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

was just a house fire, too. So we weren’t exactly searching for clues from the off.’

‘I know. And I’m not looking to lay blame anywhere. But we need to get a grip on things. Forensics haven’t turned up anything useful, there’s no CCTV in the woods, more’s the pity, and the only potential witness we’ve got is a cat who’s keen on eating but less so on talking.’ That got a murmur of laughter that died away as quickly as it deserved.

‘What we do have is a ninety-year-old reclusive woman who was viciously beaten, then doused in petrol and set on fire. That’s not something you do because you’ve been disturbed while burgling a house. That’s an act of hatred and rage, which suggests a killer who knew the victim.’

‘Suggests they were looking for her, too,’ DC Stringer added. ‘I mean, they knew where she lived and set out to get her. Nobody’s going to stumble on that place by accident. Especially not with the bridge collapsed. That would mean they planned it, so we need to ask why? And why now?’

‘Who stands to gain from her death?’ The question came from DC Mitchell, which at least showed some initiative.

‘That’s a question I’d hoped we’d have answers to by now, really,’ McLean said. ‘The cottage is part of the Bairnfather Estate, which I understand is largely held in trust. We need to tug on that string a bit harder, find out how it’s run. Carefully though. Lord Bairnfather’s a rich and powerful man who’ll no doubt complain if we poke our noses in where he thinks they don’t belong.’

‘Is that not up to us to decide, sir?’ Mitchell asked.

‘It is indeed. And since we’ve nothing else, I reckon we’ll have to follow the money. Think that’s your area of expertise, Lofty?’

The tall detective constable tilted his head in weary acknowledgement. ‘Aye, sir. I’ll get on that. Could maybe do with some help with the Whitaker case if I’m to concentrate on Slater, mind.’

‘Whitaker?’ McLean took an embarrassing moment to recognise the name. ‘Oh, the burned body in the basement. That was next on the agenda, actually. Where are we with that? Is it looking suspicious, or just weird?’

‘No’ sure, sir. Post-mortem’s not ’til later this afternoon. We’ve done some background on him though.’

‘Executive summary?’ McLean asked, ever hopeful. Blane looked across at Harrison, who had already produced a sheaf of papers. Fresh from the printer, if the slight whiff of ozone when she shuffled them was anything to go by.

‘Steven Whitaker. Thirty-two years old. Married to Miranda, with whom he has— had a daughter, Senga Jane, aged eighteen months. Whitaker was investigated just over six months ago after his wife claimed that he had abused his daughter. His laptop was found to contain several hundred indecent images, mostly of pre-pubescent and very young adolescent girls being forced to perform sexual acts.’

‘How the hell didn’t we know this as soon as his name and address came through Control?’ McLean asked. ‘He should have been on the register, shouldn’t he?’

‘Hasn’t made it to court yet, so it’s all still under review. Whitaker’s defence claims his wife planted the images on the laptop, and since she has access to it that can’t be ruled out. There’s only her word he abused their daughter, too. No medical evidence, apparently. She got an interim order keeping him away from the child, and was in the process of suing him for divorce. He’d been charged on the laptop, but the case is complicated. Word is the PF was thinking about dropping it altogether, but in the meantime he was to keep away from wife and daughter.’

‘Hence living in a pokey wee basement flat in Meadowbank.’ McLean stared sightlessly at the closely typed sheets of paper in his hand. ‘We know where he worked?’

‘Aye. He was an electrical engineer, working on the St James site. The new hotel.’

‘A sparky?’ McLean pictured the burned remains. Could something electrical have done that? A question for the pathologist. ‘How about his last movements?’

‘According to the neighbour, he didn’t have people round to the flat,’ Blane chipped in. ‘She said she wasn’t sure, but she thought he got in about eleven the night he died. She’s a nosey old woman, mind, so I reckon she’ll be pretty accurate on that. Told me the smell woke her up, and she went down to complain about it at six in the morning. She saw what was left of him through the window. Control logged her call at ten past six, so that makes sense.’

‘OK. So Stephen Whitaker somehow managed to burn himself to death without setting the tenement, his room or even the chair he was sitting in on fire.’ McLean massaged his temples. He’d known this was going to be one of those awkward cases from the moment he’d seen the body, but what they’d found out so far only made it worse. ‘When’s the PM?’

DC Blane glanced at his watch. ‘Half three, sir. You want me to go?’

McLean was tempted, but shook his head. ‘No, you get on with Cecily Slater’s financials. DC Mitchell, Cassandra? You help him. The rest of you keep working on her profile for any possible motive. We need to focus our attention on her, at least until we know whether Whitaker’s death was accidental or not. I’ll go and see if Angus can explain how a man can just spontaneously burst into flames.’

Despite the state-of-the-art air conditioning system in the city mortuary, McLean could smell the stench of burned flesh before he even entered the examination theatre. Angus was waiting for him, scrubs on and gloved up. Beside him, his assistant Doctor Sharp busied herself with the instruments of torture. A third figure sat on a stool a few paces away and waved as McLean entered. Doctor MacPhail had started to go grey since the last time they’d met, no doubt the strain of working alongside a man like Cadwallader.

‘Late as ever, Tony. I was