4

‘You all right, sir?’

McLean startled at the words. He had been staring into the middle distance, seeing the slow motion of traffic at the end of Princes Street as it was diverted away from the junction on to Lothian Road. The recovery operation was running smoothly now, the clean-up process well underway as the professionals got on with the jobs they had been trained for. He probably should have left them to it long since, but the fact he’d been first on the scene meant all the uniforms had come to him for instructions. There had been a task to complete and he had thrown himself into it utterly. Now it was done, he was left with a feeling of disconnection, as if he’d been away from the world awhile and was only just returning.

‘Sorry?’ He turned to see Constable Gregor standing close by. Her gaze suggested she was trying to work out what he’d been staring at, and he wondered just how long he’d been lost in his thoughts.

‘It’s just. Well, you looked a bit zoned out there, sir. Can’t say I blame you, what with all this.’ She shook her head gently from side to side as if not wanting to see the carnage. ‘Reckon I’ll have nightmares for months, and I’ve just been working the cordon.’

As she spoke, so McLean felt the weariness wash over him, pricked around the edges with a headache that might have been dehydration or might have been the noxious fumes that had burned off the overturned tanker truck until the fire crews had arrived with their foam. The smell was still there, rasping the back of his throat.

‘It’s … I don’t really know.’ Talking hurt, a soreness that reminded McLean of the early stages of the flu, and he had a raging thirst. He tried to scan the area for the mobile incident truck that always turned up at things like this, then stopped as his vision dimmed. ‘Anyone got a brew on, do you know?’

Gregor had been reaching out to give him a steadying hand, but she turned on one heel and pointed to a café a short way up the road. A gaggle of uniforms clustered around its doorway; no other customers this side of the cordon.

‘Luigi’s been keeping us all fed and watered. Don’t think he’s taking any money off anyone either. There’s not many’d be so generous.’

McLean nodded. Tragedy brought out the best in some people. He set off towards the café, then stopped, remembering something.

‘The young lad over there by the railings. He get checked out by the paramedics?’ As he spoke, so he turned to look for the man. He’d seen him, hadn’t he? It had the quality of a dream, but he was fairly sure of it. White-faced and wide-eyed with shock, sitting with his back to the low wall and railings, curled in on himself but unhurt. How he’d survived unscathed in the middle of such carnage, McLean couldn’t know. Must have had the luck of the gods with him.

‘Young lad?’ Gregor looked around the pavement. Only the dead remained, covered with blankets to protect what dignity they had left from the prying eyes of the press. Helicopters had been circling overhead like vultures within minutes of the crash. ‘Don’t recall anyone, but the walking wounded were all shipped off as soon as possible.’

McLean shook his head, then wished he hadn’t as a wave of pain broke over him. Too much of that smoke fogging his thoughts. Christ, he really needed that tea. A shower, too, probably. The chance of that happening any time soon was minimal.

‘You’re right. He’s not here, so he’s either gone to the hospital or home. Either way I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

‘Where the bloody hell have you been, McLean? Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

Not exactly how he’d been hoping to be greeted, but McLean wasn’t entirely surprised. Cadging a lift across town from the crash scene in a squad car had meant he’d been able to check his phone, the endless messages and texts from his new boss. Chief Superintendent Tom Forrester wasn’t a bad officer, really. A far cry from Brooks and a breath of fresh air compared to Duguid, but his Glaswegian accent sounded alien in this most Edinburgh of stations. That he was uniform rather than Specialist Crime Division had changed the dynamic in the team even more. Then again, the fallout from the Chalmers case was always going to be messy, and McLean couldn’t blame the Chief Constable for bringing in someone he knew and trusted to steady the ship.

‘Major incident over at Tollcross, sir. Didn’t Control notify you?’

Forrester pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as if trying to staunch a heavy nosebleed. McLean was growing accustomed to the gesture now, knew that it meant the man was trying to suppress his natural tendency to the sarcastic.

‘Are we so short-staffed that uniform have to go stealing inspectors from plain clothes now?’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that I was first on the scene. Accident over the other side of town tied up most of the ambulances and paramedics, so I stayed to help with triage until they got there.’ McLean hadn’t really processed the incident until he said the words. He’d been so busy he’d been blissfully forgetful of the horrible noise of the crash, the screams of the injured and dying. ‘Actually, I was there when it happened.’

Something in Forrester’s features softened. He still looked like a rat in a black uniform, but a kindly rat who might only chew at your dead fingers rather than gnaw out your sightless eyeballs.

‘Fuck are you doing back here, then? You should be at home, man. Look like you could do with a shower and a change of clothes if nothing else.’

McLean shrugged. He’d thought about knocking off early, but there was the small matter of an investigation into counterfeit goods he was meant to be co-ordinating with Trading Standards and HMRC that was going nowhere precisely because it was split between three different organizations. That was a meeting that would have to be rescheduled. If they’d even noticed he’d not turned up.

‘Control’s already handed over the preliminary investigation to me. Thought I’d get things in motion before the anti-terrorism squad get here. Set up a meeting with the senior officers and take it from there.’

‘Anti …’ Forrester had been standing in the doorway that led through from the front of the station to the ground floor admin offices and the nicer interview rooms. Now he stepped into the reception area, letting the security door click closed behind him. His face was a picture of thoughts cascading into place like a landslide. ‘You think this is a terrorist attack?’

‘My gut says no, but we can’t ignore the possibility. Tanker truck took the corner from the Western Approach Road on to the Lothian Road too fast. Could have been deliberate, could have been an accident. Driver’s dead, along with at least fifteen others.’

All the blood had drained out of Forrester’s face. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes staring into the distance as the implications began to mount up. ‘Fifteen?’

‘At least. I’d be very surprised if that figure didn’t go up by the end of the day. It was carnage sir, and that’s another problem.’

‘Another?’

‘Press were there in minutes. There’s been a helicopter hovering over the scene all morning. And you know what people are like. Everyone with a phone was taking pictures, filming the whole thing. We did our best to contain it, but there’s going to be footage all over the internet already.’

Forrester leaned against the wall beside the security door, drumming his fingers against the fake wood, thinking fast. ‘The scene’s secure now, though?’

‘Fire crews are still dealing with the truck, paramedics have done what they can. We’ve at least a hundred uniform officers keeping the public away. More being drafted in from the regions. Surprised no one told you already, sir.’ McLean glanced at the clock above the unmanned reception booth. ‘It’s been three hours since it happened.’

Forrester pushed himself away from the wall, turned and tapped out the code to unlock the security door. ‘I’ve been in strategy meetings all day. They told me there’d been an incident, but it was under control. Think I might have to have words. Come.’

McLean followed the chief superintendent as he strode past the admin offices and up the stairs. The station felt empty, almost like school at the end of term. Hardly surprising given how many constables and sergeants had been drafted in to deal with the crash. He’d assumed that Forrester was leading him up to his office on the third floor, but instead the chief superintendent headed for the CID room. It wasn’t much busier than the corridor outside.

‘At ease, Constable.’ Forrester waved down Detective Constable Harrison before she could stand. Looming over her like a giant, Detective Constable Blane was the only other person in the room. ‘Where is everybody?’

Harrison tapped twice at her keyboard, blanking out the screen before answering. ‘DCI McIntyre’s over at Fettes today, sir. She’s got DC Stringer and DS Laird with her. DI Ritchie’s up in Perthshire on Operation Fenton. Not sure what the other teams are up to but there was a big briefing this morning and then everyone left. Oh, and there was a traffic accident over Lothian Road way. All the uniforms …’ She trailed off, eyes widening as she saw McLean standing behind the chief superintendent.

Forrester let out a weary sigh. He’d only been in charge a few months, but McLean could guess the pressure he was under. Dropped in from on high to clear up the mess left by his predecessor, dealing with the twin demands of uniform and plain clothes in a station that was seriously undermanned and with a budget under constant review. It couldn’t have been much fun.

‘OK. Get in touch with everyone you can. I want them back here as soon as possible. Senior officers’ meeting at four. Press conference at half five.’ He turned to McLean. ‘Tony, I’ll need a full briefing for everyone, then. As much detail as possible.’

McLean suppressed his own weary sigh, instead just nodded his understanding. What he wanted to do was go home and stand under the shower for the rest of the day. No chance of that happening any time soon.