Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (27 page)

The forensic services technical and engineering labs were on the outskirts of the city, beyond the airport. Evening traffic was light, and McLean made the journey in almost exactly half an hour. A bored-looking security guard raised an eyebrow at his car,
but let him through as soon as he saw the warrant card, barely uttering a word during the whole exchange.

Miss Parsons was waiting in reception. ‘Got to sign you in myself. Janine goes home at five and we’ve no cover for the late shift.’

She busied herself writing down details in the visitor book and finding a name badge, handing it over before finally remembering to introduce herself. ‘I’m
Amanda, by the way. We never had much of a chance to talk when I came to your house.’ She stuck out a hand and McLean shook it, somewhat overwhelmed by her restless energy.

‘It was … early.’

‘Very. We met before that. Rosskettle Hospital? You probably wouldn’t recognise us SOCOs, all dressed up in our overalls and face masks.’

‘You were on that forensics team?’

‘Everyone was on that forensics
team.’ She rolled her eyes like an eight-year-old. They were large eyes, set in a face just as young as McLean had been expecting. Her
straw-blonde hair was held back with an Alice band, which didn’t help to make her look any more mature. Neither did the loose-fitting tour T-shirt for a rock group McLean had heard of but which had probably split up before she was born. Cargo pants and heavy black
DMs were maybe fashionable, or they could just have been the most suitable apparel for her line of work. To McLean they just suggested that she’d nicked all her clothes from her big brother. Or maybe her dad.

‘The BMW’s out in the workshop. Probably quickest if we go this way.’ Amanda pushed open the front door, bustling through almost before McLean could catch it and follow. He’d not got far
before she stopped.

‘This is yours? This must be yours. Oh, I’d heard … but she’s beautiful.’ She stood just a few paces away from his Alfa, staring for a moment. Then as if it had taken that long to summon up the courage, she ran a hand lightly over the bonnet, roof and boot, walking slowly around the car.

‘You just have to take me for a spin sometime. I love, love, love old Alfas.’

‘Perhaps,’
McLean said. ‘But we were here to see Joe McClymont’s BMW?’

Amanda gave the Alfa one last longing pat on the rump. ‘Of course. Sorry. Tend to get a bit carried away. Here.’ She strode off in the direction of what turned out to be the workshops.

Much like any modern garage, it was a line of roller doors set into the front of a tall, utilitarian building. Most were closed, but one was rolled all
the way up, spilling artificial light out into the warm evening. Just inside, McLean
could make out a heap of bent and twisted scrap metal that might once have been a BMW M5. Pieces had been removed, placed to either side as if it were no more than a plastic toy belonging to a child with insatiable curiosity and a pair of pinking shears. The roof lay upside down at the back of the workshop, all
four doors stacked alongside it. The wheels were in a neat tube, one on top of another, beside the far pillar of the four-post lift holding the rest of the chassis just high enough off the ground to enable work on it without stooping.

‘It’s amazing how much damage hitting a rock at eighty can do. If the rock’s big enough.’

‘Wasn’t this bad the last time I saw it.’ McLean noticed that the engine
had been removed, and looked around to see where it might be. He found it in the next bay, bolted to a wheeled engine stand and surrounded by the cream leather seats. The front two, he couldn’t help noticing, were splattered with dark brown bloodstains.

‘Forensic science can be a bit messy.’ Amanda fetched a heavy pair of rigger’s gloves from a workbench at the back of the room and handed them
to McLean. ‘Sharp edges,’ she said by way of explanation.

‘So, what is it you found for me? And you know this is technically an NCA investigation, don’t you?’

‘They’re only interested in drugs, and we didn’t find any traces anywhere. Nothing in the boot, no hidden compartments, not even some residue in the carpets, and you’d be surprised how much of that there is about.’ She flicked at a stray
curl of hair, unable to get it under control with a gloved hand. ‘No I called you rather than them because this is more relevant to you.’

‘Still not sure how. Are you going to explain it, or do I have to guess?’

Amanda’s face reddened at the rebuke. McLean hadn’t really meant it as such, but his words might have been a bit harsh. It had been a long day.

‘Sorry. I do tend to go on a bit. See,
here.’ Amanda stepped closer to the vehicle, pointing to the spot on the twisted chassis where the manufacturer had etched the vehicle identification number. McLean peered at it, but could find nothing amiss. Not that he was an expert.

‘The VIN, yes.’

‘Now see this.’ Amanda stalked off to the engine, hunkering down so that she could point to a similar series of numbers etched in the casting
of the block.

‘Engine number. I take it they don’t match up then?’

‘Would that it were so easy.’ Amanda pulled off her heavy gloves as she crossed to the spotless workbench at the back of the garage. A computer screen, keyboard and mouse looked rather out of place among the heavy spanners and other tools.

‘They match perfectly, and they’re up here on the DVLA database. Same car, same colour.’

‘What’s the problem then?’

Amanda clicked a couple of icons on the screen, coming up with a list of incomprehensible numbers and text, the familiar BMW logo at the top the only thing McLean could easily identify.

‘Put simply, it’s the wrong red.’

‘How so?’

‘Here.’ Amanda turned to the back of the car, lifting the boot lid open and pointing at a sticker with a colour code
on it. ‘This is the
correct code for the colour on the car. I’ve checked. But this,’ she turned back to the screen. ‘This is a different shade.’

‘Mix up when they entered the data?’

‘This is a German car, Inspector. Not Italian.’ A gentle smile spread across Amanda’s face as she clicked a couple more times, bringing up a different page of equally incomprehensible data. Sooner or later she was going to get to the
point, but McLean could wait. Her enthusiasm was infectious and far preferable to the oppressive misery of the station.

‘The colour mismatch was just a little niggle, really, but it got me thinking and I really don’t like mysteries. So I did a bit more digging. This car, electronically speaking, should be a Category C insurance write-off. Records have it as being badly damaged in an argument
with a bus last October. That’s before it should even have come into the country, by the way.’

‘It’s a ringer, then?’

Amanda treated him to another one of her coy smiles. ‘Oh, it’s so much more clever than that. Until your man McClymont hit that rock, this car had never seen so much as a scratch, but it’s been given the identity of a write-off. And it’s been done so well I couldn’t tell at first.
Those VIN and engine numbers are the best fakes I’ve ever seen. Add that to the clever fooling of the documentation, and this car’s almost completely untraceable. It could certainly be bought and sold throughout its entire life without anyone ever knowing anything was amiss.’

‘So where did it come from?’ McLean cast his eye over the mangled wreckage. It was difficult to imagine someone
going
to so much effort over a car, but then new it was probably worth eighty grand or more.

‘That’s where it gets interesting. Waiting on confirmation from BMW, but as far as I can tell, this car was stolen from the private garage of an exclusive apartment development not twenty minutes’ drive from here, about four months ago.’

‘Four months.’ McLean cast his mind back. He wasn’t aware of any great
spate of vehicle thefts in the city, but there were cars being stolen every day. Even Duguid’s Range Rover had been nicked not that long ago.

‘That’s not important. The thing is, it’s been done so well. If this car hadn’t crashed … no, if it hadn’t crashed and then been brought to this forensic lab, it would never have been discovered.’

He probably should have gone straight home from the forensic services garage and lab, but there were too many implications arising from the discovery that McClymont’s car was stolen. McLean knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d at least begun piecing
together that puzzle. He drove back to the station slowly, mind working over the few facts he had without any satisfactory explanation presenting itself to him.

He needed to talk it over with other people who knew the case, but DC MacBride had finally gone home, and Grumpy Bob was nowhere to be seen. Out of desperation, he went in search of Duguid, but the detective superintendent wasn’t in.
Hardly surprising, given the hour. Only DS Ritchie was still about, peering myopically at her computer in the CID office.

‘Evening Sergeant. Anyone else about?’

Ritchie looked up at him, pale skin washed out by the light from the screen. She rubbed a weary hand over her face before answering.

‘Carter’s around somewhere, and DC Gregg’s keeping an eye on the incident room. It’s a quiet one though.
Why?’

‘Just got some interesting information about the McClymonts. Wanted to run it past someone before I called Serious and Organised.’

As he explained the case to Ritchie, a few of the pieces started to come together, but it was still a bugger’s muddle.

‘Sounds like you need a list of all the sites they were working on; pay each one a visit and see what you find.’ Ritchie turned her attention
back to her screen just long enough to turn it off, whatever she’d been working on no longer important. ‘Or, you know, leave it for the NCA to deal with.’

‘You’re right. It’s their case, not mine. I’ve done them enough favours already.’ McLean looked around the rest of the empty CID room, imagined the pile of paperwork waiting for him in his office, the running commentary on her home life he’d
get from DC Gregg if he went up to the incident room.

‘Heading home any time soon, sir?’ Ritchie had gathered up her bag, slung it over her shoulder.

‘Reckon so. Nothing much to be gained hanging around here. Why?’

‘I was wondering if I could cadge a lift. Mary’s having another one of her little get-togethers this evening. I’m already late, and waiting on a taxi will only make me later.’

The light spilling out over Ritchie’s face as she opened the door to the rectory and stepped inside made McLean realise that it was starting to get dark. Summer nights in the city were so brief it was often much later than he thought, but the clock on the dashboard said half-past nine. The days were slowly getting shorter. Soon it would be winter again, the endless cycle repeating once more.

He sat in the car parked outside the church, and stared at nothing in particular in the street. Home was no more
than a minute’s drive, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to go there. Madame Rose would be waiting for him in the kitchen, a hearty meal prepared, and right now he couldn’t quite face dealing with her. It wasn’t that she was bad company, really. Just that he’d grown used to being alone.
Just him, the cat and the occasional postcard from Emma to remind him why he did what he did. Why he put up with the shit, the antisocial work hours and even more antisocial colleagues, the daily bath in the dregs of humanity.

He looked at the clock again. Twenty-five to ten. A quiet time of the evening away from the city centre. Later there’d be people coming home from the pub, or whatever Edinburgh
Festival show they’d been to. Earlier it would have been the office and factory crowds heading home. Now was a lull in the night-time activity that suited him just fine.

Switching on the engine, he executed a perfect U-turn in the wide, empty road, and headed back the way he had come.

Scaffolding still clung to the front facade of the building, ungainly metal rods sticking out at all angles.
Broken bones in the darkening sky. The first level of planks was too high up to jump and catch on to, deliberately so to deter drunken revellers. The uprights – standards, if he remembered the arcane builders’ jargon – were smooth, and wrapped in shiny tape to make them smoother still. Even so, there were always idiots who tried, egged on by alcohol and friends who didn’t know better. As a beat constable,
McLean had seen more than his fair share of broken arms, legs, backs and necks from people who got building sites and playgrounds confused.

It wasn’t a problem for him, though. The front door to his old tenement block was closed and locked, but he still had the key he’d used when he’d lived there hanging on his key ring. More surprisingly, it still worked. He looked up and down the street, but
shadowed by the scaffolding no one would have been able to see him even if there’d been anyone about.

Stepping through the familiar front door sent a shiver down his spine. As he closed the door behind him it cut off the low roar of the city for a moment. He stood in the darkness and almost imagined that the past two years had never happened. Or the last twelve. He would climb those stairs like
he’d done uncounted times before. Kirsty would be waiting for him. His Kirsty, with her long black hair and infuriating way of seeing right through him. They would share a bottle of wine, chat over whatever music he put on, fall into bed together.

A siren on Clerk Street cut through his musings. McLean shook his head, though only half-heartedly. He didn’t really want to lose that tiny, happy
moment, even if he knew it was madness to dwell on such things. But he’d come here for a reason. Best get on with it.

There wasn’t much sign of progress on the building front. Hardly surprising, given his objections to the plans and unwillingness to sell up. What would happen to the site now that McClymont Developments was effectively no longer trading? One for the lawyers to fight out, he had
no doubt. McLean stepped quietly through the front door to Mrs McCutcheon’s flat, then followed the new concrete steps down to the communal garden.

It was an oasis of dark calm. To either side the lights
from the neighbouring tenements illuminated washing lines, garden furniture and unkempt vegetation, but here in the middle there was nothing. Off to the rear, the bulk of the Portakabin offices
squatted like some alien spaceship. A mini digger parked alongside it looked strangely awkward in the half-light. The rest of the garden had been dug down, backfilled, the drainage points jutting out of freshly laid concrete like mafia victims struggling to break free. He clambered carefully down to basement level, testing the surface with the tip of his foot. It looked like it might be still liquid,
but that was just a trick of the light. The floor was firm, the concrete set rock-solid, the tiny outlines of the planned basement flats etched in narrow blockwork.

McLean approached the Portakabins quietly. As far as he could tell, there was no one about, and it wasn’t as if Joe and Jock McClymont were going to suddenly appear for a late-night site inspection, but still he knew that he shouldn’t
really be here. So far he’d not broken any rules. He had a key and a legitimate right to be in this place. The cabins were a bit of a grey area though, legally speaking. No, who was he kidding? This was breaking and entering, fair and simple.

Like much of the kit in the McClymonts’ warehouse, the Portakabins had seen better days. The front door was locked, but the windows weren’t, and a little
jiggling of one had it swinging open. Clambering in was more difficult than it should have been, but McLean made it without knocking too much off the nearest desk. At least he’d remembered to put on gloves.

He was in the same room where he’d first seen the plans
for the redevelopment. They’d been pinned up on the far wall, and were barely legible in the reflected glow of the street lamps. The
desks between him and them were old, basic Formica tops on metal frame legs. There were no phones, no computers, nothing more sophisticated than an elderly microwave oven sitting on top of a fridge, a grubby kettle alongside it. Nothing in here to raise any suspicions.

The door led out into a narrow corridor running the length of the two cabins. Hard hats and hi-vis jackets hung from hooks along
one side. The other sported a motley collection of Health and Safety Executive warning posters, reminding the workforce what a lethal place a building site could be. Opposite where he stood, a second door should have opened into the next Portakabin, but when McLean tried it, he found it was locked. He went back into the first room, rummaged around in drawers until he found a bunch of keys. Not
too hopeful that any of them would be the right one, but it was worth a try.

The darkness in the corridor was almost total now. He didn’t want to turn on his torch though, worried he might be spotted by someone in the flats that looked on to the garden. He worked his way through the bunch largely by feel, sliding each key into the lock, twisting, meeting solid resistance. On to the next, then
the next. And then finally it clicked. The door swung open and he peered inside.

A high window let what little light was left into the room. His eyes accustomed to the gloom, it was still as much as McLean could manage just to see the vague shapes of desks and tables. This place smelled different from the rest of the Portakabin though. Electric, charged. Over in the corner LEDs flickered on and
off, green and
red on the front of some kind of computer equipment. Screens lined up along one wall. McLean was about to step fully into the room, but common sense finally kicked in. This wasn’t his case, just a mystery he couldn’t leave alone. And if a crime had been committed, the two perpetrators were beyond the law now.

He pulled the door closed, locked it after him and returned the keys
to the drawer where he’d found them. Then he cleared up all the papers he’d knocked to the floor when he came in. He considered the window, but decided it was too risky going back out that way. The front door was a Yale lock, so he could get out without it being obvious anyone had been in at all.

Back in his car, convinced he’d been watched the whole time, McLean pulled out his phone and thumbed
at the screen until the number he’d been given came up. He hovered over the dial icon for long moments, knowing it was none of his business. Except that they’d made it his business, hadn’t they? When they’d put his name on the planning documents. When the NCA had hauled him over the coals for something he’d not done. Sorting this mess out might not be his job, but with the McClymonts dead, the
worry was nobody else would do it.

A quick glance at the clock. Late, but not so late you couldn’t phone a policeman. Especially a detective chief superintendent.