Dead Men's Bones

by James Oswald

  ‘I always do.’ Mrs Saifre pulled herself upright again. ‘But perhaps this place has done its job. Time to move on?’ She lifted a hand and in an instant Eric was at the table.

  ‘Tell Mr Innes if he ever needs a job I’ll pay handsomely.’

  ‘Madame is too kind.’

  ‘Madame hasn’t even started being kind yet.’ Mrs Saifre sat up straight, going from flirt to businesswoman in an eyeblink. ‘I know this was Tony’s invitation, but I want you to bring the bill to me. I asked him out, after all.’

  Eric looked briefly at McLean, kept his best poker face. ‘I would love nothing more than to do as you say, Madame de Saifre, but Tony McLean is an old friend. Bobby wouldn’t dream of charging him for a meal. Nor anyone he chooses to dine with.’

  The room seemed to cool, just for an instant. Mrs Saifre had gone very still, her face unreadable. Somewhere in the back of his mind, McLean imagined he could hear the wailing of tortured souls. He’d have put it down to the wine, were it not for the fact that Eric had been carefully topping his glass up with coloured water all evening.

  ‘You’re too kind, Eric. Bobby too. But I know better than to try to argue. I’ll make it up to you some other way.’

  Eric half-smiled, his gaze shifting from McLean to Mrs Saifre and back again before he answered.

  ‘I’m sure you will, Tony. I’m sure you will.’

  56

  Mrs Saifre was perfectly charming from that point onwards, but McLean could see a difference in her, in the way she looked at him. They didn’t stay long in the restaurant after that, and when he climbed into the Rolls-Royce beside her, she maintained a few inches of distance between them. As far as he was concerned that was fine. It had been an exhausting act and he looked forward to getting some sleep with only Mrs McCutcheon’s cat for company.

  They made small talk as the car drove swiftly across town. Out of the corner of his eye, McLean noticed that every light changed to green at their approach, as if some invisible hand were controlling them, speeding their progress. For a moment he thought he was going to be taken back to Mrs Saifre’s house, prolonging the awkwardness yet further or perhaps forcing the issue, but Karl slowed as they approached the turn into the quiet street where his grandmother’s house stood.

  ‘You can drop me off anywhere here. I wouldn’t mind walking a bit. Get a bit of fresh air to counteract that fine wine.’

  ‘It was very good, wasn’t it?’ Mrs Saifre’s voice was warm and sleepy. ‘You sure I can’t interest you in a nightcap?’

  McLean smiled away the suggestion, knowing it wasn’t really meant. ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Tony.’ She tapped the glass screen separating them from the driver and the car pulled in to the pavement. Before he could even find the door handle, Karl had stepped out and opened it from the outside. McLean didn’t waste any time in exiting, pleased to see that Mrs Saifre didn’t climb out after him. She lifted a lazy hand, and he took it in his, raising it as close to his lips as he dared but not actually letting it touch.

  ‘Till next time, then.’ He closed the door and waited as the car pulled away, disappeared into the night. Then let out a long, cloudy breath of relief.

  He’d walked this street countless times in his life; knew all the buildings, the trees, the positions of the street lamps. He knew the church too, its dark stained stone, squat tower and arched windows. He’d never attended a service in there; his grandmother had been a devout atheist all her life, and something of that had rubbed off on him. True, recent experience had given him cause to re-evaluate some of the sweeping generalizations he’d made growing up, but all the same McLean was confident that the God represented by that building did not exist.

  Which wasn’t to say that there were not forces beyond his ken, as the poet would have it. Just that kneeling every Sunday in front of a slightly sinister statue of a man being tortured to death didn’t strike him as a very constructive way of fighting evil.

  Without quite knowing why, he found that he’d stopped at the entrance to the churchyard and was staring at the dark, forbidding building. There was no obvious sign of work on the roof, he noticed. But then again, there wouldn’t be. Not until the weather cleared; that’s what the minister had said. One of the gates was ajar, almost as if beckoning him in. Looking up the straight paved path to the church door, he saw a low light in the stained glass windows, too.

  The church door was unlocked, but when McLean went in he couldn’t see anyone around. It was cold inside, possibly even colder than the snowy night outside. The light he had seen through the windows came from a half-dozen large candles, burning away on the plain stone altar. He walked slowly up to it, conscious of the echo of his footsteps on the flagstones, worn-down dedications to the dead people interred beneath his feet. Bones in the ground.

  The interior of the church was not ostentatious, but neither was it as dour and plain as the Presbyterian kirks he’d been in. The Church of Scotland, Episcopalian, call it what you will. The Scottish offshoot of the Church of England was no-nonsense in its approach to devotion. The pews were well carved, but not ornate; a solid quality was their most obvious feature. The altar itself was a simple stone affair, decorated with nothing more than a damask cloth. There was a large cross, McLean noted, but no tortured Jesus weeping blood from his wounds.

  He’d never really known what to do in churches. Some people, Kirsty among them, had always bowed a head, knelt, mouthed some silent prayer to the grey-haired old man in the clouds. He just stared for a while, then as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he turned slowly and drank in the atmosphere of the place. It was peaceful, he had to admit that much, and after the evening he had just had, he needed some peace.

  When he saw the font, at the opposite end of the nave to the altar, he finally realized what it was that had brought him in here. It was much older than the church; he seemed to remember someone telling him that once. Legend had it that Saint Columba himself had carved it, that it had been saved from the devastation when Vikings raided the monastery on Iona, brought here to the capital and finally to this unassuming church in what was then a wealthy estate, not even part of the city. McLean didn’t know if that was true or not, but it was certainly older than the building surrounding it. The stone was different, and carved with intricate Celtic symbols.

  The wooden lid that covered the font was old too, a simple construction of narrow planks, dotted with woodworm holes and chewed at the edges as if this were the home of some large Labrador rather than a church. Two heavy iron rings set into the top made it easy to lift off, and there within it was the Holy Water, still as a prayer, reflecting the dim lights behind him.

  ‘It doesn’t work if you steal it.’

  McLean turned too suddenly at the voice, almost dropped the lid to the floor. The minister stood about ten feet away from him, a gentle, knowing smile on her face.

  ‘Umm. I … That is …’ He really couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. Inspector. I know you’re not going to steal anything.’ She came a little closer and he saw that she was dressed in her priestly robes, white dog collar over black shirt. Had there been an evening service or something?

  ‘I saw the lights. Not really sure why I came in at all.’

  ‘And yet here you are, peering into the font as if the answer to all your troubles lies within.’ She stepped up to the edge of the stone urn, producing a small bottle from her cassock as she did so. She dipped it into the water, bubbles gurgling out with an eerie, echoing sound as it filled. Stoppered and wiped dry on her sleeve, she handed it to him.

  ‘A gift. May it help you in your endeavours.’

  McLean took the bottle almost reluctantly. Now he thought about it, he felt rather silly. ‘It’s not for me,’ he said.

  ‘I know it’s not.’ The minister smiled. ‘And that is why it will work.’

  The hospital never entirely stopped, but this late at night it was quiet, espe
cially on the wards, where all but the most unlucky of patients were sleeping. McLean took the back route, hoping to avoid as many nurses as possible, but he still had to get past the ward sister before he could reach his destination.

  ‘She’s sleeping, Inspector. You can’t disturb her.’

  ‘Would you like me to go back and get a warrant? Come in here with a half-dozen uniforms and wake everyone?’

  It wasn’t Jeannie Robertson working the night shift. That would have been too easy, McLean supposed.

  ‘This is impossible. I’ll be having words with your superior officer, you know. Sergeant Ritchie is very sick. Critically sick. She needs her rest.’

  ‘Believe me, I know just how ill she is. I’m trying to help her. And I’ll keep it short, OK?’

  The nurse glowered at him, but relented. He slipped as quietly as possible into the ward and across to Ritchie’s bed. He needn’t have worried about making a noise, though. She was bent double, hacking up her lungs and wide awake. She must have seen his shoes approaching, looked up as he neared her bed.

  ‘Seeing me at my best, sir.’ A tired smile and then she was coughing again. No attempt to hide the blood that was coming up with each hack now.

  McLean saw the glass, half-filled with water on the bedside table, a jug nearby. While Ritchie was otherwise occupied, he tipped the contents of the bottle the vicar had given him into the glass. It was only a few drops, really. By the time he was done, Ritchie was too.

  ‘Here. Drink this.’ He crouched down beside her bed, held the glass up to her blood- and spittle-flecked lips. ‘It’ll help.’

  ‘Who’re you, my mother?’ Ritchie glared at him, but took the glass anyway, sipped and swallowed gingerly.

  If he’d been expecting miracles, then McLean was disappointed. The water soothed Ritchie’s throat for a few seconds at most before she started coughing again. He took the glass from her before she spilled any, waited patiently for her to finish before handing it back again.

  ‘You need to drink all of it.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Ritchie grimaced, but did as she was told. This time the coughing was less, and she lay back in the pillows drowsily.

  ‘It’s not looking good, sir.’ She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her face.

  ‘How no? You’ll be fine.’

  ‘You can see it in their faces. The doctors and nurses. Christ knows, I’ve seen enough of these places to get that.’

  ‘You’re imagining things, Kirsty. It’s just the flu messing with your head. Rest up. Get well. I’ll come visit in the morning.’

  Ritchie frowned at his words, her eyes sliding from his face to take in the rest of the ward, only just realizing that it was night, not visiting hours at all.

  ‘What—?’ she began to ask, but he put a hand on her shoulder, pressed her down into the pillows.

  ‘Relax. Sleep. Rest,’ he said. ‘It’ll all be fine tomorrow.’

  She didn’t struggle against the weariness that closed her eyes and settled her breathing. McLean stayed where he was for a few minutes more, watching her relax into a deep sleep. He’d just given a very sick woman a drink of water of questionable purity. Who knew how many babies had pissed in it? Christ, he hoped he knew what he was doing.

  Outside in the corridor, McLean nodded his thanks to the ward sister, feeling that conversation would be unwise. He’d remembered to turn his phone off – that would have been one sin too many. As he reached the reception area, he pulled it out of his pocket and turned it back on again. Almost immediately it started buzzing messages at him, most from DC MacBride. He looked at his watch, wondering what the detective constable was doing up at an hour so late it was early.

  He was fairly sure it had been overcast, with the threat of yet more snow, but when McLean stepped out of the hospital, heading in the direction of the car park, the sky was clear. A thin crescent moon hung over a landscape of white, tiny pinprick stars fighting to be seen past the city lights. MacBride answered his phone almost before it had rung.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, sir. Thought it was important, though.’ In the background, McLean could hear shouting, machinery, the busy noise more associated with daytime.

  ‘You didn’t.’ He was about to say that he’d been in the hospital, then realized that would only worry MacBride unduly. He’d done all he could for Ritchie; her fate was in the hands of others now. No point fretting over what he couldn’t control. ‘What’s happening that’s got you up at this hour, Constable? Sounds like a bomb went off.’

  ‘You’re not far wrong, sir. It’s Rosskettle. Someone’s set fire to it, and it’s—’ But what it was, McLean never learned. Something exploded at the other end of the line, and then the call went dead.

  57

  He could see the flames from Bonnyrigg, a mile and a half away from the mental hospital. McLean had already pulled over to let almost every fire engine in the region past him, full flashing blue lights and sirens on the go. There were squad cars too, even though at this hour they weren’t really needed to clear the road ahead. The ambulances were more of a worry. The hospital was empty; there should have been no need for them.

  Closer in and an explosion rocked the car, a huge rolling ball of flame and black smoke boiling up into the air above the bare trees. They stood stark against a backdrop of hell, flames tearing through the buildings as if they were made of paper and card, not sandstone and mortar. There was no one at the guard house as McLean drove past. Everyone was at the main building.

  He parked a good distance away, at a spot on the drive where he wasn’t blocking anything, and well beyond the scorching heat of the fire. Even so, it was uncomfortable; brought back memories of another fire not so far from here in which he had almost died.

  All the snow had melted for a hundred yards and more from the building, the ground softening and steam rising from the dead grass in devilish wisps. At least a dozen fire engines had piled into the area immediately in front of the building. They were pouring water on to the flames with no obvious sign that it was having any effect. Quite the opposite, in fact. The closer he came, the fiercer the fire seemed to rage. Firemen ran about in well-choreographed chaos. There were paramedics and a few uniform officers standing about, but no sign of DC MacBride.

  McLean spotted a familiar figure, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. Big Andy Houseman had been based in his own station until recently, and now worked out of Gilmerton. If even he was here, then the blaze must be serious.

  ‘You seen MacBride?’ McLean asked once he’d pushed his way through the crowd. He had to shout over the roaring of the flames, shielding his face from the heat.

  ‘Over there, sir.’ Houseman pointed to an ambulance a few yards back. ‘He was a bit closer in when the first explosion happened.’

  ‘First? What the fuck’s going on in there?’

  ‘Christ only knows.’ Big Andy shook his head. ‘Don’t think they’ve got a hope of putting it out, either. Lucky it was empty, really.’

  Before McLean could say anything, another explosion shook the ground around them. Flames burst from the burning windows, sending showers of glass out across the cars and fire engines parked closer to the building.

  ‘Pull everyone back, Andy. At least to the treeline. Let the firemen do their stuff, but I don’t want anyone getting hurt.’

  ‘It’s a crime scene, sir. Shouldn’t we be—’

  ‘It’s my crime scene. I’m SIO. And I say safety first. Pull them back, and let the senior fire officer know too. If all they can do is contain it, I’m not going to ask for more.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Big Andy gave a curt nod and then started shouting orders. McLean headed over to the ambulance, noticing as he got closer that its windscreen, facing the blaze, was cracked where something had hit it at speed.

  DC MacBride was lying on a stretcher in the back, a bandage wrapped around his head with a dark red blotch in the middle of it. He tried to sit up when he saw McLean, but sank back down with a gro
an when he realized just how painful that was.

  ‘Take it easy, Stuart.’ McLean climbed into the ambulance as the paramedic who had been tending MacBride turned to face him.

  ‘We’re pulling everyone further back,’ he said. ‘Judging by your windscreen it’s not exactly safe here.’

  ‘Soon as we get this lad sorted, I’m out of here.’ The paramedic went back to tending to MacBride.

  ‘He’s going to be OK?’

  ‘’M fine, sir.’ MacBride’s voice was woozy and faltering.

  ‘You’re not fine. You’re lucky to be alive,’ the paramedic said. ‘That glass hit you an inch to the left …’

  McLean watched the ambulance as it pulled away, taking MacBride to the hospital. Bad enough to have one of his team down and fighting for her life; the last thing he needed was for him to lose two. For a moment paranoia got the better of him. What if someone was picking off his team one by one? He’d taken out his phone, begun scrolling through the contacts list for Grumpy Bob and Sandy Gregg before he realized that madness lay there. Worse madness than he’d already embraced that night. And even if it were true, Grumpy Bob could look after himself. DC Gregg wasn’t to be trifled with either.

  The fire hadn’t abated at all in the few minutes he’d spent in the ambulance. If anything it was just getting started, raging as if a hole had appeared beneath the hospital leading straight into another hellish dimension. The stone walls still held, but the roof was gone and the windows looked like the eyes of the damned. The air was getting hard to breathe, unsatisfying. It seared his lungs, making him cough and wheeze.

  The chief fire officer was a short man, but he made up in volume and presence what he lacked in stature. The other firemen paid attention when he shouted at them, and he didn’t look like the sort who was prone to panic. McLean had met him before at fires much closer to population centres than this, which made his obvious distress even more remarkable.