by James Oswald
'I know, Angus. Psychology. University. Got a First, remember. It's just, knowing doesn't seem to help. She pushed me out of the way. She gave up her own life so I could live. How is that fair?'
'Fairness is something we tell children exists to keep them in line.'
'Hmmm. Not sure that exactly helps.'
'I try my best.' Cadwallader stripped off his long rubber gloves and dumped them in the sterile bin. McLean looked over the mortuary, realising for the first time that there was no sign of any forensic examination going on.
'SOC didn't spend long in here,' he said. 'Normally they like to take days searching for tiny clues.'
'Well, I'm glad they didn't. It was bad enough losing a day's work. People don't stop dying, you know. I've a backlog that's going to take weeks to sort out thanks to your helpful thief.'
'Who's that then?' McLean nodded towards the covered body as Cadwallader guddled around in nearby drawers looking for something.
'That's your suicide victim. The Waverley Station woman. Still haven't got a name for her, poor thing. We examined her this morning. Tracy's still got to finish cleaning her up and then she'll have to wait until she's identified. Strange thing, though. You remember her hands and hair were covered in blood. Couldn't see where it had all come from?'
McLean nodded, although truth was so much had happened since he'd been called to her suicide he'd forgotten all about it.
'Well that's because it wasn't hers.'
*
Emma Baird almost walked into him as he was leaving the mortuary. She was fighting with a large insulated box, the contents of which McLean was happy not to know, and had backed through the doorway just as he was opening it. In any other circumstance, the site of her tumbling backwards into his arms would have been amusing.
'Watch yourself there.'
'Bloody stupid. What the fuck...' Emma struggled, turned, realised who it was. 'Oh god, Tony. Umm, inspector. Sir.'
McLean helped her to her feet, trying to stifle the chuckle that wanted to burst from his throat. She looked so angry and flustered and full of life. He knew if he started laughing he probably wouldn't be able to stop.
'Sorry Em. I didn't see you coming through the door. And Tony's fine, really. Can't be doing with this sir and inspector nonsense at the best of times.' He didn't need to say that these weren't.
'Yeah. I heard the news. I'm so sorry. She was a nice kid.'
A nice kid. Not much of an epitaph, really. And she was just a kid. Not that long out of training college, keen to make detective as soon as possible. Bright, enthusiastic, friendly, dead.
'You on your way in, or out?' Emma's questioned filled the uncomfortable silence.
'What? Oh. Out.' McLean looked at his watch. Long past knocking off time, even if the chief superintendent hadn't sent his team home already. He nodded at the box. 'What about yourself? Delivering or collecting?'
'This? Oh I was just dropping it off. Dr Sharp loaned us it last week when we were one short. It was on my way home so I said I'd drop it off.'
'Here, let me give you a hand then.' McLean reached for the box.
'No, you're OK.' Emma hugged it to her side as if it were a cherished keepsake. 'But I wouldn't mind the company.'
It didn't take long to hand over the box and get back to the door. McLean didn't even have to say anything; Emma was quite capable of talking for two.
'That you off for the evening then?' She asked as he held the door open for her.
'Should probably head back to the station. There's a stack of paperwork with my name on it and a duty sergeant who gets more creative with his threats every day.' Even as he said it, the thought filled him with a weary resignation. He'd creep in the back way to avoid being seen, sit there and work his way through the pile until either it was done or he was. And even if he finished it, there would be another one to replace it soon enough. Times like these, he wondered why he did the bloody job. Might as well go work for Gavin Wemyss and live in a big house with a swimming pool.
'Say it like that, I could even be tempted to do some paperwork myself. Find some just special.'
'Well, if you're offering...'
'Tell you what. Come and have a drink first. Then see how keen you are.' Emma set off up the Cowgate in the direction of the Grassmarket before he could answer. McLean had to hop and skip to catch up, grabbing her by the shoulder.
'Emma.'
'Honestly inspector. Did anyone ever tell you you're no fun.'
'Not recently, no. It's just that I'm guessing you don't know Edinburgh all that well, aye?' He pointed across the road in the opposite direction. 'The only decent pub round here's that way.'
*
One beer turned into two, then a quick tour of the better city centre pubs, a curry. It was almost enough of a distraction that he could forget Alison Kydd was dead. Almost, but not quite. McLean avoided the usual police haunts, knowing they'd be full of coppers raising a few to their fallen comrade. He couldn't could cope with their sympathy, and didn't want to have to deal with the inevitable few who'd blame him rather than the hit and run driver. Emma had sensed it too, he could tell. She chatted constantly, but mostly about he own work and the delights of moving from Aberdeen down to Edinburgh. They parted with a simple 'this was fun, we should do it again.' The lightest of touches on his arm and she turned away, disappeared down the dark street to the place of his nightmares. He shook them away, shoved his hands in his pockets, head down for the walk home.
The city never really slept, especially during the festival. The usual crowd of late shift workers and rough-sleepers were augmented by drunken students and wannabe actors, dustbin men and road sweepers. The streets were quiet in comparison with the day, but it was early yet, and a steady stream of cars still fought their single-occupant ways to destinations unknown. Vans meandered from drop-off point to drop-off point like fat, smelly bees. McLean tried to push away his guilt as he walked, looked for the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to bring some answers to all the questions milling around his head. There was something he was missing, something that didn't add up. No, there were many things he was missing, many things that didn't add up. Not the least of which was the grisly similarity between the deaths of three elderly men, all friends of old, all connected to one horrible, violent crime. A fanciful man would say that they were being visited by an unholy vengeance. Opus Diabuli. They had dabbled in the devil's work and now he had come to claim them. But the reality was far more mundane. Barnaby Smythe had been gutted by an illegal immigrant with a grudge; Buchan Stewart had fallen victim to a jealous lover; and Jonas Carstairs? Well, no doubt Duguid would find someone to pin that one on.
Click, clack, click, clack, his feet drummed out a steady beat along the flagstones. The slow tempo marking time with his thoughts. He knew that Okolo had killed Smythe, that much was true. He'd bet his job that Timothy Gardner hadn't killed Buchan Stewart though, which meant there was a killer still out there. Had someone found DC MacBride's Brazilian photo archive and gone on a spree? Would they be looking for someone else? And if so, how were they choosing their victims? Was it possible that someone else knew about the ritual killing, and had managed to track down the murderers?
Or was it the sixth man covering his tracks, killing his old partners in crime, stealing the body that was the only real piece of evidence, paying someone to run down the policeman investigating? That scenario fitted better than the alternatives, but it wasn't exactly reassuring. McLean stopped suddenly, realising he was alone in the street. He shivered, looking around, expecting to see a white van gunning its engine, heading straight for him. His feet had brought him, perhaps inevitably, to The Pleasance. A big blue 'Police Notice' sign on the pavement accused him with its own demands. An accident occurred here... Did you see... Contact us... He was standing on the spot where Alison had been hit. Where she'd sacrificed herself so that he could live. Christ what a waste of a life. He clenched his fists and swore that he'd track down the man responsible. It did
n't make him feel any better.
It wasn't far to his tenement building, which was just as well. Guilt and anger battling each other made it hard to pick up the threads of his earlier thoughts. The door was propped open with a couple of stones again; bloody students losing their keys and too tight to pay for a new set. At least at this hour Mrs McCutcheon should be tucked up asleep. He could be spared the joy of smiling as she voiced her concern for the long hours he worked. He trudged up the stairs feeling the weariness seep in around his eyes. Bed beckoned and he was more than ready for it.
Only there was someone at the top of the stairs.
~~~~
49
She huddled against the door to his flat, curled up with her knees to her chest, her thin coat pulled around her to ward off the night-time chill. He thought she must have been sleeping, but as he approached she looked up and he recognised her face.
'Jenny? What are you doing here?'
Jenny Spiers stared through puffy eyes, red with crying. Her face was pale, her hair hanging down limply on either side, framing her misery. The tip of her nose shone bright as if she had been suffering with a cold for days.
'It's Chloe,' she said. 'She's gone.' And burst into tears.
McLean took the last couple of steps in one bound. He crouched down and took Jenny's hands.
'Hey, it's all right. We'll find her.' Then he realised he didn't know who was missing. 'Who's Chloe?'
It was probably the wrong thing to say. Jenny burst into even greater floods of tears.
'Look, come on Jen. Get up.' He pulled her to her feet, then unlocked the door and pushed it open, guiding her through into the kitchen and sinking her into a chair. All thoughts of bed and sleep gone, he filled the kettle and set it to boil, fetching out a couple of mugs and a jar of instant coffee.
'Tell me what's happened. Why did you come here?' He handed Jenny a roll of kitchen paper to replace the sodden handkerchief she had scrunched up into her fist.
'Chloe's gone. She should've been home by eleven. She's never late. Even if she's going to be on time she phones.'
'Back a bit, Jen. You'll have to remind me. Who's Chloe?'
Jenny looked up at him with incredulous eyes. 'My daughter. You know. You met her at the shop.'
McLean did a mental somersault. He remembered her, dressed as a nineteen-twenties flapper girl, complete with bob-cut hairstyle. Working the till whilst Jenny was out the back.
'I'm sorry, I didn't realise. We weren't introduced. To be honest, I didn't even know you were married.'
'I'm not. Chloe was... well, let's just say her father was a bit of a mistake. He had his way and that's the last we ever saw of him. But Chloe's a good girl, Tony. She wouldn't stay out late and if she was stuck somewhere she'd phone.'
McLean tried to take the new information in his stride. Concentrate on the problem. 'What time did she go out?'
'About half eight. She had tickets to see Bill Bailey at the Assembly Rooms. They're like gold dust you know. She was so excited.'
'And you say she should've been back at eleven.'
'That's right. I gave her taxi money. Didn't want her walking the streets at that time of night.'
'Did she go to the show alone?'
'No, she went with a couple of school friends. But they live on the other side of town.'
'And they're home, I take it.'
'I phoned and checked. They both got in at quarter to midnight.'
'How old is Chloe?' McLean tried to imagine the girl in the shop, but her exotic costume made it hard to put an age on her.
'Almost sixteen.' Old enough to be out on her own. Old enough to be pushing the barriers of what she could and couldn't do.
'You've contacted the police?'
Jenny nodded. 'They came round the house, filled in forms. I gave them a photo. They even searched the shop in case she was in there hiding.'
'That's good. It means they're following procedure.' McLean poured boiling water into the mugs, added milk. 'But you have to understand that this could be no more than teenage rebellion. She might just be staying out late for the hell of it.'
'But she never does.' Jenny's face flushed. She clenched her fists. 'She'd never do anything like that.'
'I believe you. I'll give the station a phone and see if anything's come up. You should be at home, Jen. Not here. What if she's come back and you're not there?'
A momentary flicker of doubt passed across Jenny's eyes, a haunted look. 'I left a note. On the kitchen table. But she hadn't come home by one. I had to do something.'
McLean realised that he didn't even know where Jenny Spiers lived. He hadn't known about her daughter; only really knew that she had a sister who was engaged to his best friend. If he was being honest, he didn't know all that much about Rachel either. He'd long since given up trying to remember all of his ex-flatmate's students. Only that she was the one who'd finally got the prize so many before her had failed to win. Quite why Jenny had chosen to come to him he had no idea.
'Do you live above the shop?'
Jenny nodded again, then sniffed and wiped her nose. McLean went through to the hall and dialled the station. It rang for a long time before the duty sergeant finally picked up.
'DI McLean here. You've had a report of a missing girl. Chloe Spiers?'
'Aye. I reckon so. Hang on a minute.' McLean could hear the rustling of paper in the background as the duty sergeant shuffled through the night logs. 'What's it to you?'
'Her mother's in my kitchen drinking coffee.'
'Lucky you, inspector. She's quite a looker if I remember right. Ah, here we are. reported at eleven fifty-eight. Nearest patrol attended the scene at twelve oh nine. Description's been sent out to all stations, details are on the computer. We'll be checking with the hospitals if she's not turned up by morning.'
'Well do me a favour will you, Tom? Put the call out again. And if you've got time to, call the hospitals now.'
'OK, sir. It's a quiet night at the moment. I'll see what I can do.'
'Thanks Tom. I owe you one.'
'Dinner, is it sir?'
McLean froze. 'You what?'
'I believe that's the going rate for a favour, isn't it? Or was Miss Baird a special case?'
'I... Who told you...?' McLean spluttered down the phone as the duty sergeant burst out laughing. 'How many people in the station know?'
'I'd say about all of them, sir. You did meet her at the front door, after all. And taking her to the Red Dragon? Bound to be one or two off-duty coppers in there most evenings, even if they're only picking up a carry-oot.'
McLean fumed as he hung up. Bloody policemen, they could give fishwives a run for their money when it came to gossip. Still, probably wouldn't do his reputation any harm.
'Have they found her?' Jenny's concerned voice brought his mind back to more pressing problems.
'No. I'm sorry. But the full procedure is underway.' McLean told her what the duty sergeant had promised to do. At the mention of hospitals she went very white.
'Could she really be?'
'I don't think so, Jen. They'd have contacted you by now if she was in any trouble. It's far more likely she hooked up with some other friends and went out on a bender. She'll be home in the morning feeling like shit and you can tear a strip off her then.'
But in his mind he knew he was only saying that to comfort her.
~~~~
50
He doesn't know how long he's been standing in this garden, staring up at the silent house. It was dark for a while, and now it is getting light maybe. How many days has he been like this? His mind stopped working properly a long time ago, and now all he can do is obey. The voices don't so much speak to him as direct his actions. He has no more control over his body than a puppet. But he can feel the pain all the more for being helpless to do anything about it.
The prey is in there, he knows. He can smell it, even if he's not sure what it is he can smell. There's leaf mould and warm dry earth; distant fumes of
cars and the sweeter malty odour of the brewery. His stomach is a vat of acid, leaching through into his guts in waves of agony, but he stands and waits and watches.
Something rustles in the bushes, pushing through with growling malevolence. He looks down to see a dog, a Doberman with its ears cut into sharp points. It bares its teeth at him and utters a menacing snarl. The voices pull his lips apart and issue a hiss from the back of his throat. Startled, the dog yelps, its stubby tail tucked between its back legs. A splatter on the ground beneath it and the warm tang of piss fills the air.
One more sharp hiss and the dog breaks, crashing back into the bushes from where it has come, not even yelping anymore as it struggles to get away. He was always terrified of dogs, but the voices are made of sterner stuff.
His head pounds as if all the migraines in the world have come to live in it. His whole body feels swollen and distended, like those starved African children he used to see on the telly. Every joint in his body is red hot; cartilage ripped out and replaced with sandpaper. Still he stands, and watches.
More noise now. A bigger bulk pushing its way into the gloom of his hiding place. He turns slowly to greet the man; screaming inside at the pain of every small movement. The voices keep him silent.
'What're you doing here?' the man asks, but his words are a million miles away. The voices are shouting attack, and he must obey them.
He springs up, but his body is weak with starvation and a thousand terrible ailments. There is a knife in his hand; he cannot remember how he got it, neither a time when it wasn't clasped in his grip. It doesn't matter. Only attacking matters. And pain.
Something snaps, and he realises it is his arm. The man is big, far bigger than him, and built like those men he used to try not to stare at when he went to the gym. But the voices say he must attack him, and so that is what he does, reaching for eyes, clawing at skin.
