by James Oswald
‘Are you paying attention, Tony, or just standing in the mortuary because you like it here?’
McLean focused, aware that he’d allowed his mind to wander too far. Cadwallader had bent over the body, gloved fingers gently manipulating Fielding’s neck.
‘Sorry, Angus. A lot on my mind.’
‘Clearly.’ The pathologist straightened, grimacing as something in his back gave a click audible even over the hiss of the air conditioning. ‘As I was saying, the abrasions on the neck are consistent with the silk tie. There are however other marks, very slight bruising that suggests he may have been throttled first. Could have been rough sex play, but equally could have rendered him unconscious, then the tie was used to finish him off.’
‘Do you have an accurate time of death?’
Cadwallader sighed, perhaps a little over-theatrically. ‘I can give you a range, but nothing more accurate than within a couple of hours. Given the state we found him in, and the cause of death, I’d say somewhere between ten p.m. and midnight. Certainly no later than one in the morning.’
McLean opened his mouth to ask if Cadwallader was sure, then closed it again before he insulted his old friend.
‘Is that a problem?’ the pathologist asked.
‘We know he was alive at half-nine. Janie Harrison saw him leave the bar in the Scotston Hotel, and we’ve CCTV of him arriving at his apartment block not long after. The problem is he wasn’t alone.’
‘That would explain the fact he appears to have had sex before he died, which makes the onanism a little unusual.’ Cadwallader waved a hand at the dead man’s shrivelled genitalia. ‘We’ll swab for DNA, but if you already know who it was, then maybe it’s not necessary.’
McLean shook his head, wondering when life had become so complicated. ‘Oh, it’s necessary, Angus. Very much so. The person he was with? Who left alone an hour after the two of them entered the building, so very much within the murder window? Our very own chief superintendent.’
Cadwallader looked at McLean, then at the body, then back at McLean again. ‘I see. Well. I’d better get those swabs tested on the hurry-up then.’
It took far longer to drive back from West Pilton to Gorgie than going the other way. Janie stared at the unmoving traffic on Queensferry Road and wondered whether she would have been better off heading out to the bypass and back in again. Or maybe walking.
‘Isn’t evening rush hour traffic meant to be away from the city?’ she asked, as they finally managed to negotiate the roundabout on to Belford Road, only to be faced with yet more angry red brake lights.
‘Probably the trams,’ Stringer said, helpfully. He had his phone out and was pecking away at the screen with one finger. Finding out something useful, Janie hoped, although more likely playing some game.
‘Seems Mr Tomlinson has something of a reputation,’ he said after a moment and another hundred metres.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Nothing official. Putting his girlfriend in A and E’s the closest he’s ever come to a criminal charge. But he’s had a few warnings down the years. Aggressive behaviour, drunk and disorderly at the footie, that sort of thing.’
‘How did he get away with it this time, then?’
Stringer peered at his screen again. ‘Miss MacDonald’s lawyer persuaded him to sign over the flat to her, and agree not to seek visitation rights for his daughter. Still has to pay maintenance, though. Jesus. I almost feel sorry for the bloke. He got shafted without any lube, for sure.’
Janie looked across at the detective constable, but he was so fixated on the tiny letters on his phone screen that he missed her scowl.
‘Sorry for him? He’s a violent thug who broke her jaw.’
‘Almost broke her jaw, but aye. He’s a piece of shit. And I only said I almost felt sorry for him. He really got screwed over by her lawyer.’
‘Who was it? Her lawyer, that is.’ Janie eased through a gap in the traffic and cut across the road to a side street that might be a quicker route, but then again might not.
‘Hang on. I need to scroll down a bit.’ There was a short pause while Stringer tried to find the information. ‘Oh. That can’t be right, can it?’
‘What can’t be right?’
‘Says here that she was represented by DCF Law. Isn’t that Fielding’s firm?’
‘Aye, it is. But Tomlinson was with Fielding last night. No way they’d be having a drink together if Fielding didn’t want him there. And why would Fielding’s firm represent the girlfriend? He’s usually fighting the father’s side, isn’t he?’
‘Search me.’ Stringer swiped at the screen, then clicked off his phone and put it away. ‘Guess we can ask him when we get there.’
‘You think someone told him?’ Janie zipped through a set of traffic lights as it changed to yellow, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain herself to Traffic.
‘Who, Fielding?’
‘No, Tomlinson. I mean, yes, both of them. But if Tomlinson found out it was Fielding who got him kicked out of his nice wee flat in West Pilton, lost him access to his daughter. Well, he’d be pissed off, wouldn’t he?’
‘Enough to follow him back to his place, wait for Elmwood to leave, then what? He’s not on the CCTV footage. No way he went into Fielding’s flat and throttled him, then set it up to look like a sex game gone wrong. He’s a building site labourer. Left school at sixteen. Handy with his fists, brain not so much. He’s hardly likely to come up with a scenario like that.’
Janie had to admit that Stringer was right. They didn’t even know if Fielding had been murdered or simply strangled himself while trying to rub one out after a visit from his ex. She indicated, pulled sharply across the road again, this time earning herself a middle finger and blast of horn from a driver coming the other way, and pulled into the street where Tomlinson lived. The only place to park was a double yellow line, so she would probably have to explain herself to Traffic anyway.
‘OK. Let’s see if second time’s a charm.’
The front door to the tenement was locked, an elderly intercom system showing a series of names, none of which were Tomlinson. Janie picked one at random, pressed and waited. There was nothing to indicate that the system worked, no light, no audible buzz and certainly no answer. She moved on to the next button, then a third. As she was about to press the fourth, the door clicked and then swung open to reveal a fearsome-looking elderly woman, waving a bamboo walking stick like a weapon.
‘Bloody kids. Get— oh.’ She put the stick down, leaning on it with one arthritic hand.
‘Good evening, ma’am.’ Harrison gave the woman what she hoped was a friendly smile as she presented her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Harrison. I was looking for Mr Gareth Tomlinson?’
The woman sniffed so noisily Harrison feared she might hawk and spit next, but instead she swallowed heavily before answering.
‘Top floor left.’ She stood to one side to let them in. ‘He’s no’ there, mind.’
‘He’s not?’ Janie asked.
‘No. Went oot a while back. No idea where. Left his door open, though, if you want a look.’
Janie turned to look at Stringer, who shrugged.
‘Should probably ask if you’ve got a warrant, like. But he’s two weeks behind on his rent, so help yourself.’ And with that, the woman walked away, disappearing back into her ground-floor flat.
‘Charming,’ Stringer said as the two of them climbed the stairs.
‘But helpful. Sort of.’ Janie had the small collection of envelopes in her hand, just in case, but when they reached the top landing, it was clear the landlady had been telling the truth. One of the two doors stood slightly ajar, the lights still on inside.
‘Mr Tomlinson?’ She knocked on the door anyway, then pushed it all the way. It opened on to a single room bedsit, or what the estate agents would call a Studio Flat. It smelled of
stale body odour and takeaway food, something more pungently rotten underneath like the bass note to a concerto of stench. An unmade single bed shoved in one corner, small single armchair and low table opposite the narrow dormer window that gave a stunning view of the taller tenement on the other side of the street. Behind the door, someone had artfully inserted the most basic of cooking facilities, and in the last corner, a small built-out cupboard housed a shower, sink and toilet.
‘Compact and bijou,’ Stringer said.
‘Nowhere to hide, at least. And the landlady said he’d been gone a while so it’s unlikely he’s popped out to grab his evening meal.’ Janie poked at an empty pizza box lying on the table beside an elderly laptop. Its screen was blank, but when she jabbed a button it lit up. A website showing a paused video news clip that seemed incongruous until she saw the sidebar of shame filled with images of scantily clad female celebrities.
‘What’s he been watching? Porn?’ Stringer crossed the room in two short strides, leaning down to get a better look at the screen. Janie found the cursor, clicked play.
‘Tommy Fielding, leading men’s rights activist and lawyer, was found dead in his Fountainbridge apartment by his cleaner early this morning . . .’
Janie tapped the trackpad and the video paused. ‘Well I guess he’s heard the news.’
‘Heard it and headed straight out. In such a hurry he didn’t even remember to lock the front door?’
58
‘This just come in from forensics, sir. I know Kirsty’s in charge, but I thought you’d want to see it.’
McLean had barely stepped into the major incident room, fresh from his walk back from the mortuary, when DS Gregg came bustling up with a sheet of paper. The rest of the room lacked the same sense of urgency, but then they had been packing up the Cecily Slater case for a couple of days now, so that was hardly surprising.
‘What is it?’ he asked, at the same time as he took the page and scanned it.
‘Fingerprint analysis of the mirror in Fielding’s bathroom. You know, the ghostly message?’ Gregg waved her hands around in a very loose approximation of something spooky, but McLean barely noticed. Top marks to the forensics team for turning it around so quickly. No doubt someone had made it clear that the chief constable himself was likely to be taking an interest in the case. It was just a shame that the results weren’t particularly helpful.
According to the report, the team had found remarkably few fingerprints around the bathroom, all of which seemed to belong to Fielding himself. The writing on the mirror appeared to have been done with one index finger, an almost perfect print picked out at the end of each letter where that finger had been lifted to move to the next one. The only problem was that the print was also Tommy Fielding’s.
‘He wrote it himself?’ McLean asked, even though he could see well enough.
‘Apparently.’ Gregg shrugged. ‘Is it important?’
McLean scanned the report again, searching for any mention of when the writing might have been done. The only indication of timescale was a small note at the bottom confirming that the cleaner had wiped down all the surfaces in the bathroom the morning before Fielding’s death. He remembered her telling him she cleaned every day, so she was obviously diligent about her work.
‘It’s odd. Not sure what to make of it, to be honest.’ He looked past Gregg, across the room, not seeing the faces he hoped to see. ‘Harrison and Stringer still out chasing up the men from the pub?’
‘Far as I know. The chief super’s back, though. Went straight up to her office. No’ sure if anyone’s spoken to her yet about . . . well.’
‘Have you seen Kirsty about?’ McLean asked. It was easier than approaching Ritchie’s office and risking an unprepared meeting with Elmwood. But that was just being stupid. McLean knew he had to grasp this nettle or risk getting stung. ‘Forget it, Sandy. I’ll go find her.’ He waved a hand at the incident room and the officers slowly packing things away. ‘Tell this lot they can knock off early. We’ll know better what’s going on by tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to have to put it all back together again.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Gregg accepted her new orders without question, bustling off to carry them out. McLean glanced around in case either Harrison or Stringer had magically appeared, but they were all still absent. He pulled out his phone and rattled off a quick text to Harrison as he left the major incident room and went in search of his new DCI.
He’d only made it halfway to her office when the shouting started.
‘I’ve never heard so much fucking rubbish in my life.’
McLean didn’t really want to go into Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s office, even though the door was open. A little further up the corridor, the chief superintendent’s secretary, Helen, was sitting at her desk, transfixed. McLean caught her attention, hooked a thumb at the door, and then raised both hands in a gesture he intended to mean ‘should I go in?’ but which could have meant anything. Or simply made him look like an idiot. Helen merely shrugged, then shook her head and held both hands up to indicate she wanted nothing to do with it. Fair enough, this was way above her pay grade.
‘You can’t possibly think I’d have anything to do with—’
McLean chose that moment to reach out and knock at the open door, much more loudly than he would do normally. The effect was instant, and more or less as he had hoped. The chief superintendent stopped shouting, but the expression on her face as she rounded on him was one of such fury he feared he might blister under its heat.
‘You’re behind this, aren’t you, McLean? What is the meaning of this outrageous—’
‘Jayne, ma’am.’ He stepped into the room and then very deliberately closed the door behind him. Elmwood stood in the middle of the room, shaking in her rage. McIntyre was leaning against her desk as if prepared to scuttle behind it for safety should the need arise.
‘I’ve just been at the mortuary, getting the details on Mr Fielding’s cause of death.’
In the silence that followed he could hear the tick of the clock on the wall.
‘He was strangled. Possibly by the tie, by his own hand as it were. But there were other marks on his neck. Angus thinks someone could have choked him with their bare hands until he fell unconscious, then did the thing with the necktie to make it look like an accident. Auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong. Those are his preliminary findings. We’ll know more once all the tests are in. But I’ve known Angus a long time, and he’s usually right first time.’
‘I still don’t know—’
McLean held up his hand to stop the chief superintendent from speaking. ‘Before you say anything else, we know you were there. We know you met him in the Walter Scott bar around half nine, walked back to his apartment and stayed there until about half past ten. You were seen by multiple, reliable witnesses, and we have security camera footage from the apartment block lobby. Denying it isn’t going to help.’
‘I didn’t kill him. He was fine when I left. The bastard.’
‘That’s useful information,’ McLean said. ‘But until we can prove it, you are at the very least a person of interest.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Elmwood looked from McIntyre to McLean, then back again. She held out her arms, wrists pressed together. ‘What are you going to do? Cuff me and throw me in a cell?’
‘I really don’t think that’s necessary, Gail. But you understand as well as I do that you can’t be anywhere near this investigation. Not until we know exactly what happened to Mr Fielding.’ McIntyre crossed the room, taking the chief superintendent’s hand. ‘We have to be seen to be doing everything right here.’
Elmwood almost flinched at the detective superintendent’s touch. She turned away and focused on McLean, the earlier anger gone now, replaced by earnest supplication. ‘Tony, surely you must believe I’m innocent?’
‘Fielding used you, back when you were a sergeant. Y
ou never forgave him for that.’ He couldn’t help himself, even though he knew it was mean to kick someone when they were down. ‘And yet you met up with him last night. Went back to his flat and had sex with him.’
‘Used me?’ Elmwood narrowed her eyes, staring at McLean as if she might be able to see his thoughts. ‘Is that the best gossip you could come up with?’
‘Well, maybe it went both ways. Mutual support with a bit of mutual loathing thrown in. Let’s just say the two of you have had a long and complicated relationship, shall we? Culminating in a . . . liaison last night.’ McLean enjoyed the flinch his choice of word brought. ‘Tell me, ma’am, do the words “with my dying breath I curse thee” mean anything to you?’
If he’d been hoping for a reaction, he was disappointed by the one he got. Elmwood’s face went from angry to confused far too quickly for it to have been an act. She knew nothing about the message on the bathroom mirror, so maybe she was innocent after all. At least of Fielding’s murder.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she said eventually.
McLean told her about the writing, failing to mention the forensic conclusion that it was Fielding himself who had done it. ‘We’ve no evidence of anyone else entering the flat until the cleaner arrived the next morning. Fielding’s death is suspicious. We have to investigate, and you can’t be involved in any aspect of it. By all rights we should be calling in a team from another region to do this.’
‘So, what? I just go home and lick my wounds?’ Elmwood dropped herself into one of the chairs that had been pulled out from the conference table.
‘Actually, that would probably be the best idea,’ McIntyre said. ‘Go home, Gail. You can have a couple of days off while we run everything down and prepare a report for the PF. I doubt anyone will even notice you’re gone.’
