The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (7 page)

‘Would it have been better if he’d gone to trial, sir? After what he did?’

‘He’d have been found insane.’

‘And that would have been OK, I suppose.’

‘Dammit, McLean. You’re just trouble wherever you
go. I don’t know why McIntyre put up with you, but I’m sure as hell not going to.’ Duguid picked up the folder, flipped it open. ‘What were you doing over at that suicide case in Trinity?’

It took McLean a moment to process the change of direction. ‘What?’

‘The suicide. Chap hung himself. Why were you poking your nose in there when you’re meant to be helping Jo Dexter out in Vice?’

‘I wasn’t “poking my nose” in anywhere, sir. DC MacBride was appointed SIO. He’s only a constable.’

‘What of it? The way I hear, it was suicide, plain and simple. Even left a note. Doesn’t take a detective inspector to fill out an incident report, does it?’

McLean suppressed the urge to sigh. It was like dealing with a particularly obstinate toddler. ‘A person died in unnatural circumstances, sir. At the very least, the Fiscal will want a basic investigation. DC MacBride thought there was something unusual about the case. He called it in so he could get a second opinion. No doubt a sergeant would have done, but there weren’t any available. I was going that way anyway, so I thought I’d drop in and see what he was on about. Turns out he was right.’

Duguid’s eyes narrowed, a sure sign that he was trying to think. ‘What do you mean, he was right?’

‘There’s a lot about the hanging that doesn’t add up, sir. Enough to make me suspicious.’

‘And we’re going to pay for this hunch-following how, exactly?’

‘I wouldn’t call it a hunch, sir.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. But that’s what it is. And we don’t
have the budget to go digging where there’s nothing to find. The PF doesn’t want to waste money on lengthy enquiries either. If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck, then it’s a duck, McLean. Now get MacBride to write up the report and file it.’

McLean held his breath, just for a few seconds. Duguid stared at him from the other side of the desk, his face a mottle of crimson and white. There wasn’t really much point arguing with the man when he was like this, and besides, he had somewhere else he needed to be.

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do. Now get out of here. Some of us have work to do.’

A hubbub of quiet noise filled the echoing hall of the sale room, the collected murmurs and whispers of over a hundred punters settled into ranks of chairs lined up to face a stage at the far end. A simple lectern stood to one side, a stand to the other presumably for books to be placed upon. Fortunately there was little mention of the man whose books were on sale, and no photographs. Perhaps it was the notoriety of the collection, or maybe antiquarian book sales were always like this. It was the first time he’d ever been to one, so McLean couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come at all.

The sale catalogue had plopped through his letterbox a month or so earlier. At first he’d thought it was some kind of cruel joke. Then he’d noticed that it had been addressed to his grandmother, not him. Yet another mailing list woefully out of date. Donald Anderson’s shop on the Canongate had already been sold and was apparently
going to become a trendy wine bar. Now it was the turn of his substantial collection of rare and ancient books. The money raised, so the introduction to the catalogue stated, was to go to the Sick Kids Hospital and the Zero Tolerance campaign. Such had been Anderson’s last wishes, conveyed to his solicitors just the day before he died.

McLean hadn’t read any more than that, consigning the catalogue to the bin in the corner of the kitchen where all the junk mail went to die. But something about it had stuck with him, and two days later he’d fished it out again. Every so often he’d find himself idly leafing through it as he drank tea at the old kitchen table, wondering what possible use he might have for an obscure sixteenth-century hagiography or a bound fragment of an illuminated manuscript from an unverified source but thought to be of the St Kilda school. He had noticed a first edition of Gray’s
Anatomy
that looked like the sort of thing Angus Cadwallader would have loved, but why he’d noted the date and time of the sale in his diary and made sure the afternoon was free, he had no idea. Even less so why he’d actually come along.

‘Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.’

McLean looked around to see a large woman approaching. At least he thought she was a woman, though she had the largest hands he’d ever seen. She wore the sort of outfit you might expect to be taking tea in Jenner’s on a weekday afternoon, an overemphasis on tweed and heavy makeup. She was either wearing a wig or had spent the entire morning at a very skilled hairdresser’s, one who most likely trained in the 1950s. Still slightly bemused to
be at the sale, it took him too long to make the complex series of connections to a name.

‘Madame Rose.’ He nodded, shuffling sideways in his seat as she dropped herself indecorously beside him, too close for comfort. Not she at all. He. McLean remembered now, the so-called medium and fortune-teller with the shop at the bottom of Leith Walk. She’d helped … dammit, he’d helped out with the ritual killing cold case a year or so back. Had a vast collection of occult rubbish, including many ancient books, tucked away at the back of the shop. Madame Rose was also a friend of Jayne McIntyre, which had to count for something he supposed. He wondered how they’d met.

‘Just Rose is fine.’ Madame Rose settled into the seat, which creaked in protest at his considerable bulk. ‘I must say I didn’t expect to see you here. What with your connection to Anderson and all.’

‘I never really expected to come here myself.’ McLean tapped the rolled-up catalogue against his leg, considering the possibility of getting up and leaving. A few minutes earlier he might have got away with it. Now, having been recognized, it would only draw attention.

‘And yet here you are. Had your eye on anything in particular?’ The medium nodded at McLean’s rolled-up catalogue. ‘There’s some rather wonderful first editions of Wendell’s
Treatise on Babylonian Magic
. I do hope they don’t go for too much. Rumour has it they once belonged to Aleister Crowley.’

A red-faced gentleman in a too-tight suit appeared at the lectern before McLean could say anything in reply, or make good his escape.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this sale of rare and antiquarian books, the collection of the late Donald Anderson.’

The auctioneer lost no time in getting stuck into the collection, rattling off quick descriptions of each book as it was placed on a stand beside his lectern by a pair of assistants. Bidding was brisk, with some pieces fetching quite ridiculously large sums of money. So much for a double-dip recession.

Sitting beside him, McLean could feel Madame Rose twitch with each new sale, as if he were a football fan at a cup final. The medium hadn’t bid for anything, seemed just to be there to watch. Every so often he would make little notes in the catalogue. Names of who was buying what.

‘Lot thirty-two. Gray’s
Anatomy
. First edition, published London in 1858 by J. W. Parker. Not in brilliant condition, but originally the property of a Mr A. Conan Doyle according to the inscription in the front. That has not been verified, although it is entirely possible. Who’ll start me at five hundred pounds? Five hundred? No? Four hundred then? Three hundred and fifty? I don’t need to remind you that there are no reserves in this sale, but all proceeds are going to a good cause. Three hundred then. Surely someone? Thank you, sir.’

McLean look around to see who had made the first bid, then realized that it was him.

‘Three hundred I’ve got. Who’ll give me three-fifty. Yes? Four?’

And so it went on. Someone across the hall was in for a fight, but McLean had decided he wanted this book. So
he kept upping his bid. When the hammer finally came down he discovered he’d paid almost fifteen hundred pounds, plus auctioneer’s commission, for a book that probably had nothing to do with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whatsoever.

For some reason he didn’t care.

‘You come very highly recommended, Miss Nairn. Do you have much experience working with younger patients?’

She had arrived not long after he’d come home, deflated after the curious excitement of the sale room. Her feet crunching up the gravel drive had given him a few moments’ notice before the doorbell rang. At first he’d thought she was lost; she certainly didn’t look like the kind of person who lived in this part of town.

He’d forgotten about the appointment, of course, but the letter from Doctor Wheeler was legitimate, so he’d let her in, ushering her into the library for an impromptu interview. It was either there or the kitchen, and that seemed just a little too informal. From the CV sent by the hospital, he’d been expecting someone perhaps a little older than the young woman sitting opposite him, perhaps a little less, what was the word, Gothic? No, that wasn’t right. She had more of an Earth Mother thing going, but with black leather DMs that laced almost up to her knees and piercings in places that surely weren’t meant to be pierced. Still, there was no denying her credentials. Or his desperation.

‘I started off in trauma rehabilitation, Detective Inspector. Most of my patients were in their teens or twenties. Motorbike accidents, a few soldiers injured in Iraq or Afghanistan.’

So she’d done her homework too. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? McLean knew better than to judge someone purely by their outward appearance. Emma herself was hardly conventional.

‘Did Doctor Wheeler tell you about Miss Baird’s condition?’

‘A little, but she’s bound by patient–doctor confidentiality. I understand Emma has some memory loss, she was in the ICU for several months. Other than that, not much. Is she here?’

‘Upstairs.’ McLean glanced at the ceiling. In truth Emma had hardly come out of her bedroom in the days since she’d arrived, apart from her regular early-morning visits to his own room, his own bed. He’d lugged a television up there for her, but judging by the gaps in the bookshelves, she was filling her time mostly with reading. She ate the food he put in front of her, but he didn’t think she helped herself to anything whilst he was away at work. He was pretty sure she’d not left the house, except for the two appointments with Doctor Wheeler back at the hospital. It had been at the last one where he’d broached the subject of a full-time carer. Miss Nairn was, he hoped, the answer.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your relationship with Emma?’

Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?

‘She’s my girlfriend. Was. Is? I’m not sure. She was abducted, possibly drugged, certainly had a very severe blow to the head. About four months ago. She was in a coma for almost two months. When she finally woke up she couldn’t remember anything about the last fifteen years.’

Miss Nairn uncrossed her legs, leaned forward in her high-backed armchair. She wore a thin tie-died skirt over black leggings, white T-shirt and a suede leather jacket. Her blonde hair had been cut tight to her scalp, the furrows on her brow as she frowned reaching up into the short fuzz.

‘That sounds unusual, for physical trauma. Has Emma seen a psychiatrist?’

‘Not yet, but it’s early days.’

‘Early days, yes.’ Miss Nairn tapped at her cheek with a finger, making a hollow pop, pop sound. ‘So what is it you want me to do, Detective Inspector?’

‘Whatever you can, really. I can give her a roof, a bed, feed her, but Emma needs company and I can’t give up work to look after her while she recovers.’ Even as he spoke the words, McLean saw the lie in them. He didn’t need to work at all. If Miss Nairn saw the lie too, she didn’t let on.

‘And you think a carer specializing in physical-trauma victims is what she needs?’

‘You were Doctor Wheeler’s suggestion. If you don’t think you’re right for it, I’m sure she can give me other names.’

‘No, no. I think I can help.’ Miss Nairn levered herself out of the chair and McLean realized how he’d been played. If nothing else, she was smart. That had to be worth something.

‘You’re OK with doing this full time? Staying here?’ McLean asked.

‘It’s usually the best way. And it looks like you’ve got the space.’ Miss Nairn smiled, half twirled around, her
outstretched arms taking in the over-large room. Her skirt flared out like a flamenco dancer’s, a brief moment of exuberance before it settled back down against her legs. ‘Shall we go and meet Emma then?’

9

‘You got a minute, sir?’

McLean looked up from the report he’d been trying to force into his brain for an hour. The elfin, freckled face of Detective Sergeant Kirsty Ritchie peered around the door-jamb, not trusting itself to commit fully to a relationship with his office.

‘A minute, an hour. Anything’s got to be better than this.’ McLean dropped the sheaf of paper onto his desk, where it nestled in amongst many others of its kind. He thought that Dagwood had sent him off to work in the SCU, but that hadn’t stopped the acting superintendent from passing on every half-baked criminal psychology paper that came his way as well. Read, digest, condense into little words for the hard of thinking.