lugged a television up there for her, but judging by the gaps in the bookshelves, she was filling her time mostly with reading. She ate the food he put in front of her, but he didn’t think she helped herself to anything whilst he was away at work. He was pretty sure she’d not left the house, except for the two appointments with Doctor Wheeler back at the hospital. It had been at the last one where he’d broached the subject of a full-time carer. Miss Nairn was, he hoped, the answer.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your relationship with Emma?’
Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?
‘She’s my girlfriend. Was. Is? I’m not sure. She was abducted, possibly drugged, certainly had a very severe blow to the head. About four months ago. She was in a coma for almost two months. When she finally woke up she couldn’t remember anything about the last fifteen years.’
Miss Nairn uncrossed her legs, leaned forward in her high-backed armchair. She wore a thin tie-died skirt over black leggings, white T-shirt and a suede leather jacket. Her blonde hair had been cut tight to her scalp, the furrows on her brow as she frowned reaching up into the short fuzz.
‘That sounds unusual, for physical trauma. Has Emma seen a psychiatrist?’
‘Not yet, but it’s early days.’
‘Early days, yes.’ Miss Nairn tapped at her cheek with a finger, making a hollow pop, pop sound. ‘So what is it you want me to do, Detective Inspector?’
‘Whatever you can, really. I can give her a roof, a bed, feed her, but Emma needs company and I can’t give up work to look after her while she recovers.’ Even as he spoke the words, McLean saw the lie in them. He didn’t need to work at all. If Miss Nairn saw the lie too, she didn’t let on.
‘And you think a carer specializing in physical-trauma victims is what she needs?’
‘You were Doctor Wheeler’s suggestion. If you don’t think you’re right for it, I’m sure she can give me other names.’
‘No, no. I think I can help.’ Miss Nairn levered herself out of the chair and McLean realized how he’d been played. If nothing else, she was smart. That had to be worth something.
‘You’re OK with doing this full time? Staying here?’ McLean asked.
‘It’s usually the best way. And it looks like you’ve got the space.’ Miss Nairn smiled, half twirled around, heroutstretched arms taking in the over-large room. Her skirt flared out like a flamenco dancer’s, a brief moment of exuberance before it settled back down against her legs. ‘Shall we go and meet Emma then?’
9
‘You got a minute, sir?’
McLean looked up from the report he’d been trying to force into his brain for an hour. The elfin, freckled face of Detective Sergeant Kirsty Ritchie peered around the door-jamb, not trusting itself to commit fully to a relationship with his office.
‘A minute, an hour. Anything’s got to be better than this.’ McLean dropped the sheaf of paper onto his desk, where it nestled in amongst many others of its kind. He thought that Dagwood had sent him off to work in the SCU, but that hadn’t stopped the acting superintendent from passing on every half-baked criminal psychology paper that came his way as well. Read, digest, condense into little words for the hard of thinking.
‘I’ve been working with Stu– … DC MacBride on the suicide case. You know.’ Ritchie leaned against the door, still not actually entering the office.
‘I visited the scene, yes.’ And got a bollocking for it. ‘What did you make of it?’
‘The scene? I think he’s right. There’s something odd about it.’
‘But you can’t be more specific, right?’
‘Yeah. And that’s what’s bugging me.’
‘You want to go deeper? Do a profile on the victim?’ McLean dug around in the recesses of his memory foranything specific about the case. Came up with less than he’d have liked. ‘Did we have a name for him?’
‘Grigori Mikhailevic, according to his neighbour.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your relationship with Emma?’
Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?
‘She’s my girlfriend. Was. Is? I’m not sure. She was abducted, possibly drugged, certainly had a very severe blow to the head. About four months ago. She was in a coma for almost two months. When she finally woke up she couldn’t remember anything about the last fifteen years.’
Miss Nairn uncrossed her legs, leaned forward in her high-backed armchair. She wore a thin tie-died skirt over black leggings, white T-shirt and a suede leather jacket. Her blonde hair had been cut tight to her scalp, the furrows on her brow as she frowned reaching up into the short fuzz.
‘That sounds unusual, for physical trauma. Has Emma seen a psychiatrist?’
‘Not yet, but it’s early days.’
‘Early days, yes.’ Miss Nairn tapped at her cheek with a finger, making a hollow pop, pop sound. ‘So what is it you want me to do, Detective Inspector?’
‘Whatever you can, really. I can give her a roof, a bed, feed her, but Emma needs company and I can’t give up work to look after her while she recovers.’ Even as he spoke the words, McLean saw the lie in them. He didn’t need to work at all. If Miss Nairn saw the lie too, she didn’t let on.
‘And you think a carer specializing in physical-trauma victims is what she needs?’
‘You were Doctor Wheeler’s suggestion. If you don’t think you’re right for it, I’m sure she can give me other names.’
‘No, no. I think I can help.’ Miss Nairn levered herself out of the chair and McLean realized how he’d been played. If nothing else, she was smart. That had to be worth something.
‘You’re OK with doing this full time? Staying here?’ McLean asked.
‘It’s usually the best way. And it looks like you’ve got the space.’ Miss Nairn smiled, half twirled around, heroutstretched arms taking in the over-large room. Her skirt flared out like a flamenco dancer’s, a brief moment of exuberance before it settled back down against her legs. ‘Shall we go and meet Emma then?’
9
‘You got a minute, sir?’
McLean looked up from the report he’d been trying to force into his brain for an hour. The elfin, freckled face of Detective Sergeant Kirsty Ritchie peered around the door-jamb, not trusting itself to commit fully to a relationship with his office.
‘A minute, an hour. Anything’s got to be better than this.’ McLean dropped the sheaf of paper onto his desk, where it nestled in amongst many others of its kind. He thought that Dagwood had sent him off to work in the SCU, but that hadn’t stopped the acting superintendent from passing on every half-baked criminal psychology paper that came his way as well. Read, digest, condense into little words for the hard of thinking.
‘I’ve been working with Stu– … DC MacBride on the suicide case. You know.’ Ritchie leaned against the door, still not actually entering the office.
‘I visited the scene, yes.’ And got a bollocking for it. ‘What did you make of it?’
‘The scene? I think he’s right. There’s something odd about it.’
‘But you can’t be more specific, right?’
‘Yeah. And that’s what’s bugging me.’
‘You want to go deeper? Do a profile on the victim?’ McLean dug around in the recesses of his memory foranything specific about the case. Came up with less than he’d have liked. ‘Did we have a name for him?’
‘Grigori Mikhailevic, according to his neighbour.
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