The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (37 page)

McLean scrabbled to the edge, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Buchanan had reached the rope, but somehow in his fall it had tangled around his head. He hung there, four storeys up, neck quite clearly snapped, body swaying gently from side to side.

‘Oh fuck.’ Ritchie crawled to the edge beside him on all fours. Peered down with wide eyes. She shuffled away from the drop and slumped against the doorframe of Magda’s flat. McLean leaned back against solid parapet, drinking the air in deep gulps and staring at the sleeve in his hands. He shook his head once, then looked down at the walkway. Lying in the middle, exactly where a man attacking another man might place his foot and slip, lay the crushed remains of a doll, naked and with no arms.

37

It was probably delayed shock. That at least was what he kept on telling himself as he walked slowly around the car park, staring at things but not really seeing them. The place was full of uniforms, scurrying around securing the scene, attaching tape to anything that didn’t move, interviewing anything that did. The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him: when Malky Jennings had been found dead around the back of the tower block, there’d been a cursory investigation but nothing serious. When Magda had been beaten within an inch of her life, the investigation had been a cock-up from the start. Now that a detective sergeant was dead though, the whole of Lothian and Borders were crawling over the scene.

McLean stopped pacing, vaguely aware that someone had spoken, possibly to him. His feet had brought him back to his Alfa, its windscreen smashed, roof and bonnet dented by falling brickwork. High up above, a team of firemen were working to get DS Buchanan’s body down.

‘You OK, Inspector?’

The voice finally broke through his musings. McLean looked around to see the SOC officer, Jemima Cairns, standing beside him. He couldn’t immediately work out how she had got there.

‘Miss Cairns,’ he said.

‘Well, at least that much is working.’ The SOC officer
peered at him in an all too familiar manner. ‘You really shouldn’t be here. You’re in shock.’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘No, actually. You’re not. And you’re messing up my crime scene. Why don’t you go see Wally over at the van. He’ll give you a cup of tea.’

Miss Cairns put a hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the cars. There was enough truth in her words for McLean to allow himself to be led. And, besides, it was never wise to turn down a cup of tea. Who knew when the next one would come along?

DS Ritchie was already at the van, cradling a mug between her hands. She always looked pale, her north-eastern complexion never that well attuned to the sun. But now her eyes matched the whiteness of her skin, the freckles across her cheeks dark spots across a bloodless canvas.

‘This is so fucked up,’ she said as McLean sat down next to her. The SOC officer called Wally handed him a mug of hot tea and he drank, noticed the sweetness and didn’t care.

‘Ever the master of understatement.’

‘I keep seeing it in my head, but it makes no sense. How did it … ? How did he … ?’

McLean saw an image in his mind. DS Buchanan staring up at him with more anger in his eyes than fear.

‘You saw what happened, right?’

‘I saw something happen. Not quite sure what. You came out of the doorway, said something I couldn’t hear. Next thing there was a shout and Buchanan came charging out through the door. He didn’t even scream. Just went over and –’

‘He was trying to get to the rope, stupid bugger. If he’d stayed still I could have got a better grip on his arm instead of …’ McLean shuddered, suppressed the urge to look up and see if the body was still there. For some reason he couldn’t immediately process, it wasn’t a simple case of putting up a ladder and bringing Pete Buchanan down.

‘But he was shouting – no, screaming – at you when he came out. Looked like he was going to throttle you.’

‘Actually I think he wanted to push me over the edge.’

‘Christ. Why?’

‘I’m hoping Magda Evans might be able to shed some light on that, just as soon as she can talk.’ McLean took a sip of his tea. It really was disgustingly sweet. ‘I’m fairly sure it was Buchanan who beat her up. I’m just not sure why.’

‘Oh God. Here we go.’

McLean looked at Ritchie. She had been staring into her mug, but something had attracted her attention. He followed her gaze past the SOC van towards the road. A shiny silver Range Rover had pulled up and was even now disgorging Detective Chief Inspector John Brooks. A second figure climbed out behind him. McLean expected little DI Spence, but instead the balding ginger and grey head of Acting Superintendent Duguid emerged. Just what he needed.

‘You reckon Wally’ll let us hide in the SOC van?’ But it was too late. Duguid had scanned the scene and spotted them.

‘What the fuck’s going on, McLean? A man’s dead and you’re sitting around drinking tea?’ Ever the master of observation. DS Ritchie struggled to stand as Duguid
marched up to them. McLean put a hand on her arm to stop her.

‘It was an accident, sir. DS Buchanan came out of one of the fourth floor flats at speed, tripped on something lying in the walkway and went through the parapet. Bloody thing should have been repaired by now. That’s why the scaffold’s there. And the rope.’ He looked up now, as did Duguid. The view was partially obscured by a high access platform that had backed into the car park, blocking everything else in. You could still see the body hanging there though.

‘Dammit, man, what were you even doing here?’

‘Would you believe conducting my investigation?’

‘Don’t get smart with me, McLean.’

‘Sorry, sir, but I just saw a man die and I couldn’t do anything to save him. You’ll understand if I’m not at my best right now.’

Duguid looked around for something to sit on before leaning against the bonnet of the nearest car. He ran a hand through the remnants of his hair. ‘OK. From the beginning. Tell me what happened.’

McLean ran through the events yet again. DCI Brooks ambled up halfway through, so he had to go over it once more. Beside him, Ritchie said nothing, which suited him fine. Had he been the officer investigating this incident, the first thing he would have done would be to separate all the witnesses and get separate statements from them before they had time to corroborate their stories. It didn’t really surprise him that Dagwood missed this crucial step, but he expected more of Brooks.

‘There’ll have to be an internal investigation,’ Duguid
said finally. ‘I’ve already put in a call to Rab Callard over in Professional Standards.’ He turned to Brooks. ‘John, you can take over here.’

‘I need to speak to Magda Evans, find out what Buchanan was doing here in the first place.’ McLean struggled to his feet, looking for somewhere to put his mug.

‘No. You don’t.’ Duguid’s detective brain finally chuntered into life. ‘You need to give a statement to DCI Brooks and then you need to go home. You too, Ritchie.’

‘I can’t go home. I’ve got to –’

‘Perhaps I’m not making myself clear, McLean. Give a statement to Brooks, and then go home. That’s an order. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Duguid stalked off in the direction of the Range Rover. McLean watched him go, considered finishing his horribly sweet tea. Then a commotion from over by the scaffolding stopped everyone in their tracks.

‘Fuck! Catch it!’ A whirring sound of rope spinning through a pulley wheel. McLean watched in horrified fascination as Buchanan’s body plunged downwards, picking up speed before it smashed into the roof of his bright-red Alfa.

38

A squad car dropped him off at the end of his drive, then disappeared into the late-afternoon city without a word. McLean had tried to get an idea of the damage done to his Alfa, but the area had been swarming with SOC officers and firemen. It was going to be put on a flatbed and taken back to the forensic labs for tests. He just hoped it would be repairable once he finally got it back.

Jenny Nairn looked up from the kitchen table as he walked in through the back door. ‘You’re home early. Something come up?’

‘You could say that.’ McLean went to the Aga, put the kettle on. He needed a proper cup of tea to take away the sweet sugar taste lingering from the last one. The shock had worn off now, replaced with a growing anger and frustration. And a right bastard of a headache.

‘Want to talk about it?’ Jenny had been reading from an old textbook, taking notes in tiny handwriting on an A4 pad. She closed the book from the back, put the pad on top of it, obscuring the cover.

‘One of my colleagues died this afternoon. A detective sergeant. He fell off a walkway four storeys up. Hanged himself by accident.’

‘Oh my god. Were you there?’

McLean ignored the question. He didn’t want to talk about it at all. ‘Emma about?’

‘Last time I looked she was in the attic. Seems to like it up there. You were there, weren’t you. That’s why you’re home early.’

McLean took the boiling kettle off the hotplate, poured water over the tea bag he’d dropped into a mug. Nodded at Jenny. ‘You want one?’

‘No, I’m good. And you’re avoiding the question.’

‘I don’t really like talking about work. There’s a lot of it I can’t talk about, so it’s easier not to start, OK?’

‘OK. But if you want to talk, I’m a good listener. Just saying.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ McLean hoiked out the tea bag and threw it into the sink, fetched milk from the fridge. ‘You know, you can have the evening off if you want. I’m not going anywhere. It’d be nice to spend some time with Emma for a change.’

Jenny paused to consider the offer for all of five seconds before answering. ‘Sure. Thanks. I’ll do that.’

The stairs creaked under his feet as he climbed up into the eaves, mug of tea held in a steady hand. Under the late-afternoon sun, it was pleasantly warm up here, and still, like being wrapped in a comfort blanket. It was quiet, too, somehow cut off from the endless thrum of the city. As he stepped into the attic, McLean noticed the door to the wardrobe was open and most of the dust sheets had been taken off the larger items of furniture. Emma was lying on the old sofa, bathed in soft sunlight shining through one of the skylights. Fast asleep, she looked like something from a fairy tale, the princess waiting for a brave prince to come and kiss her awake. A book lay open
across her chest; he didn’t have to see up close to know which one it was. The Conan Doyle copy of Gray’s
Anatomy
, formerly belonging to the late Donald Anderson.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. McLean almost jumped, turned too rapidly, stumbling into an old carved hat stand by the door. Hot tea spilled over his hand, and he put the mug down carefully on a nearby trunk, dabbed away the damp with a handkerchief. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat eyed him from the shadows, testing the air as if sight alone wasn’t enough to convince it of his intentions.

‘One of these days, cat, I’m going to get tired of you doing that and throw you out the nearest window.’ He didn’t really mean it, but felt the need to say something. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stalked past him, casually brushing its tail against his leg on its way to the sofa, where it leapt up and curled itself into a comfortable ball on the arm at Emma’s feet. She didn’t stir all the while, but as the sun played with the motes of dust in the air above her, McLean fancied he could see shapes forming, people almost. He shook his head and they disappeared, fog in his head from turning too quickly.

And then Emma began to speak.

She hadn’t opened her eyes, and her lips barely moved. At first he couldn’t even make out the words. Thinking she was waking up, he crossed the attic room to her side, but as he came close, he realized she was still fast asleep. Eyes flickered under closed lids, and her hands twitched, one laid across the book, the other trailing to the floor.

‘No, no, no, no, no.’ The voice didn’t sound remotely like Emma’s; more that of a man. McLean reached towards her, meaning to wake her up, but something
stopped him. His arm froze as if a thousand tiny invisible hands held him back. Letting out a quiet hiss that was all the more menacing for its lack of volume, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stared him down. Its eyes almost challenged him to try and interfere with whatever was going on.