The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (17 page)

‘That’s easily faked. Apparently the ink too. There’s a big market for Conan Doyle memorabilia, particularly in the States. Something like this could fetch a lot of money if it were verified.’

‘But that’s not why you bought it, is it.’ It wasn’t a
question, which was just as well. McLean looked at his half-eaten sandwich, the red lettuce leaves poking out through the cheese and mayonnaise like a bloody gash in dead, white flesh. His appetite vanished, and even the glass of wine had lost its appeal. He felt suddenly very tired.

‘You should go to bed. It’s late.’ Sitting beside him at the kitchen table, Jenny sounded just like his grandmother. An impressive feat given her age. He couldn’t argue with her logic though, started to clear up his plate and glass.

‘I’ll sort that out, don’t worry.’ Jenny took them from him, bustled over to the sink.

‘I didn’t hire you as a maid, you know.’

She ignored him, carried on acting like one. ‘She’s in your bed again. Emma.’

McLean sighed. It was difficult to sleep with her there. He’d been alone so long before she’d forced her way into his life, and he couldn’t help remembering her warmth, her vitality, her intoxicating scent. Having her so close, so intimate and yet unattainable was a special kind of torment.

‘There’s not many would put up with that. Not without taking advantage.’ Jenny came back to the table, picked up the book and the two sheets of paper all together, slipped them back in their packaging and handed them to him. ‘You’re a good man, Tony McLean. Don’t spoil that.’

And then she walked past him, bare feet silent on the floor as she disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

19

Way too early in the morning, McLean stifled a yawn as he waited for the foul-tasting coffee from the office vending machine to have some effect. The interview room was cold, which helped a bit. If the heating didn’t kick in soon though, he was likely to slip into a hypothermic coma. The clunks and gurgles from the tiny radiator suggested it was trying, at least.

The door clicked open and the cheery face of Grumpy Bob peered through. ‘You ready, sir?’

‘Aye, Bob. Send them in.’

The door pushed wider to let in two women. Magda Evans wore jeans torn at the knee and a padded bum freezer jacket, gold with little sparkly flecks in the material. She’d tied her hair in a messy wedge on top of her head and stood upright, as if a great weight had been taken off her shoulders. She towered over the diminutive form of Clarice Saunders, swaddled in a long black woollen overcoat.

‘Thanks for coming in, both of you.’ McLean stood and motioned for them to take the seats on the other side of the table. Unexpectedly, Magda took the extended hand, shook it vigorously. Her touch was warm, a welcome bit of stolen heat in the chill room. McLean studied her face in the instant of that contact. She had less makeup on than the last time they’d met, and she looked healthier
for it. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that her pimp was dead and she might actually escape the life she’d lived.

‘This is about Malky Jennings?’ Magda seemed reluctant to release his hand, so McLean tugged it gently away. Clarice had already sat down and was staring at the two of them like a disapproving parent.

‘Among other things, yes. Please, sit.’ He pointed at the chair and waited until Magda complied before taking his own.

‘Any chance you could rustle us up some tea?’ Grumpy Bob stood in the doorway. He nodded at the request, pulling the door closed behind him as he left.

‘No second officer as witness?’ Clarice asked.

‘This isn’t a formal interview, Ms Saunders. You’re here because you agreed to come in. I can record things if you want.’ McLean pointed at the tape machine on its shelf just in case she didn’t know how it was done.

‘And if we hadn’t agreed to come in? Would you have arrested Magda again?’

‘Again? I wasn’t aware we’d arrested her before.’

‘You held her here for twenty-four hours. After she’d been abducted and shoved in the hold of an old boat bound for God knows where.’

‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to Magda about, actually.’ McLean shifted his gaze from the stern, tiny woman to her companion, knowing full well that it would take more than that to shut her out.

‘I already told you all I know about that, Inspector.’

‘I don’t doubt that you believe that, Miss Evans, but I’d like to go over the events one more time, just in case we missed something. First though, Malky Jennings.’

‘Malky Jennings. What of him?’

‘Let’s not beat about the bush. You hated him for what he did to you, aye?’

‘You’re not suggesting Magda here –’ Clarice butted in. McLean cut her off before she could get into full flow.

‘No, Miss Saunders, I’m not. Otherwise this interview would be under caution and there’d be another officer present. I know Miss Evans here had as much motive to kill Jennings as anyone. Any of his prostitutes had plenty of motive, but I don’t think any of them killed him, OK?’

‘He was a total bastard.’ Magda’s voice was quiet, matter of fact. ‘But then all men are. Most men, maybe.’

McLean let that slide. ‘He had control over you though, didn’t he. Fixed you up with drugs, stopped you from going elsewhere. I’ve heard he was a violent man. Very possessive.’

‘It sounds like you knew him better than most, Detective Inspector,’ Clarice said. McLean ignored her again.

‘You tried to leave him a couple of times though.’ The sheet on Magda Evans was surprisingly short for someone who’d worked the streets in Edinburgh for as long as she had, but there was a pattern to the cautions she’d been given. Two separate occasions when she’d been found far off her normal patch. One short stint in a notorious Marchmont massage parlour that had been just a little too blatant even for the city council’s laissez-faire policy, another incident in Sighthill. Both far from Restalrig and the little empire of Malky Jennings.

‘He always found me though. Didn’t matter how far I ran.’

‘How did he know where to look?’

Clarice snorted a dismissive little laugh. ‘You don’t know much about how these people operate, do you, Inspector.’

‘Like I said, he had control over you. And he had connections.’ McLean slumped back in his chair so that his focus was no longer solely on the ex-hooker. ‘He was low-level, true, but he dealt drugs and pimped a dozen, maybe fourteen prostitutes in and around Restalrig. And we let him, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Can I get that in writing?’ Clarice was actually smiling. It made her look slightly mad.

‘Sadly I don’t speak for the entire police service, Miss Saunders. I do disagree with the way things have been run here, but I also have to follow orders. Malky Jennings was largely left to his own devices because he was a known quantity.’

‘This isn’t anything I didn’t already know.’ Clarice Saunders’ smile had gone, now she had her serious face on. ‘I’ve been trying to help these women for ten years now, and every time I’ve reported the likes of Malky Jennings to you lot, there’s been minimal response. Pulled in for questioning, maybe a fine for possession. Never anything about the women he regularly beat black and blue.’

‘And you’ll know why we did it, too, Miss Saunders.’ McLean addressed his next question directly to Magda. ‘Would you have testified against him in court if he broke your ribs?’

Her lack of response was answer enough.

‘No, you wouldn’t. I don’t blame you, if I’m being honest. You put him away, he’s out again in six months, a year. Like you said, he always managed to find you. Don’t suppose
it’d be just your ribs he broke the next time. And while he’s away, who takes over? How do they go about asserting their authority?’

‘So what? You just give up? You let the likes of him run the place? I thought you swore an oath to protect and serve?’

McLean hadn’t the heart to correct Clarice Saunders on that point. It was a fair summary of what he’d thought the job was about, after all.

‘Let’s just say I don’t like it, OK? But it’s true. Malky might have beaten his girls around, but he stopped anyone worse from coming along and putting them in the mortuary. Now he’s gone and I really need to know who’s trying to take over his patch.’

A long silence filled the room. Earlier on in the interview, McLean hadn’t been able to avoid Magda’s stare, but as the conversation had turned to Malky, so her gaze had dropped. Now even her head was bowed and her shoulders slumped.

‘Magda’s put that world behind her, inspector.’ Clarice Saunders reached over and placed a hand on her companion’s arm. ‘She doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know.’

‘You think that was wise, sir? Going all confessional on them like that?’

Grumpy Bob leaned against the wall in the corridor outside the interview room. He had a mug of tea clasped in his hand and a rolled-up newspaper shoved under his arm. A uniform PC had taken Magda Evans and Clarice Saunders out through the back, where McLean had organized a taxi to take them home.

‘My Gran always told me it was best to tell the truth, no matter how painful.’

‘Aye, but she didn’t work for the polis, did she.’

‘Not directly, no. Not sure what she’d have made of all this, either.’

All this. A nice, easy way of summing up a godawful mess. Despite her initial enthusiasm for the interview, and the different location, Magda Evans had managed to give them zero new information. McLean wasn’t fooled by Clarice Saunders’ stories either. Maybe the charity worker believed her new best friend was making a break from her old life. Maybe it was even true. But it didn’t take a genius to see that Magda knew damned well who had muscled in on Malky Jennings’ patch, and she had a very good idea who’d taken her and the other girls onto that boat. Chances were she knew why they’d picked her, too, and the story about her being half Polish didn’t wash.

‘So what’s next?’ Grumpy Bob asked. McLean eyed him up, the tea, the paper.

‘Looks like you’re set for a session in an empty incident room, if you can find one.’

‘That depends on whether you can make me a better offer or not.’

‘How’re you getting on with the Braid Hill investigation? Keeping you busy?’

Grumpy Bob’s answer was to pull out his newspaper and flip it open with his one free hand. The headline was easy enough to read. ‘Flasher Caught!’

‘Students back already?’

‘Post-grad. They never really go away. Stupid bugger tried to climb over a garden wall in his flasher mac. Didn’t
realize it was topped with smashed glass until it was too late. He’s in the hospital now. Not going anywhere in a hurry. Not on his own two feet, anyway. Probably won’t be fathering many children either.’

McLean winced, but only briefly. ‘So you’re at a bit of a loose end right now.’

Grumpy Bob lifted his mug to his mouth, took a noisy slurp of tea. ‘Mebbe. Why?’

‘Ritchie’s off on some bloody Police Scotland thing, but she left me a list of ship’s chandlers who stock hemp rope. Thought I might go and see if any of them recall seeing either of our hanged men.’

The Captain’s Rest sounded more like the name of a seaside pub than a place you’d buy bits and pieces for your yacht. There was no mistaking what it was once you approached the place, though. Stacked on the pavement outside the door, rolls of blue nylon rope, buoys, wicker lobster pots for the tourist trade and heavy ironmongery dared the casual thief to have a go. The windows displayed more expensive and easily pocketed equipment, shielded from the sun by a thin film of rumpled yellow cellophane on the inside of the glass. If you wanted to buy a dead wasp, this was clearly the place to come, too.

Inside was everything McLean expected. Head-high shelving formed narrow aisles, funnelling the shopper towards a wooden counter at the back. Deep-sea fishing gear hung from hooks on the ceiling, along with shackles, ratchets, pulleys and other impressively engineered gear he had no name for. Over to one side a rack of heavy-duty wet-weather clothing gave testament to the reality of
sailing in the Firth of Forth and North Sea. No high fashion here, just survival in an environment where exposure could kill you in minutes.

Behind him, Grumpy Bob closed the door with a jingling rattle from a collection of karabiners hung on the frame, then set off into the shop to look at a stack of charts and navigation aids. McLean squeezed himself down the nearest aisle, stepping over a cardboard box that had escaped from the shelves, and approached the counter. At first he thought there was no one in, but a shuffling noise from under the wooden counter-top turned out to be a very small man with a great profusion of bushy, white hair, most of it on the lower part of his face and neck. The captain, no doubt.

‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you today?’

‘I was wondering, do you sell hemp rope?’

‘Ah, the old-fashioned kind. Much the best for the older boats. What is it you sail, sir? You look like a clinker-built man to me.’

McLean fished around in his inside jacket pocket, brought out his warrant card and a couple of photographs.

‘Actually I’m not a sailor at all. I’m investigating a couple of suspicious deaths.’

The shopkeeper retrieved a pair of ancient wire spectacles from a chain around his neck, placed them on the end of his nose and peered at the warrant card. He stared at the image, then up at McLean, then back at the image. For a moment McLean thought he was going to carry on like that for ever.