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

had changed in those intervening years. This part of town was no longer the haunt of prostitutes, at least not the sort who hung around on street corners and knew which hotels wouldn’t ask questions as long as the money was right. The old railway marshalling yards and the McEwan’s distillery were gone, modern office and apartment buildings rising in their place. He wasn’t far from the tiny terrace house where Brian Galloway had breathed his last, nor the slick modern apartment block where the young lad who’d stolen his car had lived. Everything focusing down on Fountainbridge as if the dark secrets bulldozed and buried since the turn of the century were oozing back up into the light.

The hotel had changed, of course. A shiny polished brass plaque at the door identified it as part of a boutique chain now. The same chain, McLean noted, that ran Bairnfather Hall and was in turn owned by the Bairnfather Trust. There was another man he would have to visit and placate. Cecily Slater’s murder investigation would never be closed; unsolved murders always remained open. But it would be, in the term so beloved of management, deprioritised. Perhaps in a decade or so he would revisit it in his retirement, having moved like Duguid and Grumpy Bob down into the basement. A prelude to the grave.

A smart-uniformed doorman opened the door for him, tapping the brim of his slightly absurd hat by way of greeting. McLean nodded his thanks and strode across the lobby to the reception desk. Echoes of his past kept coming to him, although the ancient and faded decor he remembered had been renovated and polished until it gleamed.

‘Detective Inspector McLean. I’m here to see Mr Fielding?’ He showed his warrant card to a young female receptionist, noting the slight tick that marred her face at the mention of the name. She got it under control with admirable speed.

‘He’s in the Walter Scott bar, sir. Over there.’ She indicated the way, even though McLean knew exactly where it was and that Fielding would be waiting for him inside.

‘My colleague Detective Sergeant Harrison might have been in touch. She was hoping to get a hold of some of the security camera footage after those protesters broke in and disrupted the conference.’ He put as much emphasis as he could on the ‘after’.

‘I’m not sure, sir. That would have gone to security. I can check, but as we said to the other detective, we have no idea how those people got in.’

‘I know. That’s not what I was looking for.’ He scanned the reception area, spotting a couple of cameras that covered both the entrance to the hotel and the door through to the bar. ‘I was more interested in who was here with Mr Fielding. We know who the protesters were, after all.’ He paused a moment before adding, ‘I don’t suppose you have a register of conference attendees, do you?’

The receptionist frowned ever so slightly. ‘I don’t think I could—’

‘It’s not a problem. I completely understand. You have to protect the anonymity of your guests, after all. Even those simply attending Mr Fielding’s seminars. The last thing any of those men would want is the police asking uncomfortable questions. Forget I asked.’ He gave the receptionist his best innocent smile, then turned and walked away towards the Walter Scott bar.

Much like the rest of the hotel, the Walter Scott bar was at once hauntingly familiar and yet utterly different. It didn’t smell of weed, spilled beer and cigarette smoke for one thing, and the bottles behind the marble-topped bar held considerably more expensive spirits than he remembered. There was still a Guinness tap, Phil would be pleased to see, probably. The other few beer taps were of the chilled-to-tasteless, carbonated fizz variety that so many bars sold these days. Well, he wasn’t here to drink.

Neither was anyone else, if the emptiness of the bar was anything to go by. Another difference from McLean’s student days. Judging by the decor, the smart uniforms of the reception staff and the boutique nature of the place, it was too expensive for students and in the wrong part of town for the more affluent tourists. He looked around the empty tables and comfortable alcoves before finally spotting the man he had come to see.

Tommy Fielding sat on his own, slim laptop computer on the table in front of him, an empty coffee cup beside it. He had his phone clamped to one ear, gesticulating with his free arm even though the person he was talking to couldn’t possibly see him. McLean wasn’t there to eavesdrop, but the lawyer was speaking so loudly it was hard not to.

‘. . . don’t give a flying fuck what you think. You wanted the job done differently you should have said so.’

McLean turned away, caught the eye of the barman and ordered a coffee he didn’t really want. On the other hand, he remembered that he had to go to the chief superintendent’s reception that evening, so maybe the caffeine boost wasn’t such a bad idea.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Reggie. It’s like listening to a fucking broken record. No, it’s not a problem. I’m dealing with it. Have I ever let you down before?’

The barman raised an eyebrow, his glance flicking towards Fielding, up to the ceiling and then back to McLean as he placed the coffee down on the bar. McLean raised one himself when he was told how much the coffee cost, but paid without further complaint.

‘Look, I know that woman’s sniffing around the company, but she can only buy a minority share. You still control the board so the most she can do is be annoying.’

McLean sipped his coffee and waited for the call to be over. The cup was empty and he was contemplating a refill, despite the cost, before Fielding finally managed to persuade whoever Reggie was that it was all OK and nobody was going to take his company from him, especially not some