The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (39 page)

‘Good. You’re doing very well, Emma. I think it’s time we went back a bit further. To your school days. Sixth form. Breathe in. Hold. And out.’

Sixth form in that dismal English public school his grandmother had insisted on sending him to. He could still hear her voice. ‘It was good enough for your grandfather and your father. It’ll be the making of you.’ Aye, right. And the breaking.

Sixth form at least meant the end of ten years of boarding education. Ten years of being sent away from home to sleep in draughty dormitories, endure the cruel taunting of older boys and the bewildering unpredictability of the teachers. One moment they were all praise, the next screaming at you for some wrongdoing only they could
see. Ten years in which he’d learnt to think on his feet, to react rather than plan. Ten years of gut-wrenching homesickness and, yes, the occasional moments of wonder, excitement and joy. By the time he made it to his A levels, McLean had more or less got the hang of private education, but he’d also lost touch with all his Edinburgh friends. Not that there’d been many to start with.

‘Back further. To your childhood.’

Is the voice different? He can’t tell. It’s not important. All he knows is that there is a dark place he doesn’t want to go to. But the voice is insistent. He must tread that unused road, back and back and back to the frightened, angry, confused little boy. He is holding on to a hand, staring at the fog as it eddies and swirls in the car headlights. He is holding on to a hand as he stands at the front of a large hall, staring at a pair of pale wooden boxes, raised up on a dais. He is dimly aware they are in those boxes, his mother and father. Sleeping now. But soon the curtains will part and the flames will devour them. He doesn’t want to see that. Doesn’t want to hear the screams as the plane hurtles out of control towards the towering rock slab of the mountain. He doesn’t want to, but the voice is impossible to resist.

‘Well, someone’s benefiting from these sessions, that’s for sure.’

McLean snapped out of his dream with a start that sent his coffee cup tumbling to the thick carpet floor. Luckily for him and carpet both, it was empty.

‘Sorry about that.’ He stretched, covered his mouth with the back of his hand to hide a yawn. Looking up from the sofa, he saw Emma and Doctor Austin staring down at
him, the one with an expression of concern writ large across her thin face, the other seeming rather amused by it all. How long had he been asleep, dreaming of the past?

‘How did you get on?’ he asked.

‘I remembered stuff,’ Emma said. ‘From school and university. I knew it anyway, but this was like learning how I knew it, if that makes sense?’

‘Emma’s doing very well, Tony. I think with time we’ll get maybe ninety per cent of her memories back.’

‘Umm. Great.’ He pulled himself up out of the sofa, back creaking in protest, then bent to pick up the coffee cup to more pops and snaps. Doctor Austin took it from him and handed it to Emma.

‘Could you take that through to Dave, please. Thanks.’ She waited until the door was closed before speaking again.

‘I know about Emma’s nocturnal visits, Inspector. I can’t imagine that’s easy to deal with.’

McLean wondered who had told her; Emma herself or Jenny Nairn? It didn’t really make much difference. ‘An unbroken night’s sleep would be nice. Still, there’s always your sofa.’

Doctor Austin smiled. ‘The night terrors driving her to your bed are all part of her psychosis. She’s hiding from the bad memories, and in so doing has repressed everything. But it’s still all there, pretty much, and as she drifts off to sleep, it starts to come back. That can be quite overwhelming for someone who basically thinks they’re about eight.’

‘But you think you can cure her.’ McLean tried to keep the pleading out of his voice.

‘Emma’s not as receptive to hypnosis as most.’ Doctor
Austin nodded her head very gently in his direction to indicate exactly who she included in that catch-all. ‘I get people like her now and then. It’s just a matter of taking the time needed, and we’re making progress.’ She paused a moment. ‘Yes, I think I can cure her. But I must warn you, it will be traumatic. A terrible thing was done to her. It’s hardly surprising she’s suppressed it so completely. But we need to dig it out and expose it to the light before she can start to rebuild her life.’

‘It would be fair to say you and Detective Sergeant Buchanan didn’t see eye to eye.’

Really not much later, the taste of Dave’s coffee still lingering, McLean sat on the wrong side of the table in interview room three, trying not to feel like a criminal. Across from him, Chief Inspector Callard of Professional Standards was doing a poor job of concealing his contempt. The interview was informal, for now at least. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t going to be a full investigation.

‘I found him obstructive, and I didn’t like his methods. I’ve no idea why he didn’t like me, but he hardly tried to hide it.’

‘What were you doing at the flat?’ Callard had a copy of the initial incident report in a folder in front of him, but had made no effort to look at it since McLean had given it to him.

‘You know about Magda Evans being violently attacked?’ McLean read Callard’s expression to mean he did. ‘Well, I was working on the theory it was a warning to the other prostitutes working that area. Probably someone
stamping their authority on the place after Malky Jennings was killed.’

‘And you went back to her flat to find out what, exactly?’

‘Something didn’t add up.’

‘What do you mean?’ Callard’s scowl was a permanent feature, but its current severity suggested he had no time for excuses.

‘They only did a basic forensic sweep on the crime scene. Photos, prints, that sort of stuff. It should have been sealed up after that, but somehow the message didn’t get through. When I went back, the flat was wide open. Anyone could have walked in; probably every Ned in the scheme had done by then. Any forensic evidence we find in there’s worth shit. At first I thought it was just a cock-up. Our fault or SEB’s, doesn’t really matter. It happens from time to time. But I had a set of crime scene photographs printed up anyway. Went around there to see how the flat looked in comparison to how it was originally. Someone searched the place, then trashed it to cover their tracks. I’m guessing they knew Magda had something, money probably, and beat her up when she wouldn’t say where it was.’

‘Interesting theory. I’m guessing you have an idea who did it, too.’ Callard didn’t try to hide the disapproval in his voice. McLean had been in this situation too many times now to rise to the bait.

‘I’m not prepared to speculate any more, sir.’

‘You think it was Buchanan though, don’t you.’

‘As I said. I’m not prepared to speculate, sir.’

‘For Christ’s sake, McLean. He’s dead. He fell off a
fucking tower block. Snapped his neck. How do I know you didn’t push him off?’

McLean leaned forward, rested his arms on the table. Of course it had to happen. The canteen rumours were already swirling. Nothing loved gossip quite like a policeman, and this was Grade A material.

‘Isn’t it fortunate that there was a witness to the events then, sir.’

Callard let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I know you didn’t kill him, McLean. You’re many things, but a murderer doesn’t fit the profile. Professional pain in the arse, yes, troublemaker, yes.’

‘If you know I didn’t kill DS Buchanan, then why am I under investigation?’

‘Because of a little thing called procedure. You remember procedure, don’t you? They taught you about it when you joined the force, yes? An officer is dead. You were present when it happened and until my investigation into exactly how it happened and why is completed you will be restricted to an administrative role. Can’t risk some shite of a lawyer using your conduct as an excuse to get some scumbag off the hook. Capische?’

‘What about DS Ritchie, is she on paperwork only as well?’

‘For the time being, yes. So you can imagine just how happy Charles Duguid is right now.’ For some reason this brought the slightest edge of a smile to Callard’s face. It made him look like a snake with a mouthful of gerbil. He picked up the report and opened it for the first time. ‘You’d do well to avoid him if you can.’

‘McLean. My office. Now.’

He had to have been waiting outside. Hidden just around the corner and listening for any clues, perhaps. There was no other way that Acting Superintendent Duguid could have been in that part of the station at exactly that time. McLean considered pretending he hadn’t heard, but the problem with ignoring Dagwood was that it just made him worse.

‘Was there anything specific you wanted, sir?’ He decided on the annoyingly helpful approach instead. Duguid eyed him suspiciously, then looked around to see who might be listening in.

‘Not here. My office.’

It wasn’t far, but neither was it so near Duguid might have been just passing. Neither of them said anything until they had reached their destination, Duguid paying particular attention to ensuring the door was closed.

‘You’re a menace, you know that, McLean?’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘What part of “go over to the SCU and help out” do you not understand?’

McLean stared at Duguid, looking for any hint that the acting superintendent was joking. If there was one, he couldn’t see it.

‘Don’t pretend you didn’t expect me to shake things up there, sir. I’m not stupid. I know exactly why you sent me to SCU and not one of the detective sergeants like Jo asked.’

It stung to admit it, that he was so predictable even Duguid could use him. But that was what the acting superintendent had done when he’d lobbed him at Jo Dexter’s
team. Rolled a grenade through the open door. Now the man was surprised when it had all blown up in his face. And yet here was Duguid, staring him down with those piggy little eyes as if he really didn’t have a clue what McLean was talking about.

‘I just don’t know why McIntyre put up with you. You’re supposed to be helping Jo Dexter’s team, not killing them off one by one.’

OK. Count to ten. Silently. Also make sure hands are in pockets so he can’t see you clenching them into fists. Ah, fuck it.

‘I’m not putting up with shit like that. You so much as suggest anything as ridiculous outside this room I won’t think twice about taking it up with the Chief Constable.’

‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, man. It’s just a fucking joke.’

‘To you, maybe. To me it’s an accusation and since we’re being blunt it’s also fucking unfair. I tried to save Pete Buchanan’s life, nearly went over that parapet myself. I’m not naive, I know the lower ranks and uniform are going to gossip and make jokes, sir. I just don’t expect it from my seniors.’

‘Alison Kydd. John Needham. Now Pete Buchanan.’ Duguid counted the names off on his long fingers, bending them over backwards as he did so.

‘What of them?’ McLean knew what Duguid was doing, but he stood his ground, close to the acting superintendent’s desk. For a moment he even considered sitting on the edge of it.

‘They’re all dead, McLean. All under your command. All in less than two years.’

‘What the fuck? Under my command? Remind me again why they put you in charge here?’

Duguid’s face reddened. ‘Don’t you dare take that tone –’

‘I’ll take whatever tone I bloody well please. I’ve had it up to here with the lot of you. Stupid gossip and nasty pranks I can take. I’ve done my best to ignore it because that’s the only way it’ll ever stop. But you start suggesting I’m some kind of pariah. Some bad luck omen or something. I –’

‘I don’t need to suggest it, McLean. It’s out there already.’ Duguid had been standing on his side of the desk, but now he slumped down into his chair. ‘Look. Sit down, OK?’

McLean did as he was told, not taking his eyes off Duguid all the while. The acting superintendent looked like he was fighting a losing battle with his temper, but it was a revelation to see him even trying.

‘It’s the word in the canteen.’ Duguid ran a hand through the remains of his hair. ‘What do the Americans call it? Scuttlebutt? It’s not gossip, really. More a reputation thing. There’s constables asking to be taken off plain clothes just so they don’t have to work with you.’

‘Not much chance of that, the way you keep shifting me from team to team.’

‘Well, that’ll be one less thing to worry about then. You’re off the SCU. Callard insisted, but I was going to do it anyway. Squared it with Jo Dexter. She’s having DS Carter to pick up where Buchanan left off.’

God help her. ‘What about the Magda Evans case? Is that SCU because she used to be a prostitute, or us because it was attempted murder?’

Duguid gave him an odd look. ‘You mean the case that took you and Buchanan to the tower block where he was killed? You think Professional Standards are going to let you go anywhere near it now?’

Of course not. It was a miracle they were letting him carry on working at all.

‘No, you can wrap up those three suicides. Collate the forensic and pathology reports. Write them up, close the cases. If you’re very lucky I might let you investigate burglaries after that.’

‘On my own? Or am I allowed a couple of detectives to help?’

Duguid glowered like a weary schoolmaster, worn down by the bright kid. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. You can have anyone who’ll work with you. Grumpy Bob, Ritchie, even MacBride. I don’t think you’ll find many others.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ McLean stood up, turned to leave. He was almost at the door before he thought to mention something about the malicious rumours, but Duguid spoke first.

‘Why are you still here, McLean?’

‘I was just leaving.’

‘Not here, you idiot. Here. In this job. Why don’t you just jack it in? You’ve got money.’

McLean turned slowly, giving himself time to think. ‘I’ve seen that new Range Rover you’ve got. Hear your uncle’s apartments on the Royal Mile went for a tidy sum, sir. And yet here you are. Still.’

‘That’s not the same. And my personal financial arrangements are hardly any of your business.’

‘If you can’t see the irony in that statement, sir, then nothing I say will make any difference, will it?’