What Will Burn James Oswald (booksvooks txt) 📖

McLean focused on the spotlessly clean whiteboard for a moment, then remembered the thing he’d been going to ask. ‘The other people who were drinking with Fielding last night. Anyone spoken to them yet?’

‘No, sir. We thought going through this was more important. They’d all left before . . .’ Harrison looked around the room to see who else was in there, then decided not to finish the sentence anyway.

‘But you know who they are, right?’

‘Aye. Well, two of them. Izzy recognised them. She’s got contact details and everything.’

McLean shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know. Just speak to them and find out what they were doing there, where they went afterwards. The usual stuff.’ He turned to leave, but was pulled up short by DS Gregg, who was standing directly behind him and had the look of someone who’s been waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

‘Before you do that sir, the cleaner’s in interview room one. Melanie Naismith. You said you wanted to speak to her soon as she arrived?’

‘The cleaner?’ For a moment he couldn’t think what the detective sergeant was talking about. ‘Oh, right. Yes. The cleaner. I’d better go and talk to her then.’

When McLean entered the interview room, Melanie Naismith was sitting in her chair, eyeing up the walls and sparse furnishings as if they could do with a good dusting. She was probably right, although he had no idea how often, if ever, the interview rooms were cleaned. This was at least one of the nicer ones, with a window that had a view and a radiator that more or less worked.

‘Thank you for coming in, Ms Naismith. I imagine this must be very difficult for you.’

‘Worked in a care home gone fifteen years. Ain’t the first dead body I’ve seen. I was mostly shocked ’cause I thought I’d walked in on him having a wank.’

McLean suppressed the smirk that wanted to spread itself across his face. ‘Had you worked for Mr Fielding long?’

‘I didn’t work for him. I cleaned his flat. Same as I clean a lot of folk’s flats. Some big houses too. But if you mean how long had I been cleaning his flat for, about two years, maybe a bit more?’

‘How often do you clean it?’

‘Every day during the week. Mr Fielding likes it all neat and tidy when he comes home. Liked, I should say.’

‘And you had a key to gain access when he wasn’t in.’

‘Key for his door. Code for the front so I didn’t have to bother Harry every time I wanted to get into the building.’

‘You cleaned other flats in the block, then?’

‘A few.’

‘Is it usual for your clients to give you access like that?’

Naismith shrugged. ‘Some do. Others watch you all the time, like they think you’re going to try and steal things. I’ve had folk leave money in plain sight, jewellery sometimes. Just to see if I’m tempted. I don’t normally work for them long, though. Spent enough of my time wiping assholes. I don’t much care to clean for them too.’

McLean found himself warming to the cleaner. It could have been an act, but her no-nonsense attitude felt sincere. ‘Could you go over this morning’s routine for me, please? What time did you start?’

‘I was in the building at six. The Simpsons live on the top floor and I had to do them first. Dolly’s off sick. She’s one of the other cleaners, Dolores O’Brien, if you can believe that. So I was covering for her too. Mr Fielding’s gone to his work by half eight. Well, normally he would be. So I was probably in there around then.’

‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual?’

‘Aye, well. He’s normally quite tidy. Puts stuff away and loads the dishwasher. He must’ve had a visitor round ’cause there was two wine glasses on the coffee table, and the bottle was lying on the floor empty. The sofa cushions was all over the place, too. If you asked me I’d’ve said he’d had a woman up there. Only if that was the case, why would he . . .’ Naismith trailed off, her imagination finally catching up with her.

‘But you tidied up anyway,’ McLean said.

‘Aye, that’s my job. I usually start in the kitchen and work my way round the living space. Y’know how it’s all open plan ’cept the bedroom.’

McLean nodded that he did, even though it hadn’t really been a question.

‘Well, that’s what I did. Left the stuff on his desk ’cause that’s no business o’ mine. Straightened up the living room, put the cushions back, loaded the dishwasher and put it on. That’s when I went into the bedroom, and, well, you know what happened next.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual in the room?’ McLean asked. ‘Aside from the obvious, that is.’

‘Don’t ask much, do you, Inspector? A grown man, naked as the day and lying dead on his bed with a tie around his neck? I really don’t think I saw anything else at all. Could have been a brass band playing in the corner and I’d probably have missed it.’

McLean had to concede that. She was a cleaner, and even if she’d seen and dealt with dead bodies before, it would still have been a shock. ‘So what did you do next? I mean, did you call 999 straight away? Did you use your own phone or the house phone?’

Naismith narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment. ‘I used my own phone. Called 999 like you say. Then I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. My heart was going a hundred mile an hour.’

‘And you waited there, in the kitchen, until the first police officer arrived? You didn’t go back for another look?’

This time Naismith’s face took on a pained expression for a moment, as if some momentous internal struggle were ongoing. McLean left her the time she needed.

‘Aye, well. You know how it is. I’d seen him, like I said. Knew he was dead. But what if he wasn’t, aye?