Written in Bones: Inspector McLean 7

by James Oswald

  ‘Too much to hope it’s just a coincidence,’ she said. ‘But why’s she running payroll for the forensics services?’

  ‘She probably doesn’t even know she is. There’s Saifre companies all over the world. Financial management’s just one of many pies she’s got her sticky fingers in. It’s the connection with Bill Chalmers and Malky Davison’s tattoos that bothers me more.’ McLean let out a long sigh. ‘She’s part of all this. I just wish I knew what “all this” was.’

  ‘Any news from the hospital about Ferguson?’

  McLean stood in the major incident room, staring at the whiteboards and maps in search of inspiration. It was one thing putting together a team to look into the Johnston angle without the high heidyins knowing about it, but there was still the small matter of finding out who had murdered Bill Chalmers, how and why.

  ‘He’s in intensive care, sir.’ DC Harrison pushed her chair away from the workstation where she had been updating the electronic map. ‘I spoke to a Dr Wheeler? Neurology specialist, I think she said she was.’

  ‘Caroline. Yes, I know her.’ It didn’t surprise him that she would be dealing with Ferguson, although sometimes McLean wondered if there were any other doctors working in Midlothian NHS. That she was involved didn’t bode well.

  ‘They’ve got him stabilized, but he’s unconscious. Something about the seizure originating in his frontal cortex. Be lucky if he even remembers his name when he wakes up.’

  ‘So he’s unlikely to be much use to us then. Pity. I really would like to know where he got those bottles from, who they were meant for.’

  ‘Aye, well. The doctor did say he’d been using, and fairly recently. The blood test results came back with a very similar profile to Malky Davison.’

  McLean’s gaze finally focussed on a picture pinned to the whiteboard with a magnet. Bill Chalmers’ shattered body, still hanging in the bare branches of the tree over Jawbone Walk. Something clicked in his head as Harrison’s words filtered in through the swirl of thoughts.

  ‘What about Chalmers? Has anyone compared his blood tests with Malky’s? And now Ferguson’s?’

  ‘I … I don’t know, sir.’ Harrison sat back down at her workstation, picked up the phone. ‘I’ll get on to the hospital and Forensics. Do you think it’s likely they’re similar, too?’

  ‘They were all drugged, so why not the same drug? The stuff in those bottles – only I’ve no idea how you’d take it.’ McLean turned away from the whiteboard, giving Harrison his full attention. ‘While you’re at it, ask the hospital if Ferguson has any tattoos. I’ll lay good odds he has something very much like Malky’s. Call me as soon as you’ve got some answers. I’ll be out for a little while.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Harrison paused, still holding the phone handset. ‘If anyone asks, can I say where you’re going?’

  ‘Only if I tell you.’ McLean smiled, and then left without another word.

  His phone rang as he was walking up Sciennes Place. Warmed by his exertion, McLean was surprised at how cold the handset felt in his hand. The air was freezing, his breath steaming as he answered.

  ‘McLean.’

  ‘Hi, Inspector. It’s Amanda Parsons.’

  ‘I’m not your boss, you know. You can call me Tony.’

  ‘Aye, well. Maybe. I’m in a bit of rush so I’ll get to the point. That shit sample you asked me to get analysed.’

  McLean raked through his memories, coming up blank. ‘Remind me again?’

  ‘The manky hanky. You know. Shit splattered all over the railings and door?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That. Sorry. I’d completely forgotten. It’s been a busy time.’

  ‘Tell me about it. But don’t get your hopes up too much. The results back from the lab make no sense at all.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, there’s some human DNA in there, but it’s wee fragments. Like it’d been broken down by something. Only other time I’ve seen results like that’s when we’ve been trying to see what’s been eaten, not what’s done the eating.’

  ‘Umm …’ McLean stopped walking, glancing up nervously for no good reason. The clear skies of the past week and more had gone, replaced with ominous clouds, tinged purple with the threat of snow.

  ‘It’s probably just a duff sample. Not exactly like it was taken in ideal circumstances. The DNA could be yours, for all I know. Had you used the hanky before you wiped your hands with it?’

  ‘It’s possible. It was a cold morning and that always gets my nose running.’

  ‘There you are then. The rest of the sample’s just random junk. Doesn’t match up with anything on any of our databases, anyway. Hard to tell if it’s animal or vegetable. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. It was a long shot.’

  ‘Well, I feel bad. Should’ve done a better job, but all that sort of stuff gets farmed out to a private lab now. Won’t be long before we’re all privatized, I’ll bet.’

  ‘All in the name of efficiency.’ McLean didn’t try to hide the irony in his voice.

  ‘Aye, well, I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with anything better. Reckon it’s a dead end.’

  ‘Never mind. Even a negative result’s useful sometimes. Thanks, Amanda.’

  ‘No problem, Tony. And it’s Manda, by the way. Only my mum uses my whole name.’

  36

  Still considering Amanda Parsons’ words, McLean almost didn’t notice the commotion as he turned the corner into Marchmont Crescent. A cluster of people was moving slowly up the hill on the other side of the road, some walking backwards with video cameras on their shoulders. It reminded McLean of nothing so much as seagulls mobbing a poke of chips and at the centre of it all, barely visible in the throng, a small boy walked a terrified dog on a lead.

  ‘Come on, John. Tell us what it looked like.’

  ‘Smile for the camera, Johnny.’

  ‘Did you see the body fall, kid? What did it sound like when it hit?’

  ‘Hey. You lot. Leave him alone.’ McLean rushed across the street, pulling out his warrant card as he approached the throng. They were so intent on the chase hardly any of them noticed him, so he grabbed the nearest one by the shoulder and spun him around.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re –?’ It took a few seconds for the man’s eyes to focus on the card held inches from his face. He took a step backwards, tripping over the heel of one of the other men, and they both fell to the ground in a cascade of limbs.

  ‘Watch what you’re –’

  ‘What the fuck –?’

  ‘Get up, take your cameras and get out of here. Before I have you all locked up for harassing a minor.’ McLean pushed aside a third man, clearing the space to where young John Johnston stood with his dog Tilly. Whether it was the presence of a policeman in their midst or the blood lust had simply passed, the collected journalists dropped back, heads hung low.

  ‘Go on. Get out of here. Go chase some real news.’

  For a moment McLean had an image of himself as an irate father figure shouting at unruly kids in the kind of comic book his grandmother had frowned upon him reading as a boy. He could almost see the rolled-up newspaper brandished in anger, the strange lines radiating out from his head in Letraset dots. The assembled journalists gathered themselves, picking up dropped notepads and in one case a very expensive video camera, and stalked off in a bunch, muttering to each other. He’d probably pay for it in the early editions tomorrow, but it was worth the effort just to see the relief on the young boy’s face.

  ‘You remember me, John?’

  ‘You’re the polisman. See, Tilly knows you.’

  True enough, the elderly dog had come out from where she had been cowering behind John’s legs and was now sniffing carefully at McLean’s trousers. He crouched down slowly, offered a hand and then gave her a scratch behind the ears. His kindness earned him a wag of the tail and a sloppy wet lick across the fingers.

  ‘They been bothering you before?’ He straightened up, looking around the street to s
ee where the journalists had got to. A couple stood by a parked car and, further away, the one with the expensive camera was climbing into a white panel van.

  ‘All week. Sometimes I can get out the back and away before they see me. But the gate’s been locked the last couple days.’

  ‘Well, let’s go talk to your mum about that then.’ McLean pointed the boy in the direction of his front door. ‘And I’ll have to see about getting those reporters moved on.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Thought it was another of those damned parasite journalists.’

  As greetings went, it wasn’t perhaps the friendliest. Given the circumstances, McLean was prepared to let it slide. Ellen Johnston looked a lot more tired than the first time they had met, an air of desperation about her dishevelled appearance. He’d seen it before in people who from no fault of their own came to the attention of the media.

  ‘John was being hounded by a pack of reporters. Thought I’d see him home safely.’ McLean watched as the young lad and his dog disappeared across the hall and in through an open door. It closed with a solid thunk behind them, the clack of the lock uncomfortably noticeable in the frosty silence.

  ‘It’s been like that every day since … well, you know.’

  ‘Didn’t you complain?’

  ‘Aye, I complained. Nice wee lad on the phone promised me they’d look into it. I’ve not even seen a squad car cross the end of the road, let alone anyone come past. Not since you lot finished off in the park.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Johnston. If I’d known, I’d have stationed an officer outside your door. Or at the very least had someone check the street regularly. I left you my card. You really should have called me directly. That’s the whole point of giving you my number.’

  ‘Aye, well. I’ve had enough of being told not to waste polis time to know better.’ Johnston looked at him straight in the eyes. ‘What were you doing in this street anyways? You don’t live round here do you?’

  ‘No. Though I used to have a place like this over in Newington, until it burned down.’ McLean glanced about the hallway of Ellen Johnston’s tenement flat. He’d come alone this time, not exactly following procedure, but then more often than not the sight of two police officers just made people clam up. This was about as far from a formal investigation as he could imagine, anyway.

  ‘That was your place, was it? I remember that. Heard a lot of people died in that fire.’

  ‘Everyone living there except me and a cat. But that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘Why are you here then? Apart from helping wee John with those monsters from the press.’

  ‘Actually, I came to speak to you.’

  Johnston cocked her head to one side, much like her son’s dog had done the first time he had met it. ‘Me? Oh. OK. Why don’t you come through to the kitchen? I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  McLean did as he was bade, following Johnston into a surprisingly airy and modern kitchen. The far wall was dominated by a long window that looked out on to the shared back gardens of the block, or would have done, had the first spatterings of snow not begun to block the view.

  ‘Thanks, by the way. For helping John.’ Johnston pointed to a small table pushed up against the wall, indicating that McLean should sit.

  ‘I’ve had a bad relationship with the press in the past,’ he said. ‘Don’t like to see them picking on anyone, and going after a ten-year-old boy is just evil.’

  ‘Aye, evil. That’s just about the size of it. They were all over the place after that horrible … thing. In the park. My mistake for talking to that nice lad who came round that first afternoon. Should have known he wasn’t from Social Services, but he was right convincing.’

  ‘I’m sorry they even found out about you in the first place. Don’t know how that happened, but if I could pin it on any particular officer, they’d be looking for a new job.’

  Johnston brought over two mugs, set one down in front of him and then took the seat opposite. ‘It’s funny, but I actually believe you when you tell me that. Not many of youse lot I’d say that about.’

  ‘Thanks. I think.’ McLean looked briefly at his tea, insipid white with too much milk and too little time to stew. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs Johnston. I need to talk to you about your husband. John’s father. Tommy.’

  It was there in her face, the momentary freeze at the name. Ten years dead, and still it sent a shiver through her. She took a drink of tea to hide her reaction, using the mug as a shield against him. McLean couldn’t really blame her. From what little he’d managed to piece together about Johnston, he’d been one of those men who was all charm until things weren’t going exactly the way he wanted them to, and then the fists came out. Ten years of being a single mother had hardened the features of the woman sitting opposite him, but in her youth Mrs Johnston would have been quite the looker. A trophy wife.

  ‘I was a dancer at Frou Frou. Down on the Grassmarket. And when I say “dancer”, that’s what I mean. I wasn’t a sex worker or a stripper. Tommy had plenty of them on his books, but he had some legitimate income too. Frou Frou was one of his more upmarket places, believe it or not.’

  ‘What happened to it? The club?’

  ‘It’s still there, far as I know. Different name of course, but the same clientele. Or the same type anyways. The lads who watched me dance are probably all married with kids and a mortgage now. There’ll be a new generation of oversexed idiots though. Some things never change.’

  ‘So what about Tommy then? How long were you together?’

  ‘Long enough to father a child. Stupid arse got himself shot in the head before he could care for the lad though. Probably had it coming, mind.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?’ McLean took a sip of his tea, then wished he hadn’t. The overwhelming flavour was washing-up liquid.

  ‘Tommy was all charm. He’d promise you whatever you wanted to hear just so he could get what he wanted. It worked with the girls. Ha, it worked with me, didn’t it? Even if I did manage to persuade him to do the right thing when he knew wee John was on the way. But he used the same technique on his business partners, the people lending him money, his suppliers.’

  ‘Suppliers? I take it you don’t mean the snacks and drinks.’

  She smiled, softening some of that hardness of years. ‘Are you always so polite, Inspector? No, I don’t mean the snacks and drinks. I was just a dancer, that’s all I wanted to do, and the money was good enough. If I’d wanted more, I could have done escort work. Lots of the girls did. And then there were the more specialized services. For select clientele.’

  For a moment McLean thought she was winding him up, but there was something about the way Johnston said it that made him think she was being serious. ‘So Chalmers supplied drugs to some of his customers. Hard drugs?’

  ‘If you were part of the right crowd you could have anything you wanted. Well, anything you could afford. That’s what I heard, anyways. Never saw much of that sort of thing myself.’

  ‘And this took place in the club? What did you call it, Frou Frou? Down on the Grassmarket?’

  ‘No. Not there. Tommy was too smart to let that side of his business mix with the other. Sure, he’d find new customers at Frou Frou, charm them with that winning way of his, hook them in. But the real action happened somewhere in the New Town. Some private club. I never did find out where.’

  Thick white chunks of snow spiralled out of a bruised sky as McLean stepped out of the tenement door on his way back to the station. He’d remembered his coat on the walk over, but his hat was still at home, gathering dust in the front porch. His shoes weren’t going to survive the walk without his feet getting soaked either.

  ‘Little birdie tells me you’ve been looking for me. Wanted to see me about something.’

  McLean looked around, rewarded for his efforts by a large flake of snow slipping perfectly down the gap between the back of his neck and the collar of his shirt. Normally the smell of smoke gave him warning, but Jo Dalglies
h was on the e-cigarettes now. She leaned against the metal railings, dragging whatever strange concoction was in the device deep into her lungs before letting it out in a gout of sweet-smelling steam.

  ‘Wanted?’ He shook his head. ‘Needed is more like. You’ve been spotted at a number of crime scenes recently and you won’t answer your phone. Suspicious types might think you’ve got something to hide.’

  ‘You gonnae arrest me?’ Dalgliesh held out her hands, wrists pressed together for handcuffs. McLean kept his stuffed into his coat pockets; it was too bloody cold for that kind of nonsense and the snow was only getting thicker.

  ‘Would it make any difference?’

  ‘Prob’ly not.’ Dalgliesh shoved the e-cigarette back in her mouth. ‘So what you want to see me about? Sorry, need to see me about? Actually, fuck that. Let’s get out of this snow before I freeze my balls off.’

  The reporter stepped into a road rapidly turning white, leaving McLean with no option but to follow. He wasn’t aware of any cafés nearby, but then Dalgliesh fished a set of car keys out of her pocket, hit the button and an expensive-looking Jaguar flashed its indicators, gave off a chirrup of alarm. She hurried around to the driver’s side, popped open the door as McLean was peering in through the passenger window.

  ‘Get in, won’t you? Don’t want youse getting the leather all wet.’

  He opened the door, surprised not to see rubbish strewn all over the carpets and a smell of stale cigarette smoke in the air. Instead, that unmistakable new-car smell hit him full on.

  ‘Hire car?’ he asked as he slid into a soft leather seat, ran a hand lightly over the walnut veneer set into the dashboard. The heavy snow had dampened down the noise of the city, but an even greater level of quiet fell over them as Dalgliesh clunked shut the driver’s door.

  ‘Fuck off, hire car. This is my new toy. Was hoping for a chance to give it a bit of a run, maybe head out to Fife an’ have a wee poke around Bill Chalmers’ place. This snow’s not what I planned for at all.’

  She turned the key and McLean thought he might have heard the faintest whisper of an engine starting. The loudest noise was the fans blowing welcoming warm air at his face and feet.