by James Oswald
Saunders started to speak. Then something stopped her. There was a moment’s pause as she gathered her thoughts, shook her head.
‘Don’t catch me out that easily. You know how our organisation works, Inspector. Sex workers won’t talk to me if they think I’m just going to pass their details on to the police.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask for details …’ McLean stopped speaking. That was exactly what he had been going to ask. Time to try a different tack. ‘Look. I understand where you’re coming from. I’m not really interested in harassing women trying to make a living that way. Much rather point them in the direction of organisations like yours than lock them up or fine them or whatever. But you know the law as well as I do. Two or more sex workers working out of the same building makes it a brothel, and that’s against the law.’
‘Except you said none of them were sex workers. So this was, in fact, a private party in a private house. I imagine there are a few red faces in the station today.’
McLean couldn’t help noticing the triumph in Saunders’ voice as she spoke. It was matched by an expression on her face all too easy to read. There was no way she was going to help him out of this embarrassing situation. A shame, really, since a favour given was a favour owed as far as he was concerned.
‘Let’s just say we’re as surprised by the way things turned out as you are. Leave it at that.’ He stood up, and Saunders did the same reflexively. ‘But as I said, we’ve not taken any sex workers into custody, so there’s really no need for you to be here. Rest assured, I’ll be passing your contact details on to anyone I think could use them.’
7
McLean wasn’t sure which he preferred, the office he had been given at the SCU or the tiny little boxroom back at his old station. This one was bigger, and the window didn’t look out directly on to a stone wall just a few feet away. On the other hand, his old office was out of the way, which meant he wasn’t often interrupted there by people passing. And for all its tendency to be too hot in summer and too cold in winter, at least his old office window hadn’t leaked. This one did, especially when the wind was in the north-east, throwing cold rain at the glass wall like a suburban dad with a pressure washer. The carpet tiles showed evidence of storms past in archaeological rings spreading out from the grey aluminium frame, and everything smelled of mould. Then again, this office was big enough both for the desk and a couple of extra chairs. You could even see some floor, dubious carpet stains and all. And it wasn’t piled to the ceiling with paperwork needing his immediate attention. At least not yet.
The chair behind his desk was comfortable, too. He leaned back in it, resisting the urge to put his feet up. Outside, the sky was taking on the colour of a week-old bruise as the evening progressed towards night. Once again the day seemed to have slipped away far too quickly.
Flicking on his laptop screen, McLean checked his emails. He scrolled down through endless admin junk and invitations to training sessions, deleted anything that looked like he’d just been copied in as an arse-covering exercise and shuffled all the important stuff into various subfolders where he could safely forget about it until people either came and found him or picked up the phone. Paper trail be damned, email really was the invention of the devil. He reached for his mobile phone, lying on the desk in front of him. He’d been intending to put it in his pocket, switch off the computer and go home, possibly via the curry shop, but as his fingers brushed the metal casing the screen lit up and the phone began to ring. A glance at the clock showed it was late for a social call, but then the name appearing on the screen wasn’t exactly someone he would ever consider socialising with. No point trying to avoid it; part of him had known this was coming sooner or later. He picked up the handset, thumbed the screen to accept.
‘Ms Dalgliesh. What an unexpected pleasure.’
‘You’re all heart, Inspector. How’s the heid?’
McLean reached instinctively for his temple, even though the injury he’d sustained there had long since healed. As much as he disliked the reporter, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d saved his life.
‘Fine. I take it this isn’t a social call, though.’
‘Well. No’ exactly. I was hoping you might be able to give me a wee bit of a heads-up. Heard you were back in Vice, aye?’
‘We call it the Sexual Crimes Unit, actually. But yes, I’m part of that team.’ McLean tried not to sigh; he knew where this was going.
‘So you’ll have been part of the wee raid the other night then. The knocking shop in the New Town? Only, way I hear it, wasn’t a knocking shop after all. Just a bunch of weirdos and their wee sex club. Must be a few red faces in the department the now. Mebbe red faces all round, come to think of it.’ Dalgliesh chuckled at her own joke.
McLean didn’t answer right away. He leaned back again in his chair, staring at the stained ceiling tiles, and let the silence lengthen. It wasn’t surprising that the reporter had heard about the raid, of course. It wasn’t even surprising that she’d come to him for information, given their history. But he couldn’t help remembering the car parked up the street from the New Town terrace house and the assumption he’d made that it was journalists inside. They’d taken everyone out the back, loading them into vans with blacked-out windows so that no one would be identifiable, but he couldn’t remember if anyone had actually approached the hacks to ask them what they were doing.
‘You’re very well informed, Ms Dalgliesh,’ he said eventually.
‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me I’m right?’
‘It wasn’t meant to be, but you are. We’ll be having a press conference tomorrow, anyway.’ He sat forward again, picked up a pen and wrote ‘Press Conference?’ on the nearest scrap of paper he could find. ‘At least be putting out a press release, anyway.’
‘What about the cock-up? You admitting to that too?’
‘Let’s just say we’re not entirely convinced it was a cock-up, OK?’
‘Go on.’ Dalgliesh’s voice dripped with intrigue and McLean knew he had her hooked.
‘Well, your lot knew something was up, right? Otherwise why send a couple of paps out to get juicy photos?’
‘Our lot?’
‘Come on, Dalgliesh. I saw them myself. Parked up the road with a long lens, waiting for us to parade a bunch of people out through the front door. Someone tipped you off, and told you it’d be worth your while too. So who were you expecting to see?’
This time the silence came from the other end of the line, the reporter no doubt weighing up the cons of giving away too much information about her sources against the pros of a possibly even more interesting story. McLean knew how to be patient.
‘You’re right we had a tip-off,’ Dalgliesh said finally. ‘Normally reliable source. Not the police, before you ask. Told us it would be worth our while keeping an eye on the house. Don’t suppose you found anyone famous in there with their troosers down?’
‘Always looking for the story, eh? No. Sadly no one famous. No politicians, no captains of industry or public figures. Just a bunch of ordinary people with unusual sexual appetites. It wasn’t a brothel and they weren’t breaking any laws, so we’ve not charged any of them. Which begs a question, don’t you think?’
‘It does?’ Dalgliesh feigned uninterest well, but McLean knew her better than that.
‘Go speak to your source, ask them what they thought you were going to find. We had good intel there was a brothel running out of that house; you had a reliable source tell you there was some salacious news to be had from our raid. Looks like we’ve both been played for fools here. The real question you should be asking is why.’
The last gloaming
light of the evening painted the trees in shadow as McLean piloted his little Alfa up the drive. On the passenger seat beside him a bag of takeaway curry leaned against a half-dozen bottles of beer; the rest of the night taken care of. It was only when he stepped out of the car, saw the light from the kitchen window spilling on to the back lawn, that he remembered his house guest. He hauled the curry and beer out, trying to work out if there was enough to eat for two, if Rachel was vegetarian. A small part of him wondered why he’d agreed to let her stay, but it was a tiny voice he’d long since grown accustomed to ignoring.
Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up at him as he entered the kitchen, sniffing the air to see what he’d brought her this time. Almost certainly not enough curry for three, perhaps he could phone for something. He put the bag down on the table, was reaching for the handset when Rachel came in from the hallway.
‘Thought I heard something. Phil said you worked ridiculous hours, Tony. I never really believed him, though.’
‘Comes with the territory, I’m afraid. As does forgetfulness.’ McLean waved hand and phone in the general direction of the takeaway. ‘I only bought the one curry, but there should be enough for us to share. I can phone for something else if you’d rather.’
Rachel eyed the bag, a hungry expression on her face. McLean had told her to treat the place like her own, but he’d not noticed much food disappearing from the fridge or the cupboards. Not that there was much to disappear, mind you, but he wasn’t sure she’d eaten much more than a few slices of toast since she’d shown up at his door. He had the impression she’d not been out of the house either, almost as if she were hiding from the world, not just her husband. Who he would have to try phoning again, as he had done every day since Rachel had arrived. How long could a man go on a field trip for and not check his phone?
He found plates, divided up the meal into two surprisingly large portions, poured a beer and offered it to his guest.
‘No alcohol for baby, thanks.’ Rachel patted her bulge as she pulled out a chair and settled into it heavily.
‘Of course. Sorry.’ He put the glass down on the table. ‘Can I get you something else?’
‘It’s OK. Thanks. I’ll have some tea when I’ve eaten.’ She picked up a fork and started on her curry. Despite her obvious hunger, she took small bites, he noticed, chewing each mouthful slowly. He was more used to wolfing down his food as quickly as he could; eating was a necessity these days, hardly a pleasure. Still, he tried to match her pace.
‘This is very good,’ Rachel said after a while. ‘Shame I’ve not got much room to spare.’ She put her fork down on a plate still half-full of food. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat wouldn’t go wanting after all.
‘Probably the least healthy lifestyle I could have, eating curries or Chinese most evenings, or whatever’s left in the station canteen. There never seems to be time to cook anything, though, and it’s a pain anyway, making something just for one.’
‘Yeah. I guess it is.’ Rachel had been looking at him, but now her stare unfocused, as if she was seeing something miles off.
‘You spoken to Phil today?’
She started at the question, a guilty look flitting across her face. ‘I left a message. He’s still not back from the desert, obviously. You’d think he’d have a bit more concern for his wife so close to …’ She patted her belly. ‘Well, you know.’
McLean didn’t need years of police training and experience interviewing suspects to see the lie. Best not to call it, at least not now.
‘I spoke to Jen, though. She’s going to be home in a few days. Said she’d drop by as soon as she can, take me off your hands.’ She paused before adding, ‘If that’s OK?’
‘Her taking you away, or you staying until she does?’ McLean smiled as he asked, hoping to convey that he meant it as a joke. Rachel’s frown suggested he’d missed the mark.
‘Look, Rae. You’re my best friend’s wife. You can stay here as long as you want. I’ve plenty of space. But sooner or later Phil’s going to call me back. I’ll have to tell him what’s going on, you know?’
Rachel went back to staring into the middle distance again, silent for a while before finally looking straight at him. ‘I know, Tony. It’s just … Well, it’s not easy. I don’t really know where to start.’
McLean pushed the last of his curry around the plate before deciding that he didn’t really have the appetite for it any more. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was going to be very well fed indeed. He got up, filled the kettle and put it on the Aga to boil, all the while aware of Rachel’s dark, round eyes following him. He found a mug, dropped a teabag into it, added boiling water, then realised he couldn’t remember how Rachel liked her tea. In the end he opted for putting the mug down in front of her, fetching the milk bottle from the fridge. There was sugar in a bowl in the middle of the table; she could help herself.
‘Stay as long as you need to,’ he said eventually. ‘And if Jen’s not got a room she can spare, don’t worry about it.’
Rachel’s relief spread like a warm glow across her face, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. ‘You mean it?’
‘Sure. It’s not as if I’ve a full house, after all.’
8
‘You’re a very kind man, you know that?’
He doesn’t really understand how he has got here. For a moment he can’t even tell where here is, then the details begin to filter through. The grey, pebble-dashed concrete screened with wire mesh as if the building might just slough off its outer skin at any moment. The dull, lifeless eyes of the windows, empty, abandoned rooms behind. The tarmac, rippled and cracked by endless cycles of hot summer sun and bitter winter chill. The shiny pewter-grey bonnet of his car through a windscreen spattered with a thousand dead insect bodies. Slowly, as if his thoughts are wading through warm treacle, he begins to see where he is. What he can’t understand is how he came to be here. The last thing he remembers is … what? Driving. A woman standing at the side of the road, thumb out. A Gladstone bag.
‘It would have taken us an age to walk all the way here.’
The voice registers. She’s sitting beside him in the passenger seat. As he looks around at her, he notices for the first time that his hands are still on the steering wheel as if the car has only just this moment stopped. Ten to two like they teach in advanced driving. He wants to lift them off, but it’s as if they’re glued in place. As if he is merging with the car, becoming one with the machine.
‘—’ He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Whether it’s his voice that fails, or the thickness of the air choking away all sound, he can’t tell. The woman sitting beside him reaches across, places a hand on his thigh, fingertips caressing the inside in an unmistakably sensual way. He tries to move, but cannot.
‘Shh.’ The sound is like a snake slithering through autumn leaves, and with it the hand becomes more intimate. More searching. He should stop her, he knows. This isn’t right, isn’t necessary. But he cannot move, can only stare at her pale blue eyes, her mischievous smile. He knows this is wrong, but he is only a man. And it’s not as if he has forced this upon her. Quite the opposite.
‘No good deed should go without reward,’ she says, and the scent of her swells in the confines of the car until he is struggling to breathe. As she leans towards him, breaks eye contact, his head slumps back against the car seat. He can’t stop the stuttered gasps that escape from his throat, the hammering of his heart and the building pressure. His sight dims, eyes losing focus as he stares out the window at the rough concrete wall, oblivious to everything. Almost everything.
When the explosion comes, it is not in his loins but in his head. A wave of bright white that he r
ides to oblivion. And with that last dying surge he sees a face in the rear-view mirror. Remembers the other passenger. The brother, sitting quietly in the back. Watching.
9
‘Well, Mr Smith. It would seem you’ve been telling us lies.’
The interview room smelled of unwashed male. John Smith had already been up in front of the Sheriff Court, refused bail and remanded in custody, but in the days that had followed he didn’t appear to have washed. Either that or it was his natural odour. McLean wrinkled his nose, trying not to breathe too much. He was only sitting in on this interview; the actual grilling was being done by DCI Dexter. Her involvement spoke volumes as to how much pressure the whole Sexual Crimes Unit was under to rescue something, however small, from the debacle that had been the brothel raid.
‘Seems you’ve spent a bit of time inside.’ Dexter had been pacing the room, clasping a folder in her hand. Now she opened it up as if she needed to consult the list of convictions written inside. Admittedly it wasn’t short, but there was a certain amount of repetition that made it easy enough to memorise.
‘Where do you actually buy Rohypnol these days? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who could fool a doctor into prescribing it.’
‘I would caution you not to answer that, Mr Smith.’
Smith’s solicitor had moved his chair a little further away from his client the moment he’d sat down, as if he too found the smell difficult to live with. He was a small man, but fat, bulging out of his ill-fitting suit and sweating even though the airless interview room wasn’t particularly warm. Pretty much all he’d done so far was identify himself, complain about his client being denied bail, and then tell him not to answer each question as it was asked. He needn’t have bothered. Smith said nothing, just sat on his side of the table, one hand clasped in the other, both resting in his lap. To a casual observer he appeared calm, but McLean knew one or two tells when he saw them. Every time Dexter asked a question, the muscles in Smith’s jaw would tense, twitching at the side of his neck slightly as he bit down the urge to answer. The effort of keeping his expression slack was beginning to tell, too; his blink rate had increased noticeably in the past ten minutes.
