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

blame her. The farmers will blame her for the weather and the fishermen for their poor catches. Same as they have blamed her for every little thing that has gone wrong in their lives even as they have turned to her for help with their ailments.

‘Well, do you recant, witch?’

She looks at the man in surprise. Had she really forgotten he was here? She has let her mind wander too soon. It would be easy enough to sing his song, take an easy death, quick and clean. Except that she no more believes in his mercy than she does his intelligence. This is a show for the people, not an exercise in leniency for her. He wants to extract a confession and repentance from her so that he can show them he is in charge, doing the Lord’s work. And the king’s. Well, they will all be disappointed this day.

She fixes him with a stare that would stop a rampaging bull. ‘A plague upon you, and all of your kind. I cannot recant that which I have never done, and neither will anything I say change your blinkered mind.’

He recoils as if her words sting. Good. She wants him to remember this day. May it haunt him for what remains of his short and miserable life. He says nothing, but sheathes his sword and then beckons for the torch. For one slow breath she thinks he is going to prolong the moment, perhaps give her one more chance to play his game. But instead he merely shrugs before setting the pyre alight.

15

McLean was on his way to his office, carrying his canteen spoils of freshly brewed coffee and still warm chocolate muffin, when he heard his name being called. He stopped walking, took two steps back until he could see in through the open door to where Detective Sergeant Sandy Gregg stood, one hand clasped over the mouthpiece of her desk phone as if the mute button had never been invented.

‘Were you wanting me?’ he asked.

‘Aye, sorry to shout, sir, only I saw you passing and thought you’d want to know about this.’

McLean doubted that. Unless it was news that someone had handed themselves in with a signed confession and hard evidence they’d murdered Cecily Slater. Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Well?’

‘There’s a dead body. Basement flat in Meadowbank. First officer on the scene called it in as – and I quote – “bloody weird”.’

‘Weird how?’

‘Something about the body being almost burned away, but no real damage to the room? To be honest, sir, he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense.’

McLean dragged his gaze away from the telephone handset. Gregg must have been about to call someone, rather than having them on hold while she spoke to him. Maybe it’d been him she was going to call. ‘Who’s the officer?’

‘Sergeant Gatford, sir. Which is why I thought I’d bring it to your attention. Don’s usually steady, even if he should have retired years ago. He sounded fair spooked on the phone. Said it was the sort of thing you’d know how to deal with.’ Gregg put the emphasis on the pronoun, just in case McLean missed the point.

‘You got an address?’

Gregg finally put the handset back on its cradle and peeled a Post-it note from the stack sitting beside the phone, then stuck it to the side of his coffee mug. At least her handwriting was neat. She held up a hand before McLean could get his next question in.

‘Tied up with stuff at the moment, sir. And I’ve a case review with DI Ritchie starting in ten minutes.’

McLean looked around the CID room, remembering a time when it had bustled with detectives. Now most of the desks were empty, but not all of them. A lone figure near the back was trying to hide behind his monitor, but there was no way someone so tall could shrink enough not to be seen.

‘You busy, Constable?’ he asked as DC Blane gave up the fight and sat straight.

‘Nothing that can’t wait, sir.’

‘OK then. Sort out a pool car and I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes.’ He looked at the coffee and muffin. Still fresh and warm. He’d been hoping to savour them while getting up to speed on what needed doing today. Best laid plans and all that. ‘Better make it ten.’

Tucked in under the shadow of Meadowbank Stadium, the tenements of Cambusnethan Street were in the main tidy, although they might also have been described as tired. A century and more of Auld Reekie’s smoke had blackened the stone facades, and the mixture of old-fashioned sash windows and more modern uPVC replacements marked out the different ownership of the individual flats as clearly as any signpost. It wasn’t hard to find the address they were looking for; a stream of white boiler-suited forensic technicians were ferrying equipment from a pair of battered vans, past a police cordon and in through a gap in the railings where they disappeared down into a basement. McLean was glad he’d parked on Lower London Road and walked the rest of the way. No one was going to drive down the length of the street any time soon.

‘You got the message then, sir. Good.’ Police Sergeant Don Gatford met them at the cordon tape with a smile that was a mixture of relief and nervousness. McLean hadn’t worked directly with the man for many years, but he was a solid and reliable officer.

‘What have you got for me, Don? The message said weird.’

‘Aye, and I don’t think I can describe it. Dead body, burned, but there’s no sign of a fire in the room.’

‘You think they were killed elsewhere and brought here?’

Gatford shrugged his shoulders, gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘I don’t think so, sir. Best if you see for yourself.’

‘Do we know who it is?’

‘Aye, sir.’ Gatford looked relieved to be back on familiar territory. He pulled out his notebook and leafed through the pages until he found the