by James Oswald
~~~~
7
The front door of the tenement was unlocked again, wedged half open with a bit of broken paving slab. McLean thought about shutting it properly, but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was to be woken by the students from the first floor flat pressing all the buzzers at four in the morning until someone let them in. It was too warm for vagrants to be looking for places to spend the night, and even a dozen of them wouldn't make the stairwell smell any worse than it already did. Wrinkling his nose against the spray of too many tomcats, he climbed the stone steps up to the top floor.
The answering machine flashed a single message as he closed the door and dropped his keys on the table. He pressed the button and listened to his old flatmate suggesting he meet in the pub. If it hadn't been for the flashing light he might have thought it an old message, Phil phoned at least twice a week with the same suggestion. Just occasionally he even took up the offer. Smiling, he went to his bedroom and stripped off, dropping his clothes into the laundry basket before walking through to the bathroom. A long, cool shower soaked away the sweat of the day, but it still couldn't wash the memories clear. He thought about going for a run, or maybe hitting the gym, as he towelled down and pulled on a T-shirt and loose cotton trousers. An hour of hard exercise might help, but he didn't want the company of driven executives. He needed to be with people who were relaxed and having fun, even if he was just on the outside watching. Maybe Phil's idea wasn't so bad after all. Slipping on a pair of loose shoes, he grabbed his keys, banged shut the door and headed out to the pub.
The Newington Arms wasn't the best place to drink in Edinburgh, not by anyone's measure. But it made up for that by being the nearest to his home. McLean pushed through the swing doors, bracing himself for the onslaught of noise and smoke, then remembered that the wise men in the parliament down in Holyrood had banned smoking. It was still noisy, though no doubt they'd ban that next. He bought himself a pint of Deuchars and looked around for any familiar faces.
'Oi, Tony! Over here.' The shout coincided with a lull in the noise as the juke box paused between selections. McLean located the source, a group of people huddled around a table over by the large window looking onto the street. Post-grad students, by the sight of them. Lording it over them all, and beckoning him to join them, Professor Phillip Jenkins beamed a beer-fuelled smile.
'How's things, Phil? I see you've got your harem with you tonight.' McLean sat down in the space made as the students shuffled up the bench.
'Can't complain.' Phil grinned. 'The lab's just had its funding renewed for another three years. And increased, too.'
'Congratulations.' McLean lifted his beer in mock-salute, then drank whilst his old friend regaled him with tales of molecular biology and the politics of private funding. From there the conversation split off into all manner of inconsequential stuff, the idle chat of folk in the pub. He joined in from time to time, but mostly he was happy just to sit and listen. For a little while he could try and forget all the insanity, the mutilation, the job. Not like going out with the lads from the station after shift; that was a different kind of unwind, one that usually meant a heavy head the next morning.
'So what are you up to these days, Tony? We've not seen you around much.'
McLean looked across at the young woman who had spoken. He was fairly sure her name was Rachel, and she was writing up her PhD in something he almost certainly couldn't spell. She looked a bit like the SOC officer who had worked the burglary scene and Smythe's murder, only about ten years younger and with flame red hair that probably owed as much to a bottle as to nature. Even post-graduate students seemed impossibly young these days.
'Now, now Rae. You mustn't go asking the inspector questions. He might have to arrest you. Might even have to put you in handcuffs.' Phil smirked into his pint, a wicked grin that McLean remembered all too well from the many years they had shared a flat.
'I can't discuss current investigations anyway,' McLean said. 'And you really wouldn't want to know about them. Trust me.'
'Gruesome, are they?'
'Not especially. It's not like CSI or whatever nonsense they put on the telly these days. Mostly it's dull old burglaries and street crime. And there's way too much of that going on. And anyway, I don't get to do much real investigation anymore. That's the problem with being an inspector. You're expected to manage people, direct things, sort out the overtime and balance the budgets. Look at the bigger picture. Not much different from what Phil does these days, I guess.'
McLean wasn't sure why he lied, even if it was only a half-lie. There was far more paperwork and far less legwork now he was an inspector. Maybe it was because he had come to the pub to get away from work. Whatever the reason, the question had spoiled the moment. He couldn't get Barnaby Smythe's dead eyes out of his mind; couldn't forget the agony on the young girl's face.
'Another round, I think.' He lifted his glass, choking slightly as he drained rather more from it than he'd been expecting. No one seemed to notice the awkward moment as he escaped to the bar.
*
'For a policeman, you're a very poor liar, Detective Inspector McLean.'
McLean turned from the bar to see who had spoken, realised he was standing far too close in the huddle of the crowd, but couldn't back off even if he wanted to. She was about his height, with straw-blonde hair cropped at neck length - a bob, if he had the terminology right. Something about her face was familiar, but she was older than the thicket of students who had been clamouring around Phil.
'I'm sorry. Do I know you?'
The puzzled look that must have been plastered over his face brought a smile to hers that sparkled mischievously in her eyes.
'I'm Jenny, remember? Jenny Spiers. Rae's sister? We met at Phil's birthday party.'
The party. He remembered now. Too many students getting horribly drunk on cheap wine, Phil holding court like some modern day King Arthur. He'd dropped off a very expensive bottle of whisky, had a glass of something that had made his teeth itch, and then left early. That had been the day they'd been called round to the tenement down in Leith. Neighbours complaining about someone's dog making an awful racket. You could hardly blame the poor beast, its owner had died in her bed at least a fortnight before and there hadn't been much left of the old girl worth eating. It was entirely possible he had met this woman at that party, but it was hard to get past the image of chewed flesh and gnawed bones rotting into a sunken mattress.
'Jenny, of course. Sorry, I was miles away.'
'I think you probably still are. And not somewhere nice. Bad day at the office?'
'And then some.' McLean caught the eye of the barman and waved him over. 'Can I get you something?'
Jenny glanced back across the bar to the crowd of students laughing at their professor's jokes. It didn't seem to take her long to make up her mind where she'd rather be.
'Sure, white wine. Thanks.'
An uncomfortable, noise-filled silence hung in the air between them as the drinks were poured. McLean tried to look at his unexpected companion without it being obvious. She was older than her sister, considerably older. Her blonde hair was streaked with fine white hairs she'd not bothered to conceal. Neither did she appear to be wearing any kind of make-up, and her clothes were simple, perhaps a little old-fashioned. Not dressed up for a night on the town like the crowd she'd come with. No war paint and attitude.
'So Rachel's your sister,' he said, all too aware of how stupid it sounded.
'Mum and dad's perfect little mistake, aye.' Jenny smiled at some personal joke. 'Seems to have caught your friend Phil's eye. You used to share a flat, I hear.'
'Back in my university days. Long time ago.' McLean took a gulp of his beer, watched Jenny sip her wine.
'Am I going to have to drag the story out of you?'
'I... No. Sorry. You caught me at a bad time. I'm not the best of company right now.'
'Oh, I don't know.' Jenny nodded over at the rowdy band of students egging their
professor on to ever more stupid behaviour. 'Given the alternative, I'll take moody and introverted any day.'
'I...' McLean started to complain but was interrupted by an unfamiliar vibration from his trouser pocket. He pulled out his phone just in time to see a missed call from the Hospital. As he stared at it in confusion, the screen faded, then died completely. Pressing the buttons prompted a few half-hearted flashes and squeaks, but nothing more. He pushed it back into his pocket and turned back to Jenny.
'I couldn't borrow your phone could I? The batteries in mine keep on dying.'
'Someone's thinking negative thoughts about you. Drains the life out of any electrical gadgets you rely on.' Jenny guddled around in her handbag before pulling out a slim smartphone and handing it over. 'Least, that's what my ex would say, but he's a loony. Work calling?'
'No, it was the hospital. My gran.' McLean found his way to the keypad and thumbed in the number from memory. He'd phoned so many times, knew all the nurses so well it took only moments to get through to the right ward. The call was over in a matter of seconds.
'I have to go.' McLean handed back the phone and headed for the door. Jenny made to follow, but he stopped her. 'It's OK. She's fine. I just need to go and see her. Stay and finish your wine. Tell Phil I'll call him this weekend.'
McLean pushed his way through the happy crowd and didn't look back. He was, after all, a very poor liar.
*
The back of the driver's head oozed in fleshy rolls from the bald top of his pate down into his shoulders without any definable neck, giving him a curiously melted appearance. McLean sat in the back of the taxi, staring at the pig-skin stubble through the open loop of the headrest and willed the man not to speak. The streetlights strobed orange as they made good progress across the midnight city towards the hospital, the view streaked by the sudden shower of rain that had blown in off the North Sea. The touch of it was still on his skin from the walk to the taxi rank, dampening his hair and making his overcoat smell like an old dog.
'You want the main reception or A and E?' The taxi driver spoke with an English accent, South London possibly. A long way from home. It jarred McLean out of something that might have been sleep. He focussed through the grimy windscreen, seeing the hulk of the hospital glittering and wet.
'Here's fine.' He handed over a ten pound note, told the driver to keep the change. The walk from the street, across the near-deserted car park was enough to wake him up, but not enough to clear his head. Was it really just yesterday he'd been here looking at her? And now she was gone. He should feel sad, shouldn't he? So how come he felt nothing at all?
The corridors at the back of he hospital were always quiet, but at this time of the night it was almost as if the place had been evacuated. McLean found himself treading carefully so as not to make too much noise, his breathing shallow and ears pricked for the slightest sound. If he'd heard someone coming, he might well have tried to hide in an alcove or storage room. It was almost a relief to arrive at the coma ward un-noticed. Not quite sure why he was so loath to meet anyone, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Thin drapes blanked off his grandmother's bed from the other inhabitants, something he had never seen before. The familiar beeps and whirrs were there still, keeping everyone else alive, but the pulse of the place felt different. Or was that just in his head? Taking a deep breath, as if about to plunge into the ocean, McLean pulled aside the curtain and stepped inside.
The nurses had removed all the tubes and wires, wheeled away the machines, but left his grandmother behind. She lay in the bed unmoving, her sunken eyes closed as if asleep, hands above the blankets and crossed neatly over her stomach. For the first time in eighteen months she looked something like the woman he remembered.
'I'm so very sorry.'
McLean turned to see a nurse standing in the doorway. The same nurse who'd spoken to him before, the one who'd cared for his grandmother all these long months. Jeannie, that was her name. Jeannie Robertson.
'Don't be,' he said. 'She was never going to recover. Really this is for the best.' He turned back to the dead woman lying on the bed, saw his grandmother for the last time. 'I keep telling myself that I might even start believing it.'
~~~~
8
Early morning and a crowd of officers jostled around the entrance to one of the larger incident rooms. McLean poked his head through the door, seeing the chaos that always marked the start of a major investigation. A clean whiteboard ran the length of one wall, and someone had scrawled 'Barnaby Smythe' on it in black marker. Uniformed constables arranged desks and chairs, a technician was busy wiring up computers. Duguid was nowhere to be seen.
'You helping out on this one, sir?' McLean looked around. A broad-shouldered PC pushed his way through the throng, carrying a large cardboard box sealed with black and yellow evidence tape. Andrew Houseman, or Big Andy to his friends, was a competent officer and a far better prop forward. But for an unfortunate injury early on in his career, he would probably have been playing for his country right now, instead of running errands for Dagwood. McLean liked him; Big Andy might not have been bright, but he was thorough.
'Not my case, Andy,' he said. 'And you know how much Dagwood likes my help.'
'But you were at the scene. Em said you were there.'
'Em?'
'Emma. Emma Baird? You know, the new SOC officer. So high, spiky black hair, always looks like she's wearing too much eyeliner.'
'Oh aye? You two got something going on have you? Only I'd not want to get on the wrong side of that wife of yours, Andy.'
'No, no. I was just over at HQ getting this evidence from the scene.' The big man blushed, hefting the box to illustrate his point. 'She said she'd seen you at Smythe's house, hoped you'd catch whatever sick bastard killed him.'
'Just me? On my own?'
'Well, I'm sure she meant all of us.'
'I'm sure she did, Andy. But this investigation will have to do without me. It's Dagwood's call. And anyway, I've got my own murder to solve.'
'Aye, Heard about that. Creepy.'
McLean was about to answer, but a rumbling voice echoing down the corridor, heralded the arrival of the chief inspector. He had no intention of getting sucked into another investigation, particularly one headed by Charles Duguid.
'Gotta go, Andy. The chief superintendent wants to see me, and it doesn't do to keep her waiting.' He ducked around the large man and headed off towards his own incident room as what looked like half of the region's officers filed in for the morning briefing on the murder of Barnaby Smythe. Nice to see the allocation of resources spread so evenly But then Smythe was an important man, a city benefactor, a prominent member of society. No-one had noticed his dead girl in her basement for over fifty years.
*
Grumpy Bob was nowhere to be seen when McLean reached the incident room; it was far too early in the morning for that. Constable MacBride was hard at work, however. Somehow he had managed to find three chairs, and more miraculously, a laptop computer. He looked up from the screen as McLean entered the room.
'How's it going, constable?' He pulled off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. The radiator under the window was still belting out heat.
'I've almost finished going through these burglary reports, sir. Think I might have spotted something.'
McLean pulled up a chair. One of its casters was missing. 'Show me.'
'Well, sir. These are all just random as far as I can tell. Not much skill, probably junkies feeding a habit and got lucky with forensics.' MacBride hefted the bulk of the reports, piled up on one side of the desk, and put them back in their cardboard box. 'These ones, however. Well, I think there may be some connection between them.' He lifted a slim pile of folders, perhaps four or five, then dropped them back on the table.
'Go on.'
'All of them are skilled burglaries. Not just a brick through the window job; no sign of forced entry at all. They all had alarm systems that were circumvente
d without any obvious sign, and in each case the burglar only took small items of high value.'
'Were they kept in safes?'
'No, sir. The safe breaking's new. But there's one other common factor. In all of these cases, the home owner had recently died.'
'How recently?'
'Well, within a month.' MacBride paused, as if trying to make up his mind whether to say something or not. McLean kept quiet.
'OK, one of the burglaries happened eight weeks after the old woman died. But the other four were all within a fortnight. Last week's one happened on the day of the funeral. I need to check the others against burial dates, but we've not got that information on file.'
'Mrs Douglas's funeral was advertised in the paper, and she had an obituary printed beforehand.' McLean picked up the files, looking at the names and dates on the front of them. The most recent, apart from the case they were investigating, was almost a year ago; the oldest one five years past. They were all still open, nominally. Unsolved. All under the watchful eye of his most favourite chief inspector. He doubted Duguid would even remember their names.
'Let's see if we can't put a bit of flesh on the bones.' He passed the files back to MacBride. 'Find out some more about these people. Did they have obituaries? Were their funerals advertised, and if so, what paper?'
'What about the alarms?' MacBride asked. 'It's not easy getting round some of these systems.'
'Good point. OK. We need to check out where these people were when they died. Were they at home, hospital, in care?'
'You think our burglar got that close? Isn't that a great risk?'
'Not if your victim's dead before you carry out the burglary. Think about it. If our burglar works in a care home, he'd be able to charm the elderly, gain their trust and confidence. Then once they'd told him all he needed to know, he just had to wait for them to die.'
