Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  McLean set off up the stairs, pausing only briefly at the first landing. The full forensic examination of the attic where they’d found the cloak wouldn’t happen until Monday morning, but as long as he kept away from there he should be OK.

  ‘Why are we here, sir?’ Harrison followed him up the next flight of stairs, close by his shoulder as he looked briefly into the rooms off the second-floor landing. They were bedrooms, but clearly not used often.

  ‘We got distracted the last time. Only gave the living room a brief once-over before we found the attic. Stringer and Blane checked these rooms, but none of us looked at the third floor.’ Sloppy detective work, but then none of them had particularly shone during this investigation, himself included. It was almost as if they had collectively forgotten how to do their jobs.

  They climbed the stairs to the next landing, fewer doors leading off this one. To the front was a small single room, again looking like it hadn’t been used in a while. At the rear, a much larger bedroom was clearly where Winterthorne slept.

  ‘Gloves, I think.’ McLean pulled out a pair and snapped them on.

  ‘We looking for anything in particular?’ Harrison asked as she pulled on her own pair of gloves.

  ‘Impressions, in the main. What do you see?’

  The detective constable said nothing for a moment, her gaze darting around the room as she took everything in. ‘It’s tidy for a man living on his own. Big bed, too.’

  McLean had to agree. The bed dominated one end of the room, a dark-wood four-poster that had to be at least king-size if not larger. Covers neatly pulled up, the pillows on one side were nevertheless creased as if they had been slept on recently. A bedside table on the side nearest the door through to the bathroom held an old wind-up alarm clock with little bells on the top of it, a folded pair of half-moon spectacles, and a small pile of paperback books. A pair of sheepskin slippers tucked neatly under the bed frame suggested this was the side Winterthorne most usually slept on.

  ‘Anything else? About the bed, specifically?’

  Harrison stood on the other side, facing him. There was a second bedside table next to her. It too held an alarm clock and a small selection of books. Sitting on top of them, a glass tumbler held about an inch of water.

  ‘The pillows,’ she said eventually. ‘They’ve not been plumped up after being slept on. But only on this side.’

  ‘And yet Winterthorne sleeps over here. These are his glasses.’ McLean held them up as Harrison turned from the bed and crossed the room to where a large wardrobe stood against the wall. Antique like much of the rest of the furniture in the house, it had three doors, the centre one set with a mirror. Opening it revealed a neat row of dark jackets much like the one they’d last seen Winterthorne wearing, a row of sensible shoes on the shelf beneath. The next door hid trousers and shirts, again clearly a man’s. Harrison paused a moment before opening the third door.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Starts to make a bit of sense now, although I don’t like admitting she pulled the wool over my eyes.’ McLean stepped closer to the wardrobe, seeing the neatly folded clothes inside.

  Sheila Begbie’s clothes.

  55

  ‘Why the hell didn’t anyone run background on her when you found the first body?’

  Early Monday morning, and McLean stood in Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s office, feeling for all the world like a schoolboy called up in front of the headmaster even though he’s done nothing wrong. She looked more tired than angry, but her accusation cut him all the same.

  ‘That’s hardly fair, Jayne. It’s barely a week since the march. And we did the same background checks we’d do with anyone in her situation. We had her in here for interview twice, and both times she came of her own volition. If she’s played us, she’s done it like a pro.’ He didn’t add that the notes of those two interviews had somehow become corrupted on the system, or gone missing altogether. That was a complication too far for now.

  ‘So we don’t know who she is, and we don’t know where she is.’ McIntyre picked up a sheet of paper from a pile on her cluttered desk, glancing at it briefly before placing it back again with a sigh. ‘What do we know about her? Why is she suddenly so interesting?’

  McLean pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he could feel coming on. ‘The only reference we can find to her is in an old news report about Winterthorne when he came back to Edinburgh twenty-five years ago. She was his secretary or PA or something. The charity was set up a couple of years later, but Winterthorne’s the name on all the documentation, and they’ve been very low-key for such an organisation. DC Blane’s going through their financials right now, but I’ve a horrible feeling it’s just a front for something a lot less worthy.’

  ‘Go on.’ McIntyre leaned back in her chair, giving McLean that look he remembered so well from when he was still a detective sergeant.

  ‘I think they’ve been doing what they say, housing refugees. But they’ve also been keeping tabs on the traffickers, maybe even working with them. Coordinating them. Helping them, even.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s a little far-fetched? This Begbie woman’s what? Fifty years old, more? Winterthorne’s a frail old man who used to be a rock star. Why would they be involved in something like that?’

  McLean wanted to say that Begbie had been fifty years old for at least the last twenty-five, but he knew just how mad that sounded. ‘I don’t know, but that’s where the evidence is pointing. I do know that they’ve both lied to us though, and they know more about the girl in the basement than they told us. We’re searching Winterthorne’s house from top to bottom now. Probably should have done that on day one. We need to find Begbie, though. She’s the key to it all.’

  ‘Stupid question, but you’ve tried her phone, I take it?’

  ‘It’s going straight to voicemail. I’ve put a request in to triangulate its position, if it’s even switched on, but you know what the mobile operators are like.’

  McIntyre rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands for a moment. ‘Would it help if I gave them a nudge?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt.’ McLean thought about it. ‘Might be even better coming from the DCC.’

  ‘You really want him to know about this?’ McIntyre had begun to reach for the telephone shoved precariously to the edge of her desk, but pulled her hand back as she asked the question.

  ‘He’s going to find out soon enough. Might as well make the best of it.’

  ‘Aye, fair enough. I’ll try to break the news to him gently. So, what’s your plan of action then?’

  ‘Well, we can’t exactly interview Winterthorne. He’s still unconscious and from the way the nurses are talking about him he might never wake up. I’ve got Sandy Gregg working up a better background on him. See if we can shake out some other acquaintances. Problem is he’s been a hermit for so long everyone’s more or less forgotten about him.’

  ‘And Begbie?’

  McLean shrugged. ‘Everything we can do. We’ve circulated her photo. Just have to hope someone spots her out and about.’

  McIntyre shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I meant how do you think she fits into all this? What even is all this? You’ve got an eighty-year-old man who’s so frail a simple fall is probably going to kill him, and a woman who doesn’t exist wearing the face of someone who died twenty-five years ago. Neither of them look remotely like the character you caught on CCTV the night Maurice Jennings was killed, and we still don’t know exactly how or why that was done, let alone the two wee girls. How many more are there out there we don’t even know about?’

  McLean thought about the young woman he’d interviewed the day before, Aysha. The systematic way she and others like her had been brutalised, used up and discarded when they were no longer wanted. Akka Nour thrown into a wheelie bin like so much garbage. ‘I don’t know, Jayne. We’re doing everything we c
an, but nothing makes sense. Not rational sense anyway. This is much more sinister than an unlikely front for an immigrant exploitation racket.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ McIntyre looked up swiftly, her eyes on him like a raptor sizing up its prey. McLean almost told her about Saifre, Madame Jasmina and all the others going on about evil spirits and ancient, mythical creatures. Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched to think there was a djinn roaming the city, wearing the skin of a middle-aged woman. America had voted in a former reality TV star as president, after all. And populist politicians much closer to home had created a world where fascist idiots like Matthew Seaton felt encouraged to spout their hateful bile. Why couldn’t genies exist too?

  ‘It’s—’ he started to say, then noticed that McIntyre was looking past him. Turning, he saw the duty sergeant standing in the doorway.

  ‘What is it, Pete?’ McIntyre asked.

  ‘There’s a . . . person in Reception, ma’am?’ The sergeant seemed unsure. ‘He . . . I mean, she . . . I think. She needs to speak to the detective chief inspector. Apparently it’s very urgent?’

  McIntyre was already on her feet and stepping around her desk when McLean turned back to face her. Clearly he wasn’t the only one who knew exactly who was asking for him. He could be fairly sure he was the only one with a horrible sense of dread about why she was here.

  ‘Come on, Tony.’ McIntyre grabbed his arm. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned down the years, it’s never to keep Madame Rose waiting.’

  It didn’t take long to walk down to Reception, even if it felt like an eternity. When he saw Madame Rose sitting on one of the narrow plastic seats by the public entrance to the station, McLean was struck by how small she looked, as if she had drawn in on herself. She stood almost before they had stepped into the room, and was halfway to them by the time the electronic lock on the door had clicked behind them.

  ‘Jayne. It’s been such a long time.’ Madame Rose might have been here with urgent news, but that didn’t mean either that she’d not taken the time to make herself presentable, or that she would forgo the social niceties. She embraced the detective superintendent like an old friend, air-kissing in the French style before releasing her and turning to McLean. For a moment he feared he’d get the same treatment, but Rose settled for grasping hold of his hand and squeezing it between both of her enormous paws.

  ‘Duty sergeant said you needed to see me.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the glass panel that separated the reception desk from the public, unsurprised to see no sign of the man.

  ‘Indeed I do, Tony.’ Rose relinquished his hand, lifting one of hers up to her throat and clutching at her pearls. ‘I can’t understand how it could have happened. There are wards in place. It shouldn’t be possible.’

  ‘What shouldn’t be possible, Rose?’ McIntyre asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  Madame Rose looked almost too flustered to speak, which only made the situation worse. If ever there was someone who personified control, then it was the transvestite medium and dealer in occult curios. She didn’t need to tell McLean what had happened, though. He already knew. Only one thing could have upset her so.

  ‘It’s Rahel and Nala, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Tony. I’m so sorry. They’re gone.’

  56

  ‘I thought your gaff was big, sir. But this place . . .’ DC Harrison stood in the hall of Madame Rose’s house, looking up at the skylight high overhead. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away, Constable. We’re here for a reason, remember?’

  McLean had offered to drive Madame Rose back to her house, but the medium had politely refused, only saying that she would meet him there. When he’d objected, he’d been overruled by Detective Superintendent McIntyre. Harrison had been unlucky enough to be passing as he made his way through the station and out the back to his car.

  ‘Ah, Tony. Welcome, welcome. And you must be Detective Constable Janie Harrison, yes?’ Madame Rose appeared on the first-floor landing and walked down the stairs to greet them as elegantly as someone of her size could manage wearing a narrow calf-length tweed skirt. Had she changed since they’d seen each other in the station less than half an hour before? She certainly looked different, larger and more the self-confident Rose McLean knew.

  ‘How did you . . . ?’ Harrison began to ask.

  ‘I am a teller of fortunes, a reader of the tarot and consulter of spirits.’ The medium put on an even more affected voice than normal as she spoke. ‘And I do believe the detective insp— . . . chief inspector may have mentioned your name in passing. Come.’ She turned on the spot and led them back up the stairs.

  ‘You get used to her,’ McLean said quietly as they followed Madame Rose to the second floor.

  ‘I heard that, Tony.’ She paused a moment, not turning to face him, then carried on towards an open door. Beyond it, a large bedroom looked like it had been recently tidied.

  ‘This is where Rahel was sleeping. Nala’s room is just through there.’ The medium pointed to an adjoining door, also open.

  ‘Have you touched anything?’ McLean asked.

  ‘No. She tidied before she left. Both rooms, I’m guessing. Nala wouldn’t have done that, so it must have been Rahel.’

  ‘And she didn’t leave a note or anything?’ McLean walked over to an antique dressing table by the window, its ornate mirror blackened with age around the edges. More modern toiletries formed a neat circle off to one side, a hairbrush trailing a couple of strands of vibrant red hair.

  ‘They left all the things I gave them except the clothes they were wearing. But no. No note.’

  ‘You’ve no idea where they might have gone either, I take it. Otherwise you’d not have come to the station to speak to me.’

  ‘I’m not even sure when they left. We all had supper together last night, and then I spent the evening in my study. I’ve just acquired some very interesting fourth-century figurines, and I was so absorbed in studying them I quite lost track of time. It wasn’t until they didn’t come down for breakfast that I realised they’d gone.’ Madame Rose frowned, as if some new insult had been added to her injury. ‘That shouldn’t be possible. If they walked out the door I should have known.’

  Movement in his peripheral vision resolved itself into a large black cat. It sauntered in and wandered up to McLean, sniffing the air around him before moving on to Harrison, and then finally to Madame Rose. From the way it looked up at her and bobbed its head, he couldn’t quite dismiss the idea that the two of them were communicating in some silent language. It wouldn’t have surprised him. Rose had enough familiars about the house, and further afield, for any unexpected arrival or departure soon to be reported back to her.

  ‘Did Rahel have a mobile phone?’ DC Harrison asked.

  Madame Rose tilted her head a moment in thought. ‘If she did, I never saw her use it. Most teenagers these days are on their phones all the time. Mind completely oblivious to the outside world. I can’t say Rahel was like that at all.’

  ‘What about access to a computer? Maybe the internet?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. We have Wi-Fi here. I may surround myself with antiques, but I’m not a fossil. There’s a computer in the living room I sometimes use to watch old films.’

  ‘Might I see it? If she tried to get in touch with someone, there may be a trace. Or even just something in the web browser history. It would give us a place to start looking.’

  ‘Of course. Please, follow me.’

  ‘I’ll catch up,’ McLean said. ‘I just want to have a bit more of a look around. See if I can’t find anything.’

  McLean watched them go, then went back to the dressing table and its collection of toiletries. Pulling out some drawers revealed nothing that hadn’t been there long before Rahel had been offered sanctuary, and a cursory glance in the wardrobe was equally unrewarding. The bed didn’t look like it had been sl
ept in for months, if not years. When he gently thumped the neatly sewn patchwork quilt, a cloud of dust rose up into the air and hung there like fog. Over by the door through to the next room, the black cat stared at him with idle curiosity, then started to wash its face with a paw.

  Nala’s room at least looked like it had been used by a child. The covers were turned down on the bed, and some of the toys he had seen her playing with before were piled up on an old armchair in one corner. Another door opened onto a small bathroom, two new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste in an old glass that reminded McLean horribly of his hated boarding school. Everything was just as clean as he would have expected Madame Rose’s house to be.

  A small waste bin stood between the ancient china toilet and the bath. He lifted it off its lid and peered inside, finding a few discarded cotton ear buds and a scrumpled up piece of paper that looked like it had been torn from a notebook. For a moment, he considered pulling on a pair of latex gloves, but this wasn’t a crime scene and the bin’s contents weren’t particularly unsanitary, so he carefully retrieved the paper and smoothed it out flat on the toilet lid.

  Rahel’s handwriting was childish, but then McLean was beginning to understand that she was in many ways still a child. Only the hard life she’d lived had aged her past her years, given her the wisdom, and cynicism, of bitter experience. He doubted she’d had much in the way of schooling since arriving in Scotland. The page she’d discarded was a list of sorts. People’s names alongside strings of digits, some of which were obviously phone numbers, others which clearly weren’t. She had scribbled in additional notes alongside some names, but there wasn’t enough light in the bathroom to see them properly. Two entries stood out to his first casual glance. The first was for Fresh Food Solutions, a landline number that must have been who she called to see if there was any work that day. The other one read ‘B McK’ and was circled in red ink, a red line leading to a mobile phone number. He pulled out his own phone, tapped in the number and hit dial. It rang twice before being answered.