by James Oswald
At least he wouldn’t be left alone with the woman. ‘I suppose so, if it’s to support Kirsty.’
‘Try not to look so miserable about it, eh?’
McLean pasted a fake smile on to his face. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
‘You do keep sending us the most interesting specimens, Tony. Please keep up the good work.’
McLean stood in his usual position in the mortuary examination theatre. Close enough to see the body and hear what the pathologist had to say, but not so close he could see the details when the scalpel came out. Today it was Tom MacPhail in charge, but Angus Cadwallader had come along to see him work. Brian Galloway’s pale, naked body lay on the table in front of them.
‘What’s so interesting about this one?’ McLean asked.
‘Well, there’s the fact that he drowned for starters.’ MacPhail bent close to the dead man’s head, pushed open his jaws and peered into his mouth.
‘Drowned? He was in his living room.’
‘Yes, but his lungs were full of fluid, poor chap. That’s what did for him.’
McLean searched his memory for anything medical that might account for this, but had to admit his knowledge fell short. ‘Is that . . . How can that happen?’
‘Surprisingly easily, actually,’ Cadwallader said. ‘It’s how a lot of people die of the flu. Their lungs inflame with the virus, secrete mucus that fills up all the little branches where the oxygen in your breath can cross into the blood, and the carbon dioxide go the other way.’
‘But he didn’t have the flu, did he? Isn’t it a bit early for it yet?’
‘Ah, Tony. Influenza can strike any time of the year. But you’re right. He didn’t have the flu. Something else triggered a massive and rapid inflammation in his lungs. It would have been extremely distressing, and reflex would have closed off his throat to stop him breathing in more liquid. Except that he hadn’t breathed it in, and now he couldn’t get it out. Dry drowning, they call it. More common in children, but it can happen in adults.’
‘Any idea what caused it?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question.’ MacPhail looked up from his work, his white latex gloves smeared with blood and ichor, scalpel held aloft. ‘He shouldn’t have reacted badly to those painkillers you found, even if he’d mixed them with alcohol. Of course, he might have taken something else we don’t know about, but the tests we’ve done so far haven’t come up with anything suspicious. I’ve asked for the painkillers to be analysed just to be sure they’re what’s written on the label.’
‘You think they might not be what they say they are?’
MacPhail lifted both hands in a shrug, narrowly missing Cadwallader with the scalpel. ‘I’m no detective, but that’d be one way to kill someone and hide the evidence, wouldn’t it? Swap his pills? But given they’re in blister packs, it’s unlikely. That’s a lot of trouble to go to.’
‘Anything’s possible, I suppose. Who’d want to kill him though?’
‘Well, anyone who likes decent music for a start.’ MacPhail went back to the cadaver, still talking while he guddled around inside. ‘Seriously though, it’s a strange way for an adult to die, even one who’s probably abused his body more than most.’
‘But not something you’ve never seen before?’ McLean asked.
MacPhail frowned in concentration, as if dredging the very depths of his memory. ‘Once or twice, maybe. More often in kids, like I said. The thing is, that usually goes along with heavy inflammation in the lungs. This chap . . .’ He waved his hand at the body, and for a horrible moment McLean thought he was going to dig the organs out and start showing him. ‘There’s a little inflammation, but he looks more like I’d expect if he’d fallen in his swimming pool while stoned, if you know what I mean. Except without the puckered skin and general dampness.’
McLean had left the mortuary fully intending to take the results of Galloway’s post-mortem straight to the chief superintendent and let her decide whether or not to pursue the matter any further. The short walk back to the station had given him time to think it through a little more, so he diverted to Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s office instead. In a reversal of their morning meeting, he was now the one knocking on the door frame.
‘You got a minute, Jayne?’
McIntyre sat at her desk, half-moon spectacles perched on the end of her nose, squinting at a report. Judging by the two piles – one small, one large – she’d been working through a lot of them.
‘A minute, an hour. Anything to get away from these damned things.’ She closed the folder, but not before slipping a piece of paper in to mark where she’d got to. McLean noticed that she returned it to the larger of the two piles. More left to do than done. He knew the feeling all too well.
‘I’ve just got back from the mortuary, checking in on Brian Galloway’s post-mortem.’
‘Galloway?’ McIntyre looked momentarily confused. ‘He’s the one Gail wanted you looking into? How on earth would she even know him?’
‘I tried asking her, believe me. She’s quite good at not answering questions, so I thought I’d let you know first that the verdict is he drowned.’
That got him a raised eyebrow. ‘Drowned?’
‘Well, his lungs were full of fluid. Possibly a bad reaction to his painkillers. You know he’d apparently fallen down the steps of Fleshmarket Close a while back? Broke his nose and three fingers.’
‘I don’t like the way you say “apparently”, Tony. What are you not telling me?’
‘He was with a mate, who also took a tumble. Blew out his knee and ruptured a testicle. They were both treated at the Royal Infirmary. The thing is, there’s no report of any incident like that in the Old Town that night.’
‘So they weren’t hurt enough to need an ambulance. Too embarrassed to call one even if they were.’
‘There was, however, an attack on a young woman who made more than a good accounting for herself. Trained in self-defence, and perhaps a little bit more. She was jumped by two middle-aged men, dragged into a close off the Royal Mile. Same date, same time.’
McIntyre pulled off her spectacles and placed them on the desk, paying him more attention now. ‘Have you interviewed this young woman? Is she a suspect in Galloway’s death?’
‘Yes, and no. She never reported the incident officially, claims she wouldn’t be able to identify the men if she saw them again anyway. All she knows is what she did to them, which was pretty specific.’
‘And pretty brutal, by the sound of things. You don’t think she went back to finish off the job, then?’
‘No. She didn’t know the identities of the men, and she’s got a cast-iron alibi for the night Galloway died. And before you ask, Galloway didn’t succumb to his injuries. Tom was fairly sure about that.’
‘Hmm.’ McIntyre leaned back in her seat and folded her arms. ‘So why are you bringing this sorry tale to me then?’
‘Galloway’s is the third unusual death since I came back to work. Not including Cecily Slater, which we know was murder.’ McLean counted them off on his fingers. ‘We had Steve Whitaker spontaneously combusting down in Meadowbank. Then there was Don Purefoy who somehow managed to get himself crushed under a rockfall that didn’t mangle his body so much as squeeze the life out of him. And now Brian Galloway drowns in his living room.’
‘People die every day, Tony. You and I know that better than most folk.’
‘Aye, true. But they’re not all past clients of Tommy Fielding though, are they?’
At the mention of the name, McIntyre reached forward and picked up her spectacles. She didn’t put them on, but fidgeted with them for a while before speaking.
‘What are you implying?’ she asked.
‘I’m not implying anything, Jayne. He’s represented enough people over the years, it might just be a coincidence. But you know how I feel about coincidences. I�
�ve also heard a few rumours about Fielding recently that go way beyond the stuff he gets up to with his fathers’ rights advocacy.’
‘And you know how I feel about rumours, Tony.’ McIntyre seemed to notice that she was playing with her spectacles, studying them for a few seconds before putting them down again. ‘Fielding is also . . . tricky. You know what he’s like. We all do. Poking around in his business without a very good, justifiable reason could blow up in our faces.’
‘I’m working on it.’ McLean saw the look of horror that swept over the detective superintendent’s face, and quickly added ‘carefully’.
‘Just be sure that you are. And keep any suspicions well away from Fielding himself.’ McIntyre shook her head as if not quite able to believe she was agreeing with him. ‘You know he has the chief constable on speed dial, right? Plays golf with half of the Police Authority? What’s your plan of action?’
‘The young woman who was attacked? I’m trying to keep her name out of things for as long as possible. But she was one of the group protesting outside Fielding’s conference. She’s going to introduce me to her friends, give me the intelligence they’ve dug up on him. It might be tin-foil hat stuff, so I’ll treat it with due suspicion. They claim he has links to some banned organisations. White Supremacist and domestic terrorism stuff, so I’ll be sure to take it all with a good bagful of salt.’
McIntyre had her spectacles in her hands again, passing them back and forth, twisting the frame in a manner that was likely to lead to her needing a new pair soon. ‘You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s right, this new friend of yours. Doesn’t change the fact Fielding can and will make life miserable for anyone who annoys him.’
‘I’ll be sure to remember that when I speak to him, then.’
The snap was audible across the desk, and when McIntyre put her spectacles back down, one of the arms poked out at entirely the wrong angle. ‘Is that wise?’ she said through clenched teeth.
‘Someone needs to explain to him why the protesters were released without charge. Thought he’d probably take it better from a senior officer than some young detective sergeant not long in the rank. He’ll probably react better to a man, too, if any of what I’ve heard about him is true.’
‘And you just happen to want to talk to him about three unexplained deaths.’ McIntyre shook her head slowly. ‘Be careful, Tony. You think a few months of suspension is bad? Well Fielding is worse. Much worse. If you piss him off, it won’t just be you with a bit more time to spend in the garden. He’ll take the whole of Edinburgh CID apart. Don’t give him any reason to make our lives more difficult than they already are, OK?’
42
McLean had assumed he would find Tommy Fielding at the offices of his law firm, but a quick phone call redirected him to the nearby Scotston Hotel and conference centre.
‘Mr Fielding runs regular advocacy seminars out of the hotel, Inspector,’ the polite receptionist had told him. ‘There’s another one this weekend, and he likes to do his prep work over there. To be honest, I think he prefers it to the office.’
McLean remembered the Scotston, perhaps not particularly fondly, from his student days. It had been not much more than a step up from a doss house and knocking shop, renting rooms by the hour. Not that he’d ever been interested in rooms. It was the ratty Walter Scott bar that had drawn the more desperate students in search of a drink in the very small hours. As he stepped out of the squad car that had given him a lift across town, he was transported back all those too many years. An image of Phil Jenkins bent double, ridding himself of half a dozen pints of Guinness and an ill-advised kebab. McLean himself resting his hand on his flatmate’s shoulder as much for his own physical support as Phil’s moral. Happy times; he’d have to give Phil and Rae a call, since Emma wasn’t around to do it for him. It had been too long.
Much had changed in those intervening years. This part of town was no longer the haunt of prostitutes, at least not the sort who hung around on street corners and knew which hotels wouldn’t ask questions as long as the money was right. The old railway marshalling yards and the McEwan’s distillery were gone, modern office and apartment buildings rising in their place. He wasn’t far from the tiny terrace house where Brian Galloway had breathed his last, nor the slick modern apartment block where the young lad who’d stolen his car had lived. Everything focusing down on Fountainbridge as if the dark secrets bulldozed and buried since the turn of the century were oozing back up into the light.
The hotel had changed, of course. A shiny polished brass plaque at the door identified it as part of a boutique chain now. The same chain, McLean noted, that ran Bairnfather Hall and was in turn owned by the Bairnfather Trust. There was another man he would have to visit and placate. Cecily Slater’s murder investigation would never be closed; unsolved murders always remained open. But it would be, in the term so beloved of management, deprioritised. Perhaps in a decade or so he would revisit it in his retirement, having moved like Duguid and Grumpy Bob down into the basement. A prelude to the grave.
A smart-uniformed doorman opened the door for him, tapping the brim of his slightly absurd hat by way of greeting. McLean nodded his thanks and strode across the lobby to the reception desk. Echoes of his past kept coming to him, although the ancient and faded decor he remembered had been renovated and polished until it gleamed.
‘Detective Inspector McLean. I’m here to see Mr Fielding?’ He showed his warrant card to a young female receptionist, noting the slight tick that marred her face at the mention of the name. She got it under control with admirable speed.
‘He’s in the Walter Scott bar, sir. Over there.’ She indicated the way, even though McLean knew exactly where it was and that Fielding would be waiting for him inside.
‘My colleague Detective Sergeant Harrison might have been in touch. She was hoping to get a hold of some of the security camera footage after those protesters broke in and disrupted the conference.’ He put as much emphasis as he could on the ‘after’.
‘I’m not sure, sir. That would have gone to security. I can check, but as we said to the other detective, we have no idea how those people got in.’
‘I know. That’s not what I was looking for.’ He scanned the reception area, spotting a couple of cameras that covered both the entrance to the hotel and the door through to the bar. ‘I was more interested in who was here with Mr Fielding. We know who the protesters were, after all.’ He paused a moment before adding, ‘I don’t suppose you have a register of conference attendees, do you?’
The receptionist frowned ever so slightly. ‘I don’t think I could—’
‘It’s not a problem. I completely understand. You have to protect the anonymity of your guests, after all. Even those simply attending Mr Fielding’s seminars. The last thing any of those men would want is the police asking uncomfortable questions. Forget I asked.’ He gave the receptionist his best innocent smile, then turned and walked away towards the Walter Scott bar.
Much like the rest of the hotel, the Walter Scott bar was at once hauntingly familiar and yet utterly different. It didn’t smell of weed, spilled beer and cigarette smoke for one thing, and the bottles behind the marble-topped bar held considerably more expensive spirits than he remembered. There was still a Guinness tap, Phil would be pleased to see, probably. The other few beer taps were of the chilled-to-tasteless, carbonated fizz variety that so many bars sold these days. Well, he wasn’t here to drink.
Neither was anyone else, if the emptiness of the bar was anything to go by. Another difference from McLean’s student days. Judging by the decor, the smart uniforms of the reception staff and the boutique nature of the place, it was too expensive for students and in the wrong part of town for the more affluent tourists. He looked around the empty tables and comfortable alcoves before finally spotting the man he had come to see.
Tommy Fielding sat on his own, slim laptop computer on the table in fro
nt of him, an empty coffee cup beside it. He had his phone clamped to one ear, gesticulating with his free arm even though the person he was talking to couldn’t possibly see him. McLean wasn’t there to eavesdrop, but the lawyer was speaking so loudly it was hard not to.
‘. . . don’t give a flying fuck what you think. You wanted the job done differently you should have said so.’
McLean turned away, caught the eye of the barman and ordered a coffee he didn’t really want. On the other hand, he remembered that he had to go to the chief superintendent’s reception that evening, so maybe the caffeine boost wasn’t such a bad idea.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Reggie. It’s like listening to a fucking broken record. No, it’s not a problem. I’m dealing with it. Have I ever let you down before?’
The barman raised an eyebrow, his glance flicking towards Fielding, up to the ceiling and then back to McLean as he placed the coffee down on the bar. McLean raised one himself when he was told how much the coffee cost, but paid without further complaint.
‘Look, I know that woman’s sniffing around the company, but she can only buy a minority share. You still control the board so the most she can do is be annoying.’
McLean sipped his coffee and waited for the call to be over. The cup was empty and he was contemplating a refill, despite the cost, before Fielding finally managed to persuade whoever Reggie was that it was all OK and nobody was going to take his company from him, especially not some upstart woman who was probably a lesbian anyway. There had been some other comments that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a small-town rugby club locker room after a home defeat, peppered with enough foul language to make even Jo Dalgliesh blush. It was hard to imagine the man standing up in court and impressing both judge and jury, but then the best briefs were consummate actors after all.
‘Mr Fielding?’ McLean approached before the lawyer could begin another call. Fielding looked up, a frown of irritation disappearing swiftly from his face.
