Authors: James Oswald
28
Duguid was nowhere to be seen when McLean walked back into the station. He raised a silent prayer of thanks and hurried down to the tiny incident room. Heat boiled out of the open door, the combined effects of the afternoon sun on the window and the radiator gurgling away, thermostat stuck on full. Both DC MacBride and Grumpy Bob had removed their jackets and ties. Sweat sheened the constable's forehead as he tapped away at his laptop computer.
'Remind me to ask you how you got hold of that machine sometime, Stuart.' MacBride looked up from his screen.
'Mike Simpson's my cousin,' he said. 'I asked him if they had anything spare hanging around.'
'What, Nerd Simpson? The forensic IT guy?'
'The same. And he's not such a nerd really, sir. He just looks that way.'
'Aye, and when he speaks, I understand each of the words he's using, but somehow the meaning of them all together goes straight over the top of my head. So he's your cousin, eh?' Could be useful. Had already been useful judging by the state of the laptop MacBride was using. It might even have been new. 'Have you asked him to take a look at McReadie's computer?'
'He's working on it right now. I don't think I've ever seen him so excited. Apparently McReadie's something of a god in the hacker community here in Edinburgh. Goes under the handle Clouseau.'
McLean remembered the Pink Panther discs in the burglar's collection. All well-played except the last one.
'I'm surprised he picked that name. You'd think he'd associate himself more with the David Niven character.'
Detective Constable MacBride's expression eloquently described his complete lack of understanding. 'The Pink Panther, constable. He played the part of Sir Charles Lytton, the gentleman thief. A cat burglar.'
'Oh, right. I thought he was a cartoon character.'
McLean shook his head and turned away, his eyes falling on the photographs of the dead girl still pinned to the wall behind Grumpy Bob.
'That reminds me. You get anywhere with mis-per about that builder?'
MacBride tapped a couple more keys before answering. 'Sorry sir. I spoke to them, but the computer records only go back to the sixties. I need to go to archives for anything older. I was going to get onto it this afternoon.'
'Builder?' Grumpy Bob asked.
'The constable's idea, really.' McLean nodded at MacBride, who reddened about the cheeks and ears. 'Our killers were educated men; they wouldn't have known how to lay bricks or set plaster. Someone had to, though, to cover up the alcoves and brick up that room. They'd have needed a builder to do it.'
'But no builder would cover up that,' Grumpy Bob said. 'I mean, he must have seen her body. He'd have seen the jars, too. If it'd been me, I'd've refused. I'd've kicked up merry hell.'
'Ah, but you're not a working class builder born at the beginning of the twentieth century, Bob. Sighthill was little more than a village back then, the people deferred to the local laird like he was their king. And I wouldn't put it past our killers to threaten his family, either. These people aren't exactly squeamish.'
'The laird?'
'The place belonged to Menzies Farquhar. Set up Farquhar's Bank.'
'So you think he did it? Bullied some local builder into covering it up, then got rid of the builder after he'd finished?' Grumpy Bob looked sceptical to say the least, and as he outlined the theory, McLean could hardly blame his old friend. What had seemed obvious in the unsettling atmosphere of the crime scene looked far-fetched in the warmth of the tiny incident room. It was thinner than a schoolboy's excuse, but it was all they had.
'Not Menzies Farquhar, no. But it could have been his son, Albert.' McLean recalled his brief conversation with Jonas Carstairs at the wake. Could it really be that easy? No. It never was. 'But it's all too circumstantial at the moment. We don't really know anything about the family, less about anyone who might have worked for them around about the war. It's unlikely anyone's going to be alive to talk to. There's certainly no Farquhars left to lock up, if it was them. But if nothing else, I'd like to put a name to our victim, and our best shot at the moment is a missing builder.' He turned back to the constable. 'Stuart, I want you to dig up everything you can on Menzies and Albert Farquhar. Once you've done that you can go and help Bob over in the archives.'
'Oh aye? And what am I going to be doing in there?' The old sergeant looked decidedly shifty, as if he didn't already know.
'You're going to dig out all the unsolved mis-per reports for skilled builders living in the Sighthill area. Forty-five through to fifty should cover it. If we don't find anything we can widen either end.'
'From nineteen forty-five? You've got to be kidding.' Grumpy Bob looked horrified.
'You know they keep records further back than that, Bob.'
'Aye, in the basement, in great big dusty file boxes.'
'Well take a constable with you to help then,' McLean said as Constable Kydd knocked on the open door. 'See, you don't even have to look for one.'
'Sir?' The constable looked from Grumpy Bob to McLean and then back again, worry furrowing her brow.
'Never mind,' McLean said. 'What can we do for you?'
She stepped into the room, pulling a trolley behind her. It was laden with cardboard boxes. 'It's the haul from McReadie's apartment, sir. Forensics have been over them. Apparently they're cleaner than DC Porter's soul, whatever that's supposed to mean.'
'He's a Jehovah's Witness, constable. Hasn't he tried to convert you to the cause yet?'
'Um, no sir. I don't think so. And I've a message from the front desk, too. They've been trying your office but getting no answer and your mobile's going straight to message.'
McLean hefted his phone. He was sure he'd charged it overnight. The screen was blank now, and pressing the power button elicited no response.
'Bloody battery's gone flat again. Why didn't they just phone through to here. No, forget that.' He looked at the lone phone perched on the desk by the laptop. It might have worked, but he'd never seen anyone using it. 'What's the message?'
'Apparently there's a Mr Donald Andrews to see you. Something about identifying his son.'
'Oh crap.' McLean threw his phone to MacBride. 'Lend us your airwave will you, constable. I've got to go back to the mortuary.'
*
Donald Andrews didn't look much like his son. Angular cheekbones and a pointed nose sharpened his features like he'd spent too long in a high wind. He wore his hair cropped close, a little grey showing at the temples. His eyes were bright blue and piercing and he spoke with a clipped Home Counties accent. McLean commandeered a squad car and driver to take them across town to the mortuary. He left the constable with the car outside, hoping they wouldn't be long.
Tracy, the pathology assistant, had prepared the body for viewing. He was fully shrouded, laid out on a table in a small room set aside from the main examination hall. When they arrived, she showed them in, then carefully folded down the shroud, revealing the dead man's head but hiding the ragged gash in his neck. Donald Andrews stood silent, stock still for long minutes, staring at the pale white face, then slowly turned back to McLean.
'What is this?' he demanded. 'What the hell happened to my son?'
'I'm sorry sir. This is Peter Andrews?' McLean felt a sudden coldness grip his stomach.
'I... Yes... That is, I think so. But... Can I see the rest of his body, please.' It wasn't a question.
'Sir, I'm not sure you want to do that. He's...'
'I'm a surgeon dammit! I know what's been done to him.'
'I'm sorry sir. I didn't realise.' McLean nodded to Tracy, who rolled back the rest of the shroud. It was most likely she who had sewn up the body after Doctor Cadwallader had finished his examination. McLean was impressed by her skill and thoroughness, but there was no getting past the fact that Peter Andrews had been cruelly filleted. Whereas most fathers might have been horrified, Donald Andrews instead pulled out a slim pair of spectacles and bent closer to inspect his son.
'It's him,' he said after a few minutes. 'He has a birthmark and a couple of scars I'd recognise any day. But I don't understand what's happened to him. How did he get this way?'
'What do you mean, sir? This is how he was when he died.' McLean swallowed. 'They did tell you how he died, didn't they?'
'Yes, and that itself I find hard to believe. Andrew had his faults, but depression wasn't one of them.'
'Did you know he had terminal cancer, sir?'
'What!? But that's impossible.'
'When did you last see your son, sir?'
'Back in April. He came down to London for the marathon. He did it every year to raise money for the sick kids hospital.'
McLean looked at the ravaged body lying naked on the table. He knew that all kinds of people took part in marathons; some even took days to walk the course rather than running. Peter Andrews looked like he'd have needed to take a taxi. His legs were wasted, his spine crooked. The stitching made it hard to see what condition he'd been in before the post mortem examination, but McLean could remember the swell of a paunch.
'He must have cared for the hospital a great deal, to go to all that effort. Did he raise much?'
'It wasn't about the money, inspector. He did it for the running. You need a charity behind you to get a place in the London marathon these days.'
'I'm sorry sir, are you saying your son was a regular runner?'
'Since he was about fifteen. He nearly went professional.' Donald Andrews reached out and stroked his dead son's hair. Tears brightened his accusing eyes. 'He finished the last race in two and a half hours.'
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29
The unfamiliar sound of the airwave set going off in his pocket distracted him as he walked back to the station.
'McLean,' he said, after remembering how to use the machine. It was bulkier than a mobile phone, and more complicated, but its battery hadn't gone flat. Not yet at least.
'Ah, hello, inspector. I was wondering if I was ever going to be connected.' McLean recognised the voice of his grandmother's solicitor.
'Mr Carstairs, I was going to get in touch. About Albert Farquhar.'
A pause, as if the lawyer had been caught off guard. 'Of course. Actually, that's not what I was calling about. I have your grandmother's papers all in order; just need you to sign some forms and then we can begin the tedious process of transferring title deeds and so forth.'
McLean glanced at his watch. The afternoon was getting away from him, and there was a mountain of paperwork on his desk even before he could get to the interesting task of sorting through McReadie's trophies. 'I'm quite busy right now, Mr Carstairs.'
'Of course you are, Tony. But even detective inspectors need to eat sometime. I wondered if you might be interested in a touch of supper. Say around eight? You can sign the papers then and we'll sort out the rest for you. Esther entrusted me with various personal messages to pass on to you after she died, too. It didn't seem quite appropriate to do so at her funeral. And I can tell you all about Bertie Farquhar if you want, although it's a rather distasteful subject.'
It was probably the best offer he was going to get, and would beat a carry out on the way home close to midnight, which was how the evening looked to be shaping up. And if he could find out a bit more about Farquhar, well, it was almost like work anyway.
'That's very kind, Jonas.'
'Eight o'clock then?'
'Yes, fine.' Carstairs reminded him of his address, then hung up, by which time McLean had almost reached the station. He was still holding the airwave set trying to work out how to turn it off when he pushed in through the front door.
'Well, miracles never cease,' the desk sergeant said. 'A detective inspector with an airwave set.'
'It's not mine Pete, I borrowed it off a constable.' McLean shook the thing, prodded the buttons on the front, all to no avail. 'How do you turn the damn thing off?'
*
Downstairs, chaos ruled the tiny incident room. The boxes Constable Kydd had wheeled in on her trolley were piled all over the place, some opened, others still taped up. In the middle of the whirlwind, DC MacBride knelt with a sheaf of papers, leafing through them hopefully.
'Having fun constable?' McLean looked at his watch. 'Actually, shouldn't you have gone home by now?'
'Thought I'd make an early start on identifying these pieces, sir.' MacBride held up a clear plastic bag containing a jewel-encrusted gold egg of singular vulgarity.
'Well, I've got about an hour to kill. Chuck us one of those sheets and I'll give you a hand. You had any success yet?'
MacBride pointed to a small pile of items on the desk. 'Those were on Mrs Douglas's list. And according to inventory they were on the bottom shelf, furthest to the right. They were all next to each other too. I'm working on the hypothesis McReadie did things methodically. He's a computer expert, after all.'
'Sounds like a good strategy.' McLean looked around the boxes, checking their labels with his list. 'So this should be the top shelf, working from the left; his first burglary. Major Ronald Duchesne.'
He opened up the box, looking through the clear plastic bags within and trying to tally them against the items reported stolen. It was unlikely they'd all be there; McReadie would probably have sold the pieces that didn't appeal to him, and victims of theft almost always added things to the list of stolen goods. But the box contained nothing that even partially matched. Having pulled everything out and placed it neatly on the floor around him, McLean was about to put it all back again and start on the next box when he noticed one more bag inside. He reached it out, held it up to the light.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
On the wall, blown up large and pinned in a circle, were the images of the six items found in the alcoves along with the dead girl's preserved organs. Right now he was focussing on the photograph of a single, ornately carved gold cufflink, set with a large ruby. Lying in the bottom of the clear plastic evidence bag was its identical twin.
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