The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (40 page)

McLean didn’t wait for an answer. He strode out of Duguid’s office, leaving the door open as it had always been in Jayne McIntyre’s day, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the acting superintendent before he said anything else he might come to regret.

And yet the question kept coming back: why did he stay? He didn’t have to work at all, let alone at this thankless job. He knew the answer, of course. Part of it was he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Part was because of Kirsty and the things that had been done to her. He knew he could never catch all the bad guys, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

There was another reason why he stayed, though. One which made even less sense than the other two, and yet was so deeply ingrained with his character that he knew he’d never overcome it. That magnificent language, Scots, had a word for it: thrawn. It went beyond the pride that would cut off its nose to spite its face, it was more visceral than that. They wanted him to leave, expected him to quit, and that simple fact was all it took to ensure that he never would.

41

McLean sat in his tiny office, staring at the mountains and foothills of paperwork strewn around. A lot of it was rubbish, he knew that. There were case files in the lower strata that had been left behind by the previous unfortunate occupier of the room, and doubtless many folders that had ended up in here simply because someone hadn’t known where they were supposed to be. On the plus side, if he wasn’t allowed out into the field then he might at least make a start on clearing the place. Knowing his luck it would take Callard weeks to ferret out what had happened and why, so he’d have plenty of time. Then there was the small matter of preparing a list of his casework for Dagwood to reassign, and the suicide cases to wrap up. Might as well get the overtime sheets squared away as well.

The knock at the open door was DS Ritchie. She still looked pale, as if Buchanan’s death haunted her dreams. McLean could hardly blame her; the image of him hanging there, arms limp by his side, one sleeve missing from his jacket was never far from his mind. Like some terrible scarecrow hung to ward off whatever mythical beast fed on the hopes of the dispossessed living in those soulless tower blocks. The noise of the rope whirring through the pulley wheel came unbidden to him too. And the horrible twang as the knot stopped it fast.

‘Callard done interviewing you then, sir?’

‘For now, aye. Get the impression he’s going to drag this out as long as he can, though.’

‘Maybe not. Word is the Chief Constable wants it played down as much as possible. Doesn’t want anything rocking the boat before the switch-over.’

It made sense. The last thing Lothian and Borders needed was an investigation opening up a nasty can of worms just as the new Police Scotland came into being. Hard enough keeping track of who was supposed to be doing what anyway, without giving Strathclyde another excuse to muscle in on their territory. It wouldn’t surprise McLean at all that headquarters were pushing for the whole thing to be wrapped up quickly. A tragic accident, dreadful really. Counselling for all who were involved and the whole episode tidied away. The only problem was Chief Inspector Rab Callard. Professional Standards didn’t respond well to being told how to conduct their business.

‘They tell you when you’ll be allowed back?’ he asked her.

‘Depends on Callard.’ Ritchie grimaced. ‘Nothing but paperwork for me. I’d almost rather be down in the basement filing evidence.’

‘You don’t really mean that, though if you’re looking for something to do it might be worth your while asking around about Buchanan. There’s a reason he never made it past sergeant. I wouldn’t mind knowing what it is before the top brass comes after us.’

‘Isn’t that a bit … I don’t know. Callous?’ Ritchie asked. ‘Won’t everyone think I’m just trying to cover my arse. Our arses both?’

‘Probably. But a trained detective of your skill ought to be able to ferret out information without too many people realizing what you’re doing.’ McLean gave her a cheeky grin. He picked up the first folder that came to hand, glanced at the title without really taking it in, dropped it back onto his desk. ‘Bollocks. It’ll all still be here in an hour. Fancy a coffee?’

The canteen had always seemed something of a last-minute addition to the station. Stuck between the locker rooms and the stores, its windows looked out on a narrow alley and the stone wall of the neighbouring building. It was a gloomy place even on a bright day, but it was always busy. The coffee wasn’t bad either, if you liked it weak and soapy.

Shift change meant the place was buzzing when McLean and Ritchie pushed through the double doors, the sound of a dozen or more conversations filling the room. An institutional cooking smell pervaded, which was at least preferable to the more usual odour of unwashed beat constable. As they walked across the room towards the serving hatch, the noise dulled down almost to silence, and McLean could feel the heat of eyes on his back. Beside him, he felt Ritchie tense.

‘Ignore them,’ he said, just loud enough that the silent policemen nearest could hear. At the counter he ordered two coffees and added a couple of chocolate brownies, since they looked so appetizing. When he and Ritchie turned back, looking for somewhere to sit, every officer in the room was staring at them.

‘Very mature. I expect there’ll be rude pictures pinned
up inside my locker next.’ McLean scanned the room. In amongst a sea of uniforms, over by the window there were a couple of empty chairs at a table otherwise occupied by detectives. DI Spence and DCI Brooks, to be precise. Perhaps not who he would have chosen to sit with, but of Grumpy Bob and DC MacBride there was no sign.

‘Mind if we join you?’ He voiced it as a question, but was already pushing the seat with his foot, making room for Ritchie. DI Spence gave a little shrug as if he couldn’t care less. DCI Brooks was less welcoming.

‘You’ve a nerve coming in here, McLean.’

McLean stared at the fat man, took a bite of his chocolate brownie and washed it down with a swig of coffee. Disgusting, both of them, but he wasn’t going to let that spoil the moment.

‘I never realized it was the wild west, sir. If I had, I’d have asked DS Ritchie to bring her bow and arrows. Young MacBride does line dancing, I’m told. He could probably lay his hands on some cowboy boots and a Stetson.’

‘Don’t get cocky with me. A man’s dead. Hardly the time to be making jokes.’

McLean studied Brooks. Like many obese men it was hard to gauge his age accurately. The excess fat in his diet kept his skin smooth, and he shaved his head, making it difficult to judge by hair colour. He was chummy with Dagwood, but happy enough to take the piss out of the acting superintendent behind his back, which suggested to McLean that he was younger. That didn’t mean he hadn’t been another one of Buchanan’s friends in high places.

‘A man’s dead. Yes, sir. I did know. I was there when it happened. I tried to save him.’

Brooks let out a little snort of disbelief. ‘Save him? Don’t make me laugh. Everyone knows you hated Pete Buchanan, wanted him off the force.’

‘Everyone, it would seem.’ McLean paused, scanned the room and its gaggle of expectant faces. Like the audience at a particularly cruel comedy act. One where the so-called comedian got his laughs from tearing one of the crowd to pieces in the name of fun. ‘Except me.’

Brooks narrowed his eyes, which in a thinner man might have made him look scornful, but in his case made him look constipated.

‘Don’t play the innocent, McLean. Everyone knows you were boning that prostitute and Pete was going to bring it up with Professional Standards.’

Fortunately for McLean, he’d finished eating his piece of chocolate brownie. Less fortunate for DI Spence, Ritchie hadn’t. Had in fact just taken a mouthful along with a swig of coffee, which she duly spat out all over him.

‘Oh god. I’m sorry, sir.’ She patted ineffectively at the mess with a paper napkin until Spence pushed her away.

‘Christ, woman. What’s wrong with you?’

Ritchie couldn’t answer for a while, struggling to breathe after choking on brownie. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But really? To … DI McLean? A prostitute?’

‘You deny it, then?’

‘I’m not sure I’d dignify it with a response at all,’ McLean said. ‘But I’m intrigued as to where such a ridiculous accusation could have come from. I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to tell me who told you?’

Brooks stared at McLean with a look of utter disbelief,
whether at the denial or the request, he couldn’t be sure. Fair enough; he’d not readily give up his sources either.

‘No. Forget it. I can guess who easily enough, and he’s not around to defend himself.’ McLean pushed his chair back and stood up. Nodded to Ritchie. ‘Come on. There’s work to do.’

Ritchie grabbed her mug and plate, scrambling to her feet. ‘There is?’

‘Aye, there is. And given the way everyone thinks of me at the moment, I’m going to need your help with it.’

It was late when he finally made it home. Jenny Nairn was slumped at the kitchen table, her head resting on a textbook. She stirred as he very gently put down the bag with his take-away supper in it. Looked up at him with bleary eyes.

‘You should try that in bed. I’m told it’s more comfortable.’

Jenny yawned, stretched and rubbed at her eyes. Considered her textbook and notes, then closed everything up. ‘Sorry. I guess Cognitive Behavioural Therapy’s not as interesting as I thought it was. Long day?’

‘That’s one way of putting it. How’s Em?’

‘Asleep, I think. She went up about ten. Her own bed. Can’t promise she won’t climb into yours again later though.’

McLean said nothing. It had been a long time since he’d managed a full night’s unbroken sleep. Emma’s nocturnal visits were regular as clockwork now, every morning at three. And her sleep-talking was getting worse, the voices so different from her own, the language sometimes too.

‘I spoke with Eleanor today.’ Jenny’s words broke into his train of thoughts and it took a while for his brain to catch up. It must have shown on his face.

‘You know, Emma’s regression therapy?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Miles away.’ McLean went to the fridge, pleased to find a bottle of cold beer there. The benefits of having someone else living in the same house. ‘What did she have to say?’

‘She’s really got the bit between her teeth. I’ve not seen her so fired up by a case in ages.’

‘That’s good. Umm, I think. It’s difficult for me to tell how the damned things are going. I just keep falling asleep.’

Jenny laughed. ‘Eleanor’s voice can do that. She’s RADA trained, you know.’

‘Is that right?’ McLean found it surprisingly easy to believe. There was something very theatrical about Doctor Austin.

‘She said she wants to make the sessions more frequent. Said maybe next Tuesday if you can make it.’

An image swam unbidden into his mind; a tiny office filled to the ceiling with paperwork. No hope of any active cases for weeks. Just an endless succession of telling people what to do and then trying to make sense of how they’d buggered it up. ‘I think I should be able to manage.’

‘OK then. I’ll write the details down in the diary and send a reminder to your phone.’ Jenny stifled a yawn unsuccessfully. ‘Now I think I’ll heed your advice. Night.’

McLean wished her good night and watched as she shuffled out of the kitchen. No sooner had she gone than Mrs McCutcheon’s cat appeared through the same door
way, leaping up onto the table and sniffing at the takeaway bag in that over-familiar manner of cats.

‘That’s mine,’ he said, which earned him an imperious stare. Fair enough, there was plenty to share.

Later, with the cat happily chasing bits of pilau rice around its bowl, McLean retreated to the library and a much-needed glass of whisky. Emma had left the television on with the sound muted, flickering images of some late-night movie. He slumped down on the sofa, then realized both that the remote was too far away and he couldn’t be bothered getting up again to fetch it. Instead, he just let the flashing lights soothe his brain and calm down the endless looping thoughts about Magda Evans, Pete Buchanan, Malky Jennings.

Mrs McCutcheon’s cat joined him after a while, smelling slightly of korma. It leapt onto his lap, kneaded at his free hand with its head until he stroked it. The purring came as a surprise; he couldn’t remember ever having heard it purr before. It was a deep vibration against his chest, as relaxing as any massage. McLean hadn’t really been watching the television, but he forgot it completely, slumped back against the arm of the sofa and stared at the strange shadows cast by the cornicing on the ceiling.

Of course. The ceiling.

He sat up so suddenly the cat dug its claws into his leg in surprise. With a yelp of pain, McLean dropped his whisky tumbler, still half full. It bounced on the rug, sprayed cask strength Talisker all over the antique floor and rolled under the sofa, but he ignored it. Ignored the cat, too, now eyeing him with its more normal deep suspicion.

His phone was in his jacket pocket, on the back of one
of the kitchen chairs. When he dug it out, a message from Jenny had already appeared, noting the time and place of the meeting with the hypnotist. He swiped it out of the way, ready to call DS Ritchie, and only then noticed the time displayed at the top of the screen. She’d probably still be up, sure. But was there anything either of them could really do at this time of the night? And if he was right, then it wasn’t going to change before the morning.