Dead Men's Bones (Inspector Mclean 4) (6 page)

The
trip back to the station had been conducted in total silence. McLean had never been more grateful to the inventor of the heated car seat as the adrenalin from his near-death experience wore off, leaving him with an unenviable set of aches and pains, not the least of which was the bone-deep throbbing in his hip where it had been broken months earlier. He had visions of being torn off a strip by Esmerelda the physiotherapist at his next session, but frankly he was too happy just being alive to care all that much.

The tinny beep of his smartphone had brought the euphoria to a swift end. Great that you could programme the thing to make different noises for different appointments; he didn’t even have to take it out of his pocket to know what it meant. And so here he was, having sent MacBride off to warm himself up with a coffee and a muffin, settling into the chair in Matt Hilton’s office for yet another counselling waste of time.

‘Are you feeling OK, Tony? You look a bit pale.’ Hilton leaned back in his own chair, a look of almost genuine concern plastered across his chubby face.

‘Very nearly died this morning. It shakes you up a little.’

‘Again?’ Hilton raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re not going to make a habit of it.’

‘It
was an accident. Stupid mistake. Luckily DC MacBride was to hand and has quick reflexes. I’m fine.’

Hilton paused a moment before answering. ‘No. I don’t think you are.’

It wasn’t a question, so McLean didn’t answer. The chair was just the right angle for relieving the strain on his hip; he could quite happily sit there and say nothing for an hour or so. If it weren’t for the bruise starting to make itself heard above the other aches and pains in his back …

‘Tell me what happened. From the beginning.’ Hilton took a sip of coffee. His mug looked exactly like one of those large styrofoam cups you get at the expensive coffee chains, but it was made from china. Made in China too, probably. A gimmicky gift for a shallow man.

‘Must I?’ McLean knew the answer before he’d even posed the question. He tried not to make his sigh too theatrical, probably failed, then told Hilton all about the visit to Roslin Glen, the walk along the riverbank, finding the weir and the cliff. The psychiatrist listened, as he had no doubt been trained to do, nodding his head from time to time and maintaining a disconcerting amount of eye contact. Going over the details helped turn the disquiet at his close shave into anger at his own idiocy, but McLean also found himself thinking about his reasons for going out there in the first place. It would have made far more sense to organize a boat team to scour the river bank for any clues, something he was going to have to do anyway. Yet more expensive man-hours to keep Duguid happy.

‘You have a self-destructive streak, you know that, Tony?’

‘It
was an accident. Could’ve happened to anyone. I’ve already phoned the council about getting a fence put up.’ Well, he’d asked MacBride to call them, but that was the best way to guarantee it would be done.

‘Oh, I’m sure it was an accident. Throwing yourself off a cliff isn’t your style.’

‘That’s right. You think I’m more of the hanging myself type.’

Hilton stifled a smile. ‘Actually I’ve been coming around to your version of events on that one. I’m beginning to think you maybe did fall off that chair accidentally and never meant to hang yourself at all. What you’ve just told me about the cliff actually helps.’ Hilton shrugged. ‘Well, in a way.’

‘Does that mean we can stop having these bloody meetings? Only I’ve plenty better things to do with my time.’

‘Yes. Like taking Detective Constable MacBride into a dangerous situation without thinking through the consequences. Like going off to visit a crime scene on your own, without back-up, without even telling anyone where you’re going. Like …’ Hilton leaned forward, flipped open a thick folder and began leafing through sheets of paper. ‘Like oh-so-many examples dotted through your career as a plain clothes detective.’ He gave up, flipped the folder closed again and slumped back into his chair.

‘Your point being?’

‘Accidents happen around you, Tony. Sometimes they happen to you, but just as often, more often even, they happen to other people.’

‘Are you suggesting I’m dangerous? That I shouldn’t be allowed out? Maybe shouldn’t be a policeman at all?’

‘That’s
not for me to say.’

‘You sure about that? I thought that was exactly for you to say. If I’m fit to be a policeman or not.’

Hilton pressed his fingers together into a pyramid, jammed it up under his chin. Started to speak, then realized it wasn’t easy with a bunch of fingers shoved in his face.

‘Look. I get it,’ McLean said. ‘I’m not the most brilliant at sticking to procedure all the time. But you know what? Sometimes procedure is more of a hindrance than a help. Sometimes you have to cut corners to get the job done. Sometimes—’

‘How are you getting on with the Andrew Weatherly case?’

The change of subject was so unexpected it left McLean momentarily dumbstruck.

‘It’s … It’s early days.’

‘And is it as horrible as I’ve heard?’

‘That depends entirely on what you’ve heard.’ McLean studied Hilton’s face, imagined him asking around the station, digging here and there, trying to wheedle his way into another high-profile investigation. No doubt he saw a book in it, or at the very least a lecture tour.

‘Fair enough. I can understand you not wanting to talk about it.’ Hilton paused a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to ask the question he so desperately wanted to ask. ‘I can help, you know.’

‘Me? Or Weatherly? Only I think he’s past helping now. His wife and kids, too.’ McLean pushed himself up out of his chair, successfully anticipating the twinge of pain in his hip early enough to stop the grimace from showing. He leaned forward, both hands on the edge of
Hilton’s desk as much for support as intimidation. Hilton leaned back reflexively.

‘I’ve been coming to you for months now. Months of wasted afternoons when I could be doing my job. And why? You said it yourself, you believe me when I say I didn’t try to kill myself. So I’m accident-prone. Show me a detective in this station who hasn’t had the occasional mishap. It’s a dangerous profession. How many of them are you seeing on a weekly basis?’

‘That’s hardly the point—’

‘None. Just me. And you’ve not been doing much profiling of late either. So here’s my thoughts on the matter. You’ve been stringing this out, keeping me going so you can have your nice office and a fat retainer out of our budget.’

‘I … How dare you suggest—?’

‘I don’t like you, Hilton. Never have. Don’t rate you much as a profiler or a counsellor either, for that matter. I’m only here because I was ordered to be, but like you say, I’m not one for following procedure so I won’t be coming back.’ McLean turned slowly, all too aware of how falling to the ground screaming in agony might ruin his little speech. It wasn’t far to the door, but it seemed to take for ever to reach it. When he looked back, Hilton was still staring from his chair, mouth slightly open in astonishment. It was worth the trouble he knew he was going to get, just to see that face.

She’s not done a lot of this sort of thing; interviewing the friends and business associates. There’s something very unsettling about this case, too. It’s not as unusual as
she wishes it was, for a man to kill his family and then himself, but she’s never had to deal with it before. And those children … She rubs at her eyes to try to dispel the image, never far from her mind. The boss thinks she didn’t see. He was too wrapped up in it himself, and how could she blame him? But she saw them, lying side by side like she used to with her own sister back when they were small.

‘It’s really a terrible business. And such a shock.’

The woman is immaculately dressed, her face almost too perfect to be real. And there’s something about her eyes that puts Ritchie on edge. But she’s polite, trying to be helpful and friendly.

‘You and Mr Weatherly were business associates, I understand.’

‘Oh, that and more. Andrew was my friend for many years. I introduced him to his wife, you know.’

‘Were you aware of any unusual pressure Mr Weatherly might have been under? He was a very busy man.’

‘Oh yes. Constantly busy. But Andrew loved that. I’d be more concerned for his mental state if he weren’t running around like a mad thing. Being cooped up for a few months would probably drive him potty.’

They’re sitting at an elegant table in a reception room decorated by someone with both taste and an unlimited budget. The chairs are not arranged opposite one another; the woman sits at ninety degrees to her, and perhaps a little closer than Ritchie is comfortable with. As she talks, her hands paint invisible pictures in the air.

‘So there was nothing in the business that might have driven him to …’

‘To
kill those poor little girls, Morag, and then himself?’ The woman lays one hand lightly on Ritchie’s thigh. It seems at once overly familiar and surprisingly reassuring. ‘I cannot begin to fathom what would drive a man to do such a thing. Any man. Least of all one I knew well.’ She pauses. ‘Or at least I thought I knew well.’

A gentle tap at the door, a click as the handle drops and then a secretary pushes in bearing a tray. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room.

‘Ah. Thank you, Sandy.’ The woman watches as the secretary puts the tray down on the table, pushes the plunger into the brewing coffee, pours, and offers milk, sugar, biscuits. And all the while her hand is still on Ritchie’s thigh. Not caressing or intimate, just anchoring her to the seat. Making sure she doesn’t escape.

It’s a long time since she’s been so unsure of herself. Not since school, really. Not since her sister died. But she’s unsettled by this woman, her directness and her power. Ritchie picks up her cup and takes a sip, feels the warm liquid slide down her throat. She needs to get the interview back on track; there are more people on her list still to speak to, a portrait of a family in turmoil to be teased from the memories of others. She meets the woman’s gaze, and the question forming on her lips dies.

‘That’s quite enough about Andrew, don’t you think?’ the woman says. ‘Tell me about yourself, dear. Tell me about your boss.’

Moving
helped to ease the pain in his hip. It also stopped him from wasting too much energy on being angry with Hilton. Stopped him from getting angry with himself, too. McLean’s feet carried him back towards his office, but being alone with a stack of overtime sheets wasn’t likely to improve his mood any. He took a left and limped up the stairs towards the Weatherly incident room.

Half the station had been drafted in on the enquiry – at least that’s what the press had been told. Truth was there wasn’t much to do until the forensic team were finished with the house, and even then it was as obvious as the nose on the end of his face that Weatherly had gone mad, suffocated his daughters, shot his wife and then turned the gun on himself. All they were trying to do was find a reason, and it didn’t take a genius to know there wouldn’t be one. Not something you could tell people that would let them sleep easier in their beds, anyway.

Standing in the doorway of the incident room, he saw a half-dozen uniforms and support staff manning the phones and tapping instructions into their computers. No detectives around, but then he didn’t really expect there to be. It was a PR exercise, nothing more. He turned his back on the inactivity and crossed the corridor.

There were no senior detectives in the incident room
for the tattooed man either, but newly plain-clothes Detective Constable Sandy Gregg greeted him with a cheery smile.

‘You just missed Stu … DC MacBride, sir. He popped down to the canteen to get some coffee.’

‘Busy, is it?’ Unlike the room across the corridor, this investigation warranted only one phone line. Gregg was probably regretting having volunteered to man it. She liked to talk and no one was calling.

‘It’s early days. We’ve only had the photo out a wee while. I expect someone’ll call in soon.’

McLean looked up at the whiteboard. The picture pinned to the top left corner still showed the man as they had found him, face black with swirls and patterns.

‘Did we get anywhere with a mock-up photo? One without the tattoos?’

Gregg looked at him blankly, but the answer came from the other side of the room.

‘Still waiting for the artist, sir.’ DC MacBride pushed into the room with two steaming mugs. A brown paper bag under one arm most likely held muffins at this time of the day.

‘Let me know as soon as we get it, OK? I want it put round all the hospitals, shelters, other forces. Someone must’ve seen him before this was done to him.’ McLean peered closely at the photograph on the whiteboard, trying hard not to imagine how much it must have hurt the man. Without thinking, his left hand went up to his right shoulder, rubbed at the patch he’d hardly thought about in over a decade. Kirsty had spent years trying to persuade him to get it done, but it was Phil who’d found
the right way of making the dare seem reasonable. It was only a small design, abstract, black, much like those covering the victim’s entire body. Even so, he could remember the buzzing of the needle, the pain as the ink was etched deep into his skin, and the long days of burning as it healed.

‘You all right there, sir?’

‘What? Oh.’ McLean turned quickly, winced as a jolt of pain ran up his leg and into his spine. Somehow MacBride had crossed the room without him noticing, and was now standing by his side. The coffee smelled good.

‘Reckon we’ll find out who he was?’

‘Oh, I think so. Have we got the rest of the pathology photos? All the tattoos?’

MacBride frowned. ‘I think so. Can get them if not. Why?’

‘Get them together quick as you like, Constable. I feel the need to go and see an old friend.’

It wasn’t the dingy little backstreet tattoo parlour where McLean had succumbed to the needle all those years ago, egged on by his best friend and buoyed up by perhaps rather more Dutch courage than was advisable. That place had gone bust over a decade past, the building it had occupied long since demolished and replaced with tiny modern apartments for the city’s new toiling classes.

Bo’s Inks had been around much longer, and would no doubt survive whatever cold winds of fortune came its way. McLean had first come across the place as a beat constable, learning the streets at the side of old Sergeant
Guthrie McManus. Bo and Guthrie had been in the Merchant Navy together, or so he was told. The tattoo parlour was a regular stopping point for a cup of tea and a blether. And if Bo happened to pass on any useful information about who was trying to fence what, then it was just two old chums shooting the breeze, wasn’t it?

Bo was long dead, but his son Eddie had taken over and was, by all accounts, a far better inker. He had an artistic flair that his father had lacked, and he’d spent several years in the US, studying how they did things there. Eddie wasn’t perhaps as good a source of information as his father, but McLean still popped in occasionally. It was a select crowd that frequented the place, and every so often a case would take him into their midst.

‘Tony McLean, as I live and breathe.’ Eddie was sitting on a stool at the back of an empty shop when McLean pushed open the door. DC MacBride stood behind him, perhaps a little too close. McLean couldn’t imagine the constable having had a lot of experience of such places.

‘Looking busy, Eddie.’ He crossed the small room, holding out a hand to be shook. Eddie wore a sleeveless vest; you couldn’t really call it a wife-beater when he had no wife. It was a garment obviously chosen to show off the intricate swirl of colours and patterns covering both arms and Eddie’s neck; all the work of Eddie’s partner, George.

‘You know how it is, Inspector. Most of my clients come round after dark.’ Eddie nodded towards DC MacBride, still standing in the doorway. ‘Who’s the kid?’

‘Detective Constable MacBride, this is Eddie.’

‘Pleased.
Come on in. And don’t worry. We don’t ink folk who don’t want to be done.’

MacBride closed the door and stepped into the shop. He looked around a bit, taking in the pictures on the walls showing some of the more notable designs done down the years. Then, much to McLean’s surprise, he put down his tablet computer, unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up his left sleeve. The pale Scottish skin of his forearm was marked with an intricate swirl of lines that McLean took an embarrassing length of time to identify as a dragon. More Welsh than Chinese, but striking nonetheless.

‘Nice,’ Eddie said, peering at the tattoo over half-moon spectacles. ‘Who did that for you? No, don’t tell me. Jake Selden, over in Wardie. Am I right?’

‘That’s him. Had it about a year now.’

‘Well, if you ever want another, Jake’s a good man, but you’d do well to come and see me or George. Special rates for our friends in the polis.’

‘Thanks. I might do that.’ MacBride took his time rolling his sleeve back down and fastening his cuff, all the while trying not to stare too hard at the patterns covering Eddie’s arms.

‘So, what can I do for you? I’m guessing you’re not here just to show us your tatts.’

‘Not exactly. Not ours, at least.’ McLean noticed MacBride’s eyebrow shoot up at that. ‘It was tattoos I was hoping you’d be able to help us with, though.’

‘Let me guess. Dead body you’re hoping to identify.’

‘Something like that.’ McLean nodded at MacBride. ‘Constable.’

MacBride
picked up his tablet and tapped at the screen, bringing up the first of a large folder of photos. He turned the device around and handed it to Eddie, who peered at the first image for a while before taking off his half-moon glasses and putting on a different set.

‘Jesus.’ He swiped a finger on the screen, flicking to the next picture. Then again, and again. Occasionally pinched and zoomed to get a better look at something. McLean was happy to let him take his time. Finally he put the tablet down, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

‘Poor bugger.’

‘You recognize the work at all?’ McLean asked.

‘No. Sorry. Christ, it’s hard enough to make anything out there’s so much going on. And they’re all fresh. Well, most of them.’

‘Most of them?’

‘Aye, there’s a few places in there you could see some old designs. He had some inks before this was done to him. Just not many.’

‘Can you show me?’ McLean picked up the tablet, ready to hand it over.

‘On there? Aye. But it’d be easier if I could see the body.’

‘The body. You sure about that?’

‘I’ve seen dead folk before, Inspector. Not like that, I’ll give you that much.’ Eddie gestured at the tablet and its collection of unsettling photographs.

‘Well, if you’re sure, then I’ll have a word with the pathologist, get something set up as soon as possible. Thank you. That’s really very helpful.’

Eddie
smiled a broad, mischievous grin, and directed a wink at DC MacBride to include him in the conspiracy. ‘No worries. I know where to send the bill. And maybe you’ll let me sort out that mess on your shoulder like it should’ve been done in the first place.’

‘Didn’t know you had a tattoo, Constable.’

Heading back across town, and the traffic was snarled up by the road works in the West End. The little glowing orange light in the instrument cluster told McLean that he was running low on petrol, again. Damned thing seemed to drink its own weight in the stuff every week.

‘Not the sort of thing that comes up in conversation often, sir.’ MacBride sat upright in the passenger seat, as if slouching were somehow morally reprehensible. His unease at being in the Inspector’s Car was palpable, but then he was always like that around senior officers. It was a sharp contrast to DS Ritchie, who rarely seemed ill at ease with anyone.

‘Well, I’m glad it did today. Eddie took a shine to you. I’m guessing that’s why he’s being so helpful.’

‘I’ll get that all sorted as soon as we’re back at the station, sir. Do you want to be there when Mr … Eddie comes to see the body?’

‘I’ll probably have to be. You know what Angus is like when it comes to letting the general public near his bodies.’

MacBride said nothing to that, just peered at his tablet computer, then out the windscreen as the traffic finally started moving. McLean knew the constable wanted to
ask something, but didn’t know how, or whether he should. He was fairly sure he knew what it was, too.

‘What Mr … Eddie was saying back there. About your shoulder, sir.’

Right again. ‘Yes, Constable, I have a tattoo on my right shoulder. It’s very small, impossible to tell what it’s meant to be, and I was quite drunk when I got it.’

‘No tattoo artist worth his salt would ever ink a drunk subject. You can’t even walk in off the street these days. Have to have a consultation, time to change your mind. It’s—’

‘I know. I know. Let’s just say this was done when things were different. And count my blessings I didn’t end up with some horrible disease from the backstreet parlour my so-called best friend dragged me along to. Watch your best friend, Stuart. He’s the one who’ll get you into the deepest shit. And you’ll probably forgive him afterwards, once the hangover’s gone.’

‘So Mr—’

‘His surname’s Cobbold, but everyone calls him Eddie.’

‘Oh. Right. So Eddie. Back there.’

‘Yes, I was stupid enough to show him my tattoo. Back when I was a DC, as it happens. He took the piss out of me for months because of it, and when he got bored with that, he started trying to persuade me to let him change it so that it looked better.’

‘Why don’t you? Let him, I mean. He’s good.’

‘George is even better. You don’t think Eddie did his own arms, do you?’ McLean slowed, flashed at an oncoming car, then turned swiftly across its path and
into the station car park. The V6 engine growled and the front tyres gave an unnecessary chirp as he spun the wheels a little rushing the manoeuvre. MacBride clutched at the dashboard in alarm, relaxing only once McLean had parked.

‘I saw the dragon on your forearm, Constable. It’s very good. I can appreciate body art when I see it, but you know, I tried it for myself, didn’t really have the best experience, don’t really feel the urge to have it all done again. I could get this one removed.’ He tapped at his shoulder. ‘But it’s a reminder as much as anything else. Not to do anything quite so stupid ever again.’

McLean popped open the door and climbed up out of the low seat, feeling the twinge in his hip a moment before the pain. He paused for a moment, resting his arms on the car roof until the throbbing subsided. On the other side, MacBride had already closed his door. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but still couldn’t decide whether he should or not.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Stuart. I’m not against tattoos, just against them on me.’

MacBride looked startled for a moment. ‘It’s not that, sir. It’s just, well. I’d not really thought about it for a while, but it was Alison persuaded me to get this. She’d have laughed like a drain if she’d known you had one too.’ He tapped at his forearm with the edge of the tablet computer, turned, then walked off to the station. McLean stayed where he was. He didn’t think he could move even if he wanted to. The pain in his leg had eased, but the constable’s words had sparked off a nasty train of thoughts.

Alison.
Alison Kydd. Seconded from uniform to CID and giddy at the excitement of it all. She’d been hit by a van that had been meant for him. She’d pushed him aside, saved his life, at the cost of her own. What had Hilton said?
Accidents happen around you, Tony. Sometimes they happen to you, but just as often, more often even, they happen to other people
.

Damn the man. He hated having to admit he might be right.