standing around here.’

  ‘Christ, is it afternoon already, Don?’ McLean shook his hand out of his sleeve and looked at his watch. Lunch missed again. He wondered if Harrison had managed to grab a bite before bringing the reports to him and being dragged off on this errand. Ah well, if she wanted to be a detective, then interrupted eating patterns were something she’d have to get used to.

  ‘Got yourself a new sidekick, I see.’ Gatford grinned at Harrison. ‘You want to watch yourself around the detective inspector, lass. He’s got a reputation.’

  ‘Would that be why I’m an inspector and you’re still just a sergeant, Don? What you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t this be the sort of job for PC Carter?’

  ‘What? And have him fuck it up?’ Sergeant Gatford almost spat on the cobbles, then seemed to remember his company. ‘Sorry, lass.’

  ‘Like I haven’t heard worse in the station every day, Sergeant.’ Harrison smiled. ‘Is Carter really that useless?’

  ‘Well put it this way,’ McLean said, ‘he was a DI six months ago. You got the keys then, Don?’

  ‘No keys. We had to get a locksmith in to open it up ready for you. That’s another reason why I’m here.’

  ‘What about the alarm?’ McLean looked up to see a familiar logo on a squat metal box screwed to the wall. Similar ones marred the sandstone façades of half the houses in the street.

  ‘Penstemmin system. We gave them a call and they disabled it for us. Chap’s coming round to set a new code. Be handy if you can find a set of spare keys while you’re in there. Save us the bother of fitting a new lock.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Don,’ McLean said, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A blanket of warm air swept over McLean’s face as he took a couple of steps up the stairs immediately inside the front door. PC Harrison was close behind him like an obedient hound. He waited while she shut the door, watching for what she would do next. Her eyes were everywhere, drinking in the details, but she kept her hands by her sides. Then she jerked her head back slightly a couple of times, nostrils flaring as she breathed in through her nose.

  ‘What is it?’ McLean asked. He’d not noticed anything in his hurry to get in out of the cold. Poor old Don Gatford, still standing out there.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Harrison did the sniffing thing again, more like a cat than a dog. She had a small nose, turned up at the point slightly. ‘Smells almost like burning wires, or … I don’t know … like when you bash two rocks together at the beach?’

  McLean sniffed, still not getting anything. ‘Can’t smell it myself.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘Don’t apologize. You did good. Pay attention to everything you see, smell, feel. I’d caution against tasting, but it can be useful sometimes. And sound is important, too.’

  ‘What sound? I don’t hear anything.’

  ‘Exactly, which would suggest that the neighbours are out, or very quiet. Or the walls are too thick for noise to get through. I’m going to risk assuming they’re out, but we’ll be knocking on doors and asking questions soon enough. Find out if anyone saw him, when and what he was doing.’ McLean headed up the stairs, stopping on a landing.

  ‘What are we looking for, sir?’ Harrison asked as she climbed slowly behind him.

  ‘Anything that might give us an insight into who Bill Chalmers was.’ He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a couple of pairs of latex gloves, handed one over. ‘Don’t think this is likely to be a crime scene, but just in case.’

  A door off the landing led to an open plan kitchen and living room with windows front and back. The designer furnishings looked expensive, and the walls were covered with modern art that, while not to McLean’s taste, must have cost a bob or two. One corner of the room was dominated by a large flat-screen television, surround-sound speakers discreetly hidden on bookshelves. A Persian rug partly covered polished floorboards. The room looked more like a showcase for a trendy interior designer than somewhere someone actually lived. Clearly the charity business was doing well for Chalmers. Or at least it had b
een until someone had tried to make him fly without wings.

  ‘Think I’ve found some keys, sir.’

  McLean looked around, expecting to see Harrison dangling a keyring off her finger. Instead she was pointing to a small wooden bowl on the granite-topped counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. A jumble of pens, loose change and other rubbish filled it almost completely. He picked things out one by one, laying them on the spotless counter. A pair of keys at the bottom, one for a mortice lock, one for a latch, looked like they would probably fit the front door. He put them in his pocket, then pulled out another set from the bowl. Four this time, they were wound on to a faded leather ‘Welcome to Fife’ key fob.

  ‘Holiday home?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘Could be. Let’s have a look at the rest of the place. See what else we can turn up.’

  The rest of the place turned out to be two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Both bedrooms were neat, the beds made. The one to the front of the house was clearly where Chalmers slept, if the cupboards and drawers full of men’s clothes were anything to go by. The one at the rear had a small desk shoved into one corner, but there was nothing on it.

  McLean found what he might have expected to find in the bathroom: toothbrush, toothpaste, combs, soap. Chalmers used an electric shaver, it appeared, and he liked expensive cologne. Or maybe he was given it by an admirer. An empty plastic prescription jar stood beside a box of ibuprofen tablets in the mirrored cabinet over the basin, but the label on it was worn away so he couldn’t read what pills had been inside. The name of the pharmacy was still legible, so they could find out easily enough; another action to be followed up.