by James Oswald
Robinson seemed to find it hard to meet McLean’s gaze as he spoke. His eyes darted from window to wall to desk. McLean watched him for a while, trying to think of anyone he’d let walk free rather than having to deal with the mess their arrest would inevitably cause.
‘Can’t think of any. No.’ He shook his head, perhaps a little over-theatrically.
‘Maybe that’s why you’re still a DI with no promotion prospects then. Maybe that’s why most of the other detectives don’t want to work with you.’ The DCC pushed himself away from the door, started pacing then found there was no room for more than a couple of steps before he’d have to turn around and head back the way he’d come.
‘None of that really matters to you, does it, McLean? You don’t care if you lose this job because you don’t need the income. You don’t lie awake at night wondering if your pension’s going to be enough to live on once you’ve raided your savings to put two ungrateful kids through university. This is all just a game to you, isn’t it? Fucking up people’s lives.’
McLean bit his tongue to stop himself from lashing out. Robinson’s words had a thin veneer of truth on them but like all politicians he twisted them into barbs that could get under your skin. It was clear that the DCC was very agitated about something, and McLean’s best guess was that for all his protestations it was the failure to investigate Tommy Johnston’s murder that weighed most heavily on Robinson’s mind. He opened his mouth to speak again, closed it and finally let out a long sigh through his nose, shoulders drooped, before speaking.
‘What’s the point, eh? I’m near enough retirement. Not going to get the top job, however much my wife wishes it. But here’s the thing. This job. Nobody ever comes through it squeaky clean. Mistakes are made, blind eyes turned, favours owed and given. We get the job done though. Most of the time.’ Robinson shook his head slowly from side to side, then pinched the bridge of his nose as if that was the only way to stop himself. ‘I don’t know, Tony. This case is dragging up stuff that really should have stayed buried. Or never been buried in the first place. It stank back then, but it’s really rotten now.’
‘You know I’ll keep digging unless expressly ordered not to, sir.’
Robinson let out a half-mad laugh. ‘Really? When’s being told not to do something ever stopped you before?’ He stood up straight, smoothed down the creases in his jacket and pulled at the cuffs until they were just right. Presentation was everything. ‘No, you carry on. Dig as deep as necessary. Just don’t be surprised if you lose what few friends you have left in the process.’
38
He was still pondering the deputy chief constable’s words an hour later when he left his office. The catch-up briefing would begin soon, but first McLean needed to check in on his other, more informal team. He found at least some of them in the CID room, clustered around DC Harrison’s desk and peering at her computer screen.
‘No, that’s the column you need to look at, see? And it cross-references to this bit here.’ DC Blane stabbed a finger the size of a small cucumber at the screen, mistiming and almost knocking it over. Harrison grabbed it before it could topple off the desk, catching sight of McLean as she did so.
‘Ah, sir. Think we might have found something for you.’
‘Oh yes?’ McLean looked around the room, seeing a couple of other detective constables at the far end. There were no sergeants about, and a complete lack of acting detective inspectors, but then Ritchie had taken DC Gregg to Fife and Grumpy Bob would be in the major incident room with a mug of tea and a newspaper at this time of the evening.
‘I got on to the land registry database like you asked, sir. Took a bit of searching, but the building where Morningstar are based does indeed belong to Bill Chalmers. Or to his estate, I should say. Not sure who stands to inherit.’
‘This much I already knew.’ McLean tried not to sound discouraging, hoping that the detective constable hadn’t spent the past couple of hours finding out nothing. ‘What about the neighbours?’
Harrison did a little half-smile, half-grimace that made her look about fifteen. ‘That’s where it gets complicated, sir. Well, it was complicated to start with, but it gets even more complicated. There’s shell companies and overseas whatnots and all manner of stuff I don’t begin to understand. Luckily for us, Lofty here spent eighteen months working for a bank before discovering he had a soul after all. He knows this stuff inside out.’
Detective Constable Blane blushed at the praise, which was when McLean first noticed just how large his ears were.
‘What’s the story then, Pete?’ he asked.
‘They’ve used a very sophisticated financial instrument, sir.’ Blane stood up as straight as he ever did, towering over the seated DC Harrison. ‘I’m really quite surprised, if I’m being honest. Those properties must be worth a couple million each, but this kind of thing’s usually more common in companies worth hundreds of millions. Billions, even.’
McLean could feel his mind glazing over. ‘The short story, Constable.’
Blane smiled broadly, Harrison looking up at him and giving him the gentlest of nudges with her elbow. It didn’t take the insight of twenty years’ policing to know that a bet had been placed and McLean was the target. Well, if his lack of technical acumen was something around which the team could bond, he could live with that.
‘Short story is that the next-door buildings on either side also belonged to Chalmers. Or at least to the bank which lent him the money to buy them, since technically he never paid off the mortgage. Don’t know if he had life insurance. That’s something Jay … DC Stringer’s looking into.’
McLean tried to picture the buildings in his mind. One side was the end of the terrace and had been offices of some form; he could check easily enough. The other was a guest house, run down and not the sort of place he’d choose to stay if he needed a bed for the night. ‘Good work. No, excellent work. I think tomorrow we’ll have to pay another visit to Morningstar and find out a little bit more about Bill Chalmers’ property empire. Meantime, there’s a catch-up briefing and then it’s shift end. Go home the both of you. You deserve a night off.’
‘It gets better, sir.’ Harrison was trying to suppress her excited smile and failing badly.
‘Better?’
‘Yes. See, Chalmers bought the Morningstar offices not long after he came out of Saughton, about twelve years back. Then he picked up the end-of-terrace block a year later. He bought the guest house two years after that, so it looks like he was just taking his opportunities, building a property empire. It worked to his advantage; they’re all worth at least twice what he paid for them. But the really interesting thing is here.’ Harrison pointed at the screen, now showing a scan of some waffling document. McLean recognized the entry to the Sasine Register, recording the building’s changes of ownership down the years. He had hoped that Dalgliesh’s information would pan out, but even so it surprised him to see the name on an official document.
‘Tommy Johnston. Well, well, well.’
The snow had barely eased up as McLean left for home. The car park at the back of the station looked like it had been made from royal icing, vague shapes of riot vans and squad cars turned orange and slippery by the streetlamps. His Alfa had fared a little better than most, sheltered by the lee of the wall that separated the car park from the lane leading to it. He only half froze clearing the snow from the windscreen and rear window with bare hands, but the engine came swiftly up to heat, filling the cabin with welcome warming air long before it managed to clear the fogging on the inside of the glass enough to be safe to drive.
He sat for long minutes, listening to the quiet growl of Italian horses and the whirr of the fan, staring at nothing as his thoughts flitted from one nugget of information to the next. The visit from the DCC had been unsettling, to say the least. McLean had been expecting to be taken off the case, made to do something else entirely or simply ordered not to stick his bloody nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Instead, Robinson had se
emed almost unable to make up his mind. The more he thought about it, the more McLean saw the whole event as a kind of confessional, with Call-me-Stevie as the sinner and him as the priest. That wasn’t a happy idea at all. What was the absolution required? What was the sin?
And then there was this evening’s revelation, the details of Chalmers’ growing property portfolio. Dalgliesh had hinted at, and Ellen Johnston had talked about, a place in the New Town, a private club where her skills as a dancer were not required. He really should have followed the money earlier in the investigation; the connections between Chalmers and Johnston went far deeper than the proximity of Johnston’s son and Chalmers’ tree. But someone had gone to great lengths to hide those connections. Someone with influence over some very senior police officers. Someone with a great deal of money and no great qualms about using it.
Bright red lights across his vision brought McLean back to the present. A squad car drove slowly past and out into the snowy night. He took his opportunity, eased the Alfa into gear and followed.
The one thing to be said for the appalling weather was that the roads were largely clear. It was treacherous driving though, a mixture of churned-up slush, fat snowflakes and constantly trying to anticipate when the wheels would skid, the steering lock up. At least the Alfa was light compared to more modern cars, and its tyres were narrow, sinking down through the snow to get a grip on the cold tarmac beneath. It was still entirely inappropriate to the weather, and McLean dreaded to think what the salt on the roads might be doing to the very expensive paintwork. By the time he pulled up the driveway to his home he was determined to go out as soon as possible and buy something new, probably with four-wheel drive. He took his time to inch the car into the old coach house, promising himself he’d give it a good hose down with clean water once the weather broke.
The outside light was on beside the back door, but the falling snow made it all but useless. It didn’t bother him much, he’d lived here all of his life, could probably have walked from the coach house to the door blindfold and not tripped over anything. Except for an anxious cat twining itself around his legs and making a curious chirruping sound he’d never heard before.
‘What’s up with you?’ McLean bent down, reaching out as Mrs McCutcheon’s cat nosed at him. She nudged his hand once, then turned and trotted off to the back door, disappearing with a clatter through the catflap. All manner of terrible scenarios spun through his mind as he pushed open the door and hurried through to the kitchen, and as the cat leapt up on the table the worst of them seemed to have come true.
Emma sat at one of the chairs, her head slumped against the wooden tabletop. A broken mug lay on its side by her outstretched hand, the dark stain of tea leaching into the boards. She wasn’t moving, even as Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stooped down to sniff her head and then began licking at a puddle of pale liquid in a piece of shattered pottery.
McLean wasn’t aware of dropping his briefcase, or the act of crossing the room. He was just there, by her side, one hand reaching for her neck to check for a pulse, the other digging his phone out, thumb sliding all over the screen in his haste to summon help. She was cold, too cold, and he couldn’t see any sign of breathing. Her skin had always been pale, but now it looked almost translucent, waxy, like too many corpses he had seen at too many crime scenes. He paused, fingers just inches from her throat. He didn’t want to touch her. Without that touch there was the possibility she was still alive, the faintest glimmering of hope.
Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was not so squeamish, abandoning her tea and nudging Emma’s head vigorously. McLean shooed her away and finally pressed his fingers to the curve of that neck, just below the chin. For a moment his worst fears were confirmed, his world plunged into a pit of despair. And then he felt the faintest of ticks, a distant heartbeat slow and weak and fragile. The phone in his other hand squawked into life as the call was answered, and he brought it up to his ear so fast he could almost hear the glass screen break. He relayed the information in short, efficient manner, just as his training had taught him, and then he gathered her limp body up to him in a fierce hug, waiting, waiting, for the silent arrival of the flashing lights.
39
‘We’ve got her stabilized, but that was very, very close. If you hadn’t found her when you did …’ Dr Wheeler didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to; McLean could see it in her tired eyes.
‘How has she …? What did she …?’ He stopped talking. There was nothing he could ask, nothing he could do except find himself a comfortable chair and wait. He thought about phoning Phil and Rachel, but it was late and the snow wasn’t getting any lighter outside.
‘We’re doing what we can, Tony. I’ve booked her in for a full body scan tomorrow and I’ve got a couple of other consultants lined up to have a look at her. Something made her blood pressure plummet again, but I’ve no idea what. Young Miss Baird is something of a medical enigma.’
‘Is it OK if I hang around, see if she wakes up soon?’
Dr Wheeler stifled a yawn. ‘Sure. Knock yourself out. You know your way around this place as well as any nurse. I’ve got to get back to my rounds just now, but I’ll look in on her again in about an hour.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for rounds?’ McLean asked.
‘Welcome to the twenty-four/seven NHS.’ Dr Wheeler had a clipboard thick with papers under her left arm, but she swept the right in a semicircle around the near-deserted corridor. ‘Actually, we’ve had a spate of referrals recently. Vomiting, nausea, diarrhoea, really bad shakes. I’d say it was a virus, but none of the tests shows anything. And it’s not the usual crowd who succumb to these things either.’
‘No?’ McLean tried his best to be interested, his mind still fixated on the scene in his kitchen and how he had been convinced he’d come home to a corpse.
‘No. If it was a virus or some other infection, I’d expect a wider social spread of sufferers. Working class, maybe small-time clerical. These are all high income folk. Captains of industry. Friend of mine in the private place up by the zoo says he’s had fifteen referrals this week. All similar symptoms and no easy diagnosis. We’ve got six senior lawyers and a judge in one ward here. They could almost have a trial.’
McLean laughed, but only because Dr Wheeler needed the boost. His worried mind had finally caught up with what she had been telling him, and now the pieces of the whole puzzle started to look like they might possibly all fit together.
‘How many would you say you’ve had in with these symptoms? When did they first start appearing?’
‘A week ago. Ten days maybe. Why?’
‘And you’ll have done blood tests, I take it.’
‘Of course. That’s how I know they’re not all suffering from some virus or other disease. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said they were in the early stages of drug withdrawal, but a judge? Six lawyers? A couple of my colleagues from the Royal are off sick, too, now I come to think about it.’
‘Sounds like a bad case of yuppie flu.’ McLean reached for his phone, then remembered he was in the part of the hospital where such things were supposed to be switched off. ‘I’m sorry. I really have to go and speak to someone about something. It’s to do with a case I’m working on.’
‘I’ll give you a call as soon as there’s any change. Don’t you worry, Tony.’ Dr Wheeler smiled. ‘Or should I say Detective Inspector?’
‘You might just want to disown me entirely. Especially after my next suggestion.’
‘Go on.’
‘Your six lawyers and judge – maybe even your two colleagues too. Get their bloods screened again, only this time look for the metabolites of opium, maybe some other stimulants as well. I’ll get Amanda Parsons over at the forensics lab to send you the analysis of some stuff we took off the streets a couple of days ago. I’ve a nasty feeling I know who it was meant for now.’
He couldn’t remember the last time it had snowed this heavily in the city. Normally the worst winter could throw at Edinburgh w
as a light dusting on the pavements that turned swiftly to slush; you’d wake up to find the Pentland Hills painted white and a bitter cold seeping down off them like dry ice. The Firth of Forth protected the city from the worst extremes of temperature and when a snowstorm did hit, it usually blew through swiftly.
Not so this time. When had he stepped out of Ellen Johnston’s tenement? Mid-afternoon, perhaps teatime, except that it had still been light. A glance at the clock on the dashboard showed him that it was fast approaching midnight, and still the snow drifted down in great chunks. Rush hour was going to be chaos, unless wisdom prevailed and everyone stayed at home. Schools would almost certainly be closed.
The drive across town was memorable mostly for the need to avoid abandoned cars, although the old cobbled road surface of Randolph Crescent taxed McLean’s skills more than a little. Normally at this time of night he’d expect to make the journey in twenty minutes at the most, but it was getting on for twice that before he finally pulled into the station car park and slotted his car back into the space he’d left just a few hours earlier. He should have been tired, both physically and emotionally, but he knew that there was nothing he could do for Emma, and Dr Wheeler’s words had opened up a possibility that needed investigation as soon as possible.
‘Who’s on night shift for SCD?’ McLean surprised a sleepy uniform constable as she stared bleary-eyed at a computer monitor in the major incident room. He recognized her as one of the team who had first secured the Chalmers crime scene, but couldn’t for the life of him put a name to the face. All of the other workstations were unmanned.
