by James Oswald
‘Not much of it here, though,’ McLean said. ‘Could just be something they use on site?’
‘It’s possible. I’ll get this analysed anyway. If they’re using industrial solvents they’ll have paperwork for it. Seems a bit dodgy to me, though.’
McLean didn’t say it, but he had to agree. Too many coincidences, and too much evidence of a hurried cover-up. He looked around the empty space, noticing a small fire escape door to the rear. If memory served, this shed was at the back of the compound, where it opened out on to the building site for the greenhouses and tomatoes. He walked over, pushed at the bar that would open the door.
‘Don’t push that, sir. It’s alarmed.’ The shout of warning came too late, but no bells set to ringing as the door swung open. McLean looked across a short expanse of neatly trimmed grass and a gravel path to the fence. A narrow gate opened up on to the greenhouse site, far more close to completion than he had imagined.
‘Anyone looked in there?’ he asked as the young Health and Safety officer trotted up.
‘Not sure the warrant covers it, sir.’
‘Not sure I care.’ McLean stepped out of the storage shed and crossed to the gate. He expected it to be locked, but when he tried the handle it clicked open. Nobody shouted at him, and there didn’t seem to be anyone at work. A short distance away, another shed similar to the one he had just left was still under construction, only half its roof on. The small door at the rear was locked, and when he walked around the front, a heavy roller door had been pulled down to the ground, blocking entry. It reminded him horribly of the door over the disused train tunnel where he and Harrison had found the barrels of industrial effluent, but where there had been a personnel door in that one, this was solid.
‘I wonder why they’re so keen to keep people out of an unfinished shed.’ McLean bent down and rattled the padlock. This part of the shed had a roof over it, but further along, where the shed was still open to the elements, another opening had no roller door as yet fitted. Peering inside, he found a partition wall between the two bays. A temporary wooden door had been set into it, held shut with a hasp and padlock.
‘You got a set of bolt cutters?’ McLean asked of the young Health and Safety inspector, who had followed him from the other site. ‘I’d really like to know what’s in there.’
‘Should be a set in one of the vans, sir. Have you got the authority to open it though?’
McLean shook his head. ‘Probably not. But you have, right? I mean you guys can go anywhere if you’ve reason to believe Health and Safety rules aren’t being followed, right?’
The young man’s worried frown turned into a wry smile. ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ he said, then scurried off.
McLean wandered the building site while he waited, wondering about the lack of workmen or even security guards. Like Extech Energy, the site was ring-fenced with steel mesh and razor wire, so maybe they felt it wasn’t necessary. Or the Extech security guards might have included this place in their rounds anyway, since it was all part of the same outfit.
‘Here we go, sir.’ The young Health and Safety inspector appeared, rather breathlessly, holding a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters and followed by a somewhat concerned looking DCI McIntyre.
‘What are you up to, Tony?’ she asked.
‘Following a hunch.’ McLean nodded at the young man, who set about the padlock with the cutters. It gave little resistance, and the door swung open on to darkness. The smell that wafted out was enough to confirm his suspicions, though. Bitter and stinging to the eyes, a headache just from one breath.
McLean fished a torch out of his jacket pocket and played the light on the space beyond the door. It reflected off the shiny sides of a stainless-steel tanker trailer, just like the one that had crashed and split, spilling its contents over the Lothian Road and nineteen unfortunate souls. A dozen or more metal barrels, in only slightly better condition than the ones they had found in the disused railway tunnel, had been hastily piled in the far corner.
‘Bingo.’
52
News of the find out at Extech Energy must have travelled fast if the flurry of activity at the station was anything to go by. He’d left most of the team out at the site in Livingston, heading back with DC Harrison and DCI McIntyre to break the bad news to the major-incident team. They’d done a great job on the truck crash, but even McLean knew it was time to call in the big guns on this one.
DC Gregg held court among a sea of uniforms, dishing out assignments as if they were rewards for good service. McLean could have just stood in the doorway and watched her efficiency. As a detective, she was thorough but not particularly imaginative, which worked for a certain kind of case. Her true skill, it appeared, was in project management, and here she was a sight to behold. Too soon, she caught sight of him, dismissed her entourage and bustled over.
‘Back already, sir? Thought you’d be out there all day.’
‘Best to leave it to the professionals. Which reminds me, who’s our contact at Gartcosh these days?’
‘Not sure. You think we need to get Serious and Organized on to this?’
‘Sadly, yes. It goes way beyond Specialist Crime. This is much bigger than either of our pay grades.’
Gregg consulted her notepad, scribbled something at the bottom of the page. ‘I’ll get right on to it. Be a shame to hand all this over, though.’ She looked around the room wistfully. ‘I’ve just got it nicely organized.’
‘How are we doing with the other half of the investigation? Any advance on the last body?’ McLean looked across the room to the whiteboard. No one had rubbed out the name Reginald Samuel Saunders yet, but someone had scored a line through it.
‘Nothing from the DNA people, I’m afraid. We asked the mortuary to send a second sample just in case the first had been cross-contaminated. We’ve got a fresh sample from your dealer, too, just to confirm whether the problem’s analysis or database.’ Gregg looked at the floor for a moment, something McLean had noticed she tended to do when bringing bad news.
‘Let me guess, it’s going to take a few days to get all that done.’
‘They promised early next week.’
‘OK. Not much we can do about that. The drugs boys come to pick up Sammy yet? That’s one case I’ll be happy to hand over to another team.’
Gregg consulted her clipboard. ‘Don’t think so, sir. Last I heard Chief Superintendent Forrester was going to see him.’
‘Forrester’s here?’ McLean’s euphoria at the discovery of the industrial solvents at Extech evaporated in an instant. ‘Who’s with him? When did this happen?’
‘Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago?’ Gregg, looked at her watch. ‘Why?’
‘Sammy’s responsible for the death of his son. He shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the man. Fuck.’
McLean left DC Gregg open-mouthed and staring, hurried out of the incident room and into the corridor. He spotted DC Blane lumbering up the stairs as he hurried down them. ‘Lofty. With me. Now!’
He didn’t wait to see if he was being followed, but clattered down the next couple of flights, taking two steps, then three at a time. At the bottom, the long corridor to the cells was empty. Even the custody sergeant’s desk was unmanned. McLean burst through the doors beyond, wondering how long it would take to locate Sammy’s cell.
As it turned out, no time at all.
One cell door stood open, light spilling out into the corridor, and with it a horrible wet, slapping noise. McLean felt a presence behind him, turned to see DC Blane.
‘Quickly.’ He hurried to the open door, already knowing what he was going to see there.
Pothead Sammy lay sprawled across the narrow cot that hung from one wall of the cell. His face was a mess of blood, lanky hair slicked with it. Chief Superintendent Forrester had a good grip on his T-shirt with one hand and was using the other to repeatedly pummel the drug dealer in the face. With each hit, Sammy’s body twitched and spasmed, blood spattering the wall behind him and slick
ing the floor.
‘Stop!’ McLean bellowed the command with all the authority of a sergeant-at-arms. He might as well have shouted at the wind. Forrester didn’t even seem to hear him, just raised his fist once more and brought it down on Sammy’s nose. Before McLean could say anything more, DC Blane pushed past him. Two steps carried him across the room, and in a second he had the chief superintendent in a neck lock, arms pinned. For a moment, Forrester resisted, and then he slumped so completely, Blane almost dropped him.
‘Get him out of here.’ McLean spoke softly even though he wanted to shout. ‘One of the other cells for now, and keep it quiet if you can.’
DC Blane nodded once, hauling the almost comatose chief superintendent up on to unwilling legs and steering him out of the cell. McLean crouched down beside Pothead Sammy, reached a finger in to search for a pulse. ‘Thank Christ,’ he muttered under his breath as he found one, saw bubbles in the blood around the drug dealer’s nose and mouth as he breathed in and out shallowly, unconscious.
‘Dear God. I never thought …’
McLean looked around to see the custody sergeant standing in the doorway, eyes wide with feigned surprise.
‘Aye you did, Jim.’ He stood up, pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Sammy Saunders’s blood from his fingers with it. ‘Aye you did.’
‘Well this is fucking awkward, isn’t it?’
It seemed to be McLean’s turn to pace up and down in front of the window, this time in Chief Superintendent Forrester’s office rather than his own. The man himself had collapsed into the chair behind his desk, staring at the ceiling with eyes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Pothead Sammy after a particularly fine toke.
‘He killed my boy.’ Forrester’s voice cracked as he spoke, weak and on the verge of breaking down completely.
‘That’s the only reason I didn’t arrest you on the spot. Sir.’ And the bloody custody sergeant. McLean paused long enough to consider kicking the waste paper bin, then carried on his pacing.
‘Is he dead?’ Forrester slumped forward, elbows on the desk, and plunged his head into his hands. Blood stained his knuckles and the cuffs of his shirt, flecks of it in his greying hair. It was on his cheeks, too, giving him the appearance of a frenzied axeman.
‘Do you really care?’ McLean stopped pacing, checked his watch. Half an hour since DC Blane had dragged the chief constable out of the cell. Twenty-five minutes since the paramedics had carted Pothead Sammy off to hospital, alive but only just. Whether the damage inflicted was permanent remained to be seen, but one thing was for sure. Chief Superintendent Tommy Forrester’s career in Police Scotland was over.
A light knock at the door, and then it opened before McLean could reach it. Deputy Chief Constable Steve ‘Call-Me-Stevie’ Robinson slid through a narrow opening like a pantomime thief, closing it swiftly but silently behind him. He paused a moment to look at the two men in the room, eyes settling on Forrester.
‘Jesus, Tommy. What the fuck were you thinking?’
McLean was surprised to hear the DCC swear. He couldn’t remember him ever being so coarse before. ‘I don’t think there was much of that going on,’ he said.
Robinson turned to face him, eyes narrowed in irritation. ‘What a bloody mess. I don’t suppose there’s much chance nobody else knows what happened?’
‘The custody sergeant knew. DC Gregg told me he was going to speak to Saunders.’ McLean nodded in Forrester’s direction. ‘DC Blane helped to stop him. Of the three, I’d trust the constables not to gossip until they’d had a chance to square things up with me, but you know what a police station’s like, sir. Chances of keeping a lid on this are zero.’
‘Then it’s all about the spin.’ Robinson stood up straighter now, and in his mind McLean could almost see the DCC clasping the lapels of his jacket. ‘Tommy, you need to go home. Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll expect a letter of resignation on my desk by tomorrow morning. Tony, as of now you’re acting DCI – no, I’ll not hear any argument. Jayne will be acting superintendent and I’ll take control of the station overall. The drug dealer, he’s where right now?’
‘Hospital.’ McLean pulled out his phone, checked there were no new messages. ‘DC Blane went with the ambulance. I’d have heard if his condition had changed by now. For good or bad.’
‘Then we must pray it’s for good. There’s only so much we can do if he dies.’ Robinson let out a long breath, sagging a little at the shoulders as he did so. ‘You’ve still work to do, I take it, Tony?’
‘More than ever.’
‘Then get to it. I’ll manage this.’
McLean nodded, walked over to the door and opened it. Before he could go, Robinson spoke again.
‘And thank you. I won’t forget this.’
McLean nodded again, then left the two senior officers to themselves. As he walked the long corridors back to the major-incident room, he couldn’t help wondering whether it wouldn’t be better for him if the DCC forgot he even existed.
53
‘You still in charge of the investigation into James Barnton, sir?’
McLean stopped in his tracks, turned to see DC Gregg standing half in, half out of the major-incident room. His mind was still full of the chief superintendent’s bloody violence and the predicament it had left him in. It took him a while to understand what she was saying. ‘The body in the cemetery?’
‘Aye, that’s the chappie. Only with everything else going on …’ Gregg glanced up at the ceiling, not exactly where the chief superintendent’s office was, but a close enough approximation for him to know what she meant. She stepped fully into the corridor, and McLean saw she was holding a thin sheaf of papers in her hands, looking suspiciously like they were fresh off the printer.
‘I really don’t want to talk about it, and neither do you. As to Barnton, well, technically Grumpy Bob’s in charge. After what we found at Extech, though, I expect it’ll get swept up in all that. Barnton worked there, after all. That his post-mortem report?’
Gregg looked at the papers, then back up at McLean. ‘These? No. PM came in yesterday. He had a massive seizure that killed off half his brain, apparently. No, these are from the CCTV and traffic boys. Thought you might find them interesting.’
McLean took the papers, turning them over to see slightly fuzzy colour-printed photographs, taken from various CCTV cameras. ‘Where’s this?’ he asked.
‘Dalry Road. A couple hundred yards down from the cemetery. Timestamp’s around one in the morning.’
McLean shuffled through the images, seeing two men walking arm in arm. Except that it didn’t seem quite convincing. He’d seen drunks caught on camera before, even one drunk man being guided home by a more sober friend. This looked different somehow.
‘All very interesting, but why am I looking at these? We can’t see faces, can we?’ He peered closer, holding up the paper until he could almost make out the individual dots of the camera pixels.
‘This one’s a bit clearer. If you know what you’re looking at.’ Gregg reached out and flicked through the sheets as McLean still held them, fishing one out after a moment. ‘Helps if you’ve seen the number plate recognition info too.’
McLean stared at the last picture, not enough hands left to shuffle the pages and find the report. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what it says, Constable?’
Gregg looked a little hurt, as if she’d wanted McLean to see how much work she had put into uncovering what was bound to be a less useful clue than she thought it was.
‘See, there’s plenty traffic along that road between midnight and two in the morning. Mostly taxis and stuff, but a few private cars, delivery trucks, that kind of thing. Seems young Stringer’s got an eye for these things, though, and this one fair pops out when you know what you’re looking for.’ She pulled out the bottom sheet from the pile and pointed at a number that had been highlighted in yellow. It meant nothing to McLean, but the name of the registered owner alongside it did.
&
nbsp; ‘LindSea Farm Estates?’ He followed the line across to the next column. ‘Toyota Hilux pickup truck.’ Back to the number plate and now he recognized it. ‘Gregor Wishaw?’
‘That’s what I thought, sir.’
McLean studied the photograph more closely now. Certainly it was the right height and build, but it wasn’t enough to stand up in a court of law.
‘They took him to the Royal Infirmary, didn’t they?’
‘Aye. He’s still there. Broke both his legs and one arm, apparently, so I don’t expect he’ll be going anywhere soon.’
‘You seen Grumpy Bob around?’ McLean asked.
‘Not sure if he’s back from Livingston yet, sir. Could be wrong, mind. Think I saw a couple of the new DCs heading towards the CID room.’
‘Ah well. If I can’t find him I can always drag Harrison along. Sure she’d love to have a go at questioning the man who tried to kill her yesterday.’
He found DC Harrison in the CID room, arguing with DC Stringer about something on one of their computer screens. McLean managed to get all the way across the room unnoticed, the two of them too deeply engaged in their discussion. On balance, he reckoned Harrison was winning, though.
‘Something come up?’ McLean couldn’t for the life of him remember what he’d set them to work on. Then it popped into his head. ‘Jennifer Beasley. You find her next of kin?’
Stringer almost jumped out of his skin, leaping from his chair as if it were on fire. ‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you come in. We were just trying to work something out. I think it’s a problem with the database, but Janie here reckons it’s deliberate.’
‘Back a step, Constable. What’s deliberate?’
Harrison had stayed seated, and now she swivelled the computer screen around so that McLean could see it. A couple of open windows showed lines of text that appeared to be some kind of search results. Beyond that he had no idea.
