by James Oswald
42
‘What on earth are you doing here, Tony?’
McLean was walking slowly back to the hospital entrance, Jeannie Robertson’s strange present in his jacket pocket, when a familiar voice pulled him up short. Turning, he saw DCI McIntyre standing by a ward door she had clearly just closed behind her.
‘Could say the same for you, ma’am.’
‘Don’t you “Ma’am” me. It was bad enough when you were a sergeant.’ She smiled at him, but McLean could see worry lines on her face.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Not really. Just been visiting Lucy. Chemo’s a bastard sometimes.’
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. Is this a recent thing?’
McIntyre started walking and McLean fell in beside her. He’d met the DCI’s partner once, not long after the news had broken out in the station that she’d left her husband of fifteen years for a woman. Having met her husband a few times before, he couldn’t help thinking McIntyre had made the right choice.
‘Routine scan a couple months ago, came up with a lump in her right breast. They hope they’ve got it under control, but it’s not easy.’
‘I can imagine. I’m so sorry. Not sure what else I can say but best of luck.’
McIntyre stopped in her tracks. ‘You won’t breathe a word of this to anyone at the station, will you, Tony?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘No. No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ She started walking again, a little more swiftly this time. ‘So what brings you to this sorry place? Chatting up one of the nurses?’
‘Ha. No.’ Unbidden, an image of Nurse Robertson flashed across his mind. ‘No, I was checking up on Jo Dalgliesh.’
McIntyre stopped so suddenly this time that McLean was a couple of paces on before he realised.
‘You what?’
‘Dalgliesh. The journalist. She ate something that disagreed with her.’ McLean filled McIntyre in on the details, seeing the weary smile fade to something like astonishment.
‘Why on earth would you care? Surely you’d be making plans for the funeral after what she did to you. That book about Donald Anderson.’
‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But, I don’t know. I guess I’m not as good at holding a grudge as I used to be. And she did save me from that nutter back in the spring.’
McIntyre cocked her head slightly to one side, like a dog watching its owner being stupid. ‘There’s more to it than that though, isn’t there? I’ve known you long enough, Tony.’
‘Well, I suppose I feel a certain degree of responsibility. She ate the cake that was meant for me, after all. Two slices of it.’
‘So she has an allergy and she’s an idiot. That doesn’t make you responsible for her.’
‘It’s not that, Jayne. She wasn’t carrying anything, and I don’t ever remember her even mentioning allergies. Something like that, as bad as that, it’d be the first thing you mentioned, surely. In a situation like that. And who with a nut allergy scoffs two large portions of walnut cake?’
McIntyre frowned. ‘It does sound a bit odd. So what, you think it wasn’t an allergic reaction? You think the cake was poisoned?’ The look on her face suggested it was far-fetched, and McLean had to admit she had a point.
‘It’s probably not the cake at all. Nothing to do with me either. It just seems … odd.’
‘And odd is your stock in trade. Well, I’d suggest you speak to her colleagues, maybe her GP. Find out if your new best friend is just very stupid before you leap to conclusions.’
‘Aye, you’re right. I’ve let things get to me a bit recently. Not enough sleep and all that stuff.’
‘Oh aye? That nurse of yours keeping you up?’
‘Ah, you’re worse than bloody Phil with the innuendoes. No, I’ve house guests and one of them just had a baby boy. His lungs are surprisingly well developed.’
‘You have my sympathies then.’ McIntyre patted him gently on the arm, then left him standing in the entrance hall. He watched her walk out into the falling night and wondered why he hadn’t spoken to her about it all before.
Traffic was worse as McLean headed back across town the way he had come earlier, the evening rush hour spilling everyone out of their offices and into the long slog home. The little Alfa was a noisy cocoon, far less cosseting than the modern pool cars he occasionally managed to use. Even the more modern Alfa GT he had bought when it had been away for repairs had been more comfortable over the potholes and cobbles that made up the bulk of the city’s streets, the Bentley that had been the catalyst for that purchase yet more comfortable still. Just a pity the GT had ended up under part of Rosskettle Psychiatric Hospital.
The offices of the Edinburgh Tribune had relocated from the modern, purpose-built block down near Holyrood and the parliament building, part of a cost-cutting exercise that seemed to be working its way through all of the media as the internet drove down the price people were prepared to pay for news. Now the few remaining journalists worked out of a couple of rooms in a refurbished old tenement, mostly populated by start-up technology firms and other suchlike hopefuls of the new age. In different circumstances, McLean could have relied on Dalgliesh being there, peering myopically at her computer screen as she tapped out some sensationalist version of an otherwise dull story for tomorrow’s late edition. He just hoped that at least one of her colleagues was as diligent. If she had any colleagues left.
At least getting in wasn’t difficult. The front door was unlocked, a reception desk in the narrow hallway unstaffed. McLean glanced at the list of companies on the noticeboard, hoping that it reflected their physical position within the building, then headed for the narrow stairs. He found the offices of the Tribune just off the first landing, compressed into a room not much bigger than his library. Most of the desks were empty, but a bleary-eyed man looked up at him, face washed pale by the reflected light of his computer screen.
‘Here, you can’t just … Oh. It’s you.’
The man hurriedly stood, knocking a sheaf of papers to the floor as he sidled around the desk and came across the room, cursing lightly under his breath as he did so. McLean knew all too well how he felt.
‘Not sure if we’ve met before. I’m Johnny Bairstow. I take it this is about Jo?’
McLean recognised the man’s voice from his phone conversation, but the face didn’t fit what he had been expecting. Bairstow was young, for one thing, not yet out of his twenties if McLean was any judge. A dark shadow of stubble fringed his chin and cheeks as if he’d shaved the day before and not been to bed since. The state of his clothing and general air of a man on the edge only reinforced the image.
‘I just stopped by the hospital. Spoke to one of the nurses.’
‘You did?’ Bairstow’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘How is she?’
‘Still unconscious. They’re bringing her out slowly, apparently. Something to do with swelling on the brain. Wouldn’t have thought it possible, but there you go.’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare, you know? Hard enough running a paper on the budget they give us, but lose my senior reporter?’ Bairstow leaned against the nearest desk like a man whose legs have given up the ghost. He was very thin, probably ran ultra marathons for fun or something equally ridiculous. Still, McLean felt sympathy for him. He knew all too well what it was like trying to work with no budget and an almost non-existent team.
‘I’ll not waste any of your time then. Just had a couple of questions really.’
‘Oh aye? The police looking into her collapse? Something suspicious about it?’
McLean mentally kicked himself for forgetting that Bairstow was a
journalist, even if he was in editorial. ‘Not the police, no. Not unless she dies.’
‘Christ, you don’t think it’ll come to that, do you?’
‘Jo Dalgliesh? Killed by a slice of cake? No. She’s far too stubborn.’
‘Cake?’
‘That’s what I stopped by to ask you. Everyone seems to think she reacted badly to something she ate. The only thing I can think of is the walnut cake she had in the cafe where we met that morning. Did you know she was allergic to nuts?’
This time Bairstow’s mouth opened and hung there for a while as his brain tried to think of something to say. ‘Nuts? But that’s not possible.’
‘She hadn’t told anyone? Seems a bit daft to me.’
‘No. It’s not that.’ Bairstow pushed himself away from the desk, walked around it until he was on the business side, pulled open one of the drawers and dragged out a bag. ‘This is where Jo works when she’s in. Not allowed to smoke in here and she hates nicotine gum. So she chews on these instead. Always joking that it’s healthy.’
McLean looked more closely at the bag, recognising the label of a nearby health food store.
One kilogram of mixed nuts.
It was still just about light when McLean finally made it home after what felt like an unreasonably long day. No sign of Jenny’s little black car, and when he walked into the kitchen, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stared up at him from her customary spot in the middle of the wide wooden table. Something about the air of the place, and that simple act of defiance, left him certain that the house was otherwise unoccupied. He vaguely remembered some muttered conversation about Rachel and Phil going out for the evening, but even so he was surprised young Tony Junior hadn’t forced them back home by now. Unless he was staying over at his aunt’s, he supposed.
‘Just you and me then,’ he said to the cat. She ignored him as usual.
One bonus of having guests was that there tended to be more food in the house than normal. Phil had begun to learn the hard truths of fatherhood too, and wasn’t hammering the beer supplies as heavily as he might have done in the past. All of which meant McLean managed to find himself some supper without having to resort to the stack of takeaway delivery leaflets pinned to the noticeboard by the phone. He leafed through the post as he ate, still vainly hoping for a postcard from Emma, then finally tidied away his plates and went through to the library with a mug of tea and the preliminary report notes for the Pentland Mummy case. Nothing like a little light reading before bed.
He had hardly started reading when Mrs McCutcheon’s cat came in and began prowling around the room. He watched her for a while, realising that he’d missed her company. She was halfway across the rug when she stopped suddenly, arching her back and fluffing out her tail in a manner that might have been impressive were she not so threadbare. She stared at the door to the hall as if a ghost were there, and then a few seconds later the doorbell rang.
McLean shoved the report back in his briefcase, went to answer the door. He had heard no car, which meant whoever was outside had most likely walked and was probably a local. Maybe even Mary Currie, the minister. He’d not spoken to her in a while. A quick glance at his watch showed it was well past the hour his grandmother would have considered late for receiving visitors, but it was always possible Phil and Rachel had just lost their keys.
‘Umm … Inspector … Tony. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have. Didn’t know where to turn.’
Not Phil and Rachel. Standing on the doorstep, clutching a small canvas bag, the small, waif-like figure of Heather Marchmont.
43
‘I should probably ask how it is you know where I live, but I’m guessing that’s not a difficult thing for someone like you to find out.’
McLean leaned against the Aga, Heather Marchmont sitting at the kitchen table. It had seemed the best place to bring her, even though a part of him just wanted to call a cab to take her back home.
‘I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have come. It’s just, I didn’t know where to turn any more.’ She sat like an embarrassed teenager, upright and with her bag clutched in both hands, sitting on her lap. She hadn’t taken her coat off, which he hoped meant she wasn’t planning on staying long. There was something altogether too unsettling about the way she looked at him. A desperate hunger in her eyes, or was it just his imagination?
‘If someone’s threatening you, you really should report it to the police.’ McLean turned his back on her as he heard the kettle come to the boil. He set about pouring water into mugs, looking for milk and biscuits.
‘It’s not that.’ Marchmont paused a while as if trying to work out what to say next. ‘I had a visit today, from an old … well, I wouldn’t exactly say friend. More an acquaintance. Someone I was close to a long time ago but haven’t seen in a while.’
‘School friend?’ McLean placed a mug of tea in front of Marchmont. She looked at it, but didn’t move her hands from her bag.
‘You could call it that. School. I guess. I certainly learned a great deal there.’
‘So what did this school friend of yours tell you that prompted you to come round here?’ McLean pulled out the chair opposite Marchmont and sat down. No sooner had he done so than Mrs McCutcheon’s cat leapt up on to the table. Marchmont flinched.
‘Oh. You have a cat.’
‘Not sure she would agree. She tolerates me.’
‘How old is she? She looks old.’
‘I’ve no idea. She belonged to an old lady who lived in my tenement block, down Newington way. It burned down a couple of years back. Me and Mrs McCutcheon’s cat were the only survivors. That’s probably why we stuck together.’
Marchmont slowly took one hand off her bag and held it out for the cat to sniff. The movement shifted the collar of her coat, revealing something black beneath. Whatever she was wearing, it was very smooth, and clung to her like a second skin. The cat stood, stretched, then cautiously sniffed the proffered hand, rubbed the side of her face against a finger.
‘She likes you,’ McLean said.
‘I like cats. Alice never did, though, so we never had them.’
‘Alice?’
‘My friend. Well, acquaintance. The one I saw today. I thought I’d left that place behind, but you can never really do that, can you? Never really escape.’
McLean picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. There was something ever so slightly mesmeric about Marchmont’s voice. He’d not noticed before, but her scent was beginning to fill the room too, overcoming the more usual smells of cooked food, spilled milk gone sour and cat litter needing to be changed. Sooner or later she would get round to the point, but for now he was happy enough to let her take her time.
‘She reminded me of who I am. What I’m supposed to be doing. What I owed them, and what I owe you.’
Marchmont stood up swiftly, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat leaping away in surprise. She put her bag down on the table and shrugged off her coat. She wore a one-piece bodysuit made from the same shiny black material that he’d seen in Stacey Craig’s wardrobe. It hugged so tight to her that it looked almost like it had been painted on to her bare skin, and it creaked and stretched as she walked purposefully around the table to where he sat. He had always imagined her thin, but the latex gave her unexpected curves, hugging her long legs, accentuating her hips and the slight swell of her belly as she straddled him. McLean found himself trapped, unable to push back his chair and stand up before she was upon him.
‘Please, Heather. This isn’t—’
‘Shh.’ She silenced him with a single finger to the lips, followed it up with a kiss that was almost violent. He struggled to extricate himself, but her hands were ever
ywhere, the shiny black material slippery and difficult to grasp. That intoxicating scent made it hard to think straight as her long black hair swept over his face, smothering the last of his resistance. It had been a harrowing day, a long month, difficult years. There was nothing wrong in seeking solace like this, surely? No harm in a little fun.
And then a noise in the distance broke the spell. Marchmont stiffened, broke away, her eyes furious as she glared past McLean towards the back door. Half-crouched, she looked very much like a cat deciding whether to defend its kill or run.
‘Ah. Well. This is awkward.’
McLean twisted round in his chair, unsure if he could, or should, get up right now. Phil stood frozen in the open doorway, holding the baby car seat with young Tony Junior fast asleep inside. Behind him, Rachel was pulling the back door closed, blissfully unaware of what was unfolding in the kitchen.
‘It’s not what you … Ah, hell. Who am I kidding? Phil, this is Heather Marchmont. Heather, Phil Jenkins.’
Marchmont moved with a fluid grace back around the table to where her coat lay draped over the back of her chair. She seemed very different to the shy, slightly clumsy young woman in the cafe as she slid it back on. By the time Rachel nudged her open-mouthed husband out of the way and stepped into the kitchen, she was once more sitting down, hands clasping her bag like a regular at Jenner’s Tea Rooms. Prim and proper. The scent that had filled the kitchen had gone too, as if she had sucked it all back inside her.
‘Out the way, Phil. You’re blocking the doorway. Oh.’ Rachel stopped mid-shove as she noticed Marchmont. ‘Didn’t realise you had company. Hello.’
It was, McLean had to admit, an awkward mug of tea. Marchmont changed in an instant from the uninhibited creature back to the demure, slightly shy and vulnerable person he had first met. It was hard to meet her eye, knowing what she wore under her coat. Phil, too, seemed to find it difficult to know what to say. Only Rachel, who had missed it all before, behaved as might be expected.
