Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  ‘Gentleman in Reception. He’s . . . well, it’s hard to say, sir.’

  ‘Hard to . . . ?’ McLean shook his head. ‘Never mind. I’ll have a word.’

  Something like relief passed across the duty sergeant’s face. ‘Name’s Billy McKenzie, sir. Says he works in a sandwich factory and one of the girls there’s missing. Seems a sandwich short of a picnic if you ask me, but there’s something about him.’

  They both walked through to the reception area at the front of the station, Sergeant Dundas nodding in the direction of a row of seats where a young man sat in the one nearest the door. Shaven-headed, he had a woolly hat in his hands and was twisting it this way and that as if it were a wild beast he needed to choke the life out of. McLean was reminded of some of the photographs he’d been looking at earlier, the far right Nazi sympathisers who were expected to join that afternoon’s march. The heavy Doc Martens boots, skinny jeans and padded jacket only added to the picture. He seemed not to have noticed them coming in, fixated on a spot on the floor a short distance from his feet.

  ‘William McKenzie?’ McLean approached cautiously, aware that Sergeant Dundas had retreated into the relative safety of the small office behind the security glass. The young man looked up as he heard his name, almost flinching. His face had a pale bloodlessness about it, and his eyes were so dark it looked like he was wearing make-up. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and higher-pitched than McLean had been expecting.

  ‘You a detective?’

  ‘Detective In— . . . Chief Inspector McLean. Sergeant Dundas said something about a missing girl?’

  McKenzie stood up, still clutching his woolly hat as if it were a shield against the world. ‘You have to find her, aye? You can do that?’

  ‘First of all I need to know who she is. Who you are, for that matter.’

  Confusion wrinkled McKenzie’s brow, spreading up and over his bald head. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, aye. Right enough. See, it’s like this. The girls at work, right, they’re all foreign, like. Don’t know about the polis here an’ how they’re no’ as bad as back home, see?’

  McLean didn’t, but he knew that standing in the draughty reception area wasn’t going to make things any clearer. He held up a hand to stop McKenzie from speaking.

  ‘Why don’t we go and have a seat somewhere a bit warmer and quieter, eh?’ He turned to the glass screen. Behind it, Sergeant Dundas looked on with a slightly puzzled expression. ‘Buzz us through, Sergeant. I’ll take Mr McKenzie to one of the interview rooms.’ McLean waited until the click of the door unlocking, pulled it open. ‘Oh, and see if you can’t rustle up a couple of coffees, aye?’

  ‘It’s a sandwich factory, right? We make sandwiches.’

  McLean sat in a hard plastic chair on one side of the wobbly table in interview room two. Across the scratched Formica surface, Billy McKenzie was talking as much with his hands as his voice, waving them in the air excitedly as he spoke. His work was clearly something he took very seriously and about which he was quite passionate.

  ‘Sandwiches?’

  ‘Aye. Sandwiches. Ye ken? Two white slices an’ a slab of ham. Cardboard carton and off you go.’ McKenzie swept the air, bringing his palms together and then apart again in a motion that as far as McLean could tell had nothing whatsoever to do with the making of sandwiches. He paused for the time it took to drink some of the coffee Sergeant Dundas had brought up from the canteen.

  ‘And where exactly is this factory, Mr McKenzie?’

  ‘Oot Newcraighall way. In the industrial park, aye?’

  That was another thing about McKenzie, McLean noticed. Everything was a question.

  ‘I’d never given it much thought, but I suppose sandwiches have to be made somewhere.’

  ‘Aye. See, if you buy a sandwich from a garage, like? Or maybe the wee corner store for your lunch? Chances are that’s me’s made it for youse.’ McKenzie pointed at his chest with both hands. ‘Me or one of the girls, ken?’

  ‘Your co-workers? Is it one of them who’s gone missing?’

  McKenzie paused a moment before answering, that frown creasing from his eyes right over the top of his shaved head again. ‘Aye, well, no. See, most of the girls is foreign, ken? Immigrants, refugees? Mr Boag, he’s the boss, ken? He says they make the best workers. Too much to lose if they kick up a fuss. It’s no’ right, ken? The things they’ve seen, the stuff they’ve had to put up wi’. An’ they never complain, aye? Just do the work.’

  McLean took another sip of his coffee. Not as nice as Grumpy Bob’s brew, but not bad, considering. He was all too aware that the only reason he was listening to this man was so that he didn’t have to deal with paperwork. No amount of wishing or distraction would make that go away, though. Still, there was something about McKenzie that fascinated him, even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on what or why.

  ‘Do you have a problem with them? Immigrants, I should say.’

  ‘Me?’ McKenzie’s confusion at the question couldn’t have been faked. ‘No way, man. They’s as much right to a job as the next, aye? See the work they do? There’s no’ many folk’d do it for the pay and no’ complain.’

  ‘But you do, though. You make the sandwiches, I take it?’

  ‘Aye. On the line wi’ the rest of them.’

  ‘The migrant workers.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And one of them’s gone missing.’

  ‘Aye.’ McKenzie stopped a moment as if his thoughts were having trouble keeping up with his mouth. ‘Well, no’ one of the workers. But her sister, see? Akka. That’s her name. An’ she’s got this wee girl. No’ sure if she was born here or came over on the boat wi’ her. Thing is, Akka’s wee girl has disappeared. Nala. That’s her name. The wee girl, see?’

  McLean wasn’t sure that he did. Keeping up with the natter wasn’t easy. ‘So there’s a little girl gone missing, that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘And has her mother reported this to anyone?’

  ‘That’s the thing, ken? She won’t. She don’t dare. Thinks youse lot’ll lock her up and send her back where she came from.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Syria, ken? She . . . Well, I probably shouldnae say, but I don’t think they came here legal like, ken?’

  McLean tried to suppress his sigh, although he may have failed. Migrant workers were one thing, and brought their own set of unique problems such as an ingrained mistrust of authority. Illegal immigrants were another deal altogether, and needed a far lighter touch. Especially if there was a missing child involved.

  ‘Let’s take this from the top, Mr McKenzie.’ He fished in his jacket for a notebook and pen, opened up on fresh page and started to write things down.

  ‘Who do we know in Immigration these days?’

  McLean had seen a slightly bewildered Billy McKenzie out of the station with a promise to look into things, then spent the best part of fifteen minutes searching the station for someone to whom he could delegate the task. Officers were thin on the ground, most preparing themselves for the afternoon’s march and Operation Fundament, no doubt. He had finally tracked down Detective Constable Sandy Gregg in the empty major-incident room, cleared out and unused since the city centre truck crash in the summer.

  ‘Immigration or Specialist Crime?’ Gregg had been sitting at one of the tables, a mountain of papers and books spread around her, but she stood up swiftly at McLean’s words.

  ‘Specialist Crime, for preference. Need someone to look into something without going in heavy-handed. At least, not yet anyway.’ He repeated Billy McKenzie’s story, unsurprised to see the confusion spread across Gregg’s face.

  ‘Is this something we should be getting involved with, sir? I mean, it all sounds a bit . . . I don’t know . . . vague?’

  ‘There’s a child involved,
so I can’t let it go. McKenzie seemed on the level, but you could maybe check him out too.’ McLean took out his notebook, opened it at the page where he’d scribbled down the scant details he’d managed to get from the man. McKenzie had been happy enough to give his full name, date of birth and address, which was one more reason to take him seriously. Gregg took up her notepad, flipped over pages of neatly written notes to a clean sheet and copied what she could.

  ‘Not going to the march?’ McLean nodded at the books spread over the table.

  ‘Shift’s over, actually. Thought I’d use the peace and quiet to get some studying in.’

  ‘Sergeant’s exam?’ McLean picked up one of the books. ‘I’d have thought you’d have no trouble with that.’

  ‘Never been very good at tests, sir.’ Gregg shrugged. ‘I know all this stuff, but as soon as I have to write it down? Poof! It’s gone.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. We could do with a few more half-competent sergeants, too. Going to miss having Grumpy Bob around when he goes.’

  Gregg made a noise that might have been a cough, but sounded suspiciously like a laugh. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen him do a day’s work in all the years I’ve been here, sir.’

  ‘And yet, somehow the job gets done. There’s not many times he’s let me down. That’s always been his skill.’

  A short pause, and then Gregg waved her notepad. ‘You want this looked into now?’

  ‘Soonest would be best, but if you’re off shift I’ll find someone else.’

  ‘No, you’re OK. I’ll pass it on to one of the Immigration team. Probably Dougie Naismith. He’s reliable, if not the sharpest pencil in the box.’

  McLean wasn’t sure he knew who Dougie Naismith was, but he trusted Gregg to get the job done. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’ He waved a hand at the table and the books. ‘Good luck with that. Not that you need it.’

  Gregg grimaced. ‘Aye, well. We’ll see.’ She hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether to say something or not. Apparently settling on yes. ‘You’d be better off going straight to DCI Dexter about this, mind.’

  ‘Dexter? But she’s Vice.’

  ‘Aye, but that’s where you’ll find most of the illegals, right?’ Gregg’s scowl described eloquently how she felt about the situation. ‘Either that or picking fruit and veg up in Fife.’

  McLean couldn’t deny she had a point, but raising it with Jo Dexter meant having to explain why he was interested, and since he wasn’t entirely sure himself, that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. It didn’t help either that the last time they’d worked together on a case it had gone spectacularly badly.

  ‘Just see what your man Naismith can come up with first, aye? Shouldn’t be more than a couple of phone calls. Then we can see if it needs more serious attention.’

  4

  In theory it should have been a peaceful protest. A few thousand well-meaning people, Scots-born and incomers both, marching against the rising tide of intolerance that seemed to have gripped the world. It was a well-organised event, and the police had been planning how to manage it for months, working with the organisers to keep everything tidy. McLean was even sympathetic to the cause behind it all, although he knew better than to voice his feelings on the matter. He also knew that it was inevitable the very people the march was supposed to be against would try to infiltrate it, agitate and cause chaos.

  Operation Fundament had been cobbled together between the Anti-terrorism task force, uniform and what was left of Edinburgh CID, which meant too many meetings, but also meant shared intelligence and a degree of preparedness he wasn’t used to. McLean wasn’t so naive as to not see the conflict of interest though. Uniform wanted a peaceful outcome, with everyone going home after a day in the cold walking down the Royal Mile to the parliament building and chanting slogans. Anti-terror wanted agitators to try something on, at least seriously enough for them to be able to arrest some people and shake them down for yet more intelligence. Being the majority of the plain-clothes bodies on the ground, his team was always going to be caught in the middle.

  ‘Wasn’t sure whether we’d see you or not, sir.’ Detective Constable Janie Harrison had dressed for the weather. Her cheeks were rosy below a woolly hat pulled down to meet a chunky knitted scarf. Along with a red nose, they were about all of her exposed to the chill wind blowing in off the Forth

  ‘So I understand. Some of you lot were even running a sweepstake.’

  ‘Not me. That was Lofty’s idea.’

  McLean looked around the crowd gathering outside the castle gates. It didn’t take long to see DC Blane, looming over the more normal-sized people. Over in the distance, a couple of organisers were handing out banners, and as soon as they were done the rally would start. Everyone would march down the Royal Mile to Holyrood, or dive into one of the many warm pubs along the way. Those that remained would listen to speeches, shout and applaud, and then go home. Quite what it was all supposed to achieve, he could only guess. A mention on the evening news perhaps, a few column inches in the papers hardly anyone read any more.

  ‘Everyone here, then?’ He glanced at his watch, trying to remember what time things were supposed to kick off. As if reading his mind, a nearby tannoy squawked into life and a high-pitched female voice started giving out instructions.

  ‘Everyone’s here, aye. You’ll no see them, if they’re doing their job right.’ Harrison pulled one hand out of its thick skiing glove and poked around in her ear. McLean could just make out the wire for her earpiece, the connected Airwave set no doubt hidden underneath her padded coat. He didn’t have a set himself, not having intended joining the march. Now he was here though it felt like a much better prospect than trudging back to the station and working through the stack of reports awaiting his signature.

  ‘Mind if I join you then?’

  Harrison merely shrugged, pulling her glove back on. McLean shoved his bare hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat, hunched his shoulders against the wind. The thin flecks of snow were getting thicker, which would probably weed out the less zealous of the demonstrators. He was about to mention it to the detective constable, but before he could speak the chanting began and the crowd started to move. The march had started. Operation Fundament was go.

  It was never going to be a long march. The Royal Mile was, after all, just a mile long from the castle to Holyrood Palace. A few thousand people in a bunch necessarily move slowly, but downhill and with the weather closing in the pace soon picked up. Taller than DC Harrison, McLean was able to look over the crowd, spotting faces and keeping an eye out for any suspicious behaviour. Even so, it was she who spoke first.

  ‘Think I see one of our boys there.’ She tapped at her earpiece and muttered something into a microphone hidden away in her scarf as McLean looked off in the direction she had pointed. He saw DC Blane’s looming form struggling through the crowd, and then a couple more plain-clothes officers converging on the same spot.

  ‘Shit. There’s at least a dozen of them and it looks like they’ve come for a fight.’ Harrison must have heard something over her Airwave, as McLean couldn’t see anything. She barked, ‘On my way!’ into her microphone, then pushed through the crowd. McLean followed her a couple of paces, and then she stopped.

  ‘You wearing a stab vest under that, sir?’ She nodded at his overcoat, not waiting for him to answer. ‘Didn’t think so. Best you stay out of the way. Divert people round us if it gets nasty, aye?’

  He didn’t have time to answer before she was away again, pushing through the marchers with polite but firm ‘excuse me’s and ‘coming through’s. Some of the protesters on the march had begun to notice something unusual happening, and as a body they began to drift towards the other side of the road. McLean found himself carried with them, away from what was beginning to look like a very one-sided fracas as a dozen or more plain-clothes and uniformed police officers descended on a gr
oup of angry young men. Trying to keep his eyes on them, he tripped on the pavement and almost fell into the tightening crowd. Shouts of alarm mingled with the chants, echoing off the tall stone buildings, and before he knew it, he was stumbling into a doorway a half-dozen steps down a narrow close leading off from the pavement.

  Like much of the Old Town behind the tourist facade, the doorway had seen better days. Piled high with discarded rubbish, lightly silvered by the increasingly heavy snow, the stone steps were worn in the middle by the passage of centuries of feet. The door itself looked like it had only been painted once in those many hundreds of years, and that right at the start. Layers of festival posters peeled from it like eczema, covering over the old keyhole. There was no handle, but someone had fixed a hasp and padlock. Someone else had levered it open with a crowbar, splintering ancient wood in the process.

  Looking back at the march, McLean could neither see nor hear Harrison and the other officers. Just a few feet and a couple of steps down from the marchers, he could have been invisible for all the attention they were paying him. He slipped one hand into his jacket pocket and fished out his phone, unsurprised to find it had virtually no signal. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone into a crime scene without backup, and by the look of the rubbish on the ground this door had been jimmied open a while ago.

  It creaked reluctantly to his push, jamming slightly less than halfway. McLean paused, straining to hear whether there was anyone inside. Might as well try to hear a bird singing on a motorway embankment during rush hour. Stone steps carried on down into a basement room, pitch black save for an arc of light coming from the open door. It fell over broken furniture, a table on its side, chairs piled one atop another as if they’d been thrown there.

  He switched on the torch function of his phone and played the meagre light over the rest of the room, surprised to see that it stretched back a good distance from the front of the building. Stepping down to the floor, McLean sniffed the air, taking in the scent of cold, damp stone, dust and something else. A sickly-sweet musk that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright.