What Will Burn

by James Oswald

  ‘Aye, you are. But you’ve got this annoying way of seeing things other folk can’t, too. Took me a while to join up the dots, but there’s a link true enough.’

  ‘A link between the chief superintendent and Tommy Fielding?’ McLean indicated without looking in his mirror, slowed and pulled in to the kerb. A car behind him he’d not noticed before revved its engine and blared its horn as it overtook. Through its back window, silhouetted by the lights beyond, he made out a raised middle finger as the driver sped away.

  ‘Aye, and it’s a good one too,’ Dalgliesh said, blissfully unaware of the drama at the other end of the line. ‘There’s a juicy story in it, I reckon.’

  ‘And are you going to tell me? Or was this call just so you could wind me up?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Another pause, longer this time, and McLean could almost smell the sickly scented vapour. ‘See your new boss was in the Met most of her career, aye?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked down at the plastic bag holding his kebab. It was tempting to open it up and start eating, since Dalgliesh was clearly going to take her time telling him what she had found out. On the other hand, there was little chance of him not getting chilli and garlic sauces on the upholstery, and this wasn’t his car.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t always a high-flier. Started off quite unremarkable, really. Made it to sergeant quickly enough, then seemed to stall. Now, your man Fielding, he was working in London around that time. Getting himself something of a reputation for defending men accused of battering their wives, marital rape, that sort of thing. He was winning a lot of cases, too. Word was he was dodgy as hell, used all manner of underhand tricks to win. Seems some tigers never change their spots, right enough.’

  ‘Leopards,’ McLean corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leopards never change their spots. Tigers are striped. Thought an educated woman like you would’ve known that.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Sorry. How does this all tie in to Elmwood then?’

  ‘I was getting to that before you went and interrupted me with your fancy zoological accuracies and stuff. See, there was this big case she was involved in. Prosecuting some fancy rich aristo who’d killed his wife. Bloke swore it was an accident, sex games gone wrong, whatever shit he could come up with. He had money, so he called in the best lawyer, which was your man Fielding. He not only got the man off, he ripped the Met prosecution team a new one. Fair enough, they’d bent a few rules getting their evidence, but the only way he could have known that was if he’d either been given or had stolen inside information.’

  ‘The man who got off? What was his name?’

  Dalgliesh didn’t answer immediately, and McLean imagined he could hear her flicking through the pages of her notebook. More likely she was having a drink. He needed one himself, if only because it was never wise to eat a kebab sober.

  ‘Here it is, aye. Chappy called Angus Trensham. Fourth Baronet Wisby or something. It’s no’ important. He died in a car crash a month or so after the trial collapsed. The thing is, there was an inquiry into why it all went wrong. The DCI and DI on the case both fell on their swords, a couple of senior uniforms too. Well, took early retirement, but it’s the same thing. Only person who came away smelling of roses was young Sergeant Gail Elmwood. She was inspector within a month, superintendent a couple years later. Been on the up ever since.’

  ‘And she owes that to Fielding, is that what you’re telling me?’ McLean tried not to let his disappointment show. It wasn’t a clear link between the two of them, even if Elmwood had known of the lawyer for many years.

  ‘Ach, you know me, Tony. I don’t like to leave a story alone until I’ve shaken all the dirt out of it. I had a word wi’ some of my old London contacts. No’ that there’s many still alive, mind. Kind of journalism they do’s hard work on the liver an’ makes enemies of powerful people.’

  ‘But you found something.’

  ‘Aye. Struck gold, you might say. He’s no’ much to look at now, but your Tommy Fielding was quite the charmer in his London days. Had a reputation for loving and leaving, as it were. Usually once he’d got what he was looking for. Maybe a quick shag, or maybe internal police investigation documents pertinent to a prosecution he was defending. Left on an unsecured laptop in a young sergeant’s flat by the DCI she had been shagging in the hope of a promotion.’

  It was McLean’s turn to pause before replying, the implications taking time to trickle down through his brain.

  ‘You’re saying our chief superintendent had an affair with Tommy Fielding in London? At the same time she was sleeping with her boss?’

  ‘Top marks to the detective chief inspector.’ Dalgliesh coughed, and McLean heard the distinct sound of her thumping her chest to clear it. ‘Ah, no. It’s just detective inspector now, isn’t it? Sorry. Going the opposite way to Ms Elmwood, I’d say.’

  ‘Do you think she knew? That he’d stolen information from her laptop?’

  ‘Can’t see how she couldn’t know, but she kept it quiet. An’ she was far enough down the pecking order that the shit didn’t reach her. I’m guessing the DCI wanted it kept hush-hush too, given how his wife was expecting their second kid at the time.’

  It took McLean a while to digest all the information Dalgliesh was giving him. He did his best to keep a lid on his growing excitement. If ever there was a way to persuade Elmwood to leave him be, this was it. Except that he knew he would have to tread very carefully around the subject. She was chief superintendent, after all, and in a position to make his life very difficult should she choose.

  ‘You going to press with this story any time soon?’ he asked after a few more silent moments.

  ‘No’ just yet. Don’t think anyone else even has a sniff of it, and I’m waiting on a few more bits and pieces to come through. Wouldn’t mind a chat wi’ the cheatin’ DCI, but it’s unlikely he’d talk to an old hack like me.’

  McLean knew a plant when he saw one. This time he was happy enough to grasp it. ‘You know who he is, though.’

  ‘Aye. And where. It’s no’ all that far from here, as it happens.’

  ‘What if I was to give him a call? Maybe let you know what he had to say afterwards.’

  ‘Aww. You’d do that for me?’ Dalgliesh faked soppy gratitude. ‘You’ve changed, Tony. An’ no’ for the worse.’

  ‘Well it’s just possible I might owe you this time, so if I can help your story without breaking any rules I will.’

  ‘I’ll ping you the details in a text. Gotta go now. That’s my toy boy back from the lavvy.’ And without another word the line went dead.

  McLean hoped that Dalgliesh had been lying about the toy boy, and the fact that the text with contact details for ex-Detective Chief Inspector Simon Martin arrived before he had even parked and plugged the Renault in to charge suggested she was pulling his leg. Then again, Dalgliesh was a law unto herself, and he really didn’t want to know anything about her private life. Ever.

  Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was lying in the middle of the kitchen table as he entered the room. She eyed him with a ‘what time of night do you call this to be coming home?’ look on her face, which he ignored. Cecily Slater’s cat, if that was who the creature had truly belonged to, lay beside the Aga, purring contentedly to itself. Herself, McLean remembered. The vet had given her the once-over, declared her in need of worming and microchipping but otherwise fit and healthy. Probably between five and ten years old, but with no indication of ever having had kittens, so also probably spayed when very young. Looking at her, he had the distinct impression he had somehow acquired a second cat when he’d never even intended having the first one. Well, it wasn’t as if they ate a lot, and there was plenty of room for everyone.

  He had reheated his kebab in the microwave and poured himself a pint of beer, poised ready to eat even though he knew it was late and would le
ad to indigestion and a sleepless night, when his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, McLean didn’t recognise the number. It was an international call, and he was about to cancel it on the grounds that whilst his car had recently been in an accident, he himself had not, when it struck him that it might be Emma using someone else’s phone. He thumbed the screen to accept the call, lifting the handset to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Tony. Hope I’m not calling too late. I always get the maths wrong in my head when I try to work out time differences.’

  Not Emma, but Hattie. Professor Turner. For a moment, McLean’s blood turned to ice. What possible reason could she have for calling that wasn’t bad news?

  ‘It’s no bother, Hattie. I was just about to eat, but that can wait. Something up? Is Em OK?’

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry, Tony. What must you think? Emma’s fine. Don’t worry. No. I was just calling to say we’re going to be home rather earlier than anticipated.’

  ‘Something come up?’

  ‘Doesn’t it always? Emma’s trying to sort it, but I think she’s fighting a losing battle. It’s the paperwork. Always is. They swear blind everything’s fine and you’ll be whisked from airport to dig site without even seeing any over-zealous officials, but every single time I come to Africa it’s the same. You have to have all your paperwork done, sure. But you also have to pay every single pen-pushing, rubber-stamping bureaucrat who puts himself in your path. And it’s always him, never her. God save me from this . . .’ Turner trailed off just as McLean had assumed she was getting into full flow and taken a drink from his glass of beer. He swallowed it down too quickly and almost choked.

  ‘So the whole thing’s fallen through because you didn’t bribe the right people?’ he asked after a moment’s silent wheezing.

  ‘Don’t use the B word, Tony. Not on an open line.’ Professor Turner sighed. ‘And anyway, this time I don’t think any amount of money would have saved the day.’

  ‘What’s gone wrong?’ McLean counted the days, and the few phone calls from Emma, in his head. As far as he was aware they’d arrived at the dig site and started working weeks ago.

  ‘We had a visit from one of the local politicians. Well, I say politician, but mob boss might be a better description. Maybe tribal chief. He didn’t have a problem with the dig and the results we’ve had so far, but he couldn’t get his head around the fact that I was in charge and more than half my crew are women. Kept asking to speak to the boss man. Emphasis on the man bit.’

  McLean remembered his conversation earlier in the day with Detective Superintendent McIntyre; her suggestion he take some leave and go out to join Emma after her work was finished. He’d dismissed the idea pretty much out of hand, but then why not?

  ‘I could always come out and pretend,’ he said.

  Hattie laughed. ‘That’s a kind offer, Tony, but it’s a bit too late for that. Our invitation has been withdrawn, apparently. Emma will give you a call once she’s got the flights sorted out. She has the patience of a saint, that one. But then she’s put up with you all these years so that’s hardly surprising. Helps that she’s travelled through these parts before, too. She’s busy calling in a few old favours, which is why I got lumped with phoning everyone to let them know. Meg’s next on the list, so I’d better call her before she gets started on the booze. We’ll see you in a week or so.’

  McLean thanked her for calling him, wished her well and then hung up. He looked at the congealed mess of spiced lamb, salad and sauces, glistening in its pitta bread and still contained by the environmentally disastrous expanded polystyrene box. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now he felt too weary for food. He’d managed to grab a few canapés at the chief superintendent’s house, so it wasn’t as if he’d not eaten anything since breakfast. The beer on an almost empty stomach had given him a fuzzy edge that should at least mean getting to sleep would be easy, although the quality of that sleep might be up for debate. Draining the last of the pint, he closed the lid on the takeaway, then glanced over to where the two cats were staring at him like they’d never been fed in their entire lives.

  ‘You can have it for breakfast. And out in the utility room. It’s bad enough when you leave mouse entrails all over the kitchen floor. I don’t want to come down to kebab everywhere.’

  McLean shoved the container back in the single use plastic bag, wrapped it tight and shoved it in the fridge. He rinsed out his glass and set it on the rack to dry, then took up his phone from the table and headed off for bed. As he walked up the stairs, he thought about Hattie’s call, the news Emma would be home soon. Much sooner than expected. Their relationship had been through a rough patch recently, starting with her miscarriage if not probably before. For a while now it had felt a bit like they were two people orbiting each other distantly, living in the same house but otherwise barely communicating at all. And yet, as he pushed open the bedroom door and switched on the light, he found himself sad to see the wide bed empty, and very glad indeed that it wouldn’t be so for much longer.

  46

  ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Tony.’

  Yet another early morning. McLean had hoped to be in his office and hard at work before the chief superintendent had even left her home. Given the state of the reception when he’d slipped out the night before, it had seemed a fair assumption she wouldn’t be in first thing. As it was, he’d managed an hour before the summons to her office, every one of the dozen or so steps along the corridor feeling like the walk of shame he remembered from his hated boarding school. Called up in front of the headmaster for some imagined misdemeanour.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, once it became clear Elmwood wasn’t going to tell him what had disappointed her. He knew, of course. Or at least he could narrow it down to two or three things, possibly a combination of all of them.

  ‘You sloped off without saying goodbye last night.’

  ‘An important phone call.’ The excuse was out before he’d fully considered the ramifications, but fortunately the chief superintendent wasn’t interested in details. At least not right away. She’d been sitting behind her desk, but now she stood, smoothed down her uniform, and gestured for him to join her in the casual corner.

  ‘You also upset poor old Reggie Bairnfather. Making unfounded allegations.’ As she spoke, Elmwood set about pouring coffee for two, which suggested this dressing-down wasn’t going to be too harsh.

  ‘I was just a little surprised to find out where you were living, ma— Gail. I . . . knew the previous owner, Alan Lewis.’

  ‘I know. Jane Louise told me all about it. Apparently he killed himself in his bath. My bath. Can you imagine that?’

  McLean almost didn’t catch the quick mention of Mrs Saifre by her first names. He was surprised by the excitement in Elmwood’s voice, the mischievous glint in her eye, the apparent delight rather than horror at the discovery.

  ‘I don’t really need to imagine it. I saw it.’ He didn’t add, ‘I set it up so it looked like suicide because nobody would believe a vengeful ghost had scared him to death and almost did the same for poor Janie Harrison.’

  ‘Gosh. I suppose that means you’ve been in my bedroom.’

  McLean chose to ignore the slightly lewd suggestion, waiting for the chief superintendent to sit down before doing so himself.

  ‘That’s not why I’m disappointed though, Tony,’ Elmwood said, as she arranged herself on the sofa like a young lady fresh out of finishing school. ‘I’m very disappointed that there has been no progress on the Cecily Slater murder. We’ve spent a great deal of money so far for very little return.’

  McLean had been savouring his coffee, but the chief superintendent’s words gave him pause. Not that her concern about the lack of progress was a surprise, far from it. Jayne McIntyre had warned him the investigation was going to be mothballed by the end of the week. It was the mention of budgets that jarr
ed. In all his dealings with Elmwood so far, money had never come up. She had found the budget for half a dozen new detective constables and was pushing for more funding to come east. It rang false that she would want to wind down the Slater investigation because it was expensive. And that made him wonder what the real reason was.

  ‘It’s not been an easy case,’ he said. ‘Bad enough her body wasn’t found for a week and the weather destroyed most of the forensic evidence. She was a recluse, had been for years. It’s almost impossible to find anyone who’s been in contact with her recently, let alone anyone who might have harboured such a powerful grudge.’

  The chief superintendent nodded, her face serious for a moment. ‘I understand. Some cases are like that. And it’s not as if it’s actually closed. I want you to pull everything together and we’ll get an outside team to review it. You’ll need to reassign the team to other duties.’

  McLean took a sip of coffee to stop his reflex instinct to complain. This wasn’t a battle he could win, he knew that. It hurt all the same. Cecily Slater’s death had been fuelled by a hate that wouldn’t simply go away. If they didn’t find the people responsible, someone else would suffer the same fate soon enough.

  ‘You got my report on Brian Galloway?’ he asked, by way of pushing the conversation along.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Tony. I’m very grateful to you for doing that. His death could have been quite . . .’ She searched the air for the right word. ‘Sensational? Everyone knows Mad Bastard, but only a few people knew Brian Galloway. I heard the press were sniffing around, going to make something lurid out of it all. Thought it best to get ahead of them.’

  On the surface, Elmwood’s words sounded reasonable, plausible even, but McLean could see the lie easily enough. Nothing to be gained from exposing it though. Not now, at least.

  ‘The pathology isn’t conclusive, but they reckon he had a bad reaction to a mixture of prescription painkillers and something else he’d taken to help himself sleep. It’s tragic, but I hear the band’s last album is back in the charts.’