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

day, then added to his tally by upsetting Elmwood as well. Hardly surprising he was being punished. A black mark against his record of successful investigations, and a ninety-year-old woman whose killers would walk free.

Or was there something more sinister at play? A thread that turned a series of unlikely coincidences into something more deliberate?

He retrieved his phone from his pocket and flicked through the screens until he found what he was looking for. He’d been expecting to have to copy the number over, perhaps even writing it down on a scrap of paper first, but the phone seemed to know what it was doing better than he did, highlighting the line in the text from Jo Dalgliesh. Clever little thing. He tapped it, and the ring tone echoed through the empty car even as he held the handset up to his ear.

‘Martin residence, who’s speaking?’ A woman’s voice, sounding a little tired if he was any judge. Although that might have been the echo effect of the hands-free system.

‘Oh, hello. This is Detective Inspector Tony McLean, from Edinburgh CID. I was wondering if I might speak to Mr Simon Martin?’

A moment’s silence, followed by the scratchy crumpling noise of a handset being pressed against material to mute what was being said. Presumably a woolly jumper, since it wasn’t particularly effective. McLean could distinctly hear the woman’s voice shout ‘Simon? It’s the police. Some detective from local CID? I don’t know, do I?’ The scratchy noise ceased, and the woman’s voice came back clear again. ‘He’s on his way.’ Then silence.

McLean stared out the windscreen at the empty car park. He should probably switch off hands free just in case. He’d barely tapped the screen before a voice sounded, only in the handset this time.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Martin? I’m sorry to bother you. It’s Detective Inspector McLean here. From Edinburgh CID. Well, Specialist Crime, but that’s just another name for the same thing.’

‘Hah. It’s nice to hear some things never change. They do love messing around the department names, don’t they? Was there something you wanted, Detective Inspector? Only I don’t know if you realised, but I left the force a couple of decades ago. Retired completely last year.’

‘I do know that, sir. And I’m sorry to disturb you. I was just wondering if I might be able to ask you a few questions about Gail Elmwood.’

If it hadn’t been for the icon on the dashboard screen indicating that a call was still in progress, McLean might have assumed Martin had hung up, such was the silence that followed. He waited it out, knowing that the longer the man stayed on the line, the greater the chance of his agreeing to talk.

‘That’s a name I’ve not heard in a while,’ Martin said finally. ‘A name I’d hoped never to hear again, if I’m being honest.’

‘I take it you’re not aware that she’s currently serving as chief superintendent based in Edinburgh, then.’

Another silence, but shorter this time. ‘And let me guess, she’s making trouble? You a drinking man, McLean?’

‘I’m a detective inspector with twenty-five years’ experience, sir. What do you think?’

Something like a chuckle echoed down the line at that, which was an improvement on the silence. ‘I like to go to my local of an evening. Gets me out of the house, gives Jean a bit of free time now she can’t send me off to work every day. Can’t manage it tonight, but this is your number, right? I’ll drop you a text in the next day or so. Buy me a drink, and you can explain to me why a time-served detective inspector wants to know about his boss’s past, and if you’re really lucky I might tell you what I know about her.’

47

Low grey clouds threatened rain and the wind whipped at the tops of the narrow conifer trees as McLean drove Emma’s little electric Renault through the gates of Mortonhall Crematorium. Beside him in the passenger seat, DS Harrison had spent the short journey from the police station furiously sending and receiving texts, presumably in an attempt to explain to DCI Ritchie why she wasn’t available for the next couple of hours. Kirsty would accept it, of course. Harrison had been the first plain clothes officer on the scene, and had led the early stages of the investigation. If anyone should be there to pay her last respects and apologies to the dead woman for their failure to bring her killers to justice, it was her.

It had surprised him to learn that Cecily Slater was to be cremated; McLean had assumed there would be a large Bairnfather family crypt somewhere for her to be laid to rest alongside her illustrious ancestors, and a long drawn out funeral service in St Giles’s Cathedral. But then he remembered how she had lived her life, and the most likely reason she had fled Bairnfather Hall in the first place, as a seven-year-old girl. Perhaps ashes scattered somewhere peaceful would be preferable to an eternity in the company of her abusive father.

Not many people had turned out to see the old lady off. Lord Bairnfather was there, of course, avoiding McLean’s eye. His estate manager, Charlie McPherson, had accompanied him, along with Tam Uist and his wife. A few other people waited in the cold car park for the previous funeral to finish, the large figure of Madame Rose among them.

‘Good morning, Tony. Janie,’ she said as she approached the car. ‘Thought you two might be here for this.’

‘I was senior investigating officer. Still am, technically, since the case hasn’t been closed. We try to show face at these things when it seems like the right thing to do. I have to admit I’m surprised to see you here. Did you know Cecily Slater well?’

Rose shook her head. ‘Not well, no. She shunned society, didn’t much care for people really. I think the last time I spoke to her at any great length must have been in the sixties.’

‘But you’ve come to