28

McLean stifled a yawn and reached out for the mug of coffee on his desk, disappointed and surprised to find that it was already empty. Waking early had meant he’d made it into work an hour before the morning briefing; plenty of time to go through the paperwork on his desk and decide what could continue to be ignored. There was surprisingly little to deal with, partly because he was no longer the junior detective inspector in the station, but mostly he suspected because Chief Superintendent Forrester was taking on the bulk of the administration himself.

It was a change, and a welcome one at that. For too long they’d struggled under poor management. First from Duguid, who should never have been promoted beyond DCI, and then from Brooks, who elevated favouritism to an art form. Stuff had been dumped on him because he got it done, McLean realized. All those long hours spent wading through piles of reports and overtime sheets that really should have been someone else’s job. Now they had a man in charge who understood the importance of playing to people’s strengths. Just a pity there were so few detectives left for him to manage effectively.

A glance at the clock showed there was still a half-hour to go before he’d have to head to the major-incident room. Time enough to top up his coffee from the pot across the room, and have a look through one more report.

The knock on the door startled him, and McLean looked up to see DC Blane standing in the open doorway.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, only DCI McIntyre wondered if you were coming to the morning briefing?’

‘Is it time already?’ McLean glanced at his watch, surprised to see he’d been engrossed in the file all that time. ‘I was just reading your report into the financial side of Finlay McGregor. It’s thorough, I’ll give you that.’

Blane nodded his head slightly, although whether that was acknowledgement of the praise or embarrassment, McLean couldn’t be sure. He closed up the report, as ready as he would ever be to head into the melee of the morning briefing.

‘I’m no expert, but would I be right in thinking that Finlay McGregor was a company rather too much in debt?’

‘That’s what I thought, sir. They’ve bought a lot of new trucks recently, and I can’t see evidence of any big contracts to justify the cost. If I was their bank manager I’d be nervous of the exposure.’

‘So who’s lending them all the cash, then?’

‘As far as I can tell, it’s the same person who’s just taken a hefty share of the company. Hedge-fund manager by the name of Alan Lewis. He’s minted, sir. I mean, serious money. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t a billionaire, the things his company’s got interests in.’

‘Alan Lewis.’ McLean remembered the name now he heard it spoken. ‘Aye, that’s right. Finlay’s sister mentioned him. I was going to set up an interview. You couldn’t sort that, could you?’

‘Of course, sir. Any particular time?’

‘Sooner the better.’ McLean glanced back at the folder on his desk. ‘Though I might need to read through that wee report of yours again before I speak to him.’

The major-incident room hummed with a quiet excitement as McLean entered, closely followed by DC Blane. He had to push his way through the throng to get to the front, where DCI McIntyre was glancing anxiously at her watch. Her shoulders slumped in relief as she spotted him.

‘About bloody time, Tony. Where’ve you been?’

‘In my office. Sorry. Lost track of time.’

McIntyre shook her head, muttered something along the lines of ‘men’, then climbed up onto a chair the better to get everyone’s attention.

‘OK people. Quiet down. Let’s get this over and done with so you can all get on with your jobs.’

McLean looked around the room for any other senior officers. DI Ritchie was nowhere to be seen, but then she hardly ever was these days. Grumpy Bob leaned back in a chair off to one side of the crowd, and DCI McIntyre was there, of course. He was surprised not to see the chief superintendent, though; the man had been pretty much running the incident room himself since the investigation had started.

‘We’ve still three bodies to identify. This long after the event I’d want that figure to be zero. We’ve plenty leads from the helpline. I need team one to get working through them as quickly as possible. Team two you’re doing good stuff with the CCTV, but the press are hassling us for results, so step it up a notch, OK?’ McIntyre turned away from the crowd, fixing her steely gaze upon McLean. ‘You want to bring us up to speed on yesterday’s developments, Tony?’

McLean flushed slightly at being the sudden centre of attention. He’d not prepared anything, having spent the past half-hour engrossed in DC Blane’s report on the parlous financial state of Finlay McGregor. A sea of expectant faces gazed back at him as he stared out into the crowd, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the mischievous grin on McIntyre’s face.

‘As you’ll all have heard, Mike Finlay was found dead in the offices of Finlay McGregor early yesterday morning. I know what you’re all thinking; someone’s trying to cover their tracks after the truck crash and Mike Finlay was a loose end that needed tying off. I can’t deny it’s a very convincing theory, but the post-mortem suggests he wasn’t physically attacked. We’ve some unexplained security camera footage that needs investigation and Forensics are going to have another look over the scene, too, just in case. I –’

‘You think he topped himself? Done us all a favour?’

McLean didn’t recognize the voice, and neither could he immediately tell where it had come from.

‘It’s unlikely he committed suicide, given the nature of his death. I’m more concerned this might have been a rather gruesome method of silencing him before he said too much. But, as I said, the post-mortem didn’t find any signs of foul play, so we’re not jumping to any conclusions either way.’

‘And we’re not mouthing off to the press either, are we, Constable.’

All eyes turned to the door, where Chief Superintendent Forrester had just appeared. He pushed through the crowd with a great deal more ease than McLean’s earlier attempt, followed by a dark-suited man the detective inspector didn’t recognize. Judging by the look of him he was either SCDEA or NCA. A spook or a fed, depending on whatever derogatory nickname was making the rounds at the moment.

‘Tony, Jane.’ Forrester nodded to the two of them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Had to bring a few people up to speed.’

‘We were more or less finished actually, sir,’ McIntyre said. ‘Just going to get the sergeants to sort out the assignments. Night shift handover’s already done. You want to have a word with the troops before they’re dismissed?’

Forrester opened his mouth as if to begin a speech, then closed it again, shaking his head. ‘No. I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s get cracking shall we? Plenty to do, and I need a quick word with the senior officers before I meet with the DCC.’

McLean said nothing, just watched as McIntyre dismissed the crowd. Most already knew what they were meant to be doing, the rest clustering around their sergeants like schoolchildren on a day trip. Soon enough the scrum subsided and the four of them were left alone to one side of the room.

‘DI Ritchie not about, then?’ Forrester looked around like a man trying to find the toilet in an unfamiliar pub.

‘No, sir. Figure she’s been called back to Perth.’ McIntyre turned her attention to the other man. Like McLean, he’d remained silent, careful eyes taking in the unfolding scene. ‘You’d know more about that, though, wouldn’t you, Tim?’

‘Operation Fenton’s not my case, Jayne.’

‘So what brings you over to our side of the country, then? Been kicked out of the Crime Campus for bad behaviour?’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ The man in the dark suit had an English accent, Home Counties if McLean was any judge. It reminded him of boarding school: well-educated but not plummy. He’d scanned the whole room in the short seconds it had taken to walk from the door to where they all stood, but only now did he seem to acknowledge McLean’s presence.

‘Detective Inspector McLean, I presume?’

‘Have you two not met before?’ McIntyre’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Sorry, I just assumed you’d know each other. Tony, this is DCI …’ She paused a moment. ‘Featherstonehaugh? Is that how you pronounce it?’

The man rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘It’s pronounced Fanshaw, Jayne, and well you know it.’ He held a hand out for McLean. ‘Tim,’ he said. ‘And you’re Tony McLean. I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective Inspector.’

‘All good, I hope?’ McLean felt the man’s grip, firm but not trying to prove anything. His skin was cool and dry.

‘Mostly.’ Featherstonehaugh tilted his head slightly. ‘The bad stuff’s more interesting, though.’

‘Tim’s with the NCA, Tony.’

‘Looking to take over our investigation, are you?’ McLean meant it as a joke, but he was surprised to see the National Crime Agency taking an interest.

‘More our style to wait until all the hard work’s done, then swoop in and take all the credit.’ Featherstonehaugh smiled as he flicked his head in Forrester’s direction. The chief superintendent had wandered off to deal with a query from one of the uniform sergeants, clearly in his element. ‘No, it’s just some other business I needed to sort out. Nothing to do with this investigation, fascinating though it is.’

McLean watched him as he spoke, catching that slight flicker in the eye he’d seen so many times before, in so many interview rooms. He knew nothing about Featherstonehaugh, had never met him before today, but it didn’t take a genius to know that the man was lying. There was no good reason why the NCA shouldn’t be interested in their investigation, so what was he trying to hide?