The Gathering Dark: Inspector McLean 8

by James Oswald

  ‘My thoughts exactly. We already know Barnton was moved to the cemetery after he died. I reckon someone brought him here, laid him on the bed and changed his clothes, then dumped him over the road for us to find.’

  ‘You think he died here?’

  ‘No.’ McLean paused a moment, considering it, then shook his head. ‘Or if he did, it was from something that happened to him elsewhere. My best guess is there was an accident at work and this was an attempt to cover it up. Not sure why they didn’t just shove him in the bed and make us think he died there, though. We’d probably not have found him for days.’

  He carefully put the shoebox back down where he had found it, then went over to the laundry basket. There were no clothes in it at all. Not even a stray sock left behind when everything else was bundled up to go in the machine.

  ‘Get on to forensics, will you? I need them to lift any prints they can from that box. Also, find out if there’s a communal bin for the tenement, or anywhere close by someone could dispose of clothes. After that, you and I are going to go and pay Extech Energy another visit.’

  ‘Why were you even there, Tony? You’re meant to be working the truck crash investigation, not swanning off to any and every new thing that takes your fancy.’

  DCI Jayne McIntyre’s office wasn’t the best room in the building any more: that had gone to Chief Superintendent Forrester. Its door was still always open, though, and McLean had gone straight there as soon as he’d arrived at the station, fresh from a growing crime scene at Dalry Cemetery. He’d left Harrison overseeing a team of uniform constables, searching all the local bins for clothing. He hoped to hell they found some, and soon.

  ‘DC …’ he began, then decided it wasn’t a good idea to drop her in it just because she’d been efficient. ‘The dead man, James Barnton, worked at Extech Energy out near Livingston.’

  ‘And?’ McIntyre wore reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, and she peered over them like a weary headmistress.

  ‘That’s where the truck came from. Or at least that’s where its manifest said it came from. I went out there a few days back and talked to the CEO. Barnton was chief of security. I don’t think his death was an accident.’

  ‘Why would anyone …? No, first things first. How did you find out who he was?’ McIntyre made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I mean, it’s hardly gone ten in the morning. They only found the body a few hours ago.’

  ‘He had his wallet on him. Driving licence photocard confirmed it was actually him. One of the constables recognized him from Extech.

  ‘One of the constables?’ McIntyre raised an eyebrow.

  ‘OK, Jayne. It was Harrison. She called me as soon as she saw the printout. Good thing she did, too. If we’d not been there to see the body, we might not have realized he’d been dumped there.’

  ‘You sure of that, Tony? ’Cause I’m not sure I like the way that line of thinking goes.’

  ‘I don’t either, but I can’t exactly ignore it. First Finlay, now this man? I mean, one suspicious death’s bad enough, but two connected to the crash? We’ve got to look into it at the very least. You can be sure as hell the press’ll make the connection before long.’

  McIntyre let out a long sigh, pushed her spectacles back up her nose as she looked once more at the sheet of paper she’d been holding throughout the conversation. ‘You’re right, of course. I just wish for once things were simple and straightforward. Well, the Procurator Fiscal’s going to want a report. It’s a sudden death, and in a public place. They’ll need to know the circumstances. Normally I’d give it to a sergeant to deal with, but I know you’ll just pester them for results.’ She put the page down on top of a pile beside her laptop. ‘Go deal with it, Tony. But try not to piss too many people off, OK?’

  McLean nodded, unsure whether he could say anything more. He turned to leave, had reached the door before McIntyre spoke again.

  ‘One other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t think this gets you off your appointment with the counsellor. I’ve seen her schedule and you’re due there at four this afternoon.’

  McLean knew that tone, that look. It wasn’t worth his life ignoring McIntyre’s direct order even if it would make getting out to Livingston and back tricky. No time to lose, then.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, then hurried out before the DCI could chide him for his politeness.

  37

  ‘Did anyone ever get round to looking at the CCTV footage we got from Extech?’

  McLean flipped the lever behind the steering wheel, running up through the gears as his new Alfa accelerated on to the motorway. Eight speeds, switchable automatic and more bells and whistles than you’d see at an English village fair in summertime. He remembered his first ever car, bought just after passing his test a few days before his eighteenth birthday. The gearbox in that had been a four-speed. Three if it was cold and second didn’t want to play. It had felt plenty at the time, the freedom of having his own wheels intoxicating. How the world changed.

  ‘Not sure, sir. There was a team going through the stuff from the city cameras, and all the footage sent in by the public. Not sure I even remember the Extech stuff coming in. Might have been electronic files, of course.’ Harrison hefted her Airwave set. ‘You want me to call Lofty and ask?’

  McLean considered it, then shook his head. ‘We’ll track it down when we get back. And if they simply forgot to send it, we’ll just have to find out what it is they’re trying to hide.’

  ‘Do you really think they’re the source of that toxic waste? Aren’t they kind of the exact opposite of that?’

  McLean dropped a gear, shot past a tanker truck that claimed to be transporting the best part of thirty cubic metres of whisky. What a different story it would have been if that had crashed in the city centre.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure a lot of what Extech does is legitimate. There’s no doubting they run an anaerobic digester there, and I bet ninety-nine per cent of what comes and goes from the site is harmless organic waste. It’s a big place, though, recently built with private money. It’s perfectly sited to collect waste from all over the central belt, so why not the toxic stuff as well as the cowshit?’

  ‘You think we should get a team together and search the place?’ Harrison lifted her Airwave set again, and McLean almost laughed at the idea of her calling the station, putting together a posse. He gripped the steering wheel tight in frustration; going in heavy-handed was exactly what they should be doing.

  ‘Without any hard evidence, the chances of us getting a warrant are virtually non-existent. Especially given the pressure being exerted on the chief constable. There’s too much politics going on, too much wielding of influence. Extech’s protected for now, but not so protected we can’t go and talk to them about one of their employees who’s just turned up dead.’

  The security guard waved them through, not even bothering to check their ID when they arrived. McLean drove slowly past the lines of digester tanks towards the administration building, half expecting to see a tanker being filled with toxic chemicals tucked away behind one. There were no trucks visible on site at all, though, and very few people.

  ‘Inspector, Constable.’ Claire Ferris greeted them in the reception area with a polite nod. Her face had a drawn, weary quality to it as if she’d not slept well since last they had met. She led them through to a small conference room, instructing the receptionist to bring coffee. As McLean took his seat, he noticed a thin brown folder already lying on the table in front of one of the chairs.

  ‘It’s good of you to see us so swiftly,’ he said as Ferris sat down.

  ‘I’ll admit your call this morning came as something of a shock. But I’m always ready to help the police. We have nothing to hide here.’

  McLean studied Ferris’s face as she spoke, trying to see if she was lying. She would have been very good at poker, that much was clear. She had no obvious tells, and the weariness left her voice flat. Unless it was all part o
f an act.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Sorry we’re here on such sad business.’

  ‘Aye, Jim Barnton.’ Ferris pulled the brown folder towards her with one hand, running the other through her short hair in an oddly masculine gesture. ‘Worked security here since we opened. Before that, I guess. He was part of the construction team.’

  ‘Security for the site, or actually wielding a spade?’

  Ferris stared at McLean as if she didn’t understand the question. Then it must have dawned on her. ‘Oh, security. There’s a lot of expensive kit on a site like this. Particularly during the building work. You’ve no idea how much stuff gets nicked.’

  ‘I’m a detective, Ms Ferris. I’ve a pretty good idea.’ McLean gave her a reassuring smile, unsurprised when it wasn’t returned. ‘Was Mr Barnton working here yesterday?’

  Ferris consulted the folder again. ‘Yes. He was on a normal day shift. Arrived here at half seven for an eight o’clock start. Punched out at half five. Front gate has him leaving at five minutes to six.’

  ‘Half hour at each end of the day? What was he doing?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘Getting changed? Grabbing a coffee in the canteen? Having a shower? I’ve no idea, Constable. It’s not unusual for staff to arrive before their shift starts, though. In this or any other job, I’d have assumed.’

  For the first time since they had arrived, McLean heard an edge in Ms Ferris’s voice. He couldn’t be sure if it was the question or the fact it had been asked by Harrison that had annoyed her. For her part, Harrison seemed a little taken aback by the CEO’s tone, looking to him for advice or perhaps to take over the questioning. McLean merely smiled, nodded almost imperceptibly for her to carry on.

  ‘I … So the staff have changing facilities? Showers?’ Harrison stammered a little as she picked up the threads.

  ‘We deal with waste. Animal faeces, vegetable matter, even human sewage sludge sometimes. I’d be a poor employer if I didn’t provide somewhere for the workers to clean themselves up now, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘And does Mr Barnton have a locker in these facilities? Somewhere he’d store his work clothes?’

  ‘I would imagine so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Would it be possible for us to see it? The locker?’ Harrison chose to ignore Ms Ferris’s question.

  ‘I … I suppose so. I’ll have to get one of the security team to open it. They’re called lockers for a reason, you know.’

  ‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’ Harrison gave Ferris a smile that was as broad as it was genuine. ‘Could you tell me, did Barnton need to have medical checkups as part of his job?’

  ‘All our staff have annual health checks, yes.’ Ferris flicked a couple of pages in the folder. ‘There were no problems at his last one, a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Do you do them in-house, or send them to a local doctor?’

  ‘We use a facility in Livingston for that sort of thing. Senior management have private health cover with them, too.’

  ‘But not Barnton, I imagine.’ Harrison wrote something down in her notebook. ‘Might we have a contact there? Someone we can speak to about him?’

  ‘Of course. It’s all in here.’ Ferris closed the thin brown folder and slid it across the table. ‘That’s a copy of Jim’s personnel file. I’d appreciate it if the information in it wasn’t spread further than necessary.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure once we’ve concluded our investigations it will be destroyed.’

  Ferris relaxed a little, leaning back in her chair. ‘And what exactly is the nature of your investigation?’

  ‘A man has died unexpectedly, and in a public place.’ McLean answered the question before Harrison could speak. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t say anything out of place, but he wanted to study Ferris’s reactions. ‘Mr Barnton’s death is unexplained, and the circumstances of it are unusual. The Procurator Fiscal requires us to prepare a report into the circumstances leading up to it. There will be a post-mortem examination of his body soon, to determine why he died. It’s all standard procedure.’

  Ferris didn’t look particularly reassured by the explanation. ‘And standard procedure requires a detective inspector be involved?’ she asked.

  ‘We all have to muck in these days. Austerity and that.’ McLean offered her another smile, but he could see there was little point in pursuing matters further here. ‘Perhaps if we could have a wee look at Barnton’s locker, maybe see the places he worked. Then we can leave you in peace.’

  ‘There you go. Not sure what good it’ll do you, mind.’

  McLean stepped to one side to let the security guard move back, revealing an open locker in a line of a dozen or more. Much like the rest of the operation, the changing rooms at Extech Energy were well-specified, almost overdone. The large lockers filled one wall, a low bench opposite with hooks above it and boot storage space below. Through a wide opening at the far end a line of shower cubicles were sparkly clean, and a set of shelves beside it held a sizeable pile of clean towels. It looked more like the changing rooms at an expensive spa or gym than anything industrial.

  ‘I’ll … I’ll wait at the door. Don’t want anyone coming in while …’ The security guard was a young lad. His name badge read ‘R Dawson’, but Ms Ferris had introduced him as Bobby. This was probably his first job out of school if the acne dotting his face and the poor fit of his uniform was any guide. Possibly his first day of his first job. He had hesitated when DC Harrison had followed him and McLean into the men’s locker room even though it was empty, and he was still nervous of her presence in this shrine to masculinity.

  ‘You sure?’ Harrison asked, with a voice that was all innocence. He merely nodded, then retreated to the door.

  ‘Be nice, Constable.’ McLean fished in his pocket for a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on before starting to go through the items in the locker. There wasn’t much, despite its large size. A uniform similar to the one the young lad at the door was wearing: dark-blue jacket and trousers, white shirt and clip-on tie. He checked the pockets, but they were empty. Hanging at the back of the locker was a set of overalls bearing the Extech company logo on the chest pocket and emblazoned across the back. They had clearly been worn, mud caked around the legs and a suspicious stain on one arm. It smelled more agricultural than chemical when McLean lifted it to his nose, though.

  Barnton had two pairs of boots courtesy of his employers. One pair were almost police-issue, halfway between smart and heavy-duty. They were polished black and the chunky soles had only a small amount of grit on them. A drawing pin had stuck itself in the left heel, shiny from being scuffed against the floor tiles. The other boots were more substantial, heavy enough to be steel-toecapped, and would no doubt have been worn with the overalls for outdoor work. Their soles had been cleaned recently, but not well enough to get rid of all the sticky mud that had worked its way into the deep tread. McLean fished in his pocket until he found a penknife, winkled out some of the dirt on to his hand and sniffed it.

  ‘Get anything?’ Harrison asked, bending down to see.

  ‘Not sure. What do you reckon?’ He held his hand up for her to smell. She took a whiff, wrinkled her nose and backed off.

  ‘Dog, I think. Eugh.’

  McLean brushed the dirt from his palm, pulled off the latex gloves and shoved them back in his pocket. ‘Nothing interesting here, but then I never really thought there would be.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ Harrison asked. ‘Then why did you ask to see it?’

  ‘I wanted to know if they’d try to stop me. Give us the runaround.’ He called over to the young security guard. ‘It’s Bobby, isn’t it? We’re all done here, but I’d love a tour of the facilities, if that’s allowed.’

  38

  The leafy cool of the early-morning cemetery was a distant memory as McLean, Harrison and the young security guard stepped out of the administration block. They had been given plastic hard hats and fluorescent tabards emblazoned with the Extech logo, which Bobb
y had insisted they wear at all times. McLean was reassessing how long the lad had worked for the company, as he seemed to know a lot more about the operation than anyone else had been prepared to tell him so far.

  ‘These big tanks here are mostly for storing waste until we’re ready for it to go into the digesters.’ He pointed at the line of stainless-steel vessels that sat either side of the long tarmac driveway from the entrance gate. ‘We get a lot of slurry from local dairy farms. Green waste from the council collection sites, that sort of thing. The leafy stuff gets pulped, mixed in with everything else. Then it’s sealed up with these wee bugs, aye? Special bacteria. They eat it up and fart oot methane.’

  ‘Fart oot? Is that a scientific term?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘Aye, well. You know what I mean, ken?’ Bobby the security guard blushed so deeply his acne spots almost disappeared.

  ‘What do you do with the methane?’

  ‘See these big tanks wi’ the conical tops? They’s the digesters. All the gas gets drawn off down those pipes and into the generator hoose over there.’ The security guard pointed to a large steel-frame building, clad in green corrugated-steel sheeting. It put McLean in mind of the new buildings at LindSea Farms out near East Fortune, but then all agricultural and industrial buildings looked like that these days.

  ‘We generate about five megawatts of power and it all goes back into the grid. Well, apart from the stuff we use here ourselves. There’s a plan to put up greenhouses on the land oot there to the west. They’ll pump the gasses from the generator in to help the tomatoes grow.’

  McLean followed the direction of Bobby the security guard’s pointed finger to an open expanse of scrubland dominated by rushes. ‘Tomatoes? In Scotland? Isn’t that a bit ambitious?’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s just what they tellt me. I don’t know half of how this place works, ken?’