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

that it was being held at the deputy chief constable’s home, which in itself had surprised him, but when he saw the house it piqued his curiosity even more. Elmwood was single, he knew. She’d not long moved up from London, so surely had to be renting. A chief superintendent’s salary was on the generous side, and there would have been relocation expenses to tap into as well. Even so, the vast terrace house in Stockbridge must have been eating into her wages.

There was also the rather unsettling fact that he had been to this very house before, and not all that long ago. It had belonged to Alan Lewis, a hedge fund manager with a side interest in money laundering on a massive scale. Unless you counted hedge funds as money laundering anyway, in which case it wasn’t a side interest at all. Gazing up at the facade of the building, McLean could pick out the windows that looked out from what had been Lewis’s bedroom, and the en suite bathroom in whose bath the financier had died. Possibly from a heart attack, possibly from the curse of a vengeful ghost. Neither cause appeared on the death certificate though. As far as the world was concerned, Alan Lewis had committed suicide by electrocuting himself, rather than face the consequences as his dark dealings were brought to light.

The fact he had died in that bath might, of course, have made the house difficult to sell and cheap to rent, so maybe that was why the chief superintendent was here. It was disquieting nonetheless.

Two uniformed constables were on duty at the front door, looking bored and a bit grumpy. McLean could understand. Walking the beat would be far preferable to guarding your boss while she hosted a party. They both came to a sort of attention as he approached, but he waved for them to relax.

‘Evening, sir,’ one of them said as the other opened the door for him.

‘You two do something to piss off your sergeant?’ he asked, which at least got him half a smile from one of them.

‘Something like that.’

‘In which case, shouldn’t you be asking me for ID before letting me in?’

The constable holding the door shrugged. ‘We know who you are, Detective Inspector, sir. And that was a bloody nonsense, knocking you back after you shut down that gang out Penicuik way. Should’ve been a promotion, not suspended for months.’

McLean shrugged awkwardly. ‘I didn’t follow procedure. Can’t haul my constables over the coals for cutting corners if I do it myself now, can I?’

‘My point exactly, sir.’ The second constable saluted, then motioned for McLean to go in.

It had been an odd exchange, a clever joke too, but as he stepped over the threshold, he was grateful for the small show of support. McLean stood for a moment in the relative safety of the inner porch. Beyond it, the large hall buzzed with conversation. Some people revelled in this kind of thing, but he would far rather be at home, in his favourite armchair with a dram of whisky and a good book. Although given the way his stomach was rumbling, some food might have been a good idea first.

Shadows danced across the wall as someone came across the hall towards the door. He couldn’t stay in the porch for ever. Taking a deep breath, he set off into the fray.

‘Tony, you’re here. I was beginning to worry you might not show.’

Any lingering thoughts he might have had that this was a formal police reception to celebrate DI Ritchie’s promotion evaporated as McLean saw the deputy chief constable striding towards him. She had discarded her uniform in favour of a figure-hugging black cocktail dress, and held a champagne flute loosely in one hand. In his work suit, and smelling like he’d been wearing it since five that morning, he felt immediately on edge. He had to remind himself that this was not a party, and he wasn’t the socially awkward teenager who didn’t think he knew anyone and certainly didn’t know what to say to any of them even if he did. He wasn’t here to socialise, whatever Gail Elmwood might think.

‘I was told seven.’ He looked at his watch without really seeing the time, shrugged. ‘Might have got a bit carried away reviewing some evidence.’

‘Well, never mind. You’re here now. Come join everyone in the front room.’ Elmwood slipped her free arm into the crook of his elbow before McLean could react. His instinct was to pull away, but he was also aware that this was her house and he was a guest, however reluctant he might be in that role, so he allowed himself to be steered across the hall and in through an impressively large doorway.

The room beyond was busier than he’d expected, at least two dozen, maybe thirty guests and an army of liveried waiting staff wandering around with trays of drinks. McLean scanned faces, looking for familiar ones. He recognised the chief constable, although they had only met once before. A few other senior officers would probably be more readily identifiable if he hadn’t been so adept at avoiding the regular strategy meetings his previous rank of detective chief inspector required him to attend. Over in the far corner, DI Ritchie and Detective Superintendent McIntyre were chatting away like two people who hope if they appear absorbed in their conversation they won’t be interrupted by anyone else.

More surprising was the number of civilians present. Again, McLean was struck by the idea that this was more of an old-fashioned drinks party than an official Police Scotland reception. Before he could mention it, the chief superintendent had grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses and shoved it into his hand with such force a little liquid sloshed over the rim.

‘Have a drink. Loosen up a little. We’re here to celebrate Kirsty’s promotion.’

McLean carefully extricated his arm from Elmwood’s, transferred the glass to his now free hand, then wiped the