It felt odd to be handling his grandmother’s possessions like this, even wrapped up

The young burglar’s accent was broad Glaswegian, making him seem like some ned from the schemes. “What about me?” he whined. “Do I no’ get anythin’?” But McLean wasn’t fooled. Anyone with the skill to pick a lock and the nous to use night-vision goggles was a cut above your average drug-addict burglar.

“Let me see.” He pretended to think for a while, sipping from his own mug of tea.

“No. You don’t. Here’s how it works. You co-operate, we’ll be nice.”

“How about a ciggy then? I’m gasping here.” McLean pointed to the No Smoking sign fixed to the wall. The effect was slightly marred by the heavy biro marks erasing the word “No”.

“One of the good things to come out of Holyrood, that. You can’t smoke anywhere in this building. Not even the cells.

“And you’re going to be spending a long time in the cells if you don’t co-operate.”

“You can’t keep me locked up in here. I know my rights. I want to see a lawyer.”

“Got that off the telly, did you?” Grumpy Bob asked. “Think you know all about the polis because you watch The Bill?

Latex gloves

“You don’t get a lawyer until we say so, sunshine. And the longer you muck us about, the longer that will be.”

He took another biscuit from the plate and bit into it, sending a shower of crumbs to the floor.

“OK. Let’s start with what we know.” McLean took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

He fished in one of the pockets, coming out with a pair of latex gloves which he pulled on, snapping the rubber and smoothing the fingers.

All the while the burglar watched him with wide, grey eyes.

“You were found last night in the house of the late Mrs Esther McLean.”

McLean bent down and lifted a cardboard box from the floor, dumping it on the table. He pulled out a heavy canvas duffle bag, wrapped in plastic.

“You were carrying this bag, and wearing these.” He took the mangled/broken night-vision goggles from the box and placed them on the table. They too were encased in a clear plastic evidence bag.

“Inside the bag, we found several items taken from the house.”

He lifted out a set of silver ornaments that had been in a display cabinet in the hall.

It felt odd to be handling his grandmother’s possessions like this, even wrapped up.

“You were also carrying a set of lock-picking tools, a stethoscope, a high-speed electric drill and a set of clothes a man of your age might wear to a nightclub.” He laid the offending articles out on the table. “Oh, and this set of keys, which I assume is to your house. There were BMW car keys on the ring as well, but my colleague Detective Constable MacBride has taken them to the nearest franchised garage to get the code checked against their owner’s database.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, it opened a fraction, and MacBride popped his head in.

“Something for you, sir,” he said, handing over a sheet of paper and another clear evidence bag. McLean looked at it and smiled.

“Well, Mr McReadie, it seems we won’t be needing your co-operation after all.” He stared at the burglar, looking for signs of discomfort and finding them writ large.

“Take him back down to the cells, Bob. And tell the duty sergeant no fags, OK?” He picked up the evidence bag with the keys in it and shoved them in his pocket.

“Stuart, round up a couple of constables and meet me at the front. I’m going to see about getting a search warrant organised.”

Spotless

For a ned, Mr Fergus McReadie had done rather well for himself. His address was a large warehouse conversion down in Leith Docks.

Twenty years earlier, it would have been the haunt of prostitutes and drug dealers, but with the Scottish Office relocation and HMY Britannia, Leith was upmarket these days.

Judging by the cars parked in their allocated bays, the development wasn’t cheap either.

“How the other half live, eh, sir?” Constable MacBride said as they took the lift to the loft floor, five storeys up.

It opened on to a spotless hallway with just two apartment doors leading off. McReadie’s was the one on the left.

“I don’t know. Can’t really call it a tenement if it doesn’t smell of old beer and worse.”

McLean pointed at the other door. “See if the neighbours are home. With any luck they might know a bit about our cat burglar’s other life.”

As the constable buzzed on the right-hand door, McLean let himself into McReadie’s apartment. It was a vast hangar of a space, old wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling.

The loading doors had been converted into full height windows, overlooking the docks and out on to the Firth of Forth. One corner of the room formed an open-plan kitchen, and at the far end, spiral steps led up into the rafters and a sleeping platform. Underneath it, two doors suggested more partitioned space.

“OK, people. We’re looking for anything that might be stolen goods, any information about Mr McReadie we can find.”

He stood in the middle of the room as Constable Kydd and Grumpy Bob started to rummage around, opening doors and looking under cushions.

A huge plasma TV screen dominated one wall, and beneath it neatly arranged shelves of discs. McLean looked at some of the titles; they were mostly Japanese manga and kung-fu films.

Tacked on the end, almost as if they were an after-thought, was the complete set of Pink Panther movies. The boxes were battered and worn, as if they had been watched many times. Except the last one, which still had its cellophane wrapping around it.

“Sir?”

Stunned

McLean looked around to see DC MacBride standing in the open doorway. A woman stood behind him, her long blonde hair tousled as if she had been asleep, her eyes wide as she watched the policemen search the flat. He hurried over.

“This is Miss Adamson,” MacBride said. He looked slightly stunned. “She lives next door.”

On closer inspection, McLean could see that Miss Adamson was dressed only in a long silk dressing gown. Her feet were bare.

“What’s going on? Where’s Fergus? Is he in trouble?” Her voice was soft, thick with sleep, and with the faintest trace of American mixed in with the Edinburgh.

“Miss Adamson. Detective Inspector McLean.” He held up his warrant card for her to see, but she hardly seemed able to focus.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you could answer a few questions for us.”

“Sure. I s’pose. I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“Not at all, miss. No. I’m interested in what you know about your neighbour, Fergus McReadie.”

“OK. Come over and I’ll put some coffee on.”

More tomorrow.