39

The major-incident room had a slow buzz to it, like a machine that’s been oiled well, but maybe not as recently as everyone thinks. McLean had worked enough investigations over the course of his career to recognize the signs of slowing, the loss of that initial surge of enthusiasm.

‘Still no luck on the last two?’ He glanced up at the whiteboard.

‘Aye, mebbe. Your young wifey whose hairbrush DC Harrison brought in and the older woman. Might have a potential for her, too. Alicia Dennis. Tourist from America travelling Europe alone. Family’s not heard from her in a week now. The US Consulate are sorting out a sample for DNA cross-referencing.’ DC Gregg held a clipboard like the responsible adult at a school outing. The image was compounded in McLean’s mind by the list of names printed in a column on the top page.

‘That all of them, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, sir. All nineteen accounted for, if we’re right about the two women. God rest their souls.’ Gregg handed over the clipboard. ‘Plus the driver, Wilkins.’

‘Does his soul not get to rest? We don’t know if he was to blame yet.’

‘Figure of speech.’ Gregg frowned as if she had just been told off for something she hadn’t done. McLean ignored her, reading the list of names. They meant very little to him, but the column alongside, with funeral details, caught his eye.

‘This your idea?’ He pointed at the list.

‘DCI McIntyre said we should send a wreath, maybe even a couple of uniforms if we can spare them. Just to show we care.’

Ever the politician. McLean had to admit it was wise. They were getting enough criticism from the press for the accident as it was, even if there was nothing the police could have done to prevent it. They were the visible face of authority, though. Getting it in the neck came with the job.

‘It’s a good idea.’ He made to hand back the clipboard, then noticed the name of one of the churches. Scanning back to the name of the man being buried didn’t help, he had no idea who Philip Jacobs was, but he knew the church well enough. It was just across the road from his house after all.

‘Maybe I’ll represent Police Scotland at this one.’ He pointed it out to Gregg. ‘If he’s from my part of town, there’s bound to be someone there who’ll recognize me even without the uniform.’

‘You’ll need to hurry up then, sir. It’s on this afternoon.’

‘It is?’ McLean took back the list, peered at it more closely.

‘Next page,’ Gregg said, flipping the paper for him. He looked at the time, then at his watch. He could make it, if he hurried.

‘OK. You man the fort here. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. And if anyone asks, they can find me at the kirk.’

‘It was good of you to come, Tony. I know you and God don’t exactly see eye to eye.’

McLean caught the smile in the minister’s words and knew that she was teasing him. For all her belief, Mary Currie was the sort of person he had a lot of time for.

‘I’ve never really thought of funerals as being about God. More about letting the bereaved know life can still go on.’

‘An interesting point of view. Did you know Philip well?’

McLean glanced around the emptying church and the collection of sombre-dressed people who had come to see the dead man off. ‘Actually, I don’t think I ever met him, but a high-profile case like this, a tragic death. It’s sort of expected that someone from the police turn up. And this being my home parish …’ He shrugged.

‘You drew the short straw? Or you took one for the team?’ Crow’s feet crinkled around the minister’s eyes as she smiled at her own joke. It didn’t last, her face turning serious once more. ‘He was younger than you. Philip, that is. Such a waste. Maybe not the most regular of worshippers, but his family have had a plot here since the church was built. I think I’m right in saying the first one was the master mason who oversaw the building. There’s many a Jacob buried here, but I’ve a suspicion Philip will be the last.’

‘No children?’ McLean had noticed there were none at the funeral, but sometimes it was best to keep them away.

The minister shook her head sadly. ‘Let me introduce you to his wife.’

Before McLean could make his excuses and run, the minister had grabbed him by the arm and was dragging him through the thinning throng to where a slender young blonde-haired woman in a black dress and pillbox hat was talking to a somewhat more familiar figure. McLean had arrived late to the funeral, tucking into an empty pew at the back of the church where he thought he’d be able to see all the rest of the congregation. Somehow he’d managed to miss Madame Rose, though.

The transvestite medium spotted them both approaching, and her glance in their direction alerted the young woman. McLean had only seen her from the side, but when she turned to face them he was struck by how young she looked. But then sudden death was no great respecter of age. He knew that better than most.

‘Mary, that was such a lovely service. Thank you. Philip would have been very pleased.’ Her accent was soft, almost as anglicized as his own. A Scot who had spent as much time out of her native country as in it.

‘I would far rather not have had to conduct it at all, Lucy. But we do our best.’ The minister tilted her head slightly as she spoke, her every mannerism gentle and soothing. ‘Have you met Tony McLean? He lives in the big house over the road.’

The young woman looked up at him with a slightly startled expression, pausing a moment before holding out a black-gloved hand. ‘You’re the policeman, aren’t you?’

McLean copied Mary Currie’s head tilt as he took the offered hand gently in his own. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss’ was all he could think of to say.

‘Will you catch them? The people who killed my Philip?’ She held his gaze with a steady stare it was hard to break from, still holding on to his hand.

‘We’re doing our –’

‘Not the police. You. Will you catch them?’ There was an intensity to the question that took McLean by surprise. He’d seen grief take many forms, but never quite such focused rage before.

‘I am in charge of the investigation,’ he said. ‘And I won’t give up until those responsible are brought to justice.’

The widow Lucy Jacob stared directly at him for what felt like years but was probably only a second or two longer than was proper. It was her husband they had just buried in the graveyard outside, though, so he was prepared to forgive the lapse.

‘I do believe you will. Thank you.’ She finally relinquished his hand, and before the moment could become any more awkward, Madame Rose stepped in, the unlikely hero.

‘Lucy, it was lovely talking to you again, but might I possibly steal away the detective inspector? I really wanted to have a word.’

The sun shone high in a cloudless sky as they stepped out into the graveyard. The church itself had been cool, a pleasant haven from the oppressive summer heat, but even in the shadows McLean felt the sweat start to prick on his back.

‘Surprised to see you here, Rose. Did you know the Jacobs well?’

‘Better, I think, than you did, Tony.’ The medium produced an elegant lacquer compact from the depths of her patent-leather handbag and dabbed at her face with a little foundation to hide her own perspiration. ‘Philip did my accounts. A very well-mannered gentleman. And his wife, Lucy, is an absolute poppet. I feel devastated for her.’

‘She seems, I don’t know, very young.’

Madame Rose chuckled. ‘Don’t let Emma hear you talking like that.’

McLean ignored her. ‘She was very earnest, too, insisting I personally catch those responsible. It sounded like the sort of thing you’d say, now I think about it.’

‘A compliment?’

‘Perhaps. Now’s not the time and place to tell her, but we’ve some promising leads. And I meant it when I said I’d not give up until those responsible were brought to justice.’

‘Oh, I know, Tony. You’re quite the wee terrier when you get hold of something like that. It’s an admirable trait in a detective, although I imagine it drives your superiors to distraction.’

‘You’ve been speaking to my boss now?’

‘Jayne and I go way back, but I speak to everyone, Tony. You should know that. Even the dead.’

A chill ran down McLean’s spine at Madame Rose’s words. They were spoken with such a deadpan, serious voice he knew that she wasn’t joking.

‘And what do they say?’ He had not meant it to sound flippant, but he winced as he spoke all the same.

‘They are disturbed. Their deaths were sudden, unexpected, violent. Very few are at rest now, not even Philip here.’ Madame Rose gestured across the headstones to where two council workmen were shovelling earth on top of the coffin. No room here for a mini-digger. McLean didn’t envy them their task in this heat. ‘They want to be named.’

‘But we have named them. We’ve identified almost all of them. Possibly have names for the last two.’

Madame Rose placed a massive hand on McLean’s arm. ‘Are you sure of that? The spirits tell me something else. Anger walks the streets, vengeance on its mind. It comes from the same place as all these poor souls, but it has no name.’

McLean had taken a step back as Madame Rose moved in close, her voice filled with stage show menace. Now something hard stopped him, and looking round he saw a headstone, darkened by centuries of soot and Edinburgh winters. He knew that the old medium believed everything that she said, and in that moment he almost did, too.

‘The dead cannot rest easy unknown, Tony. You must find the soul that is still out there. Find it before it finds you.’