by James Oswald
‘Those marchers last weekend were sympathetic to the plight of these people though. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Helping out those displaced by war? Putting an end to the wars so the people don’t get displaced to start with?’
‘Aye, and those folk you arrested are all about peace and love, right enough.’
McLean was so surprised by the bitterness of Begbie’s tone, he almost missed the import of what she said.
‘How do you know about that? We haven’t exactly advertised it, and you told us you weren’t here that day. Office closed, if I remember your statement.’
‘The people I deal with on a day-to-day basis, Chief Inspector, you think they don’t notice when the neo-Nazis come to town? You think they don’t know what the polis are up to? It’s no accident you don’t see them most of the time. They’re scared of you.’
‘Of us? The police?’
‘Aye, the polis more than most. Where they’ve come from the polis are the most corrupt of all. They’re working with the traffickers, the folk who run the boats across the Med. Some of these people have had to bribe polis men all the way across Europe just to get here. And when they do reach here, it’s no’ exactly the promised land.’
‘But . . .’ McLean had been going to say ‘we’re here to help them’, but his brain caught up with his mouth before the words came out. He shook the idiot thought away, recalling the few interviews he’d looked in on. The expensive lawyer finding technicalities and loopholes to get his mouth-breathing clients off the hook. Of all the angry idiots they’d arrested, only one was in custody, and him only because they’d goaded him into trying to assault one of his interrogators. The sort of people Sheila Begbie dealt with wouldn’t even have been granted the courtesy of an interview before being shunted off to some detention centre while the Immigration Services found the most heartless way to send them back to the horror they’d fled.
‘You understand.’ Begbie had been sitting, but now she stood up and crossed the room to where he stood. McLean had faced down hardened criminals, stared across interview room tables at psychopaths. He’d stood up to Jane Louise Dee, perhaps the most powerful and influential woman on the planet, on more than one occasion. And yet he could feel himself wither under the intensity of Sheila Begbie’s stare. It wasn’t cruel, or particularly intimidating, just that it held him like a rabbit when an eagle screams overhead. For a moment it was as if she could read his every thought, and the frustration at how the men disrupting the march would get away with it bubbled up again, unbidden.
‘But you’re bound by duty. To protect and to serve all, regardless of how much or how little they might deserve it.’ She shook her head and the contact broke.
‘I’d better be getting back,’ McLean said. ‘Thank you for calling us about the girl.’
Begbie looked momentarily confused, as if she’d forgotten all about her. Then she shook her head once more, smiled. ‘Look after her, Chief Inspector. And don’t worry too much about the haters.’
26
‘He was only twenty-four. Fit as a fiddle. Loved playing football with his mates, drinking down the pub. How can someone so full of life end up like . . .’
McLean sat in the reception area of the City Mortuary with Mr and Mrs Jennings. The parents of the young man whose body they had found that morning seemed not much older than him, but then there was no good reason why they should have been. No parent should outlive their child though, it went against the natural order of things.
‘We’ll find out what happened. You have my word.’ McLean leaned forward in his uncomfortable plastic chair, wondering where Grumpy Bob had got to. He’d brought the couple to the mortuary, and was meant to be fetching them both a coffee. ‘Detective Sergeant Laird has already spoken to Maurice’s fiancée, but it would be very helpful to me if you could answer a few questions too.’
‘Oh God, poor Tricia.’ Mrs Jennings had almost stopped sobbing, but now she started up all over again. Her husband had his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight to him.
‘What do you need to know?’ he asked.
‘When was the last time you saw your son?’ McLean flicked a glance in DC Harrison’s direction, pleased to see that she had taken out her notebook.
‘What’s today? Thursday? Must have been Saturday afternoon. He went on that march down the Royal Mile, you know? Fighting against the racists or whatever it was they were on about. Not sure I really agree with him. I mean, yes, we don’t want to turn people away if they’re in need, but we’ve only room for so many. And as for jobs . . .’
‘Did he come to your place, or did you visit him? On Saturday?’ McLean tried to move the subject away from immigrants and refugees, all too aware of exactly where it was going. Mr Jennings might have looked like a man in his fifties, but his attitudes belonged to an earlier generation.
‘He came for his tea. Always does on a Saturday. Trish goes to see her mum in Peebles, and Maurice comes home for his tea.’ It was Mrs Jennings who answered, her voice surprisingly strong.
‘And have you spoken to him since then?’
‘Oh, aye. He was on the phone yesterday evening. Got tickets for the Hibs match next week. Wanted to know if I’d go with him. Loved his football, did Maurice.’ Mr Jennings shook his head like a man coming to terms with a sudden, dramatic change in his circumstances. ‘Guess there’ll be two empty seats now.’
‘Do you know what he was doing in Broughton Street last night? Would he have been walking home from somewhere?’
‘Aye, he was in the pub, right enough. That’s where he phoned me from.’
‘I don’t suppose you happen to know which pub? And what time?’
Mr Jennings sniffed, then rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Probably that one on the roundabout, what’s it called? Barrel and something? It’s only a short walk back to his place. Trish’d probably know for sure. As to when?’ He reached into his pocket with his soiled hand and pulled out a not particularly smart phone. After tapping at the buttons for a moment, he held it up so McLean could see. ‘Nine thirty-eight p.m.’s when the call came in. We didn’t speak long, but I could hear the background noise. He was definitely in a pub.’
‘Thank you.’ McLean glanced over at Harrison to check she’d written the time down. ‘Just one last question, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. Understand I have to ask this so we can get the best possible picture of what happened. I don’t want you to think I’m pre-judging your son, but was he ever one to get into arguments when he’d had a drink or two?’
Mr Jennings held McLean’s gaze for long moments before answering, the silence punctuated only by the quiet sobs of his wife. When he finally spoke, it was with a sigh.
‘He’s a good boy, generally speaking. But he’s competitive. That’s why he likes the football so much. Good at it too. I can’t say hand on my heart that he’s never got into an argument down the pub, but I’ve never seen him wi’ a black eye or grazed knuckles, you know?’
‘He’s a good boy. Wouldn’t hurt anyone, unless they tried to hurt him first. Or hurt someone else who couldn’t stand up for themselves.’
McLean hadn’t been expecting Mrs Jennings to speak, even less so the force behind her words. Her husband put his arm around her again, hugging her tight to him. They were strong together as a couple, which was just as well. They were going to need that strength in the coming days.
‘I’m sure he was, Mrs Jennings. I’m very sorry to have to bring it up at all. I don’t think I need to ask any more questions just now, but we’ll be in touch as soon as we know any more. Thank you.’ McLean stood, trying to ignore the twinge of pain that shot up his hip. Grumpy Bob chose that exact moment to reappear, bearing two paper cups of fine-smelling coffee. ‘Detective Sergeant Laird will see you home. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call us.’
‘I hope you got all tha
t, Constable. My memory’s not what it used to be.’
McLean turned up the lapels of his coat to keep the flurrying snow off his neck as he and DC Harrison trudged back up the hill from the mortuary towards the station. They had left Grumpy Bob behind with Mr and Mrs Jennings, partly to see them home safely in the atrocious weather and partly because it was unwise to try to part him from a freshly brewed mug of coffee.
‘All in my notebook, sir.’ Harrison patted at her chest with a well-gloved hand. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, though, I was surprised you interviewed them back there. I’d have been worried about coming across as insensitive.’
‘I probably was, a bit. But sometimes you have to be. A time like that, some people want to talk. They’ve just confirmed their son’s the poor bugger laid out on that trolley and they need to make some sense of that. Recent memories are strong, and gut feelings too.’
Harrison stopped walking, and when McLean turned to face her, he could see the horror written across her face.
‘Isn’t that a bit heartless?’ she asked.
‘Completely.’ McLean dug his hands into his pockets, searching for warmth there but finding none. ‘If they’d been more shocked, more emotional, I’d not have pushed it. But they were looking for a bit of sympathy, a shoulder to cry on if you like. I did my bit, and Grumpy Bob will do his. Meantime we gather as much information about Maurice Jennings as we can, as quickly as we can. That way we can find out where he was, where he was going, who he met with. All the stuff that’s important in tracking down his movements up to and including the point where he dropped dead on a pile of uncollected garbage in a back alley off Broughton Street. OK?’
Harrison shrugged. ‘When you put it like that, sir? Yes. I guess I’ve never seen it done so . . .’ she paused a moment, searching for the right word. ‘Clinically?’
‘Cynically might be more accurate, but the result’s the same. We’ve got some useful information without upsetting the recently bereaved.’
‘So what’s next?’ Harrison trotted to catch up with him, and the two of them continued towards the station.
‘If his dad’s right, Jennings was in the Cask and Barrel at nine thirty-eight. We can check that with his fiancée, but it’s as good a place as any to start. The alley where we found him’s in the wrong direction for going home, so chances are he went somewhere else afterwards. Trace his movements from there first. With any luck we’ll get a hit on CCTV somewhere along the line, and when Angus has finished his examination and come up with a cause of death we should have enough to send to the procurator fiscal. If we’re very lucky that’ll be the end of it.’
They’d reached the station car park, and McLean glanced sideways at his Alfa as they passed. A light dusting of snow covered its black paintwork, which meant leaving later would be more complicated and time-consuming than he would have liked. At least the thing had an all-weather mode that tamed some of its more wild characteristics, but he couldn’t help being a little jealous of the DCC’s massive four by four, parked a few bays closer to the back door. More so of the days when he could just walk home in five minutes.
‘You think there’s more to his death than meets the eye?’ Harrison asked as she opened the back door for him. Slow off the mark, McLean was still wrapped up in his thoughts.
‘Thanks. And yes. There’s enough that’s odd about it staring you in the face, after all. His skin cured like that? Like those two wee girls? That’s a fairly big red flag right there. Then there’s where we found him and how he was laid out. If you’re feeling unwell, you don’t wander down a dark alley and collapse on a bed of bin bags. You call for help. Phone your parents, maybe a pal you’ve been out drinking with. No, this death is very suspicious.’
‘So what next then, sir?’
‘Next? We trace Jennings’s last movements. Speak to his close friends, especially any he was drinking with last night.’
‘And the girl in the woods?’
‘Much the same, really. Try and find out where she came from, who was with her before she died. We’ll need to get the press in on that, run the pictures of both of them again. Even if they’ll give us a kicking for it.’
‘I’ll get on it. Lofty and Jay should be working through the CCTV footage by now, too. Let you know if we come up with anything useful.’
‘Thanks.’ McLean glanced at his watch, only slightly surprised to find that it was way past lunchtime. ‘I guess I’d better go and shuffle the budgets to help pay for it all.’
27
A gentle knock on the open door dragged his attention from the stack of mindless paperwork he’d been sifting through half-heartedly while he let his mind wander the dark corners of the rapidly converging investigations. McLean looked up to see DC Harrison in the doorway.
‘Something up, Constable?’
‘It’s the CCTV from Broughton Street, sir. I think you need to see it yourself.’
McLean stood up, closing the nearest folder with a feeling of relief. It would still be waiting for him later, but at least he didn’t have to feel guilty ignoring it for now.
‘Lead the way,’ he said, and followed her out of the room. There was no point asking her for details; if it had been something she could tell him, she would have done.
The blinds had been pulled down, and the viewing room was dark when they entered. DC Blane sat at the console, head bowed as he peered at a blurry image on a still screen. He turned around at the noise, rubbed at his eyes for a moment, then struggled to his overlarge feet.
‘Sir.’ He didn’t quite salute, but McLean could almost see him trying to suppress the urge.
‘You don’t need to stand up every time I come into the room, you know.’ McLean smiled after he’d spoken, hoping the detective constable would understand it was a joke. Blane was a good detective, especially when it came to technology, but his social skills needed a lot of work. ‘Where’s this footage I have to see then?’
‘Oh, aye. Sorry, sir. Of course.’ Blane turned back to his console, bent low and began tapping at the buttons. ‘Just need to rewind a bit. Ah, here we go.’
It took him a moment to get his bearings, but soon enough McLean worked out what he was seeing. The city centre was well served with CCTV cameras, and Broughton Street had enough to keep even Big Brother happy. This one was up the hill towards York Place and St Mary’s Cathedral, looking north, and it had a high enough resolution to make out a fair bit of detail.
‘You can’t quite see it from this angle, but that’s the entrance to the alley where we found him, sir.’ Blane pointed at the screen with a finger as big as a passing taxi.
‘What time is this?’
‘Quarter to eleven last night, see?’ The finger moved slightly, revealing a timestamp ticking up at normal speed. ‘I’ll just go forward a wee bit.’
McLean watched the screen as the images sped up. It wasn’t anything unusual for Broughton Street on a winter weeknight when there was snow in the air. Mostly taxis and delivery vans on the road, the pavements relatively clear. Come the summer and the festivals, the place would be awash with people.
‘Here’s our boy.’ Blane tapped a key and the video slowed down as a man stepped out of a doorway. Maurice Jennings had the decency to look up, almost directly at the camera. He was accompanied by two other men, and they all seemed to be having a friendly conversation for a minute or two. Then he patted one on the shoulder, waved off the other as they turned away and walked up the hill. He watched them go, then shoved his hands in his coat pockets and set off in the opposite direction. That was when McLean noticed another figure maybe twenty yards further on and directly in front of the entrance to the alley. Tall, and completely dressed in black clothing that looked more like robes than a coat, he appeared to be staring into the alleyway, swaying slightly as if he might be drunk. He made a motion with his head that reminded McLean of nothing so much as a dog testi
ng the air for a scent, and then for no obvious reason, he grabbed Jennings by the throat and dragged him into the alley.
‘Jesus. What brought that on?’ McLean noted the time on the screen. Just a minute past eleven.
‘No sound on these cameras, more’s the pity sir.’ Blane tapped the console and the video spooled forward at double speed for a while. When he slowed it back down to normal, ten minutes had passed. ‘This is him leaving. Whoever he is.’
The figure in black came out of the alley as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He walked up the street towards the camera, and the closer he came, the more convinced McLean was that he was wearing a black robe. What he’d taken for some kind of strange hat looked more like long, straggly black hair, and his face was obscured by the kind of wild beard most hipsters would run a mile from. Even though he knew it was stupid, McLean found himself willing the man to look up as he neared the camera, and finally, just before he disappeared from view, he did.
‘I take it that’s what you wanted me to see?’ he asked as Blane froze the image at the perfect moment. Neither he nor Harrison said anything, but then they didn’t really need to.
The man’s face was difficult to see, blurred by motion and the darkness of the night. Most of it was wild hair and ragged beard anyway, but some trick of the light made his eyes blaze twin points of fire.
McLean left the detective constables to keep trawling through the CCTV footage in search of more images of the fire-eyed man, intending to go back to his office and its insurmountable piles of paperwork. At least mindless bureaucratic tasks let his thoughts percolate, and this case was shaping up to be just as headache-inducing as all his others. Some quiet time alone might help make some sense of it all.
Halfway down the corridor, his rumbling stomach reminded him that breakfast had been a very long time ago, lunch something that happened to other people. Only slightly guiltily, he looked around to make sure nobody else needed him, then headed off in search of something to eat.