by James Oswald
'I know that, ma'am. Christ knows our job's hard enough as it is without supernatural forces intervening. But just because demons don't exist, it doesn't mean someone can't believe in them enough to kill.'
'Aye, I guess you're right.'
'Doesn't make it any easier trying to track down just which brand of lunacy gave birth to this, mind you.' McLean rubbed at his eyes and face in a vain attempt to chase some of his weariness away.
'Well if it's magic circles and demon worship you want to know about, then you need to talk to Madame Rose, down on Leith Walk.'
'Err... I do?'
'Trust me. There's not many know more about the occult than Madame Rose.'
From the way she spoke, McLean couldn't really be sure whether he was having his leg pulled or not. If he was, then he needed to remember never to play poker with the chief superintendent. He decided that if she was going to play it straight, then he would too.
'I'd better pay her a visit then. I could do with having my fortune told.'
You do that, Tony. But it can wait for now.' McIntyre shuffled the photographs together and placed them firmly on the table. 'I didn't come looking for you to talk about raising demons. Not this kind, anyway. Charles has been bending my ear about the Smythe case. Did you sanction DC MacBride to requisition information from immigration services?'
McLean hadn't in as many words, but he wasn't about to punish the lad for his initiative.
'Yes, I did. I thought it was important to establish motive, and maybe corroborate that with some of Okolo's co-internees. His post mortem threw up some difficult questions.'
'Which is precisely why you should do as Chief Inspector Duguid requested, and let it alone. We know Okolo had been in repatriation proceedings for over two years. It's not nice being locked up, especially if you don't think you've done anything wrong. Smythe was a frequent visitor, so everyone there would have known him. Okolo escaped, tracked down the man he felt was responsible for his torture and murdered him in a frenzy. End of story.'
'But there were other men who escaped. What if they've got the same idea? What about the other members of the Immigration Appeals board?'
'All the other escapees have been captured and returned. Two of them have been repatriated already. Okolo was a lone madman. We might have driven him to madness, but that's not the point. There's no direct evidence to suggest anyone else was involved in this murder. I can't afford the manpower, and frankly I think it's a waste of time pursuing the investigation any further.'
'But...'
'Just let it go, Tony.' McIntyre looked at her watch. 'And why aren't you at the pub anyway? It's not often Charles offers to buy everyone a drink.'
'Chief Inspector Duguid neglected to inform me of the arrangements.' McLean knew it sounded petty even as he said it.
'Oh don't be such a pompous ass. I saw Constable MacBride and Sergeant Laird heading out earlier, and they weren't even on the case. Pretty much the whole day shift's gone. What do you suppose the junior officers are going to think of you, holed up in here with your strange photos? Too good to be seen with the likes of them now you've been made up to inspector?'
Put like that, McLean could see how unreasonable he was being.
'I'm sorry. I guess I just let the case get to me sometimes. I really don't like loose endings.'
'And that's why you're a detective inspector, Tony. But not for more than twelve hours a day, not in my station at least. And certainly not the day after your grandmother has died. Now go to the pub. Or go home. I don't care. But forget about Barnaby Smythe and Jonathan Okolo. We'll worry about the report for the PF tomorrow.'
*
The pub was like a police convention gone wrong. McLean pitied any regulars who had nothing to do with the force, though looking around in the crowd he couldn't see any faces he hadn't already seen in the station earlier that day. The party was obviously well under way; small groups had split off and taken all the available tables, the friendships and alliances clear, the enmities and dislikes even more so. Duguid was at the bar, which presented McLean with something of a dilemma. He didn't want to be in a position where the chief inspector could refuse to buy him a drink, and neither did he particularly want to accept one if the man offered. But it was a bit daft to come in and not have a pint.
'There you are, sir. I was beginning to think you'd bailed on us.' McLean looked around to see Grumpy Bob making his way back from the gents. He pointed to a table in a dark corner, a suspicious-looking crew huddled around it. 'We're over here. Dagwood only put a fifty down on the bar, cheapskate. Wasn't even enough for a half pint each.'
'I don't know what you're complaining about, Bob. You weren't on the investigation.'
'Well, that's not the point. You can't promise to stand everyone a drink and then only pay for a half.'
They reached the alcove before McLean had time to argue. Constable MacBride sat in the far corner, Constable Kydd beside him. Bob pushed his way past the imposing bulk of Andy Houseman and plunked himself down in a seat, leaving McLean to squeeze onto the narrow bench beside Miss-not-Ms Baird.
'You've met Emma? She's come doon tae us frae the giddy heights o' Aberdeen.' Grumpy Bob rolled out the name of the town in a ridiculous parody of a Doric accent.
'Aye, we've met.' McLean slid onto the bench.
'You made it then,' Emma said as Grumpy Bob picked up a full pint of fizzy lager and handed it to McLean, then helped himself to the only other one on the table.
'Get your teeth around that, sir.'
'Cheers.' McLean raised his glass to everyone, then took a sip. It was cold and wet and fizzy. More than that he couldn't tell, as it had no discernible flavour.
'I got your photos, thanks for that.' He turned to the SOC officer.
'All part of the service. Were they any use? I couldn't see anything but white on them myself.'
'Yeah, they were... OK.' McLean shuddered, remembering the strange sensation of helplessness, the odd echoing howl of rage. It felt like a dream, or his imagination running overtime. No, he'd just stood up too quickly after so long crouching on the floor.
'Are you two talking shop? You are, aren't you.' Grumpy Bob grinned in triumph, his pint glass all but empty. He slapped Constable MacBride on the chest. 'That's ten quid you owe me, lad. I said the inspector'd be last in and first to forfeit.'
'What's this?' Emma asked, a crease of concern on her forehead. McLean signed and took his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He was going to get the next round in anyway. Not as if he couldn't afford it.
'Talking about work in the pub's not allowed, under pain of forfeit. It's an old tradition dating back to when Grumpy Bob was just a beat constable, which would mean sometime between the wars, wouldn't it Bob?' He pulled out a twenty pound note and slapped it down on the table, ignoring Grumpy Bob's protests. 'Stuart, do the honours will you?'
'What? Why me?'
'Because you're the youngest.'
Grumbling, Constable MacBride extricated himself from his cosy corner, grabbing the money and heading for the bar.
'And make sure it's decent beer this time.'
*
It was a good deal later that McLean waved off a taxi filled with inebriated constables and scene of crime experts. Big Andy had left earlier, headed home to his wife and young child, leaving just Grumpy Bob to walk him home, and judging by the state of him, sleep in the spare room. It wouldn't be the first time, and it wasn't as if Mrs Bob was waiting up for him either; she'd walked out many years since.
'She's a nice girl, that Emma don't you think?'
'Don't you think you're a bit old to go getting hitched again, Bob?' McLean expected the playful punch to the shoulder, and wasn't disappointed.
'No' for me, you loon. I'm talking about you.'
'I know you are Bob, and yes, she's nice. Odd taste in music, but that's only a minor point. D'you know anything about her?'
'Only that she transferred in a few months back. She frae Aberdeen.' Grumpy Bob r
olled out his terrible Aberdonian accent again.
'Yeah, you said that already.'
'Not much else to know. The SOCO crowd think well enough of her, so she must be good at her job. And it's nice to have a pretty face around the place instead of the usual bunch of sourpusses.'
They fell silent for a while, walking up the street in step, like a grizzled old sergeant and his not-so-young constable pounding the night beat. The air was cool, the sky overhead dark with a hint of orange; you could never see the stars anymore, too much light pollution. Without warning, Grumpy Bob stopped in mid-stride.
'I heard about your gran, Tony. I'm sorry. She was a great woman.'
'Thanks, Bob. You know, I find it hard to believe she's really gone. I feel I should be wearing black and tearing my hair. Perhaps wailing and gnashing of teeth might be in there somewhere too. But it's odd. I feel more relieved than sad. She was in a coma so long.'
'You're right. It's a blessing really.' They resumed walking, rounding the corner into McLean's street
'I saw her solicitor today. She left me everything, you know. It's quite a tidy sum.'
'Christ Tony, you're no' going to leave the force are you?'
The thought hadn't occurred to him until that moment, but McLean took all of five seconds to answer.
'God no, Bob. What would I do? And besides, if I left, who'd cover for you while you were reading the paper all day?'
They reached the front door to the tenement block and McLean noticed the same strategically placed stone defeating the lock.
'You all right for getting home, Bob, or d'you want the spare bed?'
'Nah, I'll have a bit of a walk, get some air. Who knows I might even be sober by the time I get home.'
'OK then. Sleep well.'
Grumpy Bob waved without turning as he walked away down the street. McLean wondered how far he'd get before he decided to flag down a taxi.
~~~~
18
Penstemmin Security Systems occupied a large area of reclaimed land down on the edge of the Forth between Leith and Trinity. The building itself was a featureless modern warehouse. It could have been a DIY store or a call centre, although those weren't usually surrounded by razor wire fences, motion sensors and more CCTV cameras than the average prison. The walls were painted in battleship grey, and a strip of darkened glass ran around the whole building, just under the eaves of the wide, shallow roof. In the near corner it extended down to the ground, and a small entrance foyer.
Constable MacBride parked the pool car in the only space marked 'visitor'. The white Vauxhall Vectra looked very much out of place alongside the shiny BMW and Mercedes four by fours. The director, McLean noticed, could afford to come to work in a brand new Ferrari.
'Looks like we're in the wrong business.' He followed the constable across the car park, enjoying the cool morning breeze coming in off the firth. MacBride's face was pale, his eyes hooded after the previous night's celebratory excess. No doubt the Tequila Slammers he'd been matching with PC Kydd had robbed him of a few million functioning brain cells. He looked bemused at first, then finally noticed the collection of expensive machinery.
'I never imagined you as a petrolhead, sir. They say you don't even own a car.'
McLean ignored the desire to investigate just who 'they' where. There were worse things to have said behind one's back. 'I don't, but that doesn't mean I don't know anything about them.'
Having already checked in at the gate to the whole fenced-off complex, they had to confirm their identities through an intercom and CCTV system before they could enter the building. They were met, finally, by a smartly-dressed young woman with aggressively short hair and a pair of heavy-framed rectangular spectacles so thin she must have seen the world as if peering through a letterbox.
'Detective Constable MacBride?' She held out her hand to McLean.
'Er, no. I'm Detective Inspector McLean. This is my colleague, DC MacBride.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. Courtney Rayne.' Hands were shaken and then the young woman lead them through a series of security doors and into the heart of the building. It was a vast cavern of a place, open up to a ceiling supported by a spider-web trellis-work of beams high overhead. Industrial strength air conditioning units pumped frigid air into the huge space, sending a shiver down McLean's spine.
The room was divided into small squares by office partitioning boards. In each one, a dozen or more people sat at individual computer screens, telephone headsets strapped to their heads, talking to small microphones that hovered like picnic wasps in front of their lips. The noise was a loud hubbub, punctuated by occasional bursts of action as a team leader bustled over to one workstation or another.
'Our centre monitors over twenty thousand alarm systems throughout the central belt,' Ms Rayne said. McLean decided that she was definitely a 'Ms', even if she was married.
'I'd no idea Penstemmin was such a large organisation.'
'Oh, they're not all Penstemmin systems. We run monitoring services for perhaps two dozen smaller companies. The pods on the far side of the hall are dedicated to Strathclyde police region, these two here are monitoring all alarm systems in Lothian and Borders.'
'Pods?'
'It's what we call our teams, inspector. Each group is a pod. Don't ask me why, I haven't a clue.'
Ms Rayne lead them through the middle of the great hall, along a wide aisle that separated the two great cities of Scotland like their enmity of old. McLean watched the pasty-faced tele-workers at their consoles. As the sleek-suited woman strode past, they ducked their heads, feigned busyness even if they had been doing nothing beforehand. It didn't feel like a happy place to be working; he wondered what the staff turnover was like; if any left bearing a grudge and classified information.
At the far side of the hall, a set of stairs led up to a long balcony. Glass fronted offices ranged the length of the building, their single occupants no doubt the owners of the flash motors in the car park outside. The poor sods on the floor would likely get the bus to work, or park in the street outside the complex.
Having walked the length of the building to reach the stairs, they now made their way back towards the front. McLean suspected that there was a quicker way which would have brought them swiftly from the front reception area up to this outer office, but for some reason Ms Rayne had wanted to show them the great hall. Perhaps it was just a way of impressing the police force with their professionalism; if so it had failed. McLean was tired of Penstemmin Security Systems already, and he hadn't even begun his questioning.
They reached a large frosted glass door, set in the middle of a frosted glass wall that angled across the corner of the building. Their guide paused only long enough to tap lightly, then pushed the door open and announced their arrival.
'Doug? I've Inspector McLean from Lothian and Borders CID here. You know? The constable who called?' By the time McLean had crossed the threshold, the man she addressed had risen from his seat behind an even bigger desk and begun his trek across the empty expanse of his office. Never mind pods, they could fill this with water and keep a half dozen whales in here.
'Doug Fairbairn. Pleased to meet you Inspector. Constable.' He was all smile; flashing white teeth in a sun-browned face. He wore a loose shirt with heavy gold chain links at the cuffs, a tie neatly tied around his neck. His jacket hung over the back of his chair, and his suit trousers were expensively tailored to hide a growing paunch.
'Mr Fairbairn.' McLean took the proffered hand and shook it, feeling a firm hold. Fairbairn oozed confidence. Or arrogance; too early to tell which. 'Is that your Ferrari outside?'
'F430 Spider. You like cars, do you inspector?'
'Used to go to Knockhill and watch the racing as a lad. Don't have the time for it now.'
'She's too powerful for Knockhill. I have to go down south for my track days. Took her to the ring last year. Here, have a seat.' Fairbairn gestured towards a low leather sofa and armchairs, grey in a minimalist style. 'What can I do for you inspe
ctor?'
No offers of tea and biscuits. Just self-absorbed banter.
'I'm investigating a series of burglaries. Professional jobs, you might say. Certainly not your average smash and grab. At the moment we've only got a tenuous link between them all. But in each of the last three cases Penstemmin alarms have been fitted. And in each of those cases the alarms have been circumvented without anyone being the wiser.'
'Courtney, the file please.' Fairbairn nodded to the stern businesswoman, who had remained standing, close to the door. She left, returning moments later with a single manila folder.
'I presume this is about the recent break-in at the home of Mrs Douglas. Most regrettable, of course, inspector. But I've had a full systems analysis run and there's nothing to suggest that the alarm was tampered with.'
'Does your system log when the alarm was set, sir?' DC MacBride had his notebook out, pencil poised.
'Yes, it does Constable. Mr Douglas had a top of the range installation. Our computer system has the alarm set at..' Fairchild opened the folder and pulled out a printed sheet. '... Ten thirty am on the date in question. It was switched off again at a quarter to three in the afternoon. Monitoring recorded a few electrical spikes during that time, but there's nothing unusual there. The city's supply is notoriously dirty.'
'Could someone have bypassed the alarm? I don't know, reset the monitor log?'
'Technically it's possible, I suppose. But you'd need access to our mainframe, which is behind a foot thick steel door in the basement. That means you'd have to get in here first, which I can assure you isn't easy. And you'd have to know our systems inside out, plus know the latest passwords. Even then you'd likely leave a trace. We've had the whole system tested by the best computer security experts in the business. It's virtually fool-proof.'
'So if the system was bypassed, then it would have to be an inside job?' McLean enjoyed the look of panic his words brought to Fairbairn's face.
