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

screen indicating an incoming call. He was sorely tempted to let it go to voicemail, but he knew some nettles were best grasped straight away. Before it could ring off, he grabbed the handset up again.

‘Afternoon, Jo. It’s been a while. I take it this isn’t a social call.’

McLean was only half joking about it having been a while. Jo Dalgliesh, sometime reporter for the Edinburgh Tribune, although more freelance these days, had been all over his story in the summer, thwarting all attempts by the high heidyins to hush the whole thing up and hope nobody noticed. He had fed her a few choice details on the understanding she kept his name out of it as much as possible, and fair play to her, she’d stuck to the deal so well this was the first time they’d spoken in months.

‘You driving? Only I heard that posh car of yours got nicked and then parked in a shop window. That’s got to be embarrassing for Police Scotland, hasn’t it?’

‘That what you wanted to talk about? My stolen car? Only, I’m not exactly in the loop on that investigation.’

‘No, no. You’re still trying to find out who killed that old wifey up at Bairnfather, aren’t you? Heard that wasn’t going so well. What’s it been? A month? Two? Shouldn’t you have arrested someone by now?’

McLean had known Jo Dalgliesh a long time, and the fire of hatred towards her that had burned for years had more or less extinguished itself. She had her uses, and was on balance one of the more reliable and less back-stabbing of the journalists he’d dealt with in recent years. There were times, however, when she reminded him of why she had been such a thorn in his side for so long, even if she had saved his life from a homicidal maniac with a very sharp knife once.

‘Cut to the chase, will you, Dalgliesh? I’m a busy man.’

‘Aye, well. Fair enough. We’re all busy these days. And being the busy kind, I heard on the grapevine that you attended an unexplained death this morning. Over Fountainbridge way.’

‘We’re not viewing it as suspicious, if that’s what you’re after. Can’t really comment until the post-mortem’s done.’

‘So you can’t deny or confirm that the deceased in question is Brian “Mad Bastard” Galloway then?’

Sometimes he wondered why Dalgliesh bothered calling him. She’d not have asked the question if she hadn’t already known the answer, and so this was either a bid to get a little extra inside knowledge, or her annoying way of letting him know the story was about to hit the papers and other news media. He was surprised it hadn’t already. Social media usually knew what was going on long before the police did.

‘There’ll be an official announcement soon enough. But since next of kin have been informed, I guess I can confirm it.’

‘Rumour has it he overdosed and died in his armchair. Staring out the window at the wreck of his life.’

‘We haven’t found any evidence of anything stronger than a prescription painkiller. The exact cause of death won’t be known until they’ve carried out the post-mortem. I expect that’ll be tomorrow, after which there’ll be a full press release for you lot to spin however you want.’

‘Is that a note of sarcasm I hear in your voice, Tony?’

‘Not really, Jo. I know how you operate. This is celebrity gossip, not news. You need to put as much lip gloss on it as you can, right?’

A moment’s pause as the barb sunk deep. ‘Anyone ever tell you how much of a cynic you are?’

‘It may have been mentioned a few times. Mostly by you.’ McLean knew the conversation was coming to a close if Dalgliesh was resorting to old insults. He was relieved at the thought of dismissing her from his mind, whilst oddly grateful to her for reminding him that the press would have more interest in Galloway’s death than they might in Don Purefoy or Steve Whitaker. Or Cecily Slater for that matter. He was about to say goodbye and hang up, when a thought occurred to him.

‘You’re looking for an angle on Galloway, right?’

‘Is the Pope Catholic? Aye, of course I’m looking for an angle. Not that you’d ever give me much.’

McLean ignored the insult. ‘Well maybe I can point you somewhere. It’s nothing I actually know, so don’t come crying to me if it doesn’t pan out. But let me give you two names to add to Mad Bastard.’

‘Hang on. Let me get a pen. Need to write this down. A lasting memento of the one time Tony McLean was helpful.’

‘Very funny, Dalgliesh. Two names. That’s all I’ve got. The rest you’ll have to find out for yourself.’

‘Go on then. The suspense is killing me.’

‘Tommy Fielding. Gail Elmwood.’

Another silence, longer this time. McLean glanced around the office, saw the door wide open on to the corridor that led a short distance to his superior’s office. This wasn’t how he liked to work, but she was forcing his hand.

‘Gail new chief superintendent Elmwood?’ Dalgliesh’s voice was husky and McLean pictured her drawing on her vape.

‘And Tommy Dad’s Army Fielding. Yes. Like I said, might be nothing, and you didn’t get it from me if it turns out to be something. I wouldn’t mind a heads-up, though.’

‘Aye. Sure. I’d better be off then. Speak later, Tony.’

McLean opened his mouth to say ‘bye’, but the line was dead.

Perhaps to try and atone for his conversation with Dalgliesh, McLean spent the rest of the afternoon diligently working his way through the paperwork that had begun swamping his desk. Every few minutes he’d pause and glance at the door, but no one came in. No one even walked past, as far as he could tell. Chances were that the chief superintendent was away at Gartcosh anyway, and nobody had heard him mention her name and Fielding’s to one of the city’s more persistent muckraking journalists.

Finally it was time to head to the major incident room