Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  ‘Doing a spot of weeding?’

  ‘It’s never-ending at this time of the year. So much nutrition in the soil.’

  McLean glanced around the graveyard. None of the headstones looked to be less than a hundred years old. Not much in the way of nutrition left, surely. Then he noticed the smile crinkling the edges of the minister’s eyes.

  ‘I see they’ve started on the roof.’ He changed the subject before it turned to the recently interred.

  ‘They have indeed. I know you’re not a praying man, Tony, but if you felt like asking for a nice dry fortnight or so …’

  ‘I could always ask my boss. He seems to think he’s got a direct line to the Almighty.’

  ‘Probably best you don’t.’ The minister rolled her eyes, looking upwards. ‘We don’t want to piss him off, after all.’

  ‘Good point.’ McLean shifted on his feet. It had been a long day and he was hungry, anxious to get home. On the other hand, he didn’t want to appear rude.

  ‘I’ve been running a series of evening meetings. If you’re interested.’

  He started to protest, but the minister interrupted him. ‘Oh, don’t worry. They’re not prayer meetings or anything. Just informal discussions over a cup of tea or a beer. They’re quite popular, you know. There’s a surprising number of single folk around here, too. Young professionals like yourself. Too busy at work to make friends. Not enough hours in the day.’

  It seemed an odd thing for the minister to say. McLean knew that he wasn’t the most sociable of people, but that suited him just fine. He had friends, could always go out for a drink or a meal if he wanted. True, they all tended to be fellow police officers or closely linked to his work, but that wasn’t so unhealthy really, was it? So much easier to make conversation if you weren’t constantly having to second-guess whether the other person was going to be horrified by something you might say.

  ‘We also have poker evenings once a month. With a face like yours I’d love to play a few games. Might even raise enough to finish the whole roof.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but it’s really not my thing. And card games leave me cold.’

  ‘Fair enough. But bear us in mind if you find yourself rattling around in that big old house. Can’t be easy all alone there. Especially after … well.’ The minister dropped her gaze to her hands, fiddling with the dead brambles. It was a good act, McLean had to admit. She’d have been great at interrogating suspects. On the other hand, it was hardly a year since the house had been full of life. Bizarre, unpredictable life, but life all the same. Now it was just him and the cat. The cats, he corrected himself. He had to admit there were times when a little human company might have been nice.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  ‘Speak to your colleague. Kirsty. She’ll tell you what we get up to. There’s no happy clappy stuff. Just a chance to chat. Or listen.’

  ‘Ritchie?’ McLean couldn’t help looking up at the scaffold-clad church. The sky was darkening now, orange sunset fading to the deep blue-black of night. ‘She’s been coming here?’

  ‘Oh yes. About two months now. Didn’t she tell you?’ The minister looked a little worried, as if she’d betrayed a confidence.

  ‘No. She’s only just come back to work. She was off sick. I’ll ask her about it though. Tomorrow.’

  ‘You do that, Tony. And mention me to her, won’t you?’ She nodded a quick goodbye, turned and walked back into the gloom.

  He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost walked straight past his entrance gate. On the face of it, there was no logical reason why Ritchie would have gone to that particular church and that particular group; she lived halfway across the city. He was surprised to find that she was religious-minded at all, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t something that had come up in conversation, and she wasn’t the sort of person to disappear on a Sunday morning when there was work to be done.

  But there was the illogical thought that wouldn’t go away. She had been touched by evil in the form of the enigmatic Mrs Saifre, saved by a blessing from the font of that church. That was a connection he really didn’t like to think about; the ramifications were too much.

  ‘What the—?’ Something twined itself around his feet as he crunched up the gravel driveway. He’d not left any lights on in the house, and under the trees it was as dark as night, branches whipping at his arms as he tried to stop himself from falling over. ‘Bloody cats!’

  The offender skittered off into the bushes, then stopped and turned to watch him. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dying light and he could just about make out enough of its shape to see that it wasn’t Mrs McCutcheon’s cat. She was smooth-coated and this was a great shaggy beast of a thing. One of Madame Rose’s perhaps, or the local pride that seemed to have decided he needed protection.

  ‘I can look after myself, you know.’ McLean stalked off to the back door and let himself in. Through to the kitchen and he flicked on the lights. At least a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him from well-chosen positions about the room. It had been like this every evening since his visit from the old medium. In the main he didn’t really mind. They were all house-trained, as far as he could smell. Mostly they kept to the kitchen and the garden, too, with only Mrs McCutcheon’s cat venturing into the rest of the house. How long that would last, he had no idea. Same as he had no idea how long the cats would be staying. He’d try and remember to ask Grumpy Bob to have a look into it. The old sergeant had friends at Leith nick who might do him a favour.

  ‘Don’t get up on my account,’ he said as he passed through the room. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was the only one to ignore his command, stretching from her favoured spot in the middle of the kitchen table before leaping down and following him out into the hall.

  A small pile of uninteresting mail waited on the mat by the front door. Some bills, some junk, and a letter from his solicitors. He slid a finger under the seal, tore it open as he headed to the library. The typing was dense, its content a bit too dry for his frazzled brain to take in. Something to do with the tenement block in Newington. An offer from the McClymonts that would probably be easier to understand with a dram of the Scottish Malt Whisky Society’s finest.

  McLean dropped all the letters on the side table, then fetched his prize. He considered putting some music on, but found he wasn’t in the mood. Looking over at his turntable and the meagre collection of LPs he’d managed to amass since the fire just reminded him of Ben Stevenson’s collection. What would happen to that?

  Mrs McCutcheon’s cat leapt into his lap as soon as he sat down, nuzzled at his free hand until he scratched her behind the ears. She had taken the arrival of Madame Rose’s cats well, but seemed determined to remind him at every opportunity that she was the first.

  He took a long sip of whisky, feeling the burn on his tongue, then reached for the pile of letters. Sooner or later he was going to have to make a decision about the flat. Logic argued he should just take the money and run, but there were always more important things to do.

  As he lifted the letters towards him, a slim card slipped out of the pile, landing picture side up in his lap. The cat sniffed at it, then batted it with a paw before he managed to pick it up. The photograph showed a slightly out-of-focus image of the Taj Mahal, and when McLean turned the card over he recognised the untidy scrawl of Emma’s handwriting.

  Not many of us left now, but it’s getting harder to follow the trail. Heading east again soon. Missing you. E. XOX

  McLean stared at the words, turned the card over and peered at the picture again, studied the smudged postmark as if it might give him some clues. He sniffed the card, and imagined he could catch the faintest hint of her scent even though he knew that was impossible. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat nudged at his hand once, then curled up in his lap and began to purr. He took another sip of the whisky, placed the glass down on top of the letter from his lawyers, and just sat in the quiet, staring at the postcard.


  20

  ‘It’s for your own good, Anthony. That school’s just holding you back.’

  The library is Gran’s serious room. I don’t normally go in there. The books are older even than she is, dusty and dry and covered in cracked leather. Some of them are written in foreign languages like French and Spanish and Auld Scots. It’s where she has her writing desk, and the hidden cupboard with the whisky in it that she thinks I don’t know about. And it’s where I am summoned when I’ve done something wrong.

  ‘But all my friends are there.’

  ‘You’ll make new friends. There’ll be plenty of other new boys. The Grove is a fine prep school. Good enough for your grandfather and father both.’

  The sun is shining outside. It’s been a long hot summer so far and I’d really rather be out there playing than in this stuffy old room.

  ‘Dad went there?’ It’s been two years now since they left and never came back, mum and dad. I can still remember them as clearly as the moment they waved goodbye with promises they’d be home soon. It’s hard to imagine my father as a boy my age.

  ‘He did. And he made lifelong friends there.’ Gran has been sitting in one of the high-backed armchairs, but now she comes across and sits next to me on the sofa. ‘Oh, Tony. You’re so like him. You’ll do well there, believe me.’

  ‘But my friends—’

  ‘Will still be here when you come home for the holidays. And there’s plenty of those left. Term doesn’t start for another month yet.’

  A month seems a very long time. Too far in the future to really worry about. And I’ll be going to a place where my dad went. That has to be pretty cool.

  ‘Go. Play outside a while. It’s far too nice a day to be cooped up indoors.’

  I don’t need to be told twice. It’s only when I’m at the door that I think to ask, ‘Can I go round to Norman’s?’

  ‘Norman Bale?’ Gran frowns in that way she has. ‘Yes. I suppose so. It’s not far. Just be careful going up the road.’

  I nod my understanding and rush out the door before she can change her mind.

  21

  A terrifying scream woke McLean from dreams of his childhood. He tried to sit upright, then realised he already was, wedged into the high-backed armchair in the library. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was long gone, Emma’s postcard fallen to the floor where his sleepy arm had dropped it. The windows were dark, just the light from the table lamp casting a small glow around him like a protective shield. The echo of that scream unsettled him, even if it was just in his mind. He strained to hear anything but the low, constant hum of the city and the occasional creak and groan of the old house settling around him.

  Then it came again, different now that it wasn’t being warped by sleep. A wailing, hissing noise from outside. Caterwauling, there was no other word for it. With a heavy sigh, McLean hauled himself out of the chair and went to see who was fighting whom.

  A glance at the old clock in the hallway showed that it was ten to four in the morning. He’d not thought himself so tired, but he must have been asleep in the armchair almost five hours. It didn’t bear thinking about that his alarm was going to go off in another two.

  The kitchen was empty as he walked through it, then out the back door. The night was warm, a gentle breeze ruffling the leaves all around him as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Whatever had been screaming had stopped for now, but as the night noises began to filter in, McLean could hear something unusual from the end of the driveway, where it opened out on to the street.

  Gravel crunched under his feet like explosions in a quarry as he tried to walk as quietly as possible in the direction of the noise. It sounded like someone was cursing under their breath, or having an argument with themselves, and for a moment McLean wondered if a tramp had decided his gateway was a nice warm spot to kip for the night. He wished he’d brought a torch, then remembered he was still wearing his work suit. It wasn’t brilliant, but he always carried a pen light in his jacket pocket.

  Green light reflected back off the dark, rubbery rhododendron leaves, the occasional flash of blue eye reminding him that wherever he went in his own home, he was never far from a cat these days. McLean played the torch around the end of the driveway, trying to see into the shadows cast by the far-spaced street lamps in the road beyond. Something much larger than a cat let out a muffled ‘fuck’ and then a dark figure burst out of the bushes. For an instant it stood in the gateway, facing him, and McLean could see a pair of startled eyes peering out from a black balaclava. Then the man turned and ran. McLean made a half-hearted pursuit out into the road, but he knew when he was outclassed. Whoever had been hiding in his bushes would have given a professional sprinter a run for his money. In no time at all he was at the road end, not stopping or looking back before he disappeared around the corner.

  McLean stood in the gateway for a moment, staring at the empty spot where the running man had last been. His hand went to his pocket of its own accord, pulling out his phone. He had brought up the speed dial screen and was about to call the station when he was distracted by something rubbing against his leg. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was standing beside him, looking pleased with itself. It looked up at him, blinked slowly, then sauntered off into the bushes. Well, he could take a hint.

  The rhododendron leaves were thick around the outside of the bush, but they soon gave way to a cave-like interior. McLean remembered it well from his childhood, the best of dens for a lonely child thrown out of the house to get some fresh air. Under the meagre light from his torch, it seemed smaller than his memory, and there was a pungent odour of human excrement that he wasn’t expecting. Careful where he put his feet, he swept the torch back and forth until he located the source.

  ‘Seriously? Some drunkard took a dump in your garden and you think it’s important enough to get forensics involved?’

  There hadn’t been much point in trying to get to sleep after the incident. McLean had made himself a large pot of coffee and sat in the kitchen until the forensic expert had turned up somewhere near six. She was new; he’d not met her at a crime scene before. But obviously someone higher up the chain had warned her about him. Still, she’d understood the importance of the task, collected up the stool and promised him it would be analysed for DNA. Amazing how much information you could get from shit, had been her exact words as she left.

  Getting into the station early, McLean had hoped he’d be able to immerse himself in the Ben Stevenson case, plough through the mountain of useless actions the investigation had thrown up so far. Unfortunately DCI Brooks was also an early riser, and he appeared to have daily updates from the forensic service fed directly to his brain. There was no other way he could have known, surely.

  ‘Half-three in the morning, dressed completely in black, with a balaclava over his head?’ McLean shook his own; this man was going to be in charge soon. Things never change.

  ‘If you thought there’d been a crime, McLean, you should have reported it. Not used your personal hotline to the forensic services to get you ahead of the queue.’

  Pinching the bridge of his nose didn’t usually help relieve the stress of dealing with superior officers, but McLean found it did at least stop him from resorting to violence. That rarely went well, and besides, Brooks had a reputation as well as bulk on his side.

  ‘I did call control, sir, and I also told them it was low priority. I’ve spoken to my neighbours, no one’s been burgled recently. If someone was casing the area, they’ve had a nasty surprise. Will probably try their luck somewhere a bit more downmarket. Grange or the likes.’

  Brooks’ nostrils flared at the insult. McLean knew perfectly well where the DCI lived and how it fitted into the complicated hierarchy of the city’s social-climbing classes.

  ‘And just how does a forensic analysis of this crap help, then?’

  ‘Believe it or not, sir, they can get a good DNA sample from human excrement. Especially if it’s fresh, and I can assure you this one was very fresh. I
f this man’s on the database, we’ll know who he is.’

  ‘And then what? You going to try and do him for damage to your property because he shat in your bushes?’

  ‘No, sir. But I will make a note of it on file. Should he come to our notice again. Besides, I don’t think the crap was meant for my bushes.’

  Brooks stared at him as if he were mad. ‘What on earth are you talking about, man?’

  ‘I’d have thought it would be obvious. You want to shove shit through someone’s letterbox, you don’t really want to be carrying it around for too long. Well, not in a bag anyway.’

  ‘Letterbox?’ Brooks lumbered to a slow realisation. ‘You mean this was meant to be a warning? What the fuck for?’

  The idea had come to McLean in the wee small hours, and he’d turned it over and over ever since, unable to let it go. ‘That’s what bothers me. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well you’ve pissed off enough people, I guess. Policemen tend to be a bit less direct, mind.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve found that. Was thinking of someone else who had shit shoved through their letterbox recently.’

  ‘Oh yes? Anyone I know?’

  McLean hesitated. He’d not had time to ask Grumpy Bob to speak to Leith station about Madame Rose, and the more he thought about it, the less keen he was on sharing anything about the medium with DCI Brooks. ‘It’s probably nothing, sir. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.’

  Brooks narrowed his eyes until they almost disappeared in the folds of flesh that made up his round face. Perhaps he thought doing so would help him to read McLean’s mind, or maybe he was just trying to squeeze out a reluctant fart. Either way he seemed to fail.

  ‘You do that, McLean,’ he said after a while. ‘And don’t go blowing the departmental budget on petty vandals. Bad enough chasing whoever did this.’ He waved a pudgy hand at the major incident room.