by James Oswald
He was so bloody-minded sometimes. Maybe if he listened to what other people told him, perhaps even delegated from time to time, this would never have happened. And now he was stuck here, climbing the walls for the best part of a week because he'd been told to stay away and just couldn't help himself. Christ, what a mess.
There was too much to do, too many other cases that needed his attention. McIntyre couldn't really expect him to do nothing until Monday, could she? He'd be OK as long as he kept well clear of the station and anything to do with McReadie or the search for the van that had run Alison down. That still left the dead girl and the two suicides, not to mention the leak of crime scene details.
Leaving the flat felt like sneaking round the back of the bike shed for an illicit smoke, but he had to go to the shops for food, if nothing else. And when all else failed, there was nothing like a good walk to help him think.
*
'Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.'
McLean turned at the voice, seeing a very shiny black Bentley sliding along the road, one window down like a late night kerb-crawler trawling the streets for some negotiable virtue. Not that you'd find anyone working the pavement in this neighbourhood, but it wouldn't have surprised him if one of these elegant, large houses catered for the more upmarket kind of intimate escort. Bending slightly, he caught a glimpse of gloved hand, dark overcoat and scarred face before the car came to a silent halt. The door clicked open, swinging wide to reveal soft red leather, the kind of interior that Freud would have had paroxysms over. Inside, Gavin Wemyss beckoned towards him.
'Can I offer you a lift?'
McLean looked up the empty road, then back the way he had come. Half an hour of concentrated walking had failed to throw off his guilt and self-pity. Or his frustration.
'I wasn't really going anywhere.'
'Then perhaps you'd join me for coffee. It's not far.'
Why the hell not? He wasn't exactly doing anything else. McLean climbed into the car, nodding at the huge hulk of a driver squashed in behind the wheel, and sunk into the soft leather armchair next to Wemyss. Nothing as sordid as a bench seat in the back of this car. They moved off with barely a whisper from the engine, no noise at all from the street outside. How the other half live.
'Nice car.' It was all McLean could think of to say.
'I can't drive anymore, so I favour comfort over power.' Wemyss nodded at the back of the chauffeur's shaven head. 'I dare say Jethro takes her out and canes her from time to time.'
Viewed in the mirror, McLean saw the chauffeur's mouth twitch at the edge in the most minimal of smiles. No glass screen for privacy, so Wemyss obviously trusted his man.
'The last time I saw your grandmother she was driving about in that dreadful Italian thing. What was it?'
'The Alfa Romeo?' McLean hadn't thought about it for a long time. Chances were it was still laid up at the back of the garage, unused since his gran had finally decided she was too old and blind to drive anymore. She'd never sell it, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been to look. 'That was my father's car. Gran spent a fortune keeping it going. New engine, resprays, the number of body panels that got replaced down the years, it was a bit like George Washington's axe.'
'Ah yes, the famous McLean thrift. She was a canny woman, was Esther. Ah, here we are.'
The Bentley pulled through a stone gateway and up a short drive to one of those surprisingly large mansions that lurk in unexpected corners of Edinburgh. It was surrounded by land a property developer would kill for; at least enough to build twenty executive homes and all given over to mature trees, beautifully tended gardens. The house itself was Edwardian, large, but well-proportioned, and set high enough up to have stunning views across the city, taking in the castle, Arthur's Seat and the sea of spires and rooftops between them. Jethro the driver was unbelted, out of his seat and opening Wemyss' door before McLean had even registered they had stopped. The old man climbed out with an agility that was at odds with his appearance. No creaking joints and difficulty straightening out here. McLean felt almost jealous as he hauled himself out, feet crunching on deep gravel, and popped a few vertebrae in his own spine.
'Come,' Wemyss said. 'It's a bit more sheltered round the back.'
They walked around the house, Wemyss pointing out interesting features as they went. At the back, a large orangery grew out from the house, surrounded by a raised patio that had to have been a 1970s addition. The crazy paving was immaculately maintained, however naff it might appear, and in the middle of it a table and chairs awaited. All that was missing was a swimming pool, but no, there it was, nestling between a tennis court and a croquet lawn of perfect flatness. A lot of effort had gone into maintaining this place, but then Wemyss wasn't short of a bob or two.
A taciturn butler brought them coffee in silence. McLean watched it being poured, declined milk and sugar, sipped the finest brew he'd tasted in a very long time, breathed in the delicious aroma of perfectly roasted Arabica beans. How the other half live.
'You said you knew my grandmother when she was at university. No offence meant, but that must have been a while back.'
'Nineteen thirty-three, I think it was.' Wemyss scrunched up his face as if trying to recall, the creases of his scars turning livid red and yellowy white. 'Could have been thirty. The memory goes, after a while.'
McLean very much doubted that. Wemyss was sharp as one of those pins they hide in the tails of new shirts.
'Did she...? Were you...?' Why was it so hard to ask the question?
'An item? As I believe you youngsters have it?' Wemyss frowned, and a whole new set of shapes fought across his ruined flesh. 'If only. We were good friends. Close. But Esther wasn't one for playing around, and she had to work twice as hard as the rest of us.'
'Oh? I always thought she was bright.'
'She was. Quite the most brilliant mind I've ever encountered. Razor sharp, could learn anything easily. But she had one huge handicap. She was a woman.'
'They had women doctors in the thirties.'
'Oh yes. A few intrepid souls. But it wasn't easy getting there. It wasn't enough to be as good as the men, you had to be better. Esther, well, she relished that kind of challenge, but it did make her quite single-minded. I'm afraid that for all my charms, I just couldn't compete.'
'It must have been very galling then, when my grandfather came along.'
'Bill?' Wemyss shrugged. 'He was always there. But he was a med student too, so he got to spend more time with Esther than the rest of us.'
'Rest of us?'
'Are you interrogating me, inspector?' Wemyss smiled. 'Or may I call you Tony?'
'Of course. Sorry. For both. I should have said. And it's a habit I'm afraid. All part of being a detective.'
'That surprised me, when I heard.' Wemyss drained his coffee and put the cup down on the table.
'Me being a detective? Why?'
'It's an odd choice. I mean, your grandmother was a doctor, Bill too. Your dad was a lawyer. Would've been a good one if he'd had the chance. Why did you decide to join the police?'
'Well, I never had the brains to be a doctor for one thing.' McLean could picture his grandmother's resigned disappointment each time he came home with yet more poor results in his science subjects. 'As to being a lawyer, it never really occurred to me. My father wasn't exactly a great influence on my life.'
Something like sadness passed over Wemyss' face, though it was difficult to tell through all the reconstructive surgery.
'Your father. Yes. John was a bright lad. I remember him well. I was very fond of him.'
'It seems you know more of my family than I do, Mr Wemyss.'
'Gavin, please. Only my employees call me Mr Wemyss, and even then only when I'm in earshot.'
Gavin. It didn't feel right. Like calling his gran Esther or his grandfather Bill. McLean swilled the coffee dregs around the bottom of his cup, eyed the caffetiere in hope of a refill, unsure whether it was because the coffee was so good or jus
t that he needed a prop to overcome his discomfort. And that was the problem. Why was he uncomfortable in this man's presence? Apart from his disfigurement, and it couldn't be that, Wemyss was nothing if not the perfect gentleman. An old family friend helping out at a time of grieving. So why were McLean's guts telling him something wasn't right.
'Actually, that brings me to another thing,' Wemyss said. 'How would you like to come and work for me?'
McLean almost dropped his coffee cup. 'What?'
'I'm serious. You're wasted in the police, and if what I've heard is true, you're not going to get much further up the greasy pole. Not a politician, am I right?'
McLean nodded his head, unsure quite what to say. It seemed he wasn't the only one playing detective here.
'Whereas I don't give a shit about that kind of thing. It's a person's capabilities that I'm interested in. Like Jethro there. Most people wouldn't have given him a first chance, the way he's built, the way he talks. Not good with words, is Jethro. But he's brighter than he looks and he gets the job done. You get the job done, Tony. That's what I've heard about you. I could use a man with your skills. And let's face it, your training as well.'
'I don't really know what to say.' Except that Grumpy Bob would kill him if he left the force. And why was he even considering it? He loved being a detective, always had. But it wasn't as much fun being an inspector as he'd imagined it would be when he was still a sergeant. And then there were times when the endless stream of shit started to wear you down, it was true. It would be nice to do something where you could stop occasionally and view your achievements with a sense of pride. Nowadays there was barely time to catch a breath before you had to plunge straight back into the shit.
'Just think about it, aye?' Wemyss smiled again, and something familiar ghosted across his disfigured face. Something in those dark eyes, made deeper still by the livid pink and white of the scar tissue surrounding them. What terrible accident had befallen this man to leave him so disfigured? What would it be like to work for a man who had carried that with him for so long? And what harm was there in thinking about the offer? It wasn't as if he was going to take it up, after all.
'OK, Gavin. I will.'
~~~~
43
The car was still there, lurking at the back of the converted coach house that served as garages. He'd walked straight here from Gavin Wemyss' house, mind working overtime at the strange offer the old man had made. It was still just a philosophical question, of course. There was no way he'd leave the force. But it was interesting nonetheless to imagine travelling around the world, troubleshooting problems in the far-flung empire that was Wemyss Industries. Except that he had no real idea what it was that Wemyss Industries did, beyond the vague memory of a company logo on some computer equipment and the occasional snippet of information read in a paper or seen on the news that for whatever reason had lodged in his mind.
Shaking his head, McLean turned his attention to the other mystery the conversation had brought him. He had to move the old lawnmower and several boxes before he could get close enough to pull off the tailored cover, but when he did, the car beneath brought back so many memories.
It was a darker red than he had remembered, the paintwork glossy like new. The tiny mirrors, heart-shaped grille and hubcaps were shiny chrome, though winter road salt had pitted some of the metal. He ran a hand over the roof, tried the door handle. The car was locked, but the keys were on their hook in the box screwed to the wall by the door into what had once been a tack room. The stiff lock resisted at first, then gave with a creaking that spoke of expensive restoration bills to come, which was when he realised he, like his grandmother before him, was going to keep this car alive, the last memento of his long-dead father. What was it MacBride had said when they'd visited Penstemmin Alarms? 'They say you don't even own a car?' Well, he did now.
Inside, the black leather seats seemed impossibly small and thin compared to the bulky padded things he was used to finding in the faceless pool cars he drove most days. The steering wheel was thin as he sunk down behind it, metal spokes pointing to a tiny central boss designed in a time when airbags were a fantasy, and the waiting list for donated organs much shorter. Even seat belts had been an optional extra. That much he remembered his father telling him; a memory he'd not thought about in decades. Those childhood weekends when his parents had taken him out on long trips to the Borders. The endless parade of ruined castles and abbeys had bored him, but the smell of those seats and the thrum of the engine were another thing altogether.
He took a deep breath. It smelled exactly as he had remembered. He put the key in the ignition, turned it one click. Nothing. Well, that was hardly surprising. The car had been stood unused in well over two years. He'd have to dig out the number of that garage out in Loanhead where it used to go for its servicing. Get them to recommission it or whatever it was you did with old cars. Check the brakes, put new tyres on, that sort of things. Reluctantly, McLean climbed out of the car, put everything back the way he'd found it and locked up the garage.
*
The folder for the car was in the filing cabinet exactly where it should have been. McLean was surprised to see that it had been taxed and insured at the time of is grandmother's stroke. He wondered if the solicitors had kept up the payments; they'd probably sent him a note about it at some point and he'd filed it in the things to do pile. There was a lot of stuff in that pile and sooner or later he was going to have to wade through it. Bad enough the paperwork at the office. Did he really have to deal with that shit at home too? Of course he did. That was life, and there was no getting around it.
The phone ringing sent a shock through him as if he'd been wired up to the mains. It had been so quiet in the garage, and now in the house. And who would be phoning him here anyway? Not many people even had the number. He picked the phone up quickly, barked into it louder than he'd intended.
'McLean.'
'That's not a very friendly telephone manner, inspector.' He recognised the voice.
'Sorry, Emma. It's been a long day.'
'Tell me about it. Some of us have been trying to match cocaine samples with known supplies all day. Have you any idea how many different chemicals get mixed in with the average line of blow?'
There'd been a briefing some time last year. Drug Squad trying to show the little detectives how much more important and difficult their job was. It was a war, after all. McLean vaguely recalled some technical stuff about how cocaine was made, and all the shit it got mixed with between the Colombian forests and the end user with his rolled up ten pound note. 'Don't think I don't appreciate it. You get anywhere?'
'Nope. Well, that's not exactly true. It doesn't match any known profile in the UK, but then that's hardly surprising since it's pure.'
'Uncut?'
'Totally. I've never seen anything like it. You can double whatever you thought it was worth. Just as well you're not a coke-head too. A couple of lines would have killed you.'
Very reassuring. 'What about the prints? You get anything off them?'
'Sorry, no. Too degraded. I checked them against McReadie first, but there's just not enough detail to make a watertight case. If I had to guess I'd say they were his, but it'd never stand up in court.'
McLean flicked through the folder on the desk in front of him before realising it was the paperwork for the car.
'Oh well. You tried. Thanks for that. I owe you.'
'You do indeed, inspector. Dinner if I recall. And as I understand it, you're at a loose end right now.'
Forward. That's what Grumpy Bob had said. Well, he couldn't fault the sergeant's character analysis any more than he could fault Emma's logic. McLean glanced at his watch, seven o'clock, wondered what had happened to most of the day.
'Where are you now? HQ?'
'No, I'm at the station. Just been delivering some stuff to the evidence store. Dropped by your office, but they told me you were... well.'
Policemen were nothing if not gossips. No
doubt his temporary suspension was all over Lothian and Borders by now. Bloody marvellous.
'OK. I'll meet you in an hour shall I?' He suggested a convenient restaurant, then hung up. Stared at the wall for a while. Outside, across the city people were gearing themselves up for another night of Festival and Fringe, bustle and having fun. He wasn't sure his mood could take much exposure to that. His nice, comfortable, boring, safe old life was slowly unravelling, and he was powerless to do anything about it. His instinct was to hide away. He fought against it. Take control of the situation, that was the answer.
The folder lay open still on the desk in front of him. Well, there was always tomorrow to deal with that. He shuffled the papers together to put them away, and that was when he noticed the photograph tucked into the back. It must have been taken when the car was brand new, the colours slightly unreal, vivid as if the intervening years had faded the world to what he saw now. His mother and father stood in front of the Alfa, itself parked in front of an old-fashioned garage forecourt. He was there too, short trousers and tidy jacket, one hand clutching a teddy bear, the other enveloped in his mother's grip. He flipped the photo over, but there was nothing except the watermark of the paper manufacturer. Back to the image again and as he stared at it the vaguest stirrings of memory. Could he really remember that day, that hour, that second? Or was he just constructing a possible scenario around the fact of the photograph?
He laid it back down on top of the rest of the paperwork, closed the folder. He didn't know these people, no longer felt any emotion when he saw them. But as he stood, put the folder back in the filing cabinet and pushed the drawer closed, he couldn't shake the image from his mind, couldn't help but see the smile in his father's dark eyes.
