by James Oswald
Was there a note of flirtation in her voice? McLean didn’t want to read so much into it. She wasn’t that long in the job, and he knew very little about her past life in the Met. She wore no rings either, so no Mr Elmwood anywhere in the mix. Too focused on the job to ever settle down? That wasn’t his problem. The chief constable wouldn’t have chosen just anybody for the post. At least he hoped so.
‘Is that useful? I mean, we have phones.’ He gestured at the heavy plastic console on his desk.
The chief superintendent’s smile was more shark-like this time, her teeth startlingly white and straight. ‘Of course. But I need to know I’ve got an ally here, Tony. Someone I can trust. It’s not easy coming into a new station, a new country even. Yes, I’ve done my homework, and I’ve a good team of officers working with me. But I need someone to bounce ideas off, someone to run things by before I make a fool of myself in front of the police authority or heaven forbid the Minister.’
McLean couldn’t help thinking the speech was too well rehearsed to be entirely sincere. He also wasn’t quite sure he wanted such a role. But he wasn’t so stupid as to think he could say no.
‘I’m sure I’d be happy to give advice if you feel the need for it,’ he said, hearing the sound of his own grave being dug with each word. The chief superintendent’s smile broadened into a wide grin as she stood up in a graceful, fluid motion.
‘Splendid. I knew we’d get along fine.’
And without another word, she strode out of the room, leaving the empty chair behind like some kind of territorial marker.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me again.’
McLean placed his briefcase on the kitchen table, following up with the bag of takeaway curry he’d picked up on the way home. It was later than he’d have liked, but Mrs McCutcheon’s cat never seemed to mind. A sure sign that winter was not far off, she had taken up her habitual place in front of the Aga. Reasonably confident the cat wouldn’t help herself to his supper, McLean went through to the hall and leafed through the day’s post. There wasn’t much, but a hastily scribbled postcard with a picture on the front of the hills behind Kigali reminded him of the last time Emma had gone travelling. He hoped she’d be home before Christmas, not away for two years again.
He had finished half of his curry and put the rest away for the next day, much to the horrified indignation of Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, and was pouring himself a second beer when he heard a noise outside. Headlights swept the darkness through the window, the sound of car tyres crunching on the gravel of the drive. McLean went to the front door, opening it just in time to see the departing rear lights of a taxi and the large, bulky shape of his unexpected visitor.
‘Rose. This is a surprise. Come in, please.’
Madame Rose, fortune teller, Tarot reader, antiquarian bookseller and purveyor of occult curios, smiled broadly as she stepped into the hall. She had dressed for cold weather, wrapped in a coat that a Russian Tsar might have worn through a Saint Petersburg winter, even though she’d presumably come all the way from her home in Leith comfortably warm inside the taxi.
‘Tony. It’s been too long.’
Now that she mentioned it, McLean realised it was true. He couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken to the medium. Had it been the winter, and all that trouble with the refugees? He shook away the thought as he took her coat, marvelling at the weight of the thing, then led her through to the library.
‘Emma out?’ Rose asked, after she’d settled herself on to the sofa.
‘In a manner of speaking. She’s gone to Africa to help identify bodies in a mass grave.’
Madame Rose raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, then gave the lightest of shrugs. ‘As long as she’s happy.’
‘From the emails and texts, I’d say so. It was a bit of a godsend Professor Turner showing up when she did. Em needed a change of scene.’
‘Professor Turner?’ Madame Rose tilted her head slightly, as if shaking loose a memory. ‘Oh yes, the forensic archaeologist. She was a student of your grandmother’s, I seem to recall. I didn’t know she was back in Edinburgh. And you, Tony. Have you been busy?’
The question came as something of a surprise. McLean was used to Madame Rose knowing everything, and yet the way she asked seemed entirely genuine.
‘Actually I’ve been on enforced leave for the best part of three months. There was a bit of a mess in the summer. You might have seen it on the news?’
‘I must confess, like dear Emma I have been away travelling myself. Only just got back to the city today. I’ve been catching up with a few important people and you are quite high up on that list.’
‘That might explain why you never warned me about the band of cannibals hiding out in the Moorfoot Hills then.’ McLean explained about the case, enjoying the look of surprise on the medium’s face. It wasn’t often he caught her off guard.
‘The Brotherhood of the Rose Well? I thought they had all died out a long time ago. A footnote in the arcane histories. Nothing more.’ She paused a moment, eyes unfocused, before coming back to herself with a small shudder. ‘How strange.’
‘And you?’ McLean asked to the silence that followed. ‘Your travels went well? Did you go anywhere interesting?’
Madame Rose smiled at that. ‘Oh, Tony. Everywhere I go is interesting. How could it not be, with me there? But yes, my travels went well. Alas, I return to a city that is . . . less happy.’
‘How so? I mean, I’ve been out of the loop a bit, but I’m sure I’d have heard.’
Madame Rose shook her head slowly. ‘Not the sort of thing Police Scotland would be expected to deal with. At least, not directly. The fallout? Well, I have a horrible feeling that will come soon enough.’
McLean pushed down his frustration at the medium. She had a habit of skirting around the subject, couching her words and generally being annoyingly enigmatic.
‘Anything more solid than vague hints?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Tony. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and I know it annoys you when I speak of dark forces and the balance of things. It is out of kilter all the same, though, whether you believe it or not. Something has upset the natural order. I fear it will be up to us to put it right. Again.’
‘I’d love to help, really. But I’m only just finding my way back into the new order at work. I’m no longer a DCI. Still a cat slave, though.’ McLean nodded at the creature as Mrs McCutcheon’s cat wandered into the room. She walked straight up to Rose, tail held high, then sat in a most un-catlike way and stared at the medium. The silence held for what was probably only a few seconds, but felt like hours. Almost as if the two of them were communicating in some telepathic manner. Rose was the one to break the moment.
‘I have a feeling you’ll be busy soon enough, Tony. With the job that is. Cat slave is for life, I’m afraid.’ Rose pressed her large hands to her knees and levered herself to her feet. ‘Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again, but I’ve other folk to get round before the night is out, so I’d best be getting on.’
‘Can I not get you something first? Tea perhaps?’ He turned to the bookcase and the secret compartment where all the good whisky hid. ‘Something stronger?’
Madame Rose shook her head slightly. ‘Perhaps another time. I hear you have some fifty-year-old Ardbeg in there. I could tell you a story or two about the head distiller who made that dram.’
Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stood up abruptly. Tail high, and twitching a little this time, she sauntered out of the room and Madame Rose followed as if she was being led. The cat stopped at the front door, clearly expecting McLean to do the menial work. He helped the medium back into her heavy winter coat and handed her the fur-lined hat that had gone with it.
‘It’s good to be back,’ she said as she took it from him. ‘And good to see you’re safe. Give Emma my love when you speak to her later.’
When he opened t
he door to let her out, a different taxi was already waiting. McLean helped Madame Rose into the back, then watched her leave, wondering all the while how she managed to pull off her little magic stage show. Back in the kitchen he retrieved his beer and picked up his phone from the table. He’d been planning on making the call, but Rose couldn’t have known that, surely?
He tapped the screen, then raised the phone to his ear, listening to the oddly foreign tones as the call spanned continents. Finally it was answered, a slightly weary voice too far away.
‘Hey, Tony.’
‘Hey, Em. How’s it going?’
9
Gary knows he’s out of his depth when a lad a bit younger than him comes up and offers to take his coat. Sure, the hotel’s posh in that old-fashioned way that makes him feel uncomfortable, but it makes him wonder how much money this Tommy Fielding’s going to charge for his services, too. The last lawyer wasn’t cheap, and he cost Gary his daughter as well as the fee.
He goes through to the bar feeling slightly naked now that he’s shed his outer skin. Fair play, the young lad hid his sneer at the cheap nylon parka, but Gary knows he sticks out here. Everyone’s wearing suits, even some of the women. He’s never backed down from a fight in his life, but this place gives him the heebie-jeebies. The urge to turn tail and flee is strong; he’d even consider leaving the parka behind.
‘You must be Gary.’
The voice takes him by surprise, as much that someone who isn’t being paid to serve customers here might talk to him as that they know his name. He turns to see one of the suited men not more than a couple of paces away from him. Taller by half a head, thinning hair and the beginnings of a paunch even his expensive suit can’t hide. He looks like the sort of lawyer you’d find defending the villain in a movie. Slick. That’s the word.
‘Mr Fielding?’
‘Call me Tommy, please.’ The suited man holds out a hand, and after a moment Gary takes it. The shake is firm, Fielding’s other hand coming around to clasp Gary’s elbow in that over-familiar way posh folk have. Only he’s not posh, not really. There’s an edge to his accent that’s working class, even if the man has made a lot of effort to hide it.
‘Tommy, aye.’ Gary retrieves his hand, resists the urge to wipe it on his jeans. Fielding’s handshake was firm, but his palm is damp with sweat. ‘Baz— Barry said he’d spoken to you.’
‘Poor old Bazza.’ Fielding shakes his head. ‘But we’re here to talk about you, not him. Here, let me buy you a drink.’
Gary’s confused as he follows Fielding to the bar. He doesn’t act like a lawyer, and when was the last time one of those offered to pay for anything? True, this might be softening him up before the kill, but it doesn’t feel like that. They take their drinks – a pint of posh lager for Gary, a double malt ruined by being poured over ice for Fielding – and sit down in a cosy alcove away from the hubbub. Not that the bar’s all that busy, mind. The prices they charge it’s hardly surprising.
‘So. Bazza tells me you’ve lost access to your daughter. Mary, isn’t it?’
Gary’s halfway through a mouthful of lager when Fielding says this, and swallows it badly. ‘You done your homework,’ he says, choking on the words.
‘Not really, no.’ Fielding shakes his head slowly, a thin smile on his lips. ‘It’s just a story I’ve heard all too often. There you are, trying to be the best father you can for your wee girl, and then all of a sudden it’s all taken away. Just like that.’ He snaps his fingers, the noise of it cracking in the air like a bone breaking.
‘Aye, well. It’s no—’
‘It exactly is, Gary. And don’t let them tell you otherwise.’ Fielding’s leaning in close now, eyes alive. ‘Let me guess. Lawyer came to you with an ultimatum. Give up all rights, or she presses charges and you go to jail, right?’
‘I—’
‘They didn’t give you time to think about it, did they, Gary? Just shoved the paper in front of you and bullied you into signing on the dotted line. Next thing you know, you’re on the street, no one to turn to, and no hope of ever seeing your daughter again.’
‘Well—’
‘That’s how they operate, Gary. How they get away with it. The court system is loaded against people like you and me.’
‘I— you?’ Gary finally manages to get a word in.
‘My boy. Jim. He’s almost twenty now, can you believe that? His mother tried to take him away. Succeeded for a while, but I fought back, right? Took it all the way to the Supreme Court. Learned a fair bit about how the system works against us while I was at it.’
‘And did you . . . ?’
‘Win?’ Fielding picks up his glass and stares at the melting ice cubes for a moment before answering. ‘Aye. After a fashion. I got my visiting rights back. It was a hollow victory, though. She’d poisoned his mind against me. The lies she told that I’ve only found out recently, now he’s grown.’
Gary reckons there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t say anything. His head’s still reeling from the cascade of events. How a simple slap has ended up with him here, talking about Supreme Courts and visiting rights and Christ only knows what else. Fielding swirls the remains of the whisky around for a moment before knocking it back, ice cubes clattering against his teeth. When he puts the glass down again, he fixes Gary with a determined stare.
‘You want to get your wee girl back, right? Want to be able to visit her whenever you choose, even if she’s living with . . .’ Fielding pauses as if the words ‘her mother’ are too hard to say. Gary knows the feeling.
‘Is that even possible?’
Fielding picks up his glass, stares at it and then over at the bar. ‘Trust me, Gary. Anything’s possible if you put your mind to it.’
10
A heavy dampness hung in the air, somewhere between fog and rain, it played havoc with the automatic sensor for his windscreen wipers as McLean drove west out of the city on the Balerno road. He’d not been this way for a while, but nothing much seemed to have changed. A marked difference from most of the other arterial roads, where ribbon development was spreading from the city like a metastasising cancer.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Detective Sergeant Harrison stared at her phone, occasionally tapping the screen as she used its navigation app to try and find the address they were looking for. Mains of Bairnfather Farm hadn’t shown up on the system built into the Alfa Romeo for some unaccountable reason. Perhaps because the whole area was a maze of single-track roads that seemed to be taking you in the right direction but ended at a locked gate into a field full of contented cows or another impenetrable stand of trees. McLean feared for the underside of his car as he backed his way out of the turn into a muddy farmyard and finally drew up outside a squat but sturdy stone-built house.
‘What’s the farmer’s name again?’ he asked.
‘Uist, sir. Tam Uist. We took a statement off him on the day, but I don’t think anyone’s spoken to him since. It was all a bit muddled when we first got the call. Nobody senior available to take charge, so we did the best we could. Thought we were just dealing with an accidental death, too, so there wasn’t much of a sense of urgency.’
‘Well, if Professional Standards hadn’t drawn out their inquiry for so long, maybe I’d have been on hand to help. It would still probably have been the same though. Best we can do is make up for lost time, eh?’
An inquisitive and noisy pair of Patterdale Terriers came racing around the corner of the building as McLean and Harrison climbed out of the car. They weren’t unfriendly, but their muddy paws and tendency to jump up in excitement meant McLean would be needing a clean pair of trousers soon. A sharp whistle had the two dogs turn as one and race away, meeting the man who must have been their owner as he appeared from the back door.
‘You’d be the polis, then?’ As he approached them, McLean saw he was wearing the farmer’s standard uniform
of grease-stained green John Deere overalls and heavy Rigger boots. He had a rag that was so dirty it could only smear the grime on his hands into a thin layer rather than clean any of it off.
‘Mr Uist?’ McLean asked.
‘Tam Uist, aye.’
‘Detective Inspector McLean. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Harrison. I understand you were the one who found Cecily Slater’s body, at the cottage in the woods.’
A sad frown creased the farmer’s face, his shoulders slumping as he let his hands drop. McLean was glad he’d not offered one to shake.
‘Aye, terrible business that. Poor Mistress Cecily. She was a grand old woman.’ He paused for a moment, then seemed to remember himself. ‘Come on in the house. I’ll get Margaret to put the kettle on.’
Margaret turned out to be a small, sturdy woman to Tam Uist’s thin and wiry frame. McLean was put in mind of the old nursery rhyme about Jack Spratt and his wife and their strange dietary foibles, but he kept that to himself as they were bade to sit at the kitchen table.
‘I spoke to one of the constables on the day,’ Tam said as he emerged from the utility room at the back of the house, drying his now much cleaner hands. ‘Big tall fellow. Told him all I knew then.’
‘This is more of a follow-up conversation, Mr Uist,’ McLean said. ‘We’re trying to get as much background information on the old lady as possible. I understand you visited her about once a week?’
The farmer pulled out one of the chairs and sat down as his wife busied herself at the cooker. ‘Only since the old bridge fell down. ’Fore that I’d sometimes see her every couple days if there was something needing done, or maybe not for a month if she wanted left alone.’
‘Was that common? For her to want to be left alone?’
Uist paused a moment before answering, partly to gather his thoughts, but mostly because his wife placed three mugs of tea down in front of them all, along with a plate piled with biscuits. She didn’t join them at the table but remained in the room. At first glance she appeared to be busying herself with cooking, but McLean knew someone wanting to eavesdrop on a conversation when he saw them.
