The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (36 page)

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got the key, sir?’ Ritchie reached for the door handle. It clicked as it turned and the door swung open. ‘Ah, we don’t need one, it would seem.’

She was about to step inside, but McLean stopped her. Something about this didn’t feel right. No, everything about this didn’t feel right. He raised a finger to his lips for quiet, then motioned for Ritchie to step back. When they were both clear of the doorway, he nudged it wide with his foot and peered inside.

It was empty, and just as messy as when last he had been here. The council services department had only boarded up the window and repaired the lock, thankfully. He took a step into the hallway, which was when he heard a voice coming from the living room.

Backing silently out onto the walkway, McLean closed the door and pulled Ritchie back towards the stairs before speaking. ‘Get onto control. I want backup here as soon as possible.’

Ritchie made the call while McLean kept an eye on the door in case whoever was in there decided to come out. The little girl watched him with large, round eyes; he was
obviously providing far better entertainment than her doll. Really he should have sent her back inside, but the thought of another confrontation with her mother filled him with dread. And there was no way it could be done quietly, either.

‘What do you suppose they’re doing in there?’ Ritchie asked in a low whisper.

‘Destroying evidence? Looking for something? Could just be local kids being nosey, for all I know.’ McLean took a couple of steps towards the door. Stopped. Came back to where Ritchie was standing by the stairwell.

‘You got your pepper spray?’

Ritchie opened up her shoulder bag and guddled around inside. Brought out the small canister and held it up.

‘Right then. Stay here and wait for backup. If anyone comes out and tries to get away, let them have it.’

He didn’t wait for her to argue, instead went straight back to the front door. No point in being subtle, and perhaps he’d be able to catch whoever was inside off guard. Surprise was always an advantage. McLean reached forward for the handle.

The door swung open before he could touch it, revealing the startled figure of Detective Sergeant Buchanan.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ McLean thought the words, but it was Buchanan who spoke them.

‘What the –? How dare you speak to a senior officer like that?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Buchanan emphasized the title with little effort to hide his sarcasm. So that was what it sounded like. ‘You took me by surprise. I was just checking over
the crime scene. Bit of a cock-up with housing not turning up to board up the window. But they’ve done it now.’

Far too rehearsed to be the truth. McLean looked back to where Ritchie was standing. She had her phone in one hand, the other holding the slim can of pepper spray. She had seen them both, started to approach, but McLean waved for her to stay where she was.

‘OK then.’ He turned to Buchanan, fumbled in his pocket for his own phone. ‘Let’s go in and see what you found.’ As they stepped through the doorway, McLean saw the little girl clasp her doll to her chest with one hand, and with the other point straight at Buchanan. He pointed at the detective sergeant’s back and mouthed ‘him?’ at her. She nodded, her face very serious, then got up, crossed the walkway and went into her own flat.

Buchanan wasn’t hanging around, which gave McLean enough time to find the record button on his phone. He slipped it into the breast pocket on his jacket as he walked into the living room.

‘About that little cock-up’ he said. ‘Why’d you not wait for them to turn up? Housing, that is.’

Buchanan scowled at the question. ‘It was your bloody crime scene. Besides, it’s usually forensics who arrange that sort of thing.’

‘You mean you didn’t even call Housing? You didn’t even check to see if someone else had done?’

‘Like I said. Not my crime scene.’

‘Actually it was. Right from the moment I stepped into the ambulance. But I don’t really give a fuck whose crime scene it was. Even if Charles bloody Duguid was supervising in person, it would still have been your responsibility
to make sure the scene was secure. You and every other bloody officer on site, plain clothes or uniform. You don’t leave the scene without making sure it’s being processed properly and someone is in charge.’

Buchanan snorted a humourless laugh. ‘Don’t quote procedure at me like you’re some kind of perfect copper. Everyone knows you take short cuts, McLean. Get people killed, too.’

McLean stared at the sergeant, let the insubordination slide this time. Buchanan was angry and on the defensive; hardly surprising if the little girl outside was telling the truth. Pushing him now might reveal even more nasty little secrets.

‘You know she phoned me, when her attacker arrived?’ McLean looked around the living room as he talked. It was still a mess, but a different mess to the one he’d seen previously. The chairs that had been stacked on top of the sofa were now lying on the floor, their cushions scattered about. Someone had been poking around for sure, none too carefully either. It didn’t take a genius to guess who.

‘I found her phone under that chair when I got here.’ He pointed at the metal and velour monstrosity that was the only piece of furniture not broken or upside down. ‘She must’ve dropped it when her attacker came in. Heard the whole thing as I was driving over here.’

‘Oh aye? Why’ve you not arrested the bastard then?’ Buchanan stood with his back to the window. McLean couldn’t help but notice that the blood stain at the point where the glass had cracked, where Magda’s head had been smashed against it, was almost exactly the same height above the ground as Buchanan’s shoulders. Maybe a bit higher. A head higher.

‘All I could hear was screaming, and the noise of things being broken. Sounded like an army.’

‘Must’ve been a gang of them, the damage they did.’ Buchanan kicked lightly at the edge of the upturned sofa. ‘To this place and the prozzy.’

‘You were over in Sighthill when it happened, weren’t you.’

Buchanan twitched at the question, thrown by the change of subject.

‘That’s right, aye. What of it?’

‘Nothing, really. Just that you told me at the time it was a crank call. Then you said it was a kiddie fiddler hanging around the school playground.’ McLean crossed the room as he spoke, picking his way through the debris over towards the destroyed sofa. Someone had definitely been through the pile of cushions.

‘Nah. You’re imagining things. It was just a hoax call in the end. Had to check it out mind. You know what it’s like with the register.’

McLean picked up one of the cushions and made a play of inspecting the slashes across it. Put a hand inside and felt around as if looking for something. ‘Yes, of course. Can’t take a chance where children are concerned. You have children, Pete?’

‘What?’ Buchanan’s gaze had been fixed firmly on the cushion. Now it swung back to McLean’s face. ‘No. Never married.’

‘The two are no longer mutually exclusive. I bet ninety per cent of the kids living in these blocks have parents who never married. But still, I’d’ve thought a detective of your long standing and experience would have known
that it’s the school holidays right now. Kids won’t be back in the playground for a couple of weeks yet.’

‘Ha. That the best you can come up with? School’s out? Come on, McLean. A playground’s a playground whether it’s got kids in it or no. You’re on the register, you’re not allowed anywhere near. We get a call saying someone’s been seen in the wrong place, we investigate. Plain and simple.’

‘Why’d you go alone, then? Why not take a constable with you?’

‘That, coming from the great Detective Inspector McLean, just makes my day.’

It was a fair point, even if it didn’t answer the question. McLean dropped the cushion back onto the pile and took a good look at Buchanan’s shoes. Heavy-duty, thick soles. Built more for the beat than plain clothes, but a lot of coppers wore them. He opened up the envelope Ritchie had given him, pulled out the sheaf of crime scene photographs and leafed through them until he found the one he was looking for. The living room, as seen by SOC when they first arrived, looked much as McLean recalled it himself. He paced around the room until he found the spot where the photographer had stood, lifted up the picture for comparison. It was still a bomb site, but whereas before the furniture had been scattered around more or less at random, now it was arranged in piles, as if someone had been systematically going through the place. Looking for something.

‘You use an Airwave set, sergeant?’ McLean didn’t look directly at Buchanan, instead shuffling through the photographs until he found another interesting one.

‘I did. Had it nicked out of a squad car a couple of days back. Thieving bastards. What of it?’

‘Aye, I heard that. Unfortunate, but they’ll give you another, I guess. Just wondered if there’d be a record of our conversation. You know, when I called you and asked about Magda’s number? Why do you suppose they did this?’ He turned on the spot to encompass the whole room. Buchanan seemed reluctant to respond to the question. He hadn’t moved from the spot near the cracked window since they’d entered the room, as if he was defending it. Now his gaze was firmly on the stack of photographs.

‘Nothing? No? Well, here’s my theory. I think he was looking for something. Money, probably, or some money equivalent. Could be drugs, but that doesn’t seem like Magda’s style. She wouldn’t tell him where it was, so he threw her around here a bit. She still wouldn’t tell him where it was, even after he’d cut her up in the shower.’ McLean noticed that Buchanan’s eyes shifted to the door that led through to the corridor and bathroom. ‘He kept on looking though. Can’t have been anything too large. Otherwise why bother cutting these cushions open?’ McLean picked one up again, then dropped it back onto the remains of the sofa. ‘Something tipped him off though. Either that or he found what he was looking for. He was long gone by the time I got here.’

‘It’s all very interesting conjecture, sir. But why do we care, exactly? I mean, she’s just another whore got herself beaten up as a warning to the others. I tried to explain it to you when you first came into the SCU. We tolerated Malky Jennings because he was a known quantity. We could control him, more or less. Soon as he’s gone, some
one else decides to make this their turf. Best way to do that’s to make an example of one of them. You saw what they did to this one. She’ll never work again. The rest of ’em will be handing over their takings like good little girls now.’

McLean shuffled the photographs again until he found the one he wanted. The front door with its boot print. The next picture in the pile showed a detail of the locks. The deadbolt was unlocked, as you’d expect with Magda at home. The snub lock was in place, but there was no sign of it having been forced. Only the security chain was damaged, hanging from the door, its anchor in the frame ripped out. A picture began to form.

‘I reckon Magda knew her attacker. She opened the door to him but was wary enough to keep the chain on.’ He turned his back on Buchanan, felt a chill run down his exposed neck as he walked slowly to the hallway.

‘Didn’t do her much good though.’ He peered through the spyhole as he spoke, seeing the distorted image of Ritchie on the walkway outside, before turning back again. Buchanan was very close behind him. Too close for comfort, really.

‘I don’t think you were in Sighthill at all, Sergeant. I think you were here. You do realize that it’s the control centre that logs the location of the Airwave sets, not the sets themselves? Conversations too.’ McLean opened the door wide, took a step out onto the walkway, then held up the photograph for comparison. The one was suspiciously clean given the grime all around; the other showed a neat boot print. ‘What do you reckon, Ritchie? This Buchanan’s size?’

Buchanan let out a low snarl and launched himself at
McLean, hands reaching for his throat. McLean lurched backwards, tripping over his own feet in his rush to get away. He was dimly aware of movement further along the walkway as Ritchie started towards them, and then Buchanan screamed as he lost his balance, swept past in a lunge towards the parapet. McLean could see what was going to happen with a horrible certainty. He pushed himself up, grabbing at the detective sergeant’s jacket, fingers gripping the fabric of one arm as Buchanan hit the crumbling blockwork, which broke away and disappeared. A split second later the sound of breaking glass and crushed metal underscored Buchanan’s scream as he toppled over. McLean thought he had him by the wrist, but Buchanan’s hand slipped past his own until he was holding only the sleeve. The weight almost pulled his arm out its socket, and he slammed up against the remaining brickwork with a force that winded him. He could see the mortar failing, harling cracked and bowing as his weight combined with Buchanan’s threatened to pull them both over.

‘Hold still, dammit.’ McLean grunted the words as Buchanan flailed about. They were close to the scaffolding, but just too far to reach the rope that hung from a pulley up above. Each swing bowed the weak wall of bricks a little more, and McLean could feel himself being dragged across the concrete towards the drop. His fingers ached and his arm felt like it was going to pop off at any moment. Then Ritchie was there, kneeling by his side. She grabbed McLean by the waist so he could lean further over the parapet, try to get a hold with his other hand. Buchanan looked down, then raised his head up, staring straight into McLean’s eyes.

‘Don’t you fucking dare let go.’

‘Well, stop swinging around like a fucking monkey then, you idiot.’ McLean spoke through gritted teeth, barely able to breathe with the effort. Ignoring him, Buchanan made another swing for the rope, his outstretched fingers just reaching. At the same moment, there was a terrible ripping sound. McLean fell backwards onto the walkway, the sleeve of Buchanan’s jacket still in his hand as the weight suddenly disappeared from his arm. Struggling to extract himself from Ritchie’s embrace, he could see the rope snaking up to the pulley high overhead. It swung wildly, then started to run through the wheel as a heavy weight pulled it down. It stopped suddenly as a knot jammed in the pulley, then hung straight and taught.