McLean had assumed he would find Tommy Fielding at the offices of his law firm, but a quick phone call redirected him to the nearby Scotston Hotel and conference centre.
‘Mr Fielding runs regular advocacy seminars out of the hotel, Inspector,’ the polite receptionist had told him. ‘There’s another one this weekend, and he likes to do his prep work over there. To be honest, I think he prefers it to the office.’
McLean remembered the Scotston, perhaps not particularly fondly, from his student days. It had been not much more than a step up from a doss house and knocking shop, renting rooms by the hour. Not that he’d ever been interested in rooms. It was the ratty Walter Scott bar that had drawn the more desperate students in search of a drink in the very small hours. As he stepped out of the squad car that had given him a lift across town, he was transported back all those too many years. An image of Phil Jenkins bent double, ridding himself of half a dozen pints of Guinness and an ill-advised kebab. McLean himself resting his hand on his flatmate’s shoulder as much for his own physical support as Phil’s moral. Happy times; he’d have to give Phil and Rae a call, since Emma wasn’t around to do it for him. It had been too long.
Much 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 upstart woman who was probably a lesbian anyway. There had been some other comments that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a small-town rugby club locker room after a home defeat, peppered with enough foul language to make even Jo Dalgliesh blush. It was hard to imagine the man standing up in court and impressing both judge and jury, but then the best briefs were consummate actors after all.
‘Mr Fielding?’ McLean approached before the lawyer could begin another call. Fielding looked up, a frown of irritation disappearing swiftly from his face.
‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector McLean.’ He stood up, presenting a hand to be shaken. Fielding’s grip was firm but damp, and he wore an expensive suit that he somehow managed to make look cheap.
‘It’s just Detective Inspector now, remember?’ He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers. ‘You got the message I was coming, then.’
‘An explanation as to why no charges are being pressed against the harridans who broke into my seminar and threatened my guests? I am eager to hear it, Detective Inspector.’
Fielding had made no indication that they should sit, and McLean was quite content to remain standing. If nothing else it should make the meeting short. ‘You know how it is, Mr Fielding. Everywhere there’s cutbacks. Too many demands on too few resources.’
‘Are you suggesting these women get away with it simply because you can’t be bothered sorting out your budgets?’ Fielding put heavy emphasis on the word ‘women’, managing somehow to convey that he had utter disdain for them. But then McLean already knew that.
‘Far from it. We take our duty towards protecting the people very seriously indeed. However, our investigations have discovered that the hotel entrance through which the women . . .’ and here McLean put his own, subtly different emphasis ‘. . . came was not locked, and indeed was a public entrance to the building, albeit from the rear.’
Fielding’s frown returned. ‘They burst into my meeting room, screaming obscenities and threatening us.’
‘So I’m told. However, I wasn’t there to witness it, and apart from yourself nobody else has agreed to come forward and corroborate your story. My team had some difficulty in tracking down a list of the . . . what was it you called them? Oh yes, the guests. And those they did manage to speak to gave rather conflicting accounts of the events. The women themselves of course deny doing anything worse than stumbling into the wrong room when they were looking for the bar.’
Tiny beads of sweat had begun to form on Fielding’s forehead now, and his skin had taken on that hue more normally associated with Glasgow lads after the first sunny day of spring. When he spoke, McLean was glad of the space between them as flecks of spittle almost covered the distance before falling to the floor like slimy rain. ‘This is preposterous. You can’t be suggesting I made the whole thing up? These women have been camped outside this hotel for weeks, screaming at anyone who comes inside, waving around banners with claims on them that are defamatory at best.’
McLean let the slightest hint of a smile show. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, Mr Fielding. Quite the opposite. But you’re a man of the law. You understand how these things work. We could press charges, send these women to the Sheriff Court, but you and I both know what the outcome of that would be.’
‘So you just, what? Let them go?’ This time one fleck reached McLean’s lapel, but he ignored it. The suit was due a clean anyway.
‘Not at all, Mr Fielding. As you’ve no doubt noticed, the demonstrations have stopped. All the women involved have been officially cautioned. We have their details on file should they breach the peace again. If we had sufficient evidence, you can rest assured that we would have pressed charges. We can’t have women bursting into private meetings and trying to disrupt them, can we?’
Fielding’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. McLean was trying hard not to wind the lawyer up, given the warning he’d received from McIntyre. It wasn’t easy though. There was something about the man, his haughty, puffed-up nature, that begged to be poked. Harrison certainly had the measure of him.
‘Indeed not, Detective Inspector. They should know their place. And you can rest assured, I’m not happy with the situation even if I do understand your reasoning. I will be mentioning it to the chief constable the next time I see him.’
On the golf course at the weekend, no doubt. McLean inclined his head slightly to indicate he thought this reasonable. ‘I’ll let the new chief superintendent know too. I believe you know her? Gail Elmwood?’
Had he not been trained in interviewing suspects, with more than two decades of experience behind that training, McLean might have missed the almost imperceptible flicker that crossed Fielding’s eyes at the name, the tiniest moment of utter stillness as the thoughts tumbled through his sharp, lawyer’s brain. It was there though, plain as day if you knew what to look for. And if you’d set up the trigger on purpose.
‘Well, I’ll not waste any more of your precious time, Mr Fielding,’ he said, before the lawyer could respond. ‘Pleasure to meet you again.’
‘Detective Inspector McLean, sir?’
McLean stopped mid-stride as he was heading for the door, turned to see the receptionist he’d spoken to earlier. She had one hand raised to catch his attention, in case her shout had been insufficient. He changed course and went to see what she wanted.
‘Sorry to shout like that, sir. I wasn’t sure when you would be finished with Mr Fielding, and I didn’t want to miss you.’
‘No problem, Ms . . .’ He squinted to see the name on the badge pinned to her chest. ‘Elaine?’
‘You were asking about the CCTV footage from the lobby here. I spoke to Colin in security and he pulled it all on to a memory stick. It’s all digital these days, amazing what they can do.’ She held out her hand, and McLean saw 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.’