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

both a tiny, company-branded USB memory stick and a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper. He glanced at the door to the Walter Scott bar before taking both and slipping them unobtrusively into his jacket pocket.

‘A guest list, I take it?’ he asked quietly.

‘You didn’t get it from me, sir.’ Elaine straightened her uniform as if she’d just emerged from the stationery cupboard moments after her boss. ‘Some of us were a bit uncomfortable with the conference, the sort of things that were being said and the way the guests treated us. Those ladies outside were much more polite, if you get my meaning.’

‘I do. Thank you.’ McLean tapped his pocket. ‘And don’t worry about this. No one will know where it came from, but it may prove very useful.’

43

The major incident room was in a certain amount of turmoil as the last few actions of the Cecily Slater investigation were tidied away. Someone had already taken down the photographs of the dead woman and the burned-out gamekeeper’s cottage, which meant both that nobody had to see them any more and that they were no longer a constant reminder of the horrific crime they were supposed to be investigating. Somewhere out there the men, and McLean was as certain as he could be that they were men in the plural, who had done this terrible thing to a helpless ninety-year-old woman, were still walking free. Might even continue to walk free until they died. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to wind up an investigation without any result, and every time the injustice left a bitter taste in his mouth.

‘How did you get on with Fielding?’

Lost in thought, McLean hadn’t noticed Detective Superintendent McIntyre follow him into the room.

‘As well as could be expected. He wasn’t happy, but he conceded the lack of evidence was a problem. That’s got to hurt, really. He could have given us any number of witnesses, but he doesn’t want to upset his base. Last thing any of them want is to be on our radar.’

‘Well, at least I won’t get an irate call from the chief constable.’

‘Oh, don’t count on it. I imagine he’ll be in touch after this weekend’s golf round. Unless something more urgent comes up.’

McIntyre arched a thin eyebrow. ‘Oh aye? Something I should know?’

‘Probably best if you don’t, Jayne. Plausible deniability and all that.’ McLean looked around, remembering why he’d come in here in the first place. ‘You haven’t seen DS Harrison, have you?’

‘Janie’s away with Kirsty on another case. Any reason why you needed her?’

McLean stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the memory stick. ‘She was after some CCTV footage and I managed to sweet-talk it out of security. I was hoping she’d be able to have a quick look over it, but I guess there’s no reason I can’t do it myself.’

‘Can’t you get a constable to do it, Tony? That’s what they’re for, you know.’

‘I could, but by the time I’d found them and explained what they’re meant to be looking for, it’d be as quick doing it myself.’

‘Oh aye? And what are you looking for?’

‘A specific person in a small group of people at a specific time. Don Purefoy, to be precise.’

‘Pure . . . ? Oh, right. The estate agent. Where was he seen?’ McIntyre nodded at McLean’s hand, still clutching the memory stick.

‘Probably—’

‘Best I don’t know, aye. I get it. Plausible deniability.’ The detective superintendent shook her head. ‘I don’t know why I bother, Tony.’

‘Call it following up on a hunch. If it doesn’t play out, then best nobody knows.’

‘To save you from the embarrassment of being wrong? That’s not usually bothered you before.’

‘Not me, Jayne. You know I don’t give a damn what other people think about me.’ McLean waved a hand at the collected team of detectives, uniformed officers and support staff quietly dismantling the apparatus of investigation around him. ‘It’s this lot I’m concerned for. The fewer people know about this, the less chance of it getting back to the wrong person.’

McIntyre wasn’t stupid. You didn’t get to her level in an organisation like Police Scotland without being clever, although the time she’d broken a reporter’s nose had been a lapse. Not that anyone who’d ever worked with her didn’t think the reporter deserved it. Now McLean could see the wheels turning in her mind as she put together the various pieces of information and came to a perfectly valid conclusion.

‘I wasn’t joking when I told you to be very careful, Tony. This is not something you want to be wrong about. Hell, it’s probably not something you want to be right about either. But I know better than to tell you to stop.’

McLean tilted his head in understanding, pocketing the memory stick as he turned to leave. ‘I will be the soul of discretion, have no fear.’

‘It’s too late for that, Tony. Several years too late.’

McLean had almost reached the door before McIntyre spoke again, loud enough for everyone else to hear. ‘And don’t forget this evening. Seven o’clock.’

McLean stopped by the canteen on his way back to his office, aware that if he was going to spend the last hours of the afternoon staring at grainy CCTV footage on a tiny laptop screen he would need tea and at least a half-packet of biscuits. Somehow the day was mostly done, and he’d completely failed to eat any lunch. Emma would tut at him when he got home and immediately raided the fridge for a sandwich. Except that Emma was half a world away in the sub-Saharan sun, and he wouldn’t be heading home until he’d suffered the torture that the chief superintendent’s reception was likely to be.

Mindful of McIntyre’s warning, he closed his office door before slotting the memory stick into the laptop he’d borrowed from Mike Simpson in the IT department. He didn’t expect the stick to be riddled with viruses, but you could never be too careful. And this machine had no connection to the building’s