by James Oswald
‘Sweet hairy Jesus. How could anything survive that fall?’ She leaned in again, more carefully this time, and gently teased the black cloth away from the creature’s face, directing the beam of her torch at it. ‘Oh shit.’
McLean staggered up to see what had spooked her. His neck had gone almost completely numb now, and he could feel his head following suit. How much blood had he lost? Not that much, surely. Behind him he could hear Grumpy Bob on his phone, calling in more backup and another ambulance, and as he looked down at the face of the beast, McLean was strangely unsurprised to see Sheila Begbie’s blank eyes staring back up at him.
‘She alive?’ he asked, forgetting he’d seen her try to move just moments earlier. Then he noticed red spots appearing in the white snow around his feet, spattering off his shoes. A blood-drenched handkerchief tumbled to the ground, and everything turned to rushing black.
61
‘Gave us quite a fright there, Tony. How are you feeling?’
McLean opened his eyes, groggy and confused, to find himself looking at Doctor Wheeler as she peered at him closely. For a while he couldn’t remember anything, and then it began to come back in disjointed snippets.
‘What happened?’ His voice sounded croaky and dry, his throat sore as if he’d been shouting.
‘Short answer is you went running in where you shouldn’t have. Got yourself slashed by something tipped with a nasty poison.’ Doctor Wheeler reached a hand towards McLean’s neck and he recoiled instinctively.
‘Bandage?’ the doctor said. ‘I need to check your stitches.’
He tried to relax, bending his head slightly so that she could get a clear reach. ‘I thought you were a neurologist.’
‘Heads, necks. It’s all the same thing really. I sometimes feel it’s my vocation to patch you and your team up whenever you get into trouble.’
The dull throb of pain he’d barely been aware of flared up livid as Doctor Wheeler examined his wound.
‘Ouch. What’s the verdict? Will I live?’
‘You’ll have a scar to impress the ladies with, but I think we’ve got on top of the infection.’ She pressed at his skin again, and the pain was less intense this time.
‘How long have I been here?’ McLean became aware of his surroundings as if someone had flipped a switch and made them appear. He wasn’t surprised by the hospital room, particularly, but the daylight flooding through the window made no sense.
‘Twelve hours, give or take. And before you ask, yes, Emma knows you’re here and what happened. I left her a message. No doubt she’ll be along to give you the telling off you deserve soon enough.’
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door and it half opened. Instead of Emma standing there though, McLean saw the concerned face of DC Harrison peering through the gap. She spoke to Doctor Wheeler first. ‘Is he any better?’
‘I’m fine, Constable – Janie. Thanks.’ McLean looked at the doctor for confirmation. ‘I’m fine, right?’
‘For a broad definition of “fine”, yes, you are. Better than we might have expected given the state you were in when you arrived. You still need to rest. I’ll send a nurse to change that bandage, but the wound looks nice and clean.’ She laid a hand on his shoulder to push him gently down into the pillows, then pulled it back again as if she felt she had overstepped the mark. Turning away, she walked briskly from the room, a terse ‘Try not to let him do anything stupid’ to Harrison as she went.
McLean struggled to sit up a bit straighter, his head woozy. The pain in his neck throbbed in time with his heartbeat, faster than he’d expect after so long asleep. The memories were coming back now, but there were still gaps. ‘What’s the story, then?’
Harrison stood at the doorway, looking unsure whether she should come in or not. ‘You collapsed. We thought it was blood loss, but they reckon Begbie must have cut you with some poisoned blade. Similar to what she used on those two wee girls and Maurice Jennings, but less potent. Least that’s how it was explained to me. They pumped you full of something to neutralise it.’
‘What about Billy McKenzie?’ He remembered the young man, the shadow attacking him. Had that really been Sheila Begbie? His memories were jumbled and patchy, but surely she couldn’t have overpowered him so easily.
‘Same as you, only worse. He’s in intensive care right now. I heard something about a full blood transfusion. They’re hopeful he’ll recover, but he was in a bad way when the paramedics got to him.’ Harrison stepped further into the room, shut the door and sat down on the plastic chair beside it. ‘Strange thing is, they couldn’t find any wounds on him.’
McLean thumped his head back against the pillows, then winced as the cut on his neck reminded him it was there. Two little girls dead with not a scratch on them. Maurice Jennings the same. And now Billy McKenzie fighting for his life. Poisoned? Or was it something more sinister? He remembered the voice of the creature that had attacked him, muttering about wishes. And he remembered all the mystical nonsense spouted by Mrs Saifre and Madame Jasmina. Talk of afrits and djinn. In the desert, maybe. When he was six years old, perhaps. But not now, not in his city. He couldn’t allow that.
‘Where’s Begbie now?’
‘In the ICU too. She’s not going anywhere, mind. Broke her neck and back in the fall. Multiple fractures in both arms. The doctors can’t quite understand how she’s still alive. Most of the team wish she wasn’t.’
McLean scanned the room as best he could from where he lay. There wasn’t much in it apart from the bed, some chairs and a tall white wardrobe. A couple of expensive-looking ICU machines had been wheeled into the corner, but they weren’t plugged in, and more importantly neither was he. ‘My clothes. They’re not in that hanging cupboard are they?’
‘You sure this is wise, sir? The doctor said you should rest.’
‘I know. And she also said you should try to stop me from doing anything stupid. If you want to walk away, pretend you had no idea what I was up to, I won’t hold it against you.’
McLean hobbled down the corridor like a man who’d been brought into the hospital unconscious just hours earlier suffering from blood loss and poisoning. His suit hung from him as if it were too big, the cuffs and trouser bottoms still damp and one shoulder of the jacket stained with his own blood. He’d felt grubby putting on old and dirty clothes, but there was something he had to do. If he didn’t do it now, he’d start to think about it, and then it would be too late.
‘Where exactly are we going, sir?’ Harrison almost had to trot to keep up with him.
‘The ICU. I need to see Begbie.’
‘She’s unconscious, sir. They’ll be keeping her that way for days, maybe longer. You won’t get anything from her.’
‘I don’t want anything from her, Janie. I want to give her something.’
If Harrison said anything in response, he didn’t hear it. McLean was surprised that there weren’t many nurses around as they walked up the corridor to the ICU, but he was glad not to be distracted either.
A lone uniformed constable sat on a chair outside the room in which Akka Nour had died; a pleasing symmetry given that, in some way he couldn’t yet identify, McLean was sure Begbie was responsible for the woman’s death.
‘Sir. Nobody told me . . .’ The constable leapt to his feet as soon as he saw the two detectives approaching.
‘At ease, Constable. I just want to see the patient.’
‘You’ll need to sign the register, sir.’ The constable bent down and picked up a clipboard with a form attached, but no pen. McLean fetched one out of his pocket, signed and checked the time. Looking at the names listed above his, it appeared Sheila Begbie had been visited mostly by nurses and a couple of doctors whose names he recognised, Caroline Wheeler among them. Two names stood out though.
‘Albert Rogers and Geraldine Sellars? Who are they?’
‘Aye, them
. They came in with the DCC, sir. Way I hear it they’re from some private trust. Going to transfer her to a secure medical facility this afternoon. Some new treatment you can’t get on the NHS yet. No idea who’s paying for it.’
Given what he’d been told of her condition, that seemed a bit extreme. And potentially life-threatening. ‘I have a suspicion I know who.’ He had a suspicion why, too, even if he didn’t want to think too hard about it. ‘Are the doctors happy about it?’
‘Don’t know about the doctors, but the nurses are in a right stooshie. Fair bent my ear about it, an’ it’s no’ as if it’s anything to do wi’ me.’
McLean looked at the two names again, noting that Robinson hadn’t signed the ledger. Perhaps he’d stayed outside. Something bothered him about the first name, though. Albert. It wasn’t exactly uncommon, but was it a coincidence that Mrs Saifre’s well-spoken bodyguard and chauffeur had the same name? He didn’t really believe in coincidences.
‘I’ll be a couple of minutes, tops. You can watch if you want.’
‘That’s fine, sir. Long as I know who’s been in and oot.’ The constable handed the clipboard to Harrison.
‘No need. I’ll just be a moment.’ McLean waved her back as he opened the door and stepped into the room. It was a fair bit larger than the one he’d woken up in, and filled with much more expensive-looking machinery, all of it switched on. Sheila Begbie lay on the bed, her upper body in a Minerva cast and legs immobilised. Once again, he was struck by the similarities with Akka Nour, although Begbie’s tangled hair was grey and black rather than flame red.
‘Have to admit, you had me fooled. It’s been a while since anyone managed that quite so well.’ He stuck his fingers in his trouser pocket as he walked up to the bedside, fishing out the tiny brass lamp Madame Jasmina had given him. McLean wasn’t sure he could bring himself to believe in all the mumbo jumbo, but neither could he deny the evidence of his eyes, his own experience. If it was all nonsense, well, no harm done. If it wasn’t? Best not to think about that.
Begbie’s hand lay on the top of the bed, palm upwards as if she was begging for coins. McLean placed the lamp on it, then gently folded her fingers over. Nothing happened, but then he’d not really expected it to. He turned to see Harrison chatting with the constable on guard duty, not watching him at all.
‘Come on then. Let’s get back to the station. Write this whole sorry mess up and move on.’ He closed the door behind him, signed out on the ledger, then he and Harrison walked away from the ICU towards Reception and the exit. It wasn’t until they were well past the first corner that the rush of nurses in the other direction began.
62
‘What the hell did you think you were doing, taking an inexperienced detective constable into such a dangerous situation?’
McLean stood in front of the DCC’s desk for what felt like the hundredth time in the past week. He’d only been meaning to come into the station to pick up his car, maybe update a few people on what had happened, then sneak out again for the rest and recuperation Doctor Wheeler had suggested he take. News of Begbie’s sudden and unexpected death had come in on Harrison’s Airwave set long before they had arrived, so it was hardly surprising when he was summoned to explain himself.
‘If I’d known it was going to be dangerous, I’d not have gone myself, sir.’ He reached up and touched the bandage on his neck very gently. He couldn’t see whether it had begun to seep blood or not, hoped that it hadn’t. He’d lost more than he could spare already.
‘Sheila Begbie, or whatever her real name was.’ Robinson paced back and forth in front of his window wall, the red sky of early afternoon not quite throwing him into silhouette. ‘You were the last one to see her, before she died.’
McLean said nothing. If it was an accusation, then the DCC was going to have to be more specific.
‘What exactly is her role in all this? Was she the one who killed those girls? The other one?’ The DCC waved his hand in annoyance at not being able to recall Maurice Jennings’s name. ‘In God’s name, why? And how?’
‘I don’t know. But I think when we start looking into her dealings in the city a great many things are going to be uncovered. I’d like to discuss the matter with Jo Dexter before anything else. I—’
‘No, Tony.’ Robinson’s interruption was more effective for being softly spoken, a gentle tilt and shake of the head before he looked up again. ‘No. You’ve done enough. Some might say too much.’ He walked back across the office, behind his desk, and sat down heavily. Whereas the last time McLean had been here the desktop had been covered in folders and paperwork, now it was clear save for one, which the DCC opened out to reveal a thin sheaf of papers.
‘I’ve been asked to review the way you’ve conducted this investigation, and I have to say it’s not a happy picture.’
McLean clasped his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to say something. He knew what was coming; no need to make it worse.
‘With hindsight, it was probably a mistake putting you in charge of such an . . .’ Robinson searched for the right word. ‘Such an emotional investigation. Two wee girls, and it’s only a couple of months since, well.’ He fell silent for a moment, struggling to find a sympathetic expression.
‘Nevertheless, as a senior officer with many years’ experience, you should have been able to deal with it, or know to step aside. You should know how to delegate and when to leave things up to junior officers, but look at you. You were in hospital overnight, unconscious, poisoned. You stink like you’ve not washed in days and your jacket’s covered in blood. Any sane man would have gone home, but you come straight back here. What’s wrong with you, Tony?’
Put like that, McLean had to admit that the DCC had a point. He reckoned the question was rhetorical though, so didn’t answer.
‘It’s no matter.’ Robinson shook his head, flipped the report closed and pushed it to one side. ‘There’s to be an enquiry into the case. Not my idea, I can assure you. But someone’s been putting pressure on the politicians, and they’ve duly passed it on. I think we both know who that someone is, don’t we?’
‘Jane Louise Dee,’ McLean said. ‘Let me guess. The secure medical facility they were going to move Begbie to is run by the Dee Trust. Or maybe some other Saifre corporation. No doubt she would have disappeared as soon as she arrived there, and whatever toxic weapon she used would have disappeared with her.’ Even as he said the words, McLean knew they weren’t true. Saifre wanted Begbie, yes, but for reasons he didn’t want to accept.
‘Has anyone ever told you how cynical you are, Tony?’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it? Saifre’s the one turning the screws. I’ll bet she’s moving in on the other operations Begbie was involved in, too. The trafficking, the prostitution, the drugs. All the stuff DCI Dexter should be onto right now. This enquiry of yours will put that all on hold, won’t it? And by the time you’re done, it’ll be too late.’
Robinson rubbed his eyes and scratched at a cheek gone dark with stubble. ‘It was too late the moment she got involved. You can’t hope to beat her, Tony. She’s too powerful, too well-connected.’
‘That’s never stopped me in the past. Won’t stop me now.’
‘How about a medical suspension then? Will that do?’ The DCC pulled open one of the drawers of his desk, took out a sheet of paper. ‘The chief constable signed it himself. One month, starting from today. I didn’t think you’d be in here for me to give the news to you in person, but there you go.’ He slid the page across the desk and McLean reluctantly picked it up, glancing briefly at the typed words. Then he folded it carefully, tucked it in his pocket, turned and walked out of the room.
The same parking space was free when McLean pulled up outside Madame Rose’s house half an hour after leaving the station. He sat in the car for a while, staring up at the stone edifice and thinking about what the deputy chief constable had said. F
rustratingly, much of it was true, it was just that at the time he’d not had any alternative. None of them had known about Begbie; how could they?
Maybe it was better this way. He’d never take time off voluntarily, so an enforced suspension while they carried out a spurious enquiry into the circumstances surrounding Begbie’s death was a good opportunity to break out of the cycle of self-destruction. Maybe he and Emma could actually get away somewhere, like he’d promised.
Thinking of Emma reminded him he’d not told her about leaving the hospital. He pulled out his phone, found her number and hit dial. It rang a couple of times then switched to voicemail, so he left a message, then sent a text as well just to be safe. Only then did he climb out of the car, cross the road and knock on the door.
‘Tony, come in.’ Madame Rose answered almost immediately, and he had the odd impression that she had been waiting for him while he sat in his car and ruminated. ‘Emma not with you?’
‘I called, but she’s not answering. Probably gone to the hospital to fetch me.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to make that up to her, won’t you?’ She stood aside, opening the door wide. ‘Come in. We’ve been expecting you.’
McLean knew better than to ask how, given that he hadn’t known he was coming here until half an hour earlier. Madame Rose was a fortune teller after all. She led him across the hall to the living room, where he was unsurprised to find Madame Jasmina from the circus sitting in an armchair and drinking tea. She stood as he entered, as did Rahel. Playing with her toys on the floor, Nala paid them all no heed whatsoever.
‘Rose told me you were a good man, Anthony McLean. She did not lie. Thank you, for what you did. I know it has cost you dear, but the world is safer for your sacrifice.’ Madame Jasmina took his hand in both of hers, squeezing it tight.