Written in Bones: Inspector McLean 7
Page 33
‘Oh, you’re up. That’s … good.’
McLean looked around to see Dr Wheeler standing in the doorway.
‘I just …’ He turned slowly, putting the report behind him like a guilty schoolboy caught in the dormitory with a porn mag. ‘Yes. I’m feeling much better. Should probably go home and get some rest there.’
Dr Wheeler raised a single slim eyebrow. ‘I know better than to argue with you, Tony. Maybe you and Emma can convalesce together. I’ve had a word with your boss though. I’ll hear about it if you’re back at work in less than a fortnight.’
49
The snow would take a long time to melt, but at least the roads had been partially cleared. The taxi still dropped him at the end of the drive, unwilling to venture up the slight slope, even though twin tyre tracks showed that someone else had tried and succeeded. McLean watched it slither over the slush as it fishtailed down the street and turned the corner at the end. He shivered at the chill wind that blew through his tattered coat and suit as if they weren’t there at all.
The walk up the drive was a struggle for his weary legs and bruised back. The straps holding his ribs in place chafed with each slight slip on the compressed snow. It occurred to him halfway up that he could have called Phil, got his old friend to fetch him from the hospital in his shiny four-by-four. Then he remembered that the car would still be parked outside Bill Chalmers’ house in Fife, or maybe even have been impounded by the military. That would be an awkward conversation to have.
Except that the BMW was parked outside his front door. Out of habit, McLean held a hand over the bonnet as he limped past, felt the latent heat of the engine rising into the frigid, still air. Not long arrived then.
Light spilled out of the kitchen window, and soon the warmth engulfed him as he pushed open the back door. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat gave him a look that asked how dare he be saved by something as common as a sheepdog, but she got up and came over to him, arched her back and wrapped her tail around his leg anyway.
Voices from the front of the house led him to the library. McLean wasn’t sure whether he was ready for a crowd. He really wanted to see how well a dram would mix with his painkillers to send him off to oblivion. But he’d borrowed Phil’s car; the least he could do was talk to his friend, make the first of what would doubtless be many apologies.
A peel of laughter, high-pitched so most likely Rachel, was cut short as all eyes turned to face him. Emma sat in his favourite armchair, Rachel on the sofa nearby. Phil sat at the other end, Tony Junior asleep on his lap.
‘Tony, you’re back. You should have called. We’d have come to get you.’ Phil almost leapt to his feet then remembered his bundle of joy and slumped back into the seat.
‘They didn’t want to let me go, but you know me and hospitals, aye?’
‘Can’t seem to keep out of them?’ Rachel stood up and took her child from its father, hefting the baby to her shoulder with a practised ease.
‘Something like that. Maybe.’ McLean leaned against the armchair as Phil clambered to his feet too. ‘You got the car back OK? I’m really sorry about that.’
‘Some strange bloke delivered it to the university yesterday. Said he reckoned you’d probably not remember where you’d left it.’
‘Average size, average build, easy to forget?’ McLean felt the suit pocket where he had shoved the folded report.
‘That’s probably him. Anyway, you’re fine, and that’s all that matters. Cars can be replaced, eh?’ Phil crossed the room and slapped McLean on the shoulder as he spoke. It was a gesture his friend had made countless times before, but never while McLean was nursing several cracked ribs. He tried to hide the pain, but something must have shown.
‘Christ, sorry. That was a bit thoughtless of me. We just dropped by to make sure Em was OK. But now you’re here, we’ll be off. Don’t want to get in your way. Sure you’ve lots to discuss.’ Phil winked, but before McLean could ask him what he meant by it, Rachel had grabbed her husband by the arm and was pulling him to the door.
‘We’ll drop by tomorrow. See how you’re getting on,’ she said. Then as McLean started towards them added: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see ourselves out.’
He watched them go, the library door pulled closed behind them. It might have been his imagination, but he was sure he heard Rachel chuckling as she walked across the hall.
‘Sit, Tony. Before you fall over. You look worse than me, and I’m a sight.’
Emma’s hand on his arm broke the moment. He hadn’t noticed her standing, but now she was close by, and guided him to the armchair before taking Rachel’s spot on the sofa nearby. The fire was lit, he noticed, and judging by the warmth in the room, it had been for some time.
‘How are you feeling?’ They both asked the question at the same time. McLean’s laugh was cut short by the stabbing pain of his ribs.
‘Bruised, tired. Nothing much broken though, so I’ll be fine. I just need some rest,’ he said. ‘What about you? Dr Wheeler said they’d worked out what the problem was.’
Emma said nothing for a while, just sat there staring at him. McLean hadn’t noticed the crow’s feet around her eyes before, or quite how much the grey had set in to her hair. She was a few years younger than him, but right now she could have been a decade his senior.
‘We did get to the bottom of it, eventually. Can’t believe I didn’t realize a couple of months ago, but it was all too strange. Being back after so long travelling, settling in here.’ Emma made a gesture that encompassed the library and the whole house. ‘It’s a bit of a step up from what I’m used to, really. It was fine while you were on suspension, but when you went back to work it all got a bit overwhelming.’
McLean said nothing. His mind wasn’t at its best, too tired and battered by the pain in his body to think straight. But even he could see what was coming. Not for the first time he wondered why he kept on living in this big old house, rattling around its cold rooms, occasionally managing to surround himself with people, only for them to leave, or die.
‘Your face, Tony. Honestly, how you can be a good policeman when you’re so easy to read.’ Emma leaned forward, placed her hand over his where it lay on his knee. He flinched a little as the movement sent a twinge through his ribs, but her touch was warm and reassuring. It lent him strength.
‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’m not leaving any time soon,’ she said.
‘I didn’t …’ he started, then accepted that he did. ‘You’re not?’
‘No. Not before, and certainly not now. You’d better get all the rest you can in the next couple of months. You’re going to need it.’
‘I am?’ McLean asked, his thoughts struggling to work out what was going on. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m pregnant, Tony. You’re going to be a father.’
Acknowledgements
So here we have it, another Inspector McLean novel. If you’d told me ten years ago, when I wrote the first draft of Natural Causes, that I’d be sat here typing up acknowledgements to Tony’s seventh solo outing, I’d probably have laughed at you, and yet here we are.
I am hugely indebted to the team at Michael Joseph, both past and present, who have taken my rough-around-the-edges early drafts and helped me polish them into something presentable. The success of these books has been in no small part due to them and their tireless efforts. You are too many to name, but an honourable mention must go to my editor Emad Akhtar, for his insight, encouragement and sage advice on this one. I only wish we could work together on some more.
Thanks as ever to my agent, the irrepressible Juliet Mushens, and to her tireless assistant Nathalie Hallam, of whose organisational skills I am in constant awe.
Eagle-eyed readers will have noticed a few changes in Tony’s team. I am forever indebted to my godmother Janie, whose annual birthday and Christmas presents of book tokens set me on the path to reading and kept me on it down the years. This is one small way of saying thank you.
And finally my tha
nks to Barbara, who somehow manages to keep things running smoothly while I’m away in my imaginary worlds. I really couldn’t do this without her.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Text copyright © James Oswald, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover photo © Drunaa Photography/Arcangel Images
ISBN: 978-1-405-92530-3