The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (11 page)

‘Who confirmed it?’ DCI Dexter asked from her perch on the edge of one of the several empty desks. The SCU control room was large, dark and empty. As far as he could tell, there were only about five officers working full time in the place, and they tended to avoid it if they could. Behind the chief inspector’s head, a whiteboard had acquired some photographs of Malky Jennings in his final resting place, and laid out on the mortuary slab. A few half-hearted early-investigation questions had been marked in. Across the room, the board for the white slave trafficking investigation was fuller, but held much less promise.

‘One of the girls we picked up off the boat.’

‘You trust the word of a pro?’ Jo Dexter raised an eyebrow in mock incredulity.

‘She’s no love of Jennings. And she was able to identify a unique body marking. On account of she was the one gave it to him in the first place.’

DS Buchanan snorted. ‘What’d you offer her in return?’

McLean turned on the sergeant. ‘What do you mean?’

‘These girls aren’t our friends.’ Buchanan paused just long enough to be rude before adding, ‘Sir.’

‘No? That’s not what I’m hearing. Some of them seem to be very friendly indeed. To some officers.’

Buchanan’s face hardened, his joy at McLean’s apparent naivety turning quickly into anger. Suspicions confirmed then.

‘You reckon she’s reliable, this witness of yours?’ DCI Dexter pushed herself off the desk, neatly blocking the space between McLean and the sergeant.

‘I think so, yes. She’s trying to get out. Being sold into white slavery may have changed her priorities a little. She was with a Clarice Saunders when I met her. You’ve come across her, I take it.’

This time DS Buchanan’s laugh was more of a guffaw. ‘The midget? Aye, we’ve all heard of her. Interfering wee busy-body.’

McLean peered around Jo Dexter to where Buchanan was still sitting at his desk, but the sergeant had his head turned away, fascinated by whatever he was reading.

‘You got a moment, Tony?’ Dexter asked, nodding towards the door. He followed her out, across the corridor and into her own office. She closed the door firmly behind them, then dropped wearily into her seat, indicated for McLean to take the other one.

‘I don’t think Pete likes you.’

‘Well, if half the things I’ve heard about him are true, I don’t much like him either.’

‘Oh they’re true. I’ve no doubt about that. Old hand like him’s bound to be a bit bent.’

‘And you’re OK with that?’

‘OK’s a strong word. I think it’s the least bad alternative.’

McLean rubbed at his face, not sure what to say.

‘Look, I know why you’ve been sent here, Tony. Can’t say as I didn’t see it coming.’

‘Far as I’m concerned this is my punishment for calling Dagwood an idiot to his face. On balance I think I’d rather be here than having to deal with him. Sadly I have to do both, it would seem.’

Jo Dexter slumped back in her seat. ‘You really did call him an idiot then.’

‘Well he is. And it was my lead that cleared up the cannabis-farming operation, for all the good it did us. But he got the promotion.’

‘You sound like a little boy, you know.’

‘Oh I’m not bitter about that. Not really. I don’t want promotion. I just wish they’d give the job to someone who actually knows what they’re doing.’

‘Dagwood’s cannier than you give him credit for. He sent you here, after all. What is it he always says about you, Tony? You over-complicate things? Something like that.’

‘And he over-simplifies. I don’t … Oh.’ Stupid, really. He should have seen it straight away.

‘He wants to shake things up here. He’s known Pete Buchanan for decades, knows all about how the SCU works, the compromises we make to get results. And he
doesn’t like it. So he chucks you in here like a grenade. And who benefits when it all explodes?’

‘But surely there must be a better way of doing things than …’ McLean tailed off, trying not to think too hard about exactly what was being done already.

‘If we had unlimited resources, yes. If people weren’t prepared to pay for sex, maybe all the hookers would find better jobs elsewhere. Maybe there wouldn’t be drugs in the Schemes if there was work for everyone. But there isn’t. Policing by containment, that’s the best we can hope for here. We tread a fine line, and the last thing we need is someone coming in and trampling over all that.’

‘I can’t turn a blind eye if an officer is taking bribes, Jo. Whatever form they come in.’

Dexter stared at him, her hard face pinched.

‘I know. And I shouldn’t either. Christ, I’d like to clean this operation up, but there’s never a right time. We implode and who knows what’s going to happen on the streets?’

‘Worse than letting the likes of Malky Jennings operate because we’re scared what might come along if he’s put behind bars? Worse than rounding up prostitutes and shipping them out to the Middle East to be slaves?’

‘Aye, well. About that.’ Jo Dexter straightened in her chair, the confessional over. ‘This pro of yours, you’ve got some kind of rapport with her?’

‘Jesus Christ. She’s not a “pro”. She’s a young woman with a name, a history. She made some shitty decisions in the past, now she’s trying to change.’

‘OK. OK. Sorry.’ Dexter put her hands up in mock defeat. ‘I get your point. Really, I do. But whatever she is,
you’ve got something going there. She won’t talk to anyone else, but she might talk to you.’

‘You think she knows more than she told us already?’

‘She didn’t tell us anything, Tony. Neither did any of the others. But they know exactly who took them and why. We need to find this Russian, whoever he is. That should be our top priority.’

‘What about Malky Jennings?’

‘What about him? He’s dead, Tony. You think it’s any coincidence he was killed just a few days after his girls have been lifted off the streets?’

‘Find the Russian, find who killed Malky. You think it’ll be that easy?’

Jo Dexter gave him a weary smile. More like a hopeful grimace, really. ‘I never said it’d be easy, Tony. Just do what you can, eh?’

‘There is no Russian. You know that, right?’

McLean put down the phone, fresh from speaking to some loon at Serious and Organized in the vain hope that they might both have something helpful about the prostitute-smuggling operation, and be prepared to share it. So far it didn’t look good on either count, though there was always the chance his initial enquiry would kick something off and he’d be passed a melodramatic brown envelope in a dark car park sometime. He looked up from his temporary desk in the SCU main office, over to where DS Buchanan was pretending to work.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘There’s no Russian. We’d have heard of him already if
there was. That whore of yours made him up. She’s given you something that’ll keep you running around for days. Meantime she gets a bit of freedom, chance to find a new pimp.’

‘You know her? Magda?’

A moment’s hesitation. Not much, but enough for McLean to see the lie coming. Buchanan shook his head. ‘Her? No. But I’ve seen the type plenty.’

‘Her type?’ McLean didn’t try to keep the disdain out of his voice. Couldn’t see the point.

‘Aye. She’s a serial escaper. Stuck in the life, tries to get out. Probably succeeds for a while thanks to someone like your new friend Clarice.’ Buchanan made a meal of the name. ‘Only thing is, she doesn’t know how to operate without a man like Malky telling her what to do. Sooner or later, usually sooner, she’ll come crawling back to her old haunts. There’ll be a new Malky in charge then, of course. Who knows, we might even have broken him in.’

McLean shook his head. ‘You think this is all just a game, don’t you.’

‘Well it is, isn’t it? And one we can’t win.’

‘So why d’you stay at it? Why not get a transfer out?’

Buchanan shrugged. ‘Tried it. Didn’t like it. Ended up crawling back here.’

‘Hey, Tony. You any idea what time it is?’

He’d been heading out of the station, walking to his old car. Tapped the name in his phone book without thinking, forgetting that his oldest friend had moved to California three months ago, along with his new wife, to take up a
very lucrative professorship at a very prestigious university. It wasn’t until he heard Phil’s voice that he realized what he’d done.

‘Come off it, Phil. You’re what, ten hours behind?’ McLean glanced briefly at his watch. ‘Even you should be up by now.’

‘You’re forgetting the delights of scientific research. I’ve been up all night checking Assays. Only got to my bed about an hour ago.’

He knew it was a lie, at least the Assays bit. Still, what was the point of having friends if you couldn’t lie to them?

‘Sorry. Been pulling a few all-nighters here too.’

‘Let me guess. You wanted someone to have a pint with and hit speed dial. I knew I shouldn’t have let Rachel put our new number into your phone.’

McLean considered pretending there’d been a different reason for his call, found he really couldn’t be bothered. ‘Something like that, aye. It’s been a shitty few days. Shitty few weeks if I’m being honest.’

‘You should book yourself some holidays. Come over here and visit. We’ve got a spare room. You can even see the beach, if you stand on a chair and crick your neck.’

It was very tempting. Hell, he could just hand in his notice and walk away. Except that he knew he’d never do that. ‘I’d love to, Phil, but it’s complicated. What with Emma and everything.’

‘No change, I take it.’ Even thousands of miles away, Phil’s concern was as genuine as it was a knife to the guts. Had he really forgotten to tell his best friend?

‘Christ, did I not say? She woke up, about a month ago.’

‘A month! Jesus, Tony, have you any idea what Rae’s going to do to me when I tell her? How is she?’

‘It’s … complicated.’ McLean settled into the car seat, phone clamped tight to his ear and started telling the tale. He’d hoped he might get a pint and a blether, but right now he’d settle for one of the two. Worry about how he’d not spoken to his best friend in over a month some other time.

Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stared up at him from the middle of the kitchen table when McLean let himself in through the back door. It was late, he was tired and the last thing he wanted was to have an argument with a cat.

‘You really shouldn’t be on there, you know,’ he said, shucking his coat off one arm whilst he dropped the pile of case files that he’d foolishly agreed to look over onto the nearest chair. The cat held his gaze for just long enough to let him know it was considering what he’d said, then jumped elegantly from the table and trotted out through the door to the front hall.

The light was on, and the sound of music leaked from the closed door to the library. His brand new Linn stereo system was in there, along with a couple of dozen vinyl LPs he’d picked up in the months since his flat had burned down. Christ alone knew how long it would take to rebuild his collection, amassed over a lifetime and something he’d always meant to catalogue. Perhaps it didn’t really matter; it wasn’t as if he ever had time to sit and listen to music any more.

The other thing that was in the library, of course, was his whisky. And that was something he felt he deserved,
especially after a day like today. What he didn’t really want was to have to spend time with people. Old habits died hard, and he’d lived alone for so long. It was a struggle adjusting to having two young women under his roof. Still, needs must when there was a dram at stake, and if he was going to make it through the case files, perhaps more than one.

Emma was sitting on the floor, cross-legged and with her back to him when he opened the door. Jenny Nairn slouched on the sofa, reading a book. She looked up almost guiltily as he entered, that flicker across her eyes something he’d seen countless times in interview rooms. Emma must have noticed it too, as she looked around, straining her neck rather than getting up. A big smile spread across her face when she saw him.

‘Tony! We were just talking about you. How was your day?’

An endless round of meetings, paperwork and management issues that meant he’d done no actual investigative work at all. Hence the case files that had followed him home. ‘Same as usual.’

‘You never were a good liar.’ Emma levered herself up off the floor, hopped over and gave him a hug, a chaste kiss on the cheek.

‘You ladies get up to anything interesting while I was gone?’

‘Jen’s been making me do crossword puzzles and stuff. It’s meant to work my brain, apparently.’

‘She’s making good progress.’ Jenny put her book down, took her stockinged feet off the cushion and placed them carefully on the floor. Her movements were supple,
careful. She reminded McLean of a cat. Nothing done without careful consideration. ‘Tell Tony about the camera,’ she said.

‘Oh god, yes. I almost forgot.’ Emma hurried over to the antique writing desk at the far end of the room, came back with a clunky old digital SLR camera he dimly remembered his grandmother buying, around about the same time she’d discovered the delights of the internet.

‘Where’d you find that?’

‘I was going through the desk, looking for a pen.’ Emma’s face dropped. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not really, no.’

‘But the thing is, I know how to use it. See.’ Emma popped off the lens cap, twisted a few knobs, put the camera to her face and took a picture. The flash starred his eyes, so McLean had to blink to see the image on the small screen on the back. He looked like he was sucking on a lemon, but then he’d never liked having his photo taken.

‘Very nice,’ he lied.

‘Not that, silly.’ Emma’s thumbs tapped at the tiny buttons on the back of the camera, flicking from menu to menu with the dexterity of a teenager on an Xbox. Things happened that McLean couldn’t begin to understand, but the image changed, turned black and white, cropped, swivelled.

‘I know it inside out. It’s like I’ve had one for years, used it every day. But I don’t remember ever owning a digital camera at all.’

McLean thought back to the first time he’d met the SOC officer, at a crime scene in Merchiston, snapping away like a paparazzo at a celebrity wedding. She was a
dab hand with photo-imaging software, too; a skill that had almost seen her locked up, accused of posting crime scene photographs on dodgy websites.