Written in Bones: Inspector McLean 7

by James Oswald

  ‘What about Chief Superintendent Duguid?’

  ‘Charles will stay on as a consultant. He’s got the experience and the clearance so it would be a shame to waste that.’ Call-me-Stevie smiled like a crocodile, his pearly white teeth just too perfect to be real. ‘He’ll be helping out with the Chalmers case now.’

  33

  Still reeling from his meeting with the DCC, McLean didn’t much fancy going back to the major incident room and its air of listlessness. Instead, he headed for his office and the relative sanctuary of mindless paperwork. He’d been out all day, which meant there would be enough waiting for him to last a lifetime.

  ‘Ah, sir. I was hoping I might find you up here.’

  Lost in his thoughts, it took him a while to realize he was being spoken to. McLean looked up to see Detective Constable Stringer heading down the corridor towards him.

  ‘And here I am. Was there something in particular you needed?’ The DCC’s words echoed in his mind. Too few new recruits wanting to work in Plain Clothes. It made sense: far easier to get regular overtime in uniform, and the shifts were much more predictable. Plus you didn’t have to wade through quite so much of humanity’s shit every day.

  ‘We’ve managed to get something off that camera you and Janie brought in from the tattoo shop, sir. Thought you might want to see it.’

  Given the alternative options, working through a slow mountain of duty rosters or captaining the rudderless ship that was the Chalmers investigation, a trip down to the basement and the IT labs was an easy decision to make.

  ‘Pete’s gone to speak to the CCTV guys about street cameras in the area too,’ Stringer said as he and McLean walked down the stairs. ‘Pretty sure we know what time they arrived so if we’re lucky we might get a picture. Maybe a number plate if they came by car.’

  ‘Pete?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Constable Blane. Most of the others call him Lofty, but it’s not his fault he’s that size.’

  ‘Pete, eh?’ McLean was uncomfortably aware both that he should really have known that, and that he didn’t actually know DC Stringer’s first name either. ‘And what do they call you, Constable?’

  ‘Stringer, mostly. If they’re being polite.’

  ‘Not much of that around here, but then I guess you’ve found that out already. Got used to it, too, or you wouldn’t still be with us.’

  They reached the door to the IT labs before Stringer could make any response to that, and McLean pushed it open without bothering to knock. He’d not been in there in a while, but it still had that odour of sweating male and air of organized chaos about it, even if some of the equipment looked a lot more modern. A cluster of technicians and detectives were huddled around one end of the central bench, staring at a flat-screen monitor. One of them looked up in surprise.

  ‘Oh, Inspector, sir. We were hoping you’d still be around.’

  ‘What have you got for me?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Your friend at the tattoo parlour did us a solid buying half-decent kit. The camera in the shop has its own memory card and a back-up power supply, so in theory, as long as it’s still pointing in the right direction, it’ll record anything that moves.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of “in theory”.’ McLean joined the group, looking over DC Harrison’s head to an image on the screen of Bo’s Inks as he remembered it from before the burglary.

  ‘Aye, well …’ The technician reached for the mouse that was tethered to the monitor, no box of electronics visible anywhere on the desk. He clicked a couple of times and the image changed.

  ‘It’s on a two second time lapse, sir.’ Harrison twisted around in her seat to face him. ‘Not brilliant resolution either. But there’s a timestamp says it’s one in the morning, near as. See.’

  McLean peered at the grainy image on the screen as a figure appeared in the middle of the room, followed by another. They moved in a series of awkward jerks as the images on the card were played as a movie. Clear enough what they were doing though: they pulled the black folders filled with designs off the shelves and tabletops, ripping out pages and tossing them to the floor. He was just about getting bored with the regularity of it, frustrated that the picture was too poor to make out any features beyond the black clothing the burglars wore, then something else blurred across the screen. One more image showed a smear of light and dark all but impossible to make out, and then it ended.

  ‘That’ll be when they noticed the camera and ripped it off the wall.’ The technician pointed to the workbench where the camera lay in pieces. ‘Jumped up and down on it in hobnail boots too, by the look of the poor wee thing.’

  ‘It’s just like the last time, sir. See?’

  McLean had hoped to make an escape from the station and for once head home at a decent hour, but a breathless Detective Constable Blane had caught up with him just as he was stepping out into the car park at the back of the station. McLean had reluctantly followed him back to the major incident room and the network-connected workstation that could tap into the city’s CCTV footage. Now he looked at images from four different camera angles, each showing streets approaching Bo’s Inks.

  ‘What time is this?’ He peered at the slightly fuzzy numbers at the bottom of each image. So much for new high-resolution cameras.

  ‘Quarter to one, sir.’ Blane loomed over him, having insisted McLean take the seat in front of the screen. At least his arms were long enough to reach the mouse and keyboard without getting awkwardly close.

  The view wasn’t particularly inspiring. There were no pedestrians and very few cars at that time of night. At one point McLean thought he might have seen a fox trotting down the pavement, but it disappeared as the image turned to foggy grey and white. A few moments later the picture reappeared, and one of the other views dropped. Then the third and the fourth.

  ‘It does the same again about half an hour later. There’s other cameras across the city the same. Technicians reckon it’s a glitch in one of the substation hubs or something. All sounds like gobbledegook to me.’

  McLean stared at the screen again as DC Blane tapped a few commands, navigating the system like a professional for all his protestations of technological ignorance. He tapped at his teeth with a finger for a moment, trying to work out what was bothering him. Through the corner of his eye he could see the original map of the city, with its white dots marking the potential helicopter sightings. Unless it really had been a dragon, of course.

  ‘It’s Pete, right?’

  DC Blane looked a little surprised to be asked. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, do me a favour will you, Pete? I’d like to see a map of where these cameras are and mark the exact times the pictures blank out like that for each one. Do it for the mews house burglary too, will you? And see if there’s anything for the offices of Morningstar.’

  ‘You think someone’s what … jamming the cameras somehow? Is that even possible? They’re all hard-wired, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’ve honestly no idea. It’s just a hunch. Might not come to anything, but humour me, eh?’

  Blane nodded his understanding, which made a change from the weary sighs McLean normally got whenever he asked a detective constable to do anything for him. ‘There was one thing, sir. Not sure whether it’s relevant or not, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Anything you think’s relevant is worth bringing up, Constable, however insignificant. Especially when our investigation’s as bogged down as this one. What have you got?’

  The detective constable reached for the mouse, clicked on an image in the corner of the screen to bring up a snapshot of a road and cars. ‘This is the next camera along from the tattoo parlour, sir. Before it went on the fritz there were a few cars that I could put through number-plate recognition.’ Blane clicked again and another image replaced the first one, remarkably similar except for a council bin visible at the road edge. ‘There’s not much of a pattern to the numbers in each of the locations. Mostly taxis, as you’d expect at
that time of night. There’s one number that appeared on more than one camera, though. Both the night of the mews house and the tattoo parlour break-ins.’

  ‘You got a name for the owner, I take it?’ McLean squinted at the image, trying to make out what model the car showing was, even though he had no way of telling whether that was the one to which DC Blane was referring.

  ‘I have, and that’s what so confusing, sir. See, it belongs to a reporter. Jo Dalgliesh.’

  The house really wasn’t what McLean had been expecting. It was in an expensive part of the city for one thing, although it was always possible that Dalgliesh had been living there since before it had become fashionable. He wasn’t sure why he’d never bothered to find out where she lived before, except that for a long time he had hated her so much he couldn’t bear even to speak her name. Time had softened that hatred into a dull acceptance, and recent events had brought them together for long enough to expose his prejudices for what they were. But still, he had never thought of the reporter as a friend, never needed to know where she lived.

  Even so, he had to check twice against the address that Sergeant Hwei had dug out for him. Parked across the road from a detached two-storey-plus-attic Edwardian pile, he couldn’t help thinking that Dalgliesh must rattle around in all that space. Granted, it was about a fifth the size of his grandmother’s house. His house. But it was still big enough for a sizeable family and their servants. Something from a bygone era that in any other part of town would have been split into three apartments, if not six.

  The air was so cold and clear as he walked across the empty street that he could see stars overhead. There weren’t many parts of the city where you could do that these days, although his own back garden was one. Approaching the front door, McLean confirmed his suspicions that this was indeed just one house, and he pressed the one doorbell to an echoing ‘ding dong’ from inside. He waited in the shivering cold, ears straining to hear any sound. Nothing broke the dull, distant rumble of the city. No lights appeared above the locked door or in any of the empty windows.

  He crunched through thick gravel to the bay window that would have looked on to the front living room had the shutters not been closed. He could see enough to know that the room was unoccupied though. A narrow passageway took him around the back to a surprisingly neat garden overlooked by an elegant conservatory. Squinting through the glass revealed a faded wicker armchair and a glass-topped table, clear except for a copy of the Edinburgh Tribune, folded in half so he couldn’t see what the date was. He knocked on the back door, but it was clear the house was empty.

  ‘She’s no’ in.’

  McLean spun around too quickly, almost falling over as a twinge of pain ran through his hip. There wasn’t much light in the back garden, but enough filtered in from the streetlights for him to see a man peering over the nearby wall.

  ‘I kind of figured that out. Have you seen her recently?’ He moved away from the back door, stepping out of the deeper shadows so that the man could get a better look at him.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Tony McLean. Detective Inspector, I should say.’ He pulled out his warrant card, even though the distance between him and the neighbour was too great for it to be seen.

  ‘Oh aye. Heard of you. All that nonsense up at the old psychiatric hospital. Those bodies. That was you, wasn’t it?’

  McLean thought of correcting the man, but so far he’d been reasonably civil. ‘My case, yes. So have you seen Ms Dalgliesh lately?’

  ‘She’s no’ talking to the polis at the moment. Says she doesn’t trust youse lot any more.’ The man on the other side of the wall had a thick coat on, his head enveloped in a furry hat. His breath steamed in the lamplight as he spoke, spiralling upwards in a night so still it could only be a harbinger of storms to come.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes then.’ McLean stuck his hands in his pockets to stave off his shivering. ‘Look. I know what she’s like, and if she’s avoiding us she’s probably got her reasons. If you see her though, tell her I was here, will you? I really need to talk to her.’

  34

  A strange car was sitting outside the house as he pulled up the drive. For a moment McLean wondered if it might be Dalgliesh. She most probably drove something like the grubby silver Audi. Whoever it belonged to, they’d not been there long. Ice was forming over the windscreen but the bonnet still showed evidence of heat in the engine. He didn’t hang around looking at it, the nip in the air enough to ache in his lungs as he walked to the back door.

  A blast of welcome warmth hit him as he entered the empty kitchen. There was no sign of Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, but the kettle sat on the hotplate alongside the cheap tin caddy the teabags lived in. McLean followed the scent of biscuits through to the front of the house. As he approached the library door and heard voices in relaxed conversation, he realized just how tense he had become. The case was starting to get to him, and the threats from Brooks and the DCC didn’t help. Why they couldn’t just leave him to get on with the investigation he couldn’t understand, but bringing those frustrations home would only make things worse. He paused a moment, letting the tension in his shoulders ease as he twisted the door handle and let himself in.

  ‘Tony, you’re home. Look who just dropped by.’

  Emma had been sitting on the sofa, the neatly folded eiderdown beside her. She leapt to her feet on seeing him, a welcoming smile on her face. Sitting in the armchair beside her, Detective Chief Inspector Jayne McIntyre clearly felt that standing was unnecessary. She merely looked at him with tired eyes and raised her mug of tea in welcome.

  ‘I see you’ve still not mastered the art of working only the hours you’re paid for.’ She cracked a smile that eased some of the weariness from her features. ‘Good to see you, Tony. I understand you dropped by for a wee chat with Lucy last night.’

  Emma almost skipped across the floor, gave McLean a warm hug and a kiss on the lips. ‘You want a mug of tea? It’s not long brewed. Or I can get you something stronger if it’s been that kind of day.’

  McLean stared at her, confused for a moment before it dawned on him that an answer was required. ‘No, tea’s fine. You sure? I can get it myself.’

  ‘Sit, Tony. Jayne didn’t come around to hear me prattle on. I won’t be long.’ Before he could answer, Emma had swept past him and out of the room.

  ‘She’s looking well.’ McIntyre struggled to stand, but McLean motioned for her to stay seated.

  ‘Better than this morning, I have to say. Much better than a couple of days ago.’

  ‘The hospital? Aye, I heard.’

  ‘And I heard you’d been dragged off to Glasgow on the hush-hush. What’s all that about?’

  ‘Bloody waste of time is what it’s all about. Someone thought now was the best time to conduct an in-depth review into the impact of increasing numbers of women in the police force. That’s why they dragged Ritchie in as well, or at least that’s how it was explained to me. Why it has to be done now, and out of Glasgow rather than Edinburgh, I have no idea.’ McIntyre laid the irony on thick and tried another smile, but the tiredness was back this time. She couldn’t stifle the yawn that turned into a shiver. ‘Scuse me. Your armchairs are far too comfortable. If it wasn’t so chilly in here I’d probably fall asleep.’

  McLean looked at the cold, empty fireplace. ‘I keep on telling Emma to light the fire in the morning, but she doesn’t seem to mind the cold. These old houses were designed to be draughty. Not much fun when it’s minus ten outside.’

  ‘Aye, well. That’s what you get for living in a mansion when a wee bungalow would do.’

  ‘Your place is very cosy.’

  ‘It’s Lucy’s. My dickhead of an ex-husband got mine.’ McIntyre remembered her tea, took a long drink. ‘But that’s not why you went around last night, is it? To see the place.’

  McLean settled himself down into the other armchair, hoping Emma wouldn’t be long with the tea. It really wasn’t warm in the house, the ancient
cast-iron radiators gurgling and rattling as the equally ancient monster of a boiler in the basement burned its way through the oil output of a small Middle East country without producing any discernible heat.

  ‘I wish there were time for social visits, Jayne. I really do. But you and I both know there’s something rotten going on. It’s no coincidence you’ve been side-lined just as the most important case in years opens. No coincidence it’s been given to me to lead, without any support from higher up.’

  ‘Everyone above your pay grade worked with Chalmers in some capacity or another. They don’t want to start digging into that mess because they know sooner or later they’re going to come face to face with their younger selves doing something stupid.’

  ‘And you? Why’d they have to send you away?’

  ‘What’s the common denominator among all the senior officers so studiously distancing themselves from your investigation, Tony? Use that keen intellect of yours.’

  McLean stared at McIntyre for a while, thinking. ‘They’re all men?’

  ‘I like the questioning in your voice. But yes, they’re all men. Bill Chalmers was old school. Thought a woman’s place was in the home. Or possibly his bed. He was right chummy with the lads, but he couldn’t stand a female detective. Deep down I think he felt threatened by us. No surprise I never got asked to join them all in the pub after work. Didn’t bother me. I never liked him. Still seems a bit much sending me off on handholding duties just to get me out of the way.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s Chalmers they’re worried about, to be honest. Wasn’t him I wanted to talk to you about, in any case.’

  ‘No?’ McIntyre raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Tommy Johnston.’

  It was as if a light had gone on inside her head. The creases in McIntyre’s forehead eased as the understanding settled across her features. ‘Tommy Johnston. Well now. That puts a whole new complexion on things. I wasn’t part of that investigation, you understand. I was back in uniform by then, on the fast track for the DCC’s post, if you believed the pretty words.’ McIntyre shook her head at a sudden realization. ‘Christ, it would have been ten years ago, wouldn’t it? I was young then.’