by James Oswald
‘If you must use such a crude term.’ Rose smiled, lifted her mug again but didn’t drink this time. ‘I’d say more that he gave himself totally to the hatred, and now it has consumed him.’
‘So what about Cecily?’ McLean asked. ‘You know I’m sceptical about all of this, Rose, but if she, her spirit, whatever, killed all those men, where is it now? Has she gone? Has it gone?’
The old medium didn’t answer straight away. Her gaze had been on him throughout their strange conversation, but now McLean saw her focus fade for a while, as if she was searching for something deep in her memory. Or listening for something beyond the range of normal hearing.
‘Cecily is at peace now,’ she said finally, her eyes flicking momentarily in Izzy’s direction before coming back to him. ‘And now the spirit seeks a new vessel.’
McLean took another drink, surprised to find that his mug was nearly empty. The tea had been exactly what he needed, but he wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he had felt so tired. He had come here because he knew that being alone with his thoughts was not a good idea immediately after the events at the chief superintendent’s house. He’d also hoped for a few answers, even while knowing they’d be neither straightforward nor satisfactory. On that score at least he hadn’t been disappointed, but now it was time to return to something resembling reality.
‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ Madame Rose said, as if she could read his thoughts. Perhaps she could.
62
‘You look like shit, Tony. You know that?’
McLean turned away from the one-way mirror separating the observation booth from interview room two. Detective Superintendent McIntyre stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped, looking every bit as tired as he felt.
‘It’s only a bit of singeing. The hair will grow back.’ He lifted a hand and lightly brushed the frizzy patch on the back of his head where he had come too close to the flames. Given the circumstances, it was a miracle that was all that had burned. Well, that and yet another suit fit only for the bin.
‘He saying anything?’ McIntyre gestured towards the glass. Beyond it, Detective Sergeant Harrison and Detective Chief Inspector Ritchie were attempting to interview Gary Tomlinson. If McLean and McIntyre were frazzled, then the young man looked even worse. His face glowed red where the heat of the flames had burned his skin, and dark black bruises circled his bloodshot eyes, the result of McLean’s own Glasgow Kiss.
‘Not a squeak, but then I don’t think he will.’ McLean gently touched his forehead, feeling the slight bump that was all the bruising he’d earned for his troubles. His cheeks were ruddy from the heat, too, but he couldn’t see them.
‘What was he doing there?’ McIntyre asked.
‘Aside from the obvious? Who knows?’
‘I heard Fielding had taken him under his wing, so I guess he figured he owed him payback.’
‘There’s more to it than that, though. Fielding was radicalising him. Same as he did for the goons who helped him kill Cecily Slater. Steve Whitaker, Don Purefoy, Brian Galloway. Probably Jimmy McAllister too. They all fell under his spell, and he twisted them until they’d do anything he asked them to. Our Gary in there was just the latest in a long line.’
‘That’s . . .’ McIntyre paused for a moment as if searching for the right words. ‘That’s quite an allegation, Tony. Do you have any proof?’
‘About them killing Slater? No. Not that could be used in a court of law, at least. And it hardly matters either, since they’re all dead. That poor bastard though?’ He nodded at the figure staring sightlessly at the wall. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in a secure psych unit for the rest of his life. He’s been twisted so thoroughly he probably thinks he was doing God’s righteous work.’
McIntyre stared for a while, so close to the glass that her breath misted its surface gently as she breathed. ‘You sound like Rose,’ she said eventually.
‘Well you’re the one introduced me to her, remember?’
‘Touché.’ McIntyre conceded the point with a smile.
‘The other point, though, about Fielding radicalising men for his fight against the rising tides of feminism? We’ve got him fair and square there. Not that it matters, since he’s dead.’
McIntyre turned to face him, her back to the glass as she raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Mike Simpson down in IT cracked the security on his laptop, and there’s all sorts of interesting stuff on it. Seems he really was a leading light in the more militant wing of the men’s rights movement. Our friends at the NCA are just itching to get stuck in to it all.’
‘Why is it you don’t sound as happy about that as you should, Tony? You’re not a closet misogynist, are you?’
McLean smiled at the joke, even though the movement made the skin on his face ache. ‘You know me, Jayne. Hate women in powerful positions. Can’t stand working with them at all.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s the other stuff we found on his laptop that’s going to cause a few sleepless nights. There’s a lot of email correspondence with Lord Bairnfather about Cecily Slater’s will. At the very least they conspired to suppress her most recent changes, particularly her nomination of a successor to her role as trustee of the Bairnfather Trust. The name Mirriam Downham comes up quite a few times. Can’t imagine that being terribly popular with a man like Lord Reggie. He might even have been complicit in his aunt’s murder, though I doubt we’d ever make that stick.’
It didn’t take McIntyre long to see the problem. ‘And he’s filthy rich, with a lot of powerful and influential friends. You do know how to pick them, don’t you?’
‘Almost makes me wish the chief superintendent were still here,’ McLean said. ‘She was always good at navigating those choppy waters. And soothing ruffled feathers.’
‘Any news on her condition?’ McIntyre asked.
‘She’ll live, I’m told. Burns take a long time to heal, though, and they leave nasty scars. Her clothes protected her in the main, but her hands and face are badly damaged. Mentally, who knows how she’ll cope? And there’s the small matter of her and Tommy Fielding still to address.’
‘You still think she killed him?’
‘I think she had motive and opportunity. But that’s not enough to prove it.’
‘I don’t get it, though.’ McIntyre shook her head slowly. ‘I mean, I understand they had history, but from what everyone says they both loathed each other. Why would she . . . ? She seems so . . . ?’
‘It’s about power, Jayne. I’d have thought you’d understand that. Elmwood – Gail – can be charming. God knows she turned it on me from the first we met. But it was always about power. And manipulation. Fielding’s just the same. Using that horrible charisma of his to mould like-minded people to his will. Preying on their insecurities and stoking their hate. The two of them were almost perfectly suited. Sure, they hated each other, but hate can be just as intoxicating as love. Why else do exes so often end up screwing each other’s brains out then regretting it the morning after?’
‘I always forget you have a degree in psychology, Tony.’ McIntyre glanced away from him as she spoke, her attention drawn by the nothing that was unfolding in the interview room. ‘So you think Gail and Fielding were just having a hate fuck, nothing else?’
‘No, it’s more than that. They were using each other, must have been for years. He contacted her about Galloway, for starters. There’s no other explanation for how she could have known. What are the chances it was Fielding having a word in the chief constable’s ear that got her the job up here in the first place? Problem is, she stood to lose more than him if it ever became public knowledge.’
‘Sounds like a motive to me. Something like that wouldn’t just destroy her career; it could land her in jail.’
It was McLean’s turn to shake his head. He considered the writing on Fielding’s bathroom mirror, and the things
Madame Rose had told him while he was still in shock the night before. ‘Motive doesn’t equal guilt, and forensics leave us with reasonable doubt. I can’t see it going to prosecution. No, as far as the world’s concerned, Tommy Fielding’s death was misadventure. A wanker to the end.’
McIntyre laughed out loud, then covered her mouth lest the sound travel through to the interview room beyond. If it had done, Gary Tomlinson gave no indication he had heard.
Neither of his two rescued cats were in the kitchen when McLean let himself in and dumped his briefcase on the table. He didn’t recall having left the light on either, but it had been a very long day, beginning with aches and pains well before dawn, so there was every possibility he’d forgotten. He filled the kettle and hefted it on to the hotplate, then set about fetching teapot and tea for a much needed cuppa. Beer and something from the takeaway could come later.
It was about the same time he realised the teapot was missing that he heard the voices filtering through the closed kitchen door from the hall beyond. Something about the sound, the cadence of the words he couldn’t make out, relaxed him at the same time as it lifted his weary heart. He hurried through to the library, certain of what he would find there and not disappointed.
‘Surprise!’ Emma leapt out of her chair to greet him as he entered the room. He barely had time to make out that there were other people present before she had wrapped him in a tight hug. McLean held on as if his life depended on it, both to Emma and the moment. He didn’t want to let her go, lest all the horror of the past few weeks come crashing back. And was that a dampness he could feel pricking the corners of his eyes, a lump threatening to form in his throat? Christ, but he’d missed her.
‘Well look at you,’ he said, once the embrace had finally been broken. Africa seemed to have suited Emma. Her face was tanned, a smear of freckles cresting the top of her cheeks. She’d cut her hair even shorter than he remembered, the spikiness of it making him think she’d maybe done it herself, with blunt scissors. Despite the heat coming from the lit fire, she wore several layers of shapeless clothes as if she was freezing. But she glowed with an excitement he’d not seen in her for a long time.
‘I don’t know, Tony. I leave you alone for what? Two months? And look at you.’ A frown creased her forehead and she took a slower step towards him, one hand reaching out to gently touch his face. He’d not really noticed how taut and burned his skin was, but her fingers brought little pulses of pain he did his best to hide.
‘It’s nothing. Just got a bit too close to the fire.’ He took Emma’s hands in his, as much to stop her fussing over him as anything, then turned to greet the rest of the group. Madame Rose and Izzy sat side by side on the sofa, and McLean was surprised to see Mirriam Downham in his favourite armchair. Huddled a little too close to each other on the smaller sofa sat Manda Parsons and a rather embarrassed-looking Detective Sergeant Harrison.
‘Anything left in that pot?’ he asked. ‘Or should I be looking for something stronger?’
‘Here, let me. You sit down.’ Emma directed him to the only empty armchair, then set to fetching him a mug of tea. McLean did as he was told, glad to get the weight off his feet, although when he had his mug and noticed Emma had nowhere to sit, he almost got up again. She squeezed in beside Madame Rose and Izzy before he could muster the energy to move.
‘Well I can’t say this isn’t pleasant,’ he said, once he’d had a slurp of tepid, tannic tea. ‘But I’m a detective, and there are far too many clues here for me to think this is purely a social visit.’
‘You can blame me for bringing Rose and Isobel.’ Mirriam Downham leaned forward in her seat, the better to be seen. ‘I’m sorry we interrupted your reunion. We won’t stay long.’
‘Has anyone spoken to you about Cecily Slater’s will?’ McLean asked.
‘Indeed they have. I had a call from a rather nervous lawyer early this morning, and another from young Janie here this afternoon. I thought it only polite to come and thank you in person.’
McLean wanted to say he’d just been doing his job, but he stopped himself at the last moment. He could hear his grandmother chiding him from beyond the grave. Accept the compliment; don’t downplay it.
‘I suspect there’ll be a fair few more lawyers in the coming months,’ he said.
‘Of course. There always are. I don’t imagine young Reginald will give up without a fight, but I’ve been besting the Bairnfather lords for many years now.’
‘I’m sorry we can’t pin her murder on him too. It might have been Fielding and his band of zealots who did the deed, but he’s every bit as guilty.’
Doctor Downham tilted her head in partial agreement. ‘Sissy had her justice, in the end. I think we both know that.’
McLean opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted as the two cats sauntered into the room. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat sniffed at the tray with the tea things on it, ever hopeful there might have been tuna sandwiches to steal, then stalked off and curled herself down in front of the fire. The other cat, most probably Cecily Slater’s, but also possibly some random stray that knew a good thing when it saw one, stood in the space between the sofas and armchairs, the tip of her tail twitching at full mast. She raised her head, turning it slowly this way and that as if sniffing the air, searching for something. Then she leaped gracefully into DS Harrison’s lap, purring a deep, low rumble and butting her head against the detective sergeant’s startled hand.
‘I . . . ah . . . I’m a wee bit allergic to cats?’ she said, her voice rising at the end of the sentence as if even she weren’t entirely sure. She picked up the animal gingerly, her lack of experience as obvious as her fear of getting scratched, and placed it back on the floor. It cocked a quizzical head at her, then sauntered off to join Mrs McCutcheon’s cat on the rug in front of the fire.
‘Interesting,’ Downham said, in a manner that reminded McLean of one of his old psychology professors. Then she slapped her long, thin hands down on the arms of the chair and levered herself upright. ‘But we’ve taken enough of your time here, Detective Inspector. My thanks again. Should you ever need it, you will find a welcome at Burntwoods. Now we must leave. Come, Rose, Isobel.’
‘We should probably be going too. Let you and Em catch up, aye?’ Harrison stood up swiftly, Manda Parsons taking a little more time. McLean hadn’t even finished his tea, but given how it tasted that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
‘You want me to call a taxi?’ he asked, but no sooner were the words out than he heard the crunch of car tyres on gravel outside.
Madame Rose gave him a conspiratorial wink and patted him on the arm. ‘We’ll be fine, Tony. Just leave you two to get reacquainted.’
In moments they were gone; three in a taxi heading for Leith, two on foot walking towards Bruntsfield. McLean closed the door and let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He crossed the hall and went back into the library, where Emma had curled herself up on the sofa at the end closest to the fire. Cecily Slater’s cat lay in her lap, purring contentedly as she stroked its head.
‘Found a new friend, I see,’ he said, as he went to the hidden cupboard and helped himself to a stiff dram. Anything to take away the taste of tannin. He held up the bottle for Emma to see. ‘Want one yourself?’
She shook her head, patted the cushion beside her. ‘Sit down, Tony. Before you fall down.’
He did as he was told, not realising quite how worn out he was until he was finally able to relax. Emma leaned in and they sat there together for a while, silent save for the sound of gentle purring. McLean felt like he could have sat there for hours, enjoying that one small moment of peace. But nothing lasts for ever, and too soon Emma sat up a little straighter, pulled away far enough that she could face him.
‘Right then, Anthony McLean. Are you going to tell me just what you’ve been doing with my car?’
63
The darknes
s is soothing, warm like the womb. She floats in it carelessly, watching and waiting, listening to the quiet noises of the house as it breathes. It is good to be free of the pain, the weariness of long years and a body grown tired and old. She was done with being Cecily, more than ready to move on.
But not straight away, perhaps.
She has earned some respite, she thinks. A chance to rest and recover, now that her vengeance is complete. True, her nemesis died at another’s hand, but such is life, and death. His end was sweet joy to witness all the same, and it has brought with it an unexpected bonus. Blindsided, he acted foolishly, too swift in seeking his retribution. And now he is trapped. The mind he possessed was not ready, not strong enough to contain him. How long will that body survive? How long will modern medicine keep it alive? Will he live ninety years like Cecily? If so, then she is in no rush. She has time to choose, time to make plans and change the world.
Beside her the other spirit stirs, turns, settles and falls back into slumber. This is a safe place, a secure and most welcome refuge. They have both of them done well to find it. Although it is perhaps not surprising given the family that has lived here, that lives here still.
She sniffs the air, tastes the scent of those who have passed through here so recently. Some already have the knowledge, the wisdom of ages passed down from soul to soul. They see her for what she truly is, but keep that secret to themselves. Of the others, almost any would make a fine union. All but the master of the house. He is an ally, that rare thing in this world, a genuinely good man, but he is no vessel.
But the others? Which one would agree to take on her mantle? Which one would assume that great power, and with it that great responsibility? So many to choose from, and all so strong.
She is in no rush. For once, she is safe. And her old foe is weakened, trapped. She can afford to take her time.
