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

other one on his jacket. He looked around for the waitress to ask for something soft, since he’d driven over, but she had disappeared.

‘Ladies, gentlemen.’ The chief superintendent tapped a fingernail against her own glass to bring the hubbub of conversation to a close. All eyes turned to her, and as they did so McLean could see the faces of the rest of her invited guests. There were a couple he remembered from the Safe Streets reception, and through a gap in the crowd he briefly spied Mrs Saifre at the back of the room. It made a certain sense that she would be here; Elmwood was exactly the type of person Jane Louise Dee would try to sink her corrupting hooks into. More surprising, though, was the man McLean saw standing beside her. What on earth was Lord Bairnfather doing here?

‘Thank you all for coming along this evening,’ Elmwood continued. She stood beside McLean, almost uncomfortably close still. So much so that he could feel the heat coming off her, smell the champagne on her breath as she spoke.

‘It’s been almost two months now since I arrived in this city. A stranger, unknown and unknowing. Each and every one of you here has helped me in one way or another. By welcoming me warmly,’ and here the chief superintendent waved her glass in the direction of the chief constable. ‘By managing the transfer from my predecessor,’ she swung the glass around like a searchlight until it pointed at McIntyre. ‘By introducing me to this wonderful city. And this wonderful house.’ The glass swung back until it wavered in the direction of Lord Bairnfather, which at least explained why he was there. ‘And by keeping me on my toes, eh, Tony?’

McLean froze as Elmwood reached around his shoulders and pulled him to her, which had the unfortunate effect of upsetting her balance so that she ended up leaning heavily into him, almost falling over. Never particularly happy in the limelight, even so he had no choice but to either catch her and help her steady herself, or let her tumble to the floor in an undignified mess. The latter was sorely tempting.

‘Oops. Silly me,’ Elmwood said once she had extricated herself. ‘I always forget how to wear heels after a week in sensible shoes.’

As she said those last two words, she darted a look across the room towards where Detective Superintendent McIntyre stood. McLean was sure he couldn’t have been the only one who understood the veiled insult.

‘Anyway. Where was I?’ Elmwood stood up straight again, her attitude professional, not a hint of what he had assumed was a touch too much to drink about her any more. ‘What we’re really here for is to celebrate another milestone in the career of one of Scotland’s foremost female officers. Kirsty? Are you there? Or should I say Detective Chief Inspector Ritchie?’

The room spluttered into a round of applause that sounded more embarrassed than heartfelt. Was this something they did regularly in the Met? McLean couldn’t be sure, but he doubted it. The contrast with his own promotion couldn’t have been more marked. That had been born out of desperation after the then head of their branch of Specialist Crime Division had gone off the rails and almost beaten a man to death in the cells. There’d been no party, no presentation, and he’d been absolutely fine with that.

Newly anointed DCI Ritchie came forward as the chief superintendent beckoned her. She raised the ghost of an eyebrow at McLean as she passed him, and he took the opportunity of her being the focus of attention to slip away. He made it to where McIntyre stood before Ritchie began to give a carefully rehearsed impromptu speech.

‘We should all be down the pub with the rest of the team,’ he muttered.

‘There’ll be time enough for that, Tony. You can buy everyone a drink when the Cecily Slater case is wound down.’

‘About that. How did we not know that Elmwood and Lord Bairnfather were connected? He’s Slater’s nephew. What if he decides to kick up a fuss?’

‘Then I’m sure your new best friend will smooth things over. Really, Tony, you want to watch yourself with that one.’

‘I seem to remember it was you insisted I come to this . . . thing.’ McLean shrugged at the room. ‘I can think of much better ways to be spending my evening, and I’m sure you and Susan can too.’

McIntyre grimaced at the mention of her wife. ‘Sensible shoes, my arse.’ She threw back the last of her champagne and looked around for another.

‘Here.’ McLean handed her his own, untouched drink. ‘Never did much like the stuff anyway. Something to eat wouldn’t go amiss though.’

Another round of applause dragged their attention back to Ritchie, who was being congratulated by the chief constable. As if by magic, the waiting staff who had been plying everyone with drinks now reappeared with trays of canapés. He grabbed what he could, but drew the line at filling his pockets when McIntyre suggested it.

‘I’ll pick up a kebab on the way home. Not hanging around here any longer than I actually need to.’

‘Make an effort, Tony. It’s only one evening, and it’s not as if Emma’s waiting at home for you.’ McIntyre went to look at her watch, then realised doing so would tip her champagne on the floor. ‘You heard from her much? She getting on OK?’

‘Yes, she called yesterday. Sounds like she’s having a whale of a time. Can’t say that digging through trenches of decaying bodies is my idea of fun, but I think she was feeling a bit stifled here in Edinburgh. Change of scene’s doing her a world of good.’

‘You should go join her.’ McIntyre must have seen the look of horror on McLean’s face, as she quickly added, ‘Once she’s finished at the dig. Take a couple of weeks’ holiday. Maybe a month. Go on safari or something.’

McLean opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. It wasn’t all