by James Oswald
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I was set up and you were part of that. Either knowingly or not, it’s not all that important to me. I just want to know why.’
Marchmont sat silent for a while. The waitress came over with her coffee, lingered for perhaps a moment longer than was necessary before heading back to the counter. McLean took a sip from his own cup, happy enough to wait. It was good coffee, too, with a rich aroma that measured up to the flavour for a change. Noticing it, he realised he couldn’t smell any perfume in the air. She’d worn a peculiar scent before, hadn’t she? Or had that been someone else?
‘It’s … complicated.’ Marchmont’s answer cut through his musing, the moment lost.
‘It always is.’
‘The house you raided. The house where I live now. I’ve not been there very long.’
‘And the parties?’
‘That was the first. The first one since I moved in, anyway.’ Marchmont dropped her gaze as she spoke, her words coming out in a low monotone. Almost as if she were afraid of being overheard, or lip-read.
‘So what was going on there before?’
‘I think you know that already, don’t you?’
McLean leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. Close up, he still couldn’t smell that perfume. Perhaps she wasn’t wearing it today. Or maybe it wasn’t hers at all.
‘You’re damage limitation. That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
A thin smile, a tilt of the head. ‘I’m a corporate lawyer.’
‘So MacFarlane and Dodds are part of this?’
‘Not the firm, no. Some of the people there, probably. I don’t really know. Same as some of the police, the judiciary, politicians. There’s no “this” in the way you’re thinking. Like I said, it’s more complicated than that.’
‘But someone told you to move into that house. Someone organised that party for the same night we were scheduled to raid the place. That had to have happened pretty much as soon as we knew about it.’
‘Oh, there’ve been parties before. But it’s not always like the one you raided. Sometimes there’s sex workers there, paying guests. I first met Stacey at one of those.’ Marchmont was fidgeting again, glancing occasionally at the window. Every so often her hand would leave the coffee cup, go to her stomach, not quite touch it before she realised what she was doing and went back to the cup. He had thought it a tell before, the little nervous tic that showed when she was lying, but now he wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t telling all the truth, but what she was telling wasn’t a lie.
‘You were the one who called us, weren’t you? The anonymous tip-off.’
‘I … I thought it would protect Stacey. When she talked. And I wanted out, same as she did. We were going to get away together. Only there is no out. I should know that by now, of all people.’
McLean reached across the table, put a hand over Marchmont’s to stop her fidgeting. She startled at the touch, looked straight at him, and for an instant he almost remembered where he had seen her before.
‘Why should you know that, Heather? What makes you so different?’
‘I can’t say.’ She pulled her hand away from him, stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I should never have involved you in this at all. I have to go.’
‘I can help you, you know. If someone’s leaning on you I can …’ McLean stopped talking, unsure what he could do. Marchmont gave him a weary smile again.
‘I know you think you can, Tony, but you can’t. It’s too late. Best you leave it alone. I’m not the only damage limitation in play here.’
‘Christ, I used to think I was a bit slow in the morning. What time do you call this to come slinking in?’
McLean glanced at his watch. He’d not been expecting anyone to be in the Cold Case Unit room yet. Grumpy Bob’s shift didn’t start until nine and it was still ten minutes to. Duguid sat hunched over his desk, a slew of papers spread over every available surface except for that occupied by a laptop computer, at which he was furiously two-finger typing.
‘Believe it or not, I’ve other cases to attend to, you know. And sorting out DI Carter’s paperwork from my own before I can get started on it.’ There was some truth in what he said, but McLean omitted the fact that he’d not yet begun the task. ‘What’s got you in so early, sir?’
Duguid looked up, his brow furrowed in a frown. Or maybe his eyesight was failing. ‘Going through missing persons records from ’seventy-six. It’s much easier now everything’s been digitised. Be even easier if it had been indexed by someone with half a brain.’ He went back to his laptop, hammered away at the keyboard again. McLean reckoned he’d have broken the thing by the end of the week.
‘The Pentland Mummy?’
‘The same. The old post-mortem report’s got enough detail about the man’s physical features to at least start looking for him.’
‘You’ve got the report there?’ McLean strode over to the desk as Duguid grabbed a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. He scanned down the old typewritten pages, complete with black smears from the carbon paper. Noticed with a wry grin that his grandmother had carried out the examination. Had she come home at the end of that day, having cut open and examined this man’s innermost secrets, then sat down beside his bed and read him a story before putting the lights out? Very possibly she had.
‘What are you grinning at? Makes you look even more of an idiot than normal.’
McLean looked up from the report to see that Duguid had stopped abusing his keyboard.
‘Just thinking about my gran.’
‘Aye. She was a good pathologist. Took her time. Which gives me hope there might be some point in pursuing this.’
McLean put the report back down on Duguid’s desk, then crossed the room to where a whiteboard was beginning to be covered in barely legible scribbles. ‘Do we know what happened to the body?’
‘Not yet. If we’re lucky he was buried. Should be a record of where.’
‘And if we’re unlucky?’
‘Cremated. Have to hope they’ve kept tissue samples for DNA. We find any possible candidates in the database then we can see about matching it to a relative. If the poor bugger’s got any left alive, that is. ’Seventy-six was a long time ago.’ Duguid shuffled some papers, went back to peering at the laptop screen. ‘This chap looks like a possible, mind you. Daniel Calton.’
The name meant nothing, so McLean walked around the desk and peered at the mugshot on the screen. A dour-looking fellow scowled out at him in blurred black and white. To say he was nondescript would have been generous.
‘Who is he?’
‘Was, I’m guessing. He was about sixty when he went missing. No chance of him being still alive today.’ Duguid clicked the trackpad and brought up another screen, as competent with the laptop as Detective Sergeant MacBride. ‘He was a merchant banker, apparently. It’s a bit light on detail. Never showed up for work one morning; family say he left at six, same as every day. That was the last anyone saw of him.’
‘So why didn’t his name come up in the original investigation?’
‘Apparently it did, but was discarded as improbable.’ Duguid fished around on his desk until he found the paperwork he was looking for. ‘Mostly because he went missing in nineteen seventy-two.’
‘’Seventy-two?’
‘What? Is there an echo in here?’ Duguid growled the familiar insult.
‘Sorry. Force of habit.’ McLean gestured at the papers strewn across the desk. ‘That’s good work.’
‘You seem surprised. I wasn’t always a pen-pusher, you know. Getting my head around a problem like this. It’s very satisfying.’
>
‘The joys of promotion. More time in meetings and less out there solving crimes. Now maybe you understand why I’ve never really been all that keen on a DCI job.’
‘Aye, and it’s no’ as if you need the money like some of us mortals.’
McLean let that one go. On balance he preferred the acerbic but productive Duguid to the shouty one. ‘What’s the plan then?’
‘I’ll have a chat with the mortuary about a DNA profile. Then when Grumpy Bob gets in we’ll see if we can’t track down some living relative of Mr Calton. Get a sample from them and do a cross-check. If all goes well we’ll have ticked a box. On to the next one.’
‘Did I hear my name being taken in vain?’ Grumpy Bob came in through the open door, rolled up newspaper under one arm, cup of delicious-smelling coffee in his hand. The aroma reminded McLean of his meeting with Marchmont earlier, its unsatisfactory conclusion.
‘I’ll leave you two to track down Calton’s family,’ he said by way of an answer. ‘I need to find DS MacBride.’
‘He’s up in the CID room, sir,’ Grumpy Bob said. ‘But you’d better hurry if you want to catch him before Carter does.’
‘They’ve actually given Carter a case? That’s brave. Anything interesting?’
Grumpy Bob raised his coffee in mock salute. ‘I didn’t ask. The less I’m involved the better.’
38
McLean found Detective Sergeant MacBride in the CID room, sitting at his desk in the far corner and staring at a large computer screen that partially hid him from the rest of the room. The lack of other detectives suggested either that DI Carter had already been in or word had got round that he had an active case to investigate.
‘Morning, Stuart. I was hoping I might find you here.’
MacBride looked up with a start, clicking at the mouse to hide whatever was on the screen, even though from where he was standing McLean could only see the manufacturer’s name emblazoned across the back.
‘Ah. Morning, sir. I heard about the SCU. Thanks for the warning, by the way.’
‘No reason you should have been dragged into it, but I reckoned Brooks wasn’t going to let that stop him shouting at anyone who’s ever spoken to me. Thought you’d be better somewhere else.’
‘I was, actually. We found the missing teenager holed up at a mate’s house in South Queensferry. How’s the ghost squad coming along?’
It took McLean a moment to work out what MacBride was talking about. Then the name sank in. ‘Ghost squad? Is that what they’re calling us?’ He was about to add what a rubbish name, then realised he actually quite liked it. ‘That’s not bad, really.’
‘Can’t be easy working with Dagwood, though.’
‘We haven’t come to blows yet. Early days, mind you.’ McLean looked around the empty room. ‘Quiet in here.’
‘Aye. Carter’s taken a load of DCs off to look into a break-in over in Grange. I managed to keep out of his way. Had to do this for DCI McIntyre anyway.’ MacBride indicated the screen, which McLean still couldn’t see.
‘Any chance you could do me a favour while you’re at it?’
MacBride didn’t answer, which was the next best thing to saying yes.
‘John Smith. The guy on the sex offenders’ register. Can we access his tagging locator from here?’
MacBride reached for the mouse. ‘Should be able to, sir. But I thought you weren’t working the SCU any more.’
‘It’s …’ McLean didn’t quite know how to justify it. This was about as far from sanctioned use of police time and resources as he could get. Involving MacBride was a step closer to getting himself suspended or worse. ‘I just wanted to see what he’s been up to. Call it professional curiosity.’
The detective sergeant said nothing again. He didn’t need to; his face was speaking volumes. All the same, he set about the task. McLean stepped around the desk so that he could see the screen and the various pages that came into view as MacBride brought up the relevant records.
‘Here we go, sir. John Smith, Dockside Apartments. Tag appears to be active. He’s at home.’
McLean looked at the data for a few moments before admitting to himself he had no idea what any of it meant.
‘Is there a history of his movements over the past …’ How long had it been since he and Ritchie had last seen Smith, when the tag was fitted? ‘Week?’
‘Let me see.’ MacBride tapped away at the keyboard, swivelled the mouse around some more. The data on screen didn’t seem to change appreciably. ‘That’s odd.’
‘Odd? How so?’
‘Well, the tag’s active and doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. Those things are sensitive. We’d know if he’d even tried to cut it off.’
‘I’m sensing a “but” here, Stuart.’
‘Well, he doesn’t appear to have moved out of the flat for the past five days. Doesn’t appear to have moved out of his bedroom.’
‘Why are you even looking into Smith? He’s strictly the SCU’s business. Hardly an unsolved crime, either.’
McLean had called Ritchie as soon as MacBride had double-checked with the security firm that what he was seeing on the monitors for John Smith’s tag was correct. Luckily for him, Jo Dexter was out of town, otherwise he was sure that the DCI would have been the next to know, and a lot less polite in her criticism. Instead, Ritchie had cadged a lift in a squad car from HQ over to the station to meet him. It was possible she had his best interests at heart and was trying to put him off doing something stupid, but he suspected she just wanted to get out for a bit.
‘It’s probably nothing. I was really only looking to find out where he was so I could have a quick chat with him about who invited him to the party.’
‘Again with the question why, Tony? The case has been put to bed. Nothing’s going to come of pestering Smith except maybe a formal complaint. You so keen to be busted down to sergeant when a DCI post is within reach?’
‘I don’t think it has been. Put to bed, that is. Oh, the DCC’s got his report and the Fiscal’s not going to pursue the matter any further, sure. But this isn’t the sort of thing you can bury so easily. It’s going to come back to bite us and I want to have all the facts to hand when it does.’
Ritchie rubbed at her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in a manner McLean had seen Jo Dexter do a hundred times or more. He knew he was pushing his luck, knew too that he could quite happily survive if he was sacked but others on the force didn’t have the luxury of a wealthy inheritance.
‘I’d go see him myself, not involve anyone else, but this data from his tag. It doesn’t look right.’
‘OK. We’ll both go and pay him a visit. But it was my call all along and I only asked you to come with me because you were SIO when we arrested him.’
‘Fine. Thanks.’ McLean relaxed a little. This was how he’d intended justifying the visit anyway. Ritchie paused before answering, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind. Then she gave him a wicked smile.
‘And we’ll be taking your car, too.’
The residential blocks were part of the redevelopment of Leith Docks, tied into the government offices at Victoria Quay. Originally the trams had been intended to come all the way down here too, giving the civil servants easy access to the airport right on the other side of the city, but the financial mismanagement of the project meant that they stopped a good mile and a half short. The whole area was still under development, too, lending it a slightly seedy, unfinished air. One more victim of the financial crisis. It would be nice when it was finished, but McLean wondered whether it would have any soul. It was too far from the beating heart of the city, stuck out
on the coast like a leper colony. Out of sight and out of mind.
And expensive. John Smith was obviously not short of a bob or two if he could afford to live in an apartment with a sea view. McLean couldn’t remember what it was the man actually did for a living. It was probably somewhere in his file and he really should have checked. If Smith was a computer genius, then that might explain the failure of the tracking device.
‘Still no answer from his mobile?’ he asked as he pressed the buzzer for the main entry to the apartment block. Ritchie had been trying the number ever since they had left the station, her annoyance that McLean hadn’t let her drive evident in the way she stabbed at the screen of her phone.
‘Nothing. He’s not answering the land line either.’
McLean studied the names on the buttons that operated the entry system. There was a camera too, so that whoever was inside could check before letting anyone in. Smith had still not answered, so he selected another flat at random, pressed that. A few seconds’ delay and then an electronic click as the door unlocked. So much for security.
‘I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this,’ Ritchie said as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. McLean cast his mind back to the last time they’d been here, when Smith’s tag had been fitted, trying to see if anything had changed. There was an odd smell about the place, slightly sickly sweet as if someone had been spraying air freshener to cover something else.
‘Want to call in some back-up?’ he asked, but Ritchie gave no reply.
Four apartments opened on to the second-floor landing, two looking out across development land to the docks. No doubt soon another block of flats would sprout out of the ground, spoiling that vista, but the apartment Smith occupied had an uninterrupted sea view. Lovely at this time of year, perhaps less so in the depths of winter. McLean knocked on the door, the hollow sound echoing about the landing as he listened for noise of anything going on inside.
