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

‘You said a couple of problems. I take it that’s only one of them, then.’

‘Aye, and not the worst.’ Ritchie gave a nod of her head to indicate they leave the room. ‘Come on. I’ll fill you in.’

McLean followed Ritchie out through the bedroom, casting one last glance at Fielding as he went. The words on the mirror could have been a sick joke for all he knew, more than likely a misdirection. But something about them struck a chord, as did the fact that Fielding, like his three associates Whitaker, Purefoy and Galloway, had died in what appeared to be an unlikely and unfortunate accident. He didn’t like coincidences at the best of times, but four deaths went far beyond that.

He wanted to ask who had found the message and how, but Ritchie led him to the far end of the apartment’s main open-plan living space before he could speak. Fielding’s work area was sparsely furnished around a modern steel and glass desk and a chair that looked like it couldn’t possibly be comfortable to sit in. A slim laptop computer lay open on the desk, a few reports and printouts beside it. Fielding’s briefcase sat on the floor, open, and McLean could well imagine this was an area the cleaner might have been told to leave alone. Either that, or the lawyer would normally have packed all this stuff away and taken it with him to work. If he’d not been dead, and all.

‘What’s going on here, Kirsty? Why’s nobody want to talk in front of civilians?’ McLean tapped a latex-gloved finger on the desk, partly distracted by the names printed on the report folders.

‘Fielding did have a visitor last night. But it’s complicated.’

‘Complicated how? Why haven’t they been brought in for questioning already?’

Ritchie gave him a look far more old-fashioned than her years. ‘Because his visitor was Gail, Tony.’

‘Gail? Wait. Gail Elmwood?’ McLean asked the question even though he knew it was stupid.

‘I know. It’s mad, right? But they were seen. The two of them came back here last night. Together.’

‘But she hates him.’

That got him a raised eyebrow, or what passed for an eyebrow on Ritchie’s face. She’d lost both of them rescuing him from a fire several years ago and they’d never really grown back afterwards.

‘Hates him? Who have you been talking to?’

McLean gave her the briefest of rundowns on what he’d found out, first from Dalgliesh and then from Simon Martin. ‘Of course, it might all be bollocks, and I can’t believe she’d have got the job in the first place if she was as corrupt as some folk think. Martin’s got an axe to grind, even if he says it’s all water under the bridge. It’s fair to say she’s known Tommy Fielding a long time, though. Now you’re telling me they met last night and that’s him dead. Does she know?’

‘That’s the million-dollar question now, isn’t it, Tony?’ Ritchie ran a weary hand over her short-cropped hair, let out a sigh. ‘I’ll have to speak to her. Or maybe ask Jayne to.’

McLean nodded his understanding. As long as it wasn’t him breaking the news. He glanced down at the reports on the desk.

‘I’ll speak to his colleagues, will I?’ He remembered to phrase it as a question to his DCI, reaching out and picking up the top folder as he spoke. Someone was going to have to take on Fielding’s caseload anyway.

‘Aye, might as well. Let’s get an idea of what he was doing in the past forty-eight hours.’ Ritchie smacked herself on the forehead with the heel of one hand. ‘Fuck, he’s mates with the chief constable, isn’t he? We’re going to have to make sure this is done absolutely perfectly.’

McLean only half noticed. The writing on the front of the second folder had been obscured until he’d picked up the first, but now he could read it quite plainly. A name that was almost too convenient to have been left here by accident.

Cecily Slater.

By the time he made it back down to the ground floor of the building, the door to the security room was slightly ajar and light shone from within. McLean tapped on the wood, before sticking his head through the gap to find DS Harrison and an elderly gentleman in the ill-fitting uniform of a private security firm. The detective sergeant stood while the man was seated, both looking at a couple of flat-screen monitors showing security camera footage.

‘Anything interesting?’ he asked as Harrison looked around to see him.

‘Aye, sir. Harry here was just making a copy for us.’

The elderly security guard twisted in his seat, greeted McLean with a smile and a nod, then went back to what he’d been doing.

‘It helped that your lovely colleague here knew what time Mr Fielding and his friend left the Scotston Hotel.’ The guard tapped a couple of buttons and the right-hand screen flickered to reveal an image of the lobby, a timestamp in the corner ticking up from half past nine the night before. It didn’t take long before the image showed the front door swing open and two people walk in. If he hadn’t been able to see their faces, McLean might not have believed that it was the same Tommy Fielding and Gail Elmwood he had heard such lurid tales about. They clung to each other like teenage lovers, almost stumbling to the lift and chatting animatedly as they waited for it to arrive.

‘Nothing much happens for about an hour.’ Harry the guard tapped the keys again, the only thing on the screen that changed being the timestamp. After a moment, the lift door opened and Elmwood stepped out alone. She paused for long enough to straighten her jacket and roll her shoulders, then walked to the door and out of the building.

‘Is that the only camera? There’s nothing on the landing upstairs?’ McLean asked.

‘Oh, aye. I’ll put that up next, but it’s much the same thing.’ Harry the guard tapped his