Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  McLean watched her go, waving a hand over her shoulder to wish him goodbye. When he turned back, Sergeant Stephen had a clipboard and pen, ready for him to sign.

  ‘Looks like someone’s not had a cigarette in ten minutes,’ he said under his breath as McLean scrawled his name in a box too small and the wrong shape for his signature.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Sergeant.’ He handed back the pen, then tapped lightly on the door before stepping into the room.

  Peter Winterthorne looked far worse than he had when McLean had seen him loaded onto the ambulance just a few hours earlier. His hair seemed thinner and whiter, splayed out over pillows that engulfed his head. The oxygen tube to his nose and saline drip in his arm anchored him to the bed like mooring lines on a beached wreck. A slow beep counted out the beats of his heart in unsteady rhythm. He looked gaunt, almost like he had already died.

  ‘Tony. I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.’ Doctor Caroline Wheeler stood at the bedside, bent over Winterthorne’s prone figure as she fiddled with something at his arm. A nurse McLean didn’t recognise stood to one side, and took the small phial of blood the doctor handed her when she was done. ‘Get that down to the lab will you, Claire? I’ll see the patient gets his medication.’

  The nurse nodded, staring at McLean with more interest than hostility as she left.

  ‘How long before the gossip starts up among the nursing staff?’ Doctor Wheeler asked once the door had closed.

  ‘Gossip? . . . Oh.’ McLean felt the tips of his ears redden. ‘No. They all know me from when I used to visit my gran.’

  ‘I’m only joking, Tony. I take it you’re wanting an update on the patient. Not much I can tell you about your poor young woman back up the corridor, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I seem to recall you telling me it was touch and go with her the last time. It was always going to be too much to hope she’d make a full recovery, tell us who beat her up.’

  ‘Even so. I was surprised she crashed as hard and fast as she did. We tried to resuscitate, but, well, it was like she just gave up. Same as that man from the prison, Seaton. It’s almost as if I’m jinxed or something.’ Doctor Wheeler shook her head slowly, her shoulders slumping at the thought of failure. For a moment she simply stood there, then she straightened her back and looked around at Winterthorne. ‘Let’s hope we can do better with this fellow, eh?’

  ‘Have to admit, I didn’t think he was in such a bad way. He’d only taken a wee tumble when we found him.’

  ‘That’s what the paramedics told me too.’ Doctor Wheeler frowned, reached out and took one of the old man’s hands in hers, lifting it and turning it gently. Dressed in a short-sleeved hospital gown, Winterthorne’s arms stuck out like thin bundles of sticks wrapped in white parchment. ‘The thing is, I can’t find any signs of bruising on him. He hasn’t even got any obvious bumps on his head. Lots of old injuries, the scars are horrendous and I’d be very surprised if he wasn’t taking some kind of pain relief. I guess that might explain it.’

  ‘Explain what?’ A horrible thought occurred to McLean. ‘He’s not been poisoned, has he?’

  Doctor Wheeler shook her head just the once and placed Winterthorne’s hand back down carefully on the sheet. ‘No. Well, if he has, then it’s been a long, slow process. There’s something in his blood that shouldn’t be there though. Do you know if he’s on any particular medication? We’ve nothing on record, and he doesn’t seem to be registered with any GP.’

  ‘He’s not a big fan of doctors, apparently. I don’t recall anything stronger than ibuprofen in his bathroom cabinet, but he had some weird old flasks up in his attic. Might have been something he was dosing himself with, I guess. They’re at the lab now. We’ve fast-tracked them, but it’s unlikely we’ll know what they are before Monday morning.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in any danger overnight. He’s stable enough, and it’s not as if he’s going anywhere. You’ll let me know as soon as you’ve an update on those flasks though?’

  ‘Of course.’ McLean took one more look at the old man. From a distance it looked like the bed was slowly digesting him, watched by the sentinel life-support machines around him. ‘But I’ve a feeling it’s only going to make things more complicated.’

  ‘Hey, Em. Sorry I’m not home already. You know how it is, right?’ McLean had owned his new Alfa almost six months before he’d been confident enough of the hands-free system to make calls while driving. He’d rather have pulled into the side of the road as had been a necessity in his old car. That would have taken up valuable time though, and there was one more thing he had to do before he could finally call it a day.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m not there either. Sent you a text, have you not got it?’

  It was strange hearing Emma’s voice ring loud and clear in the quiet of the car, stranger still to see his phone screen light up where he’d left it lying on the passenger seat. A glance was enough to show the text arriving, if not what it actually said.

  ‘Would you believe it just pinged in? Where are you?’ McLean turned off Ferry Road and began to navigate the narrow lanes leading to his destination.

  ‘I came to see Nala and Rahel, at Rose’s place.’

  He almost laughed, then remembered what had happened and why he was late. ‘I’m about three minutes away from you then. I needed to see them both too.’

  ‘Oh aye? Why— . . . oh.’ Emma was quick on the uptake. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Thought it would be better coming from a familiar face.’ He slowed down as he approached the house, finding the same parking space as had been empty the night before waiting for him. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Ending the call, McLean parked and stopped the engine. He paused for a moment before getting out into the cold, staring out at the stone bulk of the house, steeling himself for the task ahead. Telling people their loved one had died was all part of the job. He’d long since lost count of the number of times he’d done it. But that didn’t mean it was easy. He was glad Emma was here; she and Rahel seemed to get along, and Nala liked her too. What would become of them once this was all over? Was something like this ever really over? Their lives had been shattered by war, and thrown into turmoil by exploitation. Nala had been hunted like some wild animal by something both less and more than a man, something feral and evil. Something soulless. That was not an easy trauma to recover from.

  With a heavy sigh for himself and the family he was about to bring the worst news to, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  The journey home was a quiet one. McLean could sense that Emma wanted to speak, but also that she couldn’t. He might have prompted her, but he was happier with the silence and the churn of his own thoughts. They drove through a city strangely muted, as if it too mourned the passing of Akka Nour.

  Mrs McCutcheon’s cat welcomed them with her usual suspicious stare. Curled up on top of a pile of laundry that had been set on the warming plate of the Aga to iron, she looked like a casting reject for ‘The Princess and the Pea’.

  ‘At least someone’s comfortable,’ Emma said, finally breaking the silence.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ McLean went to pick up the kettle. ‘Or something stronger?’

  ‘I’m very tempted by something stronger, but when was the last time you ate anything?’

  McLean cast his mind back, unable to say exactly. There’d been half a disgusting wrap as a late lunch, washed down with bitter-tar coffee. Both had been an age ago.

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’ He tried to stifle a yawn by shoving a fist into his mouth, but it just made it worse. ‘Probably should have something, mind. Maybe some toast.’

  He’d been intending to get it himself, but, before he could move, Emma had crossed the kitchen to the bread bin and pulled out a loaf. McLean watched her expertly cut two slices and pop them in the toaster. He beat her to the fridge and the butter though, t
hen went to the cupboard where the jams lived.

  ‘Not really marmalade time of day.’ He picked out a couple of jars that were several years past their sell-by date, then found what he was looking for lurking at the back.

  ‘Marmite? What are you, ten?’ Emma grabbed the toast as it popped up, then dropped it heavily onto the plate as it burned her fingers. ‘Here you go. If you’re having that muck you can spread it yourself.’

  McLean smiled, sat down at the table and started preparing his meal. For an instant it was almost as if he was ten again, home from visiting a friend and enjoying a late-night snack before bedtime. The nostalgia hit him like a drowning wave, and he clung to the dark-brown glass jar for safety. Turning it around, he half expected it to have been sitting in the back of that cupboard since he was a boy, but they hadn’t date-stamped those things back then. This jar was only a couple of years old, apparently.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Emma asked, pulling out one of the other chairs and settling herself down opposite him.

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’ McLean knew from her scowl that this was the wrong thing to say. ‘Just what you said, about me being ten.’ He held up a perfectly buttered and Marmited piece of toast. ‘This was a treat back then. I used to love sitting in here for meals, not having to be all proper and formal in the dining room.’

  ‘Must have been lonely. Growing up here with just your gran for company.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite that bad. There was old Bill the gardener, and Mrs Robertson the housekeeper. And there always seemed to be someone visiting, staying for a fortnight, passing through. Older folk though, my gran’s age.’

  McLean took a bite of toast, casting his mind back to his childhood. He’d not thought of it in a long time, never really had any reason to. If Emma hadn’t lost their baby, would that have changed? Would he have spent happy afternoons looking after their daughter and remembering how different it had been for him? He guessed he’d never know now.

  Emma reached across the table and placed her hand over his. ‘When this is over, let’s just go away somewhere for a little while. A long weekend abroad maybe.’

  ‘I’d like that. Yes. We should.’ McLean took another bite as Emma let go his hand and stood up. She walked around the table until she was standing right behind him, put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in close.

  ‘You mean that?’

  He swallowed a half-chewed mouthful. ‘Of course. Maybe somewhere hot and sunny.’

  ‘Good.’ Emma planted a kiss on the top of his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of his grandmother. Or had it been his mother, earlier still?

  ‘Now finish up your toast. It’s time for bed.’

  51

  Darkness still filled the bedroom when McLean woke, the glowing red digits on his bedside clock telling him that dawn was still some way off. Even so, he felt refreshed and awake in a way he hadn’t for many months. Not since the previous summer. Since . . .

  He rolled over slowly, enjoying the warmth of Emma as she lay beside him. Barely an outline, she slept on her back, mouth slightly open, snoring in tiny apnoeac gasps. He could have lain there just watching her for hours, but something was niggling at the back of his mind, spoiling the moment.

  Quietly, he slipped out of bed and left the room, using the shower in the en-suite off his old bedroom. He had clean clothes enough in there to get dressed, returning to the master bedroom only to retrieve his phone and jacket. Emma had rolled over, stealing his half of the duvet and snuggling into it, but she was still asleep, still snoring.

  Downstairs, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat lay in her bed of clean laundry. McLean suspected she’d not moved all night, and he couldn’t blame her. Outside, the garden was still blanketed with snow, the distant trees skeletal against the glow of the never-sleeping city. Somewhere just a few hundred yards from here people had been camping out in this weather. Makeshift tents cobbled together from plastic sheeting and hidden down in the Hermitage for what little shelter they could get there. How desperate could people be that they were forced to live like that? How terrible were the alternatives? Standing in his warm kitchen in his warm house big enough for dozens to live in comfortably, could he really judge them?

  A faint pre-dawn light began to paint the kitchen window as he drank his coffee and munched his way through two bowls of Corn Flakes. He’d not felt all that hungry when he started, eating just because he knew he needed something to get through the coming day. Only when he swallowed the first mouthful did he realise the sensation in his stomach had more to do with emptiness than despair.

  ‘When this is over, let’s just go away somewhere for a little while. A long weekend abroad maybe.’

  McLean played Emma’s words over in his head as he put bowl and mug in the dishwasher, checked he had phone and car keys and stepped out the back door. The irony that he was going to work on a Sunday wasn’t lost on him. He really needed to do better than a long weekend abroad. They should have holidays like normal people did, spend time together outside of work. Shared experience, that was the key to a healthy relationship. He knew what he needed to do, it was just the ‘when this is over’ part that he stumbled on. It was never over.

  He almost didn’t notice the man, standing between the two stone gateposts where the drive opened onto the road. McLean had plipped the lock on his car, reached for the door handle and was about to open it when something made him look round. A pricking on the back of his neck, perhaps. That indefinable sense of being watched. Leaving the car behind, he walked down the drive, between the dark rhododendron bushes drooped heavy with snow.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked as he approached. In the half-light he couldn’t see the man’s face, but something about the set of him, his dark suit and footballer’s hair stirred a memory.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector.’ The voice was the giveaway, and as McLean came closer he saw the stretch limousine parked a little way down the street.

  ‘It’s Albert, isn’t it?’ McLean stopped a couple of paces away from the man, who stood in the gateway as if the iron gates were closed, instead of hanging rusty and half off their hinges. He shivered and rubbed his hands together, clearly frozen from a long wait. ‘Why didn’t you ring the bell?’

  ‘I can’t come in.’ Albert nodded his head towards the grounds beyond the gate. ‘She was very insistent about that.’

  ‘And she wants to see me. Again.’

  Albert made a half-bow, half-shrug as if to say don’t shoot the messenger. McLean looked back at the house, still dark, Emma hopefully still asleep. ‘The house out Temple way?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You head off now. I’ll follow you. Same as before. One hour, and then I leave.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came, Tony. Albert was very worried you wouldn’t.’

  Mrs Saifre greeted McLean at the top of the steps to her Midlothian mansion wearing something that might have been a twenties flapper dress, or might have been a nightie. He half expected her to be holding an ebony cigarette holder, lit Sobranie tainting the air with expensive tobacco smoke, but her pale hands were empty. When she held them out for a fashionably European embrace, he kept his own hands deep in his pockets. If she was annoyed, Saifre hid it well, glancing past him at his car.

  ‘Still the Alfa Romeo? I always say you can tell a lot about a man by the car he drives. I liked the old one more. It had such a whiff of sixties flair. I did so love that decade.’

  ‘I’d still be driving it if you hadn’t ripped it apart.’

  Saifre stared at him, her face a perfect mask of innocence. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Tony. I would never be so cruel.’

  ‘And you dropped a ton of rock on the roof of the one I had before, as I recall. What is it you want, Saifre?’

  The mask almost slipped, the faintest glimmer of annoyance cracking at the edges of those deep, black eyes. Th
en, with a theatrical shiver, Saifre turned away from him and swayed back into the house, waving a hand for McLean to follow. He was tempted to leave, just like he had been tempted the last time. He knew who Mrs Saifre was. What she was. A tiny, mad part of his mind screamed ‘run’ every time he saw her. And yet she wanted something from him. Something she couldn’t just take, or get someone else to do. That simple fact kept him coming back. It was a weakness, a chink in her armour he intended to push a knife through, right into her rotten heart.

  Still standing off to one side, Albert the bodyguard and chauffeur nodded his head, raising one hand to indicate that McLean should go in.

  ‘How did you end up working for her?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Mrs Saifre?’ The man looked uncomfortable at being asked the question, but answered nonetheless. ‘I guess it was inevitable. I wasn’t born into privilege like some. Spent a lot of my childhood in care. The Dee Trust gave me a scholarship, got me a posh education. Could have been a banker or a lawyer or something, but that didn’t pan out. So I went to work for the organisation that had looked after me. Thought I’d pay it back, kind of.’

  ‘You know who she is, though?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘Nobody’s perfect, right?’

  McLean shook his head slowly, turned and walked into the house. Albert did have a point. Nobody was perfect, it was true. But at least some of them tried.

  52

  He found Saifre in the same drawing room she’d led him to the previous time. The fire burned like the souls of the damned, filling the room with a heat that was oppressive after the fresh chill of outside. Even so, he felt a shiver in his spine as he crossed the threshold, as if he had stepped into another world.

  ‘Why did you give us detailed information on someone who doesn’t exist?’ McLean asked before Saifre could start the whole tiresome rigmarole of offering him drink, food, a hospitality he had no intention of accepting, ever. She stood by the fire, thin as a size-zero model. He knew she had to be at least sixty, and yet it was almost impossible not to think of her as a young woman. That was another frustrating thing about dealing with her. She oozed sexuality in the same way a teenage boy oozed body odour. It was part of her make-up, part of her disguise, and very distracting.