by James Oswald
‘Don’t think I’m going to find out much more here.’ He rose up out of his crouch, knees protesting loudly. ‘Think I’ll go find Harrison and see what she’s dug up.’
‘Harrison?’ Emma asked. ‘New girl?’
McLean nodded. ‘Nabbed her from Uniform when we first found Chalmers. We’ve drafted in a few others as well. It’s not easy to run an investigation when half the trained detectives have left.’
‘All change, and not much of it for the good.’ Emma shook her head, then tried to hide the little sway she did to one side. McLean noticed it though, and the way what little of her face he could see went pale as the blood drained from it.
‘Em, you OK?’ McLean knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he shouldn’t have said them. He could tell by the way her brow knitted into a deep frown, her lips pursing in suppressed anger. If she hadn’t been holding an expensive digital camera, she would probably have folded her arms across her chest, maybe even started tapping her foot.
‘I’m fine, and you know it, Tony McLean.’
‘At least tell me you spoke to Dr Wheeler this morning.’
‘Yes, I spoke to her. She asked how you were, actually. Something you’re not telling me?’
It was a classic diversionary tactic; McLean knew that as well as anyone. ‘Look, I’m only asking because I worry, OK? You took a nasty –’
‘Yes, I know. I was the one it happened to, remember. And it was three years ago. If I was going to drop down dead, do you not think I’d have done so already?’
McLean opened his mouth to complain, but fortunately Jemima Cairns stopped him from making a bad situation even worse. ‘You two lovebirds know this is a crime scene, aye?’ She walked into the room, followed by two technicians, ready to take the body away. McLean stepped aside, watching closely as they placed a stretcher on the floor alongside the body, gently folded the arms over the lifeless chest, and lifted it on in a well-practised manoeuvre.
As they left, Cairns stooped down and began carefully placing the items on the floor into clear plastic bags, labelling them as she went. Emma continued to take photographs, but he was fairly sure this was just an excuse not to have to talk to him.
‘I’ll be off then,’ he said to Dr Cairns. ‘Let me know if you come up with anything unusual.’
Cairns turned, ready to give him some sarcastic response, but both of them were interrupted by Emma’s quiet ‘oh’. They looked up just in time to see her puzzled frown turn to a blankness as her eyes rolled up into her head. Her knees buckled and before anyone could do anything, she toppled sideways into the pile of mouldy cushions.
19
‘We’re going to have to keep her in for observation. I want to get her into the CT scanner as well, have a look at what’s going on in her head.’
It was all too hauntingly familiar. McLean stood at the corner of the hospital room, looking at Emma’s sleeping form as Dr Caroline Wheeler went through her speech. How many times had he been here before?
‘She’s going to be OK though?’ Even he could hear the desperation in his voice.
Dr Wheeler put a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I’d be lying if I said I knew for certain. Let’s wait until the scans are in, OK?’
‘You’ll look after her, won’t you?’ McLean’s gaze moved from Emma’s slack, sleeping face to the comfortable chair by the wall. It was very tempting to sit there and wait for her to wake up. Not something that would go down well with his superiors though, especially in the middle of a major investigation that looked like it was getting more complicated by the hour.
‘Go do your job, Tony. Let me do mine. I’ve got your number. We’ll let you know as soon as she wakes up.’
As if it were taunting him, McLean’s phone buzzed in his pocket, yet another in a long string of texts coming in from the investigation team – wanting to know where he was, no doubt. He should have switched the thing off when he came into the hospital, but they were far enough from the ICU and all the sensitive equipment he had thought he could get away with just muting it. Judging by the frown he received from Dr Wheeler, it was probably time to leave.
‘I’ll come back this evening. See how things are then.’
‘You do that.’ Dr Wheeler’s touch was firmer now, turning him around and guiding him to the door. He risked a last glance back at Emma, still sleeping as peacefully as he had ever seen her, then nodded his thanks to the doctor and left.
A few of the junior nurses scowled at him as he walked down the corridor to the exit, phone out and scrolling through his messages. Most were too busy with their work to worry, or knew him anyway. Time was, this hospital had almost been his second home, after all. He even managed a couple of smiles and a polite ‘Hello, Inspector’ before he stepped out into the cold.
Despite an early start, the day was getting away from him, a weak yellow sun in a pale blue sky heading towards dusk already, even though it was only just gone three. McLean considered walking back to the station; it would take an hour, but the weather was good and he would have the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to help him think. Another buzz of his phone: another message from Brooks demanding to know where he was and what he was up to. It only made the thought of going off grid for a while more tempting. But he couldn’t do that. Not if it meant the detective superintendent started taking out his frustration on the rest of the team. Reluctantly, he headed for the taxi rank.
‘Where the fuck have you been, McLean? You’re meant to be leading this investigation, not gallivanting off whenever you please.’
As welcomes went, it wasn’t particularly fond, but nothing he hadn’t heard from Detective Superintendent Brooks before. McLean considered ignoring his boss, but it was difficult when he was surrounded by junior officers and admin staff in the middle of a busy major incident room. The bustle and noise quietened almost instantly, all eyes turned to the pair of them.
‘I’m surprised you noticed I was gone, sir.’ He gave Brooks his best politician’s smile. ‘Still, I’m here now. Was there anything in particular you needed?’
Brooks was a fat man; there was no polite way of describing him otherwise. He liked his food and struggled to find a suit that could contain his ever-swelling flesh. His florid neck bulged out of the collar of his shirt, merging seamlessly into a head shaved bald and shiny with sweat despite the relative cool. Anger made him redden and swell even further, so that those not used to seeing it might think he was about to explode. Sometimes he did, at least metaphorically, and it was best to be elsewhere when that was happening. McLean had worked with him long enough to know when to back off, but they hadn’t reached that point yet.
‘Daily progress reports, McLean. Ongoing budgets. Cost projections. Or did you just think there was an endless pot of money for things like this?’
‘I’m aware of the latest spending cuts, sir. I know we have to be smart with our investigation and not just throw resources at it in the hope something sticks.’ McLean resisted the urge to add ‘like some detectives I could name’. ‘That’s why I’ve not been in here as much as some lead investigators might. That’s work best left to the project-management princes. As for progress reports, you’ll have one just as soon as we’ve made some progress. We haven’t even got the full toxicology results back from the lab yet.’
‘I don’t want your excuses, man. I want results.’
‘Do you not think I want that too, sir? We’re doing the best we can, but it’s early days and it looks like someone else is interested in Chalmers, only they’re not so fussy about due process.’
Brooks’ face darkened, but at least the anger appeared to be subsiding. ‘Someone else? What do you mean? Who?’
‘I wish I knew. His Edinburgh house was broken into the night before last; looks like an interrupted burglary, but I’m not buying that. I’ve a suspicion someone’s been through his place out in Fife as well, but that’s been done a lot more subtly. Someone’s ransacked the offices of Morningstar too. Turned them ups
ide down, like they were looking for something. And I’ve just got back from Muirhouse –’
‘Aye. Heard about that. Dead junkie. Could you not have left that to the drugs boys? Or even Uniform?’
‘As I was saying, sir, before you interrupted, I’ve just got back from Muirhouse, where I was able to identify the dead man as Malky Davison, who worked for Morningstar. Yes, he was an addict, but he was recovering. He’d been straight for a couple of years.’
‘So the shock of his boss dying knocked him off the wagon. Tragic, I’m sure, but it’s not exactly relevant to this investigation, is it? I mean, unless you’re telling me he had a helicopter pilot’s licence or a tame dragon.’
McLean took a deep breath, let it out slowly in the hope that his growing frustration would go with it. ‘He lived in Dalry, sir. So what the fuck was he doing in Muirhouse?’
‘What are you on about, man?’
McLean bit his tongue, stopping himself from saying something that would stir the rage in the detective superintendent’s breast once more. The entire major incident room was silent around the two of them now, breaths held so tightly that if someone didn’t faint soon it would be a miracle.
‘I’ve only just this moment got in, sir. I’m still waiting for the pathologist to come back to me with a time for the post mortem. All I can say is that if Malky Davison died from a drug overdose it was no accident, and I’d lay good odds it’s connected to Bill Chalmers.’
Brooks held his stare for long moments, piggy little eyes almost vanished into the folds of his face so they looked like nothing so much as raisins pushed into unbaked dough. Finally, he shook his head.
‘You’re a bloody menace, McLean. This should have been a simple investigation.’
McLean knew bollocks when he heard it, and so, too, did Brooks. The detective superintendent turned away swiftly as his words sank in, stalking out of the incident room to a ripple of retreating officers. The bear having exited stage left, they all fixed their attention back on McLean, looking for guidance, as if he had any more idea what was happening than any of them.
‘It’s Stringer, isn’t it?’ he asked of one of the young detective constables nearby.
‘Sir.’ The young man nodded his head in confirmation.
‘How are things coming along?’
A look of terror flickered across the detective constable’s face at the question, which suggested to McLean that he didn’t have much of a clue. ‘How do you mean, sir? Things?’
‘Aye, sorry. I should be more specific. Have we anything useful from the phone lines?’
DC Stringer’s panicked look softened to one of relief. ‘It’s mostly rubbish, sir, but there’s a few possible leads. Several callers say they were woken that morning by a strange noise near the Meadows, apparently, so there must have been something there. San– DC Gregg’s gone off with Pete – sorry, DC Blane – to interview a couple of them.’
McLean looked around the room until he spotted a map of the city pinned to the wall by the whiteboards. ‘Got them mapped yet?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ Stringer looked panicked again, then he followed McLean’s gaze to the wall. ‘Oh, I see. No, sorry, sir. I’ll get on to that right away.’
‘You do that, Constable. See if we can’t find out where our dragon came from. And while you’re at it, give Ruth Tennant a call. I’d like to get her in for a formal statement. Meantime, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office, making up a progress report for the superintendent.’
20
He had been meaning to head straight to his office, but somehow McLean’s feet took him along the corridor of the station and down the stairs to the lower levels. It was a bit like travelling back in time. Smooth plastered walls painted institution beige and hung with motivational posters gave way to brickwork masked by a hundred and more years of leaded gloss white, so heavy it seemed to ooze like a child’s ice-cream cone on a summer holiday in Portobello. The corridors were narrower too, their vaulted ceilings the undisturbed domain of spiders. Some of the more imaginative constables liked to pretend there were ghosts down here, the trapped spirits of condemned men who had died in the cells before they could be taken to the Grassmarket to be hanged. Never mind that the last public hanging in the city had happened before even this ancient part of the station was built, although perhaps not by much. It made for a good story to wind up the newbies.
It was ghosts and the searching of them that had brought him down here, McLean realized. The Cold Case Unit, of which he was still nominally in charge, lived deep in the bowels of the station, far away from the bustle of everyday investigations. It might well have been a great place to retreat when the major incident room was too demanding and the stacks of paperwork in his office too much to bear, were it not for the fact that nine times out of ten retired Detective Superintendent Charles Duguid could be found down here among the dusty archive boxes. For all the rapprochement they might have made in the past few months, McLean still found Dagwood hard to be around and he suspected the feeling was mutual.
‘Beginning to think you’d forgotten all about us.’ The detective superintendent leaned back in his leather chair, the same chair that had graced his office back when he was still a serving policeman and which McLean could have sworn was in Brooks’ office until a couple of months ago.
‘Thought you liked to be left to your own devices. And it’s been a bit busy lately, chasing up your old chum Bill Chalmers.’
Duguid grimaced more than scowled, which was something of an improvement. ‘Had much help from the top brass on that?’
‘Funny you should mention it.’ McLean pulled a chair out from one of the nearby empty desks and sat down on it. The Cold Case Unit should have had a half-dozen retired detectives working for it, backed up by a couple of constables and a sergeant, all reporting to him so that he could report to Call-me-Stevie, the deputy chief constable. So far, persuading retired detectives to join the team had proved harder than anticipated, and the DCC’s enthusiasm for the whole project had waned, or at least been diverted elsewhere. Mostly, it was Duguid and Grumpy Bob, with occasional help from any detective constables who weren’t quick enough with their excuses. Today it was only Duguid.
‘Let me guess. Keeping their distance?’
‘We’ve had two press conferences and nobody higher than a DI has bothered to turn up to either.’
Duguid stroked his chin with fingers that were far too long. ‘Well, you can see it from their point of view. I’d be the same. First thing that’d happen if I was there, or Brooks or Robinson, there’d be a question about Bill’s time on the force, about whether we’d worked with him and if we’d known about his drug dealing. Before you’ve got past the first question, the whole press conference is derailed. Smart move, really, only fielding officers who joined after the shitstorm blew over.’
Put like that, McLean had to admit Duguid had a point. ‘Still doesn’t explain why they’re avoiding the incident room. Not that I’m complaining really. It’s nice to be able to just get on with the job sometimes.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Duguid grimaced again, and McLean had the strangest feeling the man was trying to smile. ‘That’s not what you came to see me about though, is it?’
‘No. Well, not unless you’ve any great insights into the case, and I kind of think you’d have told me if you had.’
Duguid said nothing, just nodded, so McLean went on.
‘It’s more about Tommy Johnston. We never solved that one, so I’m guessing it’s still open.’
‘And you reckon now’s the time the CCU should have another look?’ This time Duguid’s smile was more recognizable, although still not friendly. Unless you too were an alligator.
‘Everyone else will say it’s entirely coincidental that Chalmers was found by Tommy’s son. To be honest, I’d probably agree with them. I can’t think why anyone would want to give a message like that to a ten-year-old boy, or even his mother.’
‘Message?’ Duguid l
eaned forward, steepling his fingers together and resting his chin on the tips.
‘There has to be a reason Chalmers was killed the way he was. The only thing I can think of is to send someone a message. It’s a particularly extreme way of saying “Don’t fuck with us”, if you like.’ McLean slumped back in his chair. ‘If that’s the case, then someone out there knows who killed him and why. We’re nowhere near to finding out either, not with the way the investigation’s going at the moment. So I’m casting the net a bit further. Coming at it from a slightly different angle, if you will.’
‘And if the CCU does all the work, then it’s our budget footing the bill, which should keep Brooks happy.’ Duguid did that half-smile half-grimace thing again. ‘And here’s me thinking you didn’t care about the money.’
‘Actually, I hadn’t thought about that, but it’s a good idea.’ McLean stood up, scraping the chair legs against the flagstone floor. ‘Can you make a start on reviewing the old case files?’
‘On my own?’ Duguid asked, waving a hand across the empty room.
‘Good point. I’ll track down Grumpy Bob.’ McLean thought about the major incident room upstairs, the stalled investigation. ‘See if I can find you a couple of constables, too. If you promise not to frighten them too much.’
Hunched over in the little circle of light from his desk lamp, McLean had no idea what time it was when his phone rang. It had been already dark when he started working through the overtime sheets, duty rosters and a thousand and one other things that needed his immediate attention, so a quick glance at the window didn’t help. Only the twinge in his neck and shoulders when he reached for the handset suggested it had been more than an hour or two.
‘McLean.’
