What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

‘He did,’ McLean lied. Well, not exactly lied. DC Stringer’s interview transcripts would have been logged and filed and were probably in a report somewhere on his desk. It wasn’t the same as being there when the questions were asked, seeing the face of the person doing the answering. McPherson was a little too ingratiating, and his slicked back hair and vintage suit were trying too hard, but he didn’t come across as someone being deliberately unhelpful or obstructive. He didn’t even seem to be anxious that a police presence might upset the guests at his hotel, which was perhaps a little suspicious. There was nothing more to be learned here though, of that McLean was sure.

‘I’m sorry if it feels like we’re going over old ground, Mr McPherson. Sometimes a key detail gets overlooked; an insignificant thing turns out to be important after all. Policing is all about the little things. Much like running a hotel, I’d think.’ He stood up, and beside him Harrison hurriedly finished scribbling her notes. McPherson accompanied them to the office door but stopped himself from escorting them to the exit. McLean was glad he didn’t offer a damp hand to shake again.

‘Thank you for your time.’ He made to turn away, then stopped. ‘Oh, one other thing. Lord Bairnfather is your boss, you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently? About his aunt?’

McPherson’s head drooped low. ‘The same morning your constable came around. It was not a happy conversation.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Your constable— oh, Lord Bairnfather.’ McPherson checked his watch, which McLean thought was probably unnecessary. ‘Somewhere over the Pacific, I expect. He was in Tokyo when I called him, had some crucial meetings in America on his way home. He’ll come straight here as soon as he lands in the UK. He was most distraught.’

And yet he’s taken his time coming home, not let it interfere with his business.

‘Does he own all this?’ McLean raised both hands to indicate the hotel.

‘Well, the hall and estate are in trust, but in essence yes. One of his companies runs the hotel business.’

‘And the gamekeeper’s cottage? That’s part of the estate.’

‘Correct. Lady Cecily was also a beneficiary of the trust. Her right to live there was part of her inheritance.’

McLean said nothing more. He nodded his thanks, then turned and walked away across the great hall.

12

Apart from the damp and cold, it would have been a nice walk from Bairnfather Hall to the gamekeeper’s cottage, had the bridge not collapsed and the recent rain made the river too deep to ford. There was no sign of Tam Uist and his tractor either, so they took the car instead. Driving around to the forestry tracks and walking up through the woods took almost three quarters of an hour. Climbing the path through trees dripping with condensed fog left them both soaked, although Harrison’s coat appeared to be a lot more water repellent than McLean’s. He turned up his collar to try and stop the water going down the back of his neck, with little success. By the time he stepped into the clearing, McLean was ready to give the whole thing up as a bad job.

‘What do you suppose will happen to the place?’ Harrison asked as they approached the ruined cottage. Rain had washed away some of the soot and taken with it any smell of charred wood and burned carpet. The props holding up the ceiling inside had been joined now by some rusty old scaffolding around the most collapsed corner of the building, but it seemed a half-hearted effort at best.

‘I imagine they’ll most likely demolish it and build something new on the plot. Unless it’s a listed building, in which case they’ll probably try to get out of having to rebuild it.’

‘It’s not listed,’ Harrison said. ‘Lofty checked already. Part of the background search on Slater. Lady Cecily, I should say.’

‘I rather think she wanted to leave all that behind, don’t you? Why else live in a run-down old place like this?’ McLean walked slowly around the building, not quite sure what it was he was looking for but certain he would know it when he saw it. Only the crime scene tape remained to suggest anything more untoward than a house fire had happened.

‘What are we looking for?’ Harrison echoed his thoughts. She’d taken a few paces in the other direction from him, as if to skirt around the ruins to the back door along the path worn by countless recent visitors. Now she stood uncertain, since he’d not followed her.

‘Anything that was missed before. Some better clue as to who she was, and why someone would want to kill her. Too much to hope forensics missed a hidden security camera.’ He’d meant it as a joke, but Harrison’s face suggested she’d taken it seriously. He shooed her off in the direction she’d been going. ‘You go that way, I’ll meet you at the door.’

The side of the house was taken up by an overgrown vegetable and fruit garden. Once-tidy gravel paths linked a series of raised beds, but the weeds were reclaiming it all. McLean didn’t know much about gardening, but he managed to identify some caterpillar ravaged cabbages and what he suspected might have been brussels sprouts in among the grass and thistles, although they were purple rather than the green things he’d hated so much at boarding school. A couple of the tall sprout shoots had been broken in half, and the more he looked around, the more he saw evidence of careless feet trampling the ground. Had forensics been over this part of the scene? Stupid question, really. Of course they would have, but a week after the event when the rains would have washed any useful evidence away.

An old wooden lean-to shed had been built on to the gable wall of the house on this side. Protected from the fire by thick stone walls, it had