by James Oswald
I would appreciate it if you destroyed this note once you have read it, and tell no one where you discovered the information here.
McLean read the note twice; the second time was easier than the first, though the meaning of the words still largely eluded him. Or he didn’t want to accept them, the places they took him to in his mind. One particular statement stood out. Andrew Weatherly keeping the hospital ‘as it had been when he was growing up there as a child’. The way Hilton had written it made it seem like common knowledge, but it was the first McLean knew of it. Finally, when he was sure there was nothing more to be gleaned from the page, he folded the sheet carefully and tucked it into his pocket. It’d be time to go home soon enough, and when he got there he’d light a fire with it.
‘I’m not even going to bother asking you about your exercises, Inspector. It’s obvious you’ve not been doing them.’
McLean lay on the couch and stared up at the ceiling as Esmerelda the physiotherapist manipulated his leg. She had warm hands and a gentle touch, but there was nothing subtle about the way she lifted, twisted, bent and pulled, all the while studying his face to see his involuntary grimaces of pain. It didn’t help either that she was fully clothed, while his trousers were draped across a chair back on the other side of the room. Put him at something of a disadvantage.
‘There’s never enough time …’ he began.
‘That’s what they all say. Then when they’re stuck in a wheelchair there’s far too much.’ Esmerelda gave his leg another tweak. Something clicked, sending a bolt of pain through his hip and up his spine as if he’d been wired to the mains and the switch flipped. It was all McLean could manage not to scream.
‘See. Seized up completely.’ Esmerelda let the leg down again. ‘You can put your trousers back on now.’
McLean sat up slowly, expecting another shock at any moment. His leg hadn’t really been giving him all that much gyp for a few days. Except when he sat down at his desk. Or climbed in and out of the car. Or went to bed. He’d not have bothered coming to the session were it not for the fact that they’d obviously given him the wrong painkillers the previous time. These new ones looked just the same as the old, but they didn’t work as well, or last as long.
The floor seemed a long way off as he let himself slowly down from the couch. The echo of that last click made him tense, expecting a repeat as his foot touched ground and he stood up as gingerly as a man twice his age venturing out on to slippery ice. The lack of any noticeable pain was almost a disappointment.
‘I want to see you again. Same time. Tomorrow.’ Esmerelda spoke to the medical file she was annotating rather than to McLean himself. He was too busy testing each step across the room in the quest for his trousers to really take in what she had said. It only registered as he was pulling them on, fastening the button and zip.
‘Tomorrow? I can’t possibly—’
‘Tomorrow, Inspector. Or I make a call to your boss.’ This time Esmerelda turned to face him, her eyes locked on his, not a smile to be seen. ‘Seriously. You should be completely over these injuries by now. I’ve never met anyone who treated themselves so badly.’
‘I just missed doing the exercises for a couple of days.’ McLean looked down at the floor where his shoes lay, a million miles away. Why the hell had he worn lace-ups today? ‘It’s not like I’m overdoing it or anything.’
‘My point exactly. You’re not overdoing it. You’re not doing it at all.’
‘But surely that’s a good thing. I mean, rest’s what the doctor ordered.’
‘Only up to a point. And you’re past that now.’ Esmerelda consulted her medical file again. ‘I’m not going to give you any more pills, and if you’ve still got any I’d suggest you stop taking them.’
‘I … What?’
‘They’re not helping. You need to feel the pain and work through it. That’s the only way you’re going to get back to normal. Tomorrow we’ll go through your exercises together. It’ll only take a half-hour. Then we’ll do it all again the next day, and the day after that.’
‘I can’t possibly … I mean … I’ve got work—’
‘Tomorrow, Inspector. Same time as today.’ Esmerelda gave him a cheery smile now. ‘See you then.’
43
‘I’m not going to tell you where I got this information, but I think you all need to hear it.’
Early morning. Perhaps too early to be comfortable. McLean stood in front of what had been reassembled of the original Weatherly investigation team. He was glad to see that those missing were those he could most easily do without. DS Carter, for instance, and the gaggle of detective constables who followed him around as if he were some seasoned font of detective wisdom rather than a pale and useless streak of lazy piss.
‘It concerns Andrew Weatherly. In particular some facts about his childhood and early career that aren’t common knowledge. You won’t find any of this on Wikipedia.’
At the back of the darkened room, Grumpy Bob gave McLean a slight nod of understanding. The rest of the assembled crew merely looked at him expectantly, like a bunch of first-year students in a particularly engrossing lecture. The effect was enhanced by the video projector with remote control that DC MacBride had rigged up painting a bright image on the whiteboard; only a few half-hearted actions scribbled down to muddy the picture. It showed a picture of the MSP for West Fife, taken from a newspaper article published a few months back.
‘Andrew Weatherly was born in Rosskettle Psychiatric Hospital in 1953. His mother had only recently been admitted herself; records say she was suicidal and hysterical, but the best guess is her family paid to have her locked up when she managed to fall pregnant without bothering to get married first. She was only seventeen at the time, and came from a very important family. I dare say her father thought the scandal of having a mad daughter was less than that of having a bastard in the family.’
‘Could they do that? I mean, back in Victorian times maybe, but the fifties?’ DC Gregg’s face was a picture of outrage as she asked the question.
‘They could do it today if they had enough money. Back then it wasn’t even owned by the NHS, remember. Weatherly’s grandfather was a senior partner in one of the larger city law firms, owned a fair chunk of Midlothian. His family pretty much built the hospital in the first place, so calling in a few favours wouldn’t have been hard.’
McLean clicked the remote and the image changed: a blurred photocopy of a birth certificate.
‘Weatherly lived with his mother until he was eight. As far we’re aware, he was never christened and the Weatherly family disowned him completely. He was even given a different surname. Andrew Theobold.’
‘Who was Theobold? His dad?’ DC MacBride asked.
‘Possibly. His grandfather had influence and money, so it might just have been the first name that came to mind when he was telling the registrar what to write down. It doesn’t really matter, except to show the lengths to which the Weatherlys went to stop this child from being associated with them in any way.’
‘Seems a bit over the top, really. I mean, what’s so bad about having an illegitimate child? My mum and dad never bothered getting married.’
McLean raised an eyebrow in DC Gregg’s direction at this piece of family gossip shared. ‘Different times, different values. I agree with you, Constable, it’s madness, but that’s what happened. The family were so shocked, they did everything in their considerable power to make sure Andrew Weatherly went away. Not that it did them much good.’
Another click, another picture. This one a graduation photograph; the faces so indistinct it could have been anyone in them. Only the grainy colours, the clothes and the hairstyles suggested it might have been taken in the decade time would like to forget. The 1970s.
‘His mother died when he was eight, after which he was fostered out. We don’t really know much about him until he surfaced again fourteen years later, graduating with a first-class degree from Edinburgh University. By this time he was ca
lling himself Andrew Weatherly; changed his name by deed poll when he was sixteen. You might call it a statement of intent.’
‘Sounds like a right nutter.’ This from Grumpy Bob, who already knew the story.
‘You won’t find me disagreeing with you there, Bob. Seems Weatherly had something of a grudge against his estranged family. I can’t really blame him for that, after what they did to him. Still not sure I’d have been quite so single-minded in my revenge, mind you.’
‘Revenge?’ MacBride asked.
‘Can’t really call it anything else. Weatherly was always good at finance. You don’t build a company managing billions without knowing your way around a spreadsheet. He used that skill to systematically bankrupt the Weatherly family and buy up all their assets on the cheap. His grandfather died in a miserable little care home without two coins to rub together. He had a couple of uncles and they fared no better. Everything the Weatherly family owned, the estates in Midlothian, the properties in the city, the house in Fife. He grabbed the lot. There’s a rumour he even managed to break up the law firm; it certainly doesn’t exist any more.’
MacBride let out a low whistle. ‘That’s some revenge.’
‘It is indeed. And I think it gives you some measure of the man. Which makes the nature of his death all the more difficult to understand. You’ve all seen the pictures doing the rounds. There’s video footage too, though I’d suggest you don’t watch it if you don’t want to have to go and bleach your mind afterwards. The press are shouting blackmail as a reason for what he did, but Weatherly wasn’t the sort of man who ran away from blackmail. And besides, he knew about the pictures, the video footage. He took the bloody things in the first place. That was him blackmailing others. Gaining leverage. Making sure his friends in high places never forgot who put them there. No, this …’ McLean clicked the button and moved on to the final image. He’d picked it with care, not wanting to offend the sensibilities of the younger officers, even though he knew they would probably be the least shocked. It still showed rather more flesh than was decent. ‘This isn’t what made Andrew Weatherly take the lives of his wife and children before he shot himself.’
‘So what did, then?’ DC Gregg asked, her head tilted awkwardly to one side as she tried to make sense of the picture. Fair enough; there were more buttocks in it than you’d expect.
‘That, Constable, is what I want you all to find out.’
‘Have you got a minute, sir?’
Heading back to his office after the briefing, McLean stopped mid-limp and looked up from his phone. He’d been trying to programme it to remind him of his changed physiotherapist appointment schedule, but was so far having little joy. DC MacBride had a sheaf of papers clutched in one podgy hand, but there was nothing so odd about that. The half-smiling, half-worried expression on his face was unusual, though.
‘Anything has to be better than trying to figure out how this damned thing works.’ McLean slipped the phone into his pocket. ‘What have you got?’
‘Been going over the paperwork for the demolition at Rosskettle.’ MacBride held up his handful. ‘Just got all these copies through from the council planning department.’
McLean raised an eyebrow. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’
MacBride’s face dropped in disappointment, and he took a deep breath, about to launch into an explanation. McLean stopped him. ‘No. How’s not important right now. What’s the story?’
A slump of relief in the constable’s shoulders, then he spoke. ‘It might just be a cock-up. We’re talking about the council here, after all. But see here?’ He held up one sheaf of papers that might or might not have been permission from the council to demolish buildings at the Rosskettle Psychiatric Hospital. Pointed a chubby finger at the date. ‘This is after Weatherly … Well, after.’
‘And? We know the application had been approved before the bulldozers rolled in.’
MacBride shuffled the papers around, finding another letter, another variation on the council logo. ‘Yes, I know. But see here. This is the Building Control letter. Sets out what reporting needs to be done during the work, stuff like that.’
McLean took the sheet from the constable and scanned it, seeing only the officialese that these things were written in. A mindlessly self-important language that gave the impression of authority without actually meaning anything. It all seemed above-board, though, nothing suspicious. And then he saw it.
‘The date.’
‘Exactly, sir.’ MacBride beamed like a schoolboy who’s got the answer right in front of the whole class. ‘It’s the same as the planning letter.’
‘And that’s unusual?’
‘I’d say unheard of, sir. Building Control wouldn’t have received the application until planning was done. Even if they got it the same day, there’s no way they’d have done this so quickly.’
‘But it’s not impossible.’
A worried frown scuttered across the detective constable’s face. ‘Not impossible, no. But someone would’ve had to be leaned on. Or offered a wodge of cash.’
44
The cold, thin light of early morning painted the pale blue sky with streaks of purple and grey. Clear now, but the serious threat of snow later. McLean sat in his car with the engine burbling away to itself, feeding much-needed heat into the cabin as he waited outside the church. Every so often he’d look around, trying to see if there were any reporters on lookout. As yet he’d not spotted any, although that was no real assurance they weren’t there. At least the cold would keep the casual passers-by to a minimum.
A battered old Vauxhall Cavalier slowed as it went past him, then pulled into a space a few yards further on. The oily black smoke from its tired diesel engine was still hanging in the air when the driver’s door opened and a scruffy young man climbed out. He was dressed in heavyweight winter walking gear, with a bright red woolly hat pulled down over his ears, so McLean didn’t immediately recognize him. When he turned to stare over the graveyard, then down the street as if waiting for someone, McLean finally clicked. Dr Tom MacPhail wasn’t the pathologist he’d been expecting.
‘Time to go.’ He turned off the engine, and nudged the snoozing Grumpy Bob in the ribs. The detective sergeant let out a great grunting snore as he woke, rubbed at his nose and then ran his fingers through what was left of his hair.
‘Already? I was having a nice wee kip.’
‘I had noticed. Come on.’ McLean pushed open the door and climbed out into air cold enough to freeze his lungs. Grumpy Bob hauled himself out the other side. The slamming of doors alerted Dr MacPhail to their presence. He spun around, almost losing his footing on the icy road.
‘Inspector McLean. Angus sends his apologies. He’s had to jet off down to London to fill in as key speaker at some tedious symposium. Seems the man they wanted was so desperate not to go he had a heart attack and died.’
As introductions went, it was a good one, McLean had to admit. ‘I’m sure he’s loving every minute of it. You know what we’re here to do?’
‘More or less.’ MacPhail pulled open the rear door of his ancient car and hauled out a black bag. Most physicians McLean knew carried them filled with medicines and equipment for saving life. He couldn’t help thinking this particular bag wouldn’t be much use in an emergency.
‘Right then. Sooner we can get this done, the less chance there is some numpty from the press catches us at it.’ Grumpy Bob said the words, even though McLean was thinking the same thing. Out of his car he felt much more exposed. There could be long-lens photographers in every tree, ready to spread his picture over the evening news. ‘Mad cop in grave-robbing scandal’ or maybe ‘Dead MSP still not giving up his secrets.’ Looking around the snow-covered scene, he couldn’t see anyone. Just the hulk of the church rising up into the greying sky, the graveyard with its headstones poking up like crooked, broken teeth.
‘You got the key, Bob?’ McLean asked. The detective sergeant nodded, producing a huge iron lump from one pocket.
<
br /> ‘Right then. Come on.’
The gates were unlocked, and at least one person had been to the front door of the church since the last snowfall. A narrow strip of footprints marked a passage each way. No one had been into the graveyard with feet bigger than a fox, though; the route to the Weatherly crypt was crisp underfoot. McLean hadn’t paid it much attention at the funeral, but it was something of a Gothic monstrosity. Large square slab sides formed a plinth, with a carving on top that would likely have given even quite large children nightmares. Death in all his skeletal, scythe-bearing finery bore down on the prone figure of a buxom woman. The carving was well executed, but the combination of Auld Reekie’s soot and the soft white snow made it even more lifelike, as if the whole tableau had been real, petrified by an unfortunate glimpse of the Gorgon.
Snow had piled deep in the hollow where stone steps led down from the path and into the crypt. McLean took the key from Grumpy Bob, then regretted it when his foot, then his lower leg, disappeared. He landed heavily, a twinge of pain shooting through his hip. Only a steadying hand from Dr MacPhail stopped him pitching forward into the heavy iron door.
‘Careful there, Inspector. I’m a bit out of practice with living patients.’
Once he’d found the keyhole in the intricate wrought ironwork, McLean was pleasantly surprised to find that the lock was well oiled, as were the hinges on the door that swung open on to more steps and darkness. It made sense, of course. The crypt might only be used occasionally, but the last occasion had only been a couple of weeks ago. No doubt someone had been along to prepare the place for its newest inhabitants, and they’d had the foresight to bring a can of oil.
‘You got that light?’ McLean had hardly spoken before a powerful torch beam speared into the darkness, chasing the shadows into the corners. There were half a dozen steps, then the crypt widened out into a small room, stone shelves lining all the walls, most filled with ancient coffins.
