by James Oswald
‘This the Weatherly family vault then?’ Grumpy Bob asked. ‘He bought this too?’
McLean considered the heavy stone carving, the solidity and permanence in death only money could secure. ‘Seems that way,’ he said.
‘Surprised he didn’t turf all the old folk out then.’ Grumpy Bob raised an eyebrow, nodding towards the interior. lt was a good point, given the lengths Weatherly had gone to in destroying the family that had disowned him. But then it had been his grandfather and uncles he’d ruined. Maybe there were limits to his thirst for revenge after all.
McLean stepped down carefully, then pulled the plan out of his pocket. The exhumation order was in there too, just in case anyone queried what they were doing. He’d already spoken to the church authorities, though, assured them that he was going to do very little to disturb those who should have been resting in peace. In many ways it was a lot easier than digging someone up. That almost always upset people.
‘Should be the third on the left, one shelf up.’ McLean squinted at the coffins as Grumpy Bob’s torch played on them. It was easy enough to see who had been put here most recently, but he didn’t want to open up Mrs Weatherly by mistake. No chance of doing that with the two girls; their coffins were tellingly small. ‘That one, I think.’
There was just enough room between one shelf and the next to open the lid. Dr MacPhail joined him, and together they unscrewed the heavy brass fittings and levered off the dark wooden lid. McLean wasn’t sure what to expect. A sudden rush of wind gusting the spider webs perhaps, or a distant scream of terror. The crypt smelled of cold stone and still, stagnant air. He thought perhaps there’d be some odour of corruption, or the formaldehyde stench of the mortuary. Instead there was no drama, no smell at all, nothing.
The coffin was empty.
‘What the fuck do you mean, gone?’
There had been no way this was going to be easy. They’d spent another half-hour in the crypt, checking the other coffins even though they had permission only to disturb one. Morag Weatherly and her two daughters were where they should have been, but Andrew Weatherly’s last resting place was quite clearly somewhere else. McLean had sworn Grumpy Bob and the wide-eyed Dr MacPhail to silence on the matter, and gone to tell Duguid. Now he stood on the wrong side of that desk, like he had done so many times before, weathering the storm as best he could.
‘I put my career on the line getting you that exhumation order, you know?’ Duguid’s face was a study in scarlet blotches and terrifying spots of bloodless white. ‘How could you fuck up something like this?’
‘With respect, sir—’
‘Don’t you fucking “respect” me, McLean.’ Duguid leapt out of his chair, fists pummelling the top of his desk with an effort that should have launched him into the ceiling. ‘If you’d left well alone none of this would have happened.’
‘None of what, exactly? I didn’t spirit Weatherly’s body away. Think yourself lucky we’ve found out so soon it’s gone. Lucky it was us found out and not someone else.’
‘I …’ Duguid opened his mouth to speak, then realized he had no answer.
‘Exactly.’ McLean took the momentary lapse to go on the offensive. ‘In case you’d forgotten, I had a good reason to look at Weatherly’s body again. I’m just as pissed off as you are that it’s disappeared. But it does rather underline the point I was making before. There’s more to this whole thing than meets the eye.’
Duguid squeezed at the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, as if trying to force something out of his brain. ‘Jesus wept, McLean. This was supposed to be a simple enquiry. Man goes off the rails, kills his family and himself. End of story. That’s the script you were meant to be following.’
‘I thought you wanted me to get to the truth, sir. For the girls and their mother, if no one else.’
‘The truth?’ Duguid slumped back down into his chair, his anger spent. ‘How long have you been a detective, McLean?’
‘I … What?’
‘Twelve years is it? Fourteen? And you’re still convinced there’s something called the truth. Christ, I wish I had your naivety some days.’
‘There’s a solid line of evidence linking Andrew Weatherly with—’
‘Solid my arse. You deal in supposition and conjecture. Ghosts and fairies, for fuck’s sake. You see links where there are none. Burnt lips. What does that even mean? I should never have got you that bloody exhumation order in the first place.’
Good God, they put this man in charge of CID. ‘Sir, I’m sorry if the disappearance of Andrew Weatherly’s body is inconvenient to you, but don’t you think it’s better we know now rather than later?’
‘Better we never knew at all. Better he stayed where he was supposed to be. Best he never fucking well existed in the first place.’
‘I’ll give you that. Except we’d all look bloody stupid if it turned up somewhere unexpected, wouldn’t we?’
Duguid looked up at him with a piggy-eyed, quizzical expression. ‘You think you know where it is?’
‘Supposition and conjecture, sir. Ghosts and fairies.’
‘Don’t get fucking clever with me, McLean.’
‘OK, how about this then? Andrew Weatherly owned the company that has managed Rosskettle Hospital for NHS Scotland for the past twenty years. He also owned a different company that bought the place when it was no longer needed. Now a third company owned by one of his closest business partners is redeveloping the site.’
‘What the fuck’s Rosskettle got to do with anything? It’s a loony bin, isn’t it?’
‘It was a mental hospital, yes. It’s been closed for about twelve years now. But it’s the most likely place our tattooed man came from. William Beaumont. Some of the outbuildings are only a few hundred yards from where he went over the cliff into the glen.’
Now the puzzled face. Well, he’d been expecting that.
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m saying there’s a link between Andrew Weatherly and William Beaumont, sir. It means that Weatherly was doing far more than having sex parties at his house in Fife while his wife was away. It means he was into something I don’t begin to understand, but which is responsible for the deaths of two people I know of and God alone knows how many more. It’s probably what pushed him over the edge to do what he did. The thought that this secret was going to come out. And it means that even as we speak all evidence of it is being bulldozed and carted off to landfill.’
Duguid slumped back in his chair and ran a large, spidery hand over his head, ending up scratching at his neck. McLean said no more, letting the detective superintendent come to his own conclusion and in his own time. He’d laid his cards out on the table. Nothing else he could do now.
‘You can’t tell anyone about this,’ was Duguid’s eventual response. ‘Make it clear to Grumpy Bob and that pathologist friend of yours. No one can know that Weatherly’s body has gone missing. Not now.’
McLean tried to keep an upright posture, but inside he was slumping in disappointment. No, worse than that, frustration. He knew there was pressure from above to cover up all this stuff, but surely Duguid wasn’t important enough to be mixed up in it.
‘You’ll need a warrant to search the hospital. I’ll make a couple of calls. Keep it away from the usual channels so it doesn’t put up a big red flag.’
‘I … What?’
‘You want to search the hospital, right? Before it’s completely obliterated? That’s what I’d do.’
It was McLean’s turn to do the stupid impression. ‘But I thought …’
‘Me too. I thought they wanted a quick investigation because Weatherly was friends with powerful people. Wasn’t happy about it, but I’ve not got many years left and I really don’t want to retire on a constable’s pension.’ Duguid fished around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a small black notebook and leafed through it, looking for something. Found it, and reached for his phone. ‘I’ll cover up a lot of shit for a quiet life, but this
is going too far.’
45
‘You seen Ritchie recently?’
McLean was still reeling from his encounter with Duguid, the second person in as many days to defy his expectations and turn out to be, if grudgingly, helpful. It was almost as if the end times were upon them and people were finally taking sides in some great battle. Only the ones he’d expected to be siding with the enemy turned out to be coming to his aid. He hoped the opposite wasn’t going to turn out to be the case with his friends.
‘Still off sick, sir.’ MacBride had been tapping dolorously at the screen of his tablet computer, his face a picture of despair.
‘Still? I thought she was getting better.’ How long had it been since he’d seen her last? When he’d dropped her off at her flat after they’d been out at Cramond. It felt like weeks ago. True, she’d looked ill, but not enough to put her out of action this long, surely.
‘So did she, sir. Had something of a relapse, apparently. She’s got an appointment at the doctor’s later on this afternoon. Said she’d try to pop in after. Not sure I particularly want to be here if she does. Not the way she sounded on the phone.’
McLean knew what MacBride meant. It was always the way with some people. Martyrs to their work. They’d drag themselves in with one leg hanging off rather than let down the team, and frankly that was fine. Less helpful was coming in dosed up to the eyeballs with flu remedy, sharing their germs with everyone else so the whole station could go down one by one.
‘I’ll go and see her later. Meantime you get promoted to acting detective sergeant.’
MacBride’s eyes lit up, his slumped back straightened and a grin started to form on his face. ‘I do?’
‘Only in my head, alas. I need you to organize a search team. Might need the Armed Response Unit on standby just in case it gets lairy.’
MacBride slumped again, but only a little. He had a task, and that was usually enough to keep him happy. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘Rosskettle Hospital. Just as soon as Duguid sorts out my warrant. We’ll go in first light tomorrow.’
Some might have said there were more important things to do, but McLean would have been happy to argue the point with them. He’d left MacBride in charge, which meant that the details would be attended to. Grumpy Bob was on containment, making sure that only those officers – particularly senior ranks – who needed to knew what was planned for the morning. That also meant that he’d only be getting in the way if he hung around. There was always paperwork to do, of course, but somehow he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his mind on it with everything building up to the morning raid. And besides, there was more to man management than making sure the overtime sheets were all filed away.
Even though she’d been warned he was coming, it still took Ritchie a long time to answer when he pushed the buzzer in the doorframe of her basement flat. McLean didn’t really know what to expect; she’d sounded tired and hoarse on the phone and she wasn’t the type to throw a sickie on a whim. Still he was surprised at the terrible apparition that opened the front door. She looked shrunken, wrapped up in a huge towelling dressing gown, feet enveloped in great big fluffy slippers. She peered up at him with eyes dark and sunken, sniffed, then dissolved into a fit of coughing that would have put a lifelong smoker to shame. It took a long time for her to get her breath back.
‘Sir.’ She motioned for him to come in.
Now he’d seen her, McLean wasn’t quite so sure he wanted to share that same air, but he’d come to see how she was and bring her up to speed on their ongoing cases. It would have been rude to turn tail and flee.
‘I was going to ask how you were. Seems a bit stupid now.’ He stepped into the hallway, closed the door. Ritchie sniffed again and muttered something that might have been ‘this way’, then shuffled off towards an open door leading to the back of the building. McLean followed, finding himself in a large living room with a surprisingly high ceiling. The end wall opened out onto a tiny garden surrounded on all sides by more tenements. It was white with deep snow at the moment, but must have been a wonderful place to sit of a summer’s evening, cocooned from the bustle and noise of the city.
‘Think it’s getting better.’ Ritchie dropped into a large, soft leather armchair close to a small gas fire that almost looked like it might have been burning real wood. This was obviously her default position, given the barricade of scrumpled-up tissues surrounding her. She pulled another one out of a box on the arm of the chair, honked something wet and slippery into it, then scrunched it up and set it among its friends. ‘You want some tea?’
‘It’s OK. You stay there. I’ll get it. Kitchen this way?’ McLean hadn’t sat down. He went back out into the hallway, noticing the boxes piled around and still not unpacked. How long had Ritchie been in here?
More boxes cluttered up the tiny kitchen, but the kettle was on the counter by the sink, along with mugs and a caddy of teabags. He busied himself with his task, only noticing Ritchie standing at the door as the water began to rumble to the boil.
‘Lemsip’s good. Cupboard up there,’ she said, then started coughing again.
‘Sounds like you need something stronger. You seen a doctor?’ McLean found the box, tore open a sachet and poured the yellow-green crystals into a mug.
‘This morning. Told me to rest. Got a note if you want to see it.’
‘Christ, no, that’s not why I’m here.’ He poured the water, stirred the foul-smelling liquid. Maybe they worked, these cold remedies. Mostly they hid the symptoms so you could go back to work and spread your disease. And then they could sell more cold remedies to all your colleagues. Brilliant, when you thought about it.
‘Keeping out of Dagwood’s way then?’ Ritchie tried a smile, but only half succeeded. McLean handed her the mug of Lemsip which she sniffed, wrinkling her nose. ‘Ugh. Disgusting stuff.’
‘Just wanted to see how you were, really. Not like you to get sick.’
‘Tell me about it. Can’t remember ever feeling so fucking useless.’
‘Well, I won’t say you’re not missed.’ McLean pulled the bag out of his own mug, found a bulging milk carton in the fridge door, then decided he really liked his tea black, all the while bringing Ritchie up to speed. She slumped against the doorframe as he spoke, the effort of standing leaving her too short of breath to reply for a while.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said finally. ‘What’s out at the hospital that’s so important Dagwood got you a warrant?’
McLean didn’t answer straight away. He had a hunch, of course, but he liked to keep those to himself just in case they didn’t play out.
‘To be honest, I didn’t think he’d go for it. He’s starting to get pissed off at being told what to do by headquarters, though. This is his little way of rebelling.’
‘Drops you in the shit a bit, though, doesn’t it?’
‘What, you mean when it all goes tits up? When we raid an empty building site and find fuck all?’ McLean was pleased to see that for all her weariness and disease, Ritchie’s brain still seemed to be working.
‘Well, you are kind of being set up for a fall here, aren’t you?’
‘From the minute I was handed the Weatherly case.’
That brought a raised eyebrow. It didn’t stay up long, though. Like everything else that took any kind of effort, even being cynical was beyond her.
‘What, you don’t think I knew?’ McLean cupped his hands around his mug, feeling the warmth of the tea seep through into his bones. For all that she was ill, Ritchie kept her flat surprisingly cold. Just the fire in the living room to cheer things up. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve been made the scapegoat. Part of being a DI, of course. I’m not so senior that it would destroy my career, not so junior I can blame someone else. Bear that in mind when it’s your turn, aye?’
Ritchie smiled at that, and for a minute McLean could see past the illness to the detective sergeant he was used to having around. Then without warning her eyes disappeared upw
ards into her head and she collapsed like someone had cut her strings. The full mug of Lemsip fell from fingers suddenly limp, tumbling to the floor in a slow, messy spray of cold remedy. She folded into herself, slumping down against the doorframe just slowly enough for him to be able to catch her before her head could clatter off the floorboards. Instinctively, he felt for a pulse. It was weak and erratic, much worse than he would have expected even from someone with the flu. Her skin was clammy to the touch, almost burning hot. He looked around the hallway, saw the half-open door into what must have been her bedroom. For an instant he considered carrying her there, tucking her up, sitting with her until she woke or maybe phoning someone to come round and help. But it was way past that, whatever illness she had. Time to bring in the big guns.
He pulled out his phone, brought up the number pad on the screen, and dialled for an ambulance.
Much later that night, McLean let himself in through the back door and on into the kitchen. He’d gone with Ritchie to the hospital, sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room while she was seen by the doctors. They were as mystified as him about what was causing her ailments, but agreed to keep her in for observation. It had taken him a long time to realize that there was nothing constructive he could do beyond going home and getting some rest.
Weary, he dumped his briefcase on a chair, the takeaway curry on the table. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stared at him from its bed by the Aga, sniffing the air to be sure both that it was the human it deigned to share its house with, and that said human had brought the food. With a baring of the whitest teeth, it yawned, reached out a single paw with claws extended, then unfolded itself from its bed. A long stretch turned into a jump on to the kitchen table, with no discernible manoeuvre in between. It padded across the scrubbed wooden surface towards him, head and tail up in anticipation of some cosseting. McLean leaned forward to scratch it behind the ears. Her, he remembered, not it. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat might have an ungainly name, but he knew what sex it was now.
