Fenwick held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hey, that’s your code name, not mine. I’m just concerned it’s all going south before it’s even started.’
‘I don’t think Renfrew’s disappearance is anything to do with the operation.’ McLean pulled out into the traffic, resisting the temptation to accelerate hard and shake up his unwanted passenger.
‘Yeah, that’s what your superintendent told me you’d say. Not quite sure how you come to that conclusion though.’
‘My gut?’ McLean waited for a sarcastic comment, but none came. ‘Look, I know there’s a lot tied up in this operation.’
‘You have no idea.’
Something about the way Fenwick said the words made McLean a little more sympathetic towards the man. He knew that put-upon feeling all too well. ‘So what’s the story then? You CIA?’
‘Best you don’t ask. The point is, I’ve been sent over to keep an eye on you poor little small-town cops, make sure you’re doing your job properly. That’s what my bosses want, and they don’t care how patronising it sounds. You guys don’t need my help and certainly don’t want me looking over your shoulders the whole time. But this missing clerk of yours? That’s got people worried.’
‘It’s got me worried, but for her safety, not the operation.’
‘Yeah, well. All I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if people start leaning on you hard. The types I work with, they want results and they want them now. Earlier if they can. They’ll also be lining up someone to take the rap if it all heads south.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Mr Fenwick?’
The American said nothing for a while, which McLean took as a good sign. Easier to blurt out a prepared lie than work out the best way to tell the truth.
‘What do you know about Operation Caterwaul?’ he asked eventually.
‘Not as much as you, I’d guess. We’re logistical support more than anything, and the whole thing’s being run on a need-to-know basis. I do have sufficient seniority to know that it’s a multi-agency investigation into money laundering and tax evasion on a massive scale. Billions of pounds, or dollars, or whatever.’
Fenwick laughed. ‘I’d heard that about you, McLean. Can I call you Tony?’
‘If it keeps you happy. It’s my name.’
‘You know as well as I do what we’re dealing with here. Dirty money, most of it Russian, but some of it from South American drugs. All being funnelled through certain corporations and banks, back and forth until it’s almost impossible to tell where it first came from. And up at the top of the pyramid, there’s some very powerful and influential people. The sort of people who don’t think twice about permanent solutions to their problems, if you get my meaning.’
‘That why we raided the accountants in Aberdeen? You think this money’s going through some of the big oil companies? Or would it have more to do with the leisure industry? Golf courses and luxury hotels?’
‘That’s above both of our pay grades, Tony.’ Fenwick pointed to the roadside up ahead. ‘You can drop me off here. I’ll make my own way home.’
16
McLean watched the spook walk away down the road in the direction of Morningside until he disappeared out of sight around a corner. A few moments later a black Mercedes with tinted windows and diplomatic plates glided slowly past, so clearly Brad Fenwick was as much showman as spy. The message was no less worrying for that.
It didn’t exactly surprise him that the Americans were jittery about Operation Caterwaul. McLean wasn’t nearly senior enough to have the top security clearance, but it didn’t take a genius to see what they were really after. Money laundering on a national scale meant state operators. That the initial fact-finding accountancy raids had taken place in Aberdeen and Ayr suggested a target he didn’t particularly want to think about. Profiles didn’t get much higher than that, and neither did stakes. No wonder they were nervous about Renfrew’s untimely disappearance.
He had pulled over to the kerb not far from the church. It was only a hundred yards or so to his front gate, home and Emma waiting. And yet McLean found himself turning off the engine, settling back in the leather seat. He stared sightlessly out of the windscreen and let his thoughts roam, free from the distractions of the station, the worries of his personal life.
Despite what everyone thought, the Americans included, he wasn’t convinced that Renfrew’s disappearance had anything to do with the operation. She was too junior, too peripheral to compromise anything. That didn’t mean it was any less urgent they track her down. She could well be in trouble, and she certainly had some questions to answer about her double life. Why was she pretending to be her mother? What was she trying to hide?
McLean drummed his fingers idly on the steering wheel. The inside of the car had been cool while the engine was running, chilled by the air conditioning. Now it was rapidly turning into a sauna, cooked by the evening sun and the reflected heat off the stone wall that separated the graveyard from the road and kept the dead from escaping. He reached forward to tap the button that would bring the V6 engine back into life, then stopped. Something had caught his eye and it took a moment for him to focus on what it was.
The air was thick and warm as he stepped out of the car, closed and locked the door. No other traffic moved along the road, and if it hadn’t been for the background roar of the city, he might have been in a well-to-do village in the middle of nowhere. The church wall came up to his shoulder, topped by iron railings. Beyond the church boundary, these gave way to thick laurel hedge, only recently trimmed. A few leaves still scattered the pavement where the gardener hadn’t tidied up properly.
Except that there was no gardener looking after the grounds around that particular house. Nobody had been in there for at least a couple of years, as far as McLean was aware. He walked up towards the gate that opened onto the house where Norman Bale had lived, and stared up at the empty building. The window frames had been painted, the ivy cleared from the walls, the lawn mown. A lot of effort had been put into making it presentable. Given that Bale himself was unlikely to be returning any time soon, that could only mean one thing. He couldn’t imagine who would want to buy the place, not with its history, but it was clearly about to go up for sale.
McLean retraced his steps, then carried on past his car and up to the house on the other side of the church. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be the minister. And if she wasn’t in, he could put a detective constable on to Bale’s solicitor for answers. It was too much of a coincidence that the man should resurface now, eager to speak to him.
‘Tony. What a nice surprise.’
Mary Currie wore a flour-dusted apron over her black shirt and clerical collar. A patch of flour smeared across her forehead where she’d pushed away her grey hair without thinking, and McLean found it hard not to stare.
‘It’s been a while,’ he said. ‘I trust you’re well.’
‘As well as anyone can be in this heat. And someone thought it would be a good idea to have a bake sale to raise funds.’ The minister shrugged to indicate that the someone had been her. ‘Would I be right in thinking this isn’t a social call? I notice Emma’s not with you.’
‘I was just on my way home actually. Couldn’t help noticing they’ve tidied up the Bale house.’
Mary Currie’s smile disappeared, the flour creasing on her forehead as she frowned. She paused a moment as if making a difficult decision, then stepped to one side and indicated for him to enter.
‘Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea, eh?’
McLean remembered the last time he had been in the rectory kitchen all too well. It was a comfortable room, well lived in, if a little warm given the weather. Mary Currie had opened the windows wide, letting a lazy breeze in from the graveyard beyond, but it didn’t do much to cool the air.
‘You’ve been busy.’ McLean indicated the large table, covered in enough sco
nes, cakes, shortbread and other baked goods to feed an army. The smell was enough to make his mouth water.
‘The bring-and-buy’s on Saturday morning, if you and Emma would like to come.’ The minister filled the kettle and plugged it in, searched in the cupboards for mugs and tea bags.
‘I’ll see what we can do. Been trying to get out and about a bit more.’
He was all too aware that they were skirting around the subject. The minister had been involved in the Bale case too, had seen up close and personal the horror of his madness. He’d sat at this very table, sharing tea and platitudes with one of her prayer groups while sizing up his next victim.
‘Do you hear much from Daniel?’ he asked after the kettle had finished its noisy boiling.
‘Bits and pieces. The bishop found him a nice little parish up in the Perthshire hills. Keeps himself to himself. He took a long time to heal physically. Mentally, I think that’s still a work in progress.’
McLean could only imagine what being crucified in your own church would do to your mental state. He could remember the sight all too well. At least that had been the end of Bale’s killing spree.
‘There’s been painters and workmen at the house for a couple of weeks now. Surprised you didn’t notice before.’ The minister placed a mug of tea on the table in front of him, pulled out a seat and sat down. McLean paused a while before doing the same.
‘My route to work takes me the other way. And you know I don’t really do church.’
Mary Currie smiled at that. ‘Not unless you have to. I know. Your gran was the same.’ She took a sip of tea, stared at the endless baked goods for a moment, but didn’t succumb to temptation. ‘The man clipping the hedge today said it was going on the market next week. Reckons somewhere north of two million pounds, if you can believe that?’
McLean could. The property market in Edinburgh had exploded in recent times, especially at the top end. Where all the money was coming from was another question. Although maybe the constant cuts to public services had something to do with it.
‘Bale’s tried to get in touch with me recently. I can’t help thinking this is no coincidence.’ He explained the details to the minister, wondering as he did if this counted as some kind of confession. Wrong denomination of course. For her part, Mary Currie gave him the time and space, not interrupting as he unfolded the tale. Only when he was sure he’d finished did she speak.
‘I know I’m supposed to give people the benefit of the doubt. It’s kind of the job description really. Second chances and redemption, atonement for sins. That said, I share your scepticism with regards to Norman.’ She took another sip of tea, perhaps waiting for McLean to say something. When he didn’t, she carried on.
‘It’s possible all this, selling up the family home, reaching out to you as his last link to childhood, all of it might be his way of seeking forgiveness. But if that’s the case, then who is he asking it from? And why now?’
‘That’s the first thing I thought of too. I checked with the psychiatric hospital. He’s in good health physically, not had any recent brushes with death to remind him of his mortality. If something’s set him off, I’ve no idea what it is.’
‘What do you remember about him?’
‘Apart from the fact he was a complete nutter?’ McLean shook his head, knowing that wasn’t what Mary Currie meant. ‘He was obsessed with saving peoples’ souls. At least that was the reason he gave for killing all those people. Something about apotheosis.’
‘He believed he could see when a person was blessed, that God directed him to such people precisely so that he could hasten their journey to heaven before they became corrupted again.’ The minister looked into her empty tea mug for inspiration, found none. ‘As you say, a complete nutter. But he was absolutely certain he was doing the right thing. Until you stopped him.’
‘Do you think he wants revenge then?’ McLean followed the thought out into the many different ways a man of Bale’s capabilities could make his life a misery. It wasn’t a happy trail.
‘No. Not revenge. That’s not the Norman I remember. He considered himself above such things.’
‘So if not revenge, then what does he want?’
The minister shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Tony. But I’d hazard a guess that whatever it is, it’s not about you or the house. No, if I know anything about Norman at all, it’s that he’s only ever really been concerned with himself.’
McLean found Emma sitting at the kitchen table when he let himself in half an hour later. She looked up almost guiltily, eyes wide with surprise.
‘Hello, stranger. Wasn’t expecting you home for hours yet.’
A quick glance at the clock showed that she was being a little unfair, but there was no hint of scorn in her voice this time.
‘I’d have been a bit earlier, but I stopped off at the vicarage.’
‘Oh yes? Something I should know?’ That was more of the old Emma. A slightly sarcastic and joking tone he’d missed in the months since her miscarriage. She stood up as she spoke, but didn’t come to give him a hug. Instead she started clearing up the teapot, mugs and plates scattered around the table.
‘Visitors?’ he nodded at the collection.
‘You first.’
‘Fair enough.’ He told her about Norman Bale and the house for sale on the other side of the church. It occurred to him as he did so that she’d been away for the whole of that episode, travelling the world in search of answers to a question he still didn’t quite understand himself.
‘I noticed them working on that house. Wondered what was going on. Can’t imagine anyone wanting to live there though. Not after . . .’ She trailed off, not needing to elaborate.
‘Well, we caught Bale in the church, and the minister knew him. Knew his parents too, for that matter. It was a useful chat. I think.’ He helped her with the last mug and plate, carrying them over to the dishwasher as she started to load it. ‘Oh, and she’s having a bring-and-buy on Saturday morning. Coffee and cakes sort of thing. If you’re interested?’
‘Are you asking me out to church on a date, Tony McLean?’ Emma nudged him in the ribs, and her smile was a welcome sight after months of frowns.
‘That depends on who you’ve been secretly inviting round to tea.’
‘This?’ She held up the last mug before bending down to put it with the others. ‘Just Professor Turner dropped by. She helped me with my application for the postgrad course, which is probably against the rules or something. We got chatting about forensics and the afternoon just disappeared.’
‘And of course she didn’t tell any tall tales about me at all.’
Emma stood up straight, leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Your name might have come up. Once or twice.’
She walked away, out through the kitchen door. McLean watched her go, a little bemused and a little pleased. Her mood was much improved, and if it took her finding out embarrassing secrets from his youth to do that, then it was a price he was happy to pay.
17
She awakes in darkness and in pain. Her whole body aches as if she’s been tumbled down a hill a mile long. Breathing sends little jabs of agony through her chest, like knives sewn between her ribs. Her face burns from a thousand cuts, each daubed with acid. She tries to reach up and feel her cheeks, certain they must be scarred and hideous, and that is when she realises she is trapped.
The panic only brings more pain as she struggles against unseen bonds. Something holds her down, keeps her arms tight by her sides, her legs pinned together. Only her feet are free to move, and bare with it. Wherever she is, it is cold enough that her toes have gone numb. And it’s dark, so dark. She can see nothing.
‘Help.’
Her voice sounds like someone else. Someone turned hoarse by shouting, husky by decades of cigarettes and whisky. It’s a voice that reminds her of her mother more than anyone.
Certainly not herself.
‘Help. Please.’
She tries to move again, but the pain brings flashes of light to the darkness, swirling and darting around her like maddened faeries. The stabbing in her chest grows worse, the swaddling that holds her down making every breath a strain. What happened to her? Where is she? How did she get here?
She remembers the car park in the woods. The men and their insatiable needs. Her own insatiable needs too, the guilt she has to burn out of herself with sin. Was it one of them who did this to her? No. It was the car. Battery dead. And then the trees, the forest, something chasing her, getting closer. The panic that had gripped her then begins to swell once more, and she thrashes around heedless of the agony. For an instant that is a lifetime, she imagines some great beast, some spider from myth, has caught her, poisoned her, wrapped her tight in a cocoon of strongest silk. Even now the toxins pumped into her body are dissolving her from the inside, and soon the great beast will return, drink her dry.
How long she lies in the darkness she cannot know. Time has no meaning here, and all she has is her pain. If she drifts off to sleep it is fitful and no release. The pain of her dreams is indistinguishable from the pain of her waking. She is dead, she knows. This is hell, her punishment for a life of lies and depravity. It will never end.
And then she hears footsteps, muffled by distance or some kind of door. For a moment she considers shouting, but the jabbing in her chest stops her. That and a realisation that it’s far more likely whoever brought her here is returning to see whether she has woken. It seems unlikely they’re here to rescue her.
Faintest light flickers in her peripheral vision, enough to show a rough stone wall close by, arching over her head to a low ceiling. She strains to move, tilts her head backwards until she can make out the shape of a door lined by brightness. There is a jangling of keys, one slotted into a lock. It clicks and the door swings open. She can’t focus on the figure that stands in the doorway, and the burning in her chest is too much to keep her head tipped back so far.
Bury Them Deep Page 9
