by James Oswald
‘OK. So Stephen Whitaker somehow managed to burn himself to death without setting the tenement, his room or even the chair he was sitting in on fire.’ McLean massaged his temples. He’d known this was going to be one of those awkward cases from the moment he’d seen the body, but what they’d found out so far only made it worse. ‘When’s the PM?’
DC Blane glanced at his watch. ‘Half three, sir. You want me to go?’
McLean was tempted, but shook his head. ‘No, you get on with Cecily Slater’s financials. DC Mitchell, Cassandra? You help him. The rest of you keep working on her profile for any possible motive. We need to focus our attention on her, at least until we know whether Whitaker’s death was accidental or not. I’ll go and see if Angus can explain how a man can just spontaneously burst into flames.’
Despite the state-of-the-art air conditioning system in the city mortuary, McLean could smell the stench of burned flesh before he even entered the examination theatre. Angus was waiting for him, scrubs on and gloved up. Beside him, his assistant Doctor Sharp busied herself with the instruments of torture. A third figure sat on a stool a few paces away and waved as McLean entered. Doctor MacPhail had started to go grey since the last time they’d met, no doubt the strain of working alongside a man like Cadwallader.
‘Late as ever, Tony. I was about to start without you.’
‘I almost didn’t come. Wasn’t sure there was much left for you to examine.’ McLean reached a point well away from the examination table, but close enough that he could observe, then stopped. The body lay under a white sheet, and he could see from the way it hung that large parts were missing.
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Cadwallader muttered, then turned his attention to the job in hand. Doctor Sharp rolled back the sheet to reveal the dead man’s head and a portion of his chest. It was impossible to make out much of Steve Whitaker’s features, as the fire had burned away most of his skin. Black chunks of charred muscle clung to bone in a manner horribly reminiscent of flame-grilled meat. McLean fought back the bile that rose in his throat at the thought. He’d attended far more post-mortem examinations in his career than he cared to think about; it was a long time since one had made him feel like being sick.
‘Subject is male, approximately one hundred and eighty centimetres tall. Hard to give an exact figure as a large section of his torso appears to have been burned away.’ Cadwallader worked his way around the body, peering close every so often, taking samples and handing them to Doctor Sharp to label for later analysis. It wasn’t possible to open him up, since the fire had already done that, so McLean was at least spared that unpleasantness.
‘Thighs have been badly scorched on the front, but the damage from burning does not appear to extend down below the knees. Subject was found in a seated position and this would suggest that the fire occurred while he was sitting down.’
‘What could have done this, Angus? You’d need some fierce heat, surely?’ McLean inched a little closer as he asked the question, drawn in by a morbid fascination at the damage done.
‘I’m really not sure, Tony. There’s a few things that might do it. Phosphorous, perhaps. Magnesium. Some kind of incendiary weapon. We’ll screen for residues when we analyse the samples, of course, but . . .’ Cadwallader shrugged. ‘He’d have to have swallowed the damned stuff to end up like this, and even then it would have taken his head off first.’
McLean clenched at the image, took a step back. Despite the chill air in the mortuary, sweat beaded in his armpits and dripped uncomfortably down his side.
‘The hands are interesting, see?’ Cadwallader addressed these words to Doctor MacPhail, which was something of a relief. McLean watched as the two pathologists leaned over one of the forearms that were laid out in their correct place anatomically alongside the remains of the body. That they weren’t still attached was made evident when Cadwallader picked up the arm and turned it over to inspect the palm of the hand.
‘Again, no sign of burning here, which is strange. You’d think if he’d dropped something on his lap that caught fire, he’d grab at it, try to get it off. You’d expect extensive burning to the fingertips and palms. The only damage here is some abrasion of the skin and a tear in one fingernail.’ Cadwallader put the arm back down again, held up his own hand and formed it into a claw. ‘He was gripping the arms of the chair so hard he almost broke his fingers. Of course, that could have been muscle contraction due to the fire. He may have already been dead at that point.’
‘Could he have, I don’t know, accidentally set himself alight while drunk? We found some booze in his room, but you’d have to be pretty hammered to . . .’ McLean waved a hand at the body.
‘That’s actually my working hypothesis. Did a little reading on the subject last night. Not Dickens, in case you were wondering. Some more scholarly works on the subject. If your man here had been, as you put it, hammered before he came home, carried on drinking until he was in a stupor, he might well have set himself alight with a cigarette or something. It happens, although the damage isn’t usually this localised.’
‘But there’s no glaringly obvious sign of foul play, I take it.’ McLean wasn’t sure whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no. If this was nothing but an unfortunate accident, they could get on with all the other work that needed doing. It felt wrong to be looking for the easy way out, though. Regardless of the things he’d heard about Steve Whitaker, the man deserved his death to be properly investigated.
‘We’ll know more once the chemical analysis is done, although given the state of him I doubt anything will be conclusive.’ Cadwallader shook his head slowly. ‘No, if you want evidence of foul play, I think you’ll have to look elsewhere.’
21
He’s never been one for drinking during the day, but then in almost ten years since he last walked out through the school gates, Gary’s never been out of a job either, so he’s hardly had the opportunity. He’s worked hard, played hard, lived his life. Until a month ago, it was all going well. He had a partner, a kid, a home. The city was booming, new buildings going up all over the place. No shortage of work for a strong man who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. How the fuck did it all fall apart so quickly?
‘Heard you were in a spot of bother, Gary.’
A figure slides on to the stool beside him, elbows on the bar. Gary’s slow to respond. He’s not had that much to drink really, just enough to take the edge off his anger. Or maybe stoke it. When he does look round he almost falls off his seat, slopping beer on to his hand in surprise.
‘Mr Fielding?’
‘Tommy, please. I heard from your mate Bazza they let you go at the building site. You should have said, back at the meeting.’
‘I didnae think . . . No’ wi those women screaming an’ all.’ And there was the small matter of not knowing how he was going to pay the lawyer, if he didn’t have a job.
‘Not good. Not good at all.’ Fielding shakes his head a couple of times, then the barman arrives. ‘I’ll have a double scotch. On ice. You wanting another, Gary?’
Gary looks at his pint, still three quarters full, and only the third to go with his burger and chips for lunch. ‘Ta, but no. Should probably lay off a bit. ’S no good for your health, aye?’
‘Everything in moderation, my friend.’ Fielding nods to the barman to indicate he’s only needing the one drink. ‘Including moderation.’
‘What brings you to this end of town then?’ Gary asks once the lawyer’s got his whisky. Gary’s never been one for spirits. Too fiery, and he tends to get a bit violent after one too many drams. Christ, he’d had a couple with Baz the night he’d slapped Bella, but she was asking for that, the cow. Yapping on and on about how she was the only one doing any work around there when she didn’t even have a job. The cheek of it.
‘Actually, I was looking for you.’
That gets his full attention. ‘For me? Why?’
&
nbsp; ‘Because you’ve been fucked over, Gary. First your child taken from you, then your house. Now you’re out of a job. I heard it was that Sheila Manley woman did the firing. Not the first time she’s been brought in by senior management to “make strategic adjustments to the payroll”.’ Fielding makes little rabbit ears with his fingers as he speaks, which only confuses Gary more.
‘Eh?’
‘She’s a professional firer, Gary. That’s her job. Telling people like you that they’re no longer needed, and ten years of service to the company means fuck all. Christ, I bet she didn’t even offer you a decent severance.’
‘I got a month’s pay. That’s no’ bad.’
Fielding shakes his head slowly. ‘Gary, that’s awful. You should have had at least a month’s pay for every year you worked there. And a couple of months’ extra as a goodwill gesture. Tell me you didn’t sign the forms, aye?’
Gary’s confused. He’d signed forms. Thought he was getting a good deal. Fuck, had they stiffed him even worse than he’d thought? He’d fucking kill that bitch if he ever saw her again. He’d—
A hand on his arm. The lightest of touches. He looks down, then follows the hand, up the arm to Fielding’s face. It’s like the lawyer can read his thoughts.
‘Anger’s good, Gary. But only if it’s properly focused. I can help you do that. Help you get what’s rightly yours.’
Gary’s rage disappears almost as swiftly as it had come, and now it’s replaced by booze-tinged self-loathing. ‘I can’t afford a lawyer. Couldn’t before, when it was my wee girl I was fightin’ for. But now? It’s hopeless. If I cannae get another job, what am I goin’ to do?’
Fielding takes his hand away. He clasps his whisky glass and rolls it slowly from side to side, leaving a wet smear of condensation on the bar top.
‘Do you know what pro bono means?’
Of course Gary doesn’t. ‘Isn’t he the singer in that old Irish band?’
That gets a smile from the lawyer. ‘No, it means I work for free. Literally pro bono publicum means “for the public good”, but we won’t quibble.’
‘Nah, now you’re taking the piss.’ Gary laughs, swigs from his beer. ‘Lawyers never work for free.’
‘You’re right. We don’t. But we don’t always charge money, either. There’s things you can help me with, Gary. Things I think you’d want to do anyway. And if you help me, then I can help you get your old life back. At least, those bits of it you actually want back.’
Gary’s still two and a half pints down, but his head’s beginning to clear now it’s got something to work on other than moping. He doesn’t know what to make of Fielding, but he’s not going to turn down an offer of help. He raises his glass towards the lawyer. ‘Aye, sure.’
Fielding raises his own glass, leans forward and clinks it against the pint. ‘To a better future, where we’re not constantly being ordered around by women. A world without witches.’
It’s an odd thing to say, but it makes sense too. Gary grins, feeling better than he has in days. ‘A world wi’out witches. Aye. I’ll drink tae that.’
22
‘What’s this I hear about you bringing a cat in for questioning, Tony?’
McLean looked up from his desk to see the unexpected figure of the new chief superintendent standing in his open doorway. Half a day spent wading through paperwork, staff allocations and case reviews written in prose so dry it might catch fire in the sunlight, any distraction was welcome. Acting on instinct, he stood up and was halfway across the room before her words sunk in.
‘I . . . Who on earth told you that?’
‘Ah, so you don’t deny it then.’
‘Well, there was a cat. I’ll give you that much, ma’am. I don’t think it’s going to be answering many questions though, and I didn’t bring it in. Just picked it up and took it to the vet for a check-up. Hoped it might be chipped so we could find out who owned it, but no such luck. It’s too tame to be feral, so my best guess is it belonged to the dead woman, Cecily Slater.’
McLean realised that he was babbling, wondered why. The look on the chief superintendent’s face was one of barely suppressed laughter, the faintest of lines wrinkling from the corners of her eyes in a genuine smile. It made a welcome change from the fake camaraderie of the previous station chief.
‘Please, Tony. Call me Gail. “Ma’am” makes me feel as old as my grandma.’
McLean shrugged, indicated with his outstretched hand that they have a seat at the conference table across the room. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ he asked. ‘I can just about manage coffee.’
That got him another smile, albeit brief. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Try not to drink the stuff after lunchtime.’
McLean pulled out two chairs, letting the chief superintendent sit before he did the same. He supposed technically it was after lunchtime now, although he’d not managed to eat anything since breakfast.
‘How are things progressing with the Cecily Slater case?’ the chief superintendent asked.
‘More slowly than I’d like. I wish I’d been there at the start of the investigation. Seem to be going over a lot of old ground, finding out things that we should have known much sooner.’
‘Like the fact that she’s part of the Bairnfather dynasty, yes.’ The chief superintendent’s smile faded a little as she said this, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening.
‘You’ve heard that, then.’
‘I had a phone call. Someone who really should know better and could just as easily have called you, or Jayne. I think they were trying to make a point, and that pisses me off.’
‘Now you know why I never wanted to be a DCI. It’s bad enough trying to carry out an investigation when there’s hardly any evidence. We don’t need people telling us to be careful about upsetting rich folk.’
‘Nevertheless, we do need to be careful. And you especially. Your reputation on that front isn’t exactly . . . stellar.’
McLean opened his mouth to protest, then his brain caught up with him. She had a point. He didn’t like it when people misused their power and privilege to avoid the consequences of their actions, and he really didn’t like it when they put unnecessary obstacles in his way in an attempt to protect reputations that weren’t worth a damn anyway. He closed his mouth before saying so, though. Elmwood had already put her neck on the block reinstating him; he owed her at least a little understanding.
‘Good. I see you get my point,’ she said, and the smile returned. Only this time there was an altogether more predatory look to it. ‘And to that end, there’s something I need you to do for me.’
It sounded a touch ominous, and something of that must have shown on his face. The chief superintendent gave a short, mocking laugh. ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that, Tony. Dear me, no. But I do need you to represent Police Scotland, and particularly Edinburgh CID at various functions going forward.’
‘Functions?’ McLean tried to keep the horror out of his voice, but might have failed.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not sending you in to meet the Freemasons alone or anything like that.’ The chief superintendent held her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. ‘There are a number of liaison committees, statutory bodies and the like. And we have a need for representation at charity events, local business forums – you know. Functions.’
McLean said nothing. There was nothing he could think of to say.
‘There’s a kind of unofficial rota among the senior officers. If an invitation comes in and the CC doesn’t like the look of it, he passes it down to me and the other chief superintendents. We pass it on to each other or anyone else we think might be suitable. Sometimes we’ll double up if necessary. That’s where you come in.’
‘Me?’ McLean finally managed to gather his wits. ‘But I’m just a DI.’
Elmwood’s smile reminded him of a nature documentary about sharks he’d
seen in the months of his suspension from active duties, broad and threatening and containing far too many teeth.
‘Yes, you’re only a DI in rank, Tony. But you’re time-served. One of our most experienced detectives. And more than that, people have heard of you. They want to meet you. And that takes the pressure off.’
There was something more to it than that, he could tell. Even if he wasn’t quite sure what. It made sense too, in a mad, twisted kind of way. If he was the centre of attention at whatever function it was the chief superintendent had in mind, then all the talk would be about the sensational horror of the cases he’d investigated, and none of it would be about the need for budget cuts, or complaints about too many Strathclyde officers getting free with their stop and search powers when they were shipped across to Edinburgh to walk the beat.
‘Do you have any particular function in mind?’ He stopped himself from adding ‘ma’am’ at the end, and there was no way he was going to call the chief superintendent ‘Gail’.
‘I knew you’d understand.’ She reached out and patted him gently on the arm, and McLean felt horribly like a small boy being admonished by matron. Except that this matron was much the same age as him, and he wasn’t a small boy. Why did she make him feel so uncomfortable?
‘Where’s the cat now?’ Elmwood asked as she stood up. It took McLean a moment to understand the question, coming as it did so far from the left of field. He was slow to stand, almost tipping his chair over in the process.
‘The cat,’ she continued. ‘The one you were bringing in for interrogation? Or taking to the vet’s or whatever? I presume it’s off to the local shelter for rehoming now.’
‘I . . .’ And now McLean felt unaccountably awkward again. ‘Actually, it’s at my place. Seemed easiest in the long run, and it’s not as if I’ve a lack of space.’
