by James Oswald
Brooks leaned back in his chair, sweat pricking out all over his forehead in shiny spots. Either he was going to burst a blood vessel or there was going to be shouting.
‘You have nothing to do with this at all?’
‘Not nothing, sir, no. Miss Prendergast’s name came up in a cold case we were reviewing. A possible relative of someone we were trying to identify. That’s why me and MacBride went to see her. Everything else is Carter’s responsibility.’
‘Who the fuck assigned him the case?’
McLean suppressed the urge to say ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Trading insults with Brooks wasn’t going to get the problem solved. ‘I expect someone at Control in Bilston Glen, sir. Carter’s not exactly working a lot of cases. They probably gave it to the DI with the least amount of work. Or maybe it was DCI Spence. He seems to like Carter for some unaccountable reason.’
‘But he’s written in the report that you visited the house and spoke to the lodger. Why would he do that if it wasn’t true?’
‘I really have no idea, sir. Perhaps you should ask him, rather than me.’ McLean paused a moment before adding: ‘Was that all? Only I’ve a busy day ahead.’
Brooks’ frown became a scowl. ‘Busy? You’re running cold cases. How can you possibly be busy?’
‘I seem to be running around cleaning up Carter’s mess for one thing.’ McLean knew it was a low taunt, but he couldn’t help himself. He waited until Brooks was about to shout at him before adding: ‘Also two deaths linked by a sample found at each scene, sir. Ring any bells?’
‘Oh, right. Your prostitute angle.’ Brooks deflated, shook his head slightly, jowls wobbling at the effort. Sweat sprayed off his forehead, falling to the carpet in little arcs. ‘Getting anywhere with that?’
‘Still waiting on the DNA profiles to be completed. It’s ninety per cent certain we’re dealing with the same person at both scenes. I’d rather be a hundred per cent before committing too much in the way of resources. Post-mortem doesn’t suggest foul play, just an unhappy coincidence. But we’ve still got someone fleeing a scene twice. And Smith was meant to be under supervision.’
Brooks squinted again, his eyes disappearing into the folds of skin that made up his massive face. ‘Aye. You’re right there. Not sure anyone’s mourning his loss, mind. Don’t think they’ll be so happy if we waste a lot of money chasing down shadows.’
‘I understand, sir. Just want to make sure we’ve done our best.’
‘Aye?’ Brooks didn’t try to hide his disbelief. ‘Well, fuck off out of my office then.’
‘With pleasure, sir.’ McLean turned and headed for the door before the detective superintendent could shout at him any more. It didn’t work. Brooks bellowed a parting shot.
‘And if you see that useless streak of piss Carter, tell him I’m coming for his head.’
McLean found DS MacBride in the otherwise empty CID room, hunched over his desk and swiping away at his tablet computer. One of these days he’d ask the detective sergeant where he’d got the thing from. Uniform officers carried clunky PDAs on patrol, along with tiny little printers to issue fixed fines and other notices, but MacBride had managed to get in on some technology program that as far as McLean knew had long since been abandoned. And yet he still had the tablet, which seemed to give him access to every police network there was.
‘See that sweepstake on Carter? Who’s got today as the date he gets knocked back down to sergeant?’
MacBride looked momentarily puzzled, then tapped at his screen a couple of times. ‘Sergeant Gatsford, sir. And the kitty’s standing at almost eight hundred quid.’
‘Lucky old Don.’ McLean told the detective sergeant about his meeting with Brooks. MacBride’s eyes grew ever wider, like a child at Christmas.
‘How on earth did he think he could get away with that?’
‘Perhaps he figured we were there, and that was enough. Maybe he even thinks we actually did speak to this bloke after he’d gone. Knowing Carter he probably realised he’d forgotten to get contact details and thought he could just shift the problem on to someone else. Or he could just be pissed off we stopped his first major investigation from crashing down around his ears. I’m going to hazard a guess it’ll be his last, though.’
‘Why did they give it to him in the first place? Who gave it to him?’
‘Funny you should ask that, Stuart. Brooks wanted to know the same thing. Control hand out the assignments, but they don’t just stick their hand in a hat full of names. No, this has probably come from DCI Spence, and I don’t think it’s any coincidence he handed it to his favourite whipping boy.’
‘But I thought Spence was doing everything he could to keep Carter out of trouble. Why hand him such a complicated case?’
‘Put it this way. If you wanted something investigated without any risk of embarrassing evidence coming to light or awkward questions being asked, who would you put in charge? From CID in this station?’
‘Oh. I see.’ Dawning realisation spread across MacBride’s face, followed up with another puzzled frown. ‘But why?’
‘That’s what bothers me. I don’t know. Seems to me someone’s trying to make all this go away. Much like someone tried to make the brothel raid fiasco go away. Like they swept the original Headland House investigation under the carpet.’
‘You think they’re all connected?’ MacBride didn’t even try to hide the scepticism in his voice.
‘I know, Stuart. Said out loud it sounds mad. Worst paranoid conspiracy theory going. Still, I can’t quite shake the feeling there’s something to it. The coincidences start to stack up rather too conveniently.’
‘But something like that? I mean, it’s too big, surely. Something that well organised, over so many years. Someone would have said something. There’d be journalists all over it.’
Oh to be young and naive. ‘That’s the thing, Stuart. If you look at this as an organisation, then you’re right. Someone would have spilled the beans, or uncovered a secret. The bigger something gets the more difficult it is to hide. But if you think of it more as an organism, something that’s emerged out of its own complexity … Well, maybe Dalgliesh was on to something after all.’
‘Dalgliesh? What’s she got to do with all this?’
McLean pulled out his phone, thumbed at the screen in search of a number. ‘I’m not sure. But if you’re talking conspiracy theories, she’s the expert.’
The phone rang far longer than he was expecting it to. McLean had visions of an office in chaos, short-staffed as it was and now down their star reporter. Of course it might have been that his name had come up on the caller ID screen and they were deciding whether or not they wanted to talk to him. Finally the dial tone clicked away. He was expecting a voicemail message, but a familiar voice answered instead.
‘Edinburgh Tribune. Senior editor’s desk.’
‘Mr Bairstow? Johnny? Hi. It’s Tony McLean here. Wondered if you’d any news about Jo Dalgliesh.’
‘Detective Inspector? This is a surprise. Oddly enough I’ve just been on the phone to the hospital and they’re optimistic she’ll make a good recovery. Probably be a while before she’s back at work, but I don’t suppose you lot will mind that too much, eh?’ Bairstow laughed, but even over a mobile phone connection McLean could hear the desperation in his voice.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr Bairstow. I’m really pleased to hear she’s going to be OK.’ McLean was surprised to find that he meant it too.
‘Is that all you were calling for? Only I’m a bit busy right now.’
‘Sorry. No. Should have got to the point. The story Jo was working on, that
she came to see me about. Had she spoken to anyone else about it? Told you?’
‘Only the basics. You know what she’s like. Plays everything close to her chest. I knew it was about corruption and influence. Think she was trying to draw a link between several high-profile cases. She muttered something about Beggar’s Benison and secret societies too, but then she always had a bee in her bonnet about those sort of things.’
‘Did she say anything about some cold cases? Seventies, eighties, maybe some early nineties?’
‘I’m not really sure …’ Bairstow left the sentence unfinished, as if there were very many things of which he was unsure.
‘I’ll not mess you about, Mr Bairstow. We need the press as much as we hate them. There’s two cases I’m thinking of in particular. Was Jo interested in the Pentland Mummy, back in ’seventy-six? Headland House in ’ninety-four?’
The silence on the line was answer enough for McLean, but he let it draw out for a count of ten anyway.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Next time you see Jo, give her my best. I’ll try to drop round and see her soon.’
He ended the call. For a while he just stared into the middle distance, the implications of the conversation bouncing around in his head. Not least of which was that he’d just wished Jo Dalgliesh well.
McLean was almost at his office when his phone rang. He’d been meaning to call Marchmont, confront her about her past and the way it seemed to be coming back to haunt both of them. The number was a mobile, near enough hers that in his haste he was sure.
‘Heather. I rather think you owe me an explanation.’
‘Heather? Who’s Heather? Have you been keeping secrets from me, Tony?’
Not Marchmont. McLean felt the tips of his ears burn as he ducked into his office and out of sight. There hadn’t been anyone in the corridor to see his embarrassment, but that didn’t make it any less bad.
‘Miss Parsons. Amanda. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Clearly. I’m all ears as to this explanation you’re owed. Sounds fascinating.’
‘You’ve a better chance of getting your hands on the keys to my Alfa than my telling you that. I take it this isn’t just a social call?’ McLean shuffled round his desk and dropped into the chair, noticing the ever-growing piles of paperwork camped around the surface. Hadn’t he cleared all this lot yesterday?
‘Here’s me trying to be friendly. Don’t know why I bother really.’
‘Sorry. Just had a difficult conversation with my boss. Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’
‘Aye, well. You’ll maybe want to sit down before I tell you what I’ve got.’
‘Sitting already.’ McLean picked up the nearest folder, peered at the letters typed across the top of it, then dropped it back on to the stack when he realised they meant nothing to him.
‘I did like you asked. Ran the freshest of the blood samples through the new machine I was telling you about. It’s still undergoing evaluation, so I was able to slip yours in without anyone noticing. Wouldn’t be admissible in court, but it’s a good profile.’
‘And did it match?’
‘It’s not an exact science, you know. There’s always a degree of uncertainty.’
‘How much uncertainty are we talking about here?’
‘Twenty per cent? Maybe a little less. There’s some strange patterns in the profile I can’t make sense of. We’ll run things through the old-fashioned system to be sure, but that’ll take a few days.’
McLean leaned back and stared at the ceiling, his brain not really able to process what he’d suspected all along. ‘You’re telling me there’s an eighty per cent chance the blood came from the same person as the sample?’
‘Thereabouts, aye. Unless they had a twin, of course.’
‘A twin? Is that likely?’
‘What? I don’t know. I was just joking. I mean it’s possible, but I didn’t really mean it. The sample profile’s from the guy in the car park, right? And it’s the same as the sample from the bloke in the gimp suit. Chances are whoever did for them was staying in that attic room for the last few weeks.’
McLean did a quick count in his head. How long since they’d found Eric Parker? The timeline fitted, it was just any explanation that eluded him. At least any rational explanation.
‘That’s good work, Amanda. Thank you. I’d really appreciate it if you could get the blood samples profiled the normal way now. Soon as possible.’
‘Already done it. Should have the official results by the end of the week. So, about those keys?’
52
Descending into the depths of the building was like fast-forwarding the seasons. The temperature dropped and light faded to a winter twilight as he approached the Cold Case Unit’s offices. McLean was still reeling from the news about the blood sample, even if a part of him had known. The scent lingering in the house, easily overlooked unless you’d encountered it before. And he had. When Heather Marchmont had tried to seduce him it had been almost overpowering, but he’d noticed it even before then. She carried it around with her all the time, only fainter, more subtle. He’d smelled it in the cafe, and when they’d first met in her house during the raid. But it wasn’t Marchmont’s blood in Miss Prendergast’s attic bedroom, and it wasn’t her saliva on Eric Parker or John Smith.
Unless she had a twin.
Parsons had meant it as a joke, but now McLean wasn’t so sure. The coincidences were stacking up, and he didn’t believe in coincidences. He couldn’t take them to McIntyre, though. Not yet. Not until the results had been verified, linking all three cases together and into something a lot more sinister than they realised. Duguid was another matter, though. He was deep into this, knew far more than he was letting on. McLean hated to admit it, but the ex-detective superintendent was exactly the sounding board he needed.
It wasn’t until he was almost at the door that he heard the voices inside and stopped. Two voices, and one of them wasn’t Grumpy Bob. Something about their tone suggested interrupting wouldn’t go well for him.
‘You’ve got to let it go, Charles. Stop digging over old ground. Nothing good will come of it, you know that as well as I do.’
‘Thought better of you, Brooks.’ Duguid’s low growl of a voice suggested he wasn’t in the best of moods. ‘Robinson been spanking your arse again, has he?’
‘This isn’t your station any more, you know? You’re only back here as long as you’re useful. Keep stirring this up and that won’t be for long.’
‘They’ve really got to you, haven’t they, John? What was it, carrot or stick? Carrot, I’m guessing. Nice Chief Super post, maybe DCC in a couple of years when Call-me-Stevie’s retired? Well, it’s not as if you couldn’t do with going on a diet.’
‘You think this is a joke? You think this isn’t going to blow up in all of our faces? Fuck’s sake, Charles. You let it go once. Why can’t you let it go again?’
‘You need to ask that then you’re not the detective I thought you were. Sure, I can live with the disappointment.’
McLean had the sense to back up the corridor a few paces so that it looked like he had just arrived as Detective Superintendent Brooks came barrelling out of the room, face a dangerously dark shade of red. His jowls wobbled as he strode, head down, only noticing McLean at the last possible moment.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, McLean?’
‘My job?’ McLean saw the look on Brooks’ face, took a step back. Perhaps not the right time to break the news about the DNA test to him. ‘Sir.’
‘And does your job involve skulking around in dark corridors, eh? Does it involve sticking your nose into other detectiv
es’ cases, eh?’ With each ‘eh’ Brooks jabbed McLean in the chest with a finger. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him step back until he was pressed against the wall.
‘Walking down a corridor towards my office is hardly “skulking”, sir. And as I explained to you this morning, the only reason I was at his crime scene was because Miss Prendergast’s name came up in one of our cold case enquiries.’
Brooks stopped poking him, his scowl deepening. He clearly wasn’t a man used to being questioned by his juniors.
‘Have you spoken to Carter yet, sir?’ McLean knew he was pushing his luck, couldn’t find it in him to care any more. ‘Only I’m not the first person to find fault in his performance. He wasn’t much use as a detective sergeant and I really don’t think he’s cut out for the responsibilities of being a DI. I’m sure someone thought it was a good idea to promote him, maybe even had a word with you about that. I think we can all see it’s not worked out, though?’
For a moment he thought the detective superintendent was going to hit him and he tensed, ready for the blow. Brooks shook like a man barely in control of his rage, stared at him with his narrow, black eyes set deep in his pudgy face.
‘Get out of my way.’ He barged past, knocking McLean’s shoulder like a primary school bully, then stalked off up the corridor muttering under his breath.
‘Someone’s not a happy bunny.’ McLean rubbed at his arm as he stepped into the room. Duguid looked up from his paper-strewn desk. Over in the far corner, Grumpy Bob had the air of a man trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t there.
‘Never much fun being shown up by your junior officers,’ Duguid said. ‘Especially after having your ear chewed off by the DCC. Probably the only perk of seniority’s being able to take that out on the lower ranks. No fun if they bite back.’ If he saw the irony in his words, he didn’t show it.
