by James Oswald
‘Call for you on the switchboard, sir. A Dr Wheeler?’
An icy chill ran down his neck and McLean scrambled in his pocket for his mobile. It let him know that it was near enough eight in the evening, but it also seemed to have decided there was no signal in his office. That would explain why the doctor had phoned the station, but not how he could have forgotten all about Emma’s collapse that morning.
‘Thank you. Put her through.’ He tensed as the phone line went dead, then clicked as the call was connected. What possible bad news could there be that she would go to all this trouble to get in touch with him?
‘Hello? Are you there?’ Dr Wheeler’s voice sounded distant, as if she were calling from the other side of the world, not the other side of the city.
‘Hi. Caroline. Sorry, yes.’
‘You’re a hard man to contact sometimes, Tony.’
McLean fumbled with his mobile phone, peering at the screen and the little icon that told him he had one bar of signal now. It vibrated in his hand, a slew of messages and missed calls suddenly appearing. Dr Wheeler wasn’t the only one who had been trying to contact him all afternoon and evening, it seemed.
‘Sorry about that. My mobile seems to be acting up. Usually no problem with a signal in here, but for some reason it’s not seeing anything.’
‘That’s karma, then. For when you should have switched it off in the hospital this morning and didn’t.’
McLean relaxed a little. If Dr Wheeler was able to make jokes, then chances were she wasn’t bearing bad tidings. ‘What can I do for you? I take it this is about Emma?’
‘The same. I’d say you could take her home and get her out of my hair but realistically we need to keep her in overnight for observation. I’ve got her booked for the MRI scanner at one and she should be able to leave after that.’
‘Surprised she didn’t call to let me know herself.’ McLean thumbed the long list of mobile contacts his phone was only now admitting to having received. ‘Oh, looks like she did.’
‘That’s probably one reason why she’s been so …’ Dr Wheeler paused, as if trying to find the right word. Or maybe trying to be diplomatic.
‘Awkward?’ McLean suggested.
‘Unsettled, perhaps. I can see her point. I don’t much like being cooped up in this place and I work here.’
‘I’ll swing past on my way home. Probably should be leaving now, anyway. It’s been a long day.’ He stifled a yawn, stretched his neck from side to side and winced as a spasm of pain shot up into the back of his head. He had definitely been staring at paperwork for too long.
‘Actually, that was why I was calling. Em’s going to need a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow. I was wondering if you couldn’t fetch her something first.’
It made sense, even though McLean knew that whatever clothes he picked out would be wrong. Fresher than what she’d been wearing when she collapsed though, and everyone felt better after a change of underwear, didn’t they?
‘I’ll do that then. Expect it’ll take me a couple of hours.’ He looked at his watch, even though he’d only just seen the time on his phone. ‘Is that going to be a problem?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no. It’s not visiting hours, but you’ve never really been one for rules, have you Tony?’
21
Big Pants Ruthie Tennant clearly didn’t like police stations. McLean had come to that conclusion even before they made it to the nice interview room, but as things progressed it became more and more apparent. She played with her fingers constantly, first in her lap, then on the tabletop, then back in her lap. Each question prompted a nervous start, as if someone had let off a firework unexpectedly behind her, and before she answered she would push her spectacles up her nose with a shaky finger.
‘It’s all just getting a bit too much to take in. I mean, first Bill and now Malky. Who’s going to be next? Me?’
‘Do you think your life is in danger, Mrs Tennant?’ Acting DI Ritchie asked the question. McLean had brought her in on the interview because he thought Tennant would be more relaxed with another woman in the room. It didn’t really seem to be working. If anything, she was even more nervous when Ritchie spoke than when he did.
‘I don’t know. I can’t think why, but then I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill Bill in the first place. And now poor Malky. I don’t believe for a moment he had a relapse, you know. Even if that’s what they’re saying.’
‘How long have you known Malky, Ruth?’ McLean leaned forward as he asked the question, trying to keep things calm.
‘Malky? Well. Four years, maybe? No, five. He came through the programme. Christ, I’m not sure how he wasn’t already dead, given the stuff he was taking. But he responded well, and he and Bill hit it off too. You know part of the programme is finding jobs for recovering addicts, right? We work with businesses all over the city, teaching them how to cope with employees who might not be as reliable as most. At least to start with.’
‘But Malky came to work for the charity,’ McLean said.
‘Aye. Like I said, he and Bill got on well. We’ve had a few others work in the offices or help out with some of the programmes, but Malky’s the first one to stick around for more than a month or two.’ Tennant interlocked her fingers, dropping both hands into her lap as she stared straight at McLean. ‘And now he’s gone.’
‘You have other staff, though. People who can step in and keep things running?’
‘Yes and no. Bill was the driving force behind it all, you understand. Most of the people running the programmes are volunteers. We don’t have a lot of money for permanent staff. Just me and … well, Malky.’
‘You say he got on well with Chalmers. Did they ever go off together? You know, after work, for a drink sort of thing?’
Tennant looked at McLean as if he was mad. ‘Bill? With Malky? Go for a drink?’ She shook her head. ‘You really don’t know anything about him, do you, Tony?’
‘That’s kind of why we’re talking to you. So are you saying Bill was teetotal? Malky?’
Now Tennant laughed, which at least had the effect of relaxing her a little. ‘Och, no. He liked a drink as much as the next man. Both of them did. But Bill would no’ go out with the likes of Malky. No’ in public. No. If he was going out, it was with much richer company.’
‘So Malky, then. Did he have any friends you know of?’ Ritchie asked.
Tennant’s smile disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived. Her hands went back to fidgeting. ‘I don’t really know. Not outside of the charity. I mean, he had neighbours, in his wee tenement, but they’d hardly be what you’d call friends.’
‘So no girlfriend then? Or boyfriend? I mean, we really don’t know much about him at all.’
‘I don’t think he was gay.’ Tennant stared off into the distance for a while, as if her thoughts were written in small letters on the far wall and she’d forgotten to bring her spectacles. ‘No. I think I’d have known that. His mum lives out Granton way. You’d be as well speaking to her as anyone.’
‘You got a name and address for her?’ Ritchie asked.
‘Aye. Should have. Rose. Rose Davison. Here.’ Tennant produced a smartphone that had to be too big for her tiny head and hands, pecked at the screen until it came up with the details. McLean watched Ritchie write down the name in handwriting much neater than his own. Another person to talk to; another piece in what was turning into a very large jigsaw puzzle with no handy picture on the box for reference.
‘Have you had a chance to look at the offices, see what was taken?’ he asked.
Tennant shook her head. ‘Your forensic people are still going over everything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t much missing. We didn’t have much for starters – no cash lying around, and it’s not as if we hand out drugs.’
‘But you do operate a needle exchange,’ Ritchie said. ‘I take it people can come to the office for supplies?’
There was a fraction of a pause before Tennant answered. Not muc
h, but McLean noticed it. ‘No. They used to, but that part of town, it’s not somewhere … Bill didn’t like …’
‘The other businesses in the street complained about junkies wandering past their offices, is that it?’
‘Something like that, aye.’ Tennant tilted her head in confirmation, a flicker of relief in her eyes as they darted from Ritchie to McLean and back again.
‘How did you get needles to people, then?’
‘Mostly through selected pharmacies across the city. A couple of outreach centres. I can give you the addresses.’
‘So you don’t do anything but admin from the offices in Rothesay Terrace?’
‘We run some self-help groups, but only for people who’ve progressed far enough through the programme. Bill was always keen on outsourcing the work to other more local outfits. And we get a lot of our money from businesses in the West End. They don’t much like it if we encourage too many drug addicts into the area. If only they knew the history of that part of town.’
McLean was about to ask Tennant what she meant, but Ritchie butted in.
‘You keep mentioning this “programme”. What exactly is it?’
Tennant’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Ah, the programme. That was Bill’s greatest achievement, I think. Did you know that most psychoactive drugs are only addictive within a particular set of environmental stress situations? There’s been studies in rats where, if you give them a perfect playground with food and toys and no stress, they ignore it when you put heroin out for them. But if you lock them in a featureless cage with no stimulus and overcrowding, they’re addicts within a day. Well, it’s the same with people, really. You’ve seen the deprivation in some parts of the city. Folk who’ve never been employed and never will be. Living in squalid conditions with no hope of ever improving. Endlessly bombarded with images of a perfect life they can never hope to achieve. Hardly surprising they turn to drugs and then get hooked. So the programme tries to deal with both. It’s a multidisciplinary approach, tackling the problems behind the addiction at the same time as the addiction itself. All of our clients undergo one to one therapy sessions, as well as group and self-help classes, while they’re weaned off whatever drug they’ve become addicted to through chemical and other interventions. There are fortnight- and month-long boot camps designed to remove the clients from the soul-destroying environment that led to their addiction in the first place, and –’
‘I think we get the picture.’ McLean interrupted before Tennant fainted from lack of breath. ‘So what’s going to happen to the charity now?’ he asked. ‘Will you soldier on?’
‘I don’t really see how I can do anything else. I’ll have to get more help in, and we’ll have to see what the lawyers have to say about the offices. I’ve got a meeting scheduled with the accountants, too. We sunk a lot of cash into the latest campaign and now we’re going to have to pull the plug on it. At least for the time being.’ Tennant had been almost happy for a moment, explaining the rationale behind Morningstar, but now her hands were back in her lap, fingers twisting together then releasing again.
‘I’ll have a word with the forensics team, see how quickly we can get you back into your offices.’ McLean stood up, indicating to Ritchie and Tennant both that the interview was over. ‘I’ll speak to the duty sergeant, too. We can have a constable on the door for your protection if you want.’
Something like terror flitted across Tennant’s face. ‘Oh. No. That really won’t be necessary.’
McLean let out a silent sigh of relief. He’d made the promise genuinely, but the cost of personal protection would have knocked a big hole in their budget. ‘Well, if you’re sure. We can give you a panic alarm for the office and your home. Hopefully, you’ll never need to use them.’ He held out his hand, gave hers a reassuring shake when she took it. ‘If there’s anything else we need to know, I’ll give you a call. That OK?’
Tennant looked a little surprised. ‘Of course. But do you think that’ll be likely? I mean, I’ve told you just about everything I know.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ McLean said. ‘I’ve a suspicion the investigation into Bill Chalmers’ death won’t be over any time soon. And Malky Davison is a complication we could well have done without.’
‘Well, that was a bit of a waste of time, don’t you think?’
Acting Detective Inspector Ritchie leaned against the wall opposite the open doorway to the nice interview room, watching as Ruth Tennant was led away to a waiting car by a uniform constable. McLean fiddled with his phone; he’d somehow managed to turn it off during the interview rather than simply muting it, and now he couldn’t get it to switch back on.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I thought it was rather illuminating, actually.’ He let out an inaudible sigh of relief as the screen lit up, although soon enough it would start pinging all the messages and missed calls that had come in during the past hour.
‘How so?’ Ritchie asked.
‘Well, we found out all we ever needed to know about Morningstar’s programme, for one thing.’
‘Aye, and some. I’ve read that story about the rats. Sure it’s not the whole picture. But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?’ Ritchie twined her fingers together, in and out, in a parody of Tennant’s anxious fidgeting.
‘You noticed that too? I’ve had nervous interviewees before, but usually when we’ve hauled them in as suspects. Not when they’re just giving us background information.’
‘You think she was hiding something?’ Ritchie pushed herself away from the wall, peered down the corridor in the direction Tennant had left.
‘I’m fairly sure of it, just not quite sure whether it’s to do with Bill Chalmers’ death, the break-in, Malky Davison or all three. Odd that she was scared they’d come for her next but didn’t want us to put a constable on her door.’
‘You want to get her back in sometime? Have another go at her?’
‘Could do. Maybe get you and Sandy Gregg to interview her once we’ve done a bit more background on both her and the charity.’
‘Why us?’ Ritchie asked.
‘Because she’s uncomfortable in the company of other women.’ McLean wanted it to be that reason, but he couldn’t kid himself it was only that. ‘And because I was at school with her when I was five.’
The pale lines of skin where Ritchie’s eyebrows had once been raised high. ‘Is there anyone in this city you’re not distantly related to?’
‘I was at school with her, Kirsty. We’re not cousins or anything.’
Ritchie laughed, something McLean hadn’t heard in a while. ‘Just kidding. But I guess you’re right. Best to keep your distance if there’s any connection. Even something as tenuous as that.’ She paused a moment before adding: ‘What was she like, though? Did you have a crush on her?’
‘Big Pants Ruthie? Hardly.’ It was McLean’s turn to laugh.
‘Big Pants?’ Ritchie arched her missing eyebrows again.
‘Her mum dressed her in dungarees. It’s a long story. Not really relevant here. I’m more interested in finding out where these residential treatments are held if it’s not at the offices in Rothesay Terrace. I’d like someone to speak to the pharmacists doing the needle exchanges, too. And I’d really like to know why a charity struggling to raise funds can still operate out of a building worth at least a couple of million.’
Ritchie had already pulled out her notebook before McLean finished speaking, and was jotting down notes. ‘Why is it I feel like a detective sergeant all over again?’ she asked, with only the ghost of a smile as she spoke.
22
‘Poor lad must have had a miserable life if these are anything to go by.’
Mid-morning and outside the sun would just be beginning to show itself above the tops of the Pentland Hills, south of the city. McLean had entered the city mortuary in the pre-dawn gloom that lingered in the depths of the Cowgate far longer than in most parts of town. He hoped he’d get a chance to see natural light at least once t
oday.
‘Track marks?’ He stood a short distance from the examination table, keeping out of Angus Cadwallader’s way as the pathologist made his swift but methodical examination of Malky Davison’s body. Stripped naked, he was skeletally thin, his skin an unhealthy tone even for a dead man. How he could have managed to lift anything with those stick arms, McLean had no idea, let alone pull tight a tourniquet and find a vein.
‘There’s some of that, yes.’ Cadwallader picked up one of the dead man’s hands, cradling his elbow at the same time and angling the arm to the light. McLean peered in, seeing a mess of scars, pinprick marks and pale yellow bruising at the crook. ‘See here? That’s the injection point he used yesterday. But the rest of these are ancient.’
‘According to his boss he’d been clean at least three years. He came through their programme, then stuck around to help others out.’ McLean remembered the interview with Ruth Tennant, a woman struggling to cope with the sudden disintegration of her life. Even with all the shit falling around her, she had been proud of Malky Davison, shocked at the way he had died.
‘Yes, well. I dare say he stopped injecting heroin that long ago, but I don’t see much evidence to suggest he was what you would call clean.’ Cadwallader put the arm back down on the stainless steel table, moving around to look at the dead man’s head. Gentle fingers teased away straggly hair, revealing a scalp as acne-spotted as Malky’s cheeks and forehead. Whatever Cadwallader was looking for, he clearly didn’t find it there, switching his attention first to the eyes, then Malky’s mouth, and finally peering closely at his armpits.
‘You think he was shooting up somewhere else?’ McLean asked.
‘Well, yes. At least, that was what I assumed, given his overall state ante mortem. But I can’t find any obvious injection site. It’s like he was taking in the drug some other way.’
‘Like smoking it, maybe? Eating it?’
Cadwallader paused in his examination to stare at McLean, a curious expression on his face. ‘Actually, yes. Very much like smoking it.’
