This was the show; pretending to be interested, pretending to be his friend

McIntyre stood as McLean knocked on the open door. “Ah, Tony. Thanks for popping in.” That was a bad sign already. She walked around her desk, holding out a hand to be shaken. She was short, perhaps only just the minimum height for an officer. With her long brown hair tied back in an aggressive bun, he could see streaks of grey beginning to show around her temples.

The foundation around her eyes couldn’t hide the lines when she smiled.

“Sorry I didn’t come earlier, I had a bit of a rough night.” “Never mind. Have a seat.”

She motioned towards one of two armchairs set in the corner of the spacious office, then settled into the other one herself.

“Chief Inspector Duguid spoke to me this morning. He tells me you were sniffing around the Barnaby Smythe scene the other night.”

So that was what it was about. A terrible thing, professional jealousy.

“I was in the neighbourhood, I saw that something was up and thought I might be able to help.

“I grew up around there, I know some of the local residents. DCI Duguid invited me in to see the crime scene.”

Important

McIntyre nodded her head as McLean spoke, her eyes never leaving his face.

He always felt with her like he was a naughty schoolboy being hauled up in front of the headmistress.

Without warning, she stood up and walked across the room to a low wooden sideboard with a percolator on it.

“Coffee?” McLean nodded. McIntyre busied herself with measuring ground coffee from a Kilner jar into the filter, pouring in the exact amount of water required for two cups, and clicking the machine on.

“Barnaby Smythe was a very important man in the city, Tony. His murder’s caused a lot of anxiety at high levels.

“Questions are being raised in Holyrood. Pressure is being brought to bear. We need to get a result on this one, and we need it fast.”

“I’m sure DCI Duguid will be very thorough. I see he’s got a substantial team helping him with the investigation already.”

“It’s not enough. I need my best detectives on this case, and I need them to co-operate with each other.”

Thin brown liquid began to drip from the percolator into the glass jug beneath.

“You want me on the investigation?” McIntyre walked back to her desk and picked up a manila folder, opening it on the table in front of him.

There were a couple of dozen large colour photographs inside, taken in Barnaby Smythe’s library.

Close-ups showed his opened chest; his staring dead eyes and blood-stained chin; his hands resting on the arms of the chair; his entrails pooled up in his lap. McLean was glad he’d not yet eaten.

“I saw all this already,” he said as McIntyre poured two mugs of coffee and brought them over, settling herself back down in her armchair.

“He was 84 years old. Over the course of his life, Barnaby Smythe contributed more to this city than anyone I can think of, and yet someone did that to an old man.

“I need you to find out who did it, and why. And I need you to do that before they decide to cut open some other prominent citizen.”

“And Duguid? He’s happy to have me on his team?” McLean sipped at his coffee, then wished he hadn’t. It was hot, but weak, and tasted of dirty water.

“Happy’s not the word I’d use, Tony. But Charles is a senior detective.

“He won’t let personal animosity get in the way of something this important. I’d like to think you’ll be the same.”

“Of course.”

Prominent

McIntyre smiled. “So how are your other cases coming along?”

“Constable MacBride’s come up with a good theory about the burglary. He reckons there’s a connection with several earlier ones, going back about five years.

“We’ve still no identity on the dead girl, though the doctor reckons she was killed about 60 years ago. I’ve a meeting with the builder later this morning.”

McLean went through his caseload quickly, but he could see that the chief superintendent was only halflistening.

This was the show; pretending to be interested, pretending to be his friend. It was a good sign, because it meant she thought he could be of use to her. But he wasn’t so stupid as to miss the subtext.

He was on the Smythe investigation because there was a possibility it might fail. There might be other murders of prominent people, or worse, the killer might disappear and never be found.

But if it did go wrong, it wouldn’t be Chief

Superintendent McIntyre’s fault. Neither would DCI Duguid feel the heat.

No, he was being invited into the investigation so that Lothian and Borders Police would have someone expendable to throw to the wolves if that should become necessary.

Nervous

McLean decided he didn’t like Tommy McAllister within two minutes of meeting the man.

It didn’t help that neither of his two assigned officers were about when he had extricated himself from the superintendent’s office.

He’d wasted several minutes searching for them before remembering he’d told them to interview the earlier burglary victims.

The station was almost deserted of uniforms, everyone seemed to have been drafted on to the Smythe investigation, but eventually he tracked down a young constable and persuaded her it would be in her interests to find him a pool car.

She was standing in the corner of the room now, notebook in hand, visibly nervous. She’d have to work on that if she wanted to make detective.

“Can I get you some coffee, inspector? Constable?” McAllister slouched in a high-backed black leather executive chair he no doubt thought made him look important.

He was dressed in a suit, but the jacket had been thrown over a nearby filing cabinet. His shirt was crumpled, sweat darkening the cotton around his armpits.

Loosened tie and rolled up sleeves gave the impression that he was relaxed, but McLean could see the nervous darting of his eyes, the way he played with his fingers and bounced his feet.

“Thank you, but no,” he said. “We shouldn’t be long here. I just wanted to clear up a few facts about the house in Sighthill. Is Mr Murdo here?”

A scowl passed across McAllister’s face at the mention of the name. He leant forward, hitting a button on the ancient intercom on his desk.

“Janette, can you put a call out for Donnie.” He lifted his finger off the button and looked back up at McLean, jerking his head backwards to the window behind him.

“He’s out in the yard somewhere, I think.” A woman’s voice, muffled by the glass, announced over the tannoy for Donnie Murdo to come to the office.

More tomorrow.