by James Oswald
‘This is a donor heart. Or it was meant to be. You can see from the way it’s been cut. Here, and here.’
‘A donor? But surely there’d be records. We’d know if one had gone missing before … before it could be used. Wouldn’t we?’
‘We should, yes. Though sadly not every organ harvested ends up in a new body. Things go wrong.’
McLean didn’t want to ask what. It wasn’t all that relevant anyway. ‘So do we know whose it is? Where it came from?’
‘Not yet. Still waiting for confirmation. I’ve asked around the hospitals about recent transplants too. We should have a name and a place soon enough. Thing is though, this has been preserved.’
‘That unusual?’
‘Very. Especially the way it’s been done. Far as I can tell this is embalming fluid. The stuff undertakers used to use. That’s what’s giving it this odd smell, and why it’s only partially rotted.’
61
‘Right then. You all know what’s happened. We’ve got three dead bodies all killed in the last six weeks. The chances of them not being connected are hardly worth thinking about, so we’re combining all three investigations as of now.’
McLean stood to one side, listening as Detective Superintendent Duguid addressed the troops. To give him some small credit, this was the sort of job Dagwood was quite good at. Actually coordinating an investigation not so much, but being a figurehead and acting important he had down pat.
‘Now I know we haven’t got very far with the investigation into Ben Stevenson’s murder, and the enquiry into the dead nurse isn’t much better. But there’s a good chance now that we can begin to analyse the patterns emerging. Start to put together some kind of profile. Paint a picture of our killer and work out his motivations.’
Straight out of a textbook, and one a couple of decades out of date if McLean was any judge. He glanced sideways at DS Ritchie, who rolled her eyes conspiratorially as she saw him looking. Most of the station was assembled in the large incident room, filling it in a manner that would give Health and Safety palpitations. Young uniform constables stood to attention near the front, some taking notes. Older, wiser heads slouched at the back, knowing a pep talk when they heard one.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Brooks will be keeping an eye on all three investigations,’ Duguid continued, blithely unaware of the crowd’s general lack of interest. They were waiting for the assignments, the only thing that really mattered. Get a nice cushy desk job, manning the phones or even better punching actions into the computer, and all would be well. The poor saps who were going to be sent out on door to door would have a harder time of it.
‘Detective Inspector McLean is in charge of the Stevenson case.’ Duguid scanned the crowd until he saw McLean, motioned him to the front as if no one in the station knew what he looked like.
‘Detective Inspector Spence is running the enquiry into the dead nurse.’ The thin man joined them at the front, a nervous scowl on his pinched face. McLean wanted to whisper in Duguid’s ear that the nurse had a name, Maureen Shenks, but he knew it would be a waste of time. The DS’s unthinking misogyny was a thing of legend.
‘We’re a bit short of senior officers at the moment, so we’ve poached one back from uniform. Detective Inspector McIntyre will be looking into the latest discovery. You there, Jayne?’
There was a pause, and then a familiar figure pushed her way to the front. She was thinner than McLean remembered her, and of course no longer a detective superintendent destined for yet higher office. It seemed a cruel reversal, having not so long ago been Duguid’s boss, to find herself working under him. On the other hand, she’d managed to keep her job despite the best efforts of the press. Yet another reason not to trust them.
‘You’ve all got your teams. Assignments will be handed out shortly.’ Duguid waited until the susurrus died down, clearing his throat noisily when he realised it wasn’t going to. The arrival of the old boss was probably the most exciting thing to happen in the station in days. ‘I shouldn’t need to say this, gentlemen, but I will anyway. Three murders is exceptional. Three possibly connected murders and you can all guess where the press are going to run with this.’
More murmuring in the ranks at the suggestion any of them would do anything so reckless as talking to a journalist off the record.
‘The last thing we need is a panic. Especially at this time of year. City’s bad enough as it is, full of bloody tourists and mime artists. Nothing, and I mean nothing, gets leaked to the press that hasn’t been through me or one of the senior detectives first. Got that?’
There were a few noncommittal mumbles from the gathered officers. It was the same at every briefing for every investigation, big or small. Press contact was meant to be controlled, and just occasionally that worked. Rather unpleasantly, the thought of Jo Dalgliesh swam into McLean’s mind. She’d played fair so far, trading the sensational story for something with a bit more depth. And possibly to help out her dead friend as well, though that would have implied she had some kind of heart hidden under that horrible leather coat. She wasn’t the only player in the game though, and it was only a matter of time before the other tabloid hacks smelled blood.
‘Right then. I don’t need to tell you all how important this is. Go to it, teams, and let’s get this sick bastard caught before he kills anyone else.’
‘Good to see you back, Ma’am.’ McLean forced his way through the throng of uniforms, admin staff and detectives milling about the major incident room to where Jayne McIntyre was staring at one of the whiteboards.
‘Jayne I think, Tony. We’re both inspectors now.’
‘I know. I heard. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was my own stupid fault after all. Could have done without Mr Stevenson here telling the whole world about it, of course.’
McLean looked at the whiteboard, seeing Ben Stevenson’s dead face taped to the top. Most of the questions and actions written beneath it had been there since the start, testament to just how much progress they had failed to make.
‘Why is this so difficult to solve?’ McIntyre tapped at her teeth with a short, cracked fingernail as she scanned the board. ‘Haven’t forensics come up with anything?’
‘Nothing that wasn’t his. The other caves were too contaminated by the public to get anything useful.’
‘Hmm. How did he get in there?’
‘Must have had a key. The cave he was found in wasn’t part of the tour, but the only way in’s from the tour centre.’
‘And we’ve no CCTV, no strange people seen loitering around?’
‘Plenty. All of it useless. We’ve had teams running all the number plates we could identify, tracking down the people walking past the bookies and the local chip shop. They both have cameras that take in the street. Problem is, it’s not a small number of people. Except around the time we think Stevenson must have gone into the caves. Then there’s nothing at all.’
‘What about the locals? They see anything odd?’
McLean remembered his trip to the bookies with DS Ritchie. Had anything come of that? He’d given the punter his card, so any contact would have been direct. Someone was meant to be getting the manager to do an e-fit, though.
‘Should be something here somewhere.’
‘No matter. I’ll get a chance to catch up soon enough. I take it you reckon all three are linked?’
‘I wasn’t sure to start with, but I’ve seen a bit of how both men lived. Their characters are very similar, which might suggest a theme. Not sure how Maureen Shenks fits in, except that she worked at the Sick Kids, same as Whitely. Thought for a while he might have killed her then topped himself in remorse, but the PM doesn’t support that theory.’
‘What if she was unlucky and just got in the way?’
McLean stared at McIntyre as the words filtered through his brain, the horrible possibilities behind the idea.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well my old chum Stevenson was obsessed with his latest story
. A nasty little character trait of his. Seems our man Whitely was a bit driven, too.’ McIntyre pointed over at the far side of the room where that investigation was just starting to come together.
‘Both of them were chasing a lie though. Something designed to hook them. Tuned to their particular obsession. With Stevenson it was a secret society controlling everything. Whitely … well, you said his flat was full of medical texts, case notes, that sort of thing?’
McLean nodded. ‘If we’re treating all three murders as linked, then we’re looking at one murderer. Two of these fit a pattern, the nurse doesn’t.’
‘But she might have been a distraction, if she were coming on to Whitely while our killer was trying to lure him in.’ McIntyre shook her head as if dismissing the whole thing as nonsense. ‘Of course, the nurse might be nothing to do with the other two. They might all be unconnected.’
‘There’s nothing to lose from exploring the similarities.’
‘Such as?’
‘Lack of forensics, for a start. Whoever’s done this knows their way around a crime scene. Stevenson and Shenks were both left somewhere that would be impossible to process. Whitely’s scene was so clean you could eat your lunch off the floor. Never seen anything like it. Jemima Cairns hadn’t either.’
‘Jemima?’ McIntyre raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been putting yourself around a bit since I left, Tony.’
‘Stop it. You’re as bad as bloody Dagwood.’
‘Sorry. I’d missed that too.’
McLean saw the smile spreading from McIntyre’s eyes, betraying her normal poker face.
‘It’s good to have you back, really. Even in reduced circumstances. Not sure I’ll ever get used to it though.’
‘Actually I don’t really mind. Being knocked back to inspector, that is. Being a superintendent meant never getting outside, always sitting behind a desk, attending meetings, managing idiots and dealing with the fallout when they cocked up. It’s nice to be back at the sharp end.’
As if on cue, McLean’s phone chirped a particularly jaunty tune; this one was reserved for the worst of his contacts. A quick check of the screen confirmed his suspicions. Jo Dalgliesh wanted a word.
‘You might want to hold that thought … Jayne.’ He still couldn’t get used to that. ‘I think our friends in the press might be on to us again.’
‘You’re meant to be keeping me in the loop, Inspector. That was the deal, wasn’t it?’
The first thing McLean noticed was that Dalgliesh hadn’t called him Tony. He hated it when she did, but it didn’t take a genius to realise that ‘Inspector’ was reserved for those times when she was particularly annoyed with him.
‘I take it you’re talking about the body we found in Sighthill.’
‘Too bloody right I am. You any idea how many juicy stories I’ve had to pass up on just to keep onside with youse lot?’
For a moment McLean almost believed her. Working with Dalgliesh on a semi-regular basis had almost inured him to her presence, a bit like the way spending more than half an hour in a small space with DS Carter inured you to his overpowering body odour. At least until you went outside the room and were reminded of what fresh air was supposed to be like. Meeting Jayne McIntyre again had reminded him just what a bunch of self-serving shits the gutter press could be; a handy inoculation before he became too used to the reporter’s presence and dropped his guard.
‘We only found the body yesterday. We’re still processing the scene, interviewing colleagues.’
‘So you’ve identified it. Him, I should say.’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I can’t tell you, Ms Dalgliesh. Not until we’ve assessed whether releasing that information to the general public would hinder our investigation or not.’
‘God you can sound stuck up sometimes. Posh bloody education I guess.’ Dalgliesh’s voice muffled at the other end of the line, overlaid with the sound of a clicking lighter as she sparked up a cigarette. Not at her desk then.
‘Look. We’re going to be having a press conference later on today. I’ll know what we can and can’t say before then, and I’ll make sure you get that ahead of everyone else. I can’t do any more than that.’
‘You reckon it’s the same bloke as killed Ben?’
‘I don’t even know if Stevenson’s killer was a man. You know as well as I do how little we’ve got on that.’
‘Aye, true enough.’ Dalgliesh paused. ‘What about that nurse? Shenks?’
‘What about her?’
‘Ha ha. You’re very funny, Inspector. She worked at the same place as your new body, aye?’
‘Why do you bother calling me, Dalgliesh? You think you know all the answers anyway.’
‘Got to check my sources though. Can’t go printing any old rumour and supposition.’
It never stopped you before. ‘If Duguid finds out which officer has been speaking to the press without sanction, he’ll be off the force without a pension. Are you going to press with this story tonight?’
‘Maybe. Depends what I get that’s better.’
McLean sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose in the hope that it would make all the annoying things go away. It didn’t, and he knew all too well that hanging up on them wouldn’t work either.
‘Look, I can’t confirm the identity of the body, but I don’t think I need to really. You’ve got your sources and if you don’t trust them, don’t pay them. I can confirm that we’re looking at similarities between all three murders. That doesn’t mean we think there’s a serial killer running loose any more than we think all three committed suicide. All options are on the table and we’re working as fast as we can to solve this. If you stir up some moral outrage or get a bunch of halfwit politicians breathing down our necks then that’ll just make our job more difficult. So ask yourself what’s in the public interest: selling a few more papers, or finding the person who killed your colleague before they kill someone else?’
A stunned silence echoed over the airwaves and out through the earpiece of McLean’s phone. For a moment he thought the line might have gone dead; reception was pretty rubbish in the dark corner at the end of the corridor outside the major incident room where he’d scurried off to take the call in the first place. A quick glance at the screen showed him he was still connected.
‘Jeez. You really haven’t got anything on this guy, have you.’ Dalgliesh’s tone was her normal mix of sarcasm and disdain. McLean wondered whether the silence had been her muting her phone so she could have a lung-loosening cough. It would certainly take more than impassioned words to get through to her. A pickaxe, maybe.
‘Like I said. We don’t even know if it’s a guy. Don’t even know if the three killings are by the same person.’
‘Don’t know shit?’
It was meant to be a joke, albeit in poor taste. McLean couldn’t bring himself to laugh, though. It was too close to the truth for that.
62
If McLean thought the hospital had been depressed after the death of Maureen Shenks, it was nothing compared to the shock running through the place following Dr Whitely’s demise. It was true that people seldom spoke ill of the dead, and especially not of those who had died young and violently. Even so, it was hard to square the universal sorrow and expressions of admiration with the image he had built in his head from visiting the doctor’s flat.
They had commandeered the same small room at the back of the old building, and were working through interviews with all of Dr Whitely’s colleagues and associates. One of the first jobs had been to draw up a list of names, but as they worked through it, so it grew.
‘I never realised quite how many doctors and nurses passed through this place.’ DS Ritchie flipped through her printed list, now much amended with scribbled names. ‘And that’s before we even get to the admin staff, cleaners, porters. Christ, it’s never-ending.’
‘Just as well he didn’t have much of a social life then.’ McLean slumped back in his seat, not quit
e sure why he’d decided to come and help out with the interviews. Jayne McIntyre was meant to be heading up the investigation, after all. And this kind of background stuff was sergeant work, really. On the other hand, the thought of going back to the station filled him with gloom; the Ben Stevenson investigation had gone cold and things didn’t look much better for Maureen Shenks. This at least had the benefit of being a new case, even if it was beginning to look rather too much like the other two. Random, brutal, and with a disturbing lack of forensic evidence to work with. He’d leapt at the chance to take it on while McIntyre got back up to speed.
‘Who’s next?’ he asked.
‘Dr Stephanie Clark. Another specialist in paediatric oncology, apparently.’ Ritchie ran a finger over the relevant line in her list. ‘Sounds fun.’
‘Laugh a minute, I’m sure. OK. Let’s get her in.’
Dr Clark was younger than McLean had been expecting. He wasn’t sure why, but for some reason he’d pictured a serious woman in her mid-fifties, greying hair cut short or tied in a workmanlike bun. But the woman who presented herself at the door to the makeshift interview room at her appointed hour was probably the same age as DS Ritchie. She was tiny, too. Not much over five foot, and proportioned like many of the children she treated. You wouldn’t have mistaken her for a child, though. Her eyes gave the game away. That and the air of weariness that seeped out of her.
‘Would you say Dr Whitely was under a lot of pressure?’ DS Ritchie asked the question. They had established something of a routine now, with the sergeant doing most of the work. McLean would sit back and watch, only occasionally adding something. He really didn’t need to be there at all.
‘Show me a doctor here who isn’t.’ That was the other thing that gave Dr Clark away. Her voice was deeper and more mature than the teenager she might be mistaken for. She paused as if expecting some sympathy before carrying on. ‘But no. I wouldn’t have said Jim was any more stressed than any of us. Last time I spoke to him he didn’t seem much different from every other time.’
