What Will Burn James Oswald (booksvooks txt) 📖

McIntyre’s words earlier. McLean had considered it, but couldn’t find a way to make it work. Too little information, for one thing.

‘I don’t know. No reason to think the two men are linked to Slater. Hopefully Janie will come up with some useful information on Purefoy. You’ve done the background on Whitaker, right?’

For once, Blane kept his eyes on the road as he replied. ‘Yes, sir. Not that there’s much to it. He started off as an unskilled labourer straight out of school at seventeen. Got his training on the job and then a diploma at night school. Same firm all the way, so I guess they saw something in him and took the time to nurture it. Not many firms would do that.’

Something about the way Blane spoke made McLean think it was personal. He said nothing though. If the detective constable wanted to talk about it, there were better times and places to do that than driving across the city on the way to conducting an interview with a recently bereaved member of the aristocracy.

‘He married Miranda Keegan five years ago. Janie – DS Harrison – and I interviewed her the day we found his remains. She wasn’t exactly upset to hear he’d died. Not that I think she was responsible, mind, but it was a bit cold. Claims she found him abusing their wee daughter.’

‘I saw the briefing notes, aye.’ McLean stared ahead as they left the twenty mile an hour zone and Blane accelerated swiftly to forty. ‘That’s why he was living in that pokey wee basement, right?’

Blane’s hands tensed on the wheel, the car shimmying in the road before he got whatever was going on with him back under control.

‘She was suing him for divorce. Hadn’t been finalised, but the interim ruling meant he couldn’t see his bairn and he had to move out of the family home. Only reason he wasn’t in jail was because he had a good lawyer on his side. That’s why he was living in that shithole. Sir.’

McLean noticed that last ‘sir’. Along with DC Blane’s ill-concealed agitation at the perceived injustice. It jarred with the image he’d formed of the detective constable.

‘Who was the lawyer?’ he asked, unsure what else to say.

‘Tommy Fielding.’

‘What? The men’s rights guy? Weren’t you and Harrison looking into him?’

Blane turned his head to look at McLean, something in the detective constable’s face he hadn’t seen before. Was it anger?

‘We weren’t looking into him, sir. We were responding to a complaint he made about a demonstration outside the hotel where he’s been holding his seminars. A bunch of protesters broke in and disrupted one of his meetings the other night, so I think his complaint’s fairly justified. Nobody seems to want to take him seriously though. Certainly not Janie. It’s almost like she’s made her mind up about him and won’t be budged. I thought we were meant to be all about facts, sir.’

So that was what had been eating him. McLean nodded, in the hope that if he appeared to be agreeing then Blane would concentrate on the road again. It seemed to work.

‘I’ll have a word with Harrison,’ he said, which seemed to mollify Blane a little.

‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. It just . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, simply letting whatever it was go unsaid. McLean let it go. If the big man wanted to talk about it, he’d find his time. Meanwhile they had more pressing business to attend to.

‘No need to apologise, Lofty. I’d much rather my officers came to me when they had a problem than let it fester and affect their work. Now, let’s see if we can’t find out a bit more about Cecily Slater, aye? We can worry about Tommy Fielding another day.’

A squall of rain splattered across the windscreen as they parked up, Bairnfather Hall looking suitably Gothic against a backdrop of moorland and slate-grey sky. McLean hurried to the front door, Blane taking his time to lock the car but still catching up with him by the time he’d got there. Inside, they were greeted by a different flunky, who had clearly been warned they were coming. He escorted them to a vast and elegant room at the front of the building, all wood panelling and leather armchairs. Two fireplaces burned merrily, and opposite them the tiniest of bars looked almost like an afterthought.

‘I will inform His Lordship of your arrival, sirs. In the meantime, can I offer you something to drink?’

McLean eyed the bar. There were no beer pulls or anything you might associate with a pub in the city. Shelves on the wall behind it held some interesting bottles of whisky. Too early for that, though, and he imagined paying for a dram here would make your eyes water far more than the alcohol.

‘A coffee would be nice. You want anything, Detective Constable?’

Blane only shook his head, so the flunky gave them the most minimal of bows then turned and left. McLean had hardly enough time to scan the room and take a seat before a smartly dressed waiter appeared with a tray containing cafetiere, jug of milk, tiny bowl of sugar, elegant china cup and, best of all, a generous plate of chocolate biscuits. He set about them with all the gusto of a hungry man, pausing only to pour himself some fine-smelling coffee.

‘You’re missing a treat, you know?’ he said to Blane, who still hadn’t sat down but instead was looking around the room as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Sorry, sir. Just I had a lot to get done. Being kept waiting by someone referred to by a bloke in a penguin suit as “His Lordship” wasn’t how I thought I’d be spending the afternoon.’

That wasn’t what was really wrong, McLean knew, but it did well enough for the detective constable. An obvious hook to hang his growing irritation upon. Now wasn’t the time to find out