What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

on the letter DCI Crane had handed him. McLean pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it, not really taking in the words so much as studying that signature. Tight-packed letters, but neat. Her whole name, Gail Elmwood, spelled out in a manner that was readable at least if you knew what you were looking for. Not like McLean’s own impenetrable scrawl, which usually looked like he’d succumbed to some kind of coughing fit halfway through writing it. He didn’t think much of handwriting analysis, but this signature suggested a meticulous attention to detail and a desire for control. Or something like that anyway.

‘Oh. Hello, sir. Are you back then?’

McLean glanced up at the doorway. He’d left it open, as had always been his habit. Now the unfeasibly tall figure of Detective Constable Blane blocked it almost entirely. His slumped shoulders and stooped posture might have been simply to avoid banging his head on the door frame, but like a lot of tall people, Lofty had a habit of trying to make himself look smaller whenever he had to interact with those shorter than him. Which was to say most of the time.

‘So it would appear.’ He folded up the letter and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Was there anything in particular you needed?’

A momentary frown of confusion crossed Blane’s features, vanishing almost as soon as it had formed. ‘Oh, no sir. I was on my way to find Ja— DS Harrison. Heard she was in with the chief superintendent.’

‘Did you say DS Harrison?’ McLean put the emphasis on the S, raising an eyebrow as he did so.

‘Acting, sir. But aye.’

‘I don’t know. I go away for a few months and everyone gets delusions of grandeur. Good for her, though.’ He stood up, then pushed his chair back in under the clean desk. Took a moment to enjoy the look of the polished wood surface. It wouldn’t be long before it wasn’t visible again. ‘I need to see McIntyre myself. Let her know I’m back, if in a reduced capacity.’

‘Umm . . . ?’ Blane’s confused frown returned, staying put this time.

‘They bumped me down to DI, Lofty,’ McLean said. ‘It’s meant to be a slap on the wrist, but I can’t help thinking it’s a blessing, really.’

The walk along the corridor to Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s office took no time at all, certainly not enough for McLean to draw out any meaningful conversation from DC Blane. Like his own office door, McIntyre’s was ajar, and as the two of them approached, they could hear voices in low but urgent conversation. Blane stopped a couple of paces away, where he could neither hear what was being said nor be seen lurking.

‘Should we wait, sir?’

‘Probably.’ McLean carried on the last metre or so, rapped his hand on the door frame and poked his head through the door. The voices stopped instantly as two people looked up at him from where they sat at the conference table. He recognised McIntyre, but the other woman was new to him.

‘Tony. Speak of the devil.’ McIntyre stood a little more swiftly than McLean was used to, almost as if she was shielding him from the other woman. He’d already worked out who she was, of course, so when she stood up a little more casually and turned to face him full on, he wasn’t completely taken aback.

‘Ah, the infamous Detective Inspector McLean. I had been hoping we’d have a chance to talk soon.’

‘Ma’am.’ McLean held out his hand when the chief superintendent offered hers to shake. Her grip was cool and firm, her hand slender. Indeed, slender was a word that could be used to describe a great deal about her. Striking was another. The uniform of a senior police officer was not the most flattering of outfits, and yet she managed to make it look like the height of fashion.

‘Detective . . . Inspector?’ McIntyre left a slight pause between the two words, her question quite clear. McLean was grateful for the interruption as he was all too aware that he had been staring at the chief superintendent perhaps a little too hard.

‘My punishment. Could have been worse.’ He pulled out the letter and handed it to McIntyre by way of explanation. That she didn’t know already spoke volumes.

‘Well, you never wanted to be a DCI anyway,’ she said as she handed back the letter. Then she noticed DC Blane standing in the doorway. ‘Detective Constable?’

‘Ah. Sorry, ma’am. I was told DS Harrison was here.’ Blane shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders slumping even more as he found himself in the presence of the chief superintendent. He held up the printout he had been carrying like a votive offering. ‘Forensic report from the Cecily Slater house. The scene was too badly degraded to pick up anything much.’

‘Cecily Slater?’ McLean asked before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

‘You know her?’ McIntyre asked.

‘No. Not really. The name rings a bell, though. Someone my grandmother knew, back in the day. Related to the Bairnfather family, I think. But it can’t be the same woman. She’d be a hundred if she was a day.’

‘She was very old, sir. And the cottage is on the Bairnfather Estate.’ Blane took a step into the room and offered McLean the report as if that would absolve him of any further responsibility.

‘Who’s SIO?’ he asked, again realising as the words came out that they would best have been left unsaid. Clearly a few months away from the front line had blunted his skill at avoiding being roped into things.

‘Kirsty’s nominally in charge,’ McIntyre said. ‘But she’s half a dozen other investigations on her hands already. And we lost a lot of time working on the assumption it was an accidental death. We’ve been playing catchup since the post-mortem. Could do with your input. It feels very much like your kind of case.’

McLean only nodded his head in acceptance; there wasn’t much else he could do. He held out a hand and Blane gave him the report. The chief