Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (25 page)

‘Ah, the prodigal son returns. And about bloody time.’

McLean had left DC MacBride to park the car. He’d been intending to head up to the major incident room, catch up on the day’s lack of progress and hopefully find DS Ritchie. Instead he was barely
through the back door to the station when the familiar, irritating tones of Detective Chief Inspector Brooks rang out across the hallway.

‘Were you looking for me, sir? Only I’ve been out on a case.’ McLean pulled out his phone, held it up for Brooks to see. ‘You should have called.’

‘Don’t get cocky with me, McLean. I know what you’re like.’

‘Was there anything in particular? Only I’m quite
busy.’

‘Aye, I heard that. So busy you’ve time to go poking your nose into NCA business. Thought you were meant to be heading up a murder investigation. Isn’t that a bit more important than some idiot killed himself in a car accident?’

‘I agree. It would be nice only to have one case to work on, sir. And much as I’d like to, saying no to a detective chief superintendent isn’t really wise. Not
when he’s got the DCC’s ear too. I’m sure you’ve had cases where you felt the same?’

Brooks’ eyes narrowed, the folds on his face deepening as his anger rose. ‘Two people are dead, McLean. They had
their fucking throats cut. One of them was dumped in a bin like so much trash and whoever did it is still out there. I’d say that was a good bit more important than your developer friends.’

‘I’ve
been out less than two hours. And for your information they weren’t my friends. I hardly knew them. If I thought the investigation into Ben Stevenson and Maureen Shenks’ deaths could be helped by my pacing back and forth in the incident room, rest assured that’s what I’d be doing. I don’t recall it having all that high a rate of success when you’ve tried it though.’

He shouldn’t have said it.
McLean knew that as the words were coming out. Brooks wasn’t Duguid, for all that he was likely to have the top job in a few months. McLean could cope with Duguid’s bluster; his temper was quick to ignite and just as swift to blow over. Brooks was a different prospect altogether, needed much more careful handling. The detective chief inspector’s scowl relaxed rather than deepened, as if he knew he’d
scored a point in some arcane competition to which only he knew the rules.

‘Perhaps if you were paying attention, you’d know that we’ve new forensic results on the nurse. Results that could crack the whole thing open. Need I remind you that time is critical in any murder investigation, McLean? You should have been here directing operations, not gallivanting off across the city. You delegate that
shit to the sergeants.’

And they fuck it up, so you have to go and do it all anyway, wasting yet more time. McLean shook his head slightly, more at himself falling into the same old trap than anything Brooks had said. The DCI was right, up to a point, but that didn’t make him any less of an arse.

‘Thank you for the reminder, sir. And thanks for letting me know about the forensic update. I’ll
be interested to see what that’s all about. There’s just one small thing.’

‘Aye? What?’ The scowl was back, a hint of worry in those narrow eyes.

‘DI Spence is SIO on the Maureen Shenks case. Not me.’

Brooks’ face darkened, building up to a righteous anger.

‘You’re the one wants both cases investigated together, dammit. You need to be here to coordinate that. If you can’t manage that then
I’ll have to suggest to control they assign a more experienced detective.’

The late afternoon sun baked the streets, tarmac shimmering as it melted in the heat. McLean watched the temperature gauge in his Alfa nervously as they sat in traffic heading south from the city centre. Brooks’ important piece of new forensic evidence had turned out to be nothing of the sort, just an excuse for the DCI
to give him a hard time. McLean couldn’t see any point in pacing the incident room, getting in the way of the admin and constables who were doing all the real work, so he’d found DS Ritchie, and persuaded her to come and help him break the bad news to Joe McClymont’s on-again off-again girlfriend. She was currently fanning herself with a notebook.

‘What I wouldn’t give for a bit of a breeze right
now.’

Both windows were open, but without any noticeable forward progress, all that meant was they had the pleasure of breathing exhaust fumes.

‘I probably should have kept the pool car. Shame MacBride only signed it out for the morning.’ McLean inched forward as the traffic freed up, then slowed to a halt again
a few yards on. ‘This old girl’s fun to drive down country lanes, but not exactly
appropriate for this kind of work.’

‘Old girl?’ Ritchie raised a slim eyebrow. They’d never really grown back properly after she’d pulled him out of a burning factory a couple of years earlier. Her hair had, though, and it was longer now than he thought he’d ever seen it, cut shoulder length. Was it his imagination, or was it a deeper red than he remembered? Shinier and healthier-looking, too.

‘I know. Very sexist of me. What can I say, I’m a throwback to an earlier era.’

‘No, it’s kind of appropriate.’ Ritchie patted the dashboard with her free hand. ‘But you’re right. You shouldn’t be using her for this kind of work. Get yourself something new.’

‘And keep this for my days off?’

‘Aye, well there is that.’ Ritchie smiled at the joke. ‘It’d be a shame if something got dropped on her
again, mind. You have something of a reputation now.’

The traffic eased a little, and McLean concentrated on driving smoothly past the blockage, a delivery truck far too wide for the narrow road. He glanced nervously upwards at scaffolding clinging to the side of a modern office block as he passed, searching for any heavy objects that might be descending from on high. It was foolish, really,
but then given how much it had cost to fix the Alfa, maybe something cheap and dispensable was a good idea.

‘Not sure I’d know where to start. With a new car. Seems like there’s always more important things to do than flicking through magazines and cross-referencing specifications.’

‘You could get Stuart to do it. He loves that sort of thing.’

‘I rather think he’s got enough on his plate right
now.’

‘True. Oh well, I might have a look-see. Always fun spending other people’s money.’

‘Is it? I wouldn’t know.’ McLean turned down a side street, looking for the right number. This was an expensive part of town, decent-sized detached houses set back from the road. Almost all the front gardens had been paved over, with top-end motors parked up or spaces where they would soon be returning
from work. They put him in mind of Joe McClymont’s flash BMW, and sure enough there were plenty of similar models to be seen. Conspicuous affluence, or more likely just barely managing to make the payments each month.

The house he was looking for had a Range Rover outside the same year and specification as Duguid’s. McLean parked in the street in a welcome bit of cool shade under a large tree.
He had to wait for Ritchie to wind up her window and get out so that he could lock her door, yet one more reason why a car from the early seventies wasn’t perhaps ideal as an everyday runabout and workhorse.

‘You ready for this?’ he asked, more for his own reassurance than hers. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew why he needed to come here. The news could have been broken by a trained family liaison
officer, after all.

Ritchie gave him a funny look. ‘Reckon so. Just have to hope she’s in.’

The look on Charlie Stevenson’s face when she answered the door was enough to tell McLean that she had already
heard the news. That and the smell of alcohol. Afternoon was progressing towards evening, but it was still a little early to be hitting the sauce.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ She opened the door wide, then
turned and walked away, expecting him to follow. McLean did so, Ritchie making sure the door was closed behind them. They walked through an elegantly decorated hallway, shoes clacking on polished wooden floorboards, and into a large open-plan kitchen-diner.

‘The girls not at home?’ McLean asked. There was plenty of evidence of them. Childish pictures pinned to the fridge door with magnets, the
dining table given over to colouring books, a box in the corner heaped with Barbie dolls and plastic horses. Piles of clothes, neatly folded and waiting to be put away.

‘Why? You here to interrogate them?’ Stevenson slumped in a high seat, leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the cooking part of the kitchen from the dining area. A bottle of wine stood erect on the counter alongside
a large wine glass that was half full.

‘Sorry, bad joke. They’re at their gran’s. Hard enough explaining to them why they can’t see daddy any more without having to tell them Uncle Joe’s not coming to visit any time soon either.’

‘I’m sorry.’ McLean pulled out a stool and sat on it, across the breakfast bar from Stevenson. No, not Stevenson, he reminded himself. She’d reverted to her maiden
name, Christie.

‘Why are you here, Inspector?’ Christie picked up the wine glass and swirled around the clear liquid within.

‘Firstly, I came to tell you about Joe McClymont. I’ll
admit, I was surprised when Ms Grainger gave me your name.’

‘Bitch. She phoned me about an hour ago. Never heard her sound so happy in her life.’

‘Happy?’ Ritchie asked.

‘Who’re you then? Inspector’s squeeze? Better-looking
than the last one at least.’

McLean saw Ritchie stifle a smile. They both knew that Grumpy Bob had sat in on the previous interview.

‘Detective Sergeant Ritchie.’ She produced her warrant card, holding it up even though Christie showed no interest in it whatsoever. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

‘Really?’ Christie swirled her glass, then took a long swig. Coughed as it burned its way down.

‘Really.
I don’t know you, never met Joe McClymont, but I’ve had the bottom fall out of my world before. It’s not nice and I’d not wish it on anyone.’

‘Yeah? Well you could wish it on whoever it was ran Joe off the road. You could wish it on Ms Violet fucking Grainger.’

‘I take it the two of you didn’t get along.’ McLean decided not to point out that the accident had not involved any other cars.

‘Can
see why they made you a detective.’ Christie put her wine glass down with surprising dexterity. Perhaps not as drunk as she was acting. Either that or just lucky.

‘How long have you and Joe McClymont been seeing each other?’

‘Seeing each other. How very polite of you. Joe and me were at school together. Grew up in the same street. I’d probably have married him if I’d done the same as
everyone
else. Left after my O grades and got a job in Tesco. But I was cursed with a brain, Inspector. I went to university. Got ideas. Met Ben.’

‘But you kept in touch with Joe, I take it.’ McLean began to understand why the marriage had failed. Built on sand and hope. A childhood sweetheart just around the corner to offer a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on and temptation when things got rocky.

‘Joe was a good listener. Ben only liked the sound of his own voice. When it got bad, I’d go round to his place and just talk. It didn’t get physical until much later.’

‘But before you and Ben split?’

Christie stared at him a long while before answering. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what Joe was doing up Inverness way?’

‘This time of year, probably going deep-sea fishing. He’s got a cottage in Achiltibuie,
and a share in a boat up there. Jock liked his shooting, but Joe just loved to be out on the water.’

‘Did you ever go up there with him?’

A look of horror shuddered across Christie’s face. ‘Once. God it was awful. Never stopped raining, and the midges. The girls were bored out of their tiny minds, kicking up a fuss you wouldn’t believe. Don’t think Joe really wanted me there, either. He seemed
tense a lot of the time. Only really happy once he’d been out on the boat.’

‘You go fishing with him?’

‘Christ, no. I’m hopeless on boats. Just spend the whole time throwing up.’

‘So you only went the one time.’

‘Yeah.’ Christie stared into the middle distance as if the
thought had only just occurred to her. Her hand reached out for the glass and she took another long gulp before focusing
once more on McLean. ‘Lucky, really.’

‘Ms Grainger suggested that you and Joe weren’t seeing each other any more.’

‘My, you are full of questions today, Inspector. Sure you only dropped round to give me the bad news?’

McLean shrugged. ‘Thought you’d rather hear it from a familiar face. And I wanted to know more about the McClymonts. They were redeveloping the tenement block I used to live in,
after all.’

Something like understanding dawned. ‘Oh, you’re that policeman,’ Christie said. ‘Makes sense, I guess. And yes, we were in one of our off periods, but they never lasted long. You might have had something to do with it, now I come to think of it.’

‘Me? How?’

‘You wouldn’t sell your flat. Joe was baffled by that. The amount of money they were offering. Old Jock and that bloody harpie
of a Grainger woman couldn’t believe it either. Heard them talking about it one time I was round the old man’s place. She kept on going on about how it was impossible you could refuse them.’ Christie shook her head. ‘No idea what that was about, but it fair buggered up their plans.’