The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (31 page)

‘I was just checking she was OK. Reg was outside the whole time.’

‘Yes, but he should have been inside, shouldn’t he. I should tan his hide for letting you in anyway.’

‘For what it’s worth, she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything to be honest. Whoever attacked her did a real job of work. They’re keeping her heavily sedated.’

‘I know. I’ve read the medical report.’ Dexter flicked a sheaf of papers that was perched atop the mess of reports and general detritus strewn across her desk. McLean thought his office was a study in chaos, but maybe he was just an apprentice.

‘Probably had it coming to her, right enough.’

McLean and Dexter both stared at the detective sergeant, who looked slightly surprised himself at the words that had come out of his mouth.

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Pete,’ Dexter said.

‘Well, I won’t.’ McLean was on his feet in an instant. ‘What do you mean by that, Sergeant?’

Buchanan stared at him with that all too familiar mixture of disdain and loathing. ‘Nuthin. Just saying. She’s a whore. Getting beat up comes with the territory.’

‘No. It’s more than that. You’ve seen the photos. That’s not a pimp knocking one of his girls around. That’s someone making a statement. You know anything about that, Sergeant?’

‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’ Buchanan pushed himself away from the wall, his face flushed red, eyes threatening. McLean stood his ground, squared up for the fight. He’d had enough of Buchanan’s attitude to last him a lifetime. Quite looked forward to taking the man down a peg or two.

‘Enough. Both of you.’ Of course, Jo Dexter was never going to allow it to come to blows. Then there’d be paperwork and she obviously had quite enough of that already.

‘Let’s get back to the point, shall we? Tony, sit down. And you too, Pete. Stop lowering over us like some great ogre.’

McLean caught himself waiting until Buchanan had sat before doing so himself. How swiftly the pettiness came. But lately even the smallest of things had been getting his back up. There wasn’t really any reason to react to the detective sergeant the way he had done. Maybe he was as tired as Jo Dexter looked.

‘Right then. I’ve had another demand from the Port Authority to release the freighter. What d’you reckon, we let it go?’

‘Forensics came up with nothing,’ McLean said. ‘Captain’s story checks out. He really didn’t know anything about it. Don’t think there’s anything to be gained from holding on to it any longer.’

‘OK, I’ll let them know.’ Dexter leaned forward and placed a tick against a paragraph scrawled on a piece of paper at the top of her piling system. ‘So where does that leave us with the investigation, then?’

McLean looked over at Buchanan, who shrugged and said nothing.

‘None of the girls will say anything. They wouldn’t before, and once they hear what happened to Magda they’ll be even less helpful. Most of them just want to get away. We’ve been working with Clarice Saunders and her charity on that.’

‘What about the van driver?’ Dexter ticked another paragraph.

‘Just a delivery boy. Paid a chunk of cash, no questions asked. He’ll do a bit of time, but I’ve seen his type before. He won’t say who paid him. Even if he knows.’

‘Pete? You got anything to add?’

‘What he said.’ Buchanan nodded in McLean’s direction. ‘It’s a waste of bloody time. We put away the driver and the second mate on the ship. Case dies there. Meanwhile the gangs keep moving these whores around under our noses.’

‘Thanks for that upbeat appraisal, detective sergeant.’ Dexter ticked another paragraph, then drew a line through
it. ‘So what about Malky Jennings then? We any closer to finding out who put him out of our misery?’

‘Dead end.’ Buchanan seemed to have warmed to his theme now. ‘No one saw anything. Forensics can’t find anything useful. There’s plenty folk wanted him dead, but we can’t arrest them for that. If we had the murder weapon, we might get somewhere, but we don’t even know where he was killed. Let alone what with.’

McLean was about to say something, but the way Dexter scored out the next paragraph on her list stopped him. No one was going to spend too much time and effort trying to find the killer of a scumbag, it would seem.

‘Which just leaves us Magda Evans.’ Dexter lifted the medical report off her desk, then dropped it back down again. ‘What’s the low-down there?’

McLean looked at Buchanan, who was slouching in his seat as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He caught the gaze, sneered.

‘What? Not my case, is it.’

‘You’ve done nothing about it?’ McLean asked.

‘Why should I? You’re SIO, right?’ Buchanan’s sneer turned into a cheeky grin.

‘I told you to take over when I went with her to the hospital. What the hell have you been doing since then?’

‘My job, of course. Not yours.’

‘Your job is to do what I bloody well tell you to do, Sergeant, and I told you to take over the Magda Evans crime scene. Are you telling me you’ve done nothing about it at all?’

Buchanan shrugged, as if that were enough of an answer. ‘I set a couple of constables on door-to-door.
SOC came and dusted for prints, took some photos. Wasn’t a lot more we could do.’

‘So where’s your report? What’s the situation with the crime scene now?’

‘DC Watson was typing up the report. Far as I know the crime scene’s secure. Council were sending someone round to fix the door and board up the window. Local toerags’ll break in soon as they know the place is empty otherwise.’

McLean realized he had clenched his hands into fists, willed himself to relax. How many days had passed since Magda Evans had been attacked? He’d been so busy he’d lost count. And he was partly to blame, too. If he’d been on top of things he’d have checked what Buchanan was up to more regularly.

‘So I think it’s fair to say we’re nowhere with the investigation, then.’ Jo Dexter summed things up with a shrug.

‘I’ll get on it right away.’ McLean stood, ready to leave. Beside him, Buchanan still slouched in his seat.

‘You do that, Tony.’ Dexter gave him a weary smile, which disappeared as she turned on the detective sergeant. ‘And as for you, Pete, consider this a formal warning. If you can’t run an investigation without constant supervision, then you’re not fit to be a sergeant. There’s plenty of young constables looking for promotion.’

Something finally seemed to get through to Buchanan. He struggled to his feet, straightened his jacket and nodded at Dexter, adding a gruff ‘Aye, ma’am.’ Then he turned and left without another word.

‘What the hell’s your problem, Buchanan? You looking to be reported to Professional Standards or something?’

Out in the corridor. McLean had barely shut the door to Jo Dexter’s office and Buchanan was heading off in the direction of the canteen. He’d picked up a slight limp somewhere along the line, McLean noticed. Maybe that was why he’d not wanted to sit down. Didn’t explain the general surliness though.

‘You want to know what my problem is, sir?’ Buchanan emphasized the title in a manner McLean couldn’t help recognizing. It was exactly how he addressed Duguid, DCI Brooks and pretty much any other senior officer who was pissing him off. The detective sergeant came back up the corridor towards him, trying hard to hide the limp, but grimacing every so often when something twinged in his leg. Serve the bugger right, really.

‘You’re my problem. That’s what. Swan in here with your high and mighty ideals. Stick your nose in an investigation then bugger off back to your own station for days, leaving me to do all the legwork.’ Buchanan shifted his weight as he said this, leaning on his left side. So it was his right leg giving him gyp. McLean wondered what he’d done to hurt it. Fallen down the stairs drunk, most likely. He kept silent on the matter though. Buchanan was in a mood to talk, and a wise man took the opportunity to listen.

‘And then you go visit a witness without anyone to corroborate what you’ve said. A witness in secure custody, for Christ’s sake. What if we need her testimony in court and some smart-arse lawyer finds out you’ve been coaching her?’ Buchanan shook his head. ‘Duguid’s bloody well
right. You’re the liability. Should be you in front of Professional Standards, not me.’

Buchanan turned away again, stalked off towards the stairs. McLean let him go, stung by his words. It wasn’t a fair appraisal, of course, and the detective sergeant was ten times worse. But there was a nugget of truth in what he’d said, and the truth always hurt.

33

The rumbling echo of an expensive V8 engine burbled in through the open window of his office, but McLean barely paid it any attention. A couple of the detective chief inspectors drove cars way above their pay grade, and it was almost a job requirement if you were a superintendent to have a Range Rover, even if your area was entirely urban. Something about this rumble suggested exotic and pricey; no doubt there’d be a gaggle of young constables ogling whatever it was when it parked up in the visitor space in the yard behind the station. Shaking his head, he focused back on the report that was failing to come to any meaningful point.

Something of the noise was still in his head five minutes later, when the phone rang. He knew as soon as he saw the light that indicated it was the front desk, the arrival had to be connected. Either someone high up in the organization wanted to give him a bollocking in person or another in a seemingly endless line of tiresome pranks was afoot.

‘McLean.’

‘Ah, I thought you’d be in, sir. There’s a gentleman in reception to see you.’ Reg on duty this time. Usually not one to muck people about, so maybe he wasn’t in on it this time.

‘Did he say what it was about? Only I’m up to my ears here, Reg.’

‘Something about a car, sir. Was yours being fixed?’

‘I’ll be right down.’ McLean hung up, secretly glad to be shot of the report, even though he knew it would still be waiting for him when he got back.

The reception area was busy this afternoon, but it was easy enough to spot the man waiting for him. He might have been wearing a designer suit, but he had car salesman written all over him. Something about the shiny face, slicked-back hair and bad skin.

‘Inspector McLean?’ He took a couple of steps forward, holding out a hand.

‘It’s Detective Inspector, actually. What can I do for you?’

A flicker of uncertainty in the man’s eyes, quickly recovered. ‘A man like you, must be always busy, I’m sure. That’s why it’s no problem at all to bring her out for you to see.’

‘Her? I’m sorry. Who are you?’

‘Johnny Fairbairn? Northern Motors? You booked a test drive?’ That flicker was back, growing into a full puzzled frown. Johnny Fairbairn glanced around the reception area as if searching for another Inspector McLean.

‘I did?’ McLean held in the sigh he so desperately wanted to release. Of course he had, although if the call had been recorded, the voice he used to make it would sound very different to the one he normally used. ‘Oh well, you’re here now. Might as well show me.’

Escorting Johnny Fairbairn through the station to the parking yard at the back, McLean couldn’t help but wonder what it was that his colleagues had set him up with this time. Something flash, for sure. And expensive. He’d
accepted the other pranks with as good grace as he could muster, but somehow he didn’t think this time he’d be getting out his wallet.

‘Sergeant at the desk tells me you drive a classic Alfa. Always been a great fan of the marque myself. Had a Sud when I was at college. Great little car for chucking round the corners, and that lovely growl off the boxer engine. But the rust? Bloody thing had more holes than a tea bag.’ It wasn’t hard to have a conversation with the salesman; all you had to do was listen. McLean had tried the occasional nod and ‘yes’, but they really weren’t necessary. It didn’t take long to get through the station, but by the time they emerged into the sunshine he knew considerably more about the man than he really needed to, whilst also knowing almost nothing at all.

‘And there she is. Conti V8. A good bit cheaper than the twelve, but a nicer car if you ask me.’

McLean stared. Much like the dozen or so constables who had gathered around, some with their camera phones out. The car was red, very red. He’d not really been keeping up with things as much as in his misspent youth, but even he could recognize the Bentley logo on the back. Conti, Johnny Fairbairn had said, so this must be the new Continental GT. It had to be well over a hundred grand’s worth of car, easy. And for something with just two doors, it was huge.

‘Shall we take her out? See what she can do away from all these … ahem … Policemen?’ Johnny Fairbairn pulled something that didn’t look much like a key out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. Solid, weighty and with the Bentley logo in shiny enamel, it had a button set into
it exactly where your thumb fell whilst cradling it in your palm. McLean pressed it and was rewarded with a flash of the indicator lights and a solid thunk as the car unlocked itself. At least two of the constables jumped, turned around with guilty faces. They all knew who he was, of course, even if he could probably only name about four of them. Soon they’d be telling their fellow officers all about the brand new car DI McLean had bought.