Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (22 page)

‘You know anything about common repairs, Bob?’

The tiny room they had commandeered for the fire investigation was a sharp contrast to the two major incident rooms a floor down. As was the manpower available for the job. Grumpy Bob made up the entire team
at the moment, and he looked up from his desk at McLean’s question like a man who had only just got comfortable enough for a quick nap.

‘Tenements and stuff like that?’

‘Aye. Used to be the council would serve a repair order. Not sure if they’re doing it still. You know, when all the residents in one block couldn’t agree what needed doing. Had it happen to my old place in Newington a good while
back, but there’s been nothing from them this time around. I wasn’t sure if it still happened.’

‘You’d be better off asking the lad. He’d have an answer for you in a couple of taps on that wee screen of his.’

‘Didn’t really want to load him up with any more work. He’s already doing too much as it is.’

‘Fair point. He’s been looking a bit run-down lately.’ Grumpy Bob scratched at his chin where
the morning’s razor had missed a bit. ‘Doesn’t help that he’s so keen. Shows all the other constables up.’

‘Christ, Bob. He uses his brain, shows some initiative,
and people think that’s keen? It’s the bloody job, isn’t it? Least it was when I signed up.’

Grumpy Bob sat up straight, his face reddening slightly at the rebuke. ‘Just telling it how it is, sir.’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you.
It’s just … this place, sometimes. People get an idea and run with it. Never seem to know when enough’s enough. Like all those stupid pranks they played on me last year.’

‘You got a nice car out of it. And a couple of suits.’

‘Not helping, Bob. And you know that’s not the point. I’m thrawn enough to weather it out, but MacBride’s not coping so well.’

‘Aye, I know. Been keeping an eye out. He’ll
get over it, mind. He’s tougher than he looks.’

The door opening behind him put an end to the conversation. McLean spun around, expecting to see the object of their discussions. Instead it was DS Ritchie who shuffled into the room backwards, an awkward box under one arm, coffee in the other hand.

‘Here, let me.’ McLean thought of relieving her of the coffee, but took the box instead. ‘Anything
interesting?’

‘Depends what you find interesting. It’s mostly just photos from the scene.’

‘Any news from the fire investigation team?’

‘Report’s in there, too.’ Ritchie nodded at the box, then took a sip of her coffee. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think there’d be anyone in here yet.’

McLean put the box down on the nearest table and started leafing through the contents. The report was a thick sheaf of
paper, densely packed type giving him a headache before he’d even started reading it. He flicked
through, looking for the executive summary, gave up and turned to the photographs. These had been printed on glossy paper, which probably meant the budget for the investigation was blown already. The problem with digital cameras was a tendency of crime scene photographers to rattle off a dozen or more
pictures of exactly the same thing. Fortunately someone had already been at this lot and only printed up a few duplicates of each.

‘Definitely arson then?’ Grumpy Bob had picked up the discarded report and begun flicking through.

‘Double arson, if you’re being technical,’ Ritchie said. ‘Someone shoved lighter fluid through the letterboxes for the betting shop and chippy both. They’re not sure
how the fire spread to the two houses either side of number twelve but left it untouched. Most of the report goes into technical details about stone wall thickness, safety gaps, stuff like that. To be honest, I think they’re scratching their heads on this one.’

McLean took a series of wide-view photographs and pinned them to the wall. One taken from the far side of the street showed a line of
vehicles parked in front of the burnt-out shop fronts and houses. ‘We get anywhere with the vans?’

Ritchie guddled around in the box and came out with a handful of papers. ‘Some of them are local. Had every right to be parked there. These three are untraceable as yet.’ She handed the sheets to McLean, who scanned them for salient details. Two Ford Escort vans and a Fiat Doblo. Common enough that
finding out who owned them without proper identification would be a pain.

‘Let me guess. These were right outside the door to number twelve. Madame Rose’s place.’

‘That’s the one. Forensics have got them all back at their labs. Might be able to get something useful from them. The plates are clones though, and they’ve all had their VINs removed. Might get lucky with the Fiat. Apparently some
of the parts are individually numbered and they can cross-reference with the actual vehicle build number. They’ll get the VIN from that and then we’ll know who owned it.’

‘Sounds technical,’ McLean said.

‘Well, you know me and cars, sir.’ Ritchie smiled, took another sip of coffee.

‘I presume this will take some time.’

‘Could be a couple of weeks. Depends a lot on who we speak to at Fiat.
Even then it’ll probably turn out to have been stolen from down south a year ago.’

McLean fished the flyer out of his pocket, unfolded it and pinned it to the board next to the photographs. ‘We’ll have to try some other avenues of enquiry then.’

About five minutes into their questioning, McLean realised that Dudley Sanderson and Douglas Ballantyne had probably been separated at birth. They didn’t
look much alike, and Sanderson was a good ten years younger than the bearded conspiracy theorist, but the two of them shared a world-view with remarkable exactness.

He’d asked DS Ritchie to call the number on the flyer, hoping that she would take up that strand of the fire investigation and run with it. Mr Sanderson had volunteered to come in to the station immediately and answer all their questions.
That should have set the alarm bells ringing; McLean was well experienced in nutters and could usually
spot them before he had to interact. Perhaps he was more tired than he realised, tired enough to agree to sit in on the interview at least.

And so here they were, stuck in a hot and stuffy interview room three. It still smelled overpoweringly of fresh paint, and the hot sun shining through the
small, high window was just enough to cook all the goodness out of the air.

‘So what you’re saying, Mr Sanderson, is that numbers ten and fourteen are owned by two different development companies. Number twelve is, of course, owned by the individual who lives there.’

Sanderson dragged his gaze away from Ritchie, or at least Ritchie’s chest, at which he had been staring almost constantly for
the whole interview. The expression on his face was almost as if he had forgotten McLean was there, which was perfectly possible given the rambling nature of his monologue. There was a hint of irritation in his eyes, too. Clearly not a man used to being interrupted, although that might have been because nobody ever listened to him at all.

‘That is correct, Detective Inspector. Brightwing Holdings
owns the freehold of number ten, and a company called Wendle Stevens owns number fourteen. They—’

‘So if two different companies are involved, what makes you think there is any development in hand? These are big houses. Most of them have already been split into flats. I’m sure they’re going to do the same to these, but that’s not what you’re claiming, is it?’

Sanderson left a short pause before
answering, as if he were checking to make sure McLean wasn’t going to say anything else.

‘As I was trying to say before I was interrupted, Detective Inspector, the two companies are both registered with the same firm of solicitors. They both filed plans at the same time and they’re using the same architects.’

‘So you think they’re actually the same organisation acting under two different names.’
Foolishly, DS Ritchie asked the question. Sanderson’s head snapped around, his attention once more fixed on her chest. McLean suspected that he was less fascinated with her breasts than embarrassed at looking into a woman’s eyes. He could have been wrong though.

‘I don’t think it, Detective Sergeant, I know it.’

‘You have proof? A paper trail?’

Sanderson’s gaze dropped momentarily to the table.
His hands were clasped together in front of him as if in prayer, and he fidgeted with them for a moment.

‘It’s not … They’re very clever these people, you know. Companies within companies. Always hiding from view. I don’t really know why they do it. Tax avoidance, probably.’

‘So you don’t have any proof.’ McLean dragged the man’s attention back to himself.

‘Not as such, no.’

‘Well what do
you have then? What exactly is this development you so desperately want to stop?’

‘It’s there in the plans, Detective Inspector. If you just know how to look at them properly.’ Sanderson’s hands clasped together again as he warmed to his theme. ‘Oh, they look like simple flats, splitting up the houses floor by floor, but you can see that’s not what they want to do. Not really. It’s just a ruse
to keep the council happy.’

‘And what is it they really want to do, Mr Sanderson?’

‘Why, knock the whole terrace down and build a block of flats in its place, Detective Inspector. Somewhere they can fill with immigrants getting their rent paid by hard-working tax payers like you and I.’

With hindsight, McLean could see that the signs had been there all along. The more excited Mr Sanderson became,
the redder his face grew. Little flecks of spittle arced from his mouth, spattering the table so that DS Ritchie had to lean back or suffer an involuntary shower.

‘Where exactly do you live, Mr Sanderson?’ It was a question he should have asked at the start of the interview, really.

‘I’m not sure how—’

‘Jock’s Lodge? Restalrig maybe?’

‘Newhaven, actually.’

‘But not Leith Walk. Not, in fact,
Leith at all.’

‘Well, no.’

‘Then why are you so concerned about what happens there?’

‘They can’t be allowed to get away with it. Knocking down all the best bits of the city and throwing up cheap boxes filled with foreigners stealing our jobs and prostitutes giving us their exotic diseases.’ Sanderson lingered on the last two words as if the thought excited him somehow.

‘Of course not. That
would be terrible. But surely you should be looking out for your own patch? Let the people of Leith Walk decide what happens there.’

‘Ah, but how can they do that if they don’t know it’s happening, Detective Inspector?’ Sanderson dragged his gaze from Ritchie’s bosom.

‘And that’s what you were doing with these leaflets, I take it.’ McLean pushed the offending article across the table towards
Sanderson, who picked it up and studied it closely, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he did so.

‘Exactly. Looks like it worked, too.’

McLean watched DS Ritchie escort Dudley Sanderson from the interview room and back towards the reception area at the front of the station. His head hurt from too little sleep and trying to get into the mindset of someone who saw evil intent in the most
simple of things.

‘Get anything useful from him?’ Grumpy Bob sidled up with a mug of coffee in one hand, a newspaper rolled up and shoved under his arm.

‘Rather too many nutters around these days, Bob.’ McLean eyed the detective sergeant’s spoils. ‘You heading for an empty room and some quality time, then?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ Grumpy Bob gave his best deadpan face, then took
a slurp of coffee, swallowing loudly before adding, ‘Was just heading back up to the fire incident room, actually. Figured if you and Ritchie were interviewing, it’d be as quiet as anywhere else in the station.’

They set off for the stairs together, McLean filling in the details of the interview as they walked. It always helped to go over these things, but the more he spoke about it, the more
he came to the conclusion that Dudley Sanderson was a deeply troubled man.

‘So he’s got no evidence. In fact he’s got evidence to the contrary, and yet he still believes someone is trying to knock down an entire block of Leith Walk and redevelop it on the sly?’

‘Exactly, and he doesn’t even live there. Doesn’t even live in Leith for that matter. I’m not sure I ever quite worked out what his
interest in it was, if I’m being honest. Maybe Ritchie will have a better idea.’

‘Still, it’s a bit odd,’ Grumpy Bob said. ‘Even if your man isn’t dealing from a full deck.’

McLean paused mid-step. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the fire’s been set deliberately. There’s no doubt about that. Unlikely it’s Gianni the chip shop owner, and the rest of the block was uninhabited. The two houses that
burnt down were empty. Just Madame Rose’s place there in the middle. And yet he was the one being targeted for abuse beforehand.’

‘She, Bob.’ McLean couldn’t help himself correcting the detective sergeant. He wondered when it had become important to him. And why. Grumpy Bob raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing else.

‘We interviewed them all though? Gianni? The builders in numbers ten
and fourteen?’

‘Spoke to Gianni myself. He’s either a bloody good actor or he genuinely has no idea how the fire started.’

‘You ask him if anyone had offered to buy the place off him?’

‘One of the first questions. He’s a proud old bugger, make no mistake. Told me he’d been working there since his old man first set it up just after the war. Apparently he was a POW, Gianni’s old man. Decided
he liked Scotland so much he wanted to stay.’

‘And he owned the shop outright?’ McLean shook his head. ‘No, I knew that already. Rose told me. What about
the builders? Developers, whatever. The other two houses that burned down?’

‘Still waiting for the lad to get back to me on that, sir.’

‘MacBride? I thought he was busy with the Stevenson enquiry.’

‘Aye, he is at that. But there’s no one
else here I’d trust to ferret out the information. Not in less than six weeks, anyway.’

‘So we’ve not actually spoken to them yet.’ They had reached the incident room and found it empty.

‘Not as such, no.’

McLean rubbed at his forehead, found it didn’t really do much to relieve the pressure. He could feel the case slipping away from him. Too many things to concentrate on and not enough time.

‘OK. Speak to Ritchie when she gets back. Dudley Sanderson gave us the names of the developers. Should save us a bit of time searching them out. Set up some interviews, find out if they stand to gain anything from the fire.’

‘Believe it or not, sir, I have done this before.’ Grumpy Bob grinned as he spoke, and McLean realised just how annoying he was being.

‘Sorry, Bob. Force of habit. I’ll
let you get on with it and keep well out of the way. Not as if I haven’t got anything else to do, after all.’

‘Stevenson?’

‘For one thing, yes. Trying to coordinate with Spence on the Maureen Shenks case too, and you know how well he plays with others.’

Grumpy Bob placed his coffee mug carefully down on
the nearest desk, laid the paper alongside it. ‘Don’t much envy you that.’

‘Aye, well it’ll
be even more fun when he gets made up to DCI. Think I might put in for a transfer then. I’ve heard Vice is nice and quiet these days.’

‘The whole thing’s a fucking mess if you ask me.’

DCI Brooks paced back and forth in the Ben Stevenson murder enquiry room, creating a small clear patch in an otherwise crowded space. All around, the uniforms, detectives and support staff were keeping themselves
studiously busy, keen not to be drawn into the impromptu meeting. McLean could only sympathise with them; he too had better things to be doing than pointing out the obvious to people who should have known better.

‘I’m not going to disagree with you there, sir. But that’s not helped by everyone having to run up and down the stairs between two different incident rooms.’ McLean didn’t add that it
wasn’t helped by one enquiry constantly poaching staff from the other.

‘Oh good Christ, you’re not still suggesting these two are linked are you? They’ve absolutely nothing in common.’ Brooks stopped his pacing for a moment, just long enough to give McLean his best ‘you’re an idiot’ glare.

‘Nothing? You mean apart from the fact that both had their throats cut from behind, left to right with
a sharp, narrow-bladed knife? Apart from the complete lack of any forensic evidence? Apart from the fact that the likelihood of two Category A murders within weeks of one another not being connected is so vanishingly small it’s hardly worth considering?’

McLean watched the detective chief inspector’s reaction to his words, his fat face reddening with each new suggestion. It was easy to guess
when Brooks was going to interject; he stopped pacing just an instant before opening his mouth.

‘You—’

‘Of course, I’m not jumping to conclusions.’ McLean interrupted before Brooks could get his objection in. ‘I think it’s wise to treat the two as separate cases, even if they do end up being the same killer. I just think we can save a lot of time, and money, if we merge the admin and data processing
of both enquiries. And if we’re all working from the same incident room we’re in a good place to spot any obvious connections should they appear.’

‘If the press get hold of the idea we’re linking the two cases …’ Brooks left the obvious conclusion hanging. The idea of a serial killer would have the tabloids salivating, but it was unlikely they’d care much about the reputation of the police in
pursuit of a juicy story.

‘Quite frankly I’m more concerned with catching Ben Stevenson’s murderer, and Maureen Shenks’ too, than what the tabloids want to write about me,’ McLean said.

‘All right for some. You don’t have to worry about getting sacked, do you?’ DI Spence muttered the words under his breath, but it was easy enough to hear them.

‘Neither would you, if you actually did your job,
Mike.’ McLean didn’t bother to hide his scorn.

‘What the fuck do you—’

‘Enough.’ Detective Superintendent Duguid had been silent up to this point. McLean wanted to think he was acting swiftly to avoid the demoralising effect on the
investigation team of seeing two senior officers bicker in public, but it was more likely that he just wanted to get back to his comfortable, quiet office.

‘McLean
is right, difficult though that is to admit. There are too many similarities to ignore, and the cost of running two major incident enquiries side by side doesn’t bear thinking about. Spence, I want you to bring your team in here. Any spillover can go into the smaller rooms across the corridor.’

‘Would it not be easier to—’

‘Up here, Spence. This enquiry has been going on longer. And it’s less
far for me to walk.’

McLean almost smiled at the joke, though it would have been funnier if Duguid had ever actually been in the incident room before. But the thunderous faces of DI Spence and DCI Brooks, Little and Large, were enough to kill any humour in the situation.

‘Grumpy Bob’s running the room at the moment, ably assisted by DC MacBride. They’ll get you sorted for desk space and workstations.’
McLean checked his watch, even though he knew exactly what time it was. ‘I’ve got to run.’

‘What?’ Brooks rumbled the single word out in a low growl.

‘Interviewing a possible witness. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.’

‘How long have you been working on the Leith Walk site?’

If the offices of Wendle Stevens were anything to go by, the razing to the ground of their building by fire
could only be a good thing. McLean sat in a room that was too small for the three desks squeezed into it. Too small for
the three sweaty bodies too, judging by the smell. Still, it was a new company, with fresh hopes and making the best of what little it had. And anything was better than being stuck with Brooks and Spence.

‘The building was auctioned in January. We probably paid a little more
for it than we should, but that’s the nature of the game, right?’

Jonathan Wendle was an infectiously enthusiastic man. Probably still in the first half of his twenties, he made McLean feel old and tired just by the energy bubbling off him. Stevens, the other half of the partnership, was out visiting another potential site, which was probably for the best. McLean didn’t think he could have coped
otherwise.

‘And you’d started on the work a couple of months ago? What were you doing to the place?’

‘Gutting it and starting again, Inspector. Not much else we could do, really. Place was a disaster. Some idiot had split it up into flats in the seventies, and we all know that’s the decade taste forgot.’

McLean bit back the retort that he had fond childhood memories of the time. Wendle wouldn’t
even have been born much before the end of the eighties anyway.

‘But things were going OK?’ he asked. ‘You were on schedule with the renovations, keeping to budget?’

Wendle waggled a large hand back and forth in an easily understood gesture. ‘More or less. But it’s the biggest project we’ve taken on so far, so we’ve got quite a lot of leeway built in.’

‘What about the other buildings, number
ten and number twelve?’

‘What of them?’

‘You weren’t trying to buy them, then? Knock them all down and put up some cheap flats in their place?’

Wendle paused before answering, the thoughts writ clear across his young face as they knitted together. McLean had already decided the young man wasn’t involved in the arson; his enthusiasm was still too great. Someone driven to burning their assets
to claim the insurance money would have been far more desperate.

‘A little bird’s been tweeting at you, hasn’t it, Inspector?’ Wendle made little beak-closing motions with his fingers. ‘I can’t tell a lie, we’ve been approached about selling the site. But Bill and me bought it with our own money. We had a plan and we mean to stick to it. Of course, I’m not sure exactly what we’re going to do
now. Have to wait and see what the insurance assessor has to say. The engineers too.’

‘But someone did try to buy the place off you? Before the fire?’

‘Quite a few developers, actually. You’d be surprised how often sites change hands before someone rolls up their sleeves and actually does the work.’

‘Anyone put pressure on you to sell? Get any threats?’

Wendle frowned as if the question surprised
him. ‘Not really, no. I mean, you get some unpleasant characters who don’t like being told no, but … no, can’t say as I have.’