Dead Men's Bones (Inspector Mclean 4) (13 page)

Considerably
more people had come to drink Andrew Weatherly’s wine than had shown up to pay their last respects at the church. That was the way of these things, McLean supposed. It wasn’t as if the man was going to complain. The wake had something of the air of a wedding party, only with more sombre clothes. There wasn’t any dancing, either.

‘Inspector. How good of you to come.’ Jennifer Denton looked tired, but she’d still made the effort to appear smart. People weren’t queueing up to offer her their condolences, he noticed. Too busy networking or looking for the next scoop.

‘I wasn’t sure whether I should. Normally we come along to see who turns up, if there’s an investigation ongoing. But, well, it’s all officially done and dusted now.’

‘And yet here you are.’ Miss Denton grabbed a couple of wine glasses from a passing waiter, handed one over and took a sizeable gulp of the other. ‘To be honest, I’m rather glad.’

‘Are you coping all right?’ McLean tried not to make it obvious that he wasn’t going to drink his wine.

‘Keeping busy’s the best thing. I don’t like to have to stop and think.’

‘You’ll have to eventually. I mean, once this is all done, the will sorted …’

‘That’ll
give me a year or five then.’ Miss Denton took another swig and a single drop of red escaped, landing on her white blouse like a blood splatter.

‘That long?’ Having not long tidied away the last few pieces of his own inheritance following the death of his grandmother almost eighteen months earlier, McLean was well aware that the wheels of the legal profession ground slow and fine. Still, five years sounded like something of an exaggeration.

‘If I’m lucky. Could be ten.’ Miss Denton pointed over to the far side of the room, where a cluster of unhappy-looking people were studiously not talking to each other. They looked quite out of place among the politicians and businessmen. ‘The jackals are circling. Drew’s will’s being read out later on, and they’re none of them going to be very happy about it.’

‘You know what’s in it?’

‘Of course. I’m one of the executors.’

‘And a beneficiary?’ The question slipped out before McLean could stop himself. The detective in him taking over. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’

‘Not supposed to say anything until it’s been read.’ Miss Denton tapped the side of her nose with a finger. The nail was painted a deep glossy red, but the end of it was cracked and ridged. ‘But don’t worry. It’ll be made public tomorrow. Drew was very old-fashioned that way.’

McLean said nothing, wasn’t really sure what he could say. Andrew Weatherly’s will was of interest, of course. He’d been a very rich man, so what became of his wealth mattered. Except that the reasons it mattered to McLean
were of no importance any more. He wasn’t looking for a suspect, so there was no need to seek a motive.

‘So why did you come here then, Inspector?’ Miss Denton put her empty glass down on a passing tray, swapping it for a full one with a surprising dexterity.

‘I rather suspect he’s come here looking for me.’

The words cut through him like a stiletto to the soul. The voice was deep, almost husky, and yet unmistakably female. McLean turned to see who had spoken, but he already knew. Close up the woman was striking, that was the best he could manage. She wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense of the word; no supermodel like Morag Weatherly had been. But there was something about her that he could imagine men killing each other over. He’d noticed her hair from afar, straight and black like Elizabeth Taylor’s wig in
Cleopatra
, only without the gold braids. It framed a face of purest, flawless white skin, high cheekbones and eyes that hinted at a Middle Eastern background. He would have said she was in her early thirties, but something about the way she held herself suggested a much greater age kept at bay by far more effective means than Jennifer Denton’s hair dye and foundation. She wore black, unchanged from the funeral. Only her blouse was red, darkest claret as if she had spilled a whole bottle on it compared with Miss Denton’s single drop. Her blouse matched her cherry-dark lips, which McLean found he’d been staring at for far too long without realizing. He looked away in embarrassment.

‘Jennifer, are you going to introduce us?’ The woman spoke softly, but still her voice sounded like it could flay the skin off a man. A sandstorm in the desert.

‘Mrs
Saifre. I’m sorry. This is Detective Inspector McLean.’ Miss Denton sounded afraid. She looked afraid, paling visibly under Mrs Saifre’s stare and shrinking away from the woman.

‘Ah yes. Of course you are. I’ve heard so much about you.’ Mrs Saifre held out a hand and for a moment, McLean wasn’t sure what he should do with it. That voice filled his head, chasing away all ability to think straight. Possibly just a little too slow to be polite, he pulled himself together, took the hand in his own and shook it gently. The tiniest flicker of disappointment played around those deep black eyes, and then she smiled, squeezing his hand with a grip that crackled the bones in his knuckles.

‘You knew Mr Weatherly?’ McLean asked.

‘Knew him? I practically made him. Isn’t that so, Jennifer?’ Mrs Saifre finally let go of McLean’s hand. He let it drop to his side, trying to hide it as he flexed his fingers, checking for any broken bones.

‘Mrs Saifre was one of Drew’s first investors. She’s a major stockholder in Weatherly Asset Management.’ Miss Denton spoke the words grudgingly, as if she were willing it not to be so.

‘Mr Weatherly’s death must have come as a shock then, Mrs Saifre,’ McLean said. ‘The nature of it as much as anything.’

‘A shock.’ Mrs Saifre rolled the word around her mouth, as if it had a flavour she’d never tasted before. ‘Yes. It was. Andrew always struck me as the level-headed type. Not one for rash gestures. Oh, he could take risks,
but they were always calculated in his favour. Or my favour, of course.’

‘I must go and speak to the First Minister before he leaves.’ Jennifer Denton knocked back the last of her second glass of wine. ‘Thank you for coming, Inspector.’

‘Yes, run along, Jennifer. There’s a good girl.’ Mrs Saifre dismissed the PA with a casual wave of the hand. It reminded McLean of an old friend of his grandmother’s who had dismissed him in similar fashion once he’d been presented to her on one of her infrequent visits. The condescension had hurt him even as a ten-year-old, and yet Miss Denton merely nodded, her eyes flicking to his with a look of horror in them before she turned and fled.

‘Such a mousy little thing, don’t you think?’ The way Mrs Saifre spoke the words, it was all but impossible to disagree. ‘Quite what Andrew saw in her, I’ve no idea.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘I knew him a long time, if that’s the same thing. My late husband left me a great deal of money. Andrew was well placed to turn it into even more. We worked together.’

‘And what about play? Did you know Mr Weatherly socially?’

‘Ah me, am I being interrogated?’ Mrs Saifre let out a tiny laugh like the distant cawing of crows. ‘And here I was thinking the investigation was all over.’

‘I’m sorry. Force of habit. And you’re right, the case is closed. I can’t stop myself from wondering why a man with so much to live for would suddenly flip like that,
though. I guess I’m just trying to flesh out his character, find out what made him tick.’

Mrs Saifre opened up a black patent leather bag slung over one elbow, and pulled out a business card. That was when McLean realized that she’d taken off her gloves. She handed the card over. ‘Here. I’m going to be away on business until the end of next week, but call me after that. You can buy me lunch and I’ll tell you all I know about Andrew Weatherly. Investigation or no.’ She held out her hand again, and when McLean shook it this time, she merely pinched his fingers lightly, her touch playful now as she dismissed him with much greater panache than she had used on Miss Denton.

‘There was just one thing, Mrs Saifre, if you don’t mind?’ There was that flicker of irritation across the eyes again. McLean hurried to ask the question while his nerve held. There was something about this woman that made him want to recoil. ‘My people interviewed everyone involved with Mr Weatherly’s businesses, but I don’t recall your name coming up.’

Mrs Saifre laughed again, and far away something died. She nodded at the card, still clasped between his fingers. ‘I spoke to Detective Sergeant Ritchie. Nice girl. Ask her about me.’ And then she turned and left. McLean watched her progress through the crowd, which seemed to part before her. Finally he looked down at the card. Her married name was Saifre, but she’d told him already her husband was dead. Now it seemed she had reverted to her maiden name, and that was what was written on the card in blood-red ink. Jane Louise Dee and a mobile phone number. Nothing else at all.

The
massed ranks of the press were never a welcome sight. If you wanted their help, with finding a missing person or identifying someone from a CCTV image perhaps, you’d get a small turnout. Unless it was a slow news day or a star reporter had done something stupid and was on punishment duty. If there was no story, then they were nowhere to be seen, and that was how McLean liked them best. This, however, was the other thing.

They’d had to move the press conference down to HQ, with its bigger conference rooms. Any hope that the change of venue might mean some input from top brass was forlorn, though. Looking around the room, Detective Superintendent Jack Tennant was the most senior officer present, and lowly Detective Inspector McLean was next in line.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming.’ Sergeant Dan Hwei, the Press Liaison Officer, kicked things off with the usual instructions about not interrupting, waiting until your name was called before asking questions, where the fire doors were and what to do in an emergency. McLean knew all this was important, but it was also a waste of time. He could almost guarantee he’d be interrupted before five minutes were up, and if there were a fire then it would turn into a bloodbath. These were reporters, after all.

‘As
you know, we released the bodies of Andrew Weatherly, his wife Morag and two daughters Joanna and Margaret a couple of days ago. They were buried yesterday. I think one or two of you might have been there.’ McLean scanned the front few rows of the audience, spotting most of the usual suspects.

‘The sharper of you here will realize what that means. Our investigation into the deaths at Mr Weatherly’s house in Fife has been concluded and a report has been sent to the Procurator Fiscal.’

‘Inspector, can you confirm that Weatherly shot his wife and daughters?’

Not even five minutes. Barely one. McLean sighed, rubbed at his eyes. ‘If you’d give me a chance to finish, Mr Truman, I will let you know the results of the post-mortem examination of all four bodies. There were traces of a barbiturate sedative in the girls’ blood, but they died from suffocation. It’s our belief that Mr Weatherly spiked their evening milk, then when they were too sleepy to resist put a pillow over each of their faces.’

‘Was it true they were found together in the same bed?’

McLean didn’t recognize the voice, and no one had put their hand up. Almost certainly a tabloid, though.

‘How they were found is irrelevant.’ Jack Tennant interrupted, his irritation at the question obvious. ‘They were only eleven years old, for Christ’s sake. Have a bit of respect for the dead.’ He slumped back in his seat, looking almost as tired as McLean felt and just as pissed off.

‘Thank you, sir.’ McLean spoke close to the microphone, his voice echoing about the conference room.
‘And in answer to the original question, I will add that I’m not in the habit of describing the crime scene as we found it unless that is pertinent to our enquiries. I’ve seen some of the more lurid speculation and I’ll say this much for you lot, you don’t lack imagination.’

There were a couple of muttered comments at the back, but no more interruptions, so McLean continued with his prepared script. ‘Morag Weatherly died from a single gunshot wound to the head. Forensic analysis confirms that the bullet was a .243-calibre from a stalking rifle belonging to Mr Weatherly. He had a licence for it, along with a number of shotguns and a .22-calibre rifle for shooting vermin. All these other weapons were found locked up in a gun cabinet on the premises. The keys were in Mr Weatherly’s pocket.

‘Andrew Weatherly himself died from a single gunshot wound to the head, we assume fired from the same weapon as that used to kill his wife, although the bullet was not recovered from the scene. The evidence as presented in my report suggests that Mr Weatherly smothered his children, shot his wife and then turned the gun on himself. There is no evidence of any outside party being involved.’

‘Inspector, can you give us any indication as to why Mr Weatherly would do such a thing?’

McLean looked to the back of the hall, where the question had come from. One of the less sensationalist Scottish papers, if he remembered rightly.

‘Mr Weatherly’s business was in rude health, and his political career seemed set for better things than being a useful member of the opposition. We’ve spoken to his
friends and associates and there was no indication of pressure being put on him.’ McLean swallowed, trying not to think about the photographs and the obvious conclusion the press would draw if they saw them. When they saw them. ‘It’s one thing to take your own life. Quite another to take your loved ones with you. I can say that Mr Weatherly was a deeply disturbed man, but I cannot, I will not, speculate as to why he did what he did. That’s your job.’

That brought a low chuckle from the throng, which was helpful. Always better to keep the press in a good humour.

‘Do you think he was being blackmailed?’

‘If he was, then he left nothing behind to show that was the case. Of course, he might just have been tired of being hounded by the press.’

That got him another low round of chuckles, but McLean was wary enough not to relax just because things seemed to be going well. That was when the shit usually hit the fan, after all.

‘Inspector, were you aware of the rumours regarding Mr Weatherly’s sex life?’

Ah yes. That question. And it had to come from the scruffy, leather-coated form of Jo Dalgliesh, of course. Who else would Special Branch leak their tawdry information to? Unless, of course, she was just fishing.

‘Which particular rumours would those be, Ms Dalgliesh? Mr Weatherly was a politician, after all.’

Another ripple of laughter ran around the room, louder this time. Dalgliesh scowled in irritation, and McLean realized he’d pay for that jibe later.

‘The
sex parties, Inspector. The swinging lifestyle. In all your investigations, did it never occur to you to work up a history on the man?’

‘I see what you’re getting at, Ms Dalgliesh, but as the inspector has already said, our investigations have revealed no evidence of an attempt to blackmail Mr Weatherly. Whatever he may or may not have done in the past, the fact remains that his was the only criminal act here.’ Judging by the way he came to McLean’s defence, DS Tennant had locked horns with Jo Dalgliesh before.

‘Were someone trying to blackmail Mr Weatherly, that would, of course, be a crime. And if you had any evidence to suggest such a thing, I am sure you would bring it to our attention so we could investigate and if necessary prosecute. The fact remains, however, that Mr Weatherly, for reasons unknown, took it upon himself to murder his family and kill himself.’ McLean focused all his attention on Jo Dalgliesh, looking for any hint that she knew something she wasn’t saying. ‘That was the scope of this investigation, and that’s our conclusion. Should any fresh evidence come to light, we will, of course, consider it and reopen the case if necessary.’

‘Well, I’ve had worse days.’ Jack Tennant leaned back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head for support. ‘Can’t rightly remember when, but I must have had, sometime.’

‘Life must be very quiet indeed in Fife if you thought that was bad.’ McLean gathered his papers together, slipping them into a slim brown folder that was probably intended only for a particular kind of archive filing and
not as a general carry-all. Somewhere in the building lurked DC MacBride, perhaps the only policeman within five miles who would either know or care.

‘Fife has its problems, Tony. But you’re right, it’s pretty easy really. Can’t remember the last time we had a murder wasn’t a domestic gone too far. It’s mostly speeding tickets and dope these days. A little casual violence at the weekends.’

‘Sounds idyllic. Where do I apply for a transfer?’

Tennant laughed, dropping his seat forward and bringing a hand round to his mouth as it turned into a cough from deep in his lungs. It took far too long for him to recover.

‘You’d go stir crazy in a week. And besides, what would you do without Jo Dalgliesh to get under your skin? She really doesn’t like you, that woman.’

‘The feeling’s entirely mutual.’ McLean stood up, ready to leave. A few journalists were still milling around, talking to camera or manically tapping reports into notebook computers. The last thing he wanted was for someone to approach him for an impromptu interview.

‘Rushing back to the front?’ Tennant thumped his chest a couple of times, coughed, swallowed and grimaced.

‘You OK, Jack? That’s a nasty cough.’

‘Winters don’t get any easier when you’re my age, Tony. And this one’s been bad.’

‘Let me treat you to a mug of Edinburgh’s finest tea before you head north, then.’

‘You’re too kind, but I’ve tried that pish you call tea
here before. Think I’ll wait till I’m home and have something a little stronger.’

Tennant pushed himself up out of his chair with perhaps rather more effort than it should have taken. McLean thought back to the last time he’d seen the detective superintendent, at Weatherly’s house just a few days earlier. Had he been so unwell then? He couldn’t remember. Maybe it was the same lurgy that had laid Ritchie low. If so, he hoped he was immune. The last thing he needed was a hacking cough and pounding headache to go with his permanently aching hip.

‘Well, I need to get back to my own station anyway. There’s a stack of paperwork the exact size and shape of my office needs dealing with, and we’ve got a heavily tattooed corpse we’re still trying to identify. No rest for the wicked, eh?’

Tennant gave him a weak smile before picking up his own papers and shuffling them together. Unlike McLean, the detective superintendent was organized enough to have a briefcase to hide them in.

‘That question, at the press conference. The Dalgliesh woman,’ he said, speaking into the open case rather than face McLean. ‘You know the case is closed now, right?’

‘Of course. I handed the report over to the PF myself.’

‘Only I couldn’t help noticing you left the possibility of reopening it … well, open.’

‘If some new evidence came to light, we’d have to really. Or at least open a new one if it turned out someone had been blackmailing Weatherly.’

Tennant closed his briefcase, clicked the locks shut
and finally turned to face him. ‘Yes, of course. If someone brought that to our attention. But we’re not going looking for it, are we?’

McLean studied the detective superintendent’s face. He’d thought of Jack Tennant as a friend. Someone he could turn to in a crisis, rely on for an honest opinion. But here he was toeing the party line like a good boy. Well, he was due to retire soon. Maybe he just didn’t want to rock the boat.

‘Not any more. No.’

‘So that little trip out to the house the other day. That was just you getting it out of your system?’

‘Pretty much.’ McLean thought about the photographs locked in the top drawer of his desk, the second set and the DVD still at home in his grandmother’s old safe. Someone wanted him to keep looking, someone else wanted him to stop. Stuck in the middle was never a nice place to be. Whatever he did he was going to piss someone off. And get him the blame.

‘Good.’ Tennant reached up and patted McLean on the shoulder with a hand that looked older than it should have, the skin thinner, bones and tendons showing through. ‘I knew you’d see sense, Tony.’