Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  ‘I’m not finished.’ Robinson held up a hand. ‘I find your attitude unacceptable, but I also trust your judgement. It’s been sound in the past. I’ll not push this matter further if you offer an apology to the trust for your early departure from last night’s event.’

  McLean clenched his jaw in frustration, then forced himself to relax. Hard to speak when your mouth was clamped shut. On the other hand, hell would freeze over before he’d apologise to that woman. A swift nod was at least open to interpretation.

  ‘And Rahel Nour?’ he asked when he was certain Robinson wasn’t going to press the matter further.

  ‘Who?’ The DCC looked momentarily confused. ‘Oh, yes. Her. You’re going to interview her, I assume?’

  ‘Ritchie will. In about an hour.’ McLean glanced at his watch. ‘Emma’s bringing her in, and once we’re done here I’ve arranged to take her to see the young girl we found yesterday. It’s possible she’s her niece.’

  Robinson looked as if he wasn’t really listening. Quite clearly the reason for his terseness was nothing to do with McLean giving Rahel a room for the night and everything to do with Mrs Saifre bending people’s ears. He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Very well. Keep Jo Dexter up to speed with anything you find out, OK? And when you’re done with her, let Immigration know where she’s staying.’

  McLean almost asked why, but managed to stop himself. ‘Sir.’ He nodded again, hoped he didn’t look like some kind of deranged animal. Robinson stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable, then picked up the nearest folder from the tiny stack of reports on his otherwise empty desk. Bollocking over.

  McLean said nothing more, turned and left the room. It could have been much worse, he supposed. And there was no way he was going to mention Rahel’s name to Immigration any time soon.

  ‘Well, this is a fine bloody mess and no mistake.’

  McLean had been sitting alone in interview room one. He’d sat in as DI Ritchie questioned Rahel, and was enjoying a rare moment of peace before he had to take the young woman to see the little girl who might be her niece. The detective constables and sergeants, whose stream of queries seemed to follow him through the station, were unlikely to find him here, but Jayne McIntyre knew him better than most. She stood for a moment in the doorway, then walked over and sat down in the chair Rahel had recently vacated.

  ‘Which particular “this” were you referring to?’ he asked, and rubbed at his face with weary hands. It was still early in the morning, but last night had ended late and he’d not had nearly enough coffee.

  ‘You tell me, Tony. We’ve got a young woman in a coma identified as an illegal immigrant by her sister, who is also an illegal immigrant. A detective chief inspector shielding both of them from Immigration Services and muscling in on another unit’s investigation when he’s supposed to be tracking down whatever it is that’s killed two girls and a young man in the past few days. I mean, it’s almost as if you’re just making it up as you go along. Whatever happened to chain of command? Procedure? I know you never really liked that side of the business, but you used to pay lip service at least.’

  ‘You know what’s even worse?’ McLean picked up his mug and peered into its empty depths for the hundredth time. Upstairs was a coffee machine with a refill waiting, but also upstairs were all the problems threatening to overwhelm him. Except the one sitting directly in front of him.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Yesterday a wise old woman told me there was a genie loose in the city. Not some kid-friendly animation, either. This is evil incarnate, feeding on innocence. And people are sacrificing their children to it because they’re terrified if they don’t they’ll get shipped back home. Imagine that, Jayne. To have escaped a place so unbearable you’d kill your own child rather than go back. To experience such horror you’d believe genies and all that nonsense are real. The only way you can survive is to blame it all on mythological creatures because if you admit that it’s men doing these things to each other, then you’ll just go mad.’

  McIntyre leaned back in her chair and gave her chin a thoughtful scratch.

  ‘When was the last time you had a break, Tony?’

  ‘A break?’

  ‘You know. Time off? A holiday?’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with—’

  ‘Not since before Emma’s miscarriage, that’s when. Not since you were suspended after all that nonsense with Bill Chalmers over a year ago. You’ve been through the wringer more times than I can count and you just won’t stop.’

  ‘I . . . It’s not like . . .’

  ‘It’s exactly like, Tony. You’re the worst kind of workaholic, and it’s starting to show. Genies, for Christ’s sake. You sound like Madame Rose.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only you to thank for introducing us. You never did tell me how the two of you met in the first place.’

  ‘Enough trying to change the subject. What are you going to do about this woman, Rahel Nour?’

  ‘Do?’ McLean picked up his mug again, but it was still empty. ‘I’m going to try to gain her trust enough so she’ll tell me who she thinks is responsible for almost killing her sister. I know it’s technically Jo’s case, but I’m the one with a connection right now. She’ll speak to me. Don’t think she’ll speak to anyone at Vice.’

  ‘And your own cases? What about the wee girls? Maurice Jennings?’

  ‘My gut says Rahel’s the key to that, too. Her and the little girl, Nala. I’ve asked Social Services to set up a meeting. See if Rahel recognises her niece. And the other way round.’ McLean twiddled the mug around in frustration. ‘I know it’s thin, but if we can find out who that girl really is, we can hopefully talk to her too. Right now nobody even knows what language she’s speaking.’

  McIntyre said nothing for a while, and McLean was happy to let the silence grow. She was right about one thing he didn’t want to admit. It was too long since he’d taken more than a short weekend off, too long he’d been throwing himself into his work to avoid having to think about anything else.

  ‘So how does Jennings fit into it then? What killed him and why?’

  ‘You’ve seen the CCTV?’ McLean asked.

  McIntyre nodded. ‘Not quite sure what to make of it, mind you.’

  ‘Well, here’s my thoughts about it.’ McLean cupped the mug in his hands, using it as a shield between himself and the detective superintendent. ‘Jennings wasn’t picked as a target for any reason. From what I’ve been told he’s the sort of bloke who’d step up if someone needed help, but not one to start a fight. He was just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time. The real target was that little girl, but somehow she managed to hide from the killer. My best guess is Jennings asked the killer what he was doing, maybe saw him acting suspiciously and decided to find out why. Didn’t work out quite how he’d expected it to.’

  ‘But why was the killer looking for the girl in the first place? Why was she running about Broughton Street late at night anyway? Where did she come from?’

  Now for the hard part. The part McLean didn’t want to believe, but which sounded more and more plausible each time he turned it over in his head. ‘I think he was hunting her. Like an animal. I think that’s what went on with the other two girls too.’

  ‘That’s . . .’ McIntyre stopped speaking, stared into the distance for a moment, then focused her attention back on him. ‘Are you sure you’re not taking that old wise woman a bit too seriously?’

  ‘Do I believe in genies?’ McLean shook his head. ‘Well, I’ve never met one yet outside of panto season. But I do know we’ve a growing problem of trafficked refugees. There’s exploitation of migrant workers all over the country, and I’m not just talking about sex work. These people are terrified of what they fled from, and terrified of being packed up and sent back. Their gangmasters know that all too well. Who’s to say this isn’t just another way of keeping t
heir workforce compliant?’

  34

  Fenton House wasn’t quite what McLean had been expecting. The name conjured up images of some Scots Baronial pile, too big for the single family it had originally been built for and now pressed into different service. There were plenty of old country houses spread around Scotland, built off the trade in sugar and slaves, now turned into private schools or boutique hotels. Some were even centres of industry or academia, and some were care homes for people at both ends of life. He had assumed Fenton House would have been much the same, but the monstrous sixties concrete edifice that squatted in the middle of a nondescript housing estate near Burdiehouse was something quite different. The dirty snow on the ground lent it a dilapidated air, not helped by the broken playground swings and bleak tarmac yard.

  ‘Nala is here?’ Rahel leaned forward from her seat in the back of the Alfa, neck craned as she peered through the windscreen and up at the four-storey building. McLean pulled into a parking space and killed the engine.

  ‘She’s being looked after here until we can find somewhere more permanent for her. It’s standard procedure.’ He opened the door and climbed out into a bitter easterly wind that promised yet more snow. ‘Come on. Let’s go see if she really is your niece.’

  The front door to the block was locked. Beside it, a small plaque informed McLean that Fenton House was run by the Dee Trust. Just how far did that woman’s influence reach? Beside it, the intercom system had a single button. It took far longer for someone to answer than he would have liked.

  ‘Aye? Whit is it?’ The nasal voice whined through the speaker, even more tinny than it would sound face to face. Not a good start.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector McLean. I’m here about the young girl Nala. You’re expecting us.’

  A moment’s silence, and then the intercom crackled again. ‘Nobody tellt me about no polis. Youse got any ID?’

  McLean bit back the ‘For fuck’s sake’ that wanted to escape, fished around in his pocket and pulled out his warrant card. Scratches covered the camera on the intercom panel where someone had tried to clean off some graffiti, but he held the card up to it anyway. There was another long pause.

  ‘Whit aboot theys two?’

  McLean looked around to where Rahel shivered behind him. Emma at least had thought to wear a coat, but even so she looked miserable in the cold.

  ‘Are you going to let us in or what?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Just wait in the hall, right? Don’t want to upset the kiddies any more’n they already are.’ The lock buzzed briefly. McLean yanked open the door and they all stepped inside. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least they were out of the wind.

  The hall was little more than a glorified porch, lit by narrow windows either side of the door they had entered through. McLean checked the door through into the main building, but it too was locked. Three plastic chairs lined one wall, opposite a corkboard pinned with flyers and NHS medical posters that looked like they were from a different century. It smelled of damp.

  ‘This is where you sent her?’ McLean could hear the anger in Rahel’s voice, and had to admit he felt much the same.

  ‘I—’ he began, but the far door clicked open to reveal a young woman.

  ‘You the polis man?’ she asked, as if she hadn’t just seen all three of them on the intercom camera. ‘Aye, well. Come on in then.’

  The door opened onto a wide corridor that ran down the centre of the building, a window at the far end the only source of lighting as far as McLean could tell. At least it was a bit warmer in here, although the smell of damp persisted, along with the aroma of bad cooking that reminded him of meals at his hated boarding school.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye.’ The young woman barely slowed as she spoke. ‘Well, the day manager. And since there’s no night manager at the moment, that means I’m lumped wi’ the whole thing.’

  ‘This isn’t quite what I was expecting,’ McLean said.

  ‘How no?’ She stopped, turning on the spot, too close for comfort. McLean resisted the urge to take a step back, knowing full well that was what she wanted him to do. She was a head shorter than him, but he didn’t fancy his chances in a fight. He’d seen her kind before, hardened by the sort of upbringing he could only imagine. Her short-cropped hair and thin, silver nose ring only added to the air of hostility radiating from her. She seemed an ill fit for managing a children’s care home, but then Fenton House didn’t meet his expectations either.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The girl?’

  ‘Aye, this way.’

  They walked all the way down the corridor, pausing at the final door. Close up, McLean saw that the window was reinforced glass, no latch to open it. Grime clung to the outside, and a dead plant sat on the windowsill, water stains around the pot showing where once someone had tried to look after it. The young woman pulled a set of keys from her pocket that looked like they belonged in an eighteenth-century gaol rather than a care home for children, carefully selected one and slotted it into the lock on the door.

  ‘She’s a wild one, so she is. You’d best be careful.’ She twisted the key and turned the handle, pushing open the door to reveal a surprisingly large room beyond. McLean had time to take in a mismatched collection of institutional sofas and chairs, walls painted in muted beige and pastel green, carpet and ceiling tiles equally stained, and a window to match the one at the end of the corridor. A pile of battered toys sat in the middle of the floor, and an elderly woman perched on the edge of an uncomfortable seat. She looked up at them as they stepped inside, her face creasing into a frown. McLean recognised her as the woman who had picked Nala up from the offices of House the Refugees, although clearly she had forgotten him.

  ‘Who—?’ she began to ask, then an excited shout rang out from the pile of toys.

  ‘Rahel!’

  The young girl sprung up from where she had been sitting on the floor, rushed across the room and threw herself into Rahel’s startled arms, jabbering away in a foreign language, crying and sniffing and thoroughly overwrought. McLean stepped aside to give them more room, saw Emma’s wide-eyed stare from where she still stood in the corridor.

  ‘Well, I guess that answers that question then.’

  ‘I don’t know where you found her, but I’m very glad you did. Poor wee thing’s been half off her head since she got here.’

  McLean sat on one of the uncomfortable sofas, next to Mrs Eileen Williams, the woman who had been looking after Nala. She was a lot more friendly than the young day manager, Chloe, who had bustled off almost as soon as they had all entered the room. McLean had wondered at the click of the lock behind her, but apparently it was a precaution against other children wandering in unannounced in the middle of a therapy session. There was a latch on the inside to let them out.

  ‘How do you mean off her head? She looks calm enough now.’

  The young girl sat cross-legged on the floor, her aunt beside her. They had spoken at length in that musical language of theirs, but now seemed happy just to be playing with the assortment of moth-eaten and half-broken toys that were piled up in front of them. If Nala had lived the kind of life McLean suspected she had, then this was surely some kind of paradise in comparison.

  ‘She started crying almost as soon as that young constable of yours let go of her hand. Didn’t let up all the way here. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she doesn’t seem to speak any English. She understands some, though.’

  ‘Did she sleep at all?’ McLean looked around the room. ‘I don’t imagine she’s been in here all the time.’

  ‘Och, no. There’s rooms upstairs for all the wains. But she wasn’t happy on her own. We left a light on, gave her something to eat, some toys. Nothing would settle her. When I came in this morning she was hiding under the bed. Don’t think she’d slept a wink. But look at her now.’ Mrs Williams nodded toward
s Nala and Rahel. ‘That lassie’s her aunt, you say? Seems awful young.’

  ‘Her sister’s not a lot older. Let’s just say life’s not been too kind to the Nour family so far.’

  ‘Is she in some kind of trouble?’ This time Mrs Williams pointed at Nala, who had found a headless doll and was making it fly like Superman.

  ‘How do you mean?’ McLean asked.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Inspector. She’s an illegal immigrant, isn’t she? They both are.’

  ‘That’s not your concern, Mrs Williams.’

  ‘Oh, but it is. Especially now that you know who she is. An unidentified child we can cope with. A child taken from its parents by a court order? That’s something we deal with every day, sad though I am to admit it. But the child of an illegal immigrant is another matter altogether. I’d look after her if I could, believe me. But there are rules.’

  ‘Why don’t you call Rose?’ Emma asked. She had been sitting so quietly, watching everything unfold, that McLean had almost forgotten she was there.

  ‘Rose?’ He couldn’t hide the astonishment in his voice. ‘Madame Rose?’

  ‘Well I’m sure you know lots of women with that name.’ Emma rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Of course Madame Rose. Who else would I mean?’

  ‘But . . . Why? She’s not involved in this. She’s not related to any of them.’

  ‘She’s a trained and registered carer, and Rahel trusts her. We need to get the two of them away from here.’ Emma threw her hands up in disgust at the room they’d been locked in. ‘Rose can give them somewhere to stay while you get to the bottom of this. And if Akka comes round, well . . .’ She left the rest unsaid. Both of them knew the chances of Nala’s mother ever regaining consciousness were slim.

  ‘You know a registered childcare specialist who could help out?’ Mrs Williams’s voice was the most animated he had heard it, and looking at her he could see something like excitement crease her weather-beaten face.

  ‘I—’

  ‘We do.’ Emma cut McLean off before he could say anything more. She shoved a hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone, swiped at the screen, placed a call.