48

‘You have a rare talent for upsetting people, you know that?’

Once again he found himself standing in Chief Superintendent Forrester’s office, wishing he was anywhere else. A cup of tea would have been nice, even a chance to get changed. Or a chair, he wasn’t fussy. His suit didn’t smell as bad as the last time, but McLean was still reminded of the stench of the tunnel every time he moved. Some of the chemical waste had got on to one of the arms, and now the fabric was fraying around a large hole. The shirt underneath was probably going to have to be thrown away, too.

‘I would say it comes with practice, sir, but that might be taken the wrong way.’

Forrester rubbed at his face with tired hands. He’d aged a year in the past week, his hair showing far more grey now than McLean remembered.

‘It’s good work. There’s no denying that. If what we suspect is true, then you’ve uncovered an organized network for disposing of highly hazardous waste illegally and very dangerously, but I’ve just had a call from the chief constable, who’s just had it in the ear from one of the country’s leading pain-in-the-arse politicians berating him for the cost of the clean-up operation.’

Forrester smiled wearily at that, and McLean relaxed a little.

‘They do so like to shoot the messenger, sir. I’m sorry about that.’

‘It’s not your fault. Not mine or the CC’s either, dammit. Doesn’t stop everyone moaning about it, though. So how’s this going to play out, then?’

With me going home to a shower, a dram and my bed? McLean tried not to let his shoulders slump too obviously. ‘I asked DCI McIntyre to get a warrant to search Extech Energy, sir. Reckon that’s where the stuff is collected first, before being shipped out under the disguise of inert digestate. Still not sure where they’re getting it from, but the number of trucks going back and forth from that place makes it an ideal distribution hub. All those big stainless-steel tanks, too. Could be storing stuff until there’s enough to make it worth a trip.’

‘Extech?’ Forrester’s brow wrinkled as he struggled to remember something. ‘You had one of the constables looking into their financials, didn’t you?’

‘Until you told him to stop, yes.’ McLean kept the accusation out of his voice, but only just.

‘Oh, that lot. Aye.’ Forrester rubbed at his face again, his unease evident in every motion. ‘I probably shouldn’t have interfered, and the senior officer who called me about it probably shouldn’t have either. I’m afraid we’ve all of us got buttons that can be pressed.’

‘If it’s any consolation, sir. I don’t think this will come back to haunt you. Could even be a feather in your cap. If my theories as to what’s going on are correct.’

‘You really think so?’ Forrester’s glum demeanour brightened a little, then fell again. ‘It’s no matter. I’ll not be here for much longer. It’s a week now since Eric went missing, and you and I both know the can of worms that’s opened. My own fault. I should have known it would come back to haunt me.’

‘So the warrant?’ McLean tried to steer the meeting back on topic. ‘Do you think there’ll be any trouble getting it?’

‘Given what you’ve just uncovered out in the wilds? I wouldn’t have thought so. You’ll be wanting to go in at first light tomorrow, I suppose?’

‘Aye. Better in daylight, and it gives us time to put a decent team together. We can get Health and Safety on board, too.’ As he said it, so McLean could see that shower, that dram and his bed receding ever further into the distance. He’d already called Emma to let her know he was running late, but it would be nice to see her awake so he could thank her for the work she and Parsons had done on the satnav.

‘And Eric?’ The chief superintendent finally came to the point.

‘Duguid’s helping Grumpy Bob follow up on all Pothead Sammy’s known associates, where they hang out, that sort of thing. If he’s holed up somewhere, we’ll find him. Going to put a lot of noses out of joint at the drugs squad, but omelettes and eggs, eh?’

Forrester’s expression was one of bewilderment for a while, then understanding dawned. ‘Well, like I said, it’s not like I’m going to be around for much longer. And I don’t think Charles ever cared much what anyone thought of him. Bob will have to tread carefully, though.’

‘He’s a master of deflecting blame. You’ve no need to worry about him.’ McLean paused a moment, unsure whether the audience was over.

‘We’ll find him, sir,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’

‘I wish I had your optimism, Tony. I really do.’ Forrester went back to rubbing at his ashen face, eyes focused on the past. Then he stopped and sat back up straight, reaching for the phone on his desk. ‘Go home, aye? You’re all done in and you smell like shit. I’ll have Jayne sort the team out for tomorrow morning. Sure she’ll jump at the chance to get out of the office for once.’

McLean opened his mouth to argue, then realized that he was being told to do exactly the thing he wanted to do.

‘Aye, sir. Thank you.’ He left as swiftly as decorum would allow, not wanting the chief superintendent to change his mind.

Forrester might have ordered him to go home, but there were still a few things McLean had to do before he could leave. It was long past knocking-off time for the day shift, so the major-incident room was quiet when he stepped in through the door. The helplines had more or less gone quiet now, just a few crazies phoning about loved ones who had been missing for years and how they were certain they must have perished in the terrible accident.

There was only one body left to identify anyway. Not-Pothead Sammy. Misfiled on the database, but there nonetheless. McLean was relieved that the swab he’d taken from Forrester and given to Cadwallader had proved it wasn’t Eric, but that still meant it could be anyone else. Whoever’s body it was lying in cold storage at the city mortuary, they had come into contact with the forces of law and order before, otherwise their DNA wouldn’t have been on the database, mislabelled or not. It was a small clue, but it was something they could work with.

‘Any news on DC Harrison?’ McLean asked of the duty sergeant manning the main desk in the centre of the incident room. She looked up at him with a start.

‘Oh, sorry, sir. Thought you’d gone home. Yes. Had a call about half an hour ago. She’s fine, just breathed in too many fumes. Sure she’s done worse on a Saturday night oot wi’ the girls, aye?’

McLean didn’t feel qualified to make a comment. ‘She having tomorrow off then?’

‘Doubt it. Not if there’s going to be a big raid. Heard the DCI was after a warrant for that place out Livingston way. I reckon half the station would like to be in on that one.’

‘Well, tell them all to keep a lid on it, OK? Last thing we need is them finding out we’re coming.’

‘Aye, I’ll do that, sir. There’s a fair buzz about it, but this lot know better than to go mouthing off outside of work.’

McLean didn’t hold great hopes. They’d carted Gregor Wishaw off to hospital under police guard and a squad car was keeping an eye on the tunnel to make sure no one found out that the secret had been uncovered. But, even so, it was a week since the truck crash and he’d visited Extech twice. If they hadn’t already started dismantling whatever illicit operations were going on, then quite frankly they deserved to be caught. Just as long as they hadn’t finished. Raiding a site that had been opened by the Environment Minister and touted as the great white hope of the modern Scottish economy was hardly going to go down well if it turned out there was nothing in those big tanks but shit.

He left the incident room in search of DCI McIntyre, even though he knew the first thing she would do would be to tell him to go home. Halfway to the canteen, he met ex-Detective Superintendent Duguid hauling his wiry frame up the stairs towards him.

‘Didn’t think you’d have gone home yet.’ Duguid’s greeting wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.

‘On my way. I’m surprised you’re still here.’

‘Waiting on a call from an old friend.’ The way Duguid pronounced ‘friend’ made it abundantly clear whoever he was referring to wouldn’t be getting an invitation to the golf club any time soon.

‘Any joy?’ McLean asked.

‘Yes, as it happens. Which is why I was looking for you. Your drug dealer, Saunders. I had a wee chat with him earlier. Almost a complete waste of time.’

‘Almost?’ McLean hoped that Grumpy Bob had been present at the interview. Until the cold-case unit was back up and running, Duguid’s clearance for things like interviewing suspects wasn’t exactly on firm ground.

‘He’s a shifty wee bugger, so he is. But he let slip a wee nugget about a squat in the West End. Reckon if your boy Eric’s anywhere, then it’ll be there.’

‘You got an address?’

‘That’s why I was waiting for the phone call.’ Duguid held up a slip of paper torn from a notepad. ‘How’s that fancy new car of yours working out?’