Prayer for the Dead: A Detective Inspector McLean Mystery (6 page)

‘How are we getting on down there?’

McLean stood in the entrance hall of the tiny cottage that served as a visitor centre. The posters telling the history of the place still hung on the walls, but all available floor space had been taken over by the forensics
services and their endless piles of aluminium cases. There were more downstairs, with a steady stream being brought back up from below.

‘Almost done in the caves. And no, I’m not going to tell you what we’ve found so far because I don’t want to be rude.’ Jemima Cairns stood with a clipboard, noting down the numbers on the battered cases, checking them all before they were taken outside and loaded
into the big van. It was somewhat menial work for a forensic scientist of her experience, skill and pay grade, but someone had told McLean in passing that she wasn’t overly fond of enclosed spaces. She’d been down once, apparently, then taken an uncharacteristic interest in the paperwork.

‘That little, is it?’ McLean asked.

‘Might have got more if the scene hadn’t been disturbed by a herd of
elephants.’ Dr Cairns’ normal expression was a scowl, but it wasn’t often this deep. ‘Don’t know what they’re teaching archaeologists these days. I thought they were meant to be all about preserving evidence. The way they tramped around that cave and scuffed up all the ground …’

‘I don’t think they were expecting to find a body in there,’ McLean said. ‘Well, at least not one quite so fresh.’

‘Still makes our job almost impossible. Nothing but the body, and the blood on the cave wall. Can’t even tell how he got in there. No sign the lock’s been tampered with, so whoever did it must have had a key.’

‘OK if I go down and have a look?’ McLean asked.

‘Knock yourself out. We’re pretty much done. You can even skip wearing the bunny suit. Unless, you know, that’s your thing?’

McLean smiled
at the joke, left Dr Cairns ticking off boxes. He was about to tell Grumpy Bob to join him, but the old sergeant was busy reading one of the wall-mounted display panels and seemed happy enough.

‘I’ll see you down there,’ he said and headed for the narrow stairs that descended into the cave complex.

On a second viewing, it seemed somehow smaller, and yet also more impressive. Whereas before he
had been led straight to the scene, this time he was able to take a moment to look at the way the sandstone had been carved, the many alcoves and rooms leading off the passageways. It was cool down here, a welcome relief from the humid heat of the day outside, but it was also damp and smelled like a small army of SOCOs had been working in it for days.

Lit up with arc lights, the cavern where
Stevenson’s body had been found was an impressive sight. Almost perfectly round, the walls rose vertically for about ten feet, before curving elegantly into a dome. There was nothing else in the place except for the markers where the body had lain, the channel dug into the rock floor to divert water to the sinkhole, and the sinkhole itself.

McLean walked over to the spot where Ben Stevenson had
met his end, noting the soft, gritty floor as he did so. Dr Cairns was right; it looked like a herd of elephants had been practising dressage on it. No chance of finding a footprint that could be matched to a potential killer. Of course, forensics weren’t as careful in leaving as when they arrived, so the state of the place might have had something to do with them. It didn’t matter, there were
no answers here.

Looking up at the wall, he squinted to try and see any pattern to the blood smearings. Like the other caves, this one had been hewn from the rock with sharp-pointed chisels, leaving a rough surface. The arc lights cast shadows that seemed to leap and writhe as he tilted his head this way and that. It made his eyes ache just looking at it, not helped by the rivulets of water seeping
through the rock and smearing the blood as they travelled slowly to the floor. He gave up and turned his attention to the site where the body had lain.

Ben Stevenson had bled out into the drainage channel, his blood mingling with the rainwater and flowing unimpeded to the sinkhole. The channel was smooth and clean, curving almost perfectly with the arc of the walls. McLean followed it around
until he was standing at the edge of the sinkhole.

It was about four feet in diameter, oval-shaped and cut into the floor with a slightly raised edge all around except where the channel met it. The water inside reflected the arc lights, perfectly still and mysterious. He wondered how deep it was, whether the water was stagnant or connected to an underground stream somewhere. He knelt against
the low stone lip, peering into the blackness as if that was a good way to find the answers.

Which was when the lights went out.

‘Oi! I’m in here.’ McLean shouted the words over his shoulder, slipping as he did so. He shot a hand out to steady himself, missed the edge and plunged it into the water. He was fully expecting to follow it, wondering how he was going to live down the inevitable jokes,
but after a couple of inches, his hand hit solid rock.

Relieved at not having an impromptu swim, it took him a while to realise that it wasn’t a very shallow well, but a step carved into the side, perhaps a foot wide. He rolled up his dripping sleeve a bit before feeling further. Another step. After that it was too deep. In the gloom, with very little illumination spilling from the entrance at
the other side of the cavern, he thought he could see beyond the reflective surface of the water, down to where something white reflected in the darkness. He pulled out his torch, flicked it on and pointed it straight down. Sure enough, maybe ten feet below at the bottom of the well there was something pale and foreign. Out of place.

‘Still in here,’ McLean shouted, his voice echoing in the darkness.
A couple of seconds later the lights came back on again. He squinted, surprised at how quickly his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness.

‘I’m sorry sir. Thought everyone had left.’ A young SOCO shuffled through the opening, then stood up tall. He was the complete opposite of his boss, Dr Cairns. Wiry-thin and at least six foot four. Completely the wrong build to be down here in the tunnels.

‘It’s no matter.’ McLean stood up, rolling his jacket
sleeve back down and feeling the dampness in it. Soaked right through. ‘Has anyone checked out the well?’

‘How do you mean? We took a sample of it, but …’ The young SOCO looked puzzled.

‘We’ll need to get a remote underwater camera. There’s something down there.’

‘You know, I don’t think it’s a well at all. Think it might be another passage.’

All the arc lights in the cave had been gathered around the well. Pointing downwards, their glare reflected off the surface of the water, but enough penetrated into the depths to show a series of steps spiralling to the bottom. With the extra light, McLean could tell that the white object wasn’t a fallen rock or something old. It looked like a discarded shopping bag, moving back and forth ever
so slightly as if tugged by an invisible current.

‘Could be. We’re heading in a downhill direction so it’d make sense to go deeper if you were digging tunnels further.’

The unusually tall SOCO’s name was Karl. He had managed to find a telescopic pole with a hook on the end, but it wasn’t quite long enough to reach all the way to the bottom. McLean watched from the other side as he leaned over
the short parapet, arm up to his elbow in the water. A couple of shorter forensic experts looked on, one with a camera on a strap around his neck, the other holding a clipboard that, as far as McLean could tell, had no paper attached. He got the impression they were there more out of idle curiosity than any kind of professional pride. Only Grumpy Bob was paying no attention to the well. The old
sergeant seemed to find the cavern walls far more interesting, peering up at the vaulted ceiling as he wandered around muttering to himself.

‘How far do you think they go?’

‘Ah, now that’s a question for the archaeology boys. I’ve heard there’s caves like these up Roslin Glen way, and the city centre’s full of hidden passages and stuff. Could be it all links up.’

From where he was standing,
McLean couldn’t tell whether Karl was being serious or not. He knew about the caves at Hawthornden Castle though, and there was the small matter of the subterranean world underneath Rosskettle Hospital that had come to light recently. Mine workings and tunnels lay undiscovered all over Midlothian, dating back to Roman times and earlier. It wasn’t so far-fetched to think that these mysterious caverns
might spread further than anyone realised.

‘If it’s not a well, then why’s it full of water?’

‘Looks like it’s blocked at the bottom. There’s a jumble of rocks and stuff. All the rain we’ve had the past few weeks, wouldn’t surprise me if it just got flooded out. Ah, here we go.’ Karl leaned even further into the water, his chin just a fraction of an inch above the surface as he extended his
considerable reach. He’d stripped off to the waist, and McLean couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of how cold he must be.

‘Got it?’ he asked.

‘Yup.’ And slowly Karl pushed himself away from the low stone parapet surrounding the hole, with first his shoulder, then his arm and finally the long telescopic pole emerging from the water like Excalibur.

‘Get some plastic sheeting down, can you?
And turn that floodlight round.’

The SOCO with the clipboard frowned at McLean, but did as he was told. Soon Karl was pulling the end of the pole out of the water, a sodden mess of something fabric drooping from its hooked end. He manoeuvred it, dripping, over the stone parapet and on to the freshly laid sheet, rivulets of water flowing away from it as it took on a more recognisable shape. A
pale white jacket.

McLean slipped on a pair of latex gloves as he approached the newly fetched plastic sheeting where Karl was laying out the coat as if he were the best man setting out the groom’s suit before the big day. The SOCO with the camera was busy taking photos, the flash making it hard to focus on any detail.

‘Doesn’t look all that old to me. Craghoppers. You can buy them in pretty
much any outdoor clothing shop. Got one myself.’ Karl opened up the front of the coat, fingers working slowly down the line of the zip, checking the pockets. McLean wondered if he was going to get dressed any time soon, felt it best not to say anything.

‘Sort of thing a journalist might wear?’ he asked.

‘Sort of thing anyone might wear. Ah, here’s something.’ The SOCO put his hand carefully
into one of the pockets and pulled out a damp notebook and pen. ‘Bag, please.’

His colleague bustled over with an evidence bag, sealing up the notebook before it could disintegrate any further.

‘Can I see that?’ McLean put his hand out.

‘We need to get it to the lab. We can dry it out properly there.’

‘I’m not going to open it. Just want to look at the cover.’

A short pause, then with obvious
reluctance, the SOCO handed his bounty over. McLean turned the notebook around very carefully. He could feel how sodden it was, and the water pooling in the bag was grey with pulped paper. It was cheap, spiral bound, the sort of thing you picked up in packs of six for a pound from the local supermarket. There was nothing written on it, no useful name or address, but there was a crude symbol,
etched in biro across the cover.

‘That what I think it is?’ Grumpy Bob loomed over his shoulder, blocking out the best of the light. ‘Aye, it is. Isn’t it?’

‘Yup.’ McLean handed the notebook carefully back to the SOCO, taking one last look at the compass and set-square. ‘Bloody Masons. Dagwood’s going to be happy as a clam.’

If I were a kind man, I’d tell him to improve his home security. I’m not though, at least not like that. So I won’t.

It takes thirty seconds to get in through the front door, and I don’t even have to try all the entry buttons until someone buzzes me in
without asking who it is. The lock is old, the electro-mechanical release mechanism worn enough that a couple of well-timed shoves spring it open. Inside, the city noise drops away, leaving me with a smell of foreign bodies, bin bags left out too long, cat piss. Upstairs the only way of knowing I’ve got the right place is a torn-off strip of paper with a name written on it in biro, taped underneath
a bell-push that has long since been painted solid. Security here is no better, just a Yale lock that yields to a supermarket loyalty card, and I’m in.

I know these tenement flats are small; I posed as a buyer for the one being sold next door so I could get a look at the layout of the place. Even so, the sense of being in a cave is almost overwhelming. A narrow skylight darkened with many years
of city grime is the only source of illumination for the tiny hallway, filtering down from high above and setting me at ease. I take a moment to gather my wits about me, listen for any sound that the flat is occupied even though I know it won’t be. He has no family, no life beyond his work. This is his lair, but it is no more than a place to sleep, occasionally to eat. And to feed his obsession.

The kitchen is barely more than a cupboard; the cooker, sink, fridge and cupboards squeezed in with commendable ingenuity. An empty bowl and mug sit by the sink, waiting to be washed. From the smell of sour milk it’s been a day or two since last he had breakfast. Black grounds in the bottom of a one-person cafetière are the only sign of sophistication. I move on.

The shower room – no bath here
– is at least tidy, although limescale pastes the glass enclosure and black mould is feasting on the grouting between cracked white tiles. The medicine cabinet over the basin holds no surprises. He may be a doctor, but he doesn’t self-medicate. Not that desperate. Not yet. It’s the pile of reading material beside the toilet that interests me most. Some medical texts, printouts from the teaching
hospital library, slipped between copies of
Scientific American
,
New Scientist
and a couple of more obscure medical research titles. They are well thumbed, the pages stained with toothpaste and saliva where he’s read them whilst brushing his teeth. The articles are about new techniques in stem-cell therapy, off-licence drug treatments, alternative medicines of a kind far removed from the homeopathic.
I begin to see a picture of the man emerging.

The bedroom is tidy, which surprises me. I expected more scientific papers, clothes thrown across the bed, signs of the hunger that gnaws at him, that has honed his soul to such a fine edge. I find them instead in the living room to the front, overlooking the street, and the depths of his obsession become apparent.

This is where he lives when he’s
not at the hospital. The other rooms have functions that can more or less be
circumvented; who needs to sleep in a bed when there’s a couch? There are no pictures in the whole flat, that’s one of the first things I noticed. The decor looks as if it was left behind by the previous owner. But the walls in the living room are covered in papers torn from medical journals, printouts of emails from
research scientists across the globe, newspaper cuttings and other snippets of information. This is what I was looking for, what I saw in him the first time we met in the hospital canteen. This is what drives him to the exclusion of all earthly temptations, what shrives him.

This will be the key that opens him up.