by James Oswald
McLean slumped back in his uncomfortable chair and looked up at his boss. She was right, of course. Timothy Garner was the most obvious choice of suspect.
'What about the fingerprints? They couldn't match all of them to Garner.'
'That's because they were so smeared they couldn't match them to anyone. And they found traces of Stewart's blood in Garner's basin where he washed his hands. His clothes were spattered in it too. They'd probably have found it in his bath if he hadn't filled it with his own.' McIntyre dropped the copy of the suicide note back onto McLean's desk, followed by the slim brown folder she had brought in with her; the report on the murder of Buchan Stewart. 'Face it, Tony. Your report as good as says Garner killed Stewart and then committed suicide, and that's what's going to the PF. Case closed.'
'Is this being hushed up so Duguid doesn't have to explain to the world about his gay uncle?' McLean knew as soon as the words were out that he shouldn't have said them. McIntyre stiffened, then stood up from the desk, straightening her uniform.
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that, detective inspector. The same way as I'm ignoring the fact that you left Garner at home on his own when by all rights he should have been down in the cells, or at the very least with a FLO to keep him company. Now sign off that report and get out of here. Isn't there a funeral you're meant to be attending?' She turned and left.
McLean sighed, pulling the slim folder towards him. He could feel his ears burning slightly at the rebuke and knew that he had lost the superintendent's goodwill, at least for the next few days. But he couldn't help thinking there was much more to the death of Buchan Stewart. Nor could he stop blaming himself for Timothy Garner's suicide. He should have insisted someone stay with the old man overnight. Hell, he should have taken the man into custody as a suspect. Exactly why hadn't he done that?
Glancing out the window, the pale blue morning sky cast the tenements behind the station into deep shade. He stifled a yawn, stretching until the muscles and joints in his back started to protest. He was meant to have the weekend off, but instead it had been long and for the most part dull as he waited for the results of Buchan Stewart's post mortem, the forensic and fingerprint reports. Everything pointed to Garner being the culprit, and yet McLean couldn't accept it. Something in the pit of his stomach squirmed as he remembered sitting with the old man, touching his hand to wake him from his trance, listening to his story. He had been eighty years old, frail. How would he have had the strength to kill? And to mutilate a man so.
In the end, it didn't matter. Chief Superintendent McIntyre had told him to close the case. She might have been trying to protect Duguid, or pressure might have been applied from higher up the food chain. It didn't matter. Unless he could show irrefutable evidence of a third party being involved in the crime, then as far as everyone else was concerned it was solved. A big plus point on the annual statistics and a cheap investigation to boot. Everyone happy. Except poor old Buchan Stewart, lying on a cold slab with his manhood in a plastic bag beside him. Except Timothy Garner, pale and drained of blood like a stuck pig.
Except him.
Pushing aside the thought, he opened up the folder, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Just gone nine; an hour until the car came to collect him. He clicked on his computer and began to type. If McIntyre wanted a whitewash, he wasn't going to waste a lot of time on it.
*
He is confused, hungry, anxious. Pain fills his head, making it hard to concentrate, hard to remember who he is. His hands are raw, rubbed almost to the bone with washing, and yet still he feels dirty. Nothing gets him clean anymore.
There was a place he used to go every day. They had water there, and food. Images tumble through his mind, and one sticks. Hands rubbed together with soap, under a tap running warm water. The rhythmic ritual of fingers sliding between each other, palms gliding together, thumbs massaging. He knows this place and it is near. He must go there. He can be clean there.
The streets are canyons, tall buildings rising high on either side, blocking out the light but letting the heat build like an oven. Cars rumble past, their tyres thrumming on the cobbles. They ignore him and he ignores them in return. He has a destination now, and once he is there, everything will be all right. He just needs to wash his hands.
Steps lead up from the street. They are like mountains to his exhausted, pain-wracked legs. What has he been doing to feel this way? Why can't he remember where he has been? Why can't he remember who he is?
The door is made of glass, and it slides away from his approach as if he is too terrible to be faced. The room beyond is light and airy, cooler than the foetid heat of outdoors. He steps uncertainly from stone to polished floor, glances around, trying to remember where those taps are, that soap. He looks down at his hands, suddenly frightened by them, by what they can do. He shoves them in his pockets and the right one feels something hard, smooth; grasps it instinctively.
Someone is talking to him, an insistent voice that he cannot understand. He looks around, the room suddenly too bright, the light like daggers in his eyes. A woman sits behind a desk, her face white, eyes wide. He thinks he should know her. Behind her, men in pale suits stand like puppets with their strings cut. He thinks he should know them too. He takes his hand out of his pocket, meaning to wave to them, show them his stained hands, to reassure them that all he wants to do is wash. But the smooth, hard object comes too, brings with it a memory.
And he knows what it is he must do.
~~~~
24
Mortonhall Crematorium probably didn't hold happy memories for many people. Maybe the gardeners who tended the grounds were proud of their work, and the staff who so efficiently ushered through the mourners in their half hour slots might have taken grim satisfaction in their polite competence. But for everyone else it was a place of grief, of final goodbyes. McLean had visited it far too often in his work to be much moved by the place. Instead he noted with a clinical eye how little it had changed over the years.
There wasn't much of a turnout for his grandmother. Given her age, and his tendency for solitude, it was hardly surprising. Phil sat with Rachel next to him at the front of the room, and Jenny had come too, which was unexpected but not unwelcome. Grumpy Bob was there, the only representative from Lothian and Borders Police, and Angus Cadwallader had bustled in to the back at the last minute. Jonas Carstairs sat impassively, head up and staring into the distance as a community celebrant tried to say comforting words about a woman he had never known. A few elderly friends McLean half recognised sat in little groups around the empty hall. It should have bothered him that so few people had come to say farewell, but he found he was more comforted that anyone had turned up at all. And of course he could console himself with the thought that his grandmother had outlived all her friends.
The service was mercifully swift, and then the curtain pulled around the coffin, the ends not quite joining together enough to conceal its motorised passage through to the business end of the crematorium. He remembered the first time he had been here; a bewildered four year old boy watching two wooden boxes and only dimly understanding that his parents were inside them; wondering why they wouldn't wake up. His grandmother had been beside him then, holding his hand and trying to be a comfort while she mourned her own loss. She had explained to him, in her careful, logical way, all about the business of death. He understood why she had done that, but it hadn't helped. When the curtains began to close, he had expected to see a door open to a furnace, watch the flames leap towards their new source of fuel. The nightmares had stayed with him for years.
They exited through the front doors; a large party had already gathered at the rear, eager to send off the next dead. Outside, the morning was growing hot, the sun risen over the tall trees that surrounded the site. McLean shook hands with everyone and thanked them for coming, an act which took all of five minutes. Jenny Spiers hung back, he noticed, unwilling to commit herself to the line. In the end he went over to her instead.
&nb
sp; 'It was good of you to come.'
'Wasn't sure if I should, to be honest. I never met your grandmother, after all.' Jenny flicked aside a stray bang of hair. She'd come straight from the shop, if her outfit was anything to go by. Sombre, as befitted the tone, but probably the sort of thing McLean's grandmother would have worn to a funeral when she was in her twenties. He wondered whether the choice was on purpose. It suited her, though.
'I always say these things are about the living, not the dead. And anyway, if you hadn't come, the average age of the people here would have been well into three figures.'
'It's not that bad. Rae's here, and she's only twenty-six.'
'Fair point,' McLean conceded. 'You coming over for a cup of over-stewed tea and a fish paste sandwich?' He nodded in the direction of the Balm Well across the road, then stuck out his arm for her to take. Several elderly people in dark suits and dresses were trying to dodge the traffic, intent on getting their fill of the late Esther McLean's final hospitality. Together they helped them across the road and into the pub.
*
Jonas Carstairs had organised a decent wake; it was just a shame he'd overestimated the catering numbers by an order of magnitude. Old people, McLean noticed, had very small appetites too. He just hoped that the pub could find someone else to feed all the leftovers to. Paying for it didn't bother him so much as the thought that it would end up in the bin. His gran would have been horrified too, were she not past caring.
He left Jenny with Phil and her sister, worked his way around the small band of mourners with as much grace as he could muster. Most of them said the same things about his gran; a few mentioned his parents. It was a duty he had to perform, but it was also chore and quite frankly he'd rather be back at work, helping DC MacBride plough his way through a stack of mis-per reports that were so old no-one had bothered to digitise them. Or trying to find out who had lived and partied in Farquhar House in the Nineteen-Forties.
'I think it's gone well enough, all things considered.' McLean turned away from the last wheelchair-bound friend of his gran, whose name he had forgotten almost as soon as it had been spoken, and stood up to face Jonas Carstairs. The lawyer had a large whisky in his hand, took a long sip.
'Perhaps overestimated the numbers coming?' McLean asked. Something like a haunted look passed over Carstairs' face. He glanced over his shoulder and for some inexplicable reason, McLean got the feeling he was looking for someone rather than appraising the numbers. As if he had been expecting another mourner who hadn't turned up.
'It's always difficult to gauge these things.' Carstairs took another swig from his glass.
'Looking for one more in particular?'
'I sometimes forget the young boy turned into a detective inspector.' Carstairs grinned mirthlessly. 'There was someone. Well, he might have come. Maybe he didn't know.'
'Anyone I'd know?'
'Oh, I doubt that very much. This was someone your grandmother knew before she married your grandfather. They were close.' Carstairs shook his head. 'For all I know he died ages ago.'
McLean was about to ask the name of this long lost friend, but something else occurred to him at the same time. 'Did you ever do any work for Farquhar's Bank?'
Carstairs choked a little on his whisky. 'What makes you ask that?'
'Oh, just a case I've been working on. I'm trying to find out who was living in Farquhar House at the end of the second world war.'
'Well that's easy enough. That would be old man Farquhar. Menzies Farquhar. He set up the bank at the turn of the century. I knew his son, Bertie. You'll have heard of him.'
McLean shook his head. 'Doesn't ring a bell.'
'I forget how long ago it was, of course. Before you were even born. Poor old Bertie.' Carstairs shook his head. 'Or perhaps I should say stupid old Bertie. He crashed his car into a bus stop, killed half a dozen people. I think things would have been worse for the family if he hadn't had the decency to kill himself at the same time. Old man Farquhar was never the same after that, though. He shut up Farquhar House and moved out to his place in the Borders. As far as I know it's been empty ever since.'
'Not for long. Some property developer's bought it. Going to turn it into luxury apartments or something.'
'Really?' Carstairs went to take another swig only to discover that he'd already finished his drink. He put it down carefully on a nearby table, pulled a white handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his jacket and daubed at his lips. 'Who on earth would want to do that? I mean, it's not exactly the most desirable of locations, is it.'
'No, not really.'
'Mr Carstairs, sir?'
McLean turned around at the interruption. A dark-suited man stood a polite distance behind him, his eyes fixed on the solicitor.
'Can it not wait, Forster?'
'I'm afraid not sir. You did say to let you know if he got in touch.'
Carstairs stiffened, a hunted look darting across his face like a startled deer. He recovered quickly, but not so quickly that McLean didn't notice.
'Something come up?'
'The office, yes.' Carstairs patted his suit jacket as if looking for something, saw the empty glass tumbler on the table beside him, picked it up as if to finish his drink then seemed to realise what he was doing. 'A very important client. I'm so sorry Tony, but I'll have to go.'
'Think nothing of it. I'm just grateful that you came at all. After all your hard work organising things.' McLean reached out and shook Carstairs by the hand. 'I'd very much like to talk some more. You obviously knew my gran better than I did. Perhaps I could give you a call?'
'Of course, Tony. Any time. You've got my number.' Carstairs smiled as he said the words, but as the lawyer walked away, McLean couldn't shake the feeling he didn't really mean what he said.
~~~~
25
It was a long way home once the wake had wound itself down, but McLean turned down the car that Carstairs had organised. He preferred solitude, the chance to think that only came with the rhythm of his feet on the pavement. It was only after he'd been walking for half an hour that he realised they were taking him towards his grandmother's house and not back to the flat in Newington. He made to change direction, then stopped. He'd not been back since the day they'd found Barnaby Smythe's body.
Before she'd suffered her stroke, McLean had often gone to his grandmother for advice, for help with problems he just couldn't get his head around. Usually she'd just talked him around the subject until he'd worked it out for himself, but he'd always valued her input. Once she had gone into hospital, the house had lost its appeal. He went there because he had to. Had to check the meters, collect the mail, make sure no-one had broken in. But it had always been a chore. Now, with his grandmother's ashes in the ground, going back to her house - his house as soon as the paperwork was done and the taxman had taken his pound of flesh - felt like the right thing to do. Perhaps it might even help him with some of the many intractable problems that even a good long walk couldn't unravel.
The late afternoon faded to evening, and further from the city centre the noise dwindled away to nothing more than a distant background hum. When finally he turned into the street where the house stood, it was almost like stepping into the countryside. The big sycamore trees that broke up the pavement also damped down the city noise and darkened the summer evening light. Most of the houses were silent hulks set back from the road in their mature gardens. Only occasional signs of life, a slammed door, a spill of voices through an opened window, showed him that he wasn't completely alone. For a while, the black cat kept stride with him on the other side of the road, waiting until it was sure he had seen it before disappearing over a high stone wall just as he reached his destination.
The gravel drive gave a reassuringly familiar crunch beneath his feet. Ahead, the house looked dead, empty, like a ghost rising out of the overgrown borders, but as soon as he left the street, he smelled the familiar scent of home. McLean let himself in the back door, going straight to the alarm
console and tapping in the code to disarm all the sensors. Seeing the Penstemmin logo reminded him that he still needed to interview the installer who had fitted old Mrs Douglas's alarm. Another case he was no nearer to solving.
It was amusing to see just how many finance companies were keen to offer personal loans and credit cards to the deceased. He leafed through the pile of junk mail that had accumulated at the front door in the few days since his last visit, sorting out the few letters that looked important and binning the rest. The hallway was dark with falling evening, but when he went through to the library, the red-orange glow of the setting sun reflected off high clouds, painting the room.
McLean spent a few minutes pulling off all the white sheets that covered the furniture, folding them neatly and stacking them by the door. His grandmother's desk sat in one corner, the sleek flatscreen monitor and keyboard looking incongruous amongst the antique furniture. The solicitors had been looking after her affairs, and he'd been quite happy with that arrangement, but at some point he'd have to go through her files, both paper and electronic. Put everything in order. Just thinking about it made him weary.
He poured himself a decent measure from the crystal decanter in the drinks cupboard artfully concealed behind a panel of false books, then realised that the bottled water was at least eighteen months old. He sniffed the top; it seemed OK, put just a dash in his whisky and sipped the pale amber liquid. Islay, without a doubt. And strong. Adding more water, he remembered his grandmother's fondness for Lagavulin and wondered if this was one of the cask strength bottlings from the Malt Whisky Society. It was a while since he'd drunk anything so refined.
