Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (31 page)

The building looked nothing special from the outside, much the same as McClymont Developments across the car park. Tucked into the far corner, close to the railway line, its windows were boarded up and a faded ‘To let’ sign hung at a drunken angle from
the frontage. The only way in was through a solid metal door set into a much larger roller shutter concealing a loading bay beyond. DS Ritchie must have seen him coming, as she met him out past the edge of the police tape boundary.

‘How did anyone even know to look in here?’ McLean asked. He’d parked a good distance away from the squad cars and forensic vans. The car park might have been large,
but the individual bays were narrow.

‘Stuart had some of the uniforms go door to door round the other businesses, like you asked, sir. Overzealous constable knocked on this one even though it’s obviously empty. Found it wasn’t locked and thought he’d check it out before calling the letting agent. He found … well, I’m not really sure how to describe it. A body, for certain.’ DS Ritchie had more
of a spring in her step than McLean could remember seeing in a while, no doubt at the prospect of getting her teeth into a particularly interesting case. Either that or Daniel hadn’t made it home to the rectory as early as might be expected of a man of the cloth.

Shaking the idea from his head, he followed her across
the car park and ducked under the crime-scene tape, almost immediately receiving
a complaining cough from the nearest scene of crime officer.

‘You’ll be wanting to put on some overalls if you’re going in there.’ The SOCO herself was dressed in a full white boiler suit, hood pulled up tight over her hair. McLean could only tell it was a she because her face mask hung around her neck on its elastic string. She was sitting in the back of one of the Transit vans, munching on
a sandwich, but put it carefully back in its Tupperware box before reaching around and pulling out white paper overalls and something that looked a bit like a cross between a shower cap and the bag you brought your curry home in.

‘Grubby in there, is it?’ he asked as he passed a pair of overboots to Ritchie.

‘Quite the opposite. Place is cleaner than a Labrador’s dinner dish. Doubt we’ll find
anything in there unless you lot traipse it in. Could do without the hassle of working out what’s what.’ The SOCO picked up her sandwich and took another bite, conversation over.

McLean waited until they had reached the door before climbing into the paper suit and slipping the overshoes on. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves for good measure before ducking into the darkness beyond. It was a
large loading area, as might be expected for such a place. Looking around, however, he started to see what the SOCO had meant. In marked contrast to the dust and grime of McClymont Developments, it was spotlessly clean. More like the sort of laboratory where they build satellites than a storage room for a firm of electricians. Arc lights overhead reflected off a smooth floor that squeaked under his
feet as he walked to the far side and an open doorway. A bunny-suited SOCO was kneeling by the door, brushing at the frame with a fingerprint kit. She looked up as his shadow passed over her, and McLean recognised the face of Amanda Parsons.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here. Thought you were doing the cars across town.’

Parsons grinned. ‘They’re no’ going anywhere. And we’re a bit short-staffed
right now, with all these bodies you keep finding. I’ve got fingerprint training. Overtime’s always handy.’

‘Well I don’t think there’ll be a problem with that. The pathologist here?’ McLean asked.

‘In there.’ Parsons cocked a head towards the entrance.

‘You been in?’

‘No. Not sure I want to, from what I’ve been hearing.’

‘I’d best see for myself then,’ McLean said, and stepped through.

‘Good Christ. What is this place?’

McLean stood just inside the open door, staring upon a scene that might have been from a modern horror movie. Half a dozen intensive care beds were arranged in a semicircle, each attended by their own motley collection of life-support machinery. Much of the kit seemed last generation, or perhaps older, but the effect was chilling regardless, especially given
the setting. This was a disused warehouse in a bad part of town, after all. Not exactly the Western General Hospital.

Of the six beds, five were obviously unoccupied, the machinery pushed neatly to the walls at the head of each.
The last bed was obscured by the city pathologist and his assistant deep in discussion about the body they were examining. McLean was about to head over and see what
all the fuss was about when a voice distracted him.

‘It gets better. Come have a look at this.’ He turned to see Jemima Cairns, dressed in the full bunny suit so beloved of the forensic services. It never ceased to amaze him how they could recognise each other in that get-up, but somehow they managed. She led him through another door into a smaller room, fitted out like a research laboratory.

‘Some of this stuff’s better than the kit we’ve got back at HQ.’ Dr Cairns picked up a microscope and peered at the manufacturer’s logo on the base.

‘Expensive?’

‘Very. Well, some of it.’ She put the microscope back, moved down the bench to where a smooth-sided box with a smoked Perspex cover sat. Clicking open the cover revealed an empty shell. ‘Most of it’s mock-ups, though. The sort of thing
they bring along to medical research conferences.’

‘So this is all a sham then?’ McLean walked across to the wall freezers, reached out to open one then stopped. ‘Can I?’

‘Knock yourself out. They’re all empty. We’ve dusted the place for prints, too. Only one set so far and they look like they belong to the victim.’ Dr Cairns nodded at the tall freezer. ‘He opened that. Doesn’t seem to have
touched anything else.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not a thing. This place is as clean as I’ve ever seen. Surgically clean.’

‘What about through there?’ McLean pointed back to the larger room, where the beds were, and the body.

‘Much the same. Oh, we’ll keep looking, but we’ve not found anything yet. Got to hand it to whoever did this. They know how to sterilise a crime scene.’

‘So people keep telling
me, but I’ve not even seen the body yet.’

Dr Cairns raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve not?’

‘Only just arrived. I was going to have a look when you dragged me in here.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise.’

‘No worries. Never hurts to look at the whole scene anyway. Sometimes better to do that first, before you even look at the body.’

Cairns said nothing as McLean pulled open the freezer door. As she’d told
him, it was empty. It didn’t appear to be switched on, either. He walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the spotlessly clean work benches. Stuck out a finger and ran it over the nearest flat surface, then inspected his fingertip for dust. There was none.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘This? If I didn’t know better I’d say someone was making a movie.’

McLean paused in picking up
a pipette. Could it be that simple? Had they stumbled upon some film set that nobody knew about?

‘It’s not though,’ Dr Cairns said. ‘A movie set, that is. There’s nowhere to put the cameras, for one thing. And then there’s the body, of course. That’s real enough, not a prop.’

‘It’s still a set though, a sham. Not a real medical lab?’

‘Not one I’d want to work in. Like I say, most of this kit’s
fake.’

‘But why would someone go to all that effort?’

‘That’s your department, Inspector. Not mine.’ Dr Cairns scratched at her forehead where the tight-fitting hood of her overalls pressed against her skin, then gave up and pushed the whole thing back off her head. ‘But if I was to hazard a guess, I’d say someone was playing some kind of con. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if there wasn’t big
money involved. This lot must have cost a packet, even if most of it’s not real.’

McLean was about to reply, but a familiar face appeared at the door. DS Ritchie’s eyes widened in surprise as she saw the set-up.

‘They’re ready to move the body, sir. Thought you’d want to see it before they do.’

The large room was no less impressive for his having seen the laboratory next door to it. McLean
wondered how anyone had managed to get all that machinery in without being noticed, wondered too where it had all come from. These and a dozen other immediate questions fled his mind as he approached the bed and the body lying on it.

He was naked, skinny like a man who hasn’t eaten in months, and impossibly pale. Sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling, slightly filmed as if the eyeballs had
begun to ossify. His face was cadaverous, mouth hanging open to reveal yellowing teeth. Thinning hair, lank and in need of a cut, hung from his skull and splayed out on the pillow. McLean’s first impression was of someone in the first stages of mummification.

‘Tony. Good of you to join us.’ Angus Cadwallader stood on the far side of the bed, his assistant Tracy at his side. Two technicians hovered
behind him with a gurney, ready to take the body away. It seemed a bit unnecessary; they could have just wheeled out the bed he was lying on.

‘What have we got here, Angus?’ McLean asked. Looking at the face he found it almost impossible to decide if the man had been young or old. His skin had an odd pallor to it, and he looked shrunken, almost as if the bed had begun to swallow him.

‘Something
very nasty indeed. And I say that as someone who thought he’d seen it all.’ Cadwallader reached forward and gently lifted the dead man’s arm. As he did so, McLean noticed that it had a cannula inserted into it, a long tube leading away to a machine at the head of the bed.

‘See this?’ McLean nodded, following Cadwallader’s hand as he traced the tube back. It was clear plastic, but there were occasional
clots of almost black material in it.

‘This is a dialysis machine,’ the pathologist continued. ‘You’ll be familiar with how it works.’

‘I thought they usually had two tubes. One out, one back in again.’ McLean had a terrible feeling he knew where the conversation was going. He looked back at the man’s face again. Not old, quite young, really. Just drained.

‘You always were quick on the uptake,
Tony. You’re quite right. Normally the blood would flow through the machine, which filters out all the unpleasant by-products of metabolism. Then the freshened blood is returned to the body. This …’ Cadwallader paused for a moment, something McLean couldn’t recall his old friend ever doing
at a crime scene before. Normally it was a job to get him to stop talking, such was his enthusiasm at hunting
down clues from the recently deceased.

‘This machine’s been modified. Not sure exactly how, that’s something for the technicians to puzzle out. It’s taken his blood and … well, I’m not entirely sure what it’s done with it.’

‘So what you’re saying is he bled to death.’

‘No, what I’m saying, Tony, is he was bled to death. There’s a difference. This man has had almost all of the blood drained
from him. And slowly, too.’

‘Slowly? How so?’

‘If it had been quick, if he’d had his throat cut or something, his blood pressure would have dropped fast and his heart would have stopped. Doing it slowly like this dragged it out. He’s been placed on the bed very carefully, too. Everything slopes down to this point. It’s impossible to drain all the blood out of a body without pumping something
in to replace it, but this comes pretty damned close.’

‘How long would it take, do you reckon? An hour? Longer?’

‘Much longer. This could have taken half a day.’

McLean shuddered, though that might have been because of the chill in the room. ‘It’d be painless though, wouldn’t it? And he’d have passed out soon enough?’

‘That really depends on how slowly the machine was working, but he’d have
known what was happening. Jesus, what a horrible thing to do to a person.’

McLean looked from the shrunken, shrivelled body to the snaking tube, the corrupted dialysis machine and then
back to the man’s face. Clouded eyes stared straight up, as if pleading to heaven for salvation. He followed that gaze to the ceiling, white paint bright in the glare from the arc lights. The shadows of the metal
roof beams painted a dark cross directly overhead.

‘You realise we’re going to have to draft in officers from Strathclyde to help make up the numbers? You’ve no idea what a mess that’s going to make of the staffing rosters.’

McLean stood in his usual spot in Duguid’s office on the top floor, trying hard
to focus on the detective superintendent and not let his thoughts wander out the window. This meeting was a formality, a chore that had to be done before he could get on with the job. As usual there was nowhere for him to sit, and frankly he was happier standing. The same couldn’t be said for DCI Brooks, whose hulking presence made the large room seem somehow inadequate.

‘Hang the bloody rosters,
Charles. We’ve got a third murder in as many weeks. Nothing simple about any of them. What the fuck’s happening to the city that everyone’s hacking each other to bits?’

Brooks prowled back and forth as he ranted, his shoes making odd ‘chuff chuff chuff’ noises on the carpet tiles. It was hot in the office, and sweat sheened the detective chief inspector’s shaven head, dripping down into his eyebrows.
Occasionally a bead would make it to one of his chins and then break free.

‘We should pool our efforts again.’

Brooks stopped mid-turn, his anger focused on McLean.
‘You’re not really suggesting they’re linked are you, McLean? You know how rare serial killers are?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they were connected, actually. Like you said, three murders in as many weeks, all Category A. That’s
more than a statistical outlier; it’d be stupid of us not to consider a possible link between them.’

He regretted using the S-word almost as soon as it slipped out of his mouth, but he was tired and it was hot and he was finding it hard to think straight with Brooks moving around like a caged bear. McLean felt the atmosphere in the room chill, though not enough to bring any comfort.

‘Both Detective
Chief Inspector Brooks and I know how to run a major incident enquiry, McLean.’ Duguid’s voice was a low rumble like the threat of thunder.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to suggest you … I only meant there are aspects of all three investigations that can be combined to save time. Like we did before. No point going over the same actions over and over again. It was true when we combined efforts
with the Stevenson and Shenks cases. It’s even more true now.’

‘And you’re volunteering to coordinate this, are you?’ Brooks asked. McLean resisted the urge to suggest that both senior officers knew how to run a major incident enquiry. The irony would likely have been lost on them.

‘If you think a detective inspector is sufficiently senior to be heading up such a thing, then I guess so. I’d
have thought the press would expect someone a bit higher up the food chain though.’

‘Oh yes. The press. Tell me, how is Jo Dalgliesh these days? I hear you two are getting quite pally.’

It was his weak spot and Brooks knew it. McLean rounded on the DCI, struggling to control the anger that flared up in him. ‘If you had any fucking idea—’

‘That’s enough, McLean.’ Duguid’s barked words surprised
him into silence more effectively than McLean would have thought possible. He looked back at the detective superintendent leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the desk and long-fingered hands pressed together tightly.

‘John, you know as well as I do that Dalgliesh is helping us with the Stevenson case. She was the first to notice him missing, she got us access to all his research and she knows
more about what he was working on than anyone.’

‘She’s a bloody menace is what,’ Brooks muttered under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.

‘I don’t think any of us disagree with you there. But she’s useful and at the moment she’s on our side. I’d quite like to keep things that way for as long as possible.’

Brooks glowered, but said nothing. Duguid must have taken that as a tacit agreement.
McLean hoped so, otherwise the DCI really was as stupid as he so often looked.

‘OK. I’ll front up all three investigations. John, you’ll be in overall command of operations. McLean, you and Spence can coordinate. Get a team on to analysing the similarities between each murder.’ Duguid slumped back in his seat as if the effort of making such a momentous decision had exhausted him. ‘And let’s just
pray we don’t get more bodies turning up any time soon.’

‘His name’s James Whitely. Friends all called him Jim. He was a consultant at the Western General, specialising in paediatric oncology. Worked at the Sick Kids too.’

Running out of room at the station, they’d taken over a corner of the Ben Stevenson major incident room to make a start on the new investigation. DC MacBride had somehow managed
to find space for more computers, and a small army of uniforms and admin staff were beginning the process of kicking the investigation into life. Compared to the quiet of the rest of the room, it was a veritable maelstrom of activity.

‘Who ID’d him?’ McLean asked.

MacBride consulted his tablet. ‘One of the pathologists recognised him. Dr MacPhail?’

‘And we’ve had that confirmed? Next of kin?’

‘No next of kin, no. But his boss confirmed it, and he’s been missing from work over a week.’

McLean stared at the clean whiteboard as a uniform constable pinned a large photograph of Jim Whitely’s pale dead face to it with magnets.

‘He worked at the Sick Kids, you say. Same as Muriel Shenks?’

‘Maureen Shenks, yes.’ MacBride swiped at his little screen. ‘You think there might be a connection?’

‘Two people murdered? No obvious motive or killer for either? Both work at the same place and probably knew each other? I’d be astonished if there weren’t.’

‘What if he killed her?’

McLean paused before responding, not quite allowing himself to hope it would be that easy. ‘Go on,’ he said after a while.

‘Well, Whitely’s body, the way it was found. It’s creepy as …’ MacBride struggled for words.

‘Creepy as fuck?’ McLean suggested.

‘Aye, that. But it could be suicide, couldn’t it? I mean, he could’ve plugged himself into that machine and, I don’t know, just let it drain all his blood away?’

McLean tried not to shudder. ‘Interesting theory, Constable, and given how improbable his means of death was, it’s just possible he did it himself. It had to be someone with a great deal of medical
knowledge, after all.’ He walked over to the whiteboard, searched around until he found a marker pen and wrote ‘suicide?’ close to the newly pinned death-mask photograph. All around him there was sudden silence as heads turned to look at what he’d written.

‘Is that even possible?’ He looked around to see that Detective Sergeant Ritchie had just entered the room and was, like everyone else, staring
at the whiteboard.

‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. But it’s as good a place as any to start.’ McLean addressed the collected police and admin staff, now that he had their undivided attention. ‘Assume nothing, but I want this line of enquiry pursued as far as it will go. We need to trace Dr Whitely’s movements over the last month. Interview all his work colleagues; I want to know about his state
of mind. And talk to everyone who works in that industrial unit too. We need to know who’s been in and out of there recently. If there’s CCTV, so much the better.’

‘You want me to get started on organising all that?’ Ritchie asked. McLean could see she wasn’t all that keen. Beside him, DC MacBride had already started breaking
the problem down and assigning tasks to various members of the team.
Most of whom were more senior than him, but seemed happy to defer to his assumed authority.

‘Have we got a home address for Whitely?’ he asked in a moment when the detective constable paused for breath.

‘Here, sir.’ MacBride tapped a couple of times on his screen. ‘I’ve sent it to your phone.’ Sure enough, the handset vibrated and chimed in his jacket pocket. McLean pulled it out, stared at
the address on the screen until it blanked out again. Sciennes. Not far. Just a matter of getting hold of some keys.

‘OK, you man the fort here. Get cracking on the suicide angle.’ He turned back to DS Ritchie. ‘You can come with me. See what kind of a person this Jim Whitely was.’