‘Ah, Tony. I was wondering where you’d got to.’ She was sitting at her desk and smiled when she saw him. McLean almost relaxed, but then he noticed the figure with his back to them both, staring out the window. Well, he was going to have to break the bad news to the DCC some time, so why not now?
‘What the bloody hell’s going on, McLean?’ Robinson didn’t turn away from the view as he spoke, which on balance was not a good sign. The window didn’t face south, but even so a smear of dark smoke could be seen drifting across the distant sky.
‘Wildfire on Oakhill Moor, sir. We don’t know what started it yet. Everyone’s more concerned with getting it under control.’
Now the DCC turned, and his face was as dark as the smoke. ‘I know that, dammit. And I know it’s only a mile from your search site. I suppose you think that’s a coincidence, do you?’
‘To be honest, sir, I’ve not given it much thought yet. But, if you ask me, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. We’ve had no rain in well over a month now. It’s hot as hell out there and we know from up north that these fires are getting more frequent now a lot of the moorlands aren’t managed for grouse any more.’
‘Grouse?’ Robinson’s angry bluster evaporated in the face of his confusion. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘The moors, sir. They used to burn them regularly. It encourages new heather growth, gets rid of the old, woody stuff. Perfect for grouse, and sheep. If you stop controlled burning, then the old vegetation builds up. Lots of dead wood, dried grass, that kind of thing. Once it gets going, it’s almost impossible to put out.’
The DCC stared at him for a moment, then shook his head slightly. ‘What about the missing woman then? I suppose you’ve called the search off.’
‘We had to, sir. It wasn’t safe, and the officers we drafted in from Penicuik and Dalkeith were needed. We did find a bag though. It could belong to Renfrew. Forensics are going over it now.’
‘What makes you think it’s hers?’ McIntyre asked. McLean told her about the contents. The wad of cash, the mask and condoms, the set of keys he hoped Gregg might have an address soon for him to try them on.
‘Not much we can do right now, which is frustrating. But we should be in better shape in the morning. Provided the fire’s under control and we haven’t lost half our officers to smoke inhalation.’
‘Christ, that’s all we need,’ Robinson said. ‘So what’s the plan of action, then? Give me something I can use to keep the minister off my back.’
McLean glanced at his watch, surprised at how late it was getting. He’d hoped to have got home early, given the unreasonable hour he’d left in the morning. Well, he’d find a way to make it up to Emma somehow. And if he could keep the DCC from losing his temper again, it might not take too long to come up with something for the minister.
‘Give me an hour, sir. I’ll have a situation report done and you can send it straight over.’
‘You’ve got half an hour, McLean. So I suggest you get a move on.’
29
McLean didn’t recognise the car parked on the driveway beside the front door. The number plate suggested it was brand new, as did its shiny clean paintwork. He wasn’t anything like as knowledgeable about cars as he had been in his teenage years, but he recognised the Jaguar badge on the front. The cable plugged into the side by the house, and an extension reel snaking to the part-open back door told him it was the new electric model. It looked sleek enough, modern and sophisticated, but he preferred his Alfa Romeo.
The empty kitchen smelled of fine cooking. His stomach rumbled as he put his briefcase down on the table, reminding him that he’d managed to forget lunch again. Well, there’d been a Mars Bar and an apple, but he’d thrown the apple away after the first bite.
‘Thought I heard a noise.’ Emma appeared at the kitchen door. She was dressed in clothes rather more elegant and formal than the jogging bottoms and hoody she usually wore around the house, and when she came over to give him a hug, she smelled of delicate perfume.
‘Important visitors?’ McLean asked as Emma released him and went to the Aga. Steam billowed out of the opened oven door, a scent of warm herbs and garlic blotting out whatever Chanel number she was wearing. ‘Only, I can’t help notice they’re stealing all the electric.’
Emma said nothing for a moment, too busy checking on whatever was cooking. When she clanged the door shut and turned to face him, McLean saw the look on her face was no longer quite so friendly.
‘You forgot, didn’t you. Honestly, Tony. You’re hopeless.’
‘Forgot?’ He searched his memory for anything, but came up short. Either senility was setting in or this was genuinely not his fault. He knew he’d get the blame either way though.
‘Professor Turner? Dinner?’
It really didn’t spark a memory at all. He opened his mouth to ask if she was sure she’d told him about it, then closed it again before he made things worse. It was just as well he’d managed to manipulate Robinson into accepting a hastily drawn-up report, otherwise in all likelihood he’d not have been home for another hour yet.
‘Never mind. Come through to the library and say hello. Food won’t be ready for another twenty minutes anyway.’
He did as he was told, following Emma along the corridor, out into the hall and then through the open door to the library. The room was tidier than he’d seen it in a while, and the French windows had been opened, letting the warm evening air in from the garden. A scent of burning wood tinged the air, the fire on Oakhill Moor making itself known to the city.
‘I’d heard you were something of a workaholic, Tony. Dare say I shouldn’t be surprised.’
McLean turned to see Professor Turner – Harriet, he reminded himself – standing by the fireplace. Another woman stood close beside her, their shoulders almost touching. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he might have seen her at the lecture a few nights back. Certainly her thin face and grey curtain of shoulder-length hair seemed familiar.
‘I’m so sorry. Em must have told me, but I completely forgot. It’s been a busy day.’ McLean held out a hand, as he had before, only to be engulfed in another hug.
‘Your grandmother was just the same. Happiest down in the mortuary with the dead, quite forgetting the niceties of dealing with the living.’ Professor Turner smiled at her own joke, then frowned. ‘But I’m forgetting myself. This is Meg, my wife.’
Something about the way Meg smiled as she shook his hand put McLean on his guard. He’d not been prepared for guests, and the day’s events still crowded in on his mind.
‘Hattie’s told me so much about you. I feel as if I’ve known you for years.’
‘She has?’ McLean asked. ‘Hattie?’
‘Your grandmother always insisted on Harriet.’ Professor Turner butted in to the conversation. ‘Or latterly Doctor Fairweather, which made me sound very important. I’ve always been Hattie though. When I’m not berating students. And I was so tired of the jokes about my name I decided to take Meg’s when we got married.’
McLean started to say something about that, then realised that he was probably going to regret it. Fortunately Emma came to his rescue, whether she intended to or not, by choosing that moment to interrupt.
‘Now Tony’s finally home, shall we go through to the dining room and eat?’
He didn’t need to be a detective to see that Emma was trying her hardest to impress Professor Turner. McLean could have told her it wasn’t necessary, that the professor wouldn’t have accepted the invitation if she’d not already made up her mind about her. It was fun to watch though. If nothing else, he couldn’t remember the last time Emma had been so bright and vivacious.
‘Tell me, Tony. What does a detective chief inspector get up to on the average day?’
He turned away from Emma to look at the woman next to him, Harriet’s wife, Meg. The
oval dining table was far too large for just four people, so they sat in a cluster at one end. McLean would have been far happier in the kitchen, but that didn’t fit Emma’s ambitions well enough.
‘I’m not sure there’s ever an average day. It very much depends on what’s going on.’
Meg stared at him with eyes that were hard to read. He wasn’t sure, but it was possible she was wearing tinted contacts. There was certainly something other-worldly about her. She was an artist, he knew that much, and his first impression was that she was the complete opposite of the professor. He was old enough and wise enough not to trust first impressions though.
‘What’s going on at the moment then?’ she asked. ‘It must be something very important for you to forget all about this evening. Emma’s absolutely raging at you.’
McLean risked a glance at the woman in question, deep in conversation with Professor Turner. Given the way she’d treated him in recent months, this evening felt like warmth and joy. Not rage at all. When he turned back to Meg, she had a grin on her face like the Cheshire cat.
‘Made you look. Made you stare.’
Made you lose your underwear, McLean didn’t say. ‘How is it you and Harriet met?’ he asked instead.
‘Oh, now there’s a story.’ Meg reached for her wine glass and drained almost half of it. ‘Was it Rwanda? Or was it Kenya? I forget. Somewhere hot, anyway. Hattie always was swanning off to the least desirable places to look at the most horrendous things.’
‘I can’t begin to imagine what her work is like, and I’ve seen some disturbing stuff in my time. But what were you doing there? You don’t sound like you’re from Africa.’
Meg drained the other half of her glass, holding it in her hand without saying a word until McLean had reached for the bottle and given her a refill. ‘I’m not. I grew up not a half a mile from here. Went to the Glasgow School of Art. Tried to be a portrait artist, but I’m not really a people person. And not all art’s lovely landscapes and what’s on the outside, you know.’ She waved the now perilously full glass at the paintings on the dining room wall. He’d not given them much thought before, but they mostly fell into the ‘lovely landscapes’ category, he supposed. There were a couple of paintings that his father had bought before McLean had been born. His grandmother had hung them in this room because she didn’t much like them but couldn’t bear to put them in a cupboard somewhere. They were modern, and that was as far as his artistic sensibilities went. He was on firmer ground teasing meaning out of people when they were trying to be enigmatic.
‘You paint pictures of genocide. The mass graves and things like that.’
Meg smiled, then punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Knew you’d get it.’
‘So you were out there painting while Hattie was trying to put names to the dead.’
‘We met at a dinner party. Not unlike this one really. Except that Hattie had been dragged along by one of the other doctors on the dig. I think he was hoping she might sleep with him. I went along at the last minute as a favour to a friend. Which just goes to show good deeds do sometimes go rewarded.’
McLean raised his own glass to that, although the mouthful of wine he drank was considerably smaller than Meg’s. The alcohol didn’t appear to be having much effect on her though, despite her having put away at least a bottle already. Hattie was clearly the designated driver for the evening.
‘So, Detective Chief Inspector,’ she said after half another glass was gone. ‘Tell me. How did you and the lovely Miss Baird come to be together?’
He picked up the bottle, topped up Meg’s glass and then emptied the rest into his own. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a very long story indeed.’
Long hours later, McLean sat at the kitchen table, staring at the Aga and Mrs McCutcheon’s cat as she cleaned herself. One leg in the air like a ham hock, tongue making a noise that could put a deaf man off his pudding. He was dog tired, and tomorrow was going to start early. A weary glance up at the clock confirmed that tomorrow had already started. He should really go to bed, sleep for at least a little while. But he needed to get his head straight about all the things that had happened. Being bounced into an evening of socialising, however pleasant it had turned out to be, had thrown him.
‘Well, I think that was a success, don’t you?’
Emma clumped into the kitchen, hands laden with crockery from the dining room. It could have waited until the morning – later in the morning – but he had just enough self-control not to say so. Instead, McLean levered himself to his feet and intercepted her on her way to the sink.
‘Here, let me.’ He held out his hands, but Emma shook her head and carried on.
‘I can manage, Tony. Honestly, you should go to bed. You look done in.’
She sounded like his gran, but in a good way.
‘It was fun. Can’t say I’m not tired, true enough.’
‘So why do I get the feeling you’re thinking about sitting in that old chair of yours in the library with a dram to keep you company into the wee small hours?’
He stifled a yawn, even though the thought had occurred to him. ‘Meg’s an interesting person,’ he said out of nowhere.
‘Changing the subject, I see, Chief Inspector.’ Emma rinsed the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher, something McLean had never quite seen the point of doing.
‘A bit. Maybe. Just not sure what to make of her, that’s all. I guess I was a bit surprised. The Harriet Turner I remember didn’t seem . . .’ He shut up before his tired brain got him into trouble. Emma’s expression suggested it might have been too late for that.
‘I’d ’ve thought having seventeen-year-old boys perving after you would be more than enough reason. Honestly, Tony. I thought you were the open-minded one.’
McLean rubbed at his face with tired hands. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Well. Sorry. And for forgetting they were coming. I’d have tried to get home earlier if I’d remembered.’
‘Tried?’ Emma’s eyebrow arched towards her hairline, and for a moment he thought he was going to get an earful. Not that she shouted often; theirs was a more silent form of argument in the main. Then her shoulders slumped a little and she half smiled, half frowned. ‘Actually, I’m being unfair. It’s very possible I forgot to tell you I’d invited them. It was a spur of the moment thing after they’d dropped round for tea yesterday. Then you were gone so early this morning, and I was so wrapped up in applying for the course, persuading work to let me take a sabbatical . . .’
‘I don’t think you need to worry too hard about being accepted. Even without your background and qualifications, she likes you. Meg said as much.’
‘You two seemed to get on well.’ Emma pulled out a chair opposite him and sat down. For a moment McLean thought there might have been a challenge in her words, but it was only his tired brain seeing things that weren’t there.
‘Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who can put away quite so much drink without it having the slightest effect on her. Well, outside of the police, maybe. She’s got a new exhibition of her work at some gallery over in the West End tomorrow evening. Said she’d put us on the guest list for the opening.’ He stifled a yawn, the long day catching up.
‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,’ Emma said, mistaking his tiredness for a lack of enthusiasm.
‘No. I’d like to. I think it could be fun. Well, interesting at least.’ He stretched, then yawned again. ‘But right now I’m going to bed.’
30
She wakes from a sleep so deep and dreamless it is almost as if she didn’t exist until this moment. Thoughts tumble through her mind, a confusion of memory and sensation so that for a moment she doesn’t know who she is, what is happening. Something cold and wet scrapes against her skin, the rough tongue of some unimaginable beast. She lies motionless, frozen in terror.
‘. . . Soon have you all cleaned up, won’t
we now . . .’
At first she’s not sure that she has heard the voice. All noise is muffled, as if she is underwater, her ears stopped up with wax. That tongue still licks at her skin though, cold and harsh. And as she focuses on it, she remembers the pain, the cuts on her arms and legs and face. She remembers the night in the woods as if it were a lifetime ago, the panic as she was chased by something wild and hungry.
Something that licks at her now.
‘. . . What a mess you’ve made of yourself, dear. Still, it’s understandable given . . .’
The voice is a little clearer, a woman, old. It makes no sense. How can there be a woman nearby when the beast is softening her up to eat? That cold, rasping tongue working its methodical way along her arm, her skin puckering and stretching with each stroke.
Other sounds filter through, the trickle of running water, the creaking of metal. She can’t see anything, still enveloped in total darkness. But no sooner has she noticed this than she realises it is because her eyes are closed. She tries to open them, but nothing happens. Though the paralysing fear has begun to ebb away, she still can’t move a muscle.
‘. . . Such a long time since last someone was called to us. Beginning to think we had fallen from God’s grace . . .’
The old woman’s voice is closer now, near her head. The tongue reaches her shoulder, pauses a moment before starting again on her neck, her breasts. And that’s when she understands it isn’t a tongue but some kind of cloth. She isn’t being licked but washed.
‘I . . .’ She tries to speak, but like everything else her voice is paralysed. She can still breathe though, and the word comes out as a sigh that gains an instant response. She feels a pressure on her lips, a finger perhaps although it’s hard to tell.
‘Shhh, dear. Don’t fret. We’ll get you all clean and presentable in time.’
Bury Them Deep Page 16