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.
'Thankyou, 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 pride on his weathered face.
'How long have you owned it?'
'About eighteen months, I'd say. Janette could give you the full details. It's taken long enough to get planning through. Time was you could do pretty much what you wanted, if you knew the right people to talk to. But now it's all committees and reviews and appeals. It's getting so a man can hardly make a living, if you know what I mean.'
'I'm sure I do, Mr McAllister.'
'Tommy, please, inspector.'
'Who did you buy the house from?'
'Oh, some new bank that's just set up in the city. Mid Eastern Finance, I think they're called. I don't really know why they wanted to sell it. Probably decided it was time to get out of property and back into shares. Don't think they'd owned it long themselves.' McAllister leaned forward again, jabbing the intercom button. 'Janette, can you dig out the paperwork on Farquhar House.' He didn't wait for a response.
'It's a bit of a change of direction for you, isn't it, Mr McAllister,' McLean said. 'Renovating an old house, I mean. You made your money putting up all those boxes in Bonnyrigg and Lasswade didn't you?'
'That's right, aye. Good times they were. But it's getting that hard to find cheap development land round the city these days, ken? People moan about us ruining the countryside, then they complain about house prices going through the roof. You can't have it both ways, can you inspector. Either we build more houses, or there's no' enough for everyone and the price goes up.'
'Then why not knock down that old house and put an apartment block in its place?'
McAllister looked like he was about to answer, but a tap at the door stopped him. It opened and a surly-faced man stood uncertainly in the doorway.
'Come in Donnie, have a seat. Don't be shy.' McAllister didn't get up. Donnie Murdo looked at McLean, then at the constable, a trapped expression on his face. He was a man who had come up against the law many times before in his life. He held himself defensively, shoulders hunched, arms hanging loose at his sides, legs slightly flexed as if ready to run at the slightest prompting. His hands were huge and across his knuckles faded tattoos read 'LOVE' and 'HATE'.
'Here's the file you wanted, Tommy.' The secretary who had shown them in earlier bustled past and laid a thick folder down on the desk. She looked at McLean with silent disapproval, then stalked out of the office, closing the door behind her.
'You were working at the old house in Sighthill the night before last, Donnie?' McLean watched as the foreman's eyes darted across to his boss. McAllister was sitting upright now, his
'Thankyou, 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 pride on his weathered face.
'How long have you owned it?'
'About eighteen months, I'd say. Janette could give you the full details. It's taken long enough to get planning through. Time was you could do pretty much what you wanted, if you knew the right people to talk to. But now it's all committees and reviews and appeals. It's getting so a man can hardly make a living, if you know what I mean.'
'I'm sure I do, Mr McAllister.'
'Tommy, please, inspector.'
'Who did you buy the house from?'
'Oh, some new bank that's just set up in the city. Mid Eastern Finance, I think they're called. I don't really know why they wanted to sell it. Probably decided it was time to get out of property and back into shares. Don't think they'd owned it long themselves.' McAllister leaned forward again, jabbing the intercom button. 'Janette, can you dig out the paperwork on Farquhar House.' He didn't wait for a response.
'It's a bit of a change of direction for you, isn't it, Mr McAllister,' McLean said. 'Renovating an old house, I mean. You made your money putting up all those boxes in Bonnyrigg and Lasswade didn't you?'
'That's right, aye. Good times they were. But it's getting that hard to find cheap development land round the city these days, ken? People moan about us ruining the countryside, then they complain about house prices going through the roof. You can't have it both ways, can you inspector. Either we build more houses, or there's no' enough for everyone and the price goes up.'
'Then why not knock down that old house and put an apartment block in its place?'
McAllister looked like he was about to answer, but a tap at the door stopped him. It opened and a surly-faced man stood uncertainly in the doorway.
'Come in Donnie, have a seat. Don't be shy.' McAllister didn't get up. Donnie Murdo looked at McLean, then at the constable, a trapped expression on his face. He was a man who had come up against the law many times before in his life. He held himself defensively, shoulders hunched, arms hanging loose at his sides, legs slightly flexed as if ready to run at the slightest prompting. His hands were huge and across his knuckles faded tattoos read 'LOVE' and 'HATE'.
'Here's the file you wanted, Tommy.' The secretary who had shown them in earlier bustled past and laid a thick folder down on the desk. She looked at McLean with silent disapproval, then stalked out of the office, closing the door behind her.
'You were working at the old house in Sighthill the night before last, Donnie?' McLean watched as the foreman's eyes darted across to his boss. McAllister was sitting upright now, his
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