Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  ‘The girls not at home?’ McLean asked. There was plenty of evidence of them. Childish pictures pinned to the fridge door with magnets, the dining table given over to colouring books, a box in the corner heaped with Barbie dolls and plastic horses. Piles of clothes, neatly folded and waiting to be put away.

  ‘Why? You here to interrogate them?’ Stevenson slumped in a high seat, leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the cooking part of the kitchen from the dining area. A bottle of wine stood erect on the counter alongside a large wine glass that was half full.

  ‘Sorry, bad joke. They’re at their gran’s. Hard enough explaining to them why they can’t see daddy any more without having to tell them Uncle Joe’s not coming to visit any time soon either.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ McLean pulled out a stool and sat on it, across the breakfast bar from Stevenson. No, not Stevenson, he reminded himself. She’d reverted to her maiden name, Christie.

  ‘Why are you here, Inspector?’ Christie picked up the wine glass and swirled around the clear liquid within.

  ‘Firstly, I came to tell you about Joe McClymont. I’ll admit, I was surprised when Ms Grainger gave me your name.’

  ‘Bitch. She phoned me about an hour ago. Never heard her sound so happy in her life.’

  ‘Happy?’ Ritchie asked.

  ‘Who’re you then? Inspector’s squeeze? Better-looking than the last one at least.’

  McLean saw Ritchie stifle a smile. They both knew that Grumpy Bob had sat in on the previous interview.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Ritchie.’ She produced her warrant card, holding it up even though Christie showed no interest in it whatsoever. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Really?’ Christie swirled her glass, then took a long swig. Coughed as it burned its way down.

  ‘Really. I don’t know you, never met Joe McClymont, but I’ve had the bottom fall out of my world before. It’s not nice and I’d not wish it on anyone.’

  ‘Yeah? Well you could wish it on whoever it was ran Joe off the road. You could wish it on Ms Violet fucking Grainger.’

  ‘I take it the two of you didn’t get along.’ McLean decided not to point out that the accident had not involved any other cars.

  ‘Can see why they made you a detective.’ Christie put her wine glass down with surprising dexterity. Perhaps not as drunk as she was acting. Either that or just lucky.

  ‘How long have you and Joe McClymont been seeing each other?’

  ‘Seeing each other. How very polite of you. Joe and me were at school together. Grew up in the same street. I’d probably have married him if I’d done the same as everyone else. Left after my O grades and got a job in Tesco. But I was cursed with a brain, Inspector. I went to university. Got ideas. Met Ben.’

  ‘But you kept in touch with Joe, I take it.’ McLean began to understand why the marriage had failed. Built on sand and hope. A childhood sweetheart just around the corner to offer a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on and temptation when things got rocky.

  ‘Joe was a good listener. Ben only liked the sound of his own voice. When it got bad, I’d go round to his place and just talk. It didn’t get physical until much later.’

  ‘But before you and Ben split?’

  Christie stared at him a long while before answering. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what Joe was doing up Inverness way?’

  ‘This time of year, probably going deep-sea fishing. He’s got a cottage in Achiltibuie, and a share in a boat up there. Jock liked his shooting, but Joe just loved to be out on the water.’

  ‘Did you ever go up there with him?’

  A look of horror shuddered across Christie’s face. ‘Once. God it was awful. Never stopped raining, and the midges. The girls were bored out of their tiny minds, kicking up a fuss you wouldn’t believe. Don’t think Joe really wanted me there, either. He seemed tense a lot of the time. Only really happy once he’d been out on the boat.’

  ‘You go fishing with him?’

  ‘Christ, no. I’m hopeless on boats. Just spend the whole time throwing up.’

  ‘So you only went the one time.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Christie stared into the middle distance as if the thought had only just occurred to her. Her hand reached out for the glass and she took another long gulp before focusing once more on McLean. ‘Lucky, really.’

  ‘Ms Grainger suggested that you and Joe weren’t seeing each other any more.’

  ‘My, you are full of questions today, Inspector. Sure you only dropped round to give me the bad news?’

  McLean shrugged. ‘Thought you’d rather hear it from a familiar face. And I wanted to know more about the McClymonts. They were redeveloping the tenement block I used to live in, after all.’

  Something like understanding dawned. ‘Oh, you’re that policeman,’ Christie said. ‘Makes sense, I guess. And yes, we were in one of our off periods, but they never lasted long. You might have had something to do with it, now I come to think of it.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘You wouldn’t sell your flat. Joe was baffled by that. The amount of money they were offering. Old Jock and that bloody harpie of a Grainger woman couldn’t believe it either. Heard them talking about it one time I was round the old man’s place. She kept on going on about how it was impossible you could refuse them.’ Christie shook her head. ‘No idea what that was about, but it fair buggered up their plans.’

  She took another swig from her glass, refilled it from the bottle. Stared at it as if she were contemplating just necking the wine instead.

  ‘Was he a violent man, Ms Christie?’ DS Ritchie filled the awkward silence.

  ‘Joe? Not really. Never hit me, anyway. Quite the opposite. He could be very generous if he wanted to be. He gave me my car, for one thing.’

  ‘Really?’ Ritchie arched an eyebrow in surprise. ‘I wish my boyfriend could afford something like that.’

  Christie picked up her wine glass, drained it in one. This time when she put it down it wobbled drunkenly on the counter.

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  49

  He didn’t notice her as he drove into the car park at the back of the station, but DS Ritchie must have done. It wasn’t until McLean had locked the passenger door and looked up that he saw what had caught Ritchie’s attention. A short, wiry figure was leaning against the stone gatepost, cigarette dangling from her mouth and leather overcoat wrapped tight despite the lingering late afternoon heat.

  ‘Think someone wants a word, sir.’

  McLean let his shoulders slump. He’d not really been looking forward to the incident room, but a session with Jo Dalgliesh was probably worse.

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But don’t hang around for me if I’m not back by shift end.’

  Ritchie nodded her understanding, headed to the station while McLean walked back across the car park towards the waiting reporter.

  ‘You’ve been hiding from me, Tony.’

  Jo Dalgliesh looked tired, that was the first thing McLean noticed. She was more slumped than usual, leaning against the gatepost like she needed the support. She didn’t stand up as he neared. The smoke from her cigarette spiralled lazily from the tip, and she spoke around it, as if the effort of taking it out of her mouth was too much.

  ‘Ms Dalgliesh, what a surprise.’ McLean hadn’t meant it, but as he got a better look at her wizened face, he found that he did. Her eyes were sunken, lines crinkling around them far deeper than he remembered. ‘Everything OK?’

  A thin smile spread across her face at that. ‘Aww, I didn’t ken you cared.’

  ‘I don’t. Just trying to be polite. Was there something you wanted, or is this a social visit?’

  Dalgliesh finally pushed herself away from the wall, letting out a low ‘oof’ as she did so. ‘No’ as young as I used to be,’ she said. McLean couldn’t help but notice the limp. ‘You gonnae buy us a coffee then?’

  McLean considered the options. He could tel
l her to piss off, but then she’d just write something nasty about him, or worse, write something nasty about one of his colleagues and attribute it to him. He’d been out of the station pretty much all day, which meant there’d be a mountain of questions awaiting his immediate answer, none of them remotely interesting or useful. He needed to get back up to speed on the Stevenson and Shenks murder investigations in time for tomorrow’s morning briefing, and there was no doubt a sea of paperwork waiting for him in his office. On the other hand, she’d come looking for him, which meant she probably had some information. Not that difficult a decision to make, really.

  ‘Come on then.’

  It took longer to get to the cafe than it should have, Dalgliesh clearly in some pain as she limped up the road just a little behind him.

  ‘Someone give you a kicking?’ McLean asked. ‘Only, if you let me know who it was, I’ll send flowers.’

  ‘You’re all heart, you know that, Inspector?’ Dalgliesh hobbled in through the cafe door as he held it open, heading straight for an empty chair. McLean went to the counter and placed his order, trying to remember what the reporter had drunk the last time. It must have been right, or she just didn’t care, as she greedily slurped at the latte he brought over to the table a few minutes later, eyeing up the pair of chocolate brownies he’d added for good measure.

  ‘And cake as well? I must have been a good girl.’

  ‘Thought you looked a bit peaky. And sorry, by the way. That dig about the flowers was uncalled for.’

  Dalgliesh raised an eyebrow, chocolate brownie paused halfway between plate and open mouth. ‘Is that Tony McLean in there, or has there been some invasion of the body snatchers thing going on and I never got the memo?’

  ‘Old habits die hard. I’ll never like you much, Dalgliesh. You’ve caused me enough pain as it is. But I’ve seen people beaten up badly and whoever did you over knew how to cause pain. Not sure you didn’t do something to deserve it, mind.’

  Closer up, and in the unflattering light of the cafe, McLean could see the make-up inexpertly plastered on Dalgliesh’s face, not quite hiding the bruises. Her nose had always been crooked, no doubt a relic from run-ins with the subjects of her more lurid stories in the past, but now it was swollen around the bridge and spidery veins bloodshot her eyes. The hand holding the cake shook gently.

  ‘Aye, well. That is part of what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Last time we spoke you were looking into Ben Stevenson’s story. The one that took him off to Gilmerton Cove.’

  ‘You bought me cake then, too. Must be love.’

  ‘Seriously, Dalgliesh. I thought you’d decided Stevenson was barking up a non-existent tree. Seeing Masonic symbolism in everything?’ In truth, McLean was having a hard time remembering exactly what it was Dalgliesh had told him.

  ‘Aye, I did. But I don’t think Ben was barking up the wrong tree so much as being led up the garden path. Since you’re so fond of your metaphors.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’d hooked up wi’ Dougie Ballantyne, aye? We all ken what a nutter he is. Ben thought there might’ve been something in it, but his later notes show he was beginning to suspect old Dougie was a sandwich or two short of the full picnic.’

  ‘Wait … what? His later notes?’ McLean struggled to remember whether he’d seen any notes at all. There’d been the single notebook they’d recovered from the murder scene, but that hadn’t yielded anything other than the doodled Masonic symbol on the cover, and Dalgliesh hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t even been told about it.

  ‘Aye, did you no’ get the message? He’d backed up everything to the Cloud. Just took me a day or two to work out what his password was.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell us?’

  ‘Aye, I told youse. Sent an email to your man MacBride about it.’

  Had he mentioned it? McLean supposed it was possible, though he really didn’t remember. ‘OK, so what you’re saying is Stevenson had decided Ballantyne was talking bollocks about the Brotherhood and all his other nonsense. There was no story there?’

  ‘Other than a piece about how gullible folk are, no. And nobody likes to read a piece about how stupid they are.’

  ‘So how did he end up in the cave with his throat cut?’

  ‘That, aye.’ Dalgliesh paused for another swig of coffee, her eyes falling on the second of the two chocolate brownies. McLean nudged the plate in her direction; it was a small price to pay for information.

  ‘Ben knew Dougie was as mad as a Scottish Tory,’ Dalgliesh continued through a mouthful, ‘but he reckoned he knew why, too. Someone really was feeding Ballantyne information, and it really did point to something that looks a lot like his Brotherhood, only without the talking head and the supernatural assassins. Just a good old-fashioned secret society pulling a lot of the strings in the background. There’s stuff in there about devolution and the referendum, like a road map as if it was all planned from the start. Scary stuff if you take it seriously. A load of old pish if you don’t.’

  McLean took a sip of his own coffee, trying to get the flow of ideas straight in his head before seeing where they led. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘You don’t, I take it.’

  ‘Top marks to the inspector.’ Dalgliesh gave him a cheeky nod that turned into a painful wince.

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that Stevenson started off investigating Ballantyne’s claims, discovered they were built on paranoia and too much late-night cheese?’

  Dalgliesh nodded, her mouth full of the last bite of chocolate brownie.

  ‘But he then found out that there was actually some basis for that paranoia in reality, and decided to look into that instead?’

  ‘Aye, and that’s when he started to get a wee bit obsessed. That’s what all the stuff on his wall was about.’

  The wall. He’d been hoping for a chance to speak to forensics about that. Go through their photographs and see what he could find. Better still if he’d been able to analyse the real thing, but someone had put paid to that. Someone who didn’t want them knowing what Stevenson had been working on right at the time of his death.

  ‘You think you know what was going on? You think someone was leading him on deliberately?’

  ‘You’re no’ as stupid as you sometimes seem, Inspector.’ Dalgliesh relaxed back into her chair a little, wincing as her shoulders sagged. ‘Aye, I think someone was leading Ben on. Stringing him along, more like. The way his notes read, it’s as if whoever was doing it knew exactly how to press all the right buttons.’

  ‘Any idea who this person might be?’

  Dalgliesh shook her head. ‘That’s where I hit a brick wall. Thought I was getting somewhere, but every lead just dissolved away to nothing. Ben was being played, Inspector, but whoever was playing him left no trace. Well, apart from a dead body in a cave. And that’s no’ the question you should be asking, anyways.’

  McLean thought for a while before saying ‘Why?’

  ‘Exactly. Why? There is no secret society, just someone pretending there was, and doing it well enough to fool a seasoned hack like Ben. But if it was all just a wind-up, then why did he end up dead? That’s no’ a very funny punch line, eh?’

  50

  McLean expected Dalgliesh to get a taxi, or wander off back into town once they’d finished their coffee, but she walked with him back to the station, or at least limped along as fast as she could manage.

  ‘So who beat you up, then? Thought you might have got too close to Stevenson’s secret society, but if it doesn’t exist I doubt it would have worked you over like that.’

  Dalgliesh grimaced. ‘Different story altogether. Something I’ve been working on a while that’s none of your business. Least not for now, anyway. About a week ago I got a call, one of my sources saying they’d some info for me. Only when I got there the wee scrote was nowhere to be seen. On the way home I got jumped by two scallies up Calton Hill way. Felt like I was being mugged for my phone and mon
ey, but I know a punishment beating when I get one. Too many questions, aye? Getting too close to someone as don’t want to be seen.’

  ‘You want someone’s collar felt, you only need to ask.’

  Dalgliesh let out a short sharp snort of laughter, stopped and leaned against a nearby wall. Whether that was because she was tired and needed a rest, McLean couldn’t be sure. He suspected it was down to what he’d said.

  ‘That’s priceless, you know. “Collar felt.” Jesus, I’ve not heard that expression in a decade or two.’ Dalgliesh wheezed a bit, then guddled around in her bag for a cigarette. It was a new bag, McLean noticed, and wondered why he’d not done before.

  ‘You know what I meant. You’ve been helpful. I’m grateful for that and I’ll return the favour if I can. If you don’t piss me off again first, that is.’

  ‘Aye, you’re all heart, Inspector. I know.’ Dalgliesh sparked up, inhaled deeply and let out a long plume of smoke through her broken nose. ‘I can look after myself fine, but don’t you worry. I find out who those boys were jumped me, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘You needing a lift anywhere?’ They were just across the road from the station, and even though he really didn’t want to offer, McLean couldn’t help himself from doing so.

  ‘Nah, you’re all right.’ Dalgliesh waved him off with the hand holding her cigarette, ash fluttering around in the still air and spiralling to the pavement below. ‘Just needing a wee minute for my ribs to settle doon, then I’ll head off back to the office. Don’t you worry about me, Inspector. I’ll be fine.’

  The station was quiet, afternoon having almost turned to evening now and most of the day shift gone home. McLean went in the back way to avoid being caught by the duty sergeant and buried under the inevitable pile of messages that would have come from being out of the station for more than five minutes. He really wanted to go straight to his office and try to batter into submission all the disparate pieces of information that were flying around in his head. There was one person he needed to talk to before he forgot though, and at this time of the day there was only one place he could possibly be.