by James Oswald
‘She didn’t answer it, though. Not this time, not the last time either.’ McLean turned on to East Preston Street, glancing up at the scaffolding that still clung to the facade of his old tenement block like ivy on a dying tree. Another legal nightmare to deal with; maybe he should ask Miss Marchmont to look into it for him. Then again maybe not.
‘And there’s the fact that she hasn’t put the number in her contacts list. You’d think a modern girl would have done that.’ Ritchie leaned back in her seat, enjoying the ride. The traffic freed up some more as they approached Cameron Toll and headed out on the Old Dalkeith Road, early afternoon clearly a good time to negotiate Edinburgh’s suburbs.
‘Unless she doesn’t want people knowing that number.’
‘Or we could just be getting as paranoid as she is. The life she leads – the double life, I should say – it’s not really all that healthy.’
‘You seem very knowledgeable about it, Kirsty.’
Ritchie laughed. ‘There you go again, sir. Skirting around the subject. Why don’t you just out and ask me?’
‘Your private life’s not really any of my business.’ McLean felt the tips of his ears burning again and wondered why. It wasn’t as if they didn’t deal with sex and the myriad ways people found to satisfy their urges on a daily basis.
‘I’d argue you’re wrong there, but it’s not important. I worked Vice a while up in Aberdeen before I transferred down here. Met some interesting people, learned a lot about their lifestyle. Edinburgh’s no different, really, and most of the time it’s pretty harmless, at least physically. Mentally it can fuck you up a bit. You saw what they were up to in Marchmont’s house. Nobody was getting hurt who didn’t want to be, and far as I can tell everyone was there by choice. It can get lonely in the city, surrounded by so many strangers. Some people go to church, some join gyms, some support a football team and some like to dress up in rubber outfits and have sex with people they hardly know.’
‘Each to their own, I suppose.’ McLean slowed down as they approached the hospital, looking for the entrance to the car park.
‘Except that it leaves a bad taste in the mouth.’ Ritchie paused a bit before laughing. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words. What I meant was it’s all rather distasteful, a bit seedy, not spoken about. No one judges you if you work out, or pray on Sunday. Well, not really. But sex is another matter altogether. Those folk we found in Marchmont’s house, they’re bankers, entrepreneurs, lawyers even. I imagine they’d bend over backwards to stop their colleagues from finding out about what they get up to on their weekends.’
‘You think there’s blackmail going on?’
Ritchie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Probably. Maybe some mutual support too. Guess it’s a bit like the masons, only with your trousers off rather than one leg rolled up to the knee.’
McLean smiled at the image. ‘And what does that make Marchmont? Grand High Poobah?’
‘Nah, I reckon it’s like she told you at the off. She wants to get out, just doesn’t really know how. Nothing so lonely as an orgy, after all.’
McLean spotted the sign for the car park and joined the queue of cars at the entrance. He wanted it to be that simple, but he was too old, too cynical, to believe there wasn’t more to Heather Marchmont than that.
He knew the intensive care unit at the Western General Hospital well, but McLean hadn’t often visited the one at the Royal Infirmary. Not since they’d moved the whole hospital from its old site overlooking the Meadows out to this purpose-built modern complex at Little France. He didn’t know any of the nurses either, which meant the familiar face of Doctor Caroline Wheeler was a welcome relief after twenty minutes of searching for the right place.
‘Stacey Craig. A sad case indeed.’ Doctor Wheeler shook her head as she spoke. She looked as tired as McLean felt, but then he didn’t think he’d ever seen her looking anything other than careworn.
‘The prognosis isn’t good, I’d heard,’ DS Ritchie said.
‘There’s damage to her brainstem and most of her higher cortical areas have been starved of oxygen. She’ll never wake up. In many ways it would have been kinder if she’d not been found. Without paramedic intervention she’d have just slipped away peacefully.’ Doctor Wheeler led them down a wide, well-lit corridor as she spoke, pushing through double doors into the ICU ward. Stacey Craig lay on white sheets, head propped up on thick pillows, plugged into a collection of machines that kept her alive.
‘Any idea what caused it?’ McLean asked. He didn’t approach the bed, didn’t want to get too close. If he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t really wanted to come here at all; it was just an excuse to get out of the station.
‘Could have been any number of things, but it’s most likely an embolism of some form. The brain’s amazingly fragile if you attack it from the inside.’
‘She was acting strangely just before it happened. I thought she might have been on drugs or something.’
‘Well, we didn’t find anything in her bloodstream.’ Doctor Wheeler went to the end of the bed, picked up the chart and leafed through the pages. ‘Nope. Clean. If she was incoherent then she might have been having a TIA, a mini-stroke if you will. They can sometimes be a precursor to something bigger.’
‘What will happen to her now?’ Ritchie asked. She too had hung back at the door, unwilling to commit fully to the room with its softly beeping machines and smell of antiseptic.
‘That depends on how her condition progresses. We’ve stabilised her, but like I said, the damage to her brain is too severe. It’s highly unlikely she’ll ever wake up, and if by some miracle she did I’d be very surprised if she was able to communicate. Do you know if she has any family?’
‘We’re working on that. She lived alone and her ex is in prison.’
‘Well, keep me in the loop.’ Doctor Wheeler put the chart back on the end of the bed, stared at the comatose figure for a few seconds. ‘It’s not as if we can do anything more for her, but it helps if there’s someone out there to make the decisions.’
She didn’t say what decisions those were, and McLean didn’t need to ask. He’d been here before; there was only one way out.
‘You got a minute to spare? Only I thought I might drop in on Rachel, see how she’s getting on.’
McLean still didn’t know his way around the Royal Infirmary, but he’d spotted a sign advertising the maternity ward as they were trying to find their way back to the main entrance and the car park. Ritchie gave him a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.
‘Only thing I had planned for today was writing up the report on the brothel raid, but that’s not going to take me too long.’
They wandered up a couple more corridors before they finally found the maternity ward. McLean didn’t know where to begin looking for Rachel and was starting to feel a bit foolish when a familiar voice piped up behind him.
‘Hi, Tony. Didn’t think we’d be seeing you here any time soon.’
He turned to see Jenny Spiers standing by the unmanned reception desk. How he’d managed to miss her he couldn’t have said.
‘Jenny. Hi. We were here on business. Just thought I’d drop in and see how Rae’s doing. It was a bit of a drama last night.’
‘You could say that.’
McLean noticed Jenny giving Ritchie the eye. ‘You’ve not met Detective Sergeant Ritchie?’
‘No, I don’t think I have. Hi. Jenny Spiers. I’m Rachel’s sister.’ Jenny held out her hand and Ritchie took it.
‘Pleased to meet you, though if I’m being honest, I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. I’ve never met Rachel either.’
‘Tony keeping yo
u all to himself, is he?’ Jenny laughed, perhaps a little too forcefully. ‘Come on. It’s this way.’
They followed her through to a large ward, filled with mothers and their newly born infants. Some of the beds had curtains drawn around them for a bit of privacy and a few worried-looking fathers sat beside their significant others. Rachel’s bed was near the door. She was asleep when Jenny approached, but she woke quickly.
‘Thought you were going home, Jen … Oh, Tony. Hi.’ Rachel’s face lit up as she saw him standing in the doorway. She craned her neck to see who was behind him, but Ritchie ducked to one side.
‘I’ll just … I’ll wait outside. Me and babies don’t really … I’ll just sit here.’ She hurried over to the other side of the corridor where a couple of chairs sat underneath a noticeboard.
‘Coward,’ McLean mouthed, then stepped into the ward. While his back had been turned, Jenny had crossed the floor and scooped an impossibly tiny child out of a small cot beside Rachel’s bed.
‘Tony, meet Tony,’ she said, presenting the bundle. McLean peered at something that looked a lot like a miniature version of Winston Churchill. Or possibly Peter Lorre. Then Jenny’s words sunk in.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘We decided ages ago,’ Rachel said. ‘If he was a boy he’d be Anthony. Tony for short. If he’d been a girl, well, we were thinking maybe Gladys after Mum, but that’s an old person’s name. So it’s probably for the best he was a boy.’
‘Here. Why don’t you hold him.’ Jenny offered up the baby and McLean took him with some trepidation. He’d not had a great deal of experience with babies, wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to support this one. Something about keeping the head up. Or should he be cradling him in the crook of his arm?
‘Men! You’re all the same. Bloody useless. Here, give him back.’ Jenny rolled her eyes at him as she retrieved the infant and carefully handed him over to his mother. Rachel immediately started to stroke his nose and tweak his chin, babbling inanities that nevertheless seemed to entrance young Tony.
‘I really only dropped by because I was here anyway. Police business. Just wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘We’re fine. Thanks for checking.’ Rachel gave him a weary smile that reminded him of just how little sleep he’d managed to get in the past twenty-four hours. ‘Now get back to your sleuthing, or whatever it is you do with your days.’
31
Bloody police. Who the fuck do they think they are? Getting on his back like that when he’s done nothing wrong.
He limps around the sparsely furnished flat, the tag around his ankle chafing at his skin, dragging him down. Some break this has turned out to be, and he wasn’t even doing anything wrong. Not really. He’d only just arrived. Well, maybe a couple of weeks. But that stupid fucking register. If it hadn’t been for that whore and her bloody drug dependency he’d never even have been on it in the first place.
He bangs through to the kitchen, fills the coffee machine up with water, stabs at the button a half-dozen times until it springs into life. Why does everything have to fight him? A scramble to find a mug, pulling one out of the sink and rinsing it at least partly clean before the dark brown liquid starts to drip from the spout. Christ, but he’d give anything for a decent cup of coffee. Why did he even agree to come to this godforsaken shithole of a city? Athens of the North. What a fucking joke. He’s been to Athens and it’s warm there. The sun shines.
A buzzing in the hallway like a swarm of flies on acid. Why can’t they leave him alone? He takes a deep swig of coffee, then spits it out on to the plates and mugs in the sink. Fucking washing-up liquid. The taste numbs his lips like cheap perfume. A Rohypnol kiss.
The buzzer again. Why can’t they just all fuck off? He’s got better things to do than talk to the filth again. But a part of him knows the more he ignores them the more they’ll hound him. Best get it over and done with.
The letting agent is a right precious bastard; there’s got to be at least a dozen locks and chains on the door, and that’s after he’s jabbed at the intercom button to let them in off the street. No point talking to whoever’s there; only the fuzz know where he lives. No one else would be interested in talking to him. Work’s dried right up since the police started hassling his clients. Wankers. He can hear them on the stairs. Voices, well, one voice anyway. A woman talking to someone else. Makes sense. Coppers always come in pairs, the bastards. It’s probably that posh-sounding git and his ginger bint. The one with no eyebrows. Fucking jocks. Why can’t they just leave him alone?
Leave it, John. Don’t let them see they’re winding you up. Don’t let them wind you up, for fuck’s sake.
He listens as they slowly climb the stairs, waits until he knows they’re on the landing. Puts on his biggest fake smile and opens the door to let them in.
It’s not who he was expecting. Sure it’s a man and a woman, but she’s definitely in charge. Not ginger either. Dirty blonde, maybe a bit old for his tastes, but she’s a looker.
‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr Smith.’ Her voice is soft, teasing, the faintest hint of a lisp to it, unless that’s some odd jock accent. She brushes past him, entering the flat whether he likes it or not. The scent of her lingers in the air. Not a perfume as such, at least not one he’s familiar with. It’s something wilder that excites him even as it puts him on edge.
‘Can you do that? Just walk in like that?’ He had opened the door angry, but in control of it. Now he’s bewildered. She doesn’t answer his question, but her partner follows her into the hall, forcing him back towards the kitchen. He’s a glum fellow, head down, dressed in a tweed suit. His hair’s the same colour as hers, though, and when he looks up, there’s an undeniable similarity between the two of them. That’s odd. Since when did the police start sending out brother and sister teams? Twins?
‘You kept a secret from us, Mr Smith. We don’t like it when that happens.’
‘What’re you talking about, secrets? I only forgot to sign in when I got here. It’s not as if—’
The slap isn’t hard, but the suddenness of it brings tears to his eyes, sends a shock through his body.
‘I want to know who invited you to the party. Who told you where it was happening and how to get in?’
‘I don’t know what—’
This time the slap is more of a punch, rattling his teeth. He’s about to give as good as he gets, never had a problem with dishing it out to a woman if she deserved it and this one’s right up there. Only there’s the man standing behind him, her brother or whatever the fuck he is. He hasn’t said a word yet, and that’s somehow even more scary than if he was shouting. Fear’s not something John’s used to. Not something he deals with well.
‘Thought I told you lot to leave me alone. I’ve got my tag on, went through all your bastard procedures.’
‘Oh, we’re not the police, John.’ She smiles at him and the hallway seems to darken, turn cold. ‘At least, not the kind of police you’re used to dealing with.’
32
‘We’re not going back to HQ, are we?’
McLean had handed his keys to Ritchie, letting her drive while he made a couple of calls. She drove the little Alfa much more smoothly than he did, coaxing it around the corners with a perfect balance of throttle and steering that suggested she’d spent some time on a racetrack somewhere in her past. Yet more he didn’t know about her.
‘Not just yet, no. I want to have a word with Craig’s ex, Tam Roberts. Someone’s going to have to tell him what’s happened, and since we were there at the time …’ He knew it was a poor excuse. Ritchie didn’t say anything, but he could tell she was thinking the same thing.
‘He in Saughton?’ she asked after a while.
‘Yup. I just let them know we’re coming.’
‘We should really leave it to Family Liaison, you know.’ Ritchie blipped the accelerator, nipping in front of a bus as it came round the roundabout. The manoeuvre was safe enough, but she got a toot of the horn for her troubles anyway. She took her hand off the steering wheel just long enough to give the bus driver an unladylike gesture, then sped off in the direction of Liberton Brae and the bypass.
‘I don’t think they teach that at Tulliallan,’ McLean said.
‘Nah, it’s more of a rally thing. But I mean it, sir. We shouldn’t be chasing this like it’s an ongoing investigation, really. Not when the DCC and Jo Dexter have both told us not to.’
‘If it makes you feel better, I can always say I ordered you to come with me. Anyway, this isn’t part of the brothel raid report. We were present at Stacey Craig’s—’ he was about to say death, but stopped himself ‘—incident. We need to find her next of kin to inform them of her condition. Roberts is the closest we’ve got, so it makes sense to go and tell him.’
‘And if you just happen to ask him a few questions while you’re at it …’ Ritchie left the sentence hanging. McLean knew she didn’t believe him, any more than he believed himself.
‘What do we know about Roberts?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot more than I already told you. I could do with MacBride’s little computer thing. Way I hear it, he’s doing eight years for armed robbery. Bit of a hard man by all accounts, but not exactly Mensa material. Him and his gang got caught because one of them posted selfies on Facebook with the getaway car in the background.’ Ritchie grinned at some internal joke, dropped a gear and accelerated on to the bypass. ‘Always nice when the criminals do our job for us.’
McLean didn’t like visiting Saughton Prison. There was a smell to it, or a feeling, he couldn’t quite say what it was. Not the obvious reason that it was full of people who hated what he stood for, nor the sullen looks of the overworked prison officers. There was something else that hung over the place, sucking the life out of anyone who spent too long there.
