by James Oswald
That brought another smile, few teeth this time but predatory all the same. ‘That’s what I like about you, Tony. You attend to the little things, the seemingly unimportant details. Keep up the good work.’
Then she strode from the room and was gone.
McLean stared at the open office door for long minutes after the chief superintendent had left, unable to quite parse what had happened. On the face of it, he was being roped into more of the police liaison work he had studiously avoided over the course of his career. Part of him understood that it was necessary to meet the politicians and community bigwigs who had a vested interest in the way Police Scotland ran. Part of him even understood that these kinds of meetings usually took the form of social events, dinners, charity fundraisers and the like. What he couldn’t understand was why he needed to be involved. It was the kind of thing management did, and that meant uniformed officers of superintendent rank and above. Not some recently demoted detective inspector in the unglamorous world of Edinburgh CID. Elmwood’s excuse that he was, to put it bluntly, famous, held some water. And he was part of the city’s old guard, however much he disliked the idea. It was still a nuisance he could have done without.
Shaking his head at the stupidity of it all, he turned back to the conference table. As he slid his and the chief superintendent’s chairs back into line with all the others, he noticed the box that he and Harrison had found in Cecily Slater’s cupboard. He’d put it on the table, intending to go through it more carefully once he’d finished sorting out all the overtime sheets for the week. It would probably have been quicker simply to hand the whole thing over to one of the new DCs to leaf through, except that they were all busy, and the box didn’t seem to be particularly relevant to the investigation. McLean didn’t quite know why he was drawn to it. There wasn’t much chance they’d find a clue in among the ancient papers, but they called to him all the same.
He picked up the box, looking around almost guiltily as he saw the word written on the lid again. Burntwoods. A big old house somewhere near Carnoustie in Angus. He wanted to look it up, but there was too much work to do. Leaving the box on the table was no good; it would continue to sing its siren song and soon enough he’d give in. So he tucked it under one arm and strode out of the room.
A few uniformed officers offered greetings or nodded politely as he tramped down the stairs from the third floor to the basement. It always surprised McLean how much the atmosphere of the station changed as he descended from the ugly concrete building thrown up in the eighties and into the older, arched-stone levels of the Victorian station that had stood on this site before. Why they hadn’t dug everything up and started from scratch, he’d never been able to find out. Not that he’d tried all that hard. It remained one of life’s little mysteries.
The Cold Case Unit had its centre of operations in what had once either been an evidence locker or a drunk tank, depending on which grizzled old sergeant you asked. Quite probably it had been both, but now it was little more than a file store with a few desks shoehorned into whatever available space could be found. The only natural light in the room came from a lightwell at one end that opened up on to the car park at the rear of the building. At the other end, ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid’s desk sat empty.
McLean glanced quickly at his watch, surprised to find that it was, indeed, late enough for Dagwood to have gone home. As far as he was aware, the CCU weren’t deep into any particular case at the moment, but were working their slow and methodical way through an altogether far too long list of unsolved murders.
‘You just missed him.’ A familiar voice piped up from the shadows, and moments later Grumpy Bob stepped into the light, clasping a thick archive file in both hands. He shuffled over to his desk and gave the file a theatrical blow across its surface, as if to remove dust, before dropping it down on to the desktop.
‘Afternoon, Bob. Didn’t realise you were back already.’
Grumpy Bob lowered himself into his seat with a gentle ‘oof’ noise, much like the one McLean found himself making whenever he bent down to pick something up off the floor these days.
‘I’ve been back the better part of two months, Tony. Not as if I had anything much better to do, and this . . .’ he held up the dusty folder ‘. . . beats sitting at home watching the telly until it’s time to go to the pub.’
‘Guess I’m the one who’s been out of the loop, then. You settling in here OK?’
‘My natural element. And I can pretty much keep my own hours. Dagwood’s not so bad a boss now he’s not having to balance budgets and deal with too many idiots. As retirements go, it’s worked out fine.’ Grumpy Bob dropped the folder, leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on the desk. Then he seemed to notice the box tucked under McLean’s arm. ‘Except when people bring me unexpected gifts.’
‘This? I don’t know what you mean.’ McLean placed the box on Grumpy Bob’s desk as the ex-detective sergeant removed his feet from the suspiciously clean surface and leaned forward for a better look.
‘Burntwoods. Why does that name ring a bell?’ He pulled the lid off and lifted out a handful of papers from inside.
‘Big old house outside Arbroath or Carnoustie or somewhere. Don’t think it’s there any more, but for some reason or other our murder victim, Cecily Slater, spent time there as a child. Found that in her house.’
‘The fire in the woods? Aye, heard about that. Not a nice way to go.’ Grumpy Bob pulled a grubby pair of reading spectacles out of his breast pocket and slid them on before leafing slowly through the papers. He stopped when he reached the first black and white photograph of the mansion, let out a low whistle.
‘It’s probably nothing to do with the case at all. Just something the old lady kept as a memento of childhood. I can’t really justify giving it to the team to research, but . . .’
‘You thought I might have some time on my hands?’ Grumpy Bob arched an eyebrow, then grinned. ‘Aye, I’ll have a look through it all. It’ll cost you, mind.’
‘How does a pint up front sound? More when I see the work.’
Grumpy Bob was on his feet more swiftly than a man half his age. ‘Sounds like a fine excuse to get out of this gloomy basement.’
Interlude
She is asleep when they break down the door, still groggy as they pull her from her bed. Too dazed to understand what is happening, she is hauled outside without a fight. Not that she would have been able to do much to these strong, young labourers.
The light dazzles her, coming so soon after the darkness of her tiny cottage. But she can see the crowd gathered on the scrubby grass. She knows these people, they are her neighbours. She has helped them out over the years, attended at the births of more than a few. Is that not Murdo McKenzie there, with his wife Bethan? It was only last week she sent him that salve for the boils on his leg. Perhaps that is why he won’t meet her eye.
‘Kathrine Black.’
The words are not a question. She turns her head and sees the man standing a few paces off. She does not know his name, but his black clothes and dour face leave her in no doubt as to who he is.
‘You stand accused of the practice of witchcraft. That you did consort with the devil and cast curses upon your kinfolk. Confess your sin, repent your evil ways and God will welcome you back into his embrace.’
The young men turn her around so that she can face the man, but before she can respond they force her to the ground. She kicks out, catching one of her captors a blow to the chest, but he barely grunts before grabbing her leg once more. Out of nowhere, a hand catches her a blow to the head and the world dims around her for a while.
‘Lay not your hand upon her, brother,’ the man says. ‘It is not for us to force the devil from her. By her own word will she condemn or save herself.’
They pin her to the ground, arms and legs outstretched, and all she can do is shake her
head as two more men bring a stout wooden board into view. She has only enough time to see that it is her own front door before it is placed on top of her. Head forced to one side, she sees the mud-spattered riding boots of the dark man as he approaches, hears his words muffled by the planks.
‘How do you plead, witch? Guilty or no’?’
The cruelty in his voice is laced with an edge of glee. She cannot answer. Nothing she might say would ever satisfy the likes of him. He seeks not justice for any wrongdoing, nor salvation for her soul. He wants only power for himself.
‘Nothing?’ he asks, crouched down close to her. Then his voice fades as he stands, turns, addresses someone else. ‘The rocks. A little weight will loosen her tongue.’
She grunts as the first rock pushes the door down onto her. Sharp stones in the ground stab into her back. A second rock cracks the dry wood, its weight making it almost impossible for her to breathe.
‘Confess, Kathrine. Repent and you will be with God.’
The third stone drives the air from her in a short, whistling gasp. She cannot draw another in. Panic plucks at her like night terrors, but there is nothing she can do. Even the strong men at her arms and legs need no longer hold her; she has no strength left, no life.
‘Not one word of contrition? Then may you rot in hell.’ The man’s voice is distant now, the terrors receding as the darkness comes to take her. The people from the village, folk she has known all their lives, stand silent witness to her death.
Their silence is one final mockery, a dreadful mimicry of her own affliction, and here at the last she hates them all for being so weak, so craven, so superstitious. She would curse them if she could, but such was beyond her even before they crushed her with rocks. For even had she air to speak, she could not form the words. Malformed tongue and crooked neck, she has been mute since the day she was born.
23
Early morning, and McLean sat at his desk, squinting at the screen of his laptop. The sun streaming in low through the window that formed one entire wall of the room made it almost impossible to see the words of the email. Sadly, he knew that wouldn’t wash as an excuse. He’d realised that it would only be a matter of time before the first of the chief superintendent’s invitations came in, but had hoped he’d be given more than a few hours’ notice. A function at the North British Hotel wasn’t exactly onerous, but that same evening? Had to be a mistake, surely. He couldn’t be expected to jump so quickly, not even if the station chief commanded it.
Frustrated, he picked up the desk phone and after a couple of abortive attempts managed to find the right number. The chief superintendent herself didn’t answer, of course. She had secretaries for that. In some ways that made things easier.
‘Chief Superintendent Elmwood’s office. Helen speaking.’
Helen. McLean tried to picture the woman. Short, mid-fifties, dark hair going chaotically grey, nice smile. ‘Hi Helen, it’s Tony McLean here. About the chief superintendent’s email. I wonder if I could—’
‘Ah yes, the Safe Streets Committee. Gail was particularly keen you join her as the representative of Specialist Crime Division.’
‘But it’s this evening.’
‘That’s right. Seven o’clock sharp. Gail will meet you there.’
‘I . . . But . . . Wait. She’s going to this thing anyway? Why do I need to be there?’
‘As I understand it, Detective Inspector, there’s always a representative from plain clothes at these functions. The chief superintendent is attending because she feels the need to engage with the community as much as possible. You know how it is, surely? She’s come up from England and that can put people’s backs up a little. Helps to have a local on hand to smooth the waves, as it were.’
‘Could I possibly have a word with her? I had . . .’ He was going to lie and say plans, but before he could get the word out, Helen had interrupted him again.
‘I’m afraid she’s over at Gartcosh in meetings all day. You could try her mobile, but I suspect it will be switched off. You know how annoyed the chief constable gets when he’s interrupted.’
Bloody marvellous. McLean rubbed at his forehead as if that would make the inevitable easier to accept. It didn’t really help.
‘Seven o’clock, Detective Inspector. It shouldn’t last more than a couple of hours.’ Helen’s voice was cheery but insistent, and he was beginning to reconsider the merits of her smile. Before he could say anything more however, she had hung up, leaving him with a quiet hissing on the now dead line.
He sat there, head in hand, phone to his ear, for what felt like an age but was probably only a few tens of seconds before a light knock at the open door distracted him. For a moment he wondered whether it was Helen come down the corridor to apologise for her rude behaviour, but instead he was greeted by a worried smile from Detective Sergeant Harrison.
‘Morning, sir. Hope this isn’t a bad time?’ She put a light inflection at the end of the sentence as if she meant it as a question, or had turned Australian.
‘Nothing I can’t cope with.’ McLean put the phone receiver back in its cradle. ‘Morning, Janie. This about the building site accident you texted me about at crack of sparrow?’
‘Aye, sir. Didn’t know whether to call you out or just let you know. Decided I could handle it for now, but you might want to have a look for yourself. It’s . . . weird.’
‘Weird?’ He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. There’d been too much weird about recently and the last thing he needed was even more. ‘Remind me where it was again?’
‘Up Liberton Brae. You know, the new apartment block?’
McLean did. It was an eyesore, but then so was the building he was sitting in. ‘How bad?’
‘One dead. Name of Don Purefoy. He’s . . . was the sales rep for the development. Nobody’s really sure why he was out on site last night, but the poor sod got crushed by a rockfall. One of those big steel mesh things filled with boulders?’
‘Gabions?’
‘Aye, that’s the word. Seems one of them failed, spilled out all the rocks just as Purefoy was walking past. Talk about bad timing.’
‘And you suspect it’s more than just an accident?’
‘Well that’s the thing. I’ve spoken to site security and the head engineer. They can’t see how it can be deliberate, and looking at it I can see what they mean. Guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And these were big rocks, see?’ Harrison held her hands wide enough to explain how they might easily have killed a man.
‘But you don’t like the smell of it, right?’
‘I guess it all just looked too neat. The way it happened. When they found him he was on his back, arms wide. Huge boulder on his chest, a couple more either side of him. But somehow the rockfall managed to miss his head.’ A slight shudder ran through Harrison’s frame. ‘And there was no blood, no shattered bone. You’d think it’d be like a car crash, but no. Looked more like that one big rock had been placed on top of him. Only there’s no way it could have.’
McLean rubbed at his face, finding a rough patch on his jawline the morning’s hurried shave had missed. He’d be a right mess come the evening. Ah well, that’s what happened when you sprang surprises on him, and the sooner the chief superintendent worked that out, the better.
‘We’ll need a report for the PF anyway, so might as well get started on that. I take it Health and Safety are investigating too?’
‘Arrived just as I was leaving, sir. As did the pathologist.’ Harrison checked her watch. ‘Body should be at the mortuary by now. They had to bring in heavy machinery to move the boulder first.’
McLean took a moment to gather his wits. They needed another investigation like a hole in the head, but he was prepared to trust Harrison’s instinct on this. If she thought something was amiss, then he wasn’t about to stop her finding out what, and how. It’s what he would h
ave done, regardless of whatever his superior officers told him.
‘OK, Janie. Gather up as much intel on the dead man as you can. We can decide how to proceed once the post-mortem’s done.’ He stood up, shrugged the stiffness out of his shoulders and came to join her at the door. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see someone in the basement.’
The noise and bustle decreased to almost nothing as McLean descended into the bowels of the earth, a welcome silent calm falling over him with each step downwards. How much nicer it would be if he could leave all the office politics and unnecessary bureaucracy behind, find himself a permanent desk in the Cold Case Unit. Spend his time poring over dusty archives and chasing down long-forgotten clues.
‘The Detective Inspector returns. There goes my morning.’ Ex-Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid looked up from whatever he’d been reading, slowly taking off his spectacles like some disappointed teacher as McLean stepped into the room. Maybe working live cases upstairs wasn’t so bad after all.
‘Grumpy Bob not in?’ he asked, scanning the empty desks.
‘Detective Sergeant Laird has gone off in search of decent coffee.’ Duguid picked up his mobile phone, glanced at the screen, then put it back down again. Presumably checking the time, since there was no chance of a signal surrounded by so much stone and so deep underground. ‘He’s a creature of habit, so I reckon he’ll be another five minutes. Was there anything in particular you wanted him for? Only he’s meant to be sorting out the witness statements for a hit and run in ’ninety-five we never got to the bottom of.’
‘Just something peripheral to the old lady we found dead out in the woods on the Bairnfather Estate. He might not have had time to look at it yet if you’ve got him working something else.’
Duguid polished his spectacles with a red spotted handkerchief for a moment, his expression impossible to read as ever. ‘Heard about them knocking you back to DI. I’m guessing you’re not too upset about that.’
