Cold as the Grave

by James Oswald

  ‘You’re just being daft,’ he muttered under his breath, drawing a quizzical look from a nearby forensic technician.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a torch I could borrow?’ he asked to cover his embarrassment. He expected to have to sign for it, then get an invoice for the loan in among the paperwork this new crime would inevitably generate. Instead the technician leaned into the van and came back with a heavy-duty flashlight.

  ‘Just give it back when you’re done, aye?’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’ He hefted the torch, looked around the increasingly busy street, took a deep breath and stepped onto the clear path to the body.

  It had probably been a mews entrance, just wide enough for a coach and two, back in the days when Edinburgh had been a city of horse-drawn transport. Then the far end of the alley would have opened onto a courtyard of some form, stables and feed stores and a shed to keep the carriages in. All that had gone, swallowed up by later development and the unstoppable advance of the internal combustion engine. Now the alley was a dead end. A place where wheelie bins lived when they weren’t on the pavement for collection day.

  You could be forgiven for thinking there’d been no collection for weeks, such was the rubbish strewn over the alley. Uneven cobbles made walking tricky, not helped by the very narrow path the forensic team had marked out all the way to the wall at the back. There, a mess of old black bin liners, damp cardboard boxes and discarded fast food containers piled up against the stonework, a modern-day sandbank washed up by the tides of human laziness. And sprawled across it, like a shipwrecked mariner, lay the body of a man.

  McLean fiddled with the torch until he worked out how to turn it on. The beam was suitably dazzling, picking out details in sharp relief as he stepped closer. The man lay on his back, staring up at the thin strip of sky overhead with sightless eyes. His arms hung limp at his sides as if he had just fallen backwards into the heap of rubbish and died. His white hair and wrinkled, leathery skin gave him the look of an old man, but his clothes were what McLean would expect someone in their twenties to be wearing. Lumberjack shirt over a plain white T-shirt, chunky leather jacket, tidy jeans turned up neatly at the bottoms, black leather boots that had hardly been worn judging by the state of their soles. Hipster chic it was called, or something like that.

  Playing the torchlight over the nearby area, he could see what Cairns meant about them not getting much in the way of forensic clues from the scene. Most of the rubbish strewn around looked like it had been here a while, built up in archaeological layers. The body lay on the top, which meant it was recently added to the rest of the discarded and unwanted detritus, but nothing else looked fresh and new.

  ‘What have we got here then, Tony?’

  McLean turned awkwardly on the spot, knowing all too well the bollocking he’d get from Jemima Cairns if he stepped off the safe path despite her pessimistic appraisal of the scene so far. Dressed in rather more comfortable-looking white overalls than his own, Doctor Tom MacPhail lugged a small leather case of instruments, none of which would be any help to the patient.

  ‘Morning, Tom. Angus busy, is he?’

  MacPhail shrugged. ‘He lets the rest of us out from time to time. If we’ve been good.’ His grin faded as he looked past McLean at the poorly lit body. ‘Least that’s what he tells us. This our poor unfortunate?’

  McLean leaned back to allow MacPhail past, shining his torch on the prostrate figure. ‘That’s him, aye. Not had a chance to look at him closely yet.’

  ‘Probably for the best.’ MacPhail crouched down by the body, looking around it without touching anything. ‘Keep that light on him, can you?’

  McLean did as he was asked and watched as the pathologist carried out his initial examination, aware all the while that this wasn’t the sort of work a detective chief inspector should be doing. On the other hand, Kenny Stephen’s initial thoughts about the body had been spot on. He might have been looking at an adult male rather than a female child, but the condition of his skin was too similar to that of the other two bodies to ignore. McLean was willing to lay good odds this wasn’t an old man who’d dropped dead of a heart attack.

  ‘This might interest you more than me.’ MacPhail reached up towards him with something in his hand. McLean diverted the torch to reveal a thin billfold wallet, and when he opened it up he found a driving licence.

  ‘Maurice Jennings.’ He squinted to read the tiny letters in the poor light, unable to hold wallet and licence and point the torch at the same time. ‘Local boy, by the address. And he was twenty-four.’

  ‘Twenty-four?’ MacPhail rocked back on his heels. ‘I’d have added forty to that.’

  McLean played the torch over the dead man’s face again. Quite apart from the dry, leathery quality of his skin and the shocking white of his hair, the dead man looked shrunken in his clothes, as if he’d borrowed them from someone much bigger. Everything about him shouted great age, except his choice of clothing and the date on his driving licence, but as McLean flicked the torch from tiny passport-style photograph to withered old face, there was little doubt they were the same man. Just the same man several decades apart.

  ‘You going to hazard a time of death? Maybe a cause? I’m guessing this is suspicious, at the very least.’

  MacPhail clambered to his feet with a lot less creaking and groaning than his old boss, Cadwallader. ‘Time would be late last night, can’t be more specific than that given the circumstances. Cause is I haven’t got a fucking clue. And as to is it suspicious? You tell me, Tony.’ He looked back down at the dead man. ‘You tell me.’

  25

  The phone call came in as he was walking back to the station from Broughton Street. He pulled the handset from his pocket and stared at the screen for a while. The number wasn’t in his contact list, and the bitter cold wind whipping in off the Forth made him wish he’d remembered the pair of gloves currently locked away in his Alfa. In the end, curiosity got the better of him and he thumbed accept, ducking behind one of the stone corbels on North Bridge to try and find some shelter.

  ‘McLean.’

  ‘Insp— . . . Chief Inspector McLean?’ A woman’s voice, vaguely familiar although he couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Sorry. It’s Sheila Begbie, from House the Refugees?’

  McLean turned his back on the traffic, hunching against the stonework as a bus rumbled past. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Begbie?’

  ‘See that wee girl you found in the basement underneath my office? Well, I’ve got another one here. Only she’s a lot more lively.’

  For a moment, he couldn’t understand what the woman was saying. ‘I’m sorry? You’ve got a young girl with you? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Aye. Found her here when I opened up this morning. No idea how she got in, mind, but she was in the kitchen, hiding in one o’ the cupboards wi’ a packet of biscuits she’d stolen.’

  McLean stepped out of the shelter, walking as swiftly as he could up the slope towards the Royal Mile. The offices of House the Refugees were less than ten minutes away. ‘Do you know who she is?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. She’s no’ from these parts, though. I can tell youse that. Hasn’t got a word of English to her, and her face, well. You’ll understand if you see her.’

  ‘I’m on my way to you now. Shouldn’t be long.’

  He killed the call, then flicked through the menus until he found DI Ritchie’s number. It went straight to message, so he tried DC Gregg. Again no answer – well, at least he could tell McIntyre he’d tried when she bent his ear about it later. He swiped through the contact list again, finally finding DC Harrison’s number.

  ‘Sir?’ She answered on the second ring. McLean couldn’t decide whether or not that was a good thing.

  ‘You at the station, Constable?’ He glanced at his watch, still early in the day. He’d barely
sat down in his office when the news about the dead man in Broughton Street had come in.

  ‘At my desk. Was there something you needed?’

  He told her about the call he’d just received, all too aware as he related the tale that he was looking for a female officer to deal with a child, not someone specifically trained in working with children.

  ‘I’ll understand it if you don’t think you’d be any help,’ he said into the silence on the line after he’d finished.

  ‘What? Oh, no. Sorry, sir. Just put the phone down while I was grabbing my jacket. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  McLean ended the call, hunching his shoulders against the wind as he trod carefully down the Royal Mile. It didn’t take long at all to reach the narrow stone house, but instead of going inside, he ducked down the close to the door he’d stumbled upon just a few short days ago. Someone had secured it with a new padlock and hasp, and crime scene tape still fluttered around the frame. Without the hordes of forensic technicians and uniformed officers, the close felt bigger than he remembered, more sky overhead. A locked gate at the end opened up onto a small garden, and the only other door led into the basement of the building opposite. Apart from the tiny kitchen window, neither house had any windows looking out over the close itself, although indentations in the stone walls suggested they might once have been there.

  ‘Why did you come down here?’

  He hadn’t meant to speak the question out loud. Nevertheless, it was an important one. If the girl had got into the basement through the hole in the floor above it, there would have been no sign of her out here. Whoever had broken the door down must have been looking for her, but how had they known where to find her? The walls were solid here, and thick. There was no way any sound from inside would carry through. No windows to show a torch light, and they’d not found one in among the girl’s scant possessions anyway.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular, sir?’

  McLean turned swiftly, a sharp jab of pain shooting up his hip. DC Harrison stood at the entrance to the close, ballooned in a massive padded jacket, her head mostly engulfed by a big black woolly hat with a pair of pompons on it that looked like cartoon ears. The tip of her nose almost glowed it was so red with the cold.

  ‘Just thinking. Wondering, really. It can wait though. There’s more important matters to attend.’ He joined Harrison in the street, and together they climbed the half a dozen steps to the front door of House the Refugees. McLean reached out and pressed the button on the intercom. No voice answered, but the electronic lock clicked, and they both stepped inside.

  McLean’s brief interactions with Sheila Begbie before had left him with an impression of a small, angry woman. That was perhaps an unfair assessment, given the circumstances of their meeting. She was still small, but when she greeted them in the front office it was with a friendly smile tinged with relief.

  ‘Thank God you’re here. Thought it might take a while longer and I’m getting desperate.’

  McLean opened his mouth to speak, but a howl of rage like a trapped animal erupted from behind the closed door through to the kitchen. Begbie flinched. ‘She’s been screaming her head off ever since I called you.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea who she is?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘I don’t recognise her, no. And she won’t speak any English to me. Mind you, she won’t speak much at all. Just keeps on yelling like that.’ As if to emphasise the point, the anguished howl ebbed away into a low sobbing.

  ‘Perhaps we should call someone from Social Services,’ McLean said.

  ‘Let’s see if we can’t talk to her first, sir?’ Harrison walked over to the door, knocked on it lightly. The sobbing stopped, replaced by an attentive silence.

  ‘Is it OK if I come in?’ Like most English speakers addressing a foreigner, Harrison enunciated her words slowly and clearly, as if talking to an imbecile. There was no answer, so she gently opened the door.

  ‘I’m not going to – ooft.’ She staggered backwards as something small and child-shaped barrelled through the door and straight into her. Begbie stood open-mouthed in astonishment, but McLean was already moving, ready to cover the door to the hallway and the outside. It wasn’t necessary though: Harrison had caught a hold of the tearaway, pivoting around and pinning her arms behind her with a skill that suggested much practice.

  ‘Hold still, you wee . . .’ She wrestled with the girl for a moment, sinking down onto her knees so that their heads were at the same level, and twisting her around until they faced each other. ‘We’re not going to hurt you, OK. We’re here to help.’

  Either she was lulling them into a false sense of security, or the words sunk in. The fight went out of the girl as if she’d been switched off. There was a moment’s pause, and then she flung her arms around Harrison’s neck and buried her head into the detective constable’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey, hey. It’s OK. It’s OK.’ Harrison patted the girl gently on the back, then looked up at McLean with a ‘What do I do now?’ expression on her face. He had to admit he didn’t have much of a clue.

  ‘Ms Begbie, have you got anything to drink in the kitchen there? Not coffee or tea, something . . .’ He nodded his head towards the girl to indicate what he meant.

  ‘Aye, there’s some wee cartons of juice in the fridge. I’ll away and fetch one, will I?’ Begbie edged around the room, not wanting to upset the girl. It wouldn’t have mattered as she still had her head buried in Harrison’s shoulder, clinging on to her for dear life. From where he stood, McLean couldn’t see much about the girl other than that she was shockingly dirty. Her hair could have been any colour, it was so matted and greasy. It hung down to her shoulders in a badly cut mess, all too reminiscent of the dead girl they’d found in the basement below. She wore an odd mismatch of clothes, bulked out in layers against the cold, and he couldn’t really ignore the smell that filled the room.

  ‘Here you go, sweetie. How’d you like something to drink, eh?’

  Begbie reappeared from the kitchen with a small drinks carton, the straw already popped into the foil circle in the top. She crouched down beside Harrison and the girl, and held it out to be taken. For a while nothing happened, then slowly the girl relaxed her grip on the detective constable and eased herself away. She looked first at the two women, and then over her shoulder at McLean. Her face was just as dirty as he’d expected it would be, but the look in her bright green eyes was fierce, defiant and hard to meet. He held it though, aware that he was being judged. After a moment that was only seconds but felt like minutes, she nodded ever so slightly, then turned away and took the offered carton of juice.

  Harrison rocked back on her heels and stood up, her knees making barely a sound. The benefits of youth, McLean supposed. He stepped away from the door, pulled one of the chairs out from the wall and sat down, his every move followed by those huge, judgemental eyes. The girl drank greedily at first, but then slowed as if unsure whether or not she’d get any more. Finally she took the straw from her mouth and held the carton to her chest like a treasured memento of better times. McLean tried to guess her age, but her odd assortment of clothes, terrible dirtiness and worldly-wise expression made it all but impossible. Five going on fifty was his best guess.

  ‘Hello,’ he said after a few heartbeats of pause. ‘I’m Tony. What’s your name?’

  The girl frowned at him, shook her head slightly, then turned to Harrison.

  ‘Janie.’ She pointed at herself, then turned the finger towards the girl. ‘And you?’

  The girl shook her head again, the motion working its way down her entire body as her gaze dropped to the floor. And then she spoke, her voice a mumbled whisper that nevertheless sent a chill through McLean.

  ‘Nala.’

  It took a long time for the team from Social Services to arrive, but McLean and Harrison stayed with the young girl all the while. She said nothing more than her
name, seeming to understand very little English but relaxing in tiny increments as it became clear they weren’t going to hurt her. More biscuits and cartons of juice from the kitchen helped with this too, so that when the time came for her to go, she was only slightly hysterical. In the end, Harrison had to accompany her outside to the car.

  ‘Why do you think she came here?’ McLean asked Sheila Begbie once they were alone. The charity worker had slumped into the chair at her desk, and was no doubt hoping everyone else would go away so she could get on with the day’s work.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be asking how she got in here. That’s what’s been bugging me.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle, I’ll grant you that much. But she was in here, so she must have found a way. I don’t believe for a minute this was just a random choice though. She came here for a reason. She knew about this place. That suggests to me she’s been here before.’

  Begbie’s angry face came back. ‘I told you I didn’t recognise her.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you, Ms Begbie. Given the state of her, I don’t think I’d recognise her if she was my own child. But we know she’s not local, and we know what your charity does. You must have refugees coming in here, looking for help getting themselves settled, understanding the system, that kind of thing, right?’

  ‘That’s pretty much what we do, aye. Only we don’t get many folk in here. This is just the office for our admin, fundraising, that kind of stuff. We’re not exactly geared up as a walk-in centre. This is the wrong part of town for that, anyway. Too much going on. And things like that march the other day don’t help.’

  McLean glanced out the window to the near-empty street beyond. He’d not thought about the march in a while. His team had only been logistical support, after all. It was in the hands of the anti-terror boys now.