find out who did it, and why. And I need you to do that before they decide to cut open some other prominent citizen.’
‘And Duguid? He’s happy to have me on his team?’ McLean sipped at his coffee, then wished he hadn’t. It was hot, but weak, and tasted of dirty water.
‘Happy’s not the word I’d use, Tony. But Charles is a senior detective. He won’t let personal animosity get in the way of something this important. I’d like to think you’ll be the same.’
‘Of course.’
McIntyre smiled. ‘So how are your other cases coming along?’
‘Constable MacBride’s come up with a good theory about the burglary. He reckons there’s a connection with several earlier ones, going back about five years. We’ve still no identity on the dead girl, though the doctor reckons she was killed about sixty years ago. I’ve a meeting with the builder later this morning.’
McLean went through his caseload quickly, but he could see that the chief superintendent was only half-listening. This was the show; pretending to be interested, pretending to be his friend. It was a good sign, because it meant she thought he could be of use to her. But he wasn’t so stupid as to miss the subtext. He was on the Smythe investigation because there was a possibility it might fail. There might be other murders of prominent people, or worse, the killer might disappear and never befound. But if it did go wrong, it wouldn’t be Chief Superintendent McIntyre’s fault. Neither would DCI Duguid feel the heat. No, he was being invited into the investigation so that Lothian and Borders Police would have someone expendable to throw to the wolves if that should become necessary.
8
McLean decided he didn’t like Tommy McAllister within two minutes of meeting the man.
It didn’t help that neither of his two assigned officers were about when he had extricated himself from the superintendent’s office. He’d wasted several minutes searching for them before remembering he’d told them to interview the earlier burglary victims. The station was almost deserted of uniforms, everyone seemed to have been drafted onto the Smythe investigation, but eventually he tracked down a young constable and persuaded her it would be in her interests to find him a pool car. She was standing in the corner of the room now, notebook in hand, visibly nervous. She’d have to work on that if she wanted to make detective.
‘Can I get you some coffee, inspector? Constable?’ McAllister slouched in a high-backed black leather executive chair he no doubt thought made him look important. He was dressed in a suit, but the jacket had been thrown over a nearby filing cabinet. His shirt was crumpled, sweat darkening the cotton around his armpits. Loosened tie and rolled up sleeves gave the impression that he was relaxed, but McLean could see the nervous darting of his eyes, the way he played with his fingers and bounced his feet.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be long here. I just wanted to clear up a few facts about the house in Sighthill. Is Mr Murdo here?’
A scowl passed across McAllister’s face at the mention of the name. He leant forward, hitting a button on the ancient intercom on his desk.
‘Janette, can you put a call out for Donnie.’ He lifted his finger off the button and looked back up at McLean, jerking his head backwards to the window behind him. ‘He’s out in the yard somewhere, I think.’
A woman’s voice, muffled by the glass, announced over the tannoy for Donnie Murdo to come to the office. McLean looked around the room, seeing nothing that looked particularly out of place. It was cluttered, overstocked with filing cabinets. Safety notices, bills, post-it notes and other detritus covered the walls. One corner was piled up with tripods, striped poles and other surveying equipment.
‘Who owns the house?’ McLean asked.
‘I do. Bought it for cash.’ McAllister settled back into his chair, a look of something like
‘And Duguid? He’s happy to have me on his team?’ McLean sipped at his coffee, then wished he hadn’t. It was hot, but weak, and tasted of dirty water.
‘Happy’s not the word I’d use, Tony. But Charles is a senior detective. He won’t let personal animosity get in the way of something this important. I’d like to think you’ll be the same.’
‘Of course.’
McIntyre smiled. ‘So how are your other cases coming along?’
‘Constable MacBride’s come up with a good theory about the burglary. He reckons there’s a connection with several earlier ones, going back about five years. We’ve still no identity on the dead girl, though the doctor reckons she was killed about sixty years ago. I’ve a meeting with the builder later this morning.’
McLean went through his caseload quickly, but he could see that the chief superintendent was only half-listening. This was the show; pretending to be interested, pretending to be his friend. It was a good sign, because it meant she thought he could be of use to her. But he wasn’t so stupid as to miss the subtext. He was on the Smythe investigation because there was a possibility it might fail. There might be other murders of prominent people, or worse, the killer might disappear and never befound. But if it did go wrong, it wouldn’t be Chief Superintendent McIntyre’s fault. Neither would DCI Duguid feel the heat. No, he was being invited into the investigation so that Lothian and Borders Police would have someone expendable to throw to the wolves if that should become necessary.
8
McLean decided he didn’t like Tommy McAllister within two minutes of meeting the man.
It didn’t help that neither of his two assigned officers were about when he had extricated himself from the superintendent’s office. He’d wasted several minutes searching for them before remembering he’d told them to interview the earlier burglary victims. The station was almost deserted of uniforms, everyone seemed to have been drafted onto the Smythe investigation, but eventually he tracked down a young constable and persuaded her it would be in her interests to find him a pool car. She was standing in the corner of the room now, notebook in hand, visibly nervous. She’d have to work on that if she wanted to make detective.
‘Can I get you some coffee, inspector? Constable?’ McAllister slouched in a high-backed black leather executive chair he no doubt thought made him look important. He was dressed in a suit, but the jacket had been thrown over a nearby filing cabinet. His shirt was crumpled, sweat darkening the cotton around his armpits. Loosened tie and rolled up sleeves gave the impression that he was relaxed, but McLean could see the nervous darting of his eyes, the way he played with his fingers and bounced his feet.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be long here. I just wanted to clear up a few facts about the house in Sighthill. Is Mr Murdo here?’
A scowl passed across McAllister’s face at the mention of the name. He leant forward, hitting a button on the ancient intercom on his desk.
‘Janette, can you put a call out for Donnie.’ He lifted his finger off the button and looked back up at McLean, jerking his head backwards to the window behind him. ‘He’s out in the yard somewhere, I think.’
A woman’s voice, muffled by the glass, announced over the tannoy for Donnie Murdo to come to the office. McLean looked around the room, seeing nothing that looked particularly out of place. It was cluttered, overstocked with filing cabinets. Safety notices, bills, post-it notes and other detritus covered the walls. One corner was piled up with tripods, striped poles and other surveying equipment.
‘Who owns the house?’ McLean asked.
‘I do. Bought it for cash.’ McAllister settled back into his chair, a look of something like
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