‘How no?’ Bobby’s kneeling down now, hand stretched under the nearest bush. Gav hears the flick, flick, flick of the lighter, then wisps of smoke start to weave up through the thick spikes. There’s a moment when he thinks it’s just going to go out, then the dry stuff catches and the bush seems to explode in flame. Bobby falls back, laughing off his fear as he scrambles over to join Gav. The flames give off thick black smoke, like that time someone set fire to one of the old industrial units down by the river.
‘Fuck, look at it go.’ Bobby’s voice sounds weird against the crackling roar as the flames take hold and rush through the bushes. Soon a swathe twenty feet wide is alight, spreading fast. The black smoke billowing up into the cloudless sky.
‘C’mon, Bobby. We gotta go.’ Gav grabs his friend by the arm. It’s getting hot now, too hot. Bobby resists a moment, then the tension goes out of him, the madness passed.
‘Aye, better split before anyone sees us.’ He pushes past Gav, through the gap in the fence and away.
14
McLean stared at the personnel file, trying to focus on the words and failing miserably. His mind kept going over the conversation with Dr Graham, and the sudden, unwelcome, return of Norman Bale into his life. He was contemplating ringing the doctor back when a knock at the door startled him into dropping his phone. He looked around to see DS Gregg standing half in, half out the open doorway, wide-eyed in sudden surprise.
‘Everything OK, sir?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He closed the file, picked up the phone and slid it into his jacket pocket.
‘Heard you wanted to see me. I take it this is about Anya?’
‘Indeed it is. Come in.’ He got up and walked over to the conference table, pulling out a chair for Gregg to sit in.
‘Would you say you know Renfrew well?’ he asked once she’d settled herself. The detective sergeant wasn’t normally ill at ease around him, not since he’d carried her unconscious husband out of her house moments before it exploded from a gas leak a few years past. Now she seemed if not nervous then certainly uncomfortable.
‘I wouldn’t say well, sir. No. Don’t think any of us really do.’
‘You’ve been talking about her with the other officers and support staff, I take it? Comparing notes, things she’s said in the past.’
‘Aye, and that’s the thing, see?’ Gregg shifted on her chair as if she had piles. ‘The more you speak to people, the more it’s like none of us ever knew her at all. I mean, she’s good at the job. Always want to have Anya on your team when there’s a complicated case unfolding.’
‘I’ve heard she’s very well organised.’
‘Och, it goes beyond that, sir. She knows the Holmes system better’n anyone. She knows who to speak to at the council, Holyrood, all the other stations in Lothian and Borders. If there’s anyone who knows more about how we work than Anya, then I don’t know who.’
For some unfathomable reason, McLean didn’t find this in the least bit reassuring. ‘But nobody knows anything about her life outside work, I take it.’
Gregg shrugged. ‘Not much. Judy down in Accounts said something about her mum being in a home after she’d fallen and broken her hip. Didn’t know any more details than that. Pete in Records said he’d asked her out once. Got a refusal that was a bit more explicit than he was expecting. Someone told me she broke PC Carter’s fingers when he tried to grab her backside once, but that might just be gossip. Oh, and I told you before about her singing.’
‘That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about. You don’t happen to know the name of the club she went to, do you?’
Gregg frowned in concentration for a minute. ‘Don’t think she ever mentioned the name, but I’m sure she mentioned the Old Town, so it’d have to be Fanny’s or the Croon Club, I reckon. Maybe something in the Vaults?’
‘Any of those meet regularly on a Tuesday night?’
‘I don’t know. Can find out soon enough if you want.’
McLean glanced up at the clock on the wall, surprised to see another day heading fast towards evening. ‘Thanks. Let me know how you get on. Might be paying a wee visit to a folk club tonight.’
‘You got a minute, Jayne?’
Like McLean’s own office, Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s door was always open. She looked up from a desk even more cluttered than McLean’s own, peered at him over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles.
‘Of course, Tony. Come on in. News about Anya?’
McLean thought about remaining on his feet, but it felt a bit awkward towering over his boss. He dragged a chair over from the far wall and sat down before answering.
‘I’m not sure.’ He told McIntyre about his recent conversation with Dr Graham and the message Norman Bale had insisted she pass on. It made no more sense for the telling a second time.
‘He’s trying to play with you, that’s all.’ McIntyre took off her spectacles, carefully folded them and placed them in front of her. ‘Best thing you can do is ignore it. Tell this Doctor Graham not to bother you with any more messages. If Bale wants to bend her ear, well, that’s what she’s being paid for.’
‘Don’t you think it strange though? That he should know we’re looking for a missing woman?’
‘Come on, Tony. You know as well as I do just how many people go missing every day. At least half of them are going to be women just from pure statistics. You have Bale’s exact words, and they’re no better than some sensationalist stage show mindreader. A couple of deliberately vague statements for you to hang your own experience on.’
Put like that, he had to admit McIntyre had a point, and yet his gut instinct told him otherwise. Either that or he was suffering from too much coffee and not enough lunch.
‘The timing of it bothers me though. Why now? He’s been locked up for years, so what’s set him off? And he didn’t just say woman, he said scarlet woman. He’s not the sort of person who wastes words.’
‘As I recall, the man’s a complete nutter. He might just have woken up one morning with a thought to make a nuisance of himself.’ McIntyre picked up her spectacles again, fiddled with them but didn’t put them on. ‘If you want, have a DS look into it. Grumpy Bob’s not got much on his hands right now, what with him winding down to the end of the month and all. Why don’t you ask him to go and have a word with the hospital staff, see what they have to say about Bale, who he speaks to, who’s been to visit. You’ll probably get a better picture if he asks rather than your friendly Doctor Graham.’
‘Good idea. I’ll see if I can prise him out of the basement. Sometimes I reckon he thinks he’s retired already, the way he’s always in there helping out Dagwood.’
‘I’m just happy to have his expertise still available. We’ve few enough experienced officers as it is.’ McIntyre let out a weary sigh that McLean could well appreciate. Budget cuts and restructuring were the only things you could rely on these days.
‘But enough of that. How are we getting on with tracking down Anya Renfrew?’
It was McLean’s turn to sigh. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling it’s going to be one of those complicated cases. The more we find out about her, the less sense it all makes. I’ve spoken to pretty much all of the staff who worked with her, and it seems she’s the very definition of a recluse. Hardly ever socialised with work people out of the office. It’s like she lived a completely separate life away from here. One that’s the complete opposite of the woman we all thought we knew, if what I found at her house in Joppa is anything to go by.’
‘Oh aye?’ McIntyre leaned forward, elbows on the desk, spectacles clutched in both hands like a rosary.
‘For a start, it looks like she only stays there occasionally. Then there’s the stash of . . . How can I put it? . . . unusual clothing we found hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe.’ McLean told the detective superintendent about the revealing dresses and the red latex bodys
uit.
‘You sure they’re hers and not . . .’ McIntyre trailed off as she realised what she was saying.
‘Like I said. It’s getting complicated. We’re following up on her phone records though. Reckon she might have a place in the New Town somewhere she’s been living. I’ve a couple of DCs looking for it.’
‘Keep me up to date on that then. Any other leads?’
‘Seems she’s a regular at a folk club in the Old Town. DS Gregg’s trying to find out which one. I’ll pay them a visit.’
McIntyre nodded slowly to herself for a moment, then looked him straight in the eye. ‘Normally I’d tell you to get a sergeant to do that, but this is too important. Operation Caterwaul’s at a standstill until we know what’s happened to her, and you can imagine how popular that is with the top brass. It’s costing a fortune, for one thing.’
‘Understood. I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything.’ McLean stood up, put the chair back where he’d got it from and then left the room. Detective Superintendent McIntyre was right, there was a lot at stake. But as far as he was concerned the budgetary worries of the bean-counters and politicians were of much less concern to him than the well-being of one missing woman.
15
‘This the place then? Doesn’t look like much.’
McLean stood at the top of a long flight of stone steps leading from the Royal Mile down towards Waverly Station, one of the many narrow closes that criss-crossed the Old Town. A dozen steps down, a nondescript plywood door in bad need of a lick of paint was propped open with a mop bucket, nothing to indicate what went on behind it other than an antique wall lamp that looked too out of place to be original.
‘It’s early, sir. Place probably won’t really wake up till ten.’
DC Gregg still wore her work clothes; a sensible trouser suit and white blouse that wouldn’t be out of place in any office within a mile of where they stood. And yet somehow she managed to look like she was off duty. It took him a while to realise that she’d untied her hair and let it drop so that it hung past her shoulders. So much for being trained in observation skills.
‘Well, I hope there’s someone here. Bit of a wasted trip otherwise.’ He checked his watch, not quite eight yet. He’d already texted Emma to let her know what was going on, but he’d rather get this over and done with, head home at a reasonable hour.
The door opened onto a narrow lobby with an unmanned counter to one side. A sign on the wall above it read ‘Fanny’s Folk Club’ in gaudy painted letters laid over a picture of a smiling woman’s head. Her fifties hairstyle and bright-red lipstick made McLean think this might not be his kind of joint.
‘Think it’s this way, sir.’ Gregg pointed to a set of stone steps leading down into a basement. He followed her, ducking under the narrow, arched ceiling. How on earth could a place like this be legal? It was a health and safety nightmare, surely.
Another door at the bottom of the stairs opened onto a large room with a vaulted ceiling held up by fat stone pillars. A low stage at one end faced a bar at the other, intimate tables arranged in between them to give the place the feel of a 1920s speakeasy. All it needed to complete the image was for someone to turn the lights down. And a few more people of course.
‘We don’t open till half eight. Sorry. You’ll have to come back then.’ A young woman dressed in the kind of clothes McLean imagined Fanny on the sign upstairs would wear weaved a path through the tables from the far side of the room towards them. She smiled, and pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘You can get a drink in the pub if you want.’
‘Actually, we’re not here for the club.’ McLean showed the woman his warrant card. ‘I was wondering if I might ask a few questions about one of your regulars. Anya Renfrew?’
He’d been hoping the name might spark a look of recognition, but the woman merely frowned. ‘Not sure I know her.’
‘Perhaps this might help?’ Gregg held up a photo, a copy of the head shot in Renfrew’s personnel file. The young woman peered at it a moment, then took it from the detective sergeant and held it under a nearby light. Finally something like recognition dawned.
‘Oh aye. That’s Grace, so it is. Never seen her look so dowdy, mind. Where’s this photo from?’
‘That’s not important.’ McLean took the photograph away. ‘You say she calls herself Grace? Do you know what surname she uses?’
The young woman frowned in concentration again. ‘Not off the top of my head. It’ll be in the register though, I’d imagine. She was here last week and everyone who sings signs in.’
She set off towards the bar without telling them to follow. McLean did anyway, catching up with her as she stepped behind the counter and bent down to fetch out a heavy leather-bound notebook. Licking an absent-minded finger, she flicked through the pages. ‘Last Tuesday, last Tuesday. Ah. Here we are.’ The finger traced down a list of names, all written in different hands. ‘Grace, Grace, Grace, yes. There. Grace Ramsay. Knew she’d been here. Great voice has Grace. Always popular with the punters.’
‘And she’s a regular, is she?’
‘Fairly, aye.’
‘Does she come alone? Or is she part of a group?’
‘I couldn’t say really. See this place in half an hour or so, it’s heaving. We really need to move to a bigger venue, but this is where Fanny started it all, so here’s where it’ll stay. I’m that busy checking them all in, keeping an eye on the numbers and that. Don’t exactly pay attention to who’s coming wi’ who.’
‘What about the other names on the register next to Ren— . . . next to Ramsay’s? They regulars too?’
The young woman looked back at the book. ‘I see where you’re coming from. I’m no’ sure I should be giving out these, mind. Isn’t there some data protection or something?’
‘I could get a warrant, if it helps. This is kind of important though. She’s gone missing, you see. Grace, that is. We urgently need to find her.’
‘Well, you can wait here and she’ll like as not walk in through the door before nine.’ The young woman gave a little laugh that died on her lips almost as quickly as it was born. ‘She’s no’ coming tonight, is she?’
‘How’s about I stay, sir?’ Gregg said in the awkward silence that followed.
‘What?’
‘I can stay. I’ll stand behind the counter with . . .’ She waved her hand at the young woman.
‘Dolores.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And before you ask, yes, that’s my real name.’
‘Well, I’ll stay here with Dolores, and she can introduce me to anyone who knows An— . . . Grace.’ Gregg turned to the young woman. ‘That OK?’
‘Knock yourself out.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They’ll be starting soon enough.’
As if on cue, a grey-haired man appeared through a door on the far side of the room, followed by a couple more carrying cases McLean assumed contained musical instruments. It being a speakeasy, they could have been hiding something else entirely though. Dolores went to speak to them, taking the ledger with her.
‘You sure about this?’ McLean asked of Gregg.
‘Aye, it’ll be fun. Might even have a go myself.’
‘Well, I hope you won’t be too upset if I don’t hang around for that. And don’t stay out carousing into the wee small hours. I’ll need an update before tomorrow morning’s briefing.’
The band started tuning up as McLean was leaving the club for the short walk back to the station. They sounded professional enough, but the music wasn’t really to his taste. In truth, Gregg had done him a favour, even if her approach to the investigation was somewhat unorthodox. This way he could get home at a decent hour, earlier even than he’d promised Emma. Their fragile relationship seemed to be on the mend, but he had a hunch the search for Anya Renfrew was going to be one of those difficult cases leading to late nights and earlier starts, weekends something other people exper
ienced. He’d been doing his best to be there for her, to spend time together, go out and do stuff of an evening. It wouldn’t take much though to undo all the hard work he’d put in over the past few months.
He had climbed into his Alfa and was reaching for the starter button when a tap at the window stopped him. He looked round to see a man standing by the passenger window, bent down so that he could peer in. Despite the hour, it was still light enough for McLean to know that he’d never seen him before. They were in the station car park though, which meant he probably wasn’t some random stranger looking for a lift.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, once he’d found the right button for the window and wound it down a few inches.
‘Detective Chief Inspector McLean, I presume.’ American accent, difficult to place beyond that. Even so, it wasn’t hard to work out why he was here.
‘I’m on my way home. Can it wait until tomorrow?’ McLean knew it couldn’t, but asked anyway.
‘Just wanted a chat. Won’t take long.’ The man stood up straight, waved a hand at the Alfa’s swooping bonnet, then leaned back to the window. ‘Nice car. Always did like the way Italians make ’em.’
Suppressing the annoyed sigh he knew wouldn’t help the situation, McLean leaned over and popped open the passenger door. ‘You can chat while I drive then. How you get back’s up to you.’
The man climbed in, pulled on his seat belt and clunked the door shut as McLean started the engine. The bass rumble of the V6 brought a smile to his passenger’s lips.
‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. Much sweeter than anything we make.’ He leaned around and held out a hand. ‘Brad Fenwick.’
McLean looked at the hand, then at the man. It would be rude not to shake it, he supposed. And probably not wise.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Fenwick?’
‘Drive home, for starters. Don’t want to keep your missus waiting.’
McLean let that one slide, for now. ‘I take it this is about Anya Renfrew, your precious Operation Caterwaul.’
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