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

‘Not as such, sir. We’ve extended the archive search, but the most recent mention of her name I’ve found is a newspaper report about her brother’s funeral in 1984, so we’re pretty much stumped for useful background information. Can’t find much motive in the financials, either. She didn’t care about money, and the only beneficiary of her will’s already rolling in it. Gains nothing from her death.’

Nothing he hadn’t already known. McLean considered Detective Superintendent McIntyre’s words to him in the canteen, and the thoughts they had provoked. ‘Let’s go further back in her life then. See if we can’t wring something out of the Burntwoods angle. Only, don’t spend too long chasing it down.’

‘They’re closing the case?’ Harrison asked. So cynical for one so young.

‘Murder cases are never closed, you know that. They just get sidelined by other work and quietly slip down to the basement.’

‘Seems a bit early though, doesn’t it? We’ve barely scratched the surface of this one.’

‘I know. And I’ll fight our corner as long as I can. But unless we get a substantial lead from somewhere soon, we’re only going round in circles.’

McLean could see that the two detectives weren’t happy about it, and the quiet that had descended on the room suggested none of the other officers working the case were either. A quick look at the whiteboard wall reminded him of the messy corpse that had been left behind by whoever had taken out their anger on Cecily Slater. He wanted to find that person, or persons, and put them away. He wanted justice for the old woman so that she could rest in peace. So that he could rest in peace, more like. And yet sometimes you had to know when to let go.

‘One other thing, Janie,’ he said, as the detective sergeant began to turn away. She immediately snapped her attention back to him.

‘Sir?’

‘I hear you were looking into an incident in the Old Town a few days back. Two drunkards falling down some steps and doing themselves damage.’

Harrison wasn’t good at putting on an innocent face, but she gave it her best shot. ‘Aye, sir. Wasn’t really anything much. Just following up a complaint for a friend. Kir— DI Ritchie told me to drop it, so I did.’

McLean knew there was a great deal more to the story than that; Kirsty had bent his ear at great length about his corrupting influence. ‘You spoke to one of the men, yes?’

‘Christopher Allan, sir. He confirmed the story about the accident. Nasty injuries, though.’

‘The other one. Was his name Brian Galloway, by any chance? Lives in Fountainbridge?’

‘Aye, sir. Downfield Street . . .’ Harrison’s voice trailed away, her mouth staying open as the implications caught up with her.

‘Well there’s no point in trying to talk to him any more. He’s dead. Possibly a bad reaction to his painkillers, but we won’t know until the post-mortem’s done. Of course it’s equally possible that he died of the injuries inflicted on him when he accidentally fell down the steps of Fleshmarket Close. If that is indeed what happened.’

‘Oh.’ Harrison joined the dots.

‘This friend of yours with the complaint. What was that about, and where are they now?’

‘I . . . Umm . . . She’s at mine and Manda’s place. She crashed there the night of the attack. I sort of said it was OK for her to stay a while if she wanted.’

‘That’s very decent of you.’

‘Aye, well she was staying with Madame Rose, but she said the house was doing her head in. That’s why—’

‘Rose?’ McLean interrupted. ‘How does she know Rose? Who is this friend of yours?’

Harrison paused a moment before answering, and McLean could see the thoughts tumbling across her face. There shouldn’t have been any harm in him knowing the name. Even if it turned out Galloway’s injuries had proved the ultimate cause of his death, he was on record as saying he got them falling down steps in a drunken stupor. No point in trying to prosecute anyone for that other than himself. And yet something was bothering Harrison.

‘I need background on Galloway for the Procurator Fiscal. If you want me to keep your friend’s name out of that, Janie, I’ll need a good reason why. Better than Rose, for sure.’

‘Her name’s Izzy. Isobel DeVilliers.’

Well, that was a better reason.

‘She’s Con Fairchild’s half-sister, sir. You remember, that nastiness with the evangelists back in the spring?’

‘I’m aware of who she is. What’s she doing in Edinburgh?’

‘Well she was part of the crowd protesting against Tommy Fielding. I’m guessing that’s why he set a couple of his goons on her. Pity they didn’t know she could more than look out for herself.’

McLean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in the hope that it would all go away. It didn’t.

‘Detective Sergeant,’ he began, then realised that the entire room was listening in avidly. ‘Can we discuss this in my office?’ He gestured towards the door at the exact moment that it opened and the chief superintendent stepped in, closely followed by DI Ritchie. Elmwood had a scowl on her face that morphed into a broad smile the moment she saw him. Not a hello old friend smile, though. This was more of an I’ve got you now grin of triumph.

‘There you are, Tony. I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.’ She patted Ritchie on the shoulder in the manner of a schoolmistress sending the admonished pupil back to her seat in the class, then turned her attention fully on him. ‘Come on then. I think you owe me a report?’

36

‘What exactly is your relationship with Brian Galloway, ma’am?’

McLean stood in front of the chief superintendent’s desk, much as he had done many times before over the long years of his career. This had been Duguid’s office once, then Detective Chief Superintendent Brooks had taken it over. That was before all the restructuring of Police Scotland had ended up with a deputy chief constable being assigned this station as their centre of operations, and of course the first one