Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (9 page)

‘Thank you for coming in. I know this must be a very difficult time. For you and your daughters.’

Interview room three had been redecorated recently, which meant that it didn’t look too shabby or intimidating. There was a powerful odour of paint though,
and the window didn’t open. On a warm August morning that made for a somewhat uncomfortable meeting. McLean had taken off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Beside him, Grumpy Bob slumped like a man half asleep. Across from them the object of their interview looked fresh and well by comparison.

‘It’s not easy explaining to a child that daddy’s not coming back ever again. But in
some ways it’s better they deal with it at such an early age. The young mind is so plastic. So malleable.’ Charlie Stevenson wasn’t exactly wearing widow’s weeds. She was dressed for summer in a flowing floral dress that was so thin it revealed rather more than it hid. She was perhaps early thirties, well tanned and even better toned. A fashionably large pair of sunglasses was pushed up into her
long straw-blonde hair, itself piled up in a loose knot on the top of her head. She had piercing grey eyes that fixed on McLean as he spoke and wouldn’t let go.

‘You and Mr Stevenson were recently divorced, I understand.’

‘Yes. The papers finally came through about six months ago. Of course we’d been apart for a couple of years by then.’

‘How long were you married before that?’

‘Ten years.’
The ex-Mrs Stevenson gave a little theatrical frown. ‘No, I tell a lie. It was eleven. Give or take a month.’

‘And you had two girls.’

‘Lucy and Clare, yes. Lucy’s five, Clare’s seven. Is this relevant, Inspector?’

McLean paused before answering, holding that grey-eyed stare. She was undeniably good-looking, but something about the way she carried herself put him on edge.

‘I’m trying to get
a picture of Mr Stevenson’s mental state over the last few months. You are … were closest to him.’

‘That’s debatable. Not since Lucy was born, at least.’

‘Mr Stevenson had custody of the girls at weekends, I think.’

‘Twice a month, yes. And he’d take them for longer if I needed to get away. He wasn’t a bad father, Inspector. Ben doted on the girls.’

‘What is it you do, Mrs Stevenson?’

‘As
I said, the papers came through six months ago. I’ve not been Mrs Stevenson in a very long time. I’m Miss Christie again now.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry. What do you do, Miss Christie?’

‘Do?’

‘Work. What’s your business that you occasionally have to get away for, for longer than a weekend?’

An angry scowl flitted across Miss Christie’s face at the question. ‘Again, I’m not sure how relevant that
is. I’m not a suspect, am I? Only I’ve not got a lawyer or anything.’

‘No, Miss Christie. You’re not a suspect.’ McLean clasped his hands together to keep from fidgeting, leaned his elbows on the table. Miss Christie uncrossed her legs, then crossed them over the other way, leaning forward herself.

‘I’m trying to get some idea of Mr Stevenson’s state of mind leading up to his death. You say
you’ve been separated a couple of years, but you probably saw him as often as his colleagues at work, and you’ve known him longer than anyone. So tell me, when was the last time he had the girls for more than a weekend? When was the last time he had them at all?’

Miss Christie didn’t answer straight away. It might have been that she was genuinely trying to remember, but McLean got the impression
she was acting. She uncrossed and crossed her legs again, like a little girl desperate to be excused. He gave her all the time she needed, confident that Grumpy Bob wouldn’t butt in. The silence was probably only twenty or thirty seconds, but it felt like a small ice age.

‘He hasn’t had the girls over in eight weeks. Maybe three months.’ This was obviously a source of great annoyance to Miss
Christie.

‘But he saw them? Every so often?’

‘He’d drop by my house sometimes. Pick them up from school and bring them home, maybe. But he’d never stay long.’

‘Did he say why?’ This from Grumpy Bob, the first he’d contributed to the conversation so far.

‘He was working on something big. I know that much. It was like when he had that scoop a few years back. You
remember, the corruption scandal
in the council? Backhanders and nepotism and God only knows what else. That was Ben’s last big story. I kind of got the impression he was on to something similar. As big, anyway.’

‘But he didn’t discuss it with you.’

‘Not even when we were married. Ben was always very protective of his work, his sources. He often said he’d rather the story didn’t get published than he betray a confidence. Took
that very seriously. Too bloody seriously if you ask me. Like these narks, whatever they were, were more important than his wife and children.’

‘So this new thing. It started about three months ago, then?’

‘I reckon so, Inspector. That’s when the girls started complaining, anyway. They love going to stay with their daddy. Kids are so innocent that way. Can’t see the faults in us adults.’

McLean
leaned back into his chair, as much to get away from the eye-catching view of Miss Christie’s décolletage as anything. He’d scribbled a few notes down, but the main questions Mrs Stevenson – Miss Christie, he corrected himself – could answer, she had done.

‘I think that’s all for now. Thank you. Detective Sergeant Laird will see you get home OK.’

They all stood, Miss Christie gathering up the
large canvas bag she’d brought with her, as Grumpy Bob went to open the door. She was about to leave when McLean thought of one last thing.

‘You have a key, to Mr Stevenson’s flat?’ he asked.

‘Of course. It was my home once.’ Miss Christie hefted her bag as if to fetch something out of it.

‘I’d be grateful if we could have it. Just until we’ve finished with the forensic investigation. I’m sure
you’ll keep away if we ask you to, but I’d hate for it to fall into someone else’s hands.’

McLean held out his hand, maintaining eye contact all the while. There was a pause, and then Miss Christie shrugged, reached into the bag and pulled out a key ring. ‘Fair enough,’ she said as she handed it over. ‘But I’ll be wanting a receipt.’

The CID room was quiet, with most of what little action there
was taking place in the major incident room up the stairs. McLean had gone there in search of DC MacBride, or at a pinch DC Gregg. He needed someone to come along with him when he visited Ben Stevenson’s flat, and Grumpy Bob had disappeared after escorting the late journalist’s ex-wife away from her interview. He didn’t expect the pale, freckled face topped with an unruly mop of straggly red hair
that stared up at him from a desk that had been empty for a couple of months now.

‘Didn’t think you were back until next week,’ he said, then realised how rude that sounded. ‘Sorry. It’s good to see you, Kirsty.’

Detective Sergeant Ritchie’s initial frown turned to a smile. ‘I was going stir-crazy, sir. Cooped up in that wee basement flat.’

‘You could have gone out, you know. Enjoyed the Festival,
taken a holiday, rested.’

‘Oh, I did plenty of that, but it gets a bit dull after a while. There’s only so many books you can read before your brain starts to go all mushy.’

‘That a fact?’ McLean wished he had the time to put that theory to the test. He’d love the opportunity to lose himself in a good book for a change. Instead he had overtime rosters and reports so dry they made his eyeballs
shrivel.

‘Thought I’d do a bit of background reading. Bring myself up to speed before I start back proper on Monday.’ Ritchie pointed at the computer screen in front of her, just in case he didn’t know how she might do such a thing.

‘I’ve got a better idea. Fancy a stroll up to Marchmont?’

‘What’s up there?’ Ritchie was already out of her seat and lifting a lightweight fleece jacket off the
back of her chair.

‘A journalist’s flat. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

It took rather longer to walk there than he’d anticipated. DS Ritchie might have been declared fit for work by the doctors, but a fortnight in a hospital bed followed by a couple of months recuperating had left her frail. Walking more than a few hundred yards made her short of breath, and she couldn’t match
his normal pace at all. Not for the first time McLean was reminded of just how close to death she’d come, and all because of a kiss.

Ben Stevenson’s address was a surprisingly large tenement flat in Marchmont. As McLean and Ritchie walked up the street towards it, he couldn’t help thinking either that journalists were paid far more than their whining and complaints might suggest, or that Stevenson
had a sideline in bank robbery. Then again, maybe the man had inherited money. It wasn’t unheard of, after all.

‘’Bout bloody time. What took you so long?’ As they
approached the front door, McLean noticed a figure standing by the door. It didn’t take long for him to recognise Jo Dalgliesh, and he was relieved to see that she was back in her normal gear – scruffy jeans, Doc Martens, tattered
leather coat and a canvas bag big enough for a fortnight’s holiday. The pavement around her feet was littered with dog ends. Clearly she’d been waiting a while.

‘What’s she doing here?’ DS Ritchie asked.

‘Should have told you. She’s working with us on this one. Sorry.’ McLean had phoned the journalist before he’d gone in search of a constable to accompany him to Stevenson’s flat. He’d been so
surprised to find Ritchie in, he’d quite forgotten about it.

‘Thought I’d have a quick fag.’ Dalgliesh checked her watch. ‘Didn’t think I’d get through the whole packet.’

McLean ignored the jibe, unlocked the door with the key Charlie Christie had given him and entered the hallway. He remembered these tenements from his student days. Not Stevenson’s block, but one or two along. They were bigger
than the Newington flats, the communal stairs more opulent. This one was well kept, too. No students living here now, if the lack of broken bicycles and discarded pizza boxes was anything to go by. No half-brick to prop open the front door, either. And a complete absence of the stench of cat.

‘You been here before?’ McLean asked.

‘No’ fer a wee whiley. Used to come round a lot when Ben and Charlie
were still together.’

‘Charlie being the ex-wife?’ Ritchie asked. She’d been eyeing the journalist suspiciously from the moment she’d first appeared.

‘Aye. Never really liked her, if I’m being honest. Ben must’ve though. They stuck together long enough.’

‘And they had two children.’ McLean started the climb up to the top floor, glancing out of the window on to a neat communal garden behind
the building.

‘Two wee girls. Ben dotes on them. Doted, I guess. Poor wee things are going to miss their daddy.’

He stopped mid-step. The concept of empathy from the likes of Dalgliesh was so alien to him that he simply couldn’t walk for a moment. This was the woman who, after all, had written a book dissecting in minute detail the final hours and violent, terrifying deaths of ten young women,
without a thought for what the sharing of such information would do to the relatives of the dead.

‘Top floor, Inspector.’ Dalgliesh pushed past him on to the next landing. McLean stared at her back for a moment, realised that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it with an audible click, then followed her up the stairs.

From what little he recalled of the man whilst he was alive, McLean had been expecting Ben Stevenson’s flat to be an untidy place, piled high with bric-a-brac, probably smelling faintly of carry-out and unwashed plates. The reality was a stark contrast
to the slightly scruffy reporter’s work persona.

They stood in the open doorway, looking over a large, wide hall. Doors led off to various rooms yet unrevealed, and an iron spiral staircase wound its way up into the attic. Everything was tidy, the furniture he could see a mixture of antique pieces and a more modern sideboard.

‘Best you put some of these on before you touch anything.’ McLean
took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and handed them to Dalgliesh. ‘And don’t touch anything without asking me first, OK?’

She nodded, pulling the gloves on with far too much dexterity to suggest it was something she hadn’t done many times before. McLean forced his hands into another pair, snapping them tight around his fingers. Behind them, Ritchie reached the top of the stairs and
the front door with an audible sigh of relief.

‘You want to take the back of the flat to start with, Sergeant?’ McLean asked.

‘Just give us a minute to catch my breath, aye?’ Ritchie leaned heavily on the railing. Her normally pale face was
almost white now, just the beige spread of freckles to give her any colour.

‘Take your time. Not meant to be working today, anyway, are you?’

Dalgliesh
raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, shadowing McLean like an obedient spaniel as he stepped into the hall. He didn’t go far, just turned slowly on the spot, trying to get a feel for the place and the man who had lived here. Even from this viewpoint he could tell the tenement was huge and airy. Christ only knew what it was worth, especially if there was a second storey.

‘We looking for anything
in particular?’ Dalgliesh asked.

‘Anything that points to what he was working on, I guess. Did he have a study?’

‘This way.’ The reporter led him down the wide hall and through the living room. McLean noticed a familiar-looking Linn turntable, nestling in front of a wall filled with shelves of vinyl LPs. He thought he’d amassed quite a collection himself before the fire in his Newington tenement
had turned them all into puddles of black liquid, but Stevenson made his efforts seem positively amateur.

‘If I’d known journalism paid this well I might’ve gone into it myself.’

Dalgliesh let out a snort of laughter. ‘Ben came from old money. He was good, but no’ that good.’

Through a door at one end of the living room was what might once have been a maid’s room. It was relatively small, but
still big enough to hold a large desk dominated by an enormous computer screen. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lined three walls. The fourth, facing the main road, was mostly taken up with a sash window.

‘Behold, the inner sanctum.’ Dalgliesh lifted up both arms and turned on the spot. ‘This is where Ben worked, when he wasn’t at the paper.’

McLean walked around the desk, casting his eyes over
the books on the shelves. Stevenson’s reading tastes seemed eclectic and his filing system was haphazard. Autobiographies of famous footballers nestled cheek by jowl with crime fiction; political diaries snuggled up to scientific and economic textbooks. There were quite a few conspiracy theory books, too, but they covered a broad range of subjects.

‘You worked with Stevenson on a few big stories.
Seem to recall your byline on that piece about the independence referendum a few months back.’

‘Oh aye, Ben ’n’ me were thick as thieves, Inspector.’ Dalgliesh didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

‘But you worked with him. You came here? Discussed stories you were writing?’

‘Sat just there.’ Dalgliesh pointed at an armchair in the corner by the window. ‘Me with my laptop, Ben on his
Mac. Get the right story and we could be quite the team.’

‘The right story?’

‘Aye, well. There’s times when collaborating’s fine. Other times you just don’t want another journo snooping around what you’re doing.’

‘And Stevenson’s latest story was one of those times.’

‘I asked him, sure. You could always tell with Ben when he had something on the go. But this one was personal. He wasn’t going
to share.’

McLean pulled out the chair and sat down at Stevenson’s desk. It was uncannily tidy, just the computer, keyboard,
touchpad instead of a mouse. A couple of hard-bound notebooks sat to one side, but when he opened the first, it was blank. The desk itself was a thick sheet of smoked black glass on a couple of chrome trestles. No drawers in which to hide things. To his right, a low, wheeled
cabinet stood just within reach. The sort of thing artists used to store paints and brushes in the studio, it had a few small drawers and a big hinged flap on the top. Opening them revealed an assortment of pens and pencils, a couple more notebooks with nothing much written in them and a bar of expensive dark chocolate from Valvona & Crolla.

Swinging round in the chair, McLean put his hand out
to the nearest bookshelf, just within reach of a long-armed man. The books here were the same haphazard mix of novels, biographies and historical texts, but there seemed to be something of a pattern. Two thick hardbacks were histories of the Freemasons. Alongside them, a couple of thinner paperbacks claimed to reveal the mysteries of the Knights Templar. A third was simply called
Head
, but when
he pulled it from the shelf and looked at the front he could see that it had a subtitle: ‘Baphomet, the Brotherhood and the Temple’. He frowned at the word ‘Brotherhood’. Too much of a coincidence for his tired old cynicism to accept. McLean had never heard of the author, but when he flicked open the cover he saw that it had been signed and dedicated ‘for Ben, a true believer’.

‘You know anything
about this?’ He held the book up for Dalgliesh to see, wondered if she knew about the words daubed in Stevenson’s blood on the cavern wall. She leaned over the desk, took it from him, peered at it myopically.

‘Oh aye. I remember this one.’ She laughed, then handed the book back. ‘Dougie Ballantyne. Wee nutter that he is. Got this theory about the Templars and the Masons and Rosslyn Chapel and
all that stuff. How they worship this severed head or something. Supposed to be the secret society to end them all, you know. Batshit stuff.’

‘Seems Stevenson took it seriously enough.’ McLean opened up the book again, looking at the signature. He flicked through the pages briefly, saw that the text had been marked in places. Damn, that meant he was going to have to read the bloody thing.

‘That
might well be it, then. What he was working on,’ Dalgliesh said. ‘That’s his current project shelf, after all.’

McLean leaned back in the chair, hefted the book a couple of times. It wasn’t a thick volume, but he reckoned the contents were going to make his head hurt more than the whisky it would take to read them. ‘You want to help find who killed him, right?’ he asked Dalgliesh.

‘Aye, anything
I can do.’ She nodded.

‘I’ll get this computer to our IT bods. No point me messing with it here. But if you really want to be helpful, you can find out all there is to know about this.’ McLean held up the book. ‘See where he was going with it, and maybe we’ll get a clue as to why someone wanted him stopped.’

They were heading for the door, McLean with the book clasped in one hand, when DS Ritchie’s
voice broke the quiet.

‘Sir? I really think you ought to see this.’

McLean turned on the spot, almost knocking Dalgliesh
flying. He looked around for the detective sergeant, unable to see where she had called from.

‘Up here.’ Ritchie appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, crooking her head so she could see them without taking too many steps down. McLean started towards her, then realised
Dalgliesh was following him.

‘Stay here, OK?’

She scowled at him, but hung back as he climbed the stairs. They opened on to a surprisingly spacious attic, neatly converted into a master bedroom suite.

‘I thought these places usually had communal lofts,’ Ritchie said as she stepped out of McLean’s way.

‘Usually. Depends how the titles were drawn up when the place was built. Dalgliesh said Stevenson
came from old money. Chances are this place has been in the family since the start.’

‘Well, it’s been done up recently if that’s the case. Here, look.’

Ritchie headed off across the room, leaving McLean to follow. It was difficult to get a sense of the size of the apartment below, where the party walls were. The bedroom was magnificent though, under the pitched roof, with the ceiling rising
to a high point maybe fifteen feet overhead. Facing the road, there were two small skylights designed to look like the original fittings, but at the back much larger dormer windows opened on to a narrow balcony and a view out across the Meadows to the Old Town that made him stop and stare.

‘Through here, sir.’ Ritchie stood beside what looked like a built-in wardrobe that surrounded the bed and
filled
the end wall of the building. McLean dragged himself away from the view.

‘What is it?’

By way of an answer, Ritchie slid open the door. Instead of a row of suits hanging over drawers of socks and shirts, there was a narrow doorway that led into a small, hidden dressing room.

‘Think this might have been where he was doing most of his work recently.’ Ritchie nodded at an old dressing table
pushed up against one wall. It had been cleared of the usual contents and was now piled up with books, notepads and maps. The notepads were the same type as the one they’d found in Stevenson’s jacket, only dry. The mirror that would have been attached to the dressing table had been carefully removed from its frame and placed in the corner a few feet away. The wall behind it was covered in newspaper
cuttings, pages torn from books, photographs and all manner of other papers, pinned up and with coloured strings running across everything as if a drug-addled giant spider had taken up residence.

‘Aye, Ben could get a bit obsessive like that sometimes.’

McLean and Ritchie both turned to see Jo Dalgliesh standing just outside the dressing room, looking in.

‘Thought I told you to stay downstairs.’

‘What, and miss all the fun? No way Jose.’ The reporter crossed into the room, peering up at the wall and its seemingly random collection of images. She pointed to one close to the centre, an elderly man with a massive, bushy white beard. ‘See him. Is that no’ the chappie wrote that book?’

McLean still clasped it in his hand. He looked at the cover, then turned it over to see the back. Sure enough,
there was a tiny photograph of the author. It was possible there might be two people with such a distinctive beard. At the right time of year there would likely be hundreds in department stores and shopping malls all across the land. Only one Santa Claus lookalike was on Ben Stevenson’s wall, though.

‘Douglas Ballantyne the third.’ He read out the name on the book, then followed a long thread
of red woollen string across the wall to a page torn out of a magazine, an interview with the very same man. ‘Think we might have to have a word with him.’ He tapped a finger against the thin card of the book cover. ‘If he’s still alive, that is.’