Dead Men's Bones (Inspector Mclean 4)

by James Oswald

  ‘I know what you’re like, McLean. You won’t leave this alone. Just don’t take any other detectives down with you, aye?’

  You probably wouldn’t have called it a hive of activity, but the Weatherly incident room was certainly active when McLean walked in half an hour later. Duguid’s parting words still rang in his ears, underlining the horrible conviction that he had been used, was still being used. He should have realized that the case was a poisoned chalice the moment he saw it. Actually, he seemed to recall saying as much to DS Ritchie on their way out to Fife. And yet he’d taken it on anyway. Sheer bloody-mindedness. He knew it would be his eventual downfall.

  ‘You got a minute, sir?’ Somehow Sandy Gregg had managed to creep up on him unawares.

  ‘I’ve got all the time in the world, Constable. But if it’s anything to do with this case you might want to leave it until I’ve spoken to everyone. Gather them all up, can you? We’ll have a briefing in a couple of minutes.’

  McLean watched her scuttle off, determined to shine in her new task. It was nice to see such enthusiasm, even if he couldn’t ever remember having been that keen himself. She’d make a half-decent detective, too. Just needed to develop a slightly thicker skin and a protective armour of cynicism.

  He walked to the end of the room where the largest whiteboard occupied one half of the wall, a map of the city taking up the other half. Hunkering down brought flashes of pain from his hip, but he was fairly sure one of the physiotherapist’s exercises involved squatting, so it was probably good pain. At least that was the lie he told himself. He traced a finger south, up Liberton Brae and on to Burdiehouse. Further down, beyond the bypass, Loanhead was growing ever larger, swallowing up Bilston and threatening to devour Roslin as well. To the east, Bonnyrigg and Rosewell lay on the other side of the glen, linked by the disused railway track. The area was dotted with ancient monuments, mine workings, remains of Midlothian’s industrial past. There was history, bloody and violent, written on that map, but nowhere did it suggest a reason for the terrible fate of the tattooed man.

  ‘Ready when you are, sir.’

  He stood, wincing as he turned to face the assembled officers. For all that it had been a high-profile investigation, there weren’t a lot of them any more. No doubt some had slunk off to other duties, sensing the change in the political wind. Others had probably been nicked by his more senior colleagues to work on their own cases. That seemed to be the way things operated around here. Which just left him with the enthusiastic and the too-dumb-to-know-better. Much like himself, at least on one count.

  ‘OK, everyone. Listen up. I’ve some good news and some bad news.’

  After the briefing, he watched them set about the task of wrapping up the investigation, his little army of uniforms, plain clothes and admin staff. Every so often someone would come up and ask him something, and after a while it occurred to him that this was really sergeant work. He had far more important things to be doing, or at least things that needed to be done that others would consider more important.

  Scanning the room, he could see no one above the rank of constable. DS Carter had been part of the team to start with, but his disappearance was hardly surprising. No doubt off brown-nosing with DCI Brooks and DI Spence. Sooner or later Carter was going to get himself promoted to detective inspector. McLean could hardly wait to see the slow-motion train crash that would be, except that he’d be the one left to pick up the pieces.

  Grumpy Bob wasn’t about, but then that was hardly surprising. The DS had a backlog of unsolved burglary cases that had been dumped on him, and hadn’t really been part of the Weatherly investigation from the off. DC MacBride was at the far end of the room, doing something with one of the admin staff’s computers, but one detective was notable by her absence.

  ‘Anyone seen DS Ritchie?’ McLean pitched his question to the crowd, realizing as he did so that he’d not seen her since they’d been over Weatherly’s flat the day before.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Should have said. She phoned in sick this morning.’

  ‘Ritchie? Sick?’ Wonders never ceased. She seemed all right the night before, if a little distracted. A bit sniffly, perhaps. It must have been something serious to keep her from work, though.

  ‘That’s what I heard, sir.’ DC Gregg took the opportunity of the question to stop whatever it was she’d been doing. ‘We really closing this down, sir? Now?’

  ‘There’s not all that much to close down, is there? Forensics and CCTV say Weatherly did it. The gun was legally owned. There’s nothing to suggest he was forced. Those are the facts we present to the Procurator Fiscal. Up to her what she wants done with it after that. Nothing would be my guess.’

  ‘But don’t you want to know why he did it?’

  For a brief, irrational moment, McLean wondered whether Duguid had put her up to it. That was his way, after all. Getting others to do his dirty work, using people’s weaknesses against them. Working away in the shadows to keep his team at each other’s throats. All the best techniques of man management. Then he realized who he was talking to. This was DC Gregg. Inquisitive, talkative, gossipy Sandy Gregg who, one day, might make a decent detective, if she learned to talk less and listen more. Her question had been entirely innocent, stemming solely from her own horrified fascination. It was just his growing paranoia that was the problem.

  ‘You know, I used to think I did. Now I’m really not so sure.’

  19

  The tattooed man incident room was quiet; no one in that early in the morning. Not as if there’d been a great sense of urgency about the case to start with, but with the Weatherly investigation across the corridor killed by edict from on high, there was even less enthusiasm in CID than normal. It didn’t help that they weren’t even called CID any more. Not really sure what they were one day from the next.

  McLean scanned the whiteboard and the scant information on it. There were more questions than answers, perhaps unsurprisingly. They still didn’t even have an ID for the man, even if the tattoos meant they were inching ever closer. He needed to get MacBride or Ritchie on to chasing up those DNA results; sort out getting Eddie Cobbold down to the mortuary, if Angus could be persuaded. Then there was the small matter of finishing up the Weatherly report and prepping for what would undoubtedly be a fun press conference.

  He was mid-yawn when the door opened, revealing the crumpled form of Detective Sergeant Laird. You could put Grumpy Bob in a perfectly pressed suit first thing in the morning and he’d still look like he’d slept in it by coffee time. Chances were he had.

  ‘You look as tired as I feel, sir. Thought that would have been a load off your mind.’ Grumpy Bob nodded his head in the direction of the main incident room.

  ‘If only it were that easy, Bob. Sure, we’ve got enough to satisfy the PF, but I don’t think the press’ll be that happy.’ McLean leaned against the nearest desk, taking the weight off his aching hip. ‘Damn, this is why Dagwood gave me the case in the first place. He knew it wouldn’t be long before someone shut it down. Didn’t want to be the one standing up in front of the cameras, telling the world how little we care.’

  Grumpy Bob let out a sound that might have been a harrumph. ‘You give him credit for more than he’s due.’

  ‘Not this time. He warned me at the start. No. There’s something more going on here.’ McLean unfolded the slim brown envelope he’d already shown to Duguid, handed it over. Grumpy Bob took it, pulled out the sheaf of photographs and shuffled through them. His eyebrows shot up at the first, then tightened into a frown and finally a scowl as he reached the last.

  ‘Do I want to know where you got those?’ He handed the envelope with its disturbing contents back.

  ‘Special Branch, at a guess. Or whatever it’s calling itself these days.’ McLean told Grumpy Bob all about his visit, and about the clues at Weatherly’s flat that DS Ritchie had uncovered. ‘It’s all bloody politics, and you know how much I like that.’

  ‘I’d back right off if it was me. Photo
s or no photos. Sounds like you’ve two factions gearing up for a fight up in the high corridors. You don’t want to be stuck in the middle of that.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if I haven’t got anything else to do.’ McLean stepped closer to the whiteboard, eyes skimming over the words in the hope that some answer might present itself. He still had the photographs in their envelope, noticed he was tapping them against his thigh. Willed himself to stop.

  ‘Talking of Ritchie, you any idea if she’s coming in today?’

  Grumpy Bob shook his head. ‘Haven’t heard. Not like her to call in sick.’

  ‘She’s been out of sorts all week. Ever since we went to see Weatherly’s house in Fife.’ McLean shuddered as the image of the two dead girls lying side by side in their bed swam up into his mind. He couldn’t stop himself from opening up the envelope and pulling out the first photograph, staring at the image of Andrew Weatherly walking in the park with young Joanna and Margaret. They were all holding hands, swinging off his arm, but the woman holding on at the other side, completing the family picture, wasn’t Morag Weatherly. Jennifer Denton looked every inch the mother of the children, not the stern PA they had interviewed just the previous day.

  ‘Don’t, Tony.’ Grumpy Bob laid a hand on McLean’s shoulder. ‘You’re only doing what they want you to. Let it go. Concentrate on this.’ He pointed at the whiteboard.

  ‘You’re right, Bob. As ever.’ McLean shoved the photograph away. So Weatherly’s relationship with his PA was more personal than assistant. It hardly made any difference to the outcome of the case. Just made it all the sadder, and perhaps went some way towards explaining her attitude to their investigation. Of course, there were the other photographs and the story they told. Secrets he’d been given that would surely also be finding their way into less sympathetic hands. How long before the gutter press got hold of them? And what would it mean for him when they did?

  ‘Christ, what a mess.’ McLean picked up the marker pen, underlined ‘tattoos’ and put a question mark beside it. ‘See if you can find MacBride can you, Bob? I need to get this Weatherly report out of the way. Then we’re going to have a little trip to the mortuary.’

  ‘Well, that’s not something you see every day.’

  Eddie Cobbold rocked back on his heels, recoiling from the sight in front of him. The city mortuary, late morning. McLean had arrived a few minutes before DC MacBride and the tattoo artist, hoping to have a moment alone with Cadwallader. The pathologist could be prickly when it came to letting civilians anywhere near his bodies. Unfortunately Angus was nowhere to be found, so Tracy had kitted them out with overalls and shown them into the examination theatre. The body had been waiting, covered up with a white sheet. Tracy had so far only revealed the man’s head.

  ‘It gets worse, I can assure you.’ McLean recognized the voice without turning. Angus Cadwallader crossed the room from the far entrance with long strides, arriving at the opposite side of the examination table, where his assistant was already standing. It felt stupidly like some kind of Wild West stand-off, the medics facing the detectives over the dead body.

  ‘Morning, Angus.’ McLean decided to go for the direct approach. ‘This is Eddie Cobbold. Eddie, Angus Cadwallader.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Pleased to meet you and all that. Now can we get on with this? Only I’ve a stack of examinations to do and this fellow’s bed blocking.’

  ‘I thought it best if we didn’t start without you.’ McLean saw the glint in his old friend’s eye and realized that the irascibility was just for show. He too wanted to know the secrets of the tattooed man.

  ‘Well, I’m here now, so shall we start?’ Cadwallader nodded to Dr Sharp beside him. ‘Tracy.’

  She pulled back the white sheet with a practised ease, folding it neatly as she went, revealing the dead man in all his glory. McLean had seen him as he was pulled from the water, and again when the initial post-mortem had begun. He’d seen the photographs as well, but still the sight of the man, up close and personal, was a shock.

  ‘Whoa!’ Eddie let out the word with a long whistle, ran a hand through his close-cropped hair in surprise.

  ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ Cadwallader leaned over the body, picked up an arm, turning it to expose the palm of the hand, covered like the rest of the body in swirls and spots of black ink. ‘I’m told that’s a particularly sensitive spot.’

  ‘It is. Horribly painful.’ Eddie peered at the hand. ‘Can I touch?’

  ‘You’ve got gloves on?’ Cadwallader asked. Eddie held up his hands to show that he did.

  ‘Be my guest. I’m keen to hear what you think.’

  McLean took a couple of steps back as the pathologist and the tattoo artist huddled over the dead man. MacBride, he noticed, hadn’t come anywhere near.

  ‘You rather be outside, Constable?’

  ‘I’d rather be anywhere, frankly, sir.’

  ‘Sensible chap. Why don’t you head back to the station? I can take it from here.’

  MacBride didn’t even protest, just nodded a pathetically grateful ‘thanks’ and fled. By the time McLean turned his attention back to the examination table, Eddie and Angus were side by side, the tattoo artist manipulating the dead man’s leg as he pointed out things of interest.

  ‘See here, the scabs are well formed and even, so that’s probably been done a couple weeks back. This swirl here, connects in there, that’s newer.’

  ‘Any idea what any of it means?’ McLean asked.

  ‘Means?’ Eddie looked up at him. ‘Haven’t a clue. I can tell you what’s old and what’s new. What it means is for the nutters to decide.’

  McLean looked at the painted flesh. He could hardly make anything of it at all. ‘When you say old, how old do you mean? Days, months?’

  ‘Oh no. Years. There’s a couple of places. Here, look.’ Eddie moved up the body to the man’s right shoulder, twisted the dead skin around and pointed at a spot not a million miles from the location of McLean’s own misguided tattoo. ‘This is pretty much the first place most people get done. Our man here’s no different. There’s markings here underneath the new work, and it’s fitted in around it, too. Have you got a magnifying glass or something, Doctor?’

  ‘Angus, please.’ Cadwallader took the glass from the tray presented to him by Tracy and handed it over. ‘Can you show me?’

  The two of them bent to the task, and McLean took a step back again. From what he could hear of the conversation, they were arguing over exactly what form the original tattoo took. It was cross-shaped, but there were wavy lines to either side of it as well. Unless they were something different.

  ‘A dagger maybe,’ Eddie said after a while.

  ‘Yes. A dagger. And these look like wings?’

  McLean pulled out his phone, checked to see if he’d got a decent signal. There was Wi-Fi in the building, but he didn’t have the password. The browser worked slowly as it processed first the search results for the query, then downloaded the photograph he was looking for. Eddie and Angus were still arguing over what was old and what was new by the time he’d found it.

  ‘Is it anything like that?’ He held up the phone for them both to see. Cadwallader peered over the rim of his spectacles, squinting, as if that would make the image clearer. McLean stepped closer, handed him the phone. Eddie looked in over his shoulder, then back at the dead man.

  ‘Yup. That’s it.’ He too squinted at the tiny image on the touch screen before reading out the words. ‘ “Who Dares Wins.” That’s the SAS, isn’t it?’

  McLean nodded, took his phone back. ‘Have a look on his other shoulder, maybe a forearm.’ He tapped the screen again, waiting while the next image came up. ‘See if you can’t find one of those as well. Wings from the Parachute Regiment. There’s more Paras in the SAS than any other regiment. If you can find that, I’m guessing our man here was a soldier once, rather than a numpty with a military fetish. And if that’s the case, we should be getting a hit on the DNA database soon.’

>   20

  He wanted to get straight back to the tattooed man incident room, and make a start on collating information about ex-military Missing Persons. McLean had a couple of contacts he could phone to make more discreet enquiries too; if the man really was ex-SAS then that could narrow the field right down. He wanted to do all of these things, but he had to finish the report on the Weatherly investigation first or face the wrath of Dagwood.

  DC MacBride had made a good job of pulling everything together. There were transcripts of all the interviews, a detailed forensic report, the pathologist’s findings. Normally he would have expected a sergeant to write up the bulk of the report for him, but DS Ritchie was still off sick. No point dragging in Grumpy Bob; even less giving it to DS Carter, only to have to do it all over again. So it was down to him.

  It was nice to have a simple task for a change. The facts of the crime weren’t complicated, for all that they were terrible and tragic. It was only the reason behind them that was a mystery. McLean picked up the slim brown envelope given to him by the man from Special Branch. A possible answer to that mystery lay inside, but only a partial one. And he wasn’t so naive that he couldn’t see the hook and line attached to this particularly juicy worm. They wanted him to look into this, wanted the apple cart upset. He just couldn’t quite work out why.

  McLean turned his attention back to the report, staring at the cursor flicking on and off on his screen. The brown envelope was still there, the photographs still inside. Some things you just couldn’t resist.

  He pulled them out, turned the first face down and concentrated on the second. It showed Weatherly and Jennifer Denton, in flagrante delicto as the more prudish papers might have put it. The third and fourth photographs were similar, presumably taken at the same time, and established the fact that Andrew Weatherly was peculiar in his sexual peccadilloes, while Jennifer Denton was extremely accommodating. For all that it was sordid, and he felt rather tawdry being a voyeur at the party, the phrase ‘consenting adults’ was never far from his mind as he studied the images. Of course, Morag Weatherly had most likely not consented, but adultery was a crime for the priests to deal with, not him.