by James Oswald
The major incident room was suffused with that air of desperation an investigation achieves after a week or more with no progress. A line of uniforms sat at desks, manning the phones though there seemed to be very few calls. Over in one corner, a printer spat out endless sheets of paper; actions to be checked, allocated, worked, rejected. Someone had stuck a couple of pins in the map of the city that adorned one wall, alongside a whiteboard mostly empty of ideas. McLean scanned the room, noticing a distinct lack of senior officers. He found Detective Constable MacBride leaning over the shoulder of one of the admin staff and pecking out commands one-fingered on the keyboard of her computer. He looked up, alerted by some well-honed sixth sense to the presence of his boss.
‘Ah, sir. I was hoping I’d see you before shift change.’
McLean glanced up at the clock on the wall above the door. ‘Sorry to disappoint. I got waylaid by a certain journalist. Says she sent you an email a while back.’
A look of puzzlement flitted briefly across MacBride’s young round face, then realisation dawned. ‘Oh, Jo Dalgliesh. Yes. She sent me all of Ben Stevenson’s research. Well, links to where it’s stored online, to be fair. That’s what I wanted to see you about.’
‘Any particular reason why you didn’t share this with me earlier?’
‘Erm … you weren’t here, sir? It came in while you and Grumpy … DS Laird were up in Inverness. I read through it all, but there wasn’t much to begin with, and the further you read the less sense it makes.’
‘Pretty much what Dalgliesh told me. I’d still like to have a look myself.’
‘There’s a printed copy on your desk, sir.’
‘Thanks. I think.’ McLean turned back to the door, then remembered something. ‘You get anywhere with those serial numbers we found? You know, the phones and computers at McClymont Developments?’
‘All clean. Least, not reported stolen or anything. The phones were all SIM free, which is a bit unusual, and it’s top-spec kit. The only thing that’s really weird is that none of it was around. I asked the mortuary and put a call up to Inverness. Both McClymonts had iPhones, but previous generation. Whoever’s got these new ones, it wasn’t them. Neither of them had so much as a laptop with them.’
‘A puzzle for the NCA, I expect. But thanks for chasing it up.’ An image swam unbidden into McLean’s mind then; a pair of Portakabins squeezed into what had been the back garden of his old tenement block in Newington. Plans strewn around a temporary site office. Had there been computer equipment there?
‘Get back to Ms Grainger if you’ve a spare moment. Tomorrow morning’s early enough. Find out what’s going on with the tenement development and see if you can arrange a site visit, will you? We’d look a bit silly if they’d got all the kit there.’
MacBride nodded, picked up his tablet computer and started swiping at the screen. ‘I’ll see if we can’t do a location trace on the phones. If any of them are switched on, it might be helpful to know where they are.’
McLean glanced up at the clock again, realising just how far past shift end it was. He didn’t begrudge the detective constable the overtime, but the lad needed to find some work–life balance too.
‘OK. Thanks. But it’s low priority. Not our case, really. And do it tomorrow. Time you went and reminded yourself what home looked like.’
True to his word, MacBride had left the printout of Ben Stevenson’s working notes on the top of the stack of paperwork adorning McLean’s desk. It was a slimmer file than he had been expecting, and the words were printed double-spaced, often no more than short single-word bullet-point lists that made little sense. Unless you looked at it from the point of view of a mind slowly unravelling. He wondered what Matt Hilton would make of it, but the psychologist had left not long after the incident at the disused mental hospital, suddenly announcing that he’d been offered a lecturing post in Brisbane. McLean suspected that the two things were not unrelated.
There were other specialists who could be called on to give their learned opinions about the notes. It would probably be a good idea to get someone to do just that, then at least it would look as if they’d been thorough in their investigation. McLean could see after a casual flick through that they weren’t going to find any clues as to the identity of the murderer, though.
He was just about to put the whole thing back in its envelope with a scribbled note to that effect, when his phone rang. He glanced up at the clock, wondering how it was already half-past seven in the evening, before grabbing the receiver.
‘McLean.’
‘Ah, Detective Inspector. I was hoping I might catch you in.’
He recognised the voice, but took a couple of seconds to put the name to it. The forensic scientist who got all the shit jobs, and seemed to work late shifts. ‘Miss Parsons. What can I do for you?’
‘I think it’s more what I can do for you. I’ve been doing the analysis on that car you had sent down from Inverness. Nice motor, apart from the whole being written off in an accident thing. You know that engine develops more than five hundred brake horsepower?’
McLean did, as it happened, but it surprised him that Miss Parsons did too. Then it annoyed him that he was surprised. Why shouldn’t she know about cars?
‘I thought your speciality was interesting effluvia?’
That brought a peal of nasal laughter down the phone line so loud he had to pull the handset away from his ear. When he put it back, Miss Parsons was halfway through her explanation.
‘… Jack of all trades, really. You’ve no idea what people leave behind in their cars. Saliva on the dashboard and steering wheel, nasal pickings in the upholstery, urine in the carpets, even faeces sometimes. And you wouldn’t believe how much semen and vaginal secretions people spray about. You might want to think about that next time you buy a used car.’
McLean had only met Amanda Parsons once, in the early morning at the end of his driveway when she’d fetched a stool sample out of his bushes. He couldn’t really remember what she looked like, but he was warming to her as a person.
‘So what’s so special about McClymont’s BMW?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Miss Parsons paused before adding, ‘Any chance you could drop by the lab? Easier if I show you, really.’
McLean glanced up at the clock, even though he knew what time it was. ‘Now?’
‘Well, I’m still here and you’re still there. It can wait till the morning though, if you’d rather.’
There was a pile of paperwork stretching back a couple of weeks to deal with, and technically the results of the forensic examination of Joe McClymont’s car was an NCA matter, nothing to do with him. On the other hand, the paperwork wasn’t going anywhere, the two murder investigations were stalled, and this intrigued him. McLean scribbled a message on a Post-it and slapped it on the envelope containing Ben Stevenson’s deranged notes, then threw it into his out tray.
‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
51
The forensic services technical and engineering labs were on the outskirts of the city, beyond the airport. Evening traffic was light, and McLean made the journey in almost exactly half an hour. A bored-looking security guard raised an eyebrow at his car, but let him through as soon as he saw the warrant card, barely uttering a word during the whole exchange.
Miss Parsons was waiting in reception. ‘Got to sign you in myself. Janine goes home at five and we’ve no cover for the late shift.’
She busied herself writing down details in the visitor book and finding a name badge, handing it over before finally remembering to introduce herself. ‘I’m Amanda, by the way. We never had much of a chance to talk when I came to your house.’ She stuck out a hand and McLean shook it, somewhat overwhelmed by her restless energy.
‘It was … early.’
‘Very. We met before that. Rosskettle Hospital? You probably wouldn’t recognise us SOCOs, all dressed up in our overalls and face masks.’
‘You were on that forensics team?’
‘Everyone was on that forensics team.’ She rolled her eyes like an eight-year-old. They were large eyes, set in a face just as young as McLean had been expecting. Her straw-blonde hair was held back with an Alice band, which didn’t help to make her look any more mature. Neither did the loose-fitting tour T-shirt for a rock group McLean had heard of but which had probably split up before she was born. Cargo pants and heavy black DMs were maybe fashionable, or they could just have been the most suitable apparel for her line of work. To McLean they just suggested that she’d nicked all her clothes from her big brother. Or maybe her dad.
‘The BMW’s out in the workshop. Probably quickest if we go this way.’ Amanda pushed open the front door, bustling through almost before McLean could catch it and follow. He’d not got far before she stopped.
‘This is yours? This must be yours. Oh, I’d heard … but she’s beautiful.’ She stood just a few paces away from his Alfa, staring for a moment. Then as if it had taken that long to summon up the courage, she ran a hand lightly over the bonnet, roof and boot, walking slowly around the car.
‘You just have to take me for a spin sometime. I love, love, love old Alfas.’
‘Perhaps,’ McLean said. ‘But we were here to see Joe McClymont’s BMW?’
Amanda gave the Alfa one last longing pat on the rump. ‘Of course. Sorry. Tend to get a bit carried away. Here.’ She strode off in the direction of what turned out to be the workshops.
Much like any modern garage, it was a line of roller doors set into the front of a tall, utilitarian building. Most were closed, but one was rolled all the way up, spilling artificial light out into the warm evening. Just inside, McLean could make out a heap of bent and twisted scrap metal that might once have been a BMW M5. Pieces had been removed, placed to either side as if it were no more than a plastic toy belonging to a child with insatiable curiosity and a pair of pinking shears. The roof lay upside down at the back of the workshop, all four doors stacked alongside it. The wheels were in a neat tube, one on top of another, beside the far pillar of the four-post lift holding the rest of the chassis just high enough off the ground to enable work on it without stooping.
‘It’s amazing how much damage hitting a rock at eighty can do. If the rock’s big enough.’
‘Wasn’t this bad the last time I saw it.’ McLean noticed that the engine had been removed, and looked around to see where it might be. He found it in the next bay, bolted to a wheeled engine stand and surrounded by the cream leather seats. The front two, he couldn’t help noticing, were splattered with dark brown bloodstains.
‘Forensic science can be a bit messy.’ Amanda fetched a heavy pair of rigger’s gloves from a workbench at the back of the room and handed them to McLean. ‘Sharp edges,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘So, what is it you found for me? And you know this is technically an NCA investigation, don’t you?’
‘They’re only interested in drugs, and we didn’t find any traces anywhere. Nothing in the boot, no hidden compartments, not even some residue in the carpets, and you’d be surprised how much of that there is about.’ She flicked at a stray curl of hair, unable to get it under control with a gloved hand. ‘No I called you rather than them because this is more relevant to you.’
‘Still not sure how. Are you going to explain it, or do I have to guess?’
Amanda’s face reddened at the rebuke. McLean hadn’t really meant it as such, but his words might have been a bit harsh. It had been a long day.
‘Sorry. I do tend to go on a bit. See, here.’ Amanda stepped closer to the vehicle, pointing to the spot on the twisted chassis where the manufacturer had etched the vehicle identification number. McLean peered at it, but could find nothing amiss. Not that he was an expert.
‘The VIN, yes.’
‘Now see this.’ Amanda stalked off to the engine, hunkering down so that she could point to a similar series of numbers etched in the casting of the block.
‘Engine number. I take it they don’t match up then?’
‘Would that it were so easy.’ Amanda pulled off her heavy gloves as she crossed to the spotless workbench at the back of the garage. A computer screen, keyboard and mouse looked rather out of place among the heavy spanners and other tools.
‘They match perfectly, and they’re up here on the DVLA database. Same car, same colour.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
Amanda clicked a couple of icons on the screen, coming up with a list of incomprehensible numbers and text, the familiar BMW logo at the top the only thing McLean could easily identify.
‘Put simply, it’s the wrong red.’
‘How so?’
‘Here.’ Amanda turned to the back of the car, lifting the boot lid open and pointing at a sticker with a colour code on it. ‘This is the correct code for the colour on the car. I’ve checked. But this,’ she turned back to the screen. ‘This is a different shade.’
‘Mix up when they entered the data?’
‘This is a German car, Inspector. Not Italian.’ A gentle smile spread across Amanda’s face as she clicked a couple more times, bringing up a different page of equally incomprehensible data. Sooner or later she was going to get to the point, but McLean could wait. Her enthusiasm was infectious and far preferable to the oppressive misery of the station.
‘The colour mismatch was just a little niggle, really, but it got me thinking and I really don’t like mysteries. So I did a bit more digging. This car, electronically speaking, should be a Category C insurance write-off. Records have it as being badly damaged in an argument with a bus last October. That’s before it should even have come into the country, by the way.’
‘It’s a ringer, then?’
Amanda treated him to another one of her coy smiles. ‘Oh, it’s so much more clever than that. Until your man McClymont hit that rock, this car had never seen so much as a scratch, but it’s been given the identity of a write-off. And it’s been done so well I couldn’t tell at first. Those VIN and engine numbers are the best fakes I’ve ever seen. Add that to the clever fooling of the documentation, and this car’s almost completely untraceable. It could certainly be bought and sold throughout its entire life without anyone ever knowing anything was amiss.’
‘So where did it come from?’ McLean cast his eye over the mangled wreckage. It was difficult to imagine someone going to so much effort over a car, but then new it was probably worth eighty grand or more.
‘That’s where it gets interesting. Waiting on confirmation from BMW, but as far as I can tell, this car was stolen from the private garage of an exclusive apartment development not twenty minutes’ drive from here, about four months ago.’
‘Four months.’ McLean cast his mind back. He wasn’t aware of any great spate of vehicle thefts in the city, but there were cars being stolen every day. Even Duguid’s Range Rover had been nicked not that long ago.
‘That’s not important. The thing is, it’s been done so well. If this car hadn’t crashed … no, if it hadn’t crashed and then been brought to this forensic lab, it would never have been discovered.’
52
He probably should have gone straight home from the forensic services garage and lab, but there were too many implications arising from the discovery that McClymont’s car was stolen. McLean knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d at least begun piecing together that puzzle. He drove back to the station slowly, mind working over the few facts he had without any satisfactory explanation presenting itself to him.
He needed to talk it over with other people who knew the case, but DC MacBride had finally gone home, and Grumpy Bob was nowhere to be seen. Out of desperation, he went in search of Duguid, but the detective superintendent wasn’t in. Hardly surprising, given the hour. Only DS Ritchie was still about, peering myopically at her computer in the CID office.
‘Evening Sergeant. Anyone else about?’
Ritchie looked up at him, pale skin washed out by the light from the screen. She rubbe
d a weary hand over her face before answering.
‘Carter’s around somewhere, and DC Gregg’s keeping an eye on the incident room. It’s a quiet one though. Why?’
‘Just got some interesting information about the McClymonts. Wanted to run it past someone before I called Serious and Organised.’
As he explained the case to Ritchie, a few of the pieces started to come together, but it was still a bugger’s muddle.
‘Sounds like you need a list of all the sites they were working on; pay each one a visit and see what you find.’ Ritchie turned her attention back to her screen just long enough to turn it off, whatever she’d been working on no longer important. ‘Or, you know, leave it for the NCA to deal with.’
‘You’re right. It’s their case, not mine. I’ve done them enough favours already.’ McLean looked around the rest of the empty CID room, imagined the pile of paperwork waiting for him in his office, the running commentary on her home life he’d get from DC Gregg if he went up to the incident room.
‘Heading home any time soon, sir?’ Ritchie had gathered up her bag, slung it over her shoulder.
‘Reckon so. Nothing much to be gained hanging around here. Why?’
‘I was wondering if I could cadge a lift. Mary’s having another one of her little get-togethers this evening. I’m already late, and waiting on a taxi will only make me later.’
The light spilling out over Ritchie’s face as she opened the door to the rectory and stepped inside made McLean realise that it was starting to get dark. Summer nights in the city were so brief it was often much later than he thought, but the clock on the dashboard said half-past nine. The days were slowly getting shorter. Soon it would be winter again, the endless cycle repeating once more.
He sat in the car parked outside the church, and stared at nothing in particular in the street. Home was no more than a minute’s drive, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to go there. Madame Rose would be waiting for him in the kitchen, a hearty meal prepared, and right now he couldn’t quite face dealing with her. It wasn’t that she was bad company, really. Just that he’d grown used to being alone. Just him, the cat and the occasional postcard from Emma to remind him why he did what he did. Why he put up with the shit, the antisocial work hours and even more antisocial colleagues, the daily bath in the dregs of humanity.
