Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (10 page)

‘Heard you took that reporter off to Stevenson’s flat. What the hell were you thinking doing that?’

McLean stopped mid-stride, not so much because of what Detective Chief Inspector Brooks had said as because of the podgy hand that had grabbed his arm.
He’d been hoping to slip from the back door of the station up to his office without being noticed, but today it would seem he was out of luck.

‘I’d have thought that would’ve been obvious, sir.’ He shook his arm free of Brooks’ hold, then perhaps a little over-ostentatiously adjusted his jacket. The DCI rewarded him with a scowl, same as ever.

‘It’s a potential crime scene and you go marching
in there with a civilian. I don’t see anything obvious about it at all. Bloody irregular if you ask me.’

McLean tried not to shake his head, but may have failed a little. ‘Ben Stevenson died in the cavern where we found him. His flat was never a crime scene, but it could yield clues. Dalgliesh went there regularly; she knew the place better than anyone. Knew Stevenson better than anyone. Without
her I’d never have picked up what he was working on when he died.’

‘That still doesn’t answer my question though. Since when did you start hobnobbing with the press?’

‘I can think of many people I’d rather hobnob with
than Jo bloody Dalgliesh. She came to me in the first place, before her colleague turned up dead.’

‘And you don’t think that’s suspicious? You think it’s a good idea bringing
her in on the investigation when she might be a suspect? Christ, it’s no wonder they turned you down for the DCI job. Surprised you even made it to inspector.’

‘If you really think Dalgliesh is a suspect in the violent, ritual murder of her colleague, then I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to help you, sir. As you’re well aware, I have less reason to like her than many people in this station,
after that book she wrote all about how my fiancée was abducted and murdered. Remember that?’

McLean paused a fraction of a second, just enough for Brooks to start his reply, then cut in. ‘As it happens, I’d rather work the case without her getting in the way, but she knows Stevenson, knows his work and more importantly she’s agreed not to publish anything we haven’t cleared.’

‘Chance’d be a
fine thing. She’ll be making shit up about how useless we are and spreading it around like she always does. She’s a menace, and you of all people should know that. I want her cut out of this investigation. You understand?’

McLean studied Brooks’ face. He was a fat man; there was no charitable way of putting it. He liked his food and was less keen on exercise. He wasn’t a bad detective when he
put his mind to it, but lately most of his effort seemed to have been going into pushing for promotion. If the rumour mill was anything to go by, he would be scrabbling up the greasy pole into Detective Superintendent Duguid’s office just as soon as the man himself had retired. The
prospect filled McLean with weary gloom. True, he’d be rid of Dagwood, but he’d learned over the years how to deal
with him. Brooks was a different matter altogether.

‘As SIO for this case, I think that’s my decision to make actually, sir. And the suggestion to work with her came from the superintendent, so it’s not something I’ve done without consultation anyway.’

Brooks reddened, his jowls wobbling as his anger rose. It was usually possible to gauge when he was going to explode, as sweat would shine his
forehead. That hadn’t happened yet, but it was only a matter of time.

‘Fine,’ he said after perhaps ten seconds of escalating tension. ‘Use her. Or try to. She’ll stab you in the back though. It’s the story with her kind. Nothing else matters. You mark my words.’

He turned away, marching off with a sideways rolling motion like a sailor not long off the sea. McLean watched him go, trying hard
not to admit that, annoying idiot though he was, the man was probably right. Well, Dalgliesh had kept her end of the bargain so far. Only time would tell how long that could last. Shaking his head with weary resignation, he began the long climb up the stairs to the major incident room.

‘My office. Now.’

McLean glanced up from the report he’d been checking with DC Gregg to see Detective Superintendent
Duguid standing in the doorway. As far as he could remember, this was the first time Duguid had visited the major incident room since the first briefing on the case, days ago.

‘Get that over to forensics. See if they’ve got anything
from the notebook yet.’ He sent Gregg off before addressing Duguid.

‘Is it important, sir? Only I’ve got a mountain of actions to get through.’

‘Of course it’s
bloody important. You think I’d come down here looking for you if it wasn’t?’ Duguid turned away from the door, forcing McLean to follow. He said nothing all the way up the stairs and along the corridor to his office, waiting until he was seated and the door was closed before finally speaking.

‘You asked me if Ben Stevenson was a member of any Masonic Lodge. Well the simple answer is no. He wasn’t.’

McLean stood in his usual position in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back. He bobbed slightly on his feet, waiting for the detective superintendent to get to the point. Unless that was the point and Duguid had dragged him all the way up here for no good reason.

‘The simple answer?’ he asked after a moment’s silence.

‘You’re not a Freemason, McLean. Can’t expect you to understand.
There’s a lot of nonsense written about us. Lurid speculation by the gutter press, disdain from the broadsheets. You’d be surprised to know how much good we do. How much money we raise for charity.’

‘I’m sure it’s all a bit of harmless fun, sir. But someone cut Ben Stevenson’s throat open and then daubed your most recognisable image on the wall in his blood. I know whoever did that isn’t a Freemason,
or if he is he wasn’t doing it for anything other than his own sick reasons, but this is a legitimate line of enquiry, don’t you think?’

Duguid glowered at him for a moment, and McLean
wondered if he’d pushed a little too far. The detective superintendent was notoriously prickly about his precious Lodge, and secretive too. Not one of the reformers who wanted to drag the whole organisation kicking
and screaming into the nineteenth century.

‘If you’d let me finish. I asked around and Stevenson wasn’t a member of the order. His father was, but Stevenson was considered—’ Duguid paused a moment as if choosing the right word. ‘Unreliable.’

‘You thought he’d spill the beans as soon as he knew anything important.’

‘Oh, we fully expected that. It happens far more often than you’d think. No,
we weren’t worried about that so much as the damage he’d do digging around for secrets that didn’t actually exist. Like your reference to the Brotherhood, capital B, and Baphomet, the talking head.’

‘You know about these things?’

‘I know of them. Stupid conspiracy theories with no basis in fact. One of the more idiotic accusations made against the Knights Templar was that they worshipped a demon
in the form of a disembodied head. That was Baphomet, apparently. Truth is there was no Baphomet, no conspiracy. The Templars were rich and the king of France owed them a lot of money. He persuaded the pope to accuse them of witchcraft and demon worship. It was a power grab, simple enough, and it happened seven hundred years ago. The Freemasons have been about for less than three hundred. You
do the maths.’

‘So why does it keep coming up? Why the reference to Baphomet in the cave?’

‘Search me. It’s like a bad penny. Always there when you least need it. But I can tell you this much. That gobbledegook that went on down in that cave’s got fuck all to do with Freemasonry.’

‘An elaborate hoax then.’ McLean remembered the book he’d found in Stevenson’s flat. ‘Or maybe a trap.’

It was
Duguid’s turn to look surprised. ‘A trap?’

‘Do you know a chap called Douglas Ballantyne?’ McLean didn’t have to wait for the answer; Duguid’s face said it loud. ‘Stevenson had his book. It was inscribed “to Ben, a true believer”.’

‘Ballantyne’s a nutter. Grade A conspiracy theorist. Take anything he says with a bucketload of salt.’

‘Oh, I intend to. Don’t worry about that. But if Stevenson
really did believe him, what if he were looking into his claims? Maybe kidding himself he could bring a journalist’s open mind to them?’

‘Don’t tell me you think he might have found something and been killed for it. I already told you there’s not a shred of truth in that nonsense.’

‘No, I don’t think that. But someone may have used that to lure him in. You can’t tell me this murder wasn’t planned
meticulously, after all. The killer’s put a lot of effort into it. They had to have a reason even if it wasn’t anything to do with Freemasonry or this non-existent Brotherhood.’

Duguid said nothing for a moment, as the implications percolated through his brain. McLean could see their progress written on the detective superintendent’s face.

‘Who would want Stevenson dead?’ he asked eventually.

‘That’s the wrong question. Chasing down his enemies isn’t going to solve this case.’

‘How no?’ Duguid ran long fingers through straggly greying hair.

‘Because it’s too elaborate. Too contrived. No, it’s not who wanted him dead we should be asking, but why.’

The squad car had dropped him half a mile from home before executing a tyre-burning U-turn and disappearing at speed to an urgent call-out. McLean didn’t mind, really. It was late, but there was still plenty of light left in the day. That was the great
thing about the summer so far north. You paid for it in the winter, of course.

Walking up the street to his house, he noticed something odd about the silhouette of the church, and paused to work out what it was. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d noticed the arrival of piles of scaffolding, portable site huts and building machinery in the street. He’d made a donation to the roof restoration
fund a while back, and the minister had told him they were only waiting for the good weather before starting. Judging by the steel fingers reaching up into the evening sky, the good weather was here. It looked like a massive hand, clawing its way out of the ground in a bid to grab the church and drag it down to hell.

Shaking his head at the strange image, McLean was about to set off again when
a voice broke the rumbling silence.

‘Inspector. Tony. What a pleasant surprise.’

He turned to see the slender form of the minister emerge from the shadows in the graveyard, like some hapless spirit bound by the iron railings that stopped the dead
from escaping. She was wearing her usual black, just the white smile of her dog collar underlining her pale face and grey shoulder-length hair, so
that she was for a moment just a floating, disembodied head.

‘Minister, I—’

‘Mary, please.’ She emerged fully into the light, and McLean could see that she was wearing gardening gloves, a pair of secateurs in one hand. A clump of what looked like dead brambles hung limply from the other.

‘Doing a spot of weeding?’

‘It’s never-ending at this time of the year. So much nutrition in the soil.’

McLean glanced around the graveyard. None of the headstones looked to be less than a hundred years old. Not much in the way of nutrition left, surely. Then he noticed the smile crinkling the edges of the minister’s eyes.

‘I see they’ve started on the roof.’ He changed the subject before it turned to the recently interred.

‘They have indeed. I know you’re not a praying man, Tony, but if you felt
like asking for a nice dry fortnight or so …’

‘I could always ask my boss. He seems to think he’s got a direct line to the Almighty.’

‘Probably best you don’t.’ The minister rolled her eyes, looking upwards. ‘We don’t want to piss him off, after all.’

‘Good point.’ McLean shifted on his feet. It had been a long day and he was hungry, anxious to get home. On the other hand, he didn’t want to
appear rude.

‘I’ve been running a series of evening meetings. If you’re interested.’

He started to protest, but the minister interrupted him.
‘Oh, don’t worry. They’re not prayer meetings or anything. Just informal discussions over a cup of tea or a beer. They’re quite popular, you know. There’s a surprising number of single folk around here, too. Young professionals like yourself. Too busy
at work to make friends. Not enough hours in the day.’

It seemed an odd thing for the minister to say. McLean knew that he wasn’t the most sociable of people, but that suited him just fine. He had friends, could always go out for a drink or a meal if he wanted. True, they all tended to be fellow police officers or closely linked to his work, but that wasn’t so unhealthy really, was it? So much
easier to make conversation if you weren’t constantly having to second-guess whether the other person was going to be horrified by something you might say.

‘We also have poker evenings once a month. With a face like yours I’d love to play a few games. Might even raise enough to finish the whole roof.’

‘I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but it’s really not my thing. And card games leave me cold.’

‘Fair enough. But bear us in mind if you find yourself rattling around in that big old house. Can’t be easy all alone there. Especially after … well.’ The minister dropped her gaze to her hands, fiddling with the dead brambles. It was a good act, McLean had to admit. She’d have been great at interrogating suspects. On the other hand, it was hardly a year since the house had been full of life.
Bizarre, unpredictable life, but life all the same. Now it was just him and the cat. The cats, he corrected himself. He had to admit there were times when a little human company might have been nice.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing that he wouldn’t.

‘Speak to your colleague. Kirsty. She’ll tell you what we get up to. There’s no happy clappy stuff. Just a chance to chat. Or listen.’

‘Ritchie?’ McLean couldn’t help looking up at the scaffold-clad church. The sky was darkening now, orange sunset fading to the deep blue-black of night. ‘She’s been coming here?’

‘Oh yes. About two months now. Didn’t she tell you?’ The minister looked a little worried, as if she’d betrayed a confidence.

‘No. She’s only just come back to work. She was off sick. I’ll ask her about it though. Tomorrow.’

‘You do that, Tony. And mention me to her, won’t you?’ She nodded a quick goodbye, turned and walked back into the gloom.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost walked straight past his entrance gate. On the face of it, there was no logical reason why Ritchie would have gone to that particular church and that particular group; she lived halfway across the city. He was surprised to
find that she was religious-minded at all, if he was being honest with himself. It wasn’t something that had come up in conversation, and she wasn’t the sort of person to disappear on a Sunday morning when there was work to be done.

But there was the illogical thought that wouldn’t go away. She had been touched by evil in the form of the enigmatic Mrs Saifre, saved by a blessing from the font
of that church. That was a connection he really didn’t like to think about; the ramifications were too much.

‘What the—?’ Something twined itself around his feet as he crunched up the gravel driveway. He’d not left any lights on in the house, and under the trees it was as dark as night, branches whipping at his arms as he tried to stop himself from falling over. ‘Bloody cats!’

The offender skittered
off into the bushes, then stopped and turned to watch him. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dying light and he could just about make out enough of its shape to see that it wasn’t Mrs McCutcheon’s cat. She was smooth-coated and this was a great shaggy beast of a thing. One of Madame Rose’s perhaps, or the local pride that seemed to have decided he needed protection.

‘I can look after myself, you
know.’ McLean stalked off to the back door and let himself in. Through to the kitchen and he flicked on the lights. At least a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him from well-chosen positions about the room. It had been like this every evening since his visit from the old medium. In the main he didn’t really mind. They were all house-trained, as far as he could smell. Mostly they kept to the kitchen
and the garden, too, with only Mrs McCutcheon’s cat venturing into the rest of the house. How long that would last, he had no idea. Same as he had no idea how long the cats would be staying. He’d try and remember to ask Grumpy Bob to have a look into it. The old sergeant had friends at Leith nick who might do him a favour.

‘Don’t get up on my account,’ he said as he passed through the room. Mrs
McCutcheon’s cat was the only one to ignore his command, stretching from her favoured spot in the middle of the kitchen table before leaping down and following him out into the hall.

A small pile of uninteresting mail waited on the mat by the front door. Some bills, some junk, and a letter from his solicitors. He slid a finger under the seal, tore it open as he headed to the library. The typing
was dense, its content a bit too dry for his frazzled brain to take in. Something to do with the tenement block in Newington. An offer from the McClymonts that would probably be easier to understand with a dram of the Scottish Malt Whisky Society’s finest.

McLean dropped all the letters on the side table, then fetched his prize. He considered putting some music on, but found he wasn’t in the
mood. Looking over at his turntable and the meagre collection of LPs he’d managed to amass since the fire just reminded him of Ben Stevenson’s collection. What would happen to that?

Mrs McCutcheon’s cat leapt into his lap as soon as he sat down, nuzzled at his free hand until he scratched her behind the ears. She had taken the arrival of Madame Rose’s cats well, but seemed determined to remind
him at every opportunity that she was the first.

He took a long sip of whisky, feeling the burn on his tongue, then reached for the pile of letters. Sooner or later he was going to have to make a decision about the flat. Logic argued he should just take the money and run, but there were always more important things to do.

As he lifted the letters towards him, a slim card slipped out of the pile,
landing picture side up in his lap. The cat sniffed at it, then batted it with a paw before he managed to pick it up. The photograph showed a slightly out-of-focus image of the Taj Mahal, and when McLean turned
the card over he recognised the untidy scrawl of Emma’s handwriting.

Not many of us left now, but it’s getting harder to follow the trail. Heading east again soon. Missing you. E. XOX

McLean stared at the words, turned the card over and peered at the picture again, studied the smudged postmark as if it might give him some clues. He sniffed the card, and imagined he could catch the faintest hint of her scent even though he knew that was impossible. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat nudged at his hand once, then curled up in his lap and began to purr. He took another sip of the whisky, placed
the glass down on top of the letter from his lawyers, and just sat in the quiet, staring at the postcard.