The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (29 page)

‘You sure you want to go through with this?’

Emma was standing very close, hand clasping onto his as if it were her only lifeline. Her eyes were wide as she took in the room, perhaps seeing it very differently to him.
She was the one who was going to have a million volts zapped through her head, after all.

‘I don’t have much choice, do I.’ She squeezed his hand and then let it go.

‘OK, Emma. If you’d like to take a seat.’ Doctor Wheeler pointed at the chair. ‘Tony, you can sit over there if you want. This won’t take long.’

McLean reluctantly retreated to the far side of the room, where a couple of uncomfortable armchairs had been pushed against the wall. As he sat down, Doctor Wheeler pulled some thin wires from the small machine on its trolley beside Emma’s chair.

‘Right then. We just attach these here.’ She reached around, clipping something to Emma’s earlobe. ‘And here. That’s not uncomfortable, is it?’

Emma shook her head very slightly, but McLean could see her hands clenched tight to the arms of the chair, knuckles white as if she were on a rollercoaster. He couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through her head just now, and that was before the voltage was applied.

‘Now, this isn’t electro-convulsive therapy, so we don’t need restraints or muscle relaxants. The machine takes a little time to power up, but don’t worry. You won’t feel anything.’ Doctor Wheeler flicked a couple of switches on the box, which began to emit a high-pitched whine, like a terrier left on the wrong side of a door. From the corner of his eye, McLean thought he saw movement at the door, but when he turned to look there was nothing. When he dragged his eyes back to Emma and the machine, Doctor Wheeler had placed a hand on Emma’s for reassurance.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve done this hundreds of times. It’s perfectly –’

Emma froze. She had been staring at McLean, but her eyes rolled up in their sockets so completely all he could see was whites. Then she started to shake, so fast it was almost a vibration running through her whole body. Her mouth opened and a sound came out like nothing he had ever heard before. It went straight through his head without passing his ears. A million voices clamouring to be heard, a thousand thousand different tongues.

In an instant, Doctor Wheeler had flicked off the power. Emma continued to wail for a second that seemed like an hour, then relaxed like a puppet that has lost its master, flopping forward in the chair. The silence left an echo ringing in McLean’s ears, doubt already creeping over the memory of what he thought he’d just seen.

‘Is she all right?’ He pulled himself out of the seat, feeling an ache as if he’d been sitting for days. Doctor Wheeler was at Emma’s side, checking her pulse, shining a tiny pen torch into a forced-open eye.

‘I think so. She seems to have fainted. Never seen that happen before.’

McLean crossed the room, knelt down and took Emma’s hand. She stirred gently at his touch, but didn’t wake. After a moment he turned his attention to the control box, pulled at one of the thin cables. A thin wisp of smoke rose up from it in a single tendril.

‘What … What just happened?’ McLean pulled himself up, his whole body aching as if he’d been the one being shocked, and at a much higher voltage.

‘I really don’t know.’ Doctor Wheeler stared at the cable
he’d pulled out. One end was still attached to the electrodes taped to Emma’s head, the other was a lump of molten plastic and wire.

Mid-morning after a late start. Emma hadn’t woken from the failed electro-cranial stimulation therapy for an hour, and had gone straight to bed after he’d finally brought her home from the hospital the previous evening. McLean had hoped for a good night’s sleep himself, but she’d climbed into his bed at half four again and he’d not slept a wink after that. He felt dog-tired, and a dog that had been kept awake for weeks by howling cats at that.

For once, the CID room was a hive of industry as he entered; all the desks occupied by sergeants and constables quietly going about their tasks uninterrupted by the demands of senior officers for a change. It couldn’t last, not least because he was about to ruin the moment, but it was nice to see.

DS Ritchie noticed him first as he stood in the open doorway. She tapped a couple of keys on her computer as if to make a point before standing, grabbed her notebook and wound her way through the desks towards him.

‘You after something, sir?’ There was a hint of desperation in the question. As if anything was better than being sent off to Tulliallan again. McLean could only sympathize.

‘Updates, mostly. Grumpy Bob about?’

‘He sloped off with his paper about fifteen minutes ago. Find an empty meeting room and that’s probably where he’ll be.’

‘What about MacBride?’

At the question, a round face poked up from behind a nearby screen, freshly scrubbed and pink. ‘Here, sir.’

‘You got a moment?’

By way of an answer, MacBride leapt to his feet, notebook at the ready.

‘OK then. Round up Gregg and let’s see if we can find Grumpy Bob’s meeting room. We need to go over these hangings again.’ McLean turned back to the door, only to find a rather frightened-looking young PC standing in the doorway, struggling with an enormous wicker hamper.

‘Package for Detective Inspector McLean. I was told I’d find him in here?’ The PC almost tripped forward, and McLean had to grab the hamper to stop her from dropping it.

‘Steady, Constable. Here, let me take that off you.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thought I was going to drop it. Weighs a ton.’

McLean could only nod in agreement as he took the full weight of the hamper. It was about the size of a trunk and if he was any judge was full of expensive delicacies. He staggered over to the nearest clear table and set it down as carefully as he could.

‘Any idea who this is from, Constable?’ he asked.

‘Van had Valvona and Crolla written on the side, sir. Oh, and I’ve to give you this as well.’ The constable pulled an envelope out of her jacket pocket and handed it over. McLean thanked her and she scurried off with obvious relief. Confused as to who might be sending him gifts, he slid open the envelope and pulled out the note. The last time it had been a bottle of very expensive single malt whisky from one of Glasgow’s more notorious thugs.
This looked even more expensive, and he wasn’t aware of having helped out anyone recently.

‘You’ve got an admirer, sir.’ DS Ritchie was trying not to peer over his shoulder at the note as he unfolded it. Not a note at all, but an invoice for almost two grand still outstanding, addressed to him care off the station.

‘What the … ?’ McLean handed the invoice to Ritchie. He looked at the hamper, noticed for the first time that it had already been opened. No doubt some key item had been removed by whichever smartarse had ordered the thing in his name in the first place.

‘I don’t get it. You ordered this, sir?’

‘Does it look like Christmas to you, Ritchie?’ He immediately regretted snapping at her. ‘Sorry. No, I didn’t order this. Someone pretending to be me ordered this, and I’ll bet you a fiver it’s the same person who opened it and removed the most valuable item.’

He unlatched the clasps holding the hamper closed and lifted the lid. As might be expected, it was full of extremely expensive delicacies. There was even a helpful printed sheet detailing everything. Sure enough, the bottle of VSOP Brandy was missing. Hard not to notice given the large gap right there in the middle, between the Colston Bassett Stilton and the Royal Beluga Caviar.

‘What kind of outfit sends out something like this without payment up front?’ It was DC MacBride who asked the obvious question. His eyes were wide as he looked at the invoice. Not surprising given it was probably more than he earned in a month.

‘Well, if you can’t trust a policeman, who can you trust?’ McLean appreciated the cunning of the prank as he said
it, if not the outcome. And the final touch, making sure the CID room was full when his extravagant purchase was delivered. That was a touch of genius. By the end of the shift, every officer in Lothian and Borders would know of it.

After such a good start, the day could hardly fail to get better. McLean hid the hamper in his office, covering it with paperwork where no one would think to look. He cadged a ride over to HQ and the offices of the SCU, mindful of Duguid’s words the day before and all too aware of how little time he was spending there. Not that he was spending much in CID either. Split between both meant not really being able to do anything properly.

DS Buchanan was sitting at his desk in the SCU main office, peering myopically at his computer screen when McLean arrived. The sergeant looked up with something close to a sneer on his face as he saw who it was.

‘You back then?’

McLean fought down the urge to call him out on his insolence. It was, after all, exactly the sort of thing Duguid would do. Better just to let it slide.

‘Where are we with the Malky Jennings murder?’

‘Report’s over there.’ Buchanan nodded in the direction of the desk McLean had been allocated when he’d first arrived. It was almost as deeply covered in paperwork as his desk back at CID, much of it of no relevance to him whatsoever. The Malky Jennings file was at least on the top, and easily identified. It was also very slim. Transcripts of the door-to-door interviews filled the bulk of the file, and they were almost all identical. ‘Din’t see nothing, aye.’
Or words to that effect. Scanning through, McLean could see that they had got precisely nowhere since Magda Evans had positively identified the body. He could sort of understand why. Nobody much cared if a drug dealer and pimp was beaten to death and left for the foxes to eat. There’d be more effort going into finding out who was taking over his patch, working out how best to contain them. If forensics couldn’t come up with anything, then a conviction was about as likely as Duguid taking early retirement.

‘We ever find a murder weapon?’ McLean flicked through the front pages of the report, barely taking in the words.

‘Nah.’ Buchanan shook his head once, went back to his screen. Sod you then.

‘How’d you get on with your kiddie fiddler?’

‘You what?’ Buchanan looked up again, a puzzled frown on his face.

‘Playground stalker over in Sighthill? You know.’

For a moment it looked like he genuinely didn’t. Then realization dawned across the detective sergeant’s face. ‘Oh, aye. The kiddie fiddler in Sighthill. Aye. One of the Sex Offenders Register boys. He’s not meant to go anywhere near the primary school. Local plod got a call saying they’d seen him hanging around during playtime. Wanted me to go have a word. He’s harmless, really, but. You know.’ He shook his head again, went back to whatever it was he was doing. Conversation over.

McLean flicked through the report again, looked down at the desk to see a thicker one for the prostitute-trafficking case. There was a stack of the all-too familiar overtime
sheets attached to it, and a pile of requisition orders to sign off. Home from home. He shuffled around to the business side of the desk, dropped into the seat and realized it wasn’t the comfortable one he’d nicked back from DS Buchanan’s desk the day before. Sod it, the sooner he got started, the sooner he could go home, and starting an argument with a stroppy sergeant was just going to waste precious time. With a sigh, he reached for the first in an impossibly large pile of forms.

31

He was driving home when the call came through. No hands-free in his little Alfa, so normally McLean would ignore his phone on a short trip, pick up the message when he got wherever he was going. Maybe it was the slow-moving traffic, maybe just chance, but something made him pull the phone out of his jacket pocket this time, glance at the screen. Jenny Nairn.

To a chorus of irate horns, he indicated and swerved over to the kerb, hit the hazard lights whilst accepting the call and clamping the phone to his ear. There was only one reason why the young carer would phone him at work.

‘Thank fuck for that. Where’ve you been for the last three hours?’

‘Umm. Jenny?’ McLean frowned, even though there was no one there to see him.

‘Too bloody right, Jenny. I’ve been trying your phone for ages. Check your messages why don’t you.’

McLean looked at his phone, but in call mode he couldn’t see if there were messages waiting or not. He didn’t remember there being any, and, anyway, the thing had been in his pocket all day. He’d have heard if it rang.

‘I’m sorry, OK? I’m here now. What’s the problem?’

‘It’s Emma. She walked out again. Ran, more like.’ Jenny sounded winded, breathing heavily as if she were running.

‘I thought you were with her.’ McLean stared in the rear-view mirror as the traffic snarled up behind him even worse than it had been before.

‘I am with her. Now. Can barely keep up.’ More heavy breathing and the sound of cars in the background.

‘Did you not try to stop her?’ He knew it was a stupid question even as he asked it.

‘Yes, and if she’s broken my nose you’re paying for the plastic surgery. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, you know.’

Now he listened carefully, there was something of a more nasal quality about Jenny’s voice.