been seeing rather a lot of those in the city these past few months. Two of your other sites included. And I’ve heard property development’s gone tits-up recently. Insurance money’d be very useful for a man with cash-flow problems.’
‘I can see where you’re coming from, inspector, but you’re wrong. Yes, we had insurance, and I dare say the money will help. But we’re not a fly-by-night operation here. We deal in prestigious, luxury developments. Our customer base hasn’t really been affected by the credit crunch and our bottom line is healthy. I’m quite happy to let you see our accounts, if it helps.’ Randolph slowly put the pieces of the model back together, his tiny fingers caressing the top floor apartment with its steel gantry balcony looking out over the car park towards Arthur’s Seat. It was clear to McLean that he hadn’t torched his own building for the insurance money.
‘How far down the line were you with the project then?’ he asked.
‘We’d done all the preparations, stabilising the foundations and stonework, sorting out the drainage, that sort of stuff. We were about to start taking the floors out. A pity we hadn’t done it already, really.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Robertson asked. McLean noticed he’d been taking notes.
‘Because then there’d have been nothing in the place to burn. It’s got a concrete ground floor and stone walls. But the floorboards and roof joists are all hundred-and-fifty-year-old timber.’
‘It was empty last night?’ McLean remembered the smoke and angry orange flames. Could all that have come from just floorboards and joists?
‘Completely stripped. I went round it in the afternoon with a couple of the lads.’ Randolph pointed to two young men working at their computer screens, raising his voice as he added, ‘Pat, Gary, the Woodbury building. The clear-out was finished when we went round yesterday, wasn’t it?’
Pat, or possibly Gary, looked up and nodded.
‘That’s right. Should have been some plant being delivered in the morning, but they called to say it wouldn’t be til today. Damn, I hope someone’s cancelled.’ He reached for the phone and began dialling.
‘Did anyone else have access to the place yesterday? After you were there?’ McLean asked.
‘Only old George McGregor. He’s the caretaker. Apparently he used to work there when it was still a furniture factory. Mad as a coot, but reliable. You should hear the stories he tells about the place.’
‘I will,’ McLean said. ‘If you’ll just tell me where I can find him.’
12
George McGregor lived in a tiny basement flat not far from the burned-out Woodbury building. He opened the door a crack when DC Robertson knocked, then spent long minutes peering through manky, scratched spectacles at both detectives’ warrant cards before letting them in with obvious grudging. They entered a low-ceilinged, narrow hallway and followed the old man down it to a door that stood open on the right. The sitting-room beyond gained what little light it could from a grimy window that looked out onto a grey concrete wall, street level just visible if you craned your neck. A bare light bulb hung from a short flex in the ceiling, but the old man made no move to switch it on. He shuffled across the room, weaving through piles of books and taped-up cardboard boxes that littered the floor, before dropping himself into a tired, old armchair. Clouds of dust puffed out of the worn cloth, bringing with them an odour of long-departed cat.
‘So what’s it you’re wanting?’ McGregor didn’t offer them a seat, and looking around the room McLean realised he would have been hard put to do so. There was a sofa, wedged into one corner, but it was covered in piles of old newspapers.
‘The fire last night,’ he said. ‘William Randolph tells me you’re the caretaker on the site.’
‘I didnae torch it.’
‘I never said you did, Mr McGregor. I can’t see how doing so would help you in
‘I can see where you’re coming from, inspector, but you’re wrong. Yes, we had insurance, and I dare say the money will help. But we’re not a fly-by-night operation here. We deal in prestigious, luxury developments. Our customer base hasn’t really been affected by the credit crunch and our bottom line is healthy. I’m quite happy to let you see our accounts, if it helps.’ Randolph slowly put the pieces of the model back together, his tiny fingers caressing the top floor apartment with its steel gantry balcony looking out over the car park towards Arthur’s Seat. It was clear to McLean that he hadn’t torched his own building for the insurance money.
‘How far down the line were you with the project then?’ he asked.
‘We’d done all the preparations, stabilising the foundations and stonework, sorting out the drainage, that sort of stuff. We were about to start taking the floors out. A pity we hadn’t done it already, really.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’ Robertson asked. McLean noticed he’d been taking notes.
‘Because then there’d have been nothing in the place to burn. It’s got a concrete ground floor and stone walls. But the floorboards and roof joists are all hundred-and-fifty-year-old timber.’
‘It was empty last night?’ McLean remembered the smoke and angry orange flames. Could all that have come from just floorboards and joists?
‘Completely stripped. I went round it in the afternoon with a couple of the lads.’ Randolph pointed to two young men working at their computer screens, raising his voice as he added, ‘Pat, Gary, the Woodbury building. The clear-out was finished when we went round yesterday, wasn’t it?’
Pat, or possibly Gary, looked up and nodded.
‘That’s right. Should have been some plant being delivered in the morning, but they called to say it wouldn’t be til today. Damn, I hope someone’s cancelled.’ He reached for the phone and began dialling.
‘Did anyone else have access to the place yesterday? After you were there?’ McLean asked.
‘Only old George McGregor. He’s the caretaker. Apparently he used to work there when it was still a furniture factory. Mad as a coot, but reliable. You should hear the stories he tells about the place.’
‘I will,’ McLean said. ‘If you’ll just tell me where I can find him.’
12
George McGregor lived in a tiny basement flat not far from the burned-out Woodbury building. He opened the door a crack when DC Robertson knocked, then spent long minutes peering through manky, scratched spectacles at both detectives’ warrant cards before letting them in with obvious grudging. They entered a low-ceilinged, narrow hallway and followed the old man down it to a door that stood open on the right. The sitting-room beyond gained what little light it could from a grimy window that looked out onto a grey concrete wall, street level just visible if you craned your neck. A bare light bulb hung from a short flex in the ceiling, but the old man made no move to switch it on. He shuffled across the room, weaving through piles of books and taped-up cardboard boxes that littered the floor, before dropping himself into a tired, old armchair. Clouds of dust puffed out of the worn cloth, bringing with them an odour of long-departed cat.
‘So what’s it you’re wanting?’ McGregor didn’t offer them a seat, and looking around the room McLean realised he would have been hard put to do so. There was a sofa, wedged into one corner, but it was covered in piles of old newspapers.
‘The fire last night,’ he said. ‘William Randolph tells me you’re the caretaker on the site.’
‘I didnae torch it.’
‘I never said you did, Mr McGregor. I can’t see how doing so would help you in
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