The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(84)

‘Ma’am, I must—’

‘All for one investigation, Charles. Just one. Every other DCI in Lothian and Borders is running at least six. Even the DIs are doing more.’

‘I have eight other cases at the moment, ma’am. This one just needs more attention.’

‘You’re not even supposed to be running the bloody thing, Charles. It’s meant to be a drugs-squad operation with us giving support. Tony was doing a perfectly good job of that before you ordered him off the case.’

‘This poison is destroying lives. We have to get rid of it.’

McLean had been studying his shoes up to this point, but something about the DCI’s words caught his attention, the way he said them with such utter conviction. There was something here he didn’t know, and that put him off-guard. McIntyre did though. She finally sat down, and when she spoke again, it was with a much more reasonable tone.

‘Look, Charles, no one’s questioning your dedication here. But you’ve got to take the lead from DI Langley, not browbeat him with your seniority. He’s the one who knows how to handle this kind of investigation. This isn’t going to be solved by throwing lots of man-hours at it.’

McIntyre shuffled the papers on her desk for a moment, let the silence build before she turned her attention on McLean.

‘As for you, Tony. I’d hoped you might have had a bit more respect for authority, and a bit more sense. What do you think it does for morale if two senior detectives start taking chunks out of each other in front of the whole station?’

McLean wanted to say that it helped to clear the air; that if no one else stood up to Duguid then the man would drive everyone to an early grave with his impossible demands and sudden mood changes. But he said nothing, knowing it wasn’t a question he could answer without getting into more trouble.

‘I expect my officers to behave in a manner befitting their status, gentlemen. If you can’t stand the sight of each other, that’s tough. You’re professionals, so start acting like it. Or there’ll be a report going in to the DCC.’

It wasn’t an explicit dismissal, but Duguid took it for one, turning swiftly and stalking out of the office without another word. McLean pitied the poor bastard of a constable to be the first to get in his way.

‘One moment, Tony.’ McIntyre stopped him from leaving a safe distance behind the DCI.

‘Ma’am?’

‘I meant what I said. He’s your superior officer. If you keep pushing at him, I can’t stop the complaints from going higher up.’

‘If he’d just leave me perhaps one or two detectives to work with, I wouldn’t have to keep going against him.’

‘I know, but just try to cut him some slack, eh? His ... well, let’s just say that hard drugs have ruined the life of someone close to him.’

So that was what this was all about. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Not many people do, and he’d rather keep it that way.’

McLean nodded, wondering what other secrets Duguid had locked away. Maybe if the DCI wasn’t so abrasive with everyone he’d get a bit more sympathy. But then again, probably not.

‘Matt said he was pleased with how your sessions are coming along,’ McIntyre said after a while.

‘That’s nice to know, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to think I was going nuts.’

‘Oh don’t be so bloody melodramatic about it. I can see as plainly as the next man that you’re under a lot of stress. Quite frankly I can’t afford to lose another detective right now, we’re short enough as it is. So suck up your pride and take the help being offered.’

McLean bowed his head by way of assent. He didn’t dare say anything; he owed the chief superintendent too much gratitude for that.

‘There’s one more thing. I know you’re meant to be having the day off, but Sergeant Hwei’s been getting a lot of flak in the press-liaison office about Trisha Lubkin. We were trying to keep a lid on that, but her husband’s been shooting his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen.’

McLean recalled the enormous man with his quiet voice and bruised nose. It suddenly occurred to him that Trisha might have butted him and not her attacker. He’d never thought to ask exactly how she’d hit her husband. The thought put him in almost as much gloom as the chief superintendent’s words. He knew what was coming next.

‘We’re going to have another press conference. Tomorrow morning, eleven a.m. You need to be there, and I want to see briefing notes first thing.’

He tried Emma’s mobile as he trudged back from the chief superintendent’s office to the CID room. It rang straight through to answering machine, so he left a message.

‘Hi, Emma. It’s me, Tony. Look, I’m really sorry about this morning. Maybe I can make it up to you? I should be out of here by ...’ He looked at his watch, appalled to see that it was almost one. ‘Six o’clock? Give us a call if you fancy a Thai.’

He left the same message on her home phone, but somehow he felt she wasn’t going to call back. Not today at least.

DS Ritchie was at her desk, two-finger typing on a laptop. She looked up when he walked in.

‘Oh, afternoon, sir. Sorry I called you like that. I didn’t mean for you to get into trouble with the chief superintendent.’

‘It’s all right, sergeant. I’m not in trouble. Well, not much anyway. Is MacBride about?’