by James Oswald
‘Big Tam Roberts, aye?’ The duty warden looked at McLean’s warrant card, even though he’d seen it plenty of times before.
‘Yes. I’ve some bad news for him. Thought I’d deliver it in person.’
‘You’re all heart, Inspector. I’ll bring him to interview room two. One’s still a bit of a mess after … Well, it’s no matter.’ The warden took back the visitor book McLean and Ritchie had just signed, handed them their passes and then left through a back door that needed a heavy, old-fashioned key to unlock.
‘Charming fellow,’ Ritchie said.
‘Ach, he’s all right. You should see them when they’re pissed off with us.’ He set off down the corridor in the direction of the interview rooms. A foetid smell hung around the door to number one; he could only imagine what had happened in there. Number two was fine, if a little spartan. A plain table, three chairs, no window.
‘Nice place.’ Ritchie pulled out a chair and sat down. McLean paced for the five minutes it took for Roberts to arrive. He was escorted in by two hefty-looking wardens, hands cuffed behind his back even though he was a thin and weedy man. Big Tam was clearly an ironic nickname, though appearances could be deceptive of course. McLean’s first reaction was one of surprise; Stacey Craig could surely have done better than this.
‘Thomas Roberts?’ McLean asked as the wardens shoved the man down into his seat. They left the cuffs on him, stood either side of the chair.
‘Aye, who the fuck are you?’
‘Detective Inspector McLean. And this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Ritchie. We’re with the SCU. You know what that is?’
Roberts’ moronic stare showed eloquently that he didn’t, but his eyes lingered perhaps longer on Ritchie than was polite.
‘Fuckin’ polis. Thought I could smell filth.’ He spat on the floor and one of the wardens twitched. McLean was impressed at the man’s self-control; he’d have belted the prisoner if he’d been in the same position.
‘The SCU is the Sexual Crimes Unit. We investigate crimes of a sexual nature, as you might imagine. Things like prostitution, pimping, sex trafficking, child abuse of a sexual nature. Means I get to meet scum like you.’
Roberts squinted across the table at McLean as if someone had stolen his spectacles, or he was trying to squeeze out a particularly reticent fart. ‘Whit the fuck youse on aboot? I ain’t no fuckin’ paedo.’
‘No. No, you’re not. You’re in for armed robbery. That went well, didn’t it? Right up until your idiot mate went and bragged about it on the internet.’
Roberts made to lunge forwards, but the two wardens standing behind him were quicker, restraining him before he could do anything more than rise a few inches off his seat. He struggled a bit, but only half-heartedly, allowing himself to be pushed back down before shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head in a pathetic show of rebellion. McLean waited until he was done before continuing.
‘Anyway. That’s not what I’m here to talk about. No, this is more what you’d call a condolence visit.’
Roberts gave him that piggy stare of incomprehension again, so McLean pressed on.
‘Stacey Craig. You know her?’
‘Stace is my bird, aye. What’s it to youse?’
‘She had a stroke last night. She’s in the Royal Infirmary in a coma. Doctors say she won’t wake up.’
Roberts stared at him, silent as the wheels in his brain moved slowly around, processing the information.
‘The fuck?’ he said eventually.
‘She had a stroke. You know what that is? Blood clot in the brain, stops the oxygen getting to the thinking bits.’
‘Aye, I’m not stupid. I ken what a stroke is. My nan had one, but she was ninety. Stace is just … Aw man. What the fuck?’
‘She have any family, Stacey? Anyone we should be getting in touch with? Other than yourself, that is.’
Roberts shook his head. ‘Naw. Her folks’re long gone. She’s a friend lives in the New Town. Posh lass, but she’s no family. Just me.’
McLean was almost fooled by the show of remorse. ‘You were never married, though.’
‘Fuck would I want to do that for?’
‘You tell me. You lived with Stacey for long enough. I guess marrying her wasn’t what it was about. More a bit of control. Maybe you knew the life she lived, the sort of people she mixed with. Maybe you forced her to it sometimes, when you couldn’t be arsed working yourself.’
‘I’ve got to sit here and take this shit?’ Roberts looked up at the two wardens. Neither of them said anything.
‘Doesn’t really matter.’ McLean continued as if Roberts had said nothing. ‘You knew what she was doing, and you knew who she was working for, when she wasn’t working for you. I’d like to know their names.’
Roberts barked out an angry laugh. ‘Why the fuck would I tell you something like that, pig?’
McLean leaned back in his uncomfortable chair, looked around the tiny interview room before answering. ‘Let me see now. Your parole hearing’s in what? Two months? I can’t sway the board in your favour. Wouldn’t even if I could. But a word in the right ear would mean no one would even bother listening to you. Easy enough to make a note in my diary, do the same every year. You’d be stuck here serving the rest of your term. The full term. No getting out on licence early.’
Roberts creased his forehead in an attempt to squeeze out a thought; thinking wasn’t something he was used to doing, clearly.
‘What you mean? You threatening me, copper? Coz when I’m out I’ll come find you.’
‘Now that is a threat. It’s also exactly the sort of thing the parole board would be just delighted to hear. Shows you’ve developed a sense of moral judgement, maybe come to see the error of your ways and you want to turn over a new leaf. Start afresh.’
‘You taking the piss?’ The furrows on Roberts’ brow were deep, his skin turning a dark shade of red as his temper rose. McLean couldn’t for the life of him imagine what Stacey Craig had seen in the man. Fists she couldn’t easily get away from, most probably.
‘Why did she stay with you, Mr Roberts? She could have done much better for herself. Way I see it, she was doing better for herself without you. And yet she kept on coming back. What was it you gave her she couldn’t get anywhere else? I’m guessing it wasn’t witty banter.’
‘“Mr Roberts”. Aye, I like that. Shows a bit of respect.’ Roberts leaned forwards, slowly this time. McLean saw the wardens tense to catch him before he could do anything violent, but with his hands cuffed behind his back, McLean knew the odds were in his favour should there be a tussle.
‘I’ll tell youse why Stace stayed with me. Sure, that was her place and she knew it, but she knew she’d be fucked out there without someone strong to protect her too. She mixed with a dangerous crowd, and I don’t mean folk like me an’ the boys. We just robbed a couple of trucks full of cash. Naebody got hurt. These people’d no’ think twice about killing you just coz you said the wrong thing.’
Finally they were getting somewhere. ‘And you could protect her? That’s why she stayed with you? Must’ve been hard for her you being in here then.’
‘Aye, she was scared all right. Why’d you think she was walking the streets? She didn’t need the money. She wanted to get arrested. Thought it was safer inside, but you just sent her home with a caution.’
‘What was she scared of? What had she seen?’
Roberts slumped back in his chair, shook his head. ‘No’ a fuckin’ scooby. Last time I saw her was about a month ago. Came in here for a visit. First one since I got caught. Wanted to know if I had any contacts on the outside. No’ really sure
why or what for. She wasn’t making much sense.’
‘She was scared for her life?’
‘Aye, that might’ve been it.’ Roberts strained to think again, the effort making him look severely constipated.
‘So who was threatening her? She must have told you.’
‘She wouldn’t tell me. I told youse, she wasn’t making much sense.’
McLean looked at Roberts, studying his features as the piggy-eyed little man stared back. There was some native cunning in there, sure, but not enough to lie about this. Not enough to try and use the knowledge to his advantage. He really didn’t know who or what had scared his girlfriend into a coma.
‘Well then, looks like we’re done here. Thank you, officers.’ McLean stood, nodding to the two wardens, who bent down as one and took Roberts by the arms. He let himself be led from the room, pausing only at the door to look back.
‘She’s no’ waking up? Is that what they’re saying?’ It was the first sign of any emotion other than anger McLean had seen in the man.
‘I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. She didn’t deserve that.’
‘I’ll fucking kill them.’ Roberts’ threat was all the more convincing for it being delivered in a flat monotone. ‘See when I get out of here. I’ll find out who they are and I’ll kill every last fucking one of them.’
‘Jesus wept, Tony. Can you no’ just leave it alone for a minute? You’re like a wee boy picking at his scabs.’
DCI Dexter had been sneaking a crafty cigarette out the back of the station when McLean and Ritchie returned from Saughton. Too much to hope that she didn’t know exactly where he’d been all day, or even that she might have gone home already. The afternoon was over, turning into a warm autumn evening in which it would have been pleasant to have spent some time outside, maybe in a pub garden with fine ale and good company. The glass bus shelter provided for the station’s die-hard smokers was perhaps not so pleasant.
‘What were you even doing at the hospital? Ritchie spoke to the doctors on the phone this morning. That was all you needed to know for the report, surely.’
Dexter stubbed one cigarette out into the sand-filled bucket that served as an ashtray, fished out the packet and lit up another.
‘You’re driving me to an early grave, you know?’ She waved the packet in the air. ‘Before you came back to the SCU I’d quit. Well, nearly.’
‘I’m sorry, Jo. But you know me. Someone tells me to wrap things up neatly, then I immediately start asking why. There’s something going on here. You know it as well as I do. It was bad enough when we were just trying to put the lid on an embarrassing cock-up, but now a woman’s good as dead and I’m not convinced it’s a coincidence.’
Dexter stared at him a moment, then let out a long cloud of smoke before switching her gaze to Ritchie. ‘You buy any of this, Sergeant?’
‘Don’t really know, ma’am. I just do what I’m told.’ A half-smile played across her lips as if she’d just thought of something funny. ‘I do know it stinks. Not sure what of, though.’
‘You’ve got her well trained, Tony. I’ll give you that much.’ Dexter ground out her cigarette even though it still had an inch and a half to go. ‘Foul habit. And I’m no’ going to cover for you again. If the DCC finds out you visited Saughton this afternoon you’ll be busted down to constable and working traffic before the end of the week.’
‘Just trying to be thorough, Jo.’
‘Well, stop it. For once in your godawful life do what you’re told and sweep this whole sorry mess under the carpet.’
McLean must have sighed more loudly than he’d meant to. Either that or Dexter was just having a really bad day. Before he could take another step towards the back door into the station, she stopped him with a surprisingly firm hand to the chest.
‘Not now. Tomorrow. It’s past shift time anyway and I heard you were up all night having babies.’ Dexter’s stern face softened a little and she let her hand fall to her side. ‘Go home, the both of you. Get some kip. We’ll sort out this mess in the morning.’
33
Early morning after a surprisingly good night’s sleep and McLean found himself in his old station at his old desk leafing through piles of old paperwork that surely couldn’t have been all that important if they’d been allowed to sit there unattended for a couple of days. He was pleased to see there were fewer of DI Carter’s case files in the heap, which meant that the message was starting to filter through. It had been the same when he was first promoted to inspector; the lower ranks deliberately making life difficult for him by mis-filing or just making sure nothing was straightforward. Perhaps it was character forming, some kind of initiation rite above and beyond the hoops he had to jump through before he could even be considered for the post. Either way he couldn’t help thinking it was a bloody stupid waste of everyone’s time.
A knock on the open door interrupted his musings. McLean looked up to see DS MacBride standing in the doorway, his tablet computer under one arm, a slim brown folder in his hand.
‘Heard a rumour you were in today, sir. Thought you’d be at the SCU.’
‘I’m a bit persona non grata there at the moment, Stuart. Went slightly off-script yesterday. Thought I’d put in some hours here, catch up on the Parker case and generally keep out of the way of Jo Dexter.’ McLean knew that MacBride would already have heard. His great skill was communication after all. There wasn’t much went on he didn’t know about, the only difference between him and the older sergeants being he didn’t then tend to pass on the gossip.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear we’ve got some preliminary DNA results in then, sir. On Parker himself and the hair the forensics labs found in the car. The labs are fairly sure it’s the same person. Female. No matches in the database yet, but we’ve not had the full profile to run.’
McLean leaned back in his chair, trying to remember all the details of the case. It had only been a couple of days since he’d last discussed it with MacBride, but a lot had happened in between.
‘So it looks like he probably picked up a hitchhiker with blonde hair. Most likely in Perthshire if the phone records are anything to go by. Brings her down to Edinburgh and she shows her appreciation in an intimate way. Too intimate for Eric Parker, as it turns out. He has a heart attack. She legs it. Can’t say as I blame her, really.’
‘The final report from the post-mortem’s here too, sir.’ MacBride placed the slim folder on McLean’s desk, on top of the pile of case files that should have gone to DI Carter. ‘No evidence of foul play. It really does look like Parker’s heart gave out.’
McLean picked up the folder, opened it and let his eyes glide over the text within. He closed it and put it back down again quickly. He hadn’t been taking any of it in, just needed a prop while his mind worked away.
‘I don’t like loose ends, you know that.’
MacBride had the decency not to answer.
‘But we can’t really waste any more time looking for this mysterious woman if there’s no evidence of foul play. Write it up, put a note on file to run the full DNA when we’ve got it. I guess poor old Eric Parker will have to go in the unaccounted file.’
‘Well, at least he died happy.’ MacBride swiped at the screen of his tablet computer, tapped in a note. McLean thought about taking him to task for his flippancy, then remembered he’d said exactly the same thing back at the car park when they’d found the dead body.
‘You have a chance to look into that other matter?’ he asked instead.
MacBride fished around in his jacket pocket, pulling out a folded A4 printout. ‘I did a bit of searching, like you asked. Not much out there. She doesn’t see
m to use social media at all, and there’s not much press coverage mentioning her. I’ll dig a bit deeper when I’ve got a moment free.’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a look at it once I’ve got all these squared away.’ McLean hefted the pile of paperwork on his desk, then pointed at the stack under the Eric Parker report. ‘Those you can drop off in DI Carter’s office on your way back to the CID room.’
McLean waited until MacBride was gone before unfolding the sheet of paper the detective sergeant had left him. He knew he should have been working through the overtime rosters and all the other important but equally dull bureaucratic nonsense that seemed to multiply with each new management review, but he also knew it would still be there if he ignored it for half an hour. The enigmatic Miss Marchmont was far more interesting.
Except that there was precious little information in the printout MacBride had left him. She was a junior partner at MacFarlane and Dodds, specialising in Corporate Law. That much he already knew. She had studied law at Glasgow, then spent a couple of years in the US and Japan before ending up in Edinburgh, working for the firm that had eventually made her a partner. There was virtually nothing about her early life, no information about her parents or where she had been raised. All the other information MacBride had gleaned pointed to someone plain to the point of anonymity; nothing on Facebook or Twitter, not even an indiscreet teenage MySpace account lurking in the deep archives. She was really quite the cypher. McLean folded the sheet of paper back up and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He’d hoped a background check on Marchmont would have given him some clue as to what her game was, but if anything it had just made things even less clear.
No sooner had he pulled his hand away from his pocket than his phone began to buzz. He fished it out, saw Grumpy Bob’s name appear on the screen, thumbed accept.
