by James Oswald
‘The East Neuk’s dotted with old airfields and stuff, left over from the war.’ McIntyre laughed. ‘Showing my age there. Most of these kids hardly remember the Balkans or Kuwait.’
‘I know what you mean, but where is this?’ McLean pointed at the photos.
‘Just through the trees from Chalmers’ place. Couple hundred yards tops. I’ve got that new lassie of yours, Harrison, looking into who owns it, but if you wanted somewhere to launch a chopper from …’
McLean stared at the photos more closely. A thin red line had been drawn from one to a point on the map to show exactly where the cluster of buildings was. ‘There’s no runway?’
‘About a hundred feet or so. Then the main road goes through the middle of it, and the rest’s been dug up. I wouldn’t want to land a plane there. Maybe one of those microlight jobbies.’
‘Ritchie about?’
McIntyre checked her watch. ‘Should be in any time now. Unless she’s stopped off at the hospital to see how you’re getting on. You gave us all a hell of a fright, Tony.’
‘Gave myself a hell of fright, Jayne. I still don’t know what happened. One minute I’m about to turn up my drive, the next my head’s clattering off the steering wheel and something’s mashed up the front of the car like it’s made of tinfoil.’ McLean stared at the map without really paying it any attention, his mind trying to sort out the sequence of events and failing badly.
‘Concussion does weird things to the brain.’ McIntyre put a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you really should be taking the doctor’s advice and going home, eh?’
He ignored her. Something on the map had finally registered. He leaned in close, tapped his finger on a rectangular shape. ‘What’s here?’
‘What do you mean?’ McIntyre pulled spectacles out of her cleavage, where they had been nestling on a gold chain. Perched on the end of her nose, they made her look much more grandmotherly than she would ever be.
‘This.’ McLean tapped his finger on the rectangle again, reading the words printed just beneath it. ‘Corscaidin Hall.’ He slapped his head with the heel of his hand, then yelped as the bruise complained loudly. ‘I should have bloody well seen it.’
‘Seen what?’ McIntyre was giving him her concerned matron look.
‘Chalmers’ house. Out by Elie. It’s modern. Probably seventies, maybe a bit earlier. Concrete and glass and all designer flash. But it’s set in old parkland.’ McLean tapped at the photographs of the disused airfield again. ‘These are through the woodland round the back, right? That’s all young trees. Well, maybe the same age as the house. But at the front there’s big old oaks and beeches, must be hundreds of years old. Metal fences along the roadside. They’d only be there if there was a big house to go with them. And there it is.’
‘You sure you’re not still concussed, Tony? Only I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Where’s Harrison? See if she can’t find out who owns Corscaidin Hall. I’ll save you the bother, though. It’ll be Jane Louise bloody Dee.’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Saifre? You must remember, surely. The Andrew Weatherly case?’
‘I was a wee bit sidetracked then, if you remember? That was when I broke that journalist’s nose and got into a spot of bother with Professional Standards.’
McLean stared at McIntyre, confused by the happy smile on her face. ‘Aye, right. I’d forgotten. Saifre’s a devil, though. So rich she reckons she’s untouchable, and she’s probably right. She likes to collect people, corrupt them. Get them to do her dirty work, and when things start to go wrong she just lets them go.’
‘If you mean Chalmers, then quite literally so?’
A commotion at the far side of the room stopped McLean from answering. The pieces of the puzzle were all starting to come together now, but his addled brain couldn’t quite make them fit. Not yet at least. He needed some time to think, but he had the horrible feeling time wasn’t something going spare right now.
‘McLean. Heard a rumour you’d slunk back here.’ Detective Superintendent Brooks didn’t even try to hide the sneer in his voice, but he wasn’t angry. There was something else bothering him though, a look in his eyes McLean had never seen before. ‘Ah well. If you’re here it saves a call. You’ll need to know, same as everyone else.’
‘What’s up?’ McIntyre asked the question that was clearly on everyone’s lips. Brooks didn’t answer at first, and for a moment McLean thought the big fat man was going to cry.
‘Mike … Detective Chief Inspector Spence underwent emergency surgery following complications from his … illness.’ Brooks swallowed down a lump in his throat. ‘He died about half an hour ago.’
43
‘Are you really sure you should be here, McLean? You look like shit.’
Detective Superintendent Brooks’ office felt strangely cold, as if the endless snow still falling outside had sucked all the warmth and life out of the room. McLean sat with his back to the nearest radiator, but still he shivered. Acting DI Ritchie and DCI McIntyre sat across the table from him, Brooks himself at the head. The empty chair to his right had been pulled away from the table slightly, as if it were still occupied.
‘I’m fine, sir. Really. And you can’t afford to send me home. Not now.’
All the fight seemed to have gone out of Brooks. His chubby face looked flaccid, like a party balloon the morning after. McLean had always considered the two of them, Spence and Brooks, Little and Large, as a bit of a comedy double act, but he’d never thought the detective superintendent had relied so utterly on the support of his right-hand man. Then again, he couldn’t believe Spence was dead either.
‘Are we expecting anyone else to join us?’ McIntyre asked. It was a fair enough question; there were plenty of other senior detectives in SCD, after all. None of them had been much involved in any of Spence’s cases though.
‘I was expecting the DCC, and I asked Duguid if he’d come along too, but this weather’s not helping much. Can’t hang around waiting for them. We need to put together a plan to cope with this mess.’
‘Well, most of Mike’s workload can be picked up by the DIs and sergeants. It’ll be up to the individual committee chairs what they do about replacing him on the steering boards and the liaison committees he was on. Not sure he was doing any actual beat work these days, so that’s something we don’t have to worry about.’
As McIntyre spoke, McLean studied Brooks’ face with a kind of grim fascination. Something had gone out of the detective superintendent. Normally he would be in charge, ordering people about. Now he seemed fine letting an officer junior to him take over. It made perfect sense, of course. McIntyre had once held his position, albeit in a differently organized Lothian and Borders Police. Still, McLean was surprised at how swiftly the big man had crumbled. He nodded once in affirmation of McIntyre’s suggestions, rubbing at his face with pudgy hands.
‘What about you, McLean? How are things progressing in the Chalmers case?’ The growl in Brooks’ voice was back now, his red-eyed stare leaving no uncertainty in McLean’s mind that he blamed the investigation, and probably his own part in it, for Spence’s death.
‘We think we know where he was flown from, and I’ve a good idea both why he was killed and by whom. The problem as ever is going to be proving it. I was hoping to head back out to Fife this afternoon and check something out.’
‘You were?’ Brooks looked genuinely surprised. He raised his gaze past McIntyre and Ritchie, to the plate glass that made up one wall of his office. Outside the snow filled a sky the colour of a week-old bruise. ‘And just how did you think you were going to get there? Half the city’s ground to a halt, and it only gets worse when you hit the countryside.’
‘There’s plenty of four-by-four vehicles in the car pool, sir. I’m sure I could use one of those.’
Brooks stared at him again, silent for long moments before finally shaking his massive head just ever so slightly. ‘No. Not looking the way you do righ
t now. I can’t afford to lose any more officers, even if they are a fucking pain in the arse sometimes. It’s not so important it can’t wait until the weather clears.’
McLean opened his mouth to complain, but Brooks shouted him down.
‘No arguments. Chalmers isn’t going to get any less dead in the next few days, and the press are too busy talking about the snow apocalypse to care. We need to concentrate on picking up all the work Mike was doing. Smooth transition to a new team. I’ll be heading over to HQ just as soon as I can make the trip. Need to see about successional planning, promotions, making some of these temporary transfers permanent.’
‘You really think you know what this is all about, Tony?’
The meeting with Brooks had broken up swiftly, no one keen to wait around for either Duguid or the DCC to show up. McLean had hoped to get a minute alone with McIntyre, but Brooks had insisted on taking her to his meeting with the top brass. Instead, McLean and Ritchie had gone first to the major incident room and then, seeing it was back to its previous lack of activity, headed down to the CID room. As usual, it was mostly empty, but one desk showed signs of work in progress.
‘I’ve a theory, let’s put it that way. I don’t think you’re going to like it though, and I need to see what DC Harrison has dug up on that house in Fife Brooks is so keen I don’t go and visit again.’
‘Did I hear my name … Oh, sir. Didn’t know you were back.’ DC Harrison walked into the CID room, laden down with a stack of papers that, by their smell, were fresh from the printer across the hall. She stumbled slightly as the door caught her arm, dropping half of them with a muffled curse that would have made Grumpy Bob blush.
‘Here, let me help you with those.’ McLean strode over and stooped down, scooping up pages that looked like printouts of scanned documents. A quick glance showed him only that they were old, frayed edges highlighted in glossy black ink, ancient handwriting loopy and difficult to decipher. ‘What have you got here?’
‘Land registry records mostly, sir. It’s all online, but sometimes it’s just easier to print stuff out.’
‘Find anything interesting so far?’
Harrison dumped her papers down on the untidy desk, then began sorting through them, peering closely at some of the more faded images. ‘Not an easy thing to put together, sir. We know Chalmers owned the offices of Morningstar, the guest house next door and the end-of-terrace block on the other side. It appears he owned the mews house too, but the place in Fife must be rented. Ownership’s in the name of a Jane Dee.’
The silence that followed lasted for a long time. Out of the corner of his eye, McLean saw Ritchie sink into a chair and then very quietly say, ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Is it something I said?’ Harrison asked.
‘No. It’s just that we’ve had a run-in before with Miss Dee, or Mrs Saifre as she prefers these days. I knew she was involved somehow, but this confirms it.’
‘She’s the devil.’ Ritchie spat the words out, her voice cracking.
‘She’s very dangerous,’ McLean added. ‘And extremely well connected as well as incredibly rich.’
‘Wait, what? Jane Louise Dee? The IT billionaire?’ Harrison’s voice notched up a couple of notes higher than normal.
‘The same, although I fear that’s only one of her many faces.’
‘But what’s she got to do with all of this? Why would she be interested in drugs?’
‘Power and influence are her two favourite things. What better way to build up both than supplying the elite with narcotics of their choice? Providing them with a safe place to indulge and then holding that knowledge over them when she needs a favour?’ McLean pulled out a seat and slumped down beside Ritchie. ‘I couldn’t see it before, but now it all starts to make sense. Horrible, cold, killing sense.’
‘It does?’ Ritchie and Harrison asked at the same time.
‘Think about it. We know Chalmers was running a programme that was basically giving addicts their drugs for free and a safe environment in which to take them. That kind of operation’s going to cost money, though, isn’t it?’
‘The charity –’
‘Doesn’t have two beans to rub together.’ McLean interrupted Ritchie before she could break his train of thought. ‘It’s a front, or a partial front. I don’t know, maybe it was even the original intention. But somewhere down the line Chalmers came up with a better idea for raising funds than chugging the tourists on the Royal Mile.’
‘Supplying to a wealthier clientele?’ It was Harrison who spoke.
‘And a more boutique experience, I’ll bet. What’s the word? Hipster? Everything’s artisan-baked or sourced from some obscure village in the high Andes. You’ve got idiots who’ll pay five quid for a shot of coffee just because it’s got a name they can’t pronounce and it’s served to them in an eggcup. Why not a hipster opium den? Somewhere they can get high on good old-fashioned drugs, taken the old-fashioned way?’
The silence that followed suggested McLean had hit upon something. Either that or they thought he’d finally lost it.
‘And you think Mike Spence was one of their customers?’ Ritchie asked after a while.
‘Not only that, I think Brooks knew. Possibly Robinson too, although he’ll deny it of course.’
‘So what went wrong? I mean, if DCI Spence died of withdrawal, then something made the supply dry up … Oh.’ Harrison’s eyes widened as she put the pieces together.
‘Chalmers supplied the drugs, probably got Spence into them in the first place. When he got thrown into the tree, that buggered things up. I’ve a suspicion the stuff we found on Scotty Davison might have been the last of it. Ruth Tennant seemed to be suggesting there was nothing left for the junkies, so why not the same for the paying clients?’ The more McLean spoke it out loud, the more outlandish it sounded. But it also had a horrible ring of truth.
‘So, this yuppie flu that’s going through the city’s wealthy elite is really just cold turkey?’ Ritchie’s face broke into a broad grin that was a welcome light in the darkness.
‘What’s all this got to do with Jane Louise Dee, though?’ Harrison asked, and the very mention of that name snuffed out the light.
‘Chalmers must have done something to piss her off. Maybe a bit of dealing off the books; maybe he just slept with her and she regretted it. She’s the money behind it all, I’m certain of that. And whatever drug they’re using, I’d lay good odds it was cooked up in a lab owned by one of her companies. She likes to be the power behind the throne. What better way to influence the movers and shakers than to have them hooked on a drug only you can supply?’
‘But why stop it now? If you’re right, she must have known what killing Chalmers would do?’ Harrison asked.
‘That’s the bit I don’t understand yet.’ McLean rubbed at his face, the weariness and headache dulling his thoughts. ‘My guess is Saifre’s just reminding them who’s in charge. She really doesn’t care if people die in the process.’
44
Silence filled the house when McLean let himself in through the back door and on into the kitchen. He’d cadged a lift in a squad car to the end of his drive, but the trudge through calf-deep snow to the door had left his feet wet and numb with cold. The heat of the Aga was a welcome relief as he pulled off his shoes and opened the bottom oven to dry out his socks. The glare from Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was less welcoming.
‘Some way for me to repay you, eh. Sorry about that.’ He fetched the cat food from the cupboard and filled up the empty bowl before setting the kettle to boil and making tea. He was both dog-tired and oddly restless, still coming down from the accident and trying to fit together all the mismatched pieces of the puzzle. Nothing made sense. But then if Mrs Saifre really was involved, nothing would.
How long he had been staring into the distance when his phone rang, McLean couldn’t have said, but his mug of tea was empty, as was the packet of chocolate digestives he’d found in the back of the cupboard, even though he had no recollection o
f drinking or eating. He recognized the name that popped up on his screen.
‘Harrison? You still at work?’
‘Aye, sir. Night shift, remember?’
He’d forgotten, but it wasn’t really important. ‘I take it you’ve some news for me. Not that I don’t mind the occasional social call.’ McLean could almost hear the blush down the phone and wondered why he was teasing her. She was too good a detective to scare off.
‘I … Er, well. That is, yes, sir. I found something interesting.’
‘Well?’ McLean suppressed the urge to drum his fingers on the table. The combination of good tea and an entire packet of chocolate digestives had fired him up, driving off the fug of the past thirty-six hours and more.
‘Well, it was after what you said about Jane Louise Dee. I was tracking down the deeds to the big house out in Fife – Corscaidin Hall?’
‘Let me guess, it belongs to her as well.’
‘Apparently it’s been in the family for ever. I did a bit of background work, digging up a history of the place and all that. Seems the current hall was built by a chap called Nathaniel de Chauncy, back in the eighteenth century, but there’s been a big house on that site for a lot longer. He was a notorious fellow, by all accounts. Leading member of the Beggar’s Benison.’
‘I’m surprised you’d know anything about that, Constable.’
‘We did a project in school. That’s how I recognized the name.’
Three cheers for the Scottish education system. ‘So, did you manage to find anything more recent about the place?’
‘Well, I looked up the de Chauncy family on the internet. There’s tons of stuff because of the Dee connection, but most of it’s pretty unreliable for the same reason. Seems the family fell on hard times. Same old story, son of a rich man gambling away the family fortune kind of thing. The last de Chauncy only had a daughter, so when she married the family name died out. But she did OK for herself. Her husband was Roderick Dee. Made a fortune in coal. At one point he owned most of the East Neuk, and a lot of the west end of the New Town was built with his money. But his son blew most of his inheritance on the horses. They’ve been selling off the family silver ever since, but kept a hold of the house and the Mains. That’s where she was born and brought up, apparently.’