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

angel was passing overhead, even though she had no time for religion. Harrison fiddled with her phone, trying to ignore the texts that kept flashing up on the screen.

McLean considered his empty teacup, the plate from which he had eaten his delicious slice of cake. Well, two slices of cake if he was being honest. ‘Is that why they killed her, then? Because she was a witch?’ he asked.

‘And now you begin to understand something of our eternal struggle.’ Mirriam Downham gave a single, slow nod in his direction by way of acknowledgement.

‘Do you know who they are? The men who killed her?’

This time the old lady shook her head once. ‘If I did, I would have told the police, although there are few of your kind who would listen. Like much of Sissy’s life, her death is a darkness to me, and believe me when I tell you I have tried to see.’

McLean found that he did believe her, at least that she’d tried. The rest of the talk of witches and darkness was apt for Madame Rose’s parlour but not particularly helpful for his own line of work. There was one other thing he needed to ask.

‘How about Tommy Fielding? You’ve been camped outside his conference for weeks, and Izzy here has made some fairly serious allegations about him.’

‘Do I think he killed Sissy?’ Downham’s posture was always upright and correct, but she seemed to straighten even further as she considered the question. Even though that wasn’t what McLean had meant.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ she said. ‘If he knew what she truly was. I don’t think there’s any way you would be able to prove it, though. If I cannot see what happened, then your science and your forensics won’t help you.’

McLean wanted to say that such pronouncements weren’t exactly helpful, but in truth he hadn’t expected much more. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, my science and my forensics are going to keep trying anyway. We might not find who murdered Cecily Slater, but we’ll be taking a closer look at Fielding now. You have my word on that.’

Mirriam Downham stared at him for a while, her eyes dark, face unreadable. Finally she smiled, truly friendly for the first time since McLean had met her.

‘I do believe you will, Detective Inspector. I do believe you will.’

48

The major incident room was empty when McLean let himself in later. Going to Cecily Slater’s funeral had been important, if only to meet with the enigmatic Mirriam Downham. But it had wasted most of the day, and now an evening of paperwork beckoned. At least Em wouldn’t complain about him coming home late.

A buzz in his pocket signalled the arrival of a text, and he was reminded of DS Harrison’s frantic scrolling through messages as they drove from Rose’s house to the police station. She’d have to get herself better sorted if she wasn’t going to burn out trying to do everything for everyone. A couple more detective sergeants on the team wouldn’t hurt either.

Fishing out his phone, he peered at the screen, struggling to make out the tiny letters, and to work out who it was from. The name was there, Simon Martin, but it took a while to remember who he was. The invitation to meet for a drink later was welcome, nevertheless. Even if it meant McLean would have to get stuck in to all the work he’d not done while drinking Madame Rose’s tea.

One thing had come out of that conversation he could follow up straight away. It bothered McLean that he couldn’t remember the name of Slater’s solicitors. It would have been one of the first actions of the murder investigation to identify them and view any will the old lady might have made. If nothing of interest had turned up, that would probably explain why he’d missed it when reviewing the case.

He could have gone back to his office, but that ran the risk of bumping into the chief superintendent. Instead, Mclean settled himself down in front of one of the workstations, logged in and began searching through the system for the relevant details. It didn’t take long to find, although he was disappointed to see that only a detective constable had been sent to speak to the lawyers. The name of the firm didn’t ring any bells either. DCF Law weren’t one of the city’s old and established firms, which was a bit of a surprise given the Bairnfather connection. Bringing up another window on the workstation, he tapped the name into a browser and followed the links to the corporate website.

DCF Law worked out of a modern office block in Fountainbridge. They seemed to specialise in corporate and family law, as far as his tired eyes could scan from the screen. He really needed to get them tested. Searching the annoying drop-down menu cunningly hidden within the company logo, he finally found what he was looking for, brought up the list of partners. And there it was.

John Donaldson, Andrew Cartwright, Thomas Fielding.

McLean clicked back to the report. DC Stringer had spoken to an associate partner by the name of Penelope Threadworth. She’d given him a copy of Cecily Slater’s will, which left the entirety of her estate to her nephew. It had been drawn up in the mid eighties by Carstairs Weddell, the same firm of solicitors McLean himself used, and not updated since. There was a breakdown of Slater’s assets which amounted to very little. The cottage belonged to the Bairnfather Trust, and it seemed all her bills were looked after by it too. A codicil to the will mentioned one other fact about the trust of which McLean had not been aware. Cecily had been both a trustee and a beneficiary. Her nephew, Reginald Corslaine Slater, now Lord Bairnfather, was listed as the other trustee, and presumably also beneficiary.

McLean recalled the telephone conversation he’d overheard. Tommy Fielding speaking to his friend Reggie. He knew better than to jump to conclusions;