by James Oswald
‘Where are you right now, Rae? Do you need a place to stay?’ The words were out before he’d even considered the implications of the offer.
‘I’m at Waverley Station at the moment. Are you sure? It won’t be for long, honest. Just ’til Jenny gets back.’
‘It’s a big old house; there’s plenty of room.’ McLean was still trying to remember the last time he’d spoken to either of them or to Jenny, Phil’s sister. Then it all started to fall into place.
‘Aren’t you expecting a baby soon?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry. It’s a couple of months yet. That’s why I came back, though. Couldn’t bear the thought of my baby being born in America.’
McLean couldn’t think why. Phil was on a senior professor’s salary and presumably had a healthcare plan to go with it. He knew better than to ask, though.
‘You want me to come and fetch you?’ He looked up at the kitchen window, saw grey clouds as the light leached into the morning. What he really wanted was to crawl into bed and get some sleep. That seemed a distant prospect now.
‘No. Thanks. I’ll get a taxi.’ Rachel paused for a moment before adding, ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind.’
‘If I did, I’d have said. I’ll air out one of the spare bedrooms. Get yourself over here as quick as you can, and you can tell me what’s going on face to face.’
It didn’t take long for Rachel to arrive. At that time of the morning the traffic was very light, and if she’d phoned him from the station then finding a taxi wouldn’t have been hard. McLean had bustled upstairs, thrown open a window in his grandmother’s old room, checked the bed was made and then gone back down to the kitchen. In the back of his mind he was aware that he’d not slept in close on twenty-four hours, that he’d have to be back at work by one at the latest. He tried phoning Phil, but it went straight to a message, confirming what Rachel had said. His friend was away on a field trip and would be out of communication until the end of the month.
The crunch of car tyres on gravel startled him awake. He shook away the fatigue that had seen him half dozing at the table, clambered to weary feet. He reached the front door just as the taxi was turning away, leaving a small figure alone on the drive, only a rucksack for luggage.
‘Rae. Hi. Here, let me get that.’ He picked up the bag and ushered his guest into the hall. He didn’t know her all that well, if he was being honest with himself. She’d come into Phil’s life just a couple of years back, tied him down where so many others had tried and failed. McLean had been best man at the wedding, and in the run-up to that he’d spent plenty of time in the future Mrs Jenkins’ company – or at least talking to her on the phone as she made sure every detail was taken care of – but no sooner had they come back from honeymoon than Phil had landed the job in California. This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first reunion since then would go.
‘I’d forgotten how big this place was.’ Rachel stood in the middle of the hall, staring up to the round skylight so high above. She was shorter than McLean remembered, or was he confusing her with Emma? No, most likely it was the pronounced bulge of her pregnancy making her seem small in comparison. A couple of months away, she had said on the phone. He was no expert, but it looked more like a couple of weeks to him.
‘Kettle’s on, if you’d like a cup of tea. Or I can show you your room, let you get settled in. I tried calling Phil—’
It happened so quickly he didn’t know how to react. One moment Rachel was standing a couple of paces away, the next she had enveloped him in a fierce hug, sobs racking her body as she buried her head in his shoulder. Not quite sure what else to do, McLean held her gently, waiting for the moment to pass. It took a long time, but eventually she stopped crying, stood away. In the growing light, he could see her face was puffy, eyes red from tears. Flecks of grey peppered her shoulder-length red hair and crease lines ran across her forehead. She looked as tired as he felt.
‘Sorry.’ She sniffed, ran the back of her hand under her nose like a teenager. ‘I just didn’t know where to turn.’
‘Well, you’re here now and you can stay as long as you need. But seriously, Rae, what’s up? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were running away from your husband.’
‘I know. It’s just, I don’t know. It’s not been easy. California should’ve been a dream, but it just didn’t work out. They promised there’d be a job for me in the department, but I think they just said that to get us over there. It was always Phil they wanted. It was bad enough to begin with, but when this happened …’ She patted her bulge. ‘Let’s just say neither of us really had that planned.’
It started to make a kind of sense. McLean knew his old friend, the permanent adolescent. Phil might have been a brilliant scientist, but he wasn’t exactly the most mature of people. How would he have coped with impending fatherhood? Not well, at least not until he really had to. And as had been the case ever since they’d first met, it would be McLean’s job to hold the fort in the meantime. Ah well. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do with his spare time.
‘Come on, Rae. Let’s get that cuppa. Everything looks better after you’ve had some tea.’
5
He doesn’t know what makes him stop.
Perhaps it’s the way she’s dressed: not tarted up like some cheap whore, and not hiding behind androgynous feminist camouflage either. He’s seen both before, hopeful thumb out, scrap of cardboard with some distant destination scrawled on it in heavy black biro. Girls young enough to be his daughter, selling themselves for a few miles of road, or scowling at the capitalist scum who so clearly represents the system they would smash down. Not seeing – or refusing to admit – the irony in their begging for his help.
But this one is different.
She has hair a shade of dirty blonde, tied up in a tight ponytail and wedged under a sensible hat. She’s wearing a woollen coat, tidy and expensive. Her skirt is tweed and cut unfashionably long. How far up her calves her dark brown leather boots go, he can’t see, but they are built for walking, not beckoning. She’s not as young as he first thought, either. Still youthful, but there’s a far-off gaze in her eyes, a look of world-weariness that comes with the years. Her smile is friendly enough, as she leans to the window, reaches for the door handle.
‘Trying to get to Edinburgh, aye?’ Her voice is soft, almost hypnotic, a delightful Highlands burr. She has a scent about her that reminds him of happier times.
‘Looks like you’re in luck then. Headed there myself.’
‘You’re so kind. Room for my brother too?’
How could he have not noticed the man? He’s standing right behind her, holding a dark leather bag; a Gladstone bag, isn’t that what they call them? Together, it’s obvious they’re brother and sister. Same hair colour, same high cheekbones and narrow nose, same skin texture, same smile, same tidy, expensive, slightly archaic clothing. He wouldn’t normally pick up one hitchhiker, let alone two, but there’s something about this pair that makes him trust them. What could possibly go wrong?
‘Aye, go on then.’
6
Lunch had long been and gone before McLean finally made it in to work. All the officers involved in the raid would be coming in late today, but the early shift should have been busy dealing with the interviews, processing the men and women they’d arrested the night before. Even so, an almost empty main SCU room was not what he expected to find, but when he walked in there were only a couple of uniform constables manning the phones and DCI Dexter staring thoughtfully at a whiteboard covered in scribbles.
‘Afternoon,’ he said as she turned to face him. ‘Where is everyone?’
Dexter sprea
d her arms wide. ‘My wonderful team? I sent most of them home. Bugger all point moping around here.’
‘What about the people we arrested? Who’s processing them?’
‘All done. All released. Well, apart from Mr Smith. Naughty little Mr Smith. We’ll keep him a wee bit longer, let him sweat before we go and talk to him.’
McLean fancied he heard an edge of hysteria in Jo Dexter’s voice. Fair enough; she’d not had any more sleep than the rest of them, probably less even than the couple of hours he’d managed to grab between Rachel showing up and his alarm going off. There was more to it than that, though; the DCI was almost legendary for her ability to survive on coffee and cigarettes.
‘Everything OK, ma’am?’
‘Don’t you start “ma’am-ing” me, Tony. Bad enough I get it from the uniforms. Makes me feel like my mother.’ Dexter slumped against the nearest desk. ‘But since you ask, no. Very little is OK. The expression “clusterfuck” springs to mind. Probably just as well you only just got in, otherwise you’d have had to endure the DCC’s wrath as well.’
McLean rested his backside against a chair. ‘He was here? The deputy chief?’
‘Seems one of the men we arrested last night knows enough people in high places. There were lawyers circling almost before we’d got anyone into the cells. We couldn’t hold anyone.’
‘Hang on a minute. A dozen men using an illegal brothel? One call to the DCC and they all get to go home with a slap on the wrists?’
‘Illegal brothel’s a tautology, Tony. No such thing as a legal one.’
‘You know what I mean, Jo. How could we just let them go? And the sex workers as well?’
‘If they’d actually been sex workers, we’d maybe have a leg to stand on. But they weren’t. Not a single bloody one of them has so much as a hint of a record. Hell, they’ve all got jobs, boyfriends – husbands, some of them. Most of their men were there with them. Just not in the same rooms, if you get my meaning.’
McLean recalled the sinking feeling from the night before. With Rachel turning up unannounced, he had forgotten the nagging doubt. Now it came back even stronger.
‘So what you’re saying is we raided someone’s swingers’ party? It was a private house?’
Dexter grimaced, tapped her fingers against the edge of the desk in a rapidly accelerating drum roll, but otherwise said nothing.
‘Christ. How the hell did we get that so wrong?’
‘Because it was a fucking brothel last week, that’s how. You sat in on the briefings, Tony. You saw the reports, the intel. We knew who was in there, who was working and who was using them. Should have been a textbook raid, and what do we turn up? Sweet fuck all except for a sicko on the register who just forgot to tell us he was in town.’
Dexter pushed herself away from the desk, all jittery nerves and pent-up energy. McLean could only guess at how much of a dressing-down she’d had from the deputy chief constable. All they needed now was for the press to get hold of the story.
‘The press. Why were they there last night?’
‘Eh?’ Dexter had been fishing around in her jacket pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes.
‘I thought one of our lot had tipped them off, but what if it wasn’t us?’
‘I have no idea what you’re going on about.’
‘You said it yourself, Jo. Should have been a textbook raid. We knew it was a brothel, only when we turn up there it’s actually a private house being used for swingers’ parties? I don’t buy it. Someone tipped them off. Not enough time to shut it down completely, so they did the next best thing and tipped the press off too, so we’d look even more stupid than usual.’
Dexter stared at him. She’d taken out one of the cigarettes and was tapping it absent-mindedly against the packet, spinning it round with each tap.
‘And I thought my mind was twisted.’ She shook her head as if trying to dislodge the idea. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers. I need a fag.’
‘There’s someone in reception asking to see you, sir.’
McLean was on his way back to his temporary office in the SCU when Detective Constable Sandy Gregg waylaid him. He had been hanging out with DCI Dexter in the clear plastic bus shelter that had been set up around the back of the building for all the smokers, but the steady stream of officers nipping out for a quick cigarette had made discussing the not-a-brothel case almost impossible. He didn’t much fancy having to dig out a fresh suit either, or sacrifice his lungs to the tobacco gods, so he had made his excuses and left before she had lit up her third, showing no sign of going back in any time soon.
‘Any idea who? Only I’m fairly busy.’
‘Sorry, sir. Just got handed the message by the duty sergeant. Said he’d tried your phone a couple of times but got no answer.’
McLean pulled his mobile out, stared at the blank screen. No doubt a couple of missed calls and voicemails would appear in due course. ‘Guess I’d better go and see who it is then.’
It hadn’t been designed that way, but the small waiting area just off from the main reception had a glass partition which meant that officers approaching from the business side of the building could see who was in there without themselves being seen. McLean didn’t like looking at the people waiting there; it felt too much like the observation booths off the interview rooms, reminded him of watching a suspect sweat as they waited to be interrogated. There were two people sitting patiently, one of whom he recognised immediately. Short and round, Clarice Saunders ran a charity that helped sex workers who wanted to leave the industry. They had crossed paths before, when he’d last worked in the SCU, and while most of his colleagues thought she was an annoying busybody, he had a grudging respect for her stubborn tenacity.
‘Someone to see me, apparently.’ McLean tapped on the door of the reception booth, startling the uniform sergeant who had been leaning back in his chair, nose deep in a book.
‘Sorry, sir. Yes. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Tried your phone, but …’ As if on cue, McLean’s mobile chimed in his pocket. Message received.
‘Miss Saunders I know. What’s she want?’
The sergeant scrabbled around with the rosters, managing to tip a pile of paperwork to the floor in a show of professionalism that suggested he would be more suited to a career in plain clothes. After a moment, he managed to retrieve the relevant pages, swivelling them round on his clipboard before handing them over.
‘No idea, sir. Last night’s raid’d be my guess.’
McLean turned back towards the reception area, unsure whether he had the energy for a bout with the formidable Ms Saunders. No point putting it off, though; she’d only be back again. He tried to hide the sigh that wanted to escape, maybe even managed it.
‘Guess I’d better go talk to her then.’
‘Miss Saunders. Sorry to keep you waiting. I only just got the message you were looking for me.’
Clarice Saunders snapped to attention as soon as she saw him. Her face had been relaxed, but the well-practised scowl slid into place swiftly. She stood up, not actually increasing her height by much, and puffed out her ample chest. McLean got the impression she was readying herself for a rant, and cut in before she could get started.
‘Come through, please. It’s not very comfortable in here.’
He led Saunders through the security door and along to the nicer interview room; the one with a window you could see through and a heating system that worked. It was normally used for people who genuinely were helping the police with their enquiries. That and storing boxes of Lothian and Borders Police headed notepaper that no one had found a use for yet.
‘Can I get you
a coffee or anything?’ He pulled out a chair for her. McLean wasn’t quite sure whether there should be another officer present. Perhaps he should have called DS Ritchie in.
‘No, thanks. I’ve had what you call coffee in here before. Took me days to get the taste out of my mouth.’
‘Umm … OK.’ McLean took the seat across the table. ‘What’s this about then?’
‘It’s about the house you raided last night, Detective Inspector. It’s about the women you’ve had locked up in the cells for hours. They’ve done nothing wrong, you know. It’s the men—’
‘I’m aware of your views on the law regarding prostitution, Ms Saunders. You might be surprised to find that I agree with you. On most of it, at least.’ McLean once more interrupted Saunders before she could get fully into her stride. The tone of her voice was hectoring, but then he suspected she sounded like that even when she was in a good mood. He’d hoped to have surprised her by being reasonable, but clearly she wasn’t having any of it today.
‘Don’t try to deny it. I have reliable sources. It’s a shame no one spoke to me or my organisation in advance. We could have solved all this amicably, I’m sure.’
‘Actually I wasn’t going to deny anything. You might find it hard to believe, but I have a lot of time for the work you do. And as for the women? Well, we let them all go as soon as we’d spoken to them. The men too.’
A moment’s pause, and then Saunders put on her best outraged voice. ‘You’ve done what?’
‘We let them go. Had to; they’d done nothing wrong. Well, not in the eyes of the law, anyway. Sixteen women engaged in varied consensual sexual practices with a dozen or so men, and not a single one of them was a sex worker, registered or otherwise.’
Saunders stared at him, her mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. What had she really come here for?
‘How come you thought that house was being run as a brothel?’ McLean asked. ‘Do you know more about it than you’re letting on?’
