by James Oswald
He looked at the clock again. Twenty-five to ten. A quiet time of the evening away from the city centre. Later there’d be people coming home from the pub, or whatever Edinburgh Festival show they’d been to. Earlier it would have been the office and factory crowds heading home. Now was a lull in the night-time activity that suited him just fine.
Switching on the engine, he executed a perfect U-turn in the wide, empty road, and headed back the way he had come.
Scaffolding still clung to the front facade of the building, ungainly metal rods sticking out at all angles. Broken bones in the darkening sky. The first level of planks was too high up to jump and catch on to, deliberately so to deter drunken revellers. The uprights – standards, if he remembered the arcane builders’ jargon – were smooth, and wrapped in shiny tape to make them smoother still. Even so, there were always idiots who tried, egged on by alcohol and friends who didn’t know better. As a beat constable, McLean had seen more than his fair share of broken arms, legs, backs and necks from people who got building sites and playgrounds confused.
It wasn’t a problem for him, though. The front door to his old tenement block was closed and locked, but he still had the key he’d used when he’d lived there hanging on his key ring. More surprisingly, it still worked. He looked up and down the street, but shadowed by the scaffolding no one would have been able to see him even if there’d been anyone about.
Stepping through the familiar front door sent a shiver down his spine. As he closed the door behind him it cut off the low roar of the city for a moment. He stood in the darkness and almost imagined that the past two years had never happened. Or the last twelve. He would climb those stairs like he’d done uncounted times before. Kirsty would be waiting for him. His Kirsty, with her long black hair and infuriating way of seeing right through him. They would share a bottle of wine, chat over whatever music he put on, fall into bed together.
A siren on Clerk Street cut through his musings. McLean shook his head, though only half-heartedly. He didn’t really want to lose that tiny, happy moment, even if he knew it was madness to dwell on such things. But he’d come here for a reason. Best get on with it.
There wasn’t much sign of progress on the building front. Hardly surprising, given his objections to the plans and unwillingness to sell up. What would happen to the site now that McClymont Developments was effectively no longer trading? One for the lawyers to fight out, he had no doubt. McLean stepped quietly through the front door to Mrs McCutcheon’s flat, then followed the new concrete steps down to the communal garden.
It was an oasis of dark calm. To either side the lights from the neighbouring tenements illuminated washing lines, garden furniture and unkempt vegetation, but here in the middle there was nothing. Off to the rear, the bulk of the Portakabin offices squatted like some alien spaceship. A mini digger parked alongside it looked strangely awkward in the half-light. The rest of the garden had been dug down, backfilled, the drainage points jutting out of freshly laid concrete like mafia victims struggling to break free. He clambered carefully down to basement level, testing the surface with the tip of his foot. It looked like it might be still liquid, but that was just a trick of the light. The floor was firm, the concrete set rock-solid, the tiny outlines of the planned basement flats etched in narrow blockwork.
McLean approached the Portakabins quietly. As far as he could tell, there was no one about, and it wasn’t as if Joe and Jock McClymont were going to suddenly appear for a late-night site inspection, but still he knew that he shouldn’t really be here. So far he’d not broken any rules. He had a key and a legitimate right to be in this place. The cabins were a bit of a grey area though, legally speaking. No, who was he kidding? This was breaking and entering, fair and simple.
Like much of the kit in the McClymonts’ warehouse, the Portakabins had seen better days. The front door was locked, but the windows weren’t, and a little jiggling of one had it swinging open. Clambering in was more difficult than it should have been, but McLean made it without knocking too much off the nearest desk. At least he’d remembered to put on gloves.
He was in the same room where he’d first seen the plans for the redevelopment. They’d been pinned up on the far wall, and were barely legible in the reflected glow of the street lamps. The desks between him and them were old, basic Formica tops on metal frame legs. There were no phones, no computers, nothing more sophisticated than an elderly microwave oven sitting on top of a fridge, a grubby kettle alongside it. Nothing in here to raise any suspicions.
The door led out into a narrow corridor running the length of the two cabins. Hard hats and hi-vis jackets hung from hooks along one side. The other sported a motley collection of Health and Safety Executive warning posters, reminding the workforce what a lethal place a building site could be. Opposite where he stood, a second door should have opened into the next Portakabin, but when McLean tried it, he found it was locked. He went back into the first room, rummaged around in drawers until he found a bunch of keys. Not too hopeful that any of them would be the right one, but it was worth a try.
The darkness in the corridor was almost total now. He didn’t want to turn on his torch though, worried he might be spotted by someone in the flats that looked on to the garden. He worked his way through the bunch largely by feel, sliding each key into the lock, twisting, meeting solid resistance. On to the next, then the next. And then finally it clicked. The door swung open and he peered inside.
A high window let what little light was left into the room. His eyes accustomed to the gloom, it was still as much as McLean could manage just to see the vague shapes of desks and tables. This place smelled different from the rest of the Portakabin though. Electric, charged. Over in the corner LEDs flickered on and off, green and red on the front of some kind of computer equipment. Screens lined up along one wall. McLean was about to step fully into the room, but common sense finally kicked in. This wasn’t his case, just a mystery he couldn’t leave alone. And if a crime had been committed, the two perpetrators were beyond the law now.
He pulled the door closed, locked it after him and returned the keys to the drawer where he’d found them. Then he cleared up all the papers he’d knocked to the floor when he came in. He considered the window, but decided it was too risky going back out that way. The front door was a Yale lock, so he could get out without it being obvious anyone had been in at all.
Back in his car, convinced he’d been watched the whole time, McLean pulled out his phone and thumbed at the screen until the number he’d been given came up. He hovered over the dial icon for long moments, knowing it was none of his business. Except that they’d made it his business, hadn’t they? When they’d put his name on the planning documents. When the NCA had hauled him over the coals for something he’d not done. Sorting this mess out might not be his job, but with the McClymonts dead, the worry was nobody else would do it.
A quick glance at the clock. Late, but not so late you couldn’t phone a policeman. Especially a detective chief superintendent.
53
Traffic was light on the drive back home, which was just as well as McLean’s mind wasn’t really on what he was doing. The conversation with DCS Chambers had gone better than he might have expected, but it had also made yet more work for him and his overstretched team. He drove slowly past the church, still shrouded in scaffolding, the rectory alongside with light shining from the front porch. Pulling over a hundred yards from his own drive, he took out his phone, jabbed at the screen until he found the number.
‘… Can’t answer the phone right now …’ DS Ritchie’s voice sounded strangely unconvincing on the tinny line, but he really needed to talk to someone. He tried Grumpy Bob’s number, let it ring and ring. He was about to hang up when it was finally answered, the noise of a busy pub easily identifiable in the background.
‘Evening sir. Anything I can do to help?’
Grumpy Bob wasn’t a heavy drinker, not by old-school police standards, but there was a point in any p
ub evening beyond which he’d be unable to pull it back and be an effective member of the team. Judging by the slur in his voice, that point had long since been passed.
‘Going to be a busy one tomorrow, Bob. Early start if you can be in.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ There was a noise much like a man rapidly downing a pint of beer, followed by a muffled belch. ‘I’ll head home and get some kip then. Was getting a bit bored of the company in here anyway if I’m being honest. What’s up? Anything interesting?’
‘McClymonts senior and junior. Seems they were up to no good after all. Briefing at seven sharp. I’ll fill everyone in then.’
McLean hung up before Grumpy Bob could complain. He hovered his hand over MacBride’s number, then sent a text instead. Stared at the screen in surprise when there was no instant reply.
A change in the light dragged his attention around to the rectory. The front door had opened and someone was stepping out. Another person, then another, they clustered around the doorway in that manner people have. Suddenly remembering all the things they want to say now that it’s time to go. Before he’d really considered the implications, he’d snatched the keys out of the ignition, climbed out of the car and headed across the road. When he got to the gate and the short path leading up to the door, the conversation was still in full flow.
‘You got a minute, Kirsty?’
DS Ritchie looked around as she heard her name. Finally saw him at the gate.
‘Sir? I thought you’d gone home.’
‘Almost. Just had to check something out first.’
Everyone was looking at him now, so he had no choice but to open the gate and approach them. Mary Currie, the minister, stood in the doorway, flanked by a young man also wearing the black shirt and dog collar that suggested he too was a minister, or maybe a curate. Either that or he’d come to a fancy dress party woefully ill prepared.
‘You went back to your old flat, didn’t you?’ Ritchie met him a few steps up the path. ‘Find anything interesting?’
‘If you need a lift home, I can fill you in on the way.’
Ritchie looked back to the group, standing just a few paces away. ‘Actually, Daniel already offered to drive me.’
McLean followed Ritchie’s gaze back to the front door as the young minister stepped forward into the light.
‘Tony. Good to see you again.’ He held out a hand to be shaken. McLean took the proffered hand, expecting a limp wrist. He was surprised by a firm, dry shake.
‘You’ll know Mary.’ Daniel assumed the task of making introductions as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He gestured with an open hand towards a couple who had been standing to one side looking awkward. ‘This is Eric and Wanda.’
‘Are we all going to stand around on my front doorstep all night?’ Mary Currie cut in to the conversation. ‘Only it’s getting a bit chill and I wouldn’t want to have to put the heating on.’
‘Sorry, Mary. I’ll just run Kirsty home. Won’t be long.’
‘You stay out as long as you want, Daniel. I’m not your mother.’
Even in the poor light, McLean saw the embarrassment blush the young curate’s face. He pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket to cover it, turned to the couple. ‘You two want a lift too?’
‘Gotta go, sir. Unless it’s really important?’ The question in Ritchie’s voice was unmistakeable, as was the hope his answer would be no. Seeing all these people with their life outside of work did put things in perspective.
‘No, you go home. But we’ve an early start tomorrow. Briefing at seven, OK?’
Ritchie nodded her agreement and she, Daniel, Eric and Wanda headed off into the night.
‘Should I be worried about those two?’ McLean turned as he asked the question, the light spilling from the hallway giving the minister a pale yellow halo.
‘Young love will ever run its course.’ Mary Currie smiled at him like an indulgent parent. ‘You want a cup of tea? The kettle’s not long on.’
McLean had never been inside the rectory before, and was surprised to find it not unlike any other home. It smelled old, much like his grandmother’s house, but it was warm and bright and welcoming. There were occasional reminders that this was a place where someone religious lived – a discreet cross hanging by the coat rack in the front hall, a couple of pictures that might have looked more fitting in a seminary – but by and large it was just homely.
He followed the minister through to the back of the house and a large kitchen. Judging by the mismatch of chairs arranged around an old table, this was where the evening’s Bible class had taken place. Except it wasn’t really a Bible class, he could see that now. Just a bunch of people looking for answers. Or maybe some company.
‘Roof should be finished by the end of the month. Then we can get shot of that scaffolding. Start holding services again.’
‘I didn’t realise it was that bad.’
‘Oh it is. There’s probably more steel inside than out. Still, thanks to your generosity it’ll all be done soon.’
McLean wasn’t sure why he felt uncomfortable about that. He’d given them money because he liked the building, not what it represented. ‘DS Rit … Kirsty’s doing very well these days,’ he said by way of a change of subject. ‘Not sure what you get up to in your sessions, but it seems to be working for her.’
‘I think that probably has more to do with Daniel than me.’
‘Daniel. Of course.’ McLean accepted a mug of tea, noticing it had milk in it already.
‘Oh to be young and in love. It’s sweet, really.’
‘He’s all right, I take it?’
‘Is that paternal concern I hear in your voice, Inspector?’ Mary Currie gave him a wicked grin. ‘Just teasing. And yes, since you ask, Daniel’s all right. Earnest, but then I was too when I was his age. He’s not long finished his training, looking for a parish to go and do good things in. The bishop already offered him a rural one, but he says he wants to work in the city.’
‘Very earnest, then. I look forward to meeting him when he’s in less of a rush sometime.’
‘Do I detect the sign of a challenge being laid down?’
‘I don’t share your faith.’ McLean shook his head. ‘If I’m being honest it’s the whole notion of faith I have a problem with. Doesn’t really square with being a detective. I gave up accepting things at face value a long time ago.’
‘So like your grandmother.’ There was that wry smile again, as if the minister could see right through his facade. It wouldn’t have surprised him.
‘How’s your house guest settling in?’ she asked. The change of subject took him by surprise.
‘Rose? Fine, I guess. Don’t see much of her except in passing.’
‘That’s a very generous thing you did, letting her stay.’
‘Not as if I haven’t got the space. And she helped me when Emma was at her worst. I owe her that much. She’s a good cook, too. If she stays much longer I might start getting fat.’ McLean patted at his stomach. ‘There’ll be something wholesome and hearty waiting for me when I get in, I’ve no doubt. Told her she doesn’t need to, but I can’t exactly stop her.’
‘And it beats a takeaway curry, I expect.’
McLean nodded his agreement, envying Grumpy Bob his pint or two down the pub. ‘I should probably be getting home anyway. Early start tomorrow.’ He stood up, the un-drunk mug of tea still sitting on the table in front of him.
‘Yes, I heard you tell Kirsty. Dawn raid, is it?’ The minister stood as well, accepting that their all-too-brief conversation was over.
‘Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. Just a long day of stuff I can’t really talk about.’
‘Police secrets. Kirsty’s just the same. You’re very lucky to have her.’
‘Trust me. I know. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’
‘I’m sure you do, Tony. But don’t forget to tell her from time to time. It’s nice to have your efforts recognised.’
McL
ean smiled, nodded, unsure he could really say anything to that. It was true, and he was as guilty as the next man of taking his team for granted. Compliments from higher up the greasy pole were so rare these days, he’d all but forgotten how much good a little well-earned praise could do.
The first thing he noticed when he opened the back door was the absence of cats. It wasn’t even as if not seeing any immediately in front of him on entering was all that strange, and yet somehow as he walked through the short passageway from the door to the kitchen, McLean knew that they weren’t there. Or rather, just one was there.
Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up at him from a spot in front of the Aga she hadn’t been able to occupy for a few weeks now. McLean scanned the rest of the room, but Madame Rose’s familiars were nowhere to be seen. Neither was the medium herself. The smell in the kitchen suggested she had left something edible behind, however. A quick look in the plate-warming oven revealed enough cassoulet to feed an army, and a half-dozen baked potatoes. Not exactly classic fare for a warm August night, but very welcome all the same.
‘Surprised you didn’t go with them,’ McLean said to Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, as he searched around for oven gloves. Only when he dumped the casserole dish on the kitchen table did he notice the post piled up against the pepper grinder in the middle. A couple of letters bore the ominous mark of his solicitors; someone was still trying to persuade his grandmother to take out a credit card at an eye-wateringly usurious rate of interest even though she’d been dead two years and more; and the electricity bill needed paying soon, judging by the red-printed ‘final reminder’ on the envelope. There were two others in the stack: a plain white letter with no stamp or postmark, just the word ‘Tony’ in neat block capitals; and a postcard, its edges battered and corners folded. The image on the front was of a Japanese temple and the handwriting on the back brought a gentle leap to his heart even before he read the words.
