by James Oswald
‘He here now? Dagwood, that is?’ McLean peered around the hallway nervously.
‘No, he’s away to his golf. I’ve just spent the last two hours with him, though. Not sure what I did to deserve that.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be richly rewarded in the afterlife.’ McLean slapped his old friend on the arm, noticed that the smile it elicited was only half-hearted. Was it really that bad here?
‘You didn’t manage to get me a copy of the Headland House report, by the way?’ he added.
‘Ach. Knew there was something else I was meant to be doing. I’ll get a copy printed up soon as. Not that it’ll do you much good.’
‘No?’
‘There’s a fair bit missing, and what’s there’s been redacted, far as I can tell. To be honest I’m not sure why Dagwood even added it to the list. It’s not as if they’ll let him reopen it.’
‘They?’ McLean had to ask the question, even though he had a fairly good idea who Grumpy Bob was talking about. He’d recognised a few faces coming out of the house all those years ago. Establishment figures, powerful people. Most of them would be dead by now, it was true. But enough of them weren’t. And enough favours were owed by the younger men who were now in charge. ‘I guess you’re right, Bob. If even half the rumours I’ve heard are true, then exposing that mess to the light of day won’t end well.’
17
Everyone is silent as he carries her down the stairs. All eyes are on him, he can feel them burning his skin, but no one says a word. The whole house is unnaturally quiet, as if it is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next.
She is tiny, the girl. Stick-thin and unkempt. She hasn’t spoken, just stared at him with those deep black eyes as he unlocked the cage, hunkered down and tried his best friendly face to reassure her he wasn’t a threat. It had taken a while to coax her out of the cupboard under the eaves, clearly her safe space. She hadn’t shown fear, so much as wariness, a fierce intelligence in her gaze as if she knew perfectly well what was going on. Only when she had satisfied herself he posed no threat had she emerged from her bolt-hole, walked over to him and flung her bony arms around his neck, allowed herself to be carried down from the attic.
He never had any brothers or sisters, doesn’t really know much about children either. At a guess he’d say she was eight or nine, but she’s so thin she could well be older. She smells unwashed, her black hair tangled and matted in places, and she returns the stares of all the other officers with such intensity that one by one they turn away. He can only wonder what they will say to him once this is over.
‘What the fu—?’ Detective Sergeant Duguid has just enough sense to stop himself from swearing in front of her. His scowl suggests this is a complication he would rather not have.
‘I found her up in the attic, sir. Looks like there were others up there too, and recently. Don’t know where they’ve gone, but the place is empty now.’ He goes to put her down, but she clings fiercely to his neck.
‘What’s your name, pet?’ Duguid takes a step closer, bends down so he is at eye level with the girl and tries to put on a conciliatory tone. It’s clearly not something he is used to doing, and she clings harder, turning her face away. He shifts his focus up. ‘She speak to you?’
‘No, sir. Hasn’t said a word.’
Duguid frowns, turns to another plain clothes officer. ‘Get on the phone to social services. We need a team here soonest. And put some bodies on the room where she was found. I don’t want anyone going in there again until the forensics boys have had a chance to see it.’
The team sets about following its orders like a well-oiled machine. There is something in the air, almost like a sense of relief. As if they had known this was going to happen but none of them wanted to be in the spotlight. He can’t understand that.
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ He hefts the girl in his arms slightly. Thin though she is, her weight is beginning to tell, but she won’t let him put her down.
‘You, McLean?’ DS Duguid cocks his head to one side at the question. ‘Better find yourself somewhere quiet to sit down. Social services will be a while, and it doesn’t look like your new friend’s going to let anyone else take her away.’
18
The offices of MacFarlane and Dodds, Solicitors and Notaries Public, were housed in a modern, glass-fronted building in Fountainbridge, overlooking the Caledonian Canal where it terminated at Lochrin Basin. McLean could remember the area from his student days, when the railway marshalling yards and McEwan’s brewery had been there, semi-derelict slum tenements waiting for the long-promised redevelopment money to appear. It had taken a couple of generations to come, but slowly the place was being dragged out of the mire into a form of respectability.
‘Miss Marchmont is expecting you, Detective Inspector. I’ll show you to the conference room and let her know you’ve arrived.’
The receptionist was all efficiency and charm, offering coffee and pointing out the location of the toilets as she led him and DS Ritchie along a corridor of identical frosted glass doors interspersed with frosted glass walls. Only individual name plates gave any clue as to what went on in the rooms beyond. The one at the far end read ‘Conference 1’ and the door opened on to a compact room dominated by a large table, around which were arranged too many chairs. A sideboard under the window already held a tray with cups, a large cafetière of coffee and a plate of expensive-looking biscuits.
‘Please help yourself.’ The receptionist bustled over to the tray, plunging the filter on the cafetière. ‘Or if you’d prefer tea?’
‘No, coffee’s fine,’ McLean said, then looked to Ritchie for confirmation.
‘Aye, coffee’s fine for me.’
‘I’ll away and tell Miss Marchmont you’re here, then.’
‘Thank you.’ McLean waited until the receptionist was at the door, then added: ‘One thing. I forgot Miss Marchmont’s position in the company. What is it she actually does here?’
The receptionist looked a little surprised at the question. ‘She’s head of Corporate Law, Inspector. One of the partners.’
‘Of course. Sorry. Brain’s not what it used to be.’
‘Comes to us all.’ The receptionist smiled and left the room.
‘What was that about, sir?’ Ritchie asked. She had already helped herself to coffee and biscuits, he noticed.
‘Exactly what I asked. Miss Marchmont’s file just says she’s a lawyer who works for this firm. Helps to know if she’s a junior intern or the senior partner, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Guess so. To be honest I’m not really sure why we’re here at all.’
‘Call it damage limitation. I’m here to apologise for our mistake, but I also want to make sure it really was a mistake, if you see what I mean.’
Ritchie opened her mouth to answer, but the door opened before she could speak. They both turned to see the woman who walked in.
McLean had met her before, but that had been in the hurly-burly of the raid. People were never at their best in that sort of situation, and he remembered Miss Marchmont’s angry bluster turning to confusion. But he also remembered how she’d been found alone in her room, not participating in the party. How she’d claimed not to be feeling well. Hardly surprising given how thin she was. Dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit, her clothes hung off her like she’d borrowed them from her dad, and her face, framed with straight, shoulder-length, jet-black hair, was narrow. She wore no make-up, as far as he could tell, and looked like she really didn’t need to. Her skin was flawless and so pale she must never have seen the sun.
A flicker of something indefinable crossed her face as she saw him.
It was as if a light had suddenly switched off inside her, an instant shutting down. For a second she had appeared open, ready to talk. No sooner had she cast her eyes on him than she had closed up completely. And he was certain it was him, not Ritchie. It had been the same back at the house, and once again he felt he knew her from somewhere, that she knew him too. He couldn’t for the life of him think where they could have met, though. It wasn’t as if he frequented the Edinburgh swingers’ scene. Or had that much to do with corporate law either. Perhaps the easiest way to find out would be to ask.
‘Miss Marchmont. Thank you for giving us your time. I’m—’
‘Detective Inspector McLean. I know. And this must be Detective Sergeant Ritchie. I’ve heard a lot about you. Both of you.’
McLean knew a leading comment when he saw one. Ritchie was wise enough not to say anything either. It led to an awkward pause before Marchmont continued.
‘I see Janice has given you coffee. Perhaps we can get straight to the point then? Only I’ve a busy day ahead of me.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down. McLean did the same, noting that she’d not offered a handshake.
‘I’m really here to apologise on behalf of Police Scotland and the SCU for the raid,’ he said. ‘We were acting on what we thought was good intelligence.’
‘SCU?’ Marchmont interrupted.
‘The Sexual Crimes Unit. We deal with prostitution, trafficking, child sexual abuse, the list is depressingly endless.’
‘I’m sure it is, Detective Inspector. But what was going on in my house was not a crime, so it would seem your intelligence wasn’t up to much at all. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who spoke to you.’
‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. We gather intelligence from many different sources before embarking on any operation. I can assure you we’re re-evaluating those sources, though.’ McLean could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. When had he turned into Spence? Marchmont must have seen it too, as the faintest of smiles creased the corners of her eyes. It didn’t last.
‘Nevertheless, your actions caused a great deal of embarrassment to my friends.’
‘I am sorry for that. If it helps, their details have not been kept on file. And we managed to keep the press at bay. No one has been charged. Except for Mr Smith, of course.’
‘Mr Smith?’
‘You know. Your friend from London? The one we found looking a bit lost while the two ladies he was with enjoyed their own company?’
There was that fleeting smile again, and with it something else. ‘I don’t believe I know a Mr Smith, Inspector,’ she said. ‘At least not one who comes to my parties. He might have been a guest of one of the others, but that’s really not meant to happen. At the very least they should have let me know beforehand. Contrary to what you might think, we don’t all just jump into bed with any stranger who comes calling. Tell me, what has this Mr Smith done?’
McLean couldn’t tell if Marchmont was lying or not. She seemed genuine in her ignorance, but there was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before.
‘Three years for statutory rape, for one thing. Not telling us he was in town for another.’
‘Are you suggesting—’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Marchmont. Mr Smith’s only illegal action was a failure to report in under the Sexual Offences Act. He’s on the register, so he should have let us know as soon as he moved to the city. He didn’t. We found him at your place by chance. We weren’t looking for him. In some ways you’ve done us all a favour.’
A frown creased Marchmont’s brow, not quite anger, more concern. ‘He shouldn’t have been there. I would never have let him in.’
‘If you’d known?’ Ritchie asked the question, Marchmont turning her attention on the detective sergeant for the first time, giving McLean more of a profile view of her face. There was something else about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something about the way she was responding to their questions. He’d been so preoccupied with trying to work out how he knew her that he’d not been paying attention to her almost flawless performance. But it was there nonetheless. She was acting, lying. Hiding something.
‘Quite so. You might find our little get-togethers strange, but all the people in my house when you raided it are friends. People I’ve known a long time. Some of them lovers.’ Marchmont lingered on this last word for a while, her eyes misting over as if she were remembering nights of passion. She shuddered gently before continuing. ‘As I said before, I’d never let a stranger in without being introduced to them first. Getting to know them, getting to know all about them. This Mr Smith? He sounds like a monster. I have no idea how he came to be in my home.’
And there it was, the slightest of tells. The hand to the stomach was less easy to notice as she was sitting down, but McLean had interviewed enough people, suspects and witnesses alike, to know when he was being lied to.
‘I’ve met a few in my time, and that is one screwed-up individual.’
DS Ritchie peered over the steering wheel, checking the traffic before easing the little Alfa Romeo out into the stream heading east towards Lothian Road. McLean had given her the keys when they’d met up at HQ before coming over to interview Marchmont; she was much better at driving than him, more mechanically sympathetic, and he liked being able to think without having to focus on the road ahead.
‘Each to their own, Kirsty. And that screwed-up individual is being very understanding, given how we raided her house and carted off all her friends to the station for questioning. She could kick up far more of a fuss if she wanted to.’
‘Aye, and have her dirty wee secret all over the press.’
McLean said nothing for a while. He was still trying to piece together how he could possibly know Heather Marchmont. She was too young to be an old school or university acquaintance, and he certainly didn’t move in the same circles as her. Not given her nocturnal antics.
‘What do we know about her? Apart from her sexual proclivities, that is?’
‘How do you do that, sir?’
McLean glanced over at Ritchie. ‘Do what?’
‘Act like it’s perfectly normal to have a bunch of people come round to your house and fuck each other. I mean, Christ’s sake, “sexual proclivities”? Could you be any less judgemental?’
‘I can never remember whether it’s a genius who can hold two contradictory ideas in his head at the same time or a madman. Never found it that hard to do myself, so I guess it could be either.’
Ritchie executed a perfect double declutch downshift, putting the Alfa into the roundabout perhaps a little more aggressively than was strictly necessary. McLean felt himself pushed back into the seat as she accelerated away. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to wind her up when she was driving his car.
‘Look, so she has an interesting sex life. Not sure what that says about her, or what it says about us that we find it uncomfortable to even talk about it. The thing is, what gets her going is of little interest to me at the moment. I want to know her background. Where she comes from. How long she’s been working at that law firm. What she did before. We know where she lives, but is she an Edinburgh native? Where did she study law? Who is she?’
‘You think she’s hiding something?’
McLean laughed. ‘A great many things, how she knows John Smith not the least of them. Look, I know Jo’s writing this whole escapade off as an embarrassing mistake, but I’m still not convinced. I’ve been over the files. There was a brothel working out of that house the week before we raided it. If I was a betting man I’d lay good odds the sex party’s a cover.’
Ritchie slowed down, on
ly partly because the speed limit had dropped to thirty. She was concentrating on the road, but giving him sideways glances as if trying to work out whether he was joking or not.
‘And you think Marchmont’s involved? In a brothel? Isn’t that, I don’t know, a bit unlikely? She’s a partner in an international law firm. Hardly your typical Madam.’
Put like that, McLean had to admit she had a point. Perhaps he was chasing shadows, desperately trying to find a reason for what was quite clearly a monumental cock-up. Better perhaps to put it behind him, accept the black mark on his record and move on.
‘Aye, you’re probably right,’ he said even as he knew she was wrong.
‘It’s all come as something of a shock. Eric is … was, well, he was Eric. I still can’t really believe he’s gone.’
The second interview of the day, only this time McLean was accompanied by DS MacBride. The offices of Boxing Clever were in sharp contrast to those of MacFarlane and Dodds. They occupied a couple of storeys of an old seventies concrete monstrosity of a building, just off the top end of Leith Walk. The place reeked of damp cardboard and sweat, and the coffee they had been brought in stained mugs tasted like it had been made a couple of days earlier, possibly a couple of weeks.
‘Can you tell me what he was working on?’ McLean asked.
‘Eric? He was in charge of sales for the northern sector.’ The Chief Operations Officer, as he had introduced himself, was a thin man called Donald Hutcheson. He was younger than Parker, but stooped like a man twice his age. His phone rang constantly, a medley of different ringtones that he mostly ignored. Just occasionally he would glance at the screen, thumb the call to message and slip the phone back into his jacket pocket, only for it to go off again seconds later.
‘That would be everything north of the Highland Line?’ MacBride had his tablet computer back, and tapped away at it with one merry finger.
