by James Oswald
‘Have ice cream?’
The words are so quiet he almost doesn’t hear them. Dot’s ears are clearly better tuned to the voices of small children.
‘Ice cream? I’d have thought so. What’s your favourite flavour?’
The girl doesn’t answer, but she carefully detaches herself from him, climbs down off the bench he’s been sitting on and fixes him with a very serious expression before nodding once in thanks. ‘Ice cream,’ she says and points at Dot.
He reaches towards her head, the small insect crawling in her hair. She flinches visibly, even though he has moved as slowly as he can. What has been done to this poor little girl to make her so afraid? And so compliant? Despite the fear in her eyes, she stays stock-still as he teases the bug out, drops it into the palm of his other hand and shows it to her.
‘You go with Dot now. She’ll look after you. Make sure the bad men don’t hurt you any more.’
The little girl relaxes slightly when she sees what he has done, realises what he has not. She reaches up and takes Dot’s outstretched hand, allows herself to be led away. He watches her go, across the hall to the open front door, her head twisted around and haunted, dark eyes fixed on him until she is finally gone. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on her progress, check that she’s OK.
He will never see her again.
22
The office still smelled damp and mouldy as McLean slumped wearily into his chair. Whilst he’d been away someone had come in and dumped a pile of paperwork in the middle of his desk. He pulled the top sheet towards him, half expecting it to be meant for newly promoted and utterly useless Detective Inspector Carter even though he was based on the other side of the city, but it was mostly a series of short transcripts of the interviews with the women in the brothel raid. Not sex workers, he had to remind himself. Just women who liked to have sex with men they hardly knew. For fun, not money. What was missing from their lives that they sought solace in such an unusual place? Was there anything wrong with their lives at all?
Shaking away the thought, he shuffled the transcripts together and put them in a pile that would soon enough morph into a report for the DCC. Call-me-Stevie. Like they were best pals. This was the same DCC who had shut the investigation down, the one who played squash with the senior partner at MacFarlane and Dodds. The one who had threatened to have Professional Standards come in and stick their noses into everything the SCU was doing if they continued to pursue the investigation. And now he wanted a report into where it had all gone wrong. Not hard to see where that would lead, and McLean was the one tasked with delivering the names.
‘Bloody marvellous.’ He rubbed at his face with tired hands, looked around the office for something to take his mind off the problem, at least for now. Had he been back at his old station, he’d have been able to spend a happy half-hour or more tracking down Carter and explaining to him exactly what he could do with his paperwork, but there wasn’t really any excuse to drive over there right now. There was the small matter of the report folder hidden under the passenger seat of the Alfa, though.
McLean pulled out his phone, thumbed through the names in the address book until he found the one he was looking for. There wasn’t really any good reason why he should have this number, except that he was a policeman and so naturally nosey. He paused for a moment, then hit the dial button. It rang four times before the call was picked up.
‘Hello, Duguid residence.’ The voice was pure Morningside, even though McLean knew ex-Detective Superintendent and Mrs Duguid lived in Prestonfield. He’d met Mrs Duguid exactly once in his entire career, but he had no doubt she knew all about him.
‘Very sorry to disturb you. It’s Detective Inspector McLean here. I was wondering if I could speak to your husband.’
There was a distinct pause before Mrs Duguid answered. ‘Charles? He’s not here. It’s Tony, isn’t it?’
He was surprised that she would know that. How dreadful a detective he was, what a complete pain in the arse, and many other similar complaints, yes. But his first name?
‘Yes, it is. You couldn’t let him know I called, could you? Or tell me where he is?’
‘Och, it’s no secret. He’s away at the golf. Goes there every afternoon. I’m not sure if he plays much, or just likes to get out of the house. I don’t think retirement’s really suiting him, you know.’
McLean chatted for a while longer, or rather listened politely, muttering the occasional ‘aye’ as Mrs Duguid blethered on. He finally managed to end the conversation by pretending someone had walked into his office needing something urgent, but not before finding out which particular golf club Duguid was a member of. His ear burned as he took the handset away from it, whether from the pressure of keeping it held there for so long, or from embarrassment he couldn’t be sure. He had an address, though, and a mobile phone number he was fairly certain he shouldn’t have been given. He stared at it for a while, trying to decide whether to call or not. Better perhaps to talk face to face, much as he didn’t like the ex-detective superintendent. Scooping up his phone and jacket, he headed for the door. Paperwork and the DCC’s report could wait.
The little red Alfa Romeo looked very much out of place in the car park at Priestfield Golf Club. McLean found a space between two massive four by fours, far too shiny to have ever been further off the road than the neatly raked gravel on which they stood. At least his car was presentable; it should have been after the amount of money he’d spent having it restored. He was going to have to give it a wash sometime soon, though, or more likely find someone to do it for him. He knew some of the senior detectives took theirs to the police maintenance garage, but it was an abuse of the service for one thing and he didn’t trust the mechanics not to take her for a spin while he was away either. Life really would be a lot easier with a new car.
The club house was a white-rendered art deco affair, tucked behind the detached bungalows of this leafy suburb and overlooked by the grey volcanic mass of Arthur’s Seat. McLean had never been all that interested in sport, golf perhaps least of all, but he remembered coming here once with Phil and a couple of other students just out of curiosity, after dark, drunk, quite probably having already been thrown out of all the local pubs. It was only a short walk from the flat in East Preston Street, after all. Hopefully the management would have forgotten that incident, a good twenty-five years earlier. He doubted he looked like that young, fresh-faced student these days.
A middle-aged lady in a stern tweed skirt and sensible shoes gave him a look of disapproval as he entered the entrance hall.
‘Can I help you, young man?’ The accent and clipped tones went with the outfit, and for a moment McLean worried that perhaps his youthful misdemeanour hadn’t been forgotten after all.
‘I was looking for Detective Sup— Charles Duguid. His wife told me he was here.’
The woman’s expression turned even sterner, if that were possible. ‘If he’s here, he’ll be in the bar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him swing a club.’ She pointed towards a dark wooden door on the far side of the hall. McLean nodded his thanks and started towards it.
‘You can’t go in there. It’s members only.’
Stopping mid-stride, he pulled out his warrant card and handed it over. ‘It’s police business. I just need to have a word with him.’
The woman peered at the card for a moment, then retrieved a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from beneath her sensible cashmere sweater, where they had been nestling between her breasts on a fine silver chain. ‘McLean, McLean. The name rings a bell. How would I know your name? Are you a golfer?’
‘Not really, no.’ McLean tugged back his card, trying to imagine th
is woman twenty-five years younger. It was possible she might have been club secretary or something similar then. He seemed to recall a rather tweedy young woman threatening to call the police on them as they dicked about on the eighteenth green in the dark. Bloody students.
‘It’s no matter. You’ll have to sign in.’ She walked briskly to the reception desk and pulled open a leather-bound book. McLean followed her, found a pen and scribbled his name down. Three rows above, he recognised the spidery scrawl of the ex-detective superintendent, and no time in the column to suggest he’d left. That much at least was helpful.
‘Sign out when you leave,’ the stern woman said as he headed for the door to the members’ bar. ‘And don’t let me catch you out on the eighteenth.’
The members’ bar had a certain welcoming dark opulence about it, all wooden panelling and polished oak floorboards. A bar dominated one wall, but there was no sign of a barman at the moment, just light spilling out from an open door and the occasional clatter of kitchen noises. Dotted around the room, comfortable leather armchairs circled small tables or sat off on their own for a little privacy. A long metal-framed window gave a view of the golf course and Arthur’s Seat beyond, and at the far end of the room a small fire crackled cheerily in a massive fireplace. At first McLean thought there was no one about, but then he noticed a hand resting on the arm of a high-backed chair, facing the fire. A small glass sat on an occasional table beside the chair, empty now but presumably once filled with single malt whisky. He hadn’t made much noise entering the room, but even so the chair’s occupant struggled to turn around and a familiar face appeared.
‘I wondered who’d be the first to come here looking for me. Never thought it would be you, McLean.’
Retired Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid looked far more relaxed than McLean could ever remember him being. His straggly, thinning grey hair was neatly trimmed and combed, his face fuller for a few months of proper eating. He was wearing a suit, but unlike the ill-fitting shiny outfits he had worn while working, now he had taken a leaf out of the stern club secretary’s book and was dressed in well-tailored tweed.
‘I phoned your home, sir. Your wife said I’d find you here.’
Duguid’s brow wrinkled at this news, as if he felt he’d been somehow betrayed. He reached for his glass, picked it up, realised it was empty and put it back down again.
‘You don’t have to call me sir any more. I retired, remember.’
‘Sorry, I just can’t ever see myself calling you Charles, sir.’
Duguid shook his head. ‘Bloody public school boys. You’re all the same.’ He hauled himself up out of the chair, grabbed the glass and headed for the bar. McLean followed, and by the time both of them had reached it, a barman had appeared, as if by magic.
‘Another, please. Better make it a double.’ He looked at McLean. ‘You’ll be working, I expect.’
In all the years he’d known the man, McLean didn’t think Duguid had ever offered to buy him a drink. He wasn’t even sure if this was an offer, but it was the closest to one he’d seen.
‘Let me get that,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who’s disturbed your peaceful afternoon.’
Duguid looked like he was going to argue, then just shrugged his acceptance. McLean paid for the drink, ordered a coffee for himself, then waited until both arrived. It was an awkward silence, neither of them wanting to talk while the barman was in earshot. McLean knew that he was out of order even speaking to his old boss like this, and no doubt Duguid did too.
Finally the drinks arrived and the barman sloped back off to the kitchens or wherever it was he had been lurking. Duguid poured a generous measure of water into his whisky, sniffed it and then took a sip before speaking.
‘So what’s this all about then?’
McLean had considered warming up first, getting the detective superintendent to talk about his plans going forward, maybe a bit about golf. In the end it was easier just to jump straight on in. ‘Headland House.’
The members’ bar hadn’t exactly been noisy beforehand, but the silence that descended upon it was like a blanket being thrown over the world. Even the hum of the drinks refrigerator behind the bar seemed to dull down to nothing, the air taking on a still quality more reminiscent of the wide open moorland of the Pentland Hills just before a thunderstorm broke.
‘I think we’d better go and sit down.’ Duguid’s voice was low, both in volume and tone. He took up his whisky and headed back to his chair by the fire. Only once they were both seated did he speak again.
‘You’ve been talking to Grumpy Bob, I see. I’ll have to ask him to be a bit more circumspect in the future, if he wants to have something more than ballroom dancing to do after he retires.’
‘I was there, sir. I remember the raid. I found the girl.’
Duguid frowned, as if casting his mind back that far was painful. ‘Yes. Yes, you were, weren’t you? Snotty-faced little PC fresh out of training and you thought you knew better than anyone else even then.’
It was a typical Dagwood insult, but curiously half-hearted. As if he knew he ought to be saying something snide but couldn’t quite muster the energy.
‘It should have been the making of my career, that case.’ Duguid took another sip of his whisky, savoured it a while before continuing. ‘Big bust like that, a few notable scalps. And your wee girl, that made it newsworthy. But I bet you can’t remember what happened, who got sent down and for how long.’
‘I was just a beat cop. Fresh out of training like you said. I went where they sent me. Spent a few months up in Grampian region on some strange exchange programme they had running back then. It’s all a bit of a blur.’
Duguid let out a snort that was part laugh, part disbelief. ‘You took the fast track option, what did you expect? Not a lot of new recruits got offered that, back then. Had to be something special.’
‘Special? Felt more like a punishment. I always meant to check in on the little girl, see how she was doing. Never had the chance.’
‘Aye, well. They’d never have told you where she went anyway. No one came forward to claim her, so she went into care. Social services found her a foster family, I heard. I think it might have been in Glasgow, further west maybe. Never found out the name. I asked, of course, but I was told it was best it was kept secret.’
McLean couldn’t exactly say how he knew, but he was certain Duguid was holding back. Perhaps working with the man for so long had given him some kind of sixth sense. Either that or retirement had robbed the superintendent of some of his subtlety. The thought brought a wry smile to McLean’s face.
‘What about the house?’ he asked. ‘Surely the tenant or the owner must have been prosecuted? I mean I know we were a bit lenient on brothels back then, but child abduction? Didn’t anyone even try to find out why she was there? What they were going to do to her?’
‘Course we bloody did. What, you think no one knew how to run an investigation before you came along?’
McLean bit back the obvious retort. It had all too often been that way with Duguid before, and there was no great reason the superintendent needed to even talk to him, let alone about the case.
‘There was no owner, at least none we could find. You wouldn’t think it possible, but the last person on the deeds died a hundred years ago and nobody could find any living relatives. The prozzies were all hired in for a party, apparently. From what I recall most of them were horrified when they found out what was going on upstairs. Likewise the johns. None of them had any links to the house apart from being in there when we raided it. We couldn’t pin the girl’s abduction on them. Well, that’s not strictly true. We could have prosecuted every la
st one of them, but we didn’t. And you know why?’
McLean suspected that he did, for much the same reason that they weren’t looking any more closely into the goings-on in the New Town terrace house where Heather Marchmont lived and her friends indulged in their sad sexual perversions.
‘We could have found out who was behind it all.’ Duguid carried on as if he hadn’t noticed McLean’s lack of answer. ‘It would have taken time and cost a lot of money, sure. But the clues were there.’
‘Only you were told to stop looking.’
‘Oh, it was more subtle than that. But aye. Made pretty clear to me that if I carried on the way I was going it wouldn’t be just me out on my ear. My DI and DCI were in the firing line. Left a bitter taste, that did.’ Duguid picked up his glass again, but instead of a sip, he threw the whole lot back in one gulp, as if trying to wash away the sourness of the years. ‘So why are you interested in digging up old dirt?’
‘I’m not really sure. You heard about our brothel raid?’
Duguid nodded. ‘Typical clusterfuck by the sound of things. I thought better of Jo Dexter, mind.’
‘Well, it’s partly that, partly just Grumpy Bob mentioning the case. Brought back a few memories and …’ He tailed off, unsure how to voice his suspicions without sounding like some paranoid conspiracy theorist.
‘And someone told you to leave it. Maybe suggested it wouldn’t be good for your career, or Dexter’s, if you kept rocking the boat?’
‘Something like that.’
Duguid hauled himself out of his chair, one long-fingered hand smoothing his hair back, the other picking up the empty whisky glass.
‘Well, my advice to you would be to do what they say. Let it lie.’ He walked across the empty members’ room, put the glass down on the bar top. McLean followed, knowing the interview was over.
