The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) by James Oswald Read Free Book Online

drawer below yielded a lined A4 writing pad and some envelopes. The bottom drawer held a hole punch and a couple of power adaptors for mobile phones, the cords neatly tied as if they’d never been used.
    ‘What about this message then?’ A screensaver image looped and twirled mesmerically about the screen until MacBride nudged the mouse. The image steadied to a word processor, a few words typed out, the cursor blinking as it waited for more.
Ive had enugh. There’s no reasen too go on. The world hates me well it can do without me now. To whoever finds me, Im sorry. Good bye .
    ‘That it?’
    ‘That’s all there was when I got here.’
    ‘We know who he is?’ McLean looked back at the naked man.
    ‘Neighbour says he’s Grigori Mikhailevic. Doesn’t know him well.’
    ‘That who found the body?’
    ‘Aye. Door was open as she walked past. Says she didn’t come in, and I’m inclined to believe her.’
    ‘Where’s she now?’
    ‘Back in her flat. PC Gregg’s with her.’
    Sandy Gregg. Poor woman. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to do any talking. McLean looked around the apartment. It wasn’t just the desk that was tidy; everything had a place and everything was in its place. What little furniture there was sat square, aligned with the walls. Even the table upon which the chair had been balanced was centred neatly. Perhaps that was a necessary adaptation to living somewhere so small, but he’d seen places smaller still where chaos had been allowed to reign. No, this was the apartment of a tidy man. Meticulously tidy. Anally retentive, as the Freudians would have it. And there he was, hanging from a stout hemp rope slung over his own beam.
    ‘We’re done here, if you want to cut him down.’ Cadwallader straightened up from his crouch with an audible popping of bones.
    ‘Your crime scene, Constable. I’m not here, remember.’ McLean nodded at MacBride.
    ‘Oh. Right. Yes. Carry on, Doctor Cadwallader.’
    ‘Any more thoughts, Angus?’ McLean asked.
    ‘Well, if it wasn’t suicide it was a very good fake. If I had to put money on it now, I’d say he killed himself. I’ll run blood tests in case he’s been given something to make him compliant, check one or two other things at the PM. But I’m not seeing any evidence of foul play here.’
    ‘But you think there’s something fishy.’ McLean turned to DC MacBride.
    ‘It’s hard to put my finger on it, sir, but there’s somethingnot right. I’d like to look into it some more, but you know what Duguid’s like. He’ll want this written up and forgotten by the end of the day.’
    ‘We wouldn’t want you going out and finding new crimes to investigate. Just think what that would do to the statistics. Let alone the budget.’
    ‘I don’t know, sir. It’s just …’
    ‘I think you’re right, there’s something hooky here. This is a man who arranges his pens by colour and lines things up so they’re nice and square. There’s no mess in here at all, no clutter. That sort of person doesn’t hang himself, it’s too prone to things going wrong. That sort of mind isn’t normally suicidal at all. More likely to be homicidal, especially if the neighbours don’t put their recycling in the right bin.’
    ‘So you think I should keep looking?’
    McLean watched as the two paramedics manhandled the body onto the stretcher they had wheeled in, careful to avoid the mess on the rug.
    ‘Yes. And I’d start with that laptop. The note’s a joke. It’s impersonal, could’ve been written by anyone. And it’s riddled with typos and spelling mistakes. I’ll bet you a purple beer token there’s not a single error in any of the other documents on there.’



8
    The door to Chief Superintendent McIntyre’s office was closed; that was the first thing that McLean noticed. For three years it had stood ajar, no barrier between the chief and those who worked under her. Janice’s desk now stood unattended and cleared of anything that might be deemed