personal. Jayne McIntyre’s open-door policy had been one of the few positive things about the station, but now she had moved to better things, or at least he hoped so. Anything to do with the setting up of the new Police Service of Scotland was a double-edged sword. McLean couldn’t begrudge her the chance to progress up the greasy pole, but there was part of him that wished she was still here, or at least that the person who’d been promoted to fill her shoes was less red-faced, balding and generally useless.
Taking a moment to compose himself, he knocked quietly on the door, waited for the gruff ‘enter’ and then did as he was bid.
Acting Superintendent Charles Duguid had taken no time to impose his own lack of style on McIntyre’s office. The casual area, with its bookshelves, coffee machine and curiously uncomfortable armchairs, was gone, replaced by a wall of whiteboards and a long conference table. The pictures on the wall were gone too, presumably to Tulliallan. Neutral ground for the new HQ so that no one regioncould dominate. As if that wasn’t going to happen anyway. Duguid hadn’t bothered to replace them yet, no doubt finding comfort in the discoloured patches they had left on the walls. The desk itself was the same one McIntyre had used, but where under her tenure it had usually been heaped with papers, reports and other signs of busy-ness, now it was almost clear. And behind it, scowling at McLean as he finished his telephone conversation, the man of the hour.
‘What is it, McLean?’ Duguid made no effort to hide the impatience in his voice.
‘You wanted to see me, sir. The duty sergeant –’
‘That was hours ago. Where the hell have you been?’
McLean suppressed the urge to look at his watch. He was fairly sure Sergeant Dundas wouldn’t have sat on the message for more than a few minutes, and he’d been in his office for the past two hours trying to make some sense of the overtime figures foisted on him by one of Duguid’s own investigations.
‘Well, you’re here now, I suppose.’ Duguid leaned back in his enormous leather chair. That was new, and expensive by the look of things. A pity he hadn’t bothered to provide one on the other side of the desk. McLean stood with his hands behind his back, trying not to let his temper rise. That was, after all, exactly what Duguid wanted.
‘I’ve been reviewing your cases since your promotion.’ Duguid nodded towards a closed brown folder that was pretty much the only thing on his desk. There was nothing on the outside to indicate that it was what he said it was, and judging by its thinness, it was more likely a reviewof Duguid’s own caseload, but McLean said nothing. He knew better than to provoke the beast this early in the conversation.
‘Not much of a clear-up rate, is there. Not many arrests and convictions. When was the last time you gave evidence in court?’
‘A couple of years ago. The Broughton Post Office raid.’
‘You were still a sergeant then.’ It wasn’t a question. McLean resisted the temptation to add ‘Detective.’
‘So, since making inspector you’ve put how many criminals away?’
That depends on how you count, doesn’t it? The drug bust that gave you your bloody promotion was effectively down to my lead, so you could say something of the order of two dozen awaiting trial just at the moment. And there’s the small matter of the forensic photographer who was posting crime scene photos on the web. I caught him, but you took the credit for that one, even after you’d tried to pin it on someone else. McLean bit back the obvious retort.
‘There’s Christopher Roberts. He’s in remand right now. The PF’s finalizing the case.’
‘Ah yes. Roberts. The unlikely child snatcher. He claims he was coerced, I understand. Put in an impossible position by a very powerful and influential man. A man who should have been arrested for murder, abduction and many other things. What happened to him,