18

The city mortuary had always been an oasis of calm in the bustle of the city centre. McLean couldn’t remember the first time he’d visited, probably a trip with his grandmother and long before he’d joined the old Lothian and Borders Police Force. It was a handy place to go when he needed to get away from the station and its endless round of bullying and politics. Not so far he couldn’t walk; far enough for him to take his time getting back once summoned. It was on the way to his next destination, too. Well, sort of. And he had plenty of time to check in on his old friend Angus.

The pathologist sat in his shared office, just off the main examination theatre, peering myopically at a computer screen and munching biscuits from a packet beside the keyboard. At least he wasn’t wearing scrubs this time.

‘Tony. How nice of you to drop by.’ Cadwallader shoved the latest biscuit back into the packet as he struggled to his feet. ‘Just been working through the toxicology results from some of your lorry crash victims. Still no idea what was in that tanker, but by Christ it was nasty stuff.’

‘Thought the labs had identified it. Some kind of chemical cleaner used in the microchip industry. Not sure where it came from, though. Not yet.’

‘Oh, aye. They identified the key compound. Hydrofluoric Acid. Very nasty, very toxic and highly controlled. Well, usually. Problem is it seems to have been mixed in with a dozen or more other things. Helpful in a way, I guess. Some of them have partly neutralized the acid, otherwise we’d probably have nothing solid to do a post-mortem on for your last three bodies.’

McLean grimaced at the thought. ‘About them. Any closer to an identification?’

‘I can tell you that one’s male and the other two are female. Apart from that it’s out of my hands now.’ Cadwallader shrugged. ‘I’ve sent samples off for DNA analysis. What was left of the bodies didn’t give us much in the way of clues. No tattoos, no easily identifiable surgery.’

‘No teeth?’

‘Oh plenty of those. Just not still attached to anything resembling a jaw. To be honest, Tony, if I’d not found six feet and six hands, three each left and right, I’d be unsure we were only looking for three people.’

McLean leaned back against one of the desks. ‘That bad was it?’

‘Worse.’ Cadwallader yawned, scrubbed at his face with the heel of one hand, the other presumably too biscuit-crumbed to be safe. ‘I’ve been doing this job a long time. Too long, some might say. Thought I’d seen it all, but that crash …’ He fell silent.

‘So my coming here asking questions is probably not helping, then.’

‘Oh, you can ask all you want. It’s out of my hands now. Sooner or later the DNA results will come back. You can run them against all the various databases our government seems to think it necessary to keep for our safety. Compare them with people who’ve called in about missing relatives –’

‘About that,’ McLean interrupted, pulling the sample bottle out of his pocket. Saliva and cells from the inside of the chief superintendent’s mouth. Cadwallader eyed it suspiciously.

‘What have you got there?’

‘Could be the father of one of those three. I really hope it’s not.’

Cadwallader reached out for the sample bottle and McLean handed it over. ‘I can do a very basic test here. Should be able to confirm that none of them are related to this. It’ll take a while, though.’

McLean nodded. ‘Thank you, Angus. I was going to ask Manda Parsons over at forensics, but …’

‘But even the delightful Miss Parsons can’t do you favours any more. I know. We’ve got the same problem here. They call it cost cutting, but I’ve never seen any savings come from it. Politicians driving cars they couldn’t possibly afford? Yes. Getting lucrative consultancy work once they’ve been voted out of office? That, too. But no actual money saved. It won’t end well. Mark my words.’

McLean looked around the office, then out to the examination theatre beyond. This was where people’s most intimate secrets were laid bare, where the story of their lives and deaths was told. Subjecting it to market forces seemed crass at best; he didn’t want to think what the worst might be.

‘Someone swapped inert digestate for highly toxic waste, Angus. Doesn’t take a genius to work out they were going to dispose of it off the books to save a bit of cash. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I’ll find out who’s behind it one way or another. I think we’ve known each other long enough for you to trust me on that.’

Cadwallader half smiled, half frowned, holding up the sample bottle. ‘And this will help?’

‘Not directly, no.’ McLean allowed himself a grin even though he didn’t feel particularly cheerful. ‘But it represents a powerful favour owed. I think that’s worth bending a few rules for, don’t you?’

Loud music spilled out into the evening gloom as McLean walked down Cockburn Street towards Waverley Bridge and the railway station. Tourist season in full swing, the pavement thronged with people not entirely sure where they were meant to be going, or indeed where they were. Some were clearly intoxicated, while this close to Waverley Station you always ran the risk of being hit by a stray backpack, foreign or domestic. He stepped on to the cobbled street to avoid a couple of oblivious outdoor types equipped for an unsupported attempt on the summit of Everest, only avoiding being clipped by a taxi because its driver knew exactly where the horn was. Twisting around sent a twinge of pain up his thigh, reminding him of the broken bone and damaged hip. Three years since that accident and he’d still not healed properly. Maybe never would. Hot, dry weather normally brought some relief, so there was probably rain on the way.

The club he was looking for hadn’t actually opened yet. Still too early in the evening for live music. Loud and formless noise came from inside, so he knew there was someone in. He hammered on the door until someone unlocked it, the noise morphing into something that might have been a band rehearsing. A young woman stared at him from the open doorway, shaved head cocked to one side as if he was something she’d rather not have to deal with.

‘Not open till nine, pet. Gig don’t start till after ten neither. Not sure you’re even in the right place. National Opera’s over at the Usher.’ She went to close the door, but he shoved a foot in the way, held up his warrant card. Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘It’s not what you think,’ McLean said before she could turn and shout ‘It’s the fucking pigs’ or something similar to her friends making a racket at the back of the building. ‘I’m looking for Eric. Just want to see he’s OK. Nothing else.’

Something about his voice must have struck a chord. Either that or he was being strung along. The young woman tilted her head the other way, revealing a tattoo on her neck that would have made Eddie Cobbold weep. Unless his old friend the tattoo artist had done it himself, which given the quality was very possible.

‘Ent seen him in a couple days. Gary’s spitting blood, so he is. Had to get Big Tam to come and play bass. He hates Big Tam, but we’ve had this gig booked for ages.’

Too much to hope that Eric Forrester was just hanging out with his friends and not talking to his dad, then. ‘You remember the last time you saw him?’

The young woman shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. Three, four days ago?’

‘What about the rest of the band?’

Another shrug. ‘Ask ’em yourself. If they’ll talk to youse.’ She opened the door wide enough for him to enter. The volume rose as he stepped over the threshold, echoing down a narrow, high-ceilinged corridor from an open doorway at the end.

‘So Eric plays bass, then,’ McLean said as the young woman followed him into the auditorium. It reminded him of nothing so much as a set designer’s ideal for a 1920s jazz club, only without the charm or flapper girls. Dimly lit and somehow managing to feel smoky despite there being no actual smoke, a dozen or so small tables were dotted around a space barely big enough for a thin person to squeeze between the chair backs. At the far side of the room, the band were setting up their instruments on a low stage, and there the jazz analogy broke down.

‘Who the fuck’s this, Margie?’

McLean assumed the man who spoke was Gary. He had more hair than the girl, but not much and all of it in a spiky Mohican over the top of his head that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the King’s Road in 1976. Behind him, a couple of other badly dressed young men were struggling to adjust a drum kit. Scrawled across the front of the kick drum in spidery black ink, the name of the band – Fuck Youse – was unlikely to get them much in the way of mainstream media coverage. Looking at them, he suspected they didn’t care.

‘He’s polis. Lookin’ for Eric. Reckon his old man must’ve sent him.’

If anything, Gary’s scowl hardened.

‘Aye, well, he’s no’ here, is he. The useless Weegie bastard.’

‘You any idea where he might be?’ McLean stepped up to the stage, small enough for him to reach out and take hold of the bass guitar on a stand. A long flex coiled away from it to an effects pedal of some form, and then on to an amp at the back of the room. He slung the strap over his shoulder, tapped a thumb against the bottom string and got a surprisingly clean tone back from the speakers.

‘Fuck you think you’re doing, granddad?’ Gary took a step forward, as did the stouter of the two men fixing the drum kit. McLean flexed his fingers. How long had it been? Twenty-five years? More? The riff was a bit rusty, but tuneful enough to stop them all in their tracks. No point chancing any more than that, though.

‘Nice.’ He unclipped the strap and put the guitar carefully back on its stand. ‘Not played in a while, but some things you never forget, aye?’

‘That supposed to make us best buddies is it?’ Gary sneered.

‘Not really.’ McLean held the young man’s angry gaze. ‘Look, I’m not trying to make friends, not trying to bust you for anything either. I’m just trying to find Eric. Word is he could’ve been over on Lothian Road the other day when that truck crashed. We’ve still not identified all of the dead, and I really don’t want to have to tell my boss his son’s one of them.’

Gary’s sneer disappeared, but the expression that replaced it wasn’t what McLean had hoped for.

‘When was that? Aye, I remember. Couple days back. Fuck, yeah. Stupid twat would’ve been down that end of town, right enough.’ He paused a bit before adding: ‘Happened in the morning though, didn’t it? Doubt he’d be up then.’

‘He wasn’t at home. His dad said he left early.’

‘Eric? Fuck off. No way.’ Gary made a face that didn’t attempt to mask his disbelief. ‘Look, I’ve no idea where he is. Don’t much care if he’s dead. We’ve got a bass player now, so if he wasn’t smashed up by that truck, tell him from me he can fuck right off back to Glasgow.’

McLean dipped his head in acknowledgment. ‘Fair enough. I’ll be sure and let him know.’ He turned, winding his way through the chairs until he reached the exit on the far side of the auditorium, turned back to see all eyes still on him. ‘Oh, and have a good gig. Maybe I’ll stop by later and have a listen.’

Gary might have said something in reply, but McLean didn’t hear it as he headed for the street door. It wasn’t important anyway. Twenty years of interviewing suspects had honed his skill at telling when he was being lied to. He just couldn’t be sure whether it was about not knowing where Eric was, or not caring that he might be dead.