The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Carstairs smiled as he said the words, but as the lawyer walked away, McLean couldn’t shake the feeling he didn’t really mean what he said
Adark-suited man stood a polite distance behind McLean, his eyes fixed on the solicitor. “Can it not wait, Forster?” “I’m afraid not, sir. You did say to let you know if he got in touch.” Carstairs stiffened, a hunted look darting across his face like a startled deer. He recovered quickly, but not so quickly that McLean didn’t notice.
“Something come up?”
“The office, yes.”
Carstairs patted his suit jacket as if looking for something, saw the empty glass tumbler on the table beside him, picked it up as if to finish his drink then seemed to realise what he was doing.
“A very important client. I’m so sorry, Tony, but I’ll have to go.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m just grateful that you came at all. After all your hard work organising things.”
McLean reached out and shook Carstairs by the hand. “I’d very much like to talk some more.
“You obviously knew my gran better than I did. Perhaps I could give you a call?”
“Of course, Tony. Any time. You’ve got my number.” Carstairs smiled as he said the words, but as the lawyer walked away, McLean couldn’t shake the feeling he didn’t really mean what he said.
Solitude
It was a long way home once the wake had wound itself down, but McLean turned down the car that Carstairs had organised.
He preferred solitude, the chance to think that only came with the rhythm of his feet on the pavement.
It was only after he’d been walking for half an hour that he realised they were taking him towards his grandmother’s house and not back to the flat in Newington.
He made to change direction, then stopped. He’d not been back since the day they’d found Barnaby Smythe’s body.
Before she’d suffered her stroke, McLean had often gone to his grandmother for advice, for help with problems he just couldn’t get his head around.
Usually she’d just talked him around the subject until he’d worked it out for himself, but he’d always valued her input.
Once she had gone into hospital, the house had lost its appeal. He went there because he had to.
Had to check the meters, collect the mail, make sure no one had broken in.
But it had always been a chore.
Now, with his grandmother’s ashes in the ground, going back to her house – his house as soon as the paperwork was done and the taxman had taken his pound of flesh – felt like the right thing to do.
Perhaps it might even help him with some of the many intractable problems that even a good long walk couldn’t unravel.
The late afternoon faded to evening, and further from the city centre the noise dwindled away to nothing more than a distant background hum.
When finally he turned into the street where the house stood, it was almost like stepping into the countryside.
The big sycamore trees that broke up the pavement also damped down the city noise and darkened the summer evening light.
Most of the houses were silent hulks set back from the road in their mature gardens.
Only occasional signs of life, a slammed door, a spill of voices through an opened window, showed him that he wasn’t completely alone.
Destination
For a while, the black cat kept stride with him on the other side of the road, waiting until it was sure he had seen it before disappearing over a high stone wall just as he reached his destination.
The gravel drive gave a reassuringly familiar crunch beneath his feet.
Ahead, the house looked dead, empty, like a ghost rising out of the overgrown borders, but as soon as he left the street, he smelled the familiar scent of home.
McLean let himself in the back door, going straight to the alarm console and tapping in the code to disarm all the sensors.
Seeing the Penstemmin logo reminded him that he still needed to interview the installer who had fitted old Mrs Douglas’s alarm.
Another case he was no nearer to solving.
It was amusing to see just how many finance companies were keen to offer personal loans and credit cards to the deceased.
He leafed through the pile of junk mail that had accumulated at the front door in the few days since his last visit, sorting out the few letters that looked important and binning the rest.
The hallway was dark with falling evening, but when he went through to the library, the red-orange glow of the setting sun reflected off high clouds, painting the room.
McLean spent a few minutes pulling off all the white sheets that covered the furniture, folding them neatly and stacking them by the door.
His grandmother’s desk sat in one corner, the sleek flat-screen monitor and keyboard looking incongruous amongst the antique furniture.
The solicitors had been looking after her affairs, and he’d been quite happy with that arrangement, but at some point he’d have to go through her files, both paper and electronic. Put everything in order. Just thinking about it made him weary.
Concealed
He poured himself a decent measure from the crystal decanter in the drinks cupboard artfully concealed behind a panel of false books.
Then he realised that the bottled water was at least 18 months old.
He sniffed the top; it seemed OK, put just a dash in his whisky and sipped the pale amber liquid. Islay, without a doubt. And strong.
Adding more water, he remembered his grandmother’s fondness for Lagavulin and wondered if this was one of the cask-strength bottlings from the Malt Whisky Society.
It was a while since he’d drunk anything so refined. Dram in hand, McLean settled down into one of the high-backed leather armchairs beside the empty fireplace.
The library was warm; those long windows trapped all the afternoon and evening sun. This room had always been his favourite.
It was a sanctuary, a haven of peace and quiet where he could escape from the madness of the city outside.
Head tilted against the soft leather back of the chair, McLean closed his eyes and let the weariness wash over him.
More tomorrow.