by James Oswald
‘Oh. Hello, sir. Are you back then?’
McLean glanced up at the doorway. He’d left it open, as had always been his habit. Now the unfeasibly tall figure of Detective Constable Blane blocked it almost entirely. His slumped shoulders and stooped posture might have been simply to avoid banging his head on the door frame, but like a lot of tall people, Lofty had a habit of trying to make himself look smaller whenever he had to interact with those shorter than him. Which was to say most of the time.
‘So it would appear.’ He folded up the letter and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Was there anything in particular you needed?’
A momentary frown of confusion crossed Blane’s features, vanishing almost as soon as it had formed. ‘Oh, no sir. I was on my way to find Ja— DS Harrison. Heard she was in with the chief superintendent.’
‘Did you say DS Harrison?’ McLean put the emphasis on the S, raising an eyebrow as he did so.
‘Acting, sir. But aye.’
‘I don’t know. I go away for a few months and everyone gets delusions of grandeur. Good for her, though.’ He stood up, then pushed his chair back in under the clean desk. Took a moment to enjoy the look of the polished wood surface. It wouldn’t be long before it wasn’t visible again. ‘I need to see McIntyre myself. Let her know I’m back, if in a reduced capacity.’
‘Umm . . . ?’ Blane’s confused frown returned, staying put this time.
‘They bumped me down to DI, Lofty,’ McLean said. ‘It’s meant to be a slap on the wrist, but I can’t help thinking it’s a blessing, really.’
The walk along the corridor to Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s office took no time at all, certainly not enough for McLean to draw out any meaningful conversation from DC Blane. Like his own office door, McIntyre’s was ajar, and as the two of them approached, they could hear voices in low but urgent conversation. Blane stopped a couple of paces away, where he could neither hear what was being said nor be seen lurking.
‘Should we wait, sir?’
‘Probably.’ McLean carried on the last metre or so, rapped his hand on the door frame and poked his head through the door. The voices stopped instantly as two people looked up at him from where they sat at the conference table. He recognised McIntyre, but the other woman was new to him.
‘Tony. Speak of the devil.’ McIntyre stood a little more swiftly than McLean was used to, almost as if she was shielding him from the other woman. He’d already worked out who she was, of course, so when she stood up a little more casually and turned to face him full on, he wasn’t completely taken aback.
‘Ah, the infamous Detective Inspector McLean. I had been hoping we’d have a chance to talk soon.’
‘Ma’am.’ McLean held out his hand when the chief superintendent offered hers to shake. Her grip was cool and firm, her hand slender. Indeed, slender was a word that could be used to describe a great deal about her. Striking was another. The uniform of a senior police officer was not the most flattering of outfits, and yet she managed to make it look like the height of fashion.
‘Detective . . . Inspector?’ McIntyre left a slight pause between the two words, her question quite clear. McLean was grateful for the interruption as he was all too aware that he had been staring at the chief superintendent perhaps a little too hard.
‘My punishment. Could have been worse.’ He pulled out the letter and handed it to McIntyre by way of explanation. That she didn’t know already spoke volumes.
‘Well, you never wanted to be a DCI anyway,’ she said as she handed back the letter. Then she noticed DC Blane standing in the doorway. ‘Detective Constable?’
‘Ah. Sorry, ma’am. I was told DS Harrison was here.’ Blane shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders slumping even more as he found himself in the presence of the chief superintendent. He held up the printout he had been carrying like a votive offering. ‘Forensic report from the Cecily Slater house. The scene was too badly degraded to pick up anything much.’
‘Cecily Slater?’ McLean asked before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
‘You know her?’ McIntyre asked.
‘No. Not really. The name rings a bell, though. Someone my grandmother knew, back in the day. Related to the Bairnfather family, I think. But it can’t be the same woman. She’d be a hundred if she was a day.’
‘She was very old, sir. And the cottage is on the Bairnfather Estate.’ Blane took a step into the room and offered McLean the report as if that would absolve him of any further responsibility.
‘Who’s SIO?’ he asked, again realising as the words came out that they would best have been left unsaid. Clearly a few months away from the front line had blunted his skill at avoiding being roped into things.
‘Kirsty’s nominally in charge,’ McIntyre said. ‘But she’s half a dozen other investigations on her hands already. And we lost a lot of time working on the assumption it was an accidental death. We’ve been playing catchup since the post-mortem. Could do with your input. It feels very much like your kind of case.’
McLean only nodded his head in acceptance; there wasn’t much else he could do. He held out a hand and Blane gave him the report. The chief superintendent cast her gaze in their direction, dismissing Lofty with a ‘Thank you, Detective Constable’ that was both polite and unambiguous. McLean watched the giant leave, knowing full well that he had to stay. On the other hand, at least he had something to do.
‘You’ll be aware that I moved up from London to take this job.’ The chief superintendent’s words dragged McLean’s attention back to her, and he found himself almost standing to attention. Something about her made him want to suck his gut in, even though it wasn’t particularly prominent in the first place.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She stared at him for a long while, the gaze from her pale grey eyes uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he felt she was seeing right into him, more that he simply didn’t know what to say to her. He knew so little about her beyond her name, her rank, and now what she looked like. He was about to fall into the trap he so often set himself, and say something – anything – to fill the growing silence. But then she laughed and broke into a smile that seemed to light up the whole room.
‘It’s Tony, right?’ She indicated for him to sit, taking her own seat again. McIntyre joined them at the conference table once more.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ McLean sounded like a scratched record, and it brought another laugh from the chief superintendent. The juxtaposition between the laughter and the uniform was unsettling.
‘Please, call me Gail. Ma’am makes me sound like some kind of headmistress.’
McLean almost pointed out that her position within the organisation of Police Scotland, in charge of the largest station in the nation’s capital, meant that headmistress was quite a good job description, but his sense of self-preservation was beginning to reassert itself. He nodded his understanding rather than risk repeating himself.
‘That letter.’ The chief superintendent pointed at the jacket pocket into which McLean had put it. ‘That was one of my first official duties when I started this job. Paint hardly dry on my office door, and I’ve to sign a letter officially reprimanding one of my senior officers and demoting him from the rank of DCI to DI. You can imagine that’s not quite what I was expecting to be doing with my time.’
Again McLean refrained from answering directly. Instead he tilted his head and nodded slowly once. It seemed to do the trick.
‘There were those higher up than me, higher up than the chief constable himself, who thought you should have been given the boot, you know.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ McIntyre said, before McLean could even open his mouth. ‘Tony has a knack of annoying people. In this instance three of Scotland’s richest émigrés. Frankly I’d’ve been surprised if nobody’d tried to kick back against that.’
‘Yes, well.’ The chief superintendent sa
t up a little straighter and tugged at the front of her jacket as if it hadn’t already been sitting perfectly. ‘I don’t like being told how to do my job like I’m some fresh-out-of-training constable, and I didn’t think it would be a good start to bend to the pressure from above. Don’t want to be thought of as a “yes” girl from the off.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that, ma— Gail. And I’m sorry that I’ve brought down that kind of pressure on you before you’ve even got your feet under your desk, so to speak.’
That got McLean a raised eyebrow. ‘I was a chief superintendent in the Met before I came north, Tony. I think I can cope with anything Edinburgh can throw at me. Rather not have to spend all my time putting out fires you’ve lit, though.’
An image rose unbidden in McLean’s mind then. Two young boys bored by the long summer holidays, starting a fire that spread to the moors to the south of the city and inadvertently revealed ancient and grisly secrets. The start of the whole series of events that had got him suspended in the first place.
‘Do you find me amusing, Detective Inspector?’ The change in Elmwood’s tone was instant, snapping from friendly to drill sergeant without a pause for breath. Too late, McLean realised he must have let the ghost of a smile reach his face.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. No. It was just the phrase “putting out fires”. I’m sure Detective Superintendent McIntyre can explain. Or—’
‘Never mind.’ The chief superintendent shook her head as she interrupted him. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that you’re on an official warning. As I said before, you have allies fighting your corner, Tony. They convinced me to let you stay, even if I was minded to do so anyway. Just don’t make me regret that decision, OK?’
6
A chill wind blew off the Pentland Hills, shaking the high branches of the wych elms on the Meadows and tumbling dead brown leaves to the grass. Janie Harrison regretted suggesting to DC Blane that they walk over from the station, her normal stride being about half the length of his. She could have cadged a lift in a squad car, although she had to admit she missed riding in DCI McLean’s Alfa Romeo. Even if there was something ever so slightly disturbing about its absurdly powerful engine under that long bonnet, its deep red leather interior.
‘So how’s it feel to be a detective sergeant then?’ Lofty asked.
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed much difference, to be honest. Still the same amount of work to do as ever. See when we get those new DCs we’ve been promised, I can maybe shunt some of it on to them, aye?’
‘Know what you mean. Seems daft being sent off to do this. Talking to some bloke about a harassment case, verbal abuse or something? Shouldn’t that be uniform’s job? I mean, I’m happy to get out of the station for a bit of fresh air, but we’re short enough on detectives as it is. Should be concentrating on that poor old wifey up in the woods, shouldn’t we?’
Janie shrugged, then shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched herself against the cold. ‘If the chief super says jump, I ask how high, OK? And besides, I get the feeling this isn’t a simple case of public nuisance. You’ve heard of Tommy Fielding, right?’
Lofty stopped walking, which at least gave Janie a chance to catch her breath.
‘The Dad’s Army guy?’
‘That’s him. Although I’m not sure that’s what he’s really about.’
‘How do you mean? He gets dads visiting rights when they’re divorced or separated. Someone’s got to fight their corner, haven’t they?’
Janie took a deep breath. How to approach this delicately? Decided she couldn’t be bothered. ‘He’s on the wrong side, aye? Defends the monsters who beat their girlfriends black and blue, gets serial rapists back out on the street when we’ve done everything we can to lock them up.’
‘Everyone’s entitled to their day in court, remember? Someone’s got to defend the bad ones.’
‘Aye, but they’re no’ supposed to enjoy it. And they’re no’ supposed to win.’
Blane shrugged, set off walking again so that Janie had to hurry to catch up. ‘So why are we going to talk to him and no’ some uniformed sergeant then?’ he asked.
‘Because he’s on first-name terms with the chief constable is why. He’s one of his golfing buddies or something. And his complaint’s been passed down to our new chief super, who’s keen as you like to make a good impression. End result, you and me get to tramp over to Fountainbridge for the morning, look serious while he rants at us, then do sod all about it. With a bit of luck, then we can get back to finding out who murdered that old wifey out in the hills.’
Lofty paused a moment, apparently considering this information. Then he shrugged again, said ‘OK,’ and set off once more in the direction of Tollcross.
They heard the noise of the crowd long before reaching the Scotston Hotel and conference centre. A group of people clustered around the side entrance, some bearing placards with such insightful comments as ‘Piss Off Tommy’ and ‘Leave The Kids Out Of It’. Most of them were simply shouting and waving fists. And getting in the way, at least until the looming presence of DC Blane made itself felt.
Janie tucked herself in behind him, and he pushed through the demonstration as if it wasn’t there. She glanced from side to side, doing her best to note faces as she went, just in case. All of them were women, as far as she could tell. They spanned all ages, from teenagers with buzzcut hairdos and multiple piercings to a couple who looked like they might be someone’s great-nan and her best friend out for a day’s shopping in the big toon. One face caught her attention as they reached the corner of the square. Glanced out of the corner of her eye, she thought she recognised the bright red hair, the quickest glimpse of a familiar profile. But when she turned, the figure had gone. There wasn’t time to stop, let alone work her way back through the crowd for a better look. And besides, there was no way the person she thought it was would be there. She’d be down in London, surely.
‘Come on, Janie. Let’s get this over with.’ Lofty tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘Or should I call you Sarge?’
‘Only if you want all the shitty assignments.’ Harrison turned from the noisy crowd, still puzzled by the face she had seen, sparking a memory that couldn’t be right. She shook the thoughts away. It wasn’t important, unless things got out of hand and people started being arrested.
A nervous-looking day manager approached them as they entered the smart foyer of the hotel, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
‘Are you the police?’ he asked, only just managing to stop himself from pronouncing it ‘polis’. For all his smart suit and neat appearance, he had to work hard to keep the Muirhouse out of his accent.
‘Detective Con— Sergeant Harrison. This is my colleague Detective Constable Blane.’ Janie let Blane show his warrant card. ‘I understand Mr Fielding has a complaint.’
‘Indeed.’ The manager glanced in the direction of the front door, although he looked less annoyed at the noisy protest than might be expected. Now that they were inside, it wasn’t really all that noisy anyway, the front door doing an effective job of blocking much of the sound from outside. ‘Please, follow me.’
He led them along a corridor and into a large conference room. By the look of things it had been set up for a presentation, with rows of seats all facing a small dais and lectern. A projector screen behind the lectern showed a slide, presumably part of the presentation. It disappeared almost before Janie could take anything in, but not before she’d seen the ‘Dad’s Army’ logo and what looked like a pie chart claiming the vast majority of rape allegations were made up.
‘The police are here, sir.’ The manager approached no closer than twenty feet from the dais, announcing their presence a little more loudly than necessary. He gave Janie a strained smile as he turned away and hurried out the door. Clearly not a fan, although whether of her or the man at the lectern Janie couldn’t be sure.
‘Ab
out bloody time.’
Janie had never met Tommy Fielding before, but she had seen photographs and knew him by reputation. In real life he was shorter than she’d imagined, but then that was so often the way with self-important men. He wore a tailored suit that must have cost a fortune, and yet somehow he managed to look scruffy in it. Perhaps it was his scrappy, receding hair, or maybe the slight jowliness about his face. Whatever it was, it gave him the air of a man going to seed. He stepped off the dais and walked up the narrow aisle between the rows of seats to meet them, his gaze flicking only briefly on her, then focusing on DC Blane.
‘Detective Sergeant Harrison,’ Janie said, before Fielding could assume the male officer was the most senior. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Blane. I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with the protesters outside, sir.’
‘A bit of trouble?’ Fielding hardly glanced at her, and the sneer in his voice was plain enough. ‘Those witches have been camped outside for days now, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into the hotel. I’m trying to run a conference here and half my delegates have been scared off already.’
Janie doubted any of it was true, apart from the bit about running a conference. As far as she was aware, no one at the hotel had lodged a complaint so far, and the women were loud at times, but mostly peaceful. More to the point, the place where they were holding their vigil, or hurling abuse, was a public square. Moving them on would be tricky even if she wanted to, and so far Fielding had given her little reason.
‘I’ll go and speak to them, sir. Ask them to disperse, or at the very least to stop harassing people.’ She took out her notebook and opened it to a blank page, fully intending it remain that way. ‘When does your conference begin? I’m sure we can arrange for a few officers to be on hand.’
