by James Oswald
‘And you thought you’d just phone and chat? I’m flattered you should think of me, but I’ve work to do.’
‘Aye, very funny. You and everyone else. I’ve a list of folk to call long as my arm. No point wasting my time staring at mountains, is there?’
‘So what’s so important you couldn’t wait to share it?’ McLean settled back in his seat, lifted a foot on to his desk.
‘What I was telling you about the other day. Over at your curry place. That karma was delish, by the way. Thanks for that.’
‘Korma.’ McLean remembered the incident, tried to remember what Dalgliesh had been telling him. ‘Remind me what you said again?’
Dalgliesh made a noise that might have been annoyance, or might have been her signalling to the catering trolley that she needed tea. ‘You ever heard of the Beggar’s Benison?’ she asked eventually.
‘The secret society? Bunch of aristocrats and wealthy merchants playing at being debauched and evil, mostly in Anstruther of all places. Drinking and whoring was their thing, I think. They started off in the mid-1700s and petered out at the start of the Victorian era, when prudery became more fashionable.’
‘See, that’s what I like about you, Tony. Any other copper wouldn’t have had a clue, but you’re a font of useless knowledge.’
‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’
‘Take it how you want to. Thing is, there were lots of those societies around back then. Hellfire Clubs all over the place. That’s what happens when you’ve a wealthy elite with too much money and time on their hands.’
‘Is this going anywhere, Dalgliesh? Only I’ve an important meeting I don’t want to miss.’
‘Christ. Someone got up the wrong side of the bed this morning.’ Dalgliesh coughed, long and loud and bubbly. ‘And you’re not the one who’s no’ had a fag since Edinburgh.’
‘OK. OK. Beggar’s Benison. Hellfire Club. Secret societies in the eighteenth century. What of them?’
‘Well, like you said, they kind of went out of fashion when the Victorians invented prudery. But what if they never went away, eh? What if they just went underground? Got good at keeping themselves hidden, protecting themselves. A couple hundred years is a long time to develop a sophisticated network, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say you and reason were beginning to part company, if I was being honest.’
‘Aye, you’re all heart yourself, Inspector.’ Dalgliesh made a noise that McLean hoped could only be heard through the phone. He imagined her sitting at a four-seat table in her train carriage, notebooks and other detritus spread all around her, fellow passengers looking on in growing horror at her antics.
‘I’m just not sure where you’re going with this. You reckon the brothel raid had something to do with Beggar’s Benison? I’m a detective. I’m going to need something a bit more concrete than that.’ He was going to add, ‘Save the conspiracy theories for your books,’ but decided against it. Dalgliesh was being uncharacteristically kind to the police at the moment and he didn’t want to be known as the officer who had brought that détente to an end.
‘I’m working on it. You’ll see. Already found some interesting links between your friend—’
McLean listened to silence, then took the phone from his ear and looked at the screen: ‘Call Failed’. He dialled the number Dalgliesh had been using, but it went straight to a generic voicemail message. For a moment he entertained the idea of a train crash or some other disaster, but it was clear enough what had really happened. Phone reception only got worse the further north you went. And besides, Dalgliesh sounded like she was on a wild goose chase, and happy with it. Far better she kept distracted that way. It stopped her from noticing what a rubbish job the police were doing.
He cut the call without leaving a message, then thumbed through the address book until he found the number he’d been intending to ring. There were far more important things to worry about than Jo Dalgliesh and her lunatic ideas.
In the end it took rather longer to organise things than McLean would have hoped. Mostly he had been searching around for an unmarked pool car, since it turned out that Stacey Craig lived in a council block in Muirhouse and there was no way he was taking his Alfa anywhere near the place. A cluster of high-rise tower blocks overlooking the Forth, the area was struggling to claw its way out of the mire of decades of underinvestment and badly planned housing policy. McLean found it hard to blame the feral youth who roamed the streets; it wasn’t their fault life had dealt them the shitty end of the stick. He still wasn’t going to trust his car to them, though.
The address Ritchie had found took them to a low-rise housing block overlooking a strip of dual carriageway that seemed to go to nowhere, as if the town planners had intended building a way to escape the place but had run out of enthusiasm. Or money. Or both. Across the road, a gang of young men were loafing around in front of a pharmacy, its windows covered with steel shutters. McLean glanced at his watch; it was possible that it was closing time, he supposed. More likely the shutters were a permanent feature.
‘And I thought Torry was bad.’ Ritchie peered out of the window, craning her neck to see the tops of the tower blocks, looming up into the late afternoon sky.
McLean looked at his watch again. ‘Hope we don’t have to hang around here long. The locals can spot a cop at a hundred yards.’
‘Why’re we waiting anyway?’ Ritchie asked. ‘Sooner we get this over with the better, surely.’
‘I called for some back-up. Unless I’m much mistaken that should be it arriving now.’
McLean opened his door and clambered out as a beaten-up little Vauxhall Astra pulled in to the kerb just ahead of them. It looked far more in keeping with the rest of the vehicles parked nearby than their conspicuously clean and new Ford. A familiar figure stepped out, short but determined, looked first up at the housing block they were visiting, then over towards him.
‘This is most unusual, you know, Inspector,’ Clarice Saunders said as he and Ritchie joined her at the entrance to the block. ‘I generally try to keep you lot at arm’s length when I’m dealing with … well …’
‘Shall we go in then? Before too many people see us?’
The interior of the building lived up to the lack of promise of its exterior. The individual flats were accessed from a series of wide balconies that wound around the building, and a chill wind blew through the grey concrete tunnels. The lifts worked, which was something of a miracle, but the smell emanating from them was unlike anything McLean had ever encountered before. Saunders didn’t seem to notice, stepping inside and hitting the button for the top floor without a word.
Stacey Craig lived right at the northern end of the building. The balcony gave a great view out across the Forth to Fife, but the wind was enough to drive even the most hardened fan of the picturesque indoors. McLean shivered as he waited for the doorbell to be answered, although Ritchie and Saunders seemed to be made of sterner stuff. Either that or the coats they’d remembered to bring were windproof, unlike his lightweight summer jacket.
‘Aye? Whit ye want?’ Stacey Craig barely looked at them as she opened the door. No chain, McLean noticed. Perhaps up here, at the end of the world, it was unlikely someone would try and rob her. Or maybe they had so often there was nothing left to take. Judging by how little she was wearing, they’d stolen most of her clothes some time ago.
‘A word, if we may?’ he asked. He had his warrant card in his hand, but didn’t show it. No need to cause alarm if he could avoid it.
Stacey looked up slowly, her eyes struggling to focus. Her head swivelled from side to side like it was being remotely controlled.
‘You polis?’ s
he asked eventually.
‘We’re not here to arrest you, Miss Craig. We just want to ask you a couple of questions.’ Ritchie took a step forward, and Craig stepped back into her hallway. She didn’t close the door on them, though.
‘Youse had better come in then. Cold oot there.’
By the time the three of them had entered the hall and McLean had shut the door behind them, Craig had wandered off towards the living room. She was definitely on something, even if he couldn’t immediately tell what. He just hoped she was lucid enough to give him some useful information.
The living room was sparsely furnished, a tiny television shoved into one corner, table piled with rubbish, a couple of armchairs that had somehow escaped the seventies, and a saggy sofa. Craig slumped on to this, didn’t bother offering a seat to McLean and Saunders. Ritchie hung back in the doorway.
‘I’ll make us all a cup of tea, will I?’ It was code for have a snoop around while the suspect was otherwise occupied, but McLean reckoned Craig would hardly notice.
‘You feeling OK, Stacey?’ Saunders settled into one of the armchairs, leaning forward to get a closer look at the young woman. Craig stared at the wall above a small electric fire, then slowly focused.
‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘You’ve been to my clinic before, remember? I’m Clarice.’ She reached out and took one of Craig’s hands, cradling it between both of hers. The touch seemed to waken the woman.
‘Aye. The clinic.’ She turned slowly to face McLean. ‘Who’s he then?’
McLean took one look at the other armchair with its impressive collection of stains and decided that squatting down was a better option. His hip protested, but he did his best to ignore it.
‘My name’s Tony McLean, Stacey. I’m a detective.’
‘What, like Columbo?’ For some reason this seemed to amuse the young woman.
‘A bit, I suppose. Only I haven’t got the trench coat and I can’t stand cigars.’
‘What you here for then? You looking for favours?’ Craig tried to sit up and shift her blouse off her shoulders at the same time, failed at both and gave up, slumping back into the cushions on the sofa.
‘Not of that kind, no.’ The pain in McLean’s hip made it hard to concentrate, and there was something in the air that clouded his head a little too. He sniffed, but there was no telltale smell of hash. He shook his head to try and clear it.
‘I wanted to ask you about the house in the New Town. The one that was being used as a brothel. You said you’d worked there, was that right?’
‘Posh party, that was. Lots of money. Some gentlemen with very particular needs.’ Stacey slurred out the word ‘particular’ as if it had more syllables than she’d been expecting.
McLean couldn’t take the pain in his hip any more. Inwardly cursing the old injury that caused it, he stood up. ‘Have you worked there before?’
‘You grew tall.’ Craig’s head tipped back as she looked up at him. And then she started to laugh, just gently at first, but soon her whole body was convulsing in uncontrollable hysterics.
‘What’s happening?’ Clarice Saunders leapt to her feet at the same time as McLean moved forwards.
‘Ritchie, get in here.’ He grabbed Craig’s arms, pulling her upright. The woman was still laughing, but now there was panic in the sounds bubbling from her, spittle beginning to foam around the edges of her mouth. Her eyes had gone very wide, locking on to him with a sudden fear as the laughter turned into choking. Choking turned to seizure.
‘Come on, Stacey. Stay with me.’ McLean heard Ritchie behind him calling for an ambulance, but all his attention was on the young woman. He had taken her hands in his, and now she grasped him with a ferocious tightness. What were you supposed to do with someone having a fit? All that training and he couldn’t for the life of him remember.
And then Ritchie was kneeling beside him, pushing Saunders out of the way, calmly taking over. ‘Ambulance is coming, sir. ETA ten minutes.’
He looked at the woman, convulsing on the sofa. The foam around her mouth was flecked with red now. Would she even last that long?
27
‘I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Miss Saunders. I never imagined …’ McLean ran a weary hand through his hair. The past hour had been a nightmare of trying to keep Stacey Craig alive, then watching helplessly as the paramedics took over. They had arrived in just eight minutes, but it had taken a lot longer to stabilise her enough to get her moved to the hospital.
‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen someone overdose, Inspector.’ Saunders shook her head slowly. ‘I wish it was, but it’s not. Won’t be the last time either, I dare say.’
‘We’ll make this place secure. Keep the local youth from helping themselves to her stuff while she’s away. I’ve got one of the local community liaison officers on the way. We’ll do our best.’
‘You think she’s coming back? From that?’
‘We can hope. She’s more of a chance than if we’d not paid her a visit. That’s for sure.’
‘You’re a good man, Inspector.’ Saunders patted him on the arm. ‘Pity there’s so few of you about.’
He watched her go, headed back to her car and then the sanctuary she ran for women like Stacey Craig. She could be a right pain in the arse sometimes, but he had a grudging respect for Clarice Saunders. Not many would go out of their way to try and help the sort of people she did.
‘We all done here, sir?’ DS Ritchie appeared from the kitchen as Saunders left. She’d found a towel and was drying her hands, having carefully scrubbed away the blood and phlegm.
‘Just waiting on the local boys to turn up. Shouldn’t be long now.’ He glanced at his watch, long past Ritchie’s shift end. Ah well, he’d swing the overtime for her. Except there was more to it than that, of course. ‘You were meeting Daniel this evening, weren’t you?’
Ritchie shrugged. ‘He’s used to me being late. I’ll give him a call and let him know I’ll be on my way soon.’
She took out her phone, tapped the screen a couple of times and moved off across the living room for a little privacy. McLean left her to her chat, headed out into the hallway and then on to the other rooms in the apartment. It wasn’t big, but it was spacious by city centre standards. One of the few things they’d got right when putting up these concrete monstrosities in the fifties. The kitchen had enough space for a small dining table as well as a standard range of units and a cooker. One door led into it from the hall, another from the living room. Down a short corridor, he found two bedrooms and a shared bathroom. They were all shabby, the furniture old, the carpets stained, but there was a basic tidiness about the place at odds with his initial thoughts about Stacey Craig. He had her painted as an addict prostituting herself to pay for her habit. Her record sheet showed a few charges for possession, but nothing major and nothing recent either. He stood in the bathroom, looking at the cracked bath, the mould growing in the grouting between the tiles, the limescale on the shower curtain. A medicine cabinet hung over the basin, but it had nothing stronger in it than aspirin and a couple of ladies’ razors. Even the toilet cistern held only water. The only thing of any note was a pregnancy test kit, unopened and collecting dust on top of the cabinet. He didn’t want to judge, but he didn’t have Craig pegged as the motherly type. Maybe it was insurance.
‘Looking for anything in particular?’ McLean turned to see Ritchie in the corridor.
‘Her stash. If she’s got one. Thought she was on something when we arrived, but it might have been a precursor to the seizure, I suppose.’
‘I had a look around before. Couldn’t see anything obvious. She’s used in the
past, but maybe she’s gone straight.’
McLean moved from the bathroom to the first bedroom. The double bed was made, the closet closed. Just a few clothes thrown over the back of the wooden chair to mess the place up. He picked up the book lying on the bedside table, surprised to find a collection of Scottish poetry. There was nothing on the other side of the bed.
‘Boyfriend’s inside, isn’t he?’ he asked as Ritchie hovered in the doorway.
‘Aye, bloke called called Tam Roberts. Nasty piece of work by all accounts. Used to beat her up if she didn’t go out to work. He’s two years into an eight-year stretch for armed robbery. Reckon she’s well shot of him.’
‘And yet she’s still working. We picked her up off the street the last time, didn’t we? That’s pretty desperate.’
‘Does make you wonder. There’s this too.’ Ritchie pointed towards the second bedroom door and McLean followed her down the short corridor. The room was bigger than the first, no doubt intended to be the master bedroom, but that bit further from the bathroom. The window looked north towards a darkening sky, the lights of the tower blocks spoiling what might otherwise have been quite a view. A large hanging cupboard dominated the far wall, cheap chipped brown veneer like much of the rest of Stacey Craig’s furniture. Ritchie walked over and opened it up, pulled out a dress that looked something like a pervert’s idea of a schoolgirl’s uniform. She draped it over the bed and McLean saw the material shine oddly under the cheap overhead light. He reached out and touched the fabric, recoiling as his fingers squeaked against the surface.
‘It’s latex,’ Ritchie said, her freckles darkening against her pale Aberdonian skin. She pulled out another outfit, this one black and shiny, hanging from her hand like the discarded skin of some human-shaped reptile. ‘She’s got dozens of outfits in here. All good quality. None of this stuff comes cheap. I’d say these were her working clothes, wouldn’t you?’
McLean peered into the wardrobe and saw what Ritchie meant. It was an impressive collection, even if he didn’t want to know how she knew its value.
