Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (16 page)

I gave the child a week. If it hadn’t died by then I would have helped it along, but it only managed three days in the end. I’d have preferred five, if I’m being honest. That would have given me a little more time to prepare. But God’s will cannot be gainsaid,
and the child however flawed was one of His creations too. He has set me this task to perform. It is not for Him to make it easy.

People fall apart in surprisingly predictable ways. Jim, for all his years of medical training, had allowed himself to get too close, too emotionally attached to his patients. Losing them felt to him like failure, as if it were somehow his fault that the child had
got cancer in the first place. This child was particularly special to him. I’ve no idea why. Maybe he had a friend who suffered a similar fate; that might explain his interest in medicine. The whys are unimportant, only the hows matter.

I find him where I expect him to be, at the glass wall where we had our little chat just a few days ago. He looks unwell, like a man who’s not slept in days.
He stares through at the empty bed as if he thinks that staring might make it unhappen.

‘I’m so sorry. I just heard.’ Not true, of course, but timing is everything. He turns at my voice and I can see the red around his eyes and nose, the tears threatening to come
back at any moment. He wipes a sleeve against his face, sniffs hard. Says nothing.

‘I tried,’ I say. ‘We might have been able to do
something, if we’d had a little more time. There was a trial, but …’ I let the words tail off, leave the next step to him.

‘It always takes too long. Endless committees wringing their hands. If I could just bring them here. Show them this.’ He slams an angry palm against the glass, making it wobble. A passing nurse starts to scowl, then realises who it is, bobs her head and hurries away.

‘It
doesn’t have to.’ I pitch my voice low and quiet, but he still hears. I can see the change in his posture. This is what he’s been waiting for.

‘You don’t mean—’

‘Not here.’ I reach into my pocket, pull out the card I wrote earlier. An address, my assumed name. Nothing else. ‘This evening at eight. There’s some people I’d like you to meet. Some things you might like to see.’

I hold his gaze
as he takes the card from me, slips it into his pocket. He nods once, just the slightest tip of the head, but it’s enough. If he takes this step, he will be free. His redemption will be complete. Now only time can tell.

If his house was anything to go by, then making stuff up for a living was very lucrative. At least if you were as convincingly creative as Douglas Ballantyne. McLean had tried wading through the book that he’d taken from Ben Stevenson’s flat, the mad ideas
wrapped up in a plausible presentation of carefully selected facts. Like so many others, Ballantyne was obsessed with the Masons, the Knights Templar and all the associated nonsense that clung to them like body odour to a teenage boy. It was a rich market of paranoia to feed.

Nestling in a quiet glen about a half-hour’s drive south of the city, Ballantyne House was surrounded by acres of parkland.
Scraggy-looking sheep sheltered under ancient trees, doing their best to escape the withering summer sun. A small herd of deer peered nervously at the car as McLean navigated a narrow driveway that took him and DS Ritchie away from an already minor road and brought them finally to the house itself.

‘Remind me to get started on that misery memoir when we get back to the city, sir.’ Ritchie’s gaze
didn’t shift from the building as she climbed out of the car and closed the door behind her. Even McLean had to admit it was impressive, as Scots Baronial piles went. Three storeys of red sandstone and harling radiating in the afternoon heat. It was almost picture perfect, although he reckoned it would be a bugger to keep warm in the winter.

‘Any sign of our man? He knows we’re coming.’ McLean
looked around, half-expecting to see a stout, bearded fellow with a couple of spaniels cavorting at his heels, striding across the fields to greet them. Instead, a low, menacing growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

‘Oh bloody marvellous.’ Ritchie reached very slowly for her car door, clicked it open again. ‘I really don’t like dogs.’

‘You and Grumpy Bob both.’ McLean tried to pinpoint
the source of the growling, finally locating it as two Rhodesian Ridgebacks appeared from around the corner of the house. They didn’t bark, didn’t run snarling and slavering towards him. That was perhaps even more scary, in some ways; that someone had control over them even though they were clearly desperate to kill.

‘Aubrey! Campion! Sit!’ The voice was oddly high-pitched, and McLean thought
for a moment that it must be a woman’s. Whoever it was, the dogs obeyed with machine-like precision, settling on to their haunches in a manner that said quite clearly they were still ready for the chase. Bred for hunting lions in the African veldt, McLean recalled reading somewhere. He was no huge fan of dogs, having grown up in a house with few pets, and those mostly feline.

‘Don’t mind my boys.
They won’t bite unless I tell them to.’ Again that high-pitched voice, but at about the same time as he saw who was speaking, McLean heard the masculine undertones in it. And sure enough, the man himself appeared, patting one of the two dogs on the head as he walked past them.

Douglas Ballantyne was a bit older than when he’d been photographed for his book, but it was undeniably the same man.
His beard exploded from his chin and neck in a
ruddy-grey mass that must surely be home to small nesting birds. He was dressed in loose-fitting jogging bottoms, with a dark velvet smoking jacket over a faded rock band tour T-shirt, making for a rather incongruous ensemble. The heavy-framed spectacles and ornate-topped walking cane didn’t exactly help the image.

‘What a lovely creature.’ Ballantyne
stared past McLean, then did a double-take as he noticed DS Ritchie. ‘The car, I mean.’

‘Of course you do. Mr Ballantyne, I presume.’ McLean held out his hand, receiving an odd look from the writer.

‘Yes, yes. And you’re the policeman. McLean. Heard a lot about you.’

‘You have? All good, I hope.’

‘At least not bad.’ Ballantyne relented and took McLean’s hand, tried one of the Masonic holds.
A test McLean must have passed by not acknowledging. ‘Come on in. I’ll make us some tea.’

The interior of the house was pleasantly cool after the fierce heat outside. Ballantyne had led them around the back; McLean suspected that the front entrance was probably locked and had been for years. A couple of small rooms opened on to a kitchen best described as lived in. There was no sign of a Mrs
Ballantyne, and McLean doubted one existed. Nor was there any sign of staff. No PA, no cleaner, just the man himself and his two dogs. They’d calmed down once they realised neither he nor Ritchie was a threat, and slunk off to scruffy-looking beds in the far corner of the room as soon as they entered.

‘Tea?’ Ballantyne grabbed a heavy iron kettle, shook it
to see if it contained water, then clanged
it down on the hotplate of the huge range cooker. He stared at it for about ten seconds, then took it off again. ‘Idiot. I always forget it gets put out in the summer.’

He started again, this time with an electric kettle, then busied himself finding mugs and teabags. The kitchen was cluttered, busy, the large table strewn with papers, a laptop and piles of books, but it was by and large clean.
Not unlike his own kitchen, McLean couldn’t help noticing. Only bigger.

‘You wanted to talk to me about Ben Stevenson, I understand. That’s what the constable on the phone said, anyway.’ Ballantyne spoke over his shoulder as he went from cupboard to cupboard, hopefully in search of biscuits.

‘Detective Constable MacBride. Did he tell you why?’

Ballantyne gave up his search. ‘Sit, Inspector,
Sergeant. Please. Don’t mind the mess.’ He made a half-hearted attempt at clearing the table, mainly piling everything into a big heap in the middle, the laptop balanced precariously on top. ‘He said something about him dying.’

‘He was murdered, Mr Ballantyne. In the caves at Gilmerton Cove. You know the place?’

‘Know it? I wrote a book about it. Fascinating place. All that talk about the Covenanters,
Masons and God knows who else linked to it. All wrong, of course.’

‘Oh? Who do you think built it, then?’ DS Ritchie asked.

‘Something far older than all of them.’ Ballantyne was about to say more, but the kettle clicked off its noisy boil, distracting him while he poured water into mugs.

‘Was that what Stevenson was looking into?’ McLean asked once tea had been handed out and biscuits found.

‘Ben?’ Ballantyne laughed. ‘No, Ben was still a novice. He was obsessed with the link between the Knights Templar and the modern Masonic movement. Textbook conspiracy theory stuff.’

McLean tried to remember the contents of the book he’d skim-read. It had seemed pretty much textbook conspiracy theory to him, but then maybe he, too, was a novice. ‘So you don’t think there’s a link, then?’

‘Oh,
of course there’s a link. It’s as plain as the day when you know what you’re looking for.’ Ballantyne took a slurp of tea, leaning forwards over the kitchen table in his enthusiasm for the tale. ‘But it’s not what all the books say. Not what you’ll find if you look it up on Wikipedia.’

‘Let me guess. The Brotherhood?’

Ballantyne’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘So you have read my book. I’m
impressed.’

‘I read Stevenson’s copy. The one you wrote the dedication in. It was well thumbed.’

‘Was it? Was it indeed?’ Ballantyne looked genuinely surprised. ‘And I thought he just bought it to humour me.’

‘I think he was rather more interested in your theories than you realise, Mr Ballantyne.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. And I think he got too close to something. Maybe a true secret, or maybe someone
who didn’t want the world to know there was no secret.’

‘And they killed him for it? I see where you’re going, Inspector, but I very much doubt Ben would have uncovered anything worth killing for.’ Ballantyne paused for a moment, as if a thought had interrupted his flow. ‘You say he was killed in Gilmerton Cove? And you found his body,
obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be here talking to me about
it. Tell me, was there a ritualistic nature to his murder?’

‘I’m not really at liberty to discuss that kind of detail,’ McLean said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, it occurs to me that if poor old Ben really had uncovered something worth killing for, then you’d never have found him. You’d probably never have realised he’d gone missing in the first place.’

‘Why do you say that?’ McLean had a sinking
feeling that he already knew the answer.

‘The Brotherhood control the media, Inspector. Every aspect of it. The news, the television, films, books. Yes, even my efforts.’ Ballantyne waved an arm in the direction of the precarious pile of papers. ‘It may look like we’re revealing long-hidden secrets, but it only happens because they let it. Much as it galls me to admit it, I am just an instrument
in their greater plan.’

‘And that is?’

‘Oh, I’ve no idea. Well, that’s not strictly true. I’ve an idea, but it’s not something I’d dream of divulging. Not yet at least. Maybe there’ll be a time I can write that book. If it serves the purpose of the Brotherhood to have it revealed.’

‘So what if Stevenson had this same idea but wasn’t prepared to wait?’

‘That’s the nub of it, Inspector. If he’d
done that, then they’d have sent the Adrogenae after him. And if they had done, then he simply would never have existed.’

‘The expression you’re looking for is “stone bonker”, I think.’

The road back to Edinburgh was relatively clear, just the occasional caravan to overtake with a satisfying surge of acceleration. It occurred to McLean after a couple of high-rev manoeuvres
that Mr Roberts had told him to take it easy for the first few hundred miles. He backed off as they approached an articulated lorry, slowing to match its pace through the bends around Silverburn and Habbies Howe.

‘Nut job does it for me. I was almost with him up until the point where he mentioned those weird supernatural assassins. What did he call them, Androgen-something?’

‘The Adrogenae.
Yes. I’d forgotten. He mentions them in the book. Apparently they’re one of the reasons no one’s ever heard about the Brotherhood until now.’

‘I didn’t really understand what it was they did, though. Do they go back in time and kill your grandfather or something?’

‘Search me. I don’t think making sense is high on Douglas Ballantyne’s list of priorities.’

‘So we wasted an afternoon then.’

‘A bit, maybe.’ McLean dragged his eyes away from the road briefly, looked across at the detective sergeant. Ritchie stared out of the window at the grubby back of the truck. Someone had written ‘Danny takes it up the arse’ in the
grime, and then rather incongruously drawn a large pair of breasts. It didn’t say much for the cleanliness of the logistics wing of a major supermarket chain.

‘I’m not
seeing any positive side to the whole thing. Apart from getting a ride in your car.’

‘Well, the way I see it, Ballantyne’s so full of shit you could plant flowers in him. But I’ve read his book. He has a way with words. His arguments are plausible because he’s selective with the facts. It’s an old trick, true, but he does it very well.’

‘Every age has its snake-oil salesmen, I guess.’

‘And
willing idiots to buy it, too. Like Ben Stevenson.’

‘You think he fell for that?’ Ritchie hooked a thumb back over her shoulder in a vague approximation of the direction of Douglas Ballantyne’s country estate.

‘Hook, line and sinker. He was obsessed. You saw his secret room, the connections he was making.’

‘But he was a journalist. Surely he’d have some kind of bullshit filter.’

‘Recently
divorced, missing his kids, not had a big story in almost five years?’

Ritchie didn’t answer immediately, thinking things over. The road straightened out and McLean took the opportunity to overtake the lorry. For a gut-clenching moment he thought he’d overcooked it, the next corner arriving much more quickly than he’d anticipated. A dab of the brakes pushed him hard against the seatbelt, Ritchie’s
hand going out to the dashboard to steady herself. Mr Roberts had worked his magic on the braking system too, it seemed.

‘You think that’s enough to lose your mind?’

‘I’ve seen people lose theirs over less.’

‘Still doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who killed him, though.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. It does tell us that he was very suggestible.’

‘You think someone led him on? He wasn’t on
to anything at all?’ Ritchie asked.

‘I don’t know.’ McLean paused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to put into words the slippery thoughts he had about the case, the way it was beginning to feel to him. He needed a good long walk, really. That usually helped.

‘It just doesn’t stack up as some secret society trying to silence him before he could spill the beans. Ballantyne
might be a loony, but he’s right about one thing. If that were the case, if his Brotherhood or whatever he calls it really existed, really was all-powerful and really didn’t want the cat let out of the bag, then Ben Stevenson would have just disappeared. Or he’d have committed suicide, had a tragic fatal accident. Anything but being slain in some mock-Masonic ritual and his blood smeared all over
the walls of a cave where he was always going to be found.’

‘So you think chasing the story he was working on is a waste of time?’

‘Not quite. It was his obsession, and it was probably what led him to that cave. But I think we’re asking the wrong questions.’

‘So what are the right ones?’

‘I wish I knew, Kirsty. I wish I knew.’

Traffic built up as they approached the city, as if cars were
flies and Edinburgh a particularly ripe piece of rotting
meat. McLean glanced at the clock on the dash, surprised at how late it was. Summer in the north meant long hours of daylight and with them the tendency to work well past the end of the shift. Not that he had shifts, but Ritchie did and technically she’d already put in an hour and a half’s overtime.

‘Think we need to have a recap at tomorrow’s
morning briefing. Get a better feel for where we are with this case. I’ll have to speak to Dalgliesh, too. See if she’s got any further on Stevenson’s story.’

‘Can’t be easy, working with her.’ Ritchie stared out the windscreen, one hand toying absentmindedly with her pendant, the little silver cross that she’d taken to wearing lately.

‘Possibly the understatement of the year.’ McLean slowed
the car as they approached the junction with the bypass.

‘She’s not a bad journalist, when she puts her mind to it.’ Ritchie looked away from McLean as she spoke, so he couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not. He hoped she was.

‘You heading back to the station?’ she asked as he took the Burdiehouse turning.

‘That was the plan. You can have the rest of the evening off, even after that last
comment. I thought I’d head home, see how much damage the cats have done whilst I was away.’

‘Cats? Plural? Thought you only had the one. She’s not had kittens, has she?’

The thought of Mrs McCutcheon’s cat giving birth to anything was so strange, McLean almost drove into the
back of a car that had braked to turn into a side street. ‘Christ, no. I’m looking after Madame Rose’s cats for a while.’

‘Oh, that’s right. Grumpy Bob told me. Sounds horrible what’s happening to her. Any idea who’s behind it?’

‘Haven’t had time to look into it, to be honest.’ McLean realised it was a while since he’d heard from the medium. Yet another thing to add to the to-do list.

‘Well, if you’re just going home you can drop me off at your church. I’ve got my bag, don’t need to go back to the station.’

‘The
church? OK. I take it tonight’s another one of Mary Currie’s Bible classes.’

‘Bible class?’ Ritchie laughed. ‘Hadn’t really thought of it that way. No, we don’t all sit around discussing the Gospels. It’s more about tea and sympathy.’

‘Still not selling it to me. Always been more of a beer and curry man.’

‘Yeah, well sometimes there’s beer. If Eric’s remembered to bring any. He works in an
off-licence in Morningside, gets all the bottles that are past their use-by dates. Sometimes he brings wine for us to taste. It’s been very educational, even if Norman doesn’t approve. Mind you, Norman doesn’t approve of much. He’d be more for studying the Bible and maybe sharing a cup of water and a dry biscuit.’

McLean couldn’t help but notice the change in Ritchie as she spoke. Her hands came
up out of her lap as if they had a life of their own; her voice was more animated than he’d heard it in ages. Much more like the enthusiastic detective sergeant who’d transferred down from Aberdeen.

‘Why’d you go in the first place?’ he asked after a while. ‘Never had you pegged as the religious type.’

‘Didn’t really think I was. Oh, I went to Sunday School when I was a kid, used to love singing
hymns, carols at Christmas, all that stuff. But I grew out of it. Thought I’d grown out of it, anyway. I mean, it’s hard to have faith when your mum goes senile. She was a genuinely good person, kind. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, worked in a charity shop when she wasn’t out earning enough to keep a roof over our heads. I kind of saw through the whole God thing then.’

‘So what changed?’ McLean asked the
question even though he knew the answer. They’d had this conversation before.

‘I nearly died is what.’ Ritchie’s hands dropped back down into her lap. McLean was concentrating on the road ahead, but he could see in the corner of his eye that she had turned to face him. ‘And whatever the doctors say about that, all their talk of Spanish Flu and blood poisoning, none of them had a clue what was
wrong with me.’

‘And you do.’ McLean knew he was pushing where he shouldn’t, somehow couldn’t stop himself.

‘Too bloody right. You do too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come and visited me that night.’

‘Which particular night? I visited as often as I could.’

‘I had nightmares, you know? More like hallucinations, maybe. Visions of hell. People burning, screaming in agony. Their faces melting
away. And sitting in the middle of it all, smiling, was that bloody woman.’

McLean realised he’d slowed down almost to a crawl, checked in the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t causing an obstruction. They weren’t far from his house
and the church now, but he didn’t want the journey to end until Ritchie had finished talking.

‘Mrs Saifre?’

‘Like you need to ask. And you know as well as
me that’s not her real name. Its real name.’

‘I …’

‘It’s all right, sir. I know you see the world differently. Rational explanations and all that. Not going to ask you to name it, or anything. But you knew. You helped. Mary knows what you did, won’t tell me, but I’m a detective so I’ll find out sooner or later. Or maybe I won’t. Doesn’t really matter. All I know is I was ready to die and I was
going to that place. She had me, plain and simple. Then you turned up in the dead of night, and the nightmare went away.’

They had reached the church now, for all McLean’s attempts to drag the journey out just a little longer. He pulled in to the kerb, left the engine running.

‘You had a high fever, Kirsty. Things can seem very strange when—’

‘Don’t.’ Ritchie stopped him by reaching out and
placing a single finger over his lips. He couldn’t recall her having touched him before, apart from a handshake when they’d first met maybe. It was a strangely intimate gesture, for all that it was fleeting. Before he could protest, or say anything more, she had unclipped her seatbelt and stepped out of the car. She grabbed her bag from the footwell and slammed the door shut with just the necessary
amount of force. McLean watched her as she crossed the pavement and half-jogged down the wide stone path, through the graveyard and into the open door of the church.