Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (3 page)

‘Hurry up, Constable. I haven’t got all day.’

McLean held open the back door to the station, waiting for Detective Constable MacBride to come in. Heavy rain spattered off the tarmac of the car park, bouncing up as high as the constable’s knees as he ran
from the squad car he’d just vacated. It didn’t matter; by the time he reached the door, he was just as soaked as if he’d walked. Or maybe fallen into a swimming pool.

‘Bloody hell. Where’d that come from?’ MacBride shook himself like a dog as McLean let the door swing closed. Water sprayed liberally around the entranceway, soaking the already slippery floor tiles, the grubby walls and the detective
inspector.

‘Cheers. That’s just what I needed.’ McLean slapped his damp folder against his legs, trying to wipe the worst of the rain off it. He’d missed the downpour by seconds, counting himself lucky that seniority meant MacBride had been driving and had to lock up.

‘Sorry, sir.’ MacBride dipped his head like a serf before a nobleman, then ran a damp hand through wetter hair. It was long,
McLean couldn’t help noticing. Perhaps a bit too long for regulations, though he wasn’t about to say anything. Things were a bit more lax in plain clothes anyway, and there was that other matter …

‘They still giving you grief about your scar?’

MacBride’s hand stopped mid-run, a familiar red tinge blushing his cheeks. McLean could see the mark quite clearly, despite the long fringe of thin ginger
hair. If anything the attempt to hide it just brought it more to everyone’s attention.

‘You know what policemen are like. Bunch of wankers the lot of them.’ MacBride patted down his fringe, not quite managing to hide the livid red scar on his forehead. The result of a near miss from a piece of glass blown out of the window of an exploding mental hospital, it formed a perfect lightning-flash mark.
Even more so now the tiny dots where the stitches had been had faded.

‘Still calling you Constable Potter, I take it?’

‘And worse. Like bloody children.’

McLean tried not to laugh. DC MacBride looked like he wasn’t long out of school himself.

‘They put a cloak in my locker. Must’ve nicked it from some university professor or something.’

‘Could be worse. Knowing this lot they’d probably have
hidden a black cat in there if they could find one.’

MacBride looked at him like he was mad. ‘A black cat?’

‘ You know. Witchcraft, covens, that sort of thing.’

‘ You’ve not actually read the Harry Potter books, have you, sir?’

McLean shook his head. ‘I think I caught some of the film on the telly a while back. Might have fallen asleep before it finished.’

‘There were eight films, sir. Not
sure even you could’ve slept through all of them.’

‘Is that so?’ He tapped the folder against his leg again. ‘Well, at least they’ve got something harmless to focus on.
Pete Robertson gets called all manner of nasty things and he broke his back, poor bugger.’

McLean didn’t add that both accidents had taken place on his watch. He knew all too well what the junior detectives and uniforms called
him behind his back. Couldn’t really say he didn’t deserve it half of the time.

‘Aye, well. If they put half as much effort into the job as they do taking the piss …’

This time McLean did laugh. ‘You’ve been hanging out with Grumpy Bob too long. Beginning to sound just like him.’

‘Did I hear my name being taken in vain?’

Both McLean and MacBride turned to see Detective Sergeant Laird approaching
from the direction of the station canteen. He had his paper under one arm, a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand and looked like a man in search of an empty incident room in which to snooze.

‘All the time, Bob.’ McLean held out the folder for the sergeant to take. ‘Here. Make a start on collating this lot, will you? I’ve got to go see Dagwood.’

Grumpy Bob looked nonplussed for a moment,
then managed to shift his coffee into the other hand and take the folder. ‘Done something wrong, have you?’

‘Christ, I hope not. Mind you, with Dagwood you never know.’

‘Hear you caught those pickpockets working the Old Town.’

McLean stood in the familiar position, the wrong side of Detective Superintendent Duguid’s desk, in the large office on the third floor that had once belonged to Jayne
McIntyre. That Dagwood hadn’t torn him off a strip as
soon as he’d entered put him on edge. It was unusual to be called before the boss for anything other than a dressing down. Mostly he was ignored if he did things well, abused only when he cocked up.

‘I’d hardly take credit for it myself, sir. DC MacBride coordinated the operation along with DS Laird. And if anyone deserves praise it’s DC Gregg.
If she ever gets tired of working here, she’ll make a fine actress.’

Duguid stared up at him as if the names only vaguely meant anything at all. It hadn’t been that momentous an operation as these things went. Gangs of thieves appeared every year as the city swelled with tourists come to see the Festival and the Fringe. This lot hadn’t even been all that well organised; stupid enough to all be
staying in the same squat, interested only in the cash and smartphones they nabbed. A tiny tracker beacon in the detective constable’s bag had led a team of uniforms right to their door. McLean’s total involvement had been approval of the plan and allocation of the budget.

‘You’ll not get far with that attitude, you know.’ Duguid slumped back into his chair, its springs squeaking in protest.

‘Far how, sir? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve not really been pursuing promotion. I’m happy where I am.’

That brought a ghost of a smile to Duguid’s thin lips. ‘Happy?’

‘Poor choice of words, perhaps. Put it this way. I don’t fancy a chief inspector’s post, let alone anything higher. Don’t suppose I’d get very far even if I did.’

‘Aye, well. At least you know your mind.’ Duguid fell silent
for a moment. McLean was about to ask him what he wanted when he finally spoke again.

‘You know I’m retiring. End of the year.’ Neither sentence was voiced as a question.

‘Yes, sir. You told me back in the winter. At the hospital. When—’

‘When those buggers stole my car. Still not found them now, have you?’

It was true. Far more man-hours had been sunk into that investigation than it could
possibly justify, and yet no single clue had emerged. It was as if whoever had boxed the detective superintendent in, hauled him out of his beloved Range Rover, given him a swift, sharp kicking and then stolen the car had never existed. Given the other events that had happened that fateful night, DC MacBride’s wizard scar the least of them, McLean couldn’t help thinking that might well be the case.

‘I’m sorry. We tried. Chances are it’s in the Middle East now, or Africa. China maybe. Sad to say, but high-end motors get nicked the whole time. Hardly anyone smashes windows to steal a purse or rip out a stereo for the drug money any more, but you park something worth a hundred grand in the street …’

‘Do I need to remind you it wasn’t parked?’ Duguid’s voice dropped an octave.

‘No sir. You
don’t. But we did what we could, and I’ve passed what little we found on to the NCA. Something like this is nationwide, not local. We have to let them deal with it.’

Duguid did something that might have been the bastard child of a shrug and a nod, and let out a noncommittal grunt at the same time.

‘Was that all you wanted to see me about, sir? Only—’
A knock at the open door interrupted McLean,
and he turned to see DC MacBride.

‘Constable?’ Duguid asked.

‘Erm, sorry to disturb you sir. Only I thought you’d want to know. There’s been a body found. Out at Gilmerton. Suspicious circumstances.’

As if on cue, McLean’s phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket to see a text from the control centre at Bilston Glen.

‘Looks like they want my unique expertise on the matter, whatever that
is.’ He held the phone up, angling the screen so Duguid could see it. The detective superintendent shook his head as if he didn’t want to know. Or didn’t care.

‘Go on then. Get out there and see what all the fuss is about.’

McLean said nothing, just turned and headed for the door. He expected Duguid to say something right at the last minute, just to make him stop, but for once he was quiet.
As DC MacBride fell in alongside him and they both walked down the corridor in silence, he couldn’t help wondering what Duguid had really wanted to tell him. Not about the stolen Range Rover for sure, which meant it had probably been about his retirement, his replacement. Well, there’d been speculation enough, and it wasn’t as if he had a say in the matter. Whoever it was, McLean would have to work
with them as best he could. It was either that, or a job at Vice.

With its commanding position on the hills to the south of the city, overlooking the Castle Rock, Arthur’s Seat and the Firth of Forth, Gilmerton ought to have been a fine place to live. No doubt in the past, when the big estates at Burdiehouse and the Drum
had been built, the rolling countryside would have lent itself to long walks and summer picnics, at least for the gentry. Now it was a busy intersection on the Old Dalkeith Road, funnelling commuters into the city, or out towards Midlothian and the Borders. Rows of grey-brown houses blocked the best of the views, and a brutal 1970s prefab block housed a couple of boarded-up shops and a library.
The only place with any life in it was the betting shop.

DC MacBride hadn’t said much all the way out, piloting the car with a grim determination that suggested he was still angry about his scar. Coppers could be as stupidly cruel as kids, McLean knew all too well. Chances were the detective constable had been the brunt of bullying at school as well.

‘Park up round the back there.’ He pointed
to a small opening at the end of the block, and MacBride turned swiftly, gaining himself an angry blare of the horn from a car coming towards them. A couple of squad cars were already hogging the space at the far end of the car park, behind the library.

‘Someone said something about a body?’ McLean spoke to one of two uniform officers who were leaning against a nearby brick wall. The smell of
cigarette smoke still lingered in the air around the one who pushed himself upright, then came over to the car.

‘Aye sir. Round the corner past the bookies.’ He made a half-hearted attempt to point, a motion that made him look like a one-armed man doing the breaststroke, only without any water to swim in.

‘It’s a bit casual, isn’t it?’ McLean asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be setting up a perimeter?
Keeping the public away?’

The constable shrugged. ‘It’s no’ as if anyone can see him, sir. I’ll take you there.’

MacBride parked, then the two of them followed the constable back out of the car park and around the corner. Another constable stood by a nondescript black door that McLean might have taken for someone’s home. He nodded once, then stepped aside to let them in.

Inside was a dark room
with posters hanging on the walls, a small shop counter just past the door. It took McLean a moment to realise that this wasn’t a house or a shop, but some kind of visitor attraction.

‘What is this place?’

‘Gilmerton Cove, sir,’ the uniform constable answered. ‘You telling me you’ve never heard of it?’

‘Can’t say as I have.’ McLean peered at the posters on the walls. They were like those in
many modern visitor attractions, a series of historical pieces explaining what the place was all about. He had just started reading about the Covenanters when a familiar voice came from the back of the room.

‘Had a feeling this would get punted your way, Tony. You do seem to get all the odd cases.’

Angus Cadwallader, city pathologist, stood in an open doorway dressed in his white overalls and,
rather incongruously, a hard hat and green wellies.

‘I could say the same for you, Angus.’ McLean knew better than to shake Cadwallader’s hand, especially at a crime scene.

‘Ah, but I get to choose my cases. Not have them handed to me by some dispatcher in Bilston Glen.’ Cadwallader paused a moment, looked down at his feet. ‘Not sure whether that’s better or worse.’

‘Maybe I should have a look-see
and make up my own mind.’ McLean peered past the pathologist, seeing an even smaller room than the first. ‘No forensics team yet?’

‘Oh, they’re here. It’s just there’s not a lot of room. Or air for that matter.’ Cadwallader must have seen the bemusement on McLean’s face. ‘You’ve really no idea what this place is, have you?’

McLean shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Well, come with me and discover the
mysteries of Gilmerton Cove.’ Cadwallader stood aside to let McLean step into the small room. ‘Might be best if we leave young MacBride behind, though.’

Gilmerton Cove, it turned out, was a series of caves and underground passages, just beneath the pavements and crossroads. For all that Cadwallader had said there wasn’t much space, it was surprisingly large. Even more so when McLean was told
that it was all man-made.

‘No one’s quite sure who first carved it all out. Some say
Covenanters, some the Hellfire Club. There’s similar caverns up Roslin Glen way, underneath Hawthornden Castle. Probably loads more still waiting to be found.’

McLean listened to the potted history as he climbed into a pair of standard-issue white overalls and slipped paper covers over his shoes. They had descended
some steep steps carved into the rock and were now in an arched cavern, piled high with battered aluminium cases filled with forensic equipment. Further on, along a narrow passageway, bright arc lights flooded what would normally be a dark and claustrophobic space. No doubt that way lay the victim, as well.

‘Who found the body?’ He asked the question before realising that his tour guide for the
day was Cadwallader, and not the first officer on the scene. ‘Sorry. Habit.’

‘I’ve just been studying it, Tony. Why don’t we both go and have a look, eh?’

Cadwallader led the way down a confusing collection of passageways, through strangely hewn rooms, rough rock tables and benches carved from floor and wall. The ground was littered in fine gravel except where water channels had been carved
in the bedrock, leading to a sump that drained down to God knows where. Or maybe the Devil. A heavy cast-iron grille covered up the hole, four channels dropping into it from four points, like the points of a compass. Water ran through all of them, fed no doubt by the recent rain. A distinct dampness in the air lent a chill, unpleasant note to the caves. Three of the water channels were uncovered,
little rivulets of murky water trickling along them and into the well. The fourth was mostly hidden by a temporary raised walkway installed by the forensics team.

Given the walkway, McLean was sure they must be close to the body, but Cadwallader carried on, through a metal doorway that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a submarine, then stooped as the passageway they were following became
lower and lower. There were rocks to either side too, as if this area had only just been opened up. Or the ceiling had fallen in recently. McLean had to crouch right down for the last bit, the weight of the rock crushing in on him as if he were Atlas, bringing with it a deep-seated fear that was hard to suppress. Stepping out into the final cavern was a relief. At least for a moment.

The body
lay close to the far wall from where he and Cadwallader had emerged. McLean could see that it was a man, a bloody gash ripped from the front of his neck. Another floor channel led from his prone form to a nearby sinkhole, filled with dark, still water. In the half-light, it looked like blood, but no one body could have produced such a volume.

‘I’ll say this much, it would have been quick.’ Cadwallader
stepped carefully over to the body and knelt down with an uncomfortable popping of knees. Two white-suited forensic scientists had been carefully examining what looked like another entranceway, piled up with rubble and rocks, nearby. They had stopped what they were doing as soon as McLean had entered and were even now watching him, waiting for him to put a foot wrong so they could tell him
off. Even behind their face masks and paper hairnets he could see their scowls. As if anyone as lowly as a detective could hope to glean anything from a crime scene.

‘We got an ID yet?’

‘Again a question best put to the first officer on the scene. Unfortunately he had to be taken off to hospital.’

‘Hospital?’ McLean moved closer, keeping his feet firmly on the temporary walkway. There was something
horribly familiar about the white face, half mashed into the fine grit of the cavern floor.

‘Yes. He threw up, fainted and banged his head on the rock over there.’ Cadwallader pointed back towards the door, and as he did so, McLean saw the blood.

It was smeared all over the back wall of the cavern in great swirls and patterns. Sticky black whorls, glistening under the harsh spotlights like the
trails of demonic slugs. Stepping backwards to get a better look, McLean let one foot slip off the raised walkway, then caught himself as a harsh intake of breath reminded him he was being watched.

‘Are those words?’ He tilted his head, trying to make sense of it, failing.

‘Best you let us photograph it all. We can use some trick filters to bring it all out nice and sharp.’ One of the SOCOs
lifted up the camera slung around her neck, just in case he wasn’t sure how it was done.

‘Good point. Sorry.’ McLean bobbed his head, walked carefully back to the body and hunkered down beside Cadwallader.

‘Want to hazard a cause of death?’ the pathologist asked.

‘Thought that was your job. But I’m guessing this.’ McLean pointed at the mess that had once been the man’s throat.

‘Judging by
how far the blood’s gone, there’s probably not a lot left in him. Unless it’s been mixed with something to make it run. We’ll get a sample for analysis.’

‘Killed here though.’

‘Best guess, yes. And quite a while ago. Days, maybe weeks. Difficult to judge when the conditions for preservation are so good. I’ll know better after the post-mortem. Any idea who he is?’

McLean leaned back, twisted
his head around until he could take in the face. Scrunched into the gravel, almost white skin. One eye was obscured, but the other one stared ahead unseeing, glazed over. Fair hair cropped short, light build, difficult to gauge height whilst he was lying crumpled on the ground. He could have been anyone, really, but there was something about the face. He’d seen it recently. No he’d been reminded
of it recently. Hadn’t seen the man for a while.

‘I wish I didn’t, but I think I do.’