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

assume the male officer was the most senior. ‘This is my colleague Detective Constable Blane. I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with the protesters outside, sir.’

‘A bit of trouble?’ Fielding hardly glanced at her, and the sneer in his voice was plain enough. ‘Those witches have been camped outside for days now, shouting obscenities at anyone who comes into the hotel. I’m trying to run a conference here and half my delegates have been scared off already.’

Janie doubted any of it was true, apart from the bit about running a conference. As far as she was aware, no one at the hotel had lodged a complaint so far, and the women were loud at times, but mostly peaceful. More to the point, the place where they were holding their vigil, or hurling abuse, was a public square. Moving them on would be tricky even if she wanted to, and so far Fielding had given her little reason.

‘I’ll go and speak to them, sir. Ask them to disperse, or at the very least to stop harassing people.’ She took out her notebook and opened it to a blank page, fully intending it remain that way. ‘When does your conference begin? I’m sure we can arrange for a few officers to be on hand.’

Fielding finally stopped staring at Lofty and fixed her with a glare that might have been frightening had she not faced down far worse on football match duty back in her uniform days. Nothing quite like an Old Firm derby to bring out the feral beast in a man, and Janie knew how to deal with it. She smiled sweetly, until he broke the stare.

‘The conference programme starts tomorrow morning, but folk have already started arriving. Those . . .’ he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of outside ‘. . . had better not cause any more trouble. The chief constable will hear of it. Mark my words, Detective Sergeant Harrison.’

The threat in naming her was about as subtle as herpes. Janie closed up her notebook and slipped it into her pocket, never once taking her eyes off the loathsome man, nor the condescending smile from her face. ‘I’ll be sure to bear that in mind, Mr Fielding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better have a word with the ladies outside.’

The side entrance to the Scotston Hotel took them back out to the small square that some optimistic city planner had shoehorned into the redevelopment strategy for the area. Perhaps in high summer it was pleasant enough to sit on the concrete benches, under the struggling plane trees, and eat a quick sandwich before heading back to the office. As autumn merged into winter, it was a grey and unforgiving expanse, all dark whinstone paving and brutally hard landscaping, what little light there was blocked out by the glass-fronted high-rise office and apartment blocks all around it. Into this forbidding space, a band of women had descended to make their protest at the event being held in the hotel.

They were an odd bunch. Janie scanned the crowd, again looking for the familiar flash of red hair, not finding it. The old grannies seemed to have left, and the whole assembly had the feel of breaking up about it, apart from a core of women who clustered around one of the concrete benches. She approached, expecting hostility, but as she neared the group, one of the women turned and smiled.

‘It’s Janie Harrison, isn’t it? Well, this is a surprise.’

Caught on the back foot, Janie stared at the woman. She was vaguely familiar, but the name remained elusive. Taller than Janie, she carried herself with an easy elegance, and wore clothing that managed to be fashionable in a grungy kind of way, while at the same time being perfectly suited to the cold weather. It was her face that caught Janie’s attention though, or more specifically her eyes. They had a strange, purple tint to them that had to be contact lenses, surely.

‘I’m being unfair.’ The woman held out a slender hand, wrist wrapped in bangles. ‘Meghan Turner. I’m Hattie’s wife. We met briefly at the dig site up in the hills this summer, I think.’

‘I thought you were in Africa.’ Janie took the proffered hand, feeling the warmth and strength in the other woman’s grip. She was an artist, wasn’t she? A sculptor? Something like that.

‘Heavens, no. Hattie wanted me to go, but I’ve had quite enough of Africa for now. And this is so much more important.’ Meghan waved at the crowd, the square, the hotel in one all-encompassing expansive gesture.

‘About that.’ Janie reminded herself that this was police business. ‘We’ve had quite a few complaints, you know? And you’re pushing the boundaries of breaching the peace.’

Meghan stared at her for a while, not unfriendly so much as sizing her up. ‘You know what’s going on in there, right?’

‘A perfectly legal seminar on men’s rights. Morally repugnant as it is, what Mr Fielding is doing isn’t against the law. This, however . . .’ Janie nodded towards the crowd, but said no more.

‘Morally repugnant. I like that.’ The older woman smiled.

‘He called you witches. I take that as a personal insult. Still have to do my job, mind.’

Meghan’s smile grew even wider, and was it just a trick of the light, or did the purple of her eyes seem to deepen? ‘Oh, but we are witches, Janie. That’s the whole point.’

7

‘I’ll no’ be staying long, aye? Get myself sorted wi’ a place soon as all the paperwork’s done.’

Gary stands in the middle of Bazza’s untidy living room and stares at the threadbare couch. He’s been here a thousand times before and never really noticed what a dump it is. It smells weird too, a mixture of stale food, farts and sour, spilled beer.

‘Aye, no worries, pal. You stay as long as you need.’ Bazza slaps him on the shoulder, then seems to notice the few items of clothing spread over the couch. He picks them up one