by James Oswald
‘New station chief’s called a meeting. Going to introduce herself.’
Janie stood on tiptoes, frowning as she stared across to the far side of the room. Without a chair for her to stand on, it was hard to see whether any senior officers were yet present.
‘Could she not have done it in shifts? What if someone turns up in reception and there’s nobody there to help?’ What if I’ve just found out our fortnight-old accidental death is actually a murder and we need to get the investigation escalated as quickly as possible?
Blane merely shrugged, and before Janie could say anything more, a commotion at the front quietened down the mob. A group of senior officers had entered through the doors at the other end of the room and were pushing through the crowd towards a low podium. Janie spotted Detective Superintendent McIntyre in among the gaggle of uniformed officers, most of whom she more or less recognised. Only one was a total stranger, a tall woman wearing the uniform of a chief superintendent as if it were the highest couture. Where the other officers struggled through the crowd, she moved with catwalk elegance, gaze fixed directly ahead. Janie cursed her shortness as all but one of the group took seats at the back of the podium before she could get a good look at the new station chief’s face. Her fleeting impression was of surprising youth and striking beauty. Not at all what she had been expecting from a time-served Met officer.
One of the uniformed superintendents came straight to the lectern. ‘Thank you, everyone. We’ll make this as brief as possible.’ A Strathclyde officer, if his accent was anything to go by.
‘I know it’s not been easy these past few months, especially since Deputy Chief Constable Robinson retired. We’ve been short-staffed for far too long, especially in CID. However, that’s all about to change now. I’m sure there’s been plenty of gossip already, so I’ll just get on with it and introduce our new station head. Chief Superintendent Elmwood comes from the Met, but I’m sure we’ll not hold that against her.’
The elegant woman stepped up to the lectern, giving the superintendent who had introduced her the briefest of scowls, which Janie felt the man clearly deserved. When she turned towards the assembly, however, her face was all beaming smile. Janie would have put her in her early forties at the oldest, which made her rise through the ranks to her current position impressive. Either that or she had a painting of an ugly old hag hidden away in an attic somewhere.
‘Thank you, Donald, for that delightful introduction.’ The chief superintendent’s accent fell strangely on Janie’s ears. It wasn’t the Englishness of it so much as the odd mix of posh inflection and something that sounded a bit like the actors on EastEnders. It put her in mind of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins for a moment.
‘I expect you’re all wondering why I got this job rather than someone a bit more home grown. Well, in the light of recent events . . .’ The chief superintendent put heavy emphasis on those last two words, then paused for even greater effect. She had the room in total silence, which was quite an achievement, Janie had to concede.
‘In the light of recent events, the chief constable thought it would be a good idea to bring in some fresh blood, as it were. Someone unconnected with Police Scotland until now.’
Another pause, and this time the quietest of murmurs rippled through the room before the chief superintendent spoke again.
‘I can understand how that might put a few people’s backs up. And I know I have a steep learning curve ahead of me. I aim to do my best for this station, for Edinburgh and for Police Scotland as a whole. All I ask of you is that you give me the chance to prove myself before you send me packing. I’ve no great desire to go back to England any time soon, as I’m sure you can all understand.’
A quiet burble of laughter echoed around the room at that, and Janie realised the new chief superintendent had won them over with just a few well-chosen words. She could only hope the woman was as good at her job as she was at rallying the troops.
‘There’ll be changes over the coming weeks and months, as I’m sure you’re all expecting. However, let me assure you that I won’t be allowing any further reductions in the workforce here. Quite the opposite. The chief constable has already signed off on new recruitment, both in uniform and plain clothes. You’ll all be informed of the changes in due course, but for now I just wanted to let you know the good news, and tell you all how excited I am to be here. Thank you.’
Spontaneous applause stuttered into life as the new chief superintendent stepped away from the lectern, something Janie couldn’t ever recall for a senior management pep talk before. DC Blane leaned close as she failed to join in.
‘About time we had some more detectives,’ he said over the loud clap of his own massive hands. Janie merely smiled and nodded. She’d believe it when she saw it.
‘Janie, have you got a minute?’
DC Harrison stopped in her tracks, causing the flow of uniformed officers to pass around her in a dark blue stream of curses and grumbles. She recognised the voice of Detective Superintendent Jayne McIntyre and knew better than to pretend she hadn’t heard. And in the absence of DI Ritchie, there wasn’t anyone else obvious she could take the news about Cecily Slater to anyway.
‘Ma’am?’ Janie pushed her way through the last of the departing officers and approached the small group still clustered at the top of the room. Closer in, she had her first clear view of the new chief superintendent, and was once again struck by her apparent youth. Her skin glowed, and her high cheekbones and thin nose gave her the chiselled look of a model rather than a senior police officer. Only her eyes, grey and piercing, hinted at something a bit more steely underneath.
‘This is the detective constable I was telling you about, Gail. Harrison has worked closely with DCI McLean since moving from uniform to plain clothes – what is it? Three years back?’
Gail. Not ‘Chief Superintendent’ or ‘ma’am’, Janie couldn’t help noticing. But then McIntyre had always been one for informality whenever it didn’t interfere with carrying out duties.
‘The Chalmers case, ma’am,’ she said, after the awkward silence suggested an answer was needed. ‘And yes, that would be coming up for three years now.’
‘Should be making detective sergeant then, shouldn’t you?’ the chief superintendent asked. Janie couldn’t tell whether the woman was chastising her or merely making a comment. Her accent was too English to work it out, so she went for the neutral option.
‘If a DS position comes up, I’ll certainly apply, ma’am. Things have been a bit busy though lately.’
The chief superintendent stared at her down that perfect nose again, saying nothing as her pale grey eyes bored through Janie’s skull and into her soul. She stood her ground, and after what felt like hours but was probably only a few seconds, the chief superintendent shrugged.
‘What do you make of him, then?’
For a moment Janie couldn’t think who she was referring to. Then the penny dropped. ‘DCI McLean? He’s . . .’ Put on the spot like that, she couldn’t think of anything to say. The chief superintendent was quicker to respond this time.
‘Impetuous? Careless? Not a team player?’ There was no mistaking the tone now, English accent or not.
‘I’m not sure it’s very fair putting Janie on the spot like that, is it, ma’am?’ McIntyre stepped in at precisely the right moment, and Janie couldn’t help but notice the heavy emphasis she had put on the word ‘ma’am’. A brief scowl marred the chief superintendent’s perfect features for an instant, then dissolved into a politician’s smile.
‘Of course, Jayne. But you know I have to review the report from Professional Standards into this summer’s . . .’ She paused, tilted her head like a confused dog as she searched for the right word. ‘. . . events.’
Janie saw the tension rise in McIntyre’s body, then dissipate as the detective superintendent calmed herself. How many months now was it since that incident up
on the moors? Long enough that the DCI had fully recovered from his injuries, but clearly not long enough for the people he’d upset to forget. That was his special skill, after all. Pissing off people in high places and not giving a damn about the consequences.
‘You’re working on an accidental death case at the moment, are you not?’ The chief superintendent phrased it as a question, but it was clear to Janie that she already knew. It made a nice change, if a little unnerving, to be noticed by the high heidyins.
‘I was just back from the post-mortem the now, ma’am. No’ sure it was so accidental after all.’ Janie gave both her superior officers a rundown of what she’d learned from the pathologist. ‘I was looking for DI Ritchie, but I can pass it straight up to you if you’d prefer. I’ll have the initial report done before lunchtime.’
The chief superintendent stared at her again down that long nose. Aquiline, that was the word for it. Roman, maybe. For a moment it was as if the whole world had gone silent, and Janie could feel herself withering under that gaze. And then as swiftly as it was applied, the tension disappeared, and the chief superintendent broke into a broad smile.
‘I can see why you like her, Jayne,’ she said, before turning her attention back to Harrison. ‘Yes, I’d like to see that report, Detective Constable. I’d also like to see your name on the list of suitable candidates for promotion. You’ve passed the exams, I take it?’
‘I . . . Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well then, acting Detective Sergeant Harrison. That report on my desk in an hour.’
5
‘Explain to me again why you decided to go against procedure and enter the premises at Oakhill Farm. On your own and without any form of back-up.’
Detective Chief Inspector Tony McLean suppressed a weary sigh and shifted his position slightly, trying to find a little comfort even though the designers of the chair had carefully ensured there would be none. His hip ached where it had been broken several years before, and even though it had been months now since the events he was being asked to describe yet again, he could still feel the soreness in his muscles. Worse now the weather was turning cold and wet. Such was the joy of getting older. His ears rang, ever so slightly, with the echo of the explosion that had almost collapsed an entire cavern on his head, and the heads of several extremely wealthy individuals whose influence he could see all over this ongoing disciplinary process. Professional Standards might claim to be incorruptible, but someone was clearly leaning on them to be extra thorough this time.
‘As I believe I told you before, and your colleague Inspector Williams, I had reason to believe a person’s life was in immediate danger. Neither mobile phones nor the airwave network were working, so I sent Detective Constable Harrison for back-up and proceeded alone.’
‘And you think that utter disregard for procedure was justified?’
McLean heard the sneer in the question; it was impossible not to. His interrogator, or maybe inquisitor was a better description, had not tried to hide his contempt from the very first interview a couple of months ago, and nothing much had changed in the intervening time.
‘I rather think that’s for you to decide, isn’t it, Chief Inspector Crane?’ He leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and quite deliberately folded his arms across his chest. At this point, McLean no longer cared whether they sacked him or not. He was satisfied that none of the junior officers involved in the case were going to get a black mark against them for what he’d done. If Police Scotland wanted to hang him out to dry, well, he could always take up gardening.
‘It’s precisely that attitude that’s the problem, McLean. You have no respect for authority, don’t give a damn about doing things the right way. You have a very poor record of attendance at senior officers’ strategy meetings. Quite how you ever made it to detective chief inspector I’ve no idea.’
Crane’s face, never exactly pale at the best of times, began to redden as he worked himself up to a crescendo. McLean had seen the performance a dozen times since the inquiry had begun, so was less worried now that the chief inspector might have a heart attack, or that his head would explode. He was a man who perhaps spent rather too much time at senior officers’ strategy meetings, availing himself of the free coffee, biscuits and sandwiches for lunch while there. Word was the chief inspector had been a rugby player in his younger years, almost but not quite making it to the national squad. If so, his rugby playing days were long gone. And like many a man active in his youth, old age had seen the muscle turn rather more to fat.
‘I’ve never been much of an administrator. You know that.’ McLean waved a hand in the direction of the folder Chief Inspector Crane had arranged on the table in front of them like a shield wall. It was, he knew, a summary of all his failings since first joining what had been Lothian and Borders Police, the best part of a quarter century ago. Crane had brought it to all of their interviews, and never opened it once.
‘Sooner or later you’re going to have to come to a decision.’ McLean unfolded his arms, leaned forward and laid his hands on the table in what he hoped was a gesture of conciliation. ‘You know what the top brass want. Or at least the people putting the squeeze on them, anyway. My head on a plate. Maybe something suitably vindictive to go along with it. I imagine that pisses you off almost as much as my lack of respect for procedure. More, maybe, or you’d have recommended my being sacked long ago.’
Crane stared at him through eyes narrowed by the folds of spare flesh on his face. The silence sat between them like the haar that sometimes rolled off the North Sea to blanket the city for days on end. Impenetrable and smothering. McLean waited; it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. Finally the chief inspector broke.
‘You’re a menace, McLean.’ He shook his head as he spoke. ‘But your actions saved a woman’s life and opened the lid on something foul and rotten that had been going on far too long. You’re right. Plenty of powerful people dislike you almost as much as I do. But there’s a few seem to think you’re worth protecting too. Christ only knows why.’
McLean shrugged, smiled, sat back in his chair and suppressed the wince of pain as his hip protested.
‘My recommendation was you be demoted to sergeant and sent on retraining, but apparently there’s a shortage of detectives right now, even more so ones with decent experience in the field. Sticking you back in uniform would put people off applying for CID, I’m told. So you get to stay in plain clothes.’
Now, finally, Chief Inspector Crane opened up his folder and removed a single sheet from the top of the pile neatly stacked inside. Had it been there this whole time? Were these past months of endless interviews, debriefings, suspension from active duty, all a sham? McLean wouldn’t have put it past them to be so petty.
‘The new chief superintendent has also decided that filling a detective sergeant position will be much cheaper than finding a seasoned detective inspector who knows this patch. She’s not so concerned about a replacement DCI having local experience, since that’s really more of a managerial role anyway.’ Crane’s emphasis on the word ‘managerial’ felt like it was meant as an insult, but if so it missed its mark. He turned the sheet of paper around and slid it across the table. A letter on official Police Scotland headed paper. McLean didn’t reach for it; he was fairly sure he knew what it said.
‘Effective immediately, you are demoted to the rank of detective inspector, working within Specialist Crime Division and based in Edinburgh. Until such time as the post of detective chief inspector is filled, you will report to Detective Superintendent McIntyre. You will also be required to attend a series of reorientation sessions, focusing on procedure. You can appeal this decision, should you wish, but should you choose to do so you will remain suspended without pay pending the outcome of that appeal.’ Crane paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for some kind of protest, or even any kind of response at all. ‘Do you wish to appeal?’
McLean leaned forwa
rd slowly, not so much to annoy the chief inspector as to avoid any further pain from his hip. He reached out and took the letter, held it up for just long enough to show that he hadn’t read it, then put it back down on the table again before fixing Crane with a pleasant smile.
‘No. I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he said.
Nobody had told him that he couldn’t keep on using his old office on the third floor, so McLean let himself in then sat at his desk and stared out the glass wall at the city beyond. Someone had tidied up in his absence, and for once there was no paperwork awaiting his immediate attention. Hardly surprising given that he’d come here straight from his final meeting with DCI Crane of Professional Standards. He hadn’t failed to notice that the meeting had been between the two of them, alone. No senior officers present, no witnesses to the proceedings. A simple handover of a letter and it was done. Well, there was the small matter of some annoying training sessions he’d have to endure, but it was better than sitting at home, bored. The demotion was a plus, too. He could see fewer senior officers’ strategy meetings in his future, more puzzling out the strange forces that seemed to have arrayed themselves against the city.
He should probably have reported to Detective Superintendent McIntyre, maybe even checked to see if the new chief superintendent was in Edinburgh this week. Sooner or later he’d have to meet her, after all. Apart from a name – Gail Elmwood – and the fact that she had transferred to Police Scotland from the Metropolitan Police in London, he knew nothing about her at all. The only clue he had to her personality was her signature on the letter DCI Crane had handed him. McLean pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it, not really taking in the words so much as studying that signature. Tight-packed letters, but neat. Her whole name, Gail Elmwood, spelled out in a manner that was readable at least if you knew what you were looking for. Not like McLean’s own impenetrable scrawl, which usually looked like he’d succumbed to some kind of coughing fit halfway through writing it. He didn’t think much of handwriting analysis, but this signature suggested a meticulous attention to detail and a desire for control. Or something like that anyway.
