Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (28 page)

Traffic was light on the drive back home, which was just as well as McLean’s mind wasn’t really on what he was doing. The conversation with DCS Chambers had gone better than he might have expected, but it had also made yet more work for him and his overstretched
team. He drove slowly past the church, still shrouded in scaffolding, the rectory alongside with light shining from the front porch. Pulling over a hundred yards from his own drive, he took out his phone, jabbed at the screen until he found the number.

‘… Can’t answer the phone right now …’ DS Ritchie’s voice sounded strangely unconvincing on the tinny line, but he really needed to talk to someone.
He tried Grumpy Bob’s number, let it ring and ring. He was about to hang up when it was finally answered, the noise of a busy pub easily identifiable in the background.

‘Evening sir. Anything I can do to help?’

Grumpy Bob wasn’t a heavy drinker, not by old-school police standards, but there was a point in any pub evening beyond which he’d be unable to pull it back and be an effective member
of the team. Judging by the slur in his voice, that point had long since been passed.

‘Going to be a busy one tomorrow, Bob. Early start if you can be in.’

‘Right you are, sir.’ There was a noise much like a man rapidly downing a pint of beer, followed by a muffled
belch. ‘I’ll head home and get some kip then. Was getting a bit bored of the company in here anyway if I’m being honest. What’s
up? Anything interesting?’

‘McClymonts senior and junior. Seems they were up to no good after all. Briefing at seven sharp. I’ll fill everyone in then.’

McLean hung up before Grumpy Bob could complain. He hovered his hand over MacBride’s number, then sent a text instead. Stared at the screen in surprise when there was no instant reply.

A change in the light dragged his attention around to the
rectory. The front door had opened and someone was stepping out. Another person, then another, they clustered around the doorway in that manner people have. Suddenly remembering all the things they want to say now that it’s time to go. Before he’d really considered the implications, he’d snatched the keys out of the ignition, climbed out of the car and headed across the road. When he got to the
gate and the short path leading up to the door, the conversation was still in full flow.

‘You got a minute, Kirsty?’

DS Ritchie looked around as she heard her name. Finally saw him at the gate.

‘Sir? I thought you’d gone home.’

‘Almost. Just had to check something out first.’

Everyone was looking at him now, so he had no choice but to open the gate and approach them. Mary Currie, the minister,
stood in the doorway, flanked by a young man also wearing the black shirt and dog collar that suggested he too was a minister, or maybe a curate. Either that or he’d come to a fancy dress party woefully ill prepared.

‘You went back to your old flat, didn’t you?’ Ritchie met him a few steps up the path. ‘Find anything interesting?’

‘If you need a lift home, I can fill you in on the way.’

Ritchie
looked back to the group, standing just a few paces away. ‘Actually, Daniel already offered to drive me.’

McLean followed Ritchie’s gaze back to the front door as the young minister stepped forward into the light.

‘Tony. Good to see you again.’ He held out a hand to be shaken. McLean took the proffered hand, expecting a limp wrist. He was surprised by a firm, dry shake.

‘You’ll know Mary.’
Daniel assumed the task of making introductions as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He gestured with an open hand towards a couple who had been standing to one side looking awkward. ‘This is Eric and Wanda.’

‘Are we all going to stand around on my front doorstep all night?’ Mary Currie cut in to the conversation. ‘Only it’s getting a bit chill and I wouldn’t want to have to put
the heating on.’

‘Sorry, Mary. I’ll just run Kirsty home. Won’t be long.’

‘You stay out as long as you want, Daniel. I’m not your mother.’

Even in the poor light, McLean saw the embarrassment blush the young curate’s face. He pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket to cover it, turned to the couple. ‘You two want a lift too?’

‘Gotta go, sir. Unless it’s really important?’ The question in
Ritchie’s voice was unmistakeable, as was the hope his answer would be no. Seeing all these people with their life outside of work did put things in perspective.

‘No, you go home. But we’ve an early start tomorrow. Briefing at seven, OK?’

Ritchie nodded her agreement and she, Daniel, Eric and Wanda headed off into the night.

‘Should I be worried about those two?’ McLean turned as he asked the
question, the light spilling from the hallway giving the minister a pale yellow halo.

‘Young love will ever run its course.’ Mary Currie smiled at him like an indulgent parent. ‘You want a cup of tea? The kettle’s not long on.’

McLean had never been inside the rectory before, and was surprised to find it not unlike any other home. It smelled old, much like his grandmother’s house, but it was
warm and bright and welcoming. There were occasional reminders that this was a place where someone religious lived – a discreet cross hanging by the coat rack in the front hall, a couple of pictures that might have looked more fitting in a seminary – but by and large it was just homely.

He followed the minister through to the back of the house and a large kitchen. Judging by the mismatch of chairs
arranged around an old table, this was where the evening’s Bible class had taken place. Except it wasn’t really a Bible class, he could see that now. Just a bunch of people looking for answers. Or maybe some company.

‘Roof should be finished by the end of the month. Then we can get shot of that scaffolding. Start holding services again.’

‘I didn’t realise it was that bad.’

‘Oh it is. There’s
probably more steel inside than out. Still, thanks to your generosity it’ll all be done soon.’

McLean wasn’t sure why he felt uncomfortable about that. He’d given them money because he liked the building, not what it represented. ‘DS Rit … Kirsty’s doing very well these days,’ he said by way of a change of subject. ‘Not sure what you get up to in your sessions, but it seems to be working for
her.’

‘I think that probably has more to do with Daniel than me.’

‘Daniel. Of course.’ McLean accepted a mug of tea, noticing it had milk in it already.

‘Oh to be young and in love. It’s sweet, really.’

‘He’s all right, I take it?’

‘Is that paternal concern I hear in your voice, Inspector?’ Mary Currie gave him a wicked grin. ‘Just teasing. And yes, since you ask, Daniel’s all right. Earnest,
but then I was too when I was his age. He’s not long finished his training, looking for a parish to go and do good things in. The bishop already offered him a rural one, but he says he wants to work in the city.’

‘Very earnest, then. I look forward to meeting him when he’s in less of a rush sometime.’

‘Do I detect the sign of a challenge being laid down?’

‘I don’t share your faith.’ McLean
shook his head. ‘If I’m being honest it’s the whole notion of faith I have a problem with. Doesn’t really square with being a detective. I gave up accepting things at face value a long time ago.’

‘So like your grandmother.’ There was that wry smile again, as if the minister could see right through his facade. It wouldn’t have surprised him.

‘How’s your house guest settling in?’ she asked. The
change of subject took him by surprise.

‘Rose? Fine, I guess. Don’t see much of her except in passing.’

‘That’s a very generous thing you did, letting her stay.’

‘Not as if I haven’t got the space. And she helped me when Emma was at her worst. I owe her that much. She’s a good cook, too. If she stays much longer I might start getting fat.’ McLean patted at his stomach. ‘There’ll be something
wholesome and hearty waiting for me when I get in, I’ve no doubt. Told her she doesn’t need to, but I can’t exactly stop her.’

‘And it beats a takeaway curry, I expect.’

McLean nodded his agreement, envying Grumpy Bob his pint or two down the pub. ‘I should probably be getting home anyway. Early start tomorrow.’ He stood up, the un-drunk mug of tea still sitting on the table in front of him.

‘Yes, I heard you tell Kirsty. Dawn raid, is it?’ The minister stood as well, accepting that their all-too-brief conversation was over.

‘Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. Just a long day of stuff I can’t really talk about.’

‘Police secrets. Kirsty’s just the same. You’re very lucky to have her.’

‘Trust me. I know. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.’

‘I’m sure you do, Tony. But don’t forget
to tell her from time to time. It’s nice to have your efforts recognised.’

McLean smiled, nodded, unsure he could really say anything to that. It was true, and he was as guilty as the next man of taking his team for granted. Compliments from
higher up the greasy pole were so rare these days, he’d all but forgotten how much good a little well-earned praise could do.

The first thing he noticed
when he opened the back door was the absence of cats. It wasn’t even as if not seeing any immediately in front of him on entering was all that strange, and yet somehow as he walked through the short passageway from the door to the kitchen, McLean knew that they weren’t there. Or rather, just one was there.

Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up at him from a spot in front of the Aga she hadn’t been able
to occupy for a few weeks now. McLean scanned the rest of the room, but Madame Rose’s familiars were nowhere to be seen. Neither was the medium herself. The smell in the kitchen suggested she had left something edible behind, however. A quick look in the plate-warming oven revealed enough cassoulet to feed an army, and a half-dozen baked potatoes. Not exactly classic fare for a warm August night,
but very welcome all the same.

‘Surprised you didn’t go with them,’ McLean said to Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, as he searched around for oven gloves. Only when he dumped the casserole dish on the kitchen table did he notice the post piled up against the pepper grinder in the middle. A couple of letters bore the ominous mark of his solicitors; someone was still trying to persuade his grandmother to
take out a credit card at an eye-wateringly usurious rate of interest even though she’d been dead two years and more; and the electricity bill needed paying soon, judging by the red-printed ‘final
reminder’ on the envelope. There were two others in the stack: a plain white letter with no stamp or postmark, just the word ‘Tony’ in neat block capitals; and a postcard, its edges battered and corners
folded. The image on the front was of a Japanese temple and the handwriting on the back brought a gentle leap to his heart even before he read the words.

Not many with us now, and those last few are often reluctant to go. It’s getting easier though. Spent some months in a monastery here. You should visit it some day. Can’t get much further away, so I must start coming home soon.

It was signed
with that familiar looping E, so stylised it could almost be a K. McLean propped it up against the other, unopened mail and set about spooning some food on to a plate. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up as the smell of sausage casserole filled the room, but she didn’t leap on to the table to help herself. No doubt confident there would be plenty going spare later.

The fridge yielded a cold beer and
as he poured it, McLean felt a little twinge of guilt at the mug of tea he’d left behind in the rectory. He pushed it aside, instead savouring the bitter flavour of the ale. Butter melting in his baked potato, a couple of mouthfuls of delicious stew, and then he reached for the plain white envelope.

Inside, a single sheet of paper was almost covered in dense, neatly written script. It didn’t
surprise him to find that Madame Rose was a fountain pen and ink person, or possibly even a freshly cut quill and ink one.

My Dear Tony,
it began.

It is with a sense of deep shame that I feel I must confess to having abused your most generous hospitality. It is true that I turned to you when I felt there was no one else to whom I could turn, and it is true that I was recently attacked in a
most grievous and personal manner. The danger to myself was, however, never quite so severe as I might have intimated, certainly not physically. My familiars were threatened, this is true. One poor soul was lost, as you know. My gratitude to you for giving the others safe haven knows no bounds.

But I myself was never in great danger. The fire was of course an inconvenience, a difficulty that
took a little time to overcome. And that is all I really needed, time to bring my own resources to bear on the problem. It has been many years since I have been challenged in the manner I have recently been challenged – I will not name it directly as I know you yet have difficulty admitting to the existence of such things; our conversation the other night reminded me of that. Suffice to say I am not
without my own resources and these have now been brought to bear. I am confident both that the threat has been neutralised, and that your generosity has been rewarded in the process.

The physical face of my troubles was a development company, run by a father and son with whom I believe you are acquainted. You will know too the fate that has befallen them. In the grand scheme of things, they were
but petty criminals dabbling in affairs far greater than they could possibly have comprehended. The unravelling of their little empire will reflect well on you should you so desire, though knowing the boy your grandmother raised, I suspect you will pass any glory on to those around you.

There is one more player in this sorry tale, the one who
engineered this situation in a bid to oust me from
my position in this great and ancient city. I have taken steps to neutralise this usurper and life will soon return to normal.

I thank you for my time under your roof and your protection. You do not know it, but you have powerful friends. Should you ever require my assistance, you need only ask and it will be freely given.

Yours in gratitude,

Rose