The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (19 page)

‘Three?’ McLean lifted his pint, took a long deep draught before continuing. ‘Three was I really needed a drink.’

The referee called half-time five minutes later. McLean watched as the collected punters headed either to the toilets or to the bar before returning to their tables in
readiness for the second half. After her initial thirst, Ritchie had slowed down, but he’d more or less finished his own pint. Ah well, it was all in the line of duty. He threw back the last of it and went in search of another.

The barman was a little more friendly this time, in the same way a room at minus eighteen is a little warmer than a room at minus twenty.

‘Two more, aye?’

McLean nodded, waited for the drinks to be poured, handed over a ten-pound note.

‘Grigori Mikhailevic. Used to work here on the late shift,’ he said as the barman handed over his change.

‘What of him?’ Back down to minus twenty.

‘I was wondering if you knew him at all.’

‘Why?’

McLean produced his warrant card. ‘You know he hanged himself?’

‘Aye, I heard that. Didn’t much surprise me, like.’

‘What, miserable was he?’

‘No’ exactly miserable, but he didn’t say much, ken? Kept to himself.’

‘Was he a good worker?’

‘Good enough, I suppose. Turned up, did the job. Didn’t complain. Just never went out of his way, ken? No’ a great one for the chatter.’

‘What about friends? He ever meet people here?’

The barman made a noise that sounded exactly like ‘Ppphhhttt’. Shook his head. ‘Not that I remember.’

‘You ever see this man before?’ McLean slid the photograph of Patrick Sands across the bar. The barman peered at it, but didn’t pick it up.

‘Nope,’ he said after just long enough a pause for McLean to trust he was telling the truth. In the mirror behind the bar he could see the television screen, footballers running back onto the pitch.

‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He picked up the two pints, turned to go back to the table where Ritchie was staring at her smartphone with an expression of horror on her face. No doubt some impossible demand from their gallant leader. Christ he wished Jayne McIntyre would come back.

‘There was one time, now I think of it.’

McLean did a one-eighty, managing somehow not to spill any of the semi-precious liquid. ‘Aye?’

‘That’s right. I remember now, ken. Not long before he … Well. He was here wi’ a lassie.’

‘A young woman?’

‘No’ so young, ye ken. Thought mebbe she was his mother at first, but the way they was carrying on. And him being foreign and all, well, she didn’t look like she was Russian.’

‘You remember when this was?’

‘I dunno. Couple of days before his last shift?’

‘You remember what she looked like?’

The barman’s eyes flickered away towards the television screen, back again. ‘Quite tall, aye? Bit of grey in her hair. She had a long coat on. Black, I think. They sat over there where you’re sitting just now.’

He pointed, and McLean turned to look. Ritchie was still glowering at her phone. When he turned back, the barman had picked up his glass and cloth, eyes glued to the television where the match was back in play. Well, it
was more information than he’d hoped for, even if he didn’t know what it meant. He nodded a quick ‘thanks’ to the barman, receiving the most minimal of grunts by way of reply, then set off across the empty bar towards Ritchie. She looked like she needed a distraction.

‘Get anything?’ She asked as McLean plunked her pint down beside the now-empty glass.

‘Depends what you would consider anything.’ He told her about the conversation with the barman, the mysterious older woman.

‘Lecturer, tutor? Could be almost anyone. I don’t suppose they have CCTV in here.’

‘Doubt it, and even if they did they’d be unlikely to have kept recordings from that far back.’

‘But you think she’s important, don’t you.’

‘We’re working on the assumption these two suicides are linked, aye?’

Ritchie nodded, said nothing.

‘And we know that Mikhailevic hadn’t handled the rope he used, so someone must have helped him.’

‘Could’ve been Sands. If the two of them knew each other. You know. One helps his mate hang himself, then goes home and tops himself.’

McLean could see by Ritchie’s expression that she didn’t really believe it. Too far-fetched.

‘It doesn’t really stack up. Sands would stay close if he was going to do that. Not traipse halfway across town before hanging himself. He must’ve died before Mikhailevic, too. The way he was.’

‘So we’re looking for a third party.’ Ritchie took a sip of
her beer, placed the glass back carefully on the dog-eared beer mat, exactly central.

‘It’s an avenue of enquiry, and this woman Mikhailevic was seen with is a loose end. Anyway, we can go and talk to the college tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a tall, greying lady in a long dark coat there.’

Ritchie grimaced. ‘Erm, not me, I’m afraid. Got an email from Dagwood. He wants me at Tulliallan for eight. More bloody Task Force Action Groups or whatever pish they come up with next.’

McLean put his glass down before he broke it. The pettiness of the man never ceased to amaze him. ‘Don’t suppose you feel like calling in sick?’

‘And have him come round my flat to check?’

‘Fair point. I’m sorry, Ritchie, this is my fault.’

‘It’s not your fault he’s a dick. Sir,’ she added.

‘Aye, but it’s my fault he’s picking on you and MacBride. Christ, I wish Jayne McIntyre was back.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Ritchie said, and raised her glass.

They didn’t stay much longer at the Bond Bar; it wasn’t really the place for a session, and Ritchie had to be up early for her trip to Tulliallan the next day. McLean watched her head off towards the New Town and her tiny flat before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking in the opposite direction. He’d probably flag down a taxi before long, but it was always good to walk, especially when you had things to think about.

It wasn’t long before he realized he’d picked up a tail; the man wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. McLean slowed, hand clasping his mobile phone as he allowed his pursuer
to catch up. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what this was all about.

‘So you’re the idiot went round to see Razors MacDougal about his daughter, eh?’

‘What of it?’ McLean looked at the man walking alongside him. Say what you liked about the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency, they enjoyed their cloak and dagger. No doubt this loon with his long dark overcoat in the autumn, wearing shades even in the half-light of the gloaming, had been watching and waiting for a chance to approach unseen. Too easy to just phone. Or stick something in the internal mail system.

‘Takes some balls, I’d’ve thought. Going into the house of a man like that and accusing him of sexual assault on his only child.’

‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? MacDougal? Only I’ve not seen him since we closed the case.’

‘Nah. MacDougal’s low priority right now. We’re keeping an eye on him, mind. And you too, McLean. He likes you, for some reason I can’t begin to fathom. That might be useful to us sometime.’

‘So this is about Ivan the Russian then.’

‘If he even exists.’ The SCDEA officer swung his arms like a soldier marching. Quite likely he was ex-Services. ‘It’s an odd one, I’ll give you that much. People smuggling’s nothing new, but normally they’re coming over here. Not often we see a bunch being freighted back the way. And it’s not as if they were prime meat, either.’

McLean stiffened at the words. Bad enough getting that attitude from an old dinosaur like Buchanan, but a young Turk from the drug squad ought to know better. On the
other hand, he had a point. None of the young women they’d pulled off the boat had been remotely healthy. The word ‘used’ sprung to mind.

‘You say “if he exists”. You really have no idea about him?’

‘Not a Scooby, mate. But we’ll be looking into it. The boss don’t like it when stuff happens he hasn’t sanctioned. Know what I mean?’

McLean didn’t, but decided not to say so. ‘You’ll let me know what you find out?’

‘If I can. Depends what we turn up.’ The SCDEA officer tapped the side of his nose with single finger, a gesture McLean felt singularly inapt for the occasion. ‘Be seeing you, Inspector. But don’t expect to see me.’ And with that he turned down a side street to nowhere. McLean paused for the briefest of moments, shook his head at the idiocy of it all, then carried on his long walk home.

21

Edinburgh was full of them, tiny little institutes and further education colleges trading on the name of the bigger universities. Grigori Mikhailevic had, according to DC MacBride’s notes, been studying accountancy at a place called Fulcholme College, based in Newhaven. Its centre of operations was a large detached house, the front garden flattened and laid to tarmac. Wide stone steps led up to the front door, with an impressive sign beside it claiming accreditation from a body McLean had never heard of.

Inside was much like any of a thousand large houses dotted across the city, once the homes of prosperous merchants, bankers or clergy. The only real difference between this place and his Gran’s house was that he didn’t have a reception desk set up in the hallway. He was disappointed to see the receptionist was a young man, not the greying, tall lady he’d hoped for. It was never that easy.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

McLean showed his warrant card. Before he could say anything, the receptionist had picked up a phone and hit a button for an internal call.

‘Professor? There’s a policeman here. Detective Inspector McLean.’ He palmed the microphone end of the hand-piece, looked up. ‘It’s about Grigori?’

McLean nodded, pocketing his card as he looked around. Four closed doors, each with a modern plastic
plaque screwed to the dark wood. Room 1, Room 2, Room 3, Room 4. They didn’t go in for creativity much at Fulcholme, it would seem. Stairs climbed up the back wall, past a mezzanine window, chest-height dark-oak panelling sucking the light out of everything, even on this bright summer morning. The most notable thing about the whole place, however, was the complete lack of students. He’d have expected at least one or two to be loitering around the hall waiting for a tutorial to start; there were sofas arranged around an empty fireplace that looked to be just for that purpose.

‘Professor Bain will be with you in a minute, Inspector.’ The receptionist hung up his phone at almost the exact moment one of the doors clicked and swung open. A round-faced man appeared from Room 1, saw McLean and approached with hand extended. His hair was white, and grew only from the sides of his head and his ears.

‘Terrible business, terrible.’ Professor Bain gave McLean’s hand a vigorous shake. ‘Come to my office, please. Trevor, can you organize some coffee? You do like coffee don’t you, Inspector?’

McLean found himself being bustled into Room 1, which turned out to be a large study. At one end, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a desk had been positioned to give commanding views out of the window onto the back yard. At the other end, near the door to the hall, a couple of sofas and four armchairs clustered around a low table. A flipchart board stood to one side, scribblings from the last tutorial group still evident on the final page.

‘Please excuse the mess. Here, have a seat.’ Professor
Bain indicated the armchairs before dropping himself onto a sofa. ‘I must say, I’m surprised to see a detective inspector out here. It’s about poor Grigori, you say.’

‘You call him Grigori. First name. He was popular here, I take it.’ McLean sat on the edge of the armchair, unwilling to trust himself to its depths. He wanted to maintain eye level with the professor, not be talked down to like an undergrad.

‘I try to be on first-name terms with all my students, but, yes, Grigori was special. A model student in many ways. And a nice person, too. Always ready to help his classmates. If they needed it, that is.’

‘I’d very much like to talk to them, if I could.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. They’re all in lectures right now. But why the interest? I mean, I’m glad you’re investigating, of course. But poor Grigori took his own life, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, at least we think so. But there are remarkable similarities between his death and that of another young man at much the same time. Tell me, does the name Patrick Sands mean anything to you?’ McLean slid the photograph out of his pocket and handed it over. Professor Bain studied it a while before handing it back.

‘He doesn’t look familiar. But then I see so many faces come through here every year. Sands, you say? I’ll ask Trevor to check the register, see if we have anyone of that name on file.’

‘Thanks.’ McLean took back the photo. ‘Tell me, Professor Bain, were you surprised when Mikhailevic killed himself?’

There was the tiniest of pauses before the answer. ‘Yes, I think I was. But do we ever really know people?’

‘He was doing OK in his studies?’

‘Top of his class. A very diligent student.’

McLean remembered the tiny bedsit flat, the neatness of the place, the pens lined up in their drawer. ‘What about fees? Did he have money problems?’