A Winter Grave

Chapter Seven

It was just over a mile and a half from his tenement home in Gardner Street to police HQ at Pacific Quay. As he did most days, he walked it, avoiding Dumbarton Road where he could. It took him a little more than half an hour. His parka kept him dry in the rain for up to two hours, and his waterproof leggings saved his trousers from a soaking. He wore a baseball cap beneath his hood to keep the rain out of his face.

Today it was falling in a steady, breathless stream, just a degree or two above turning to snow. He hardly noticed it. His head hurt and his mouth was like the bottom of a birdcage. But he didn’t much notice that either. His mind was somewhere else altogether, and he was only vaguely aware of the extra weight on his back from the weekend pack chock-full of climbing gear and a change of clothes. He was accustomed to taking it on much more arduous expeditions than this.

The south side of the river was almost obscured by rain as he walked across the Millennium Bridge. The multistorey blocks that housed the media and the police stood wraithlike against a grey sky indistinguishable from the horizon, hazy electric light illuminating misted windows in the gloom. He felt better for the walk. But only just.

DCI Maclaren’s door stood ajar, as it always did. Paying lip service to the open-door policy that he had promised but never quite delivered. His familiar bark told Brodie to enter when he knocked on it.

‘Got a minute, sir?’

Maclaren looked up. Brodie had changed out of his wet gear, and only his reddened cheeks betrayed evidence of his half-hour walk in the rain. ‘What is it?’

‘Just wondered if you’d managed to get someone to fly up to Kinlochleven.’

‘Aye. McNair’s going. He’ll be taking a water taxi down to Helensburgh within the hour.’ He tugged at his collar to loosen his tie below an outsized Adam’s apple that seemed to slide up and down his neck like a gauge recording levels of profanity. ‘He’s not very pleased about it. The spot where the body was found is halfway up a fucking mountain. The only climbing McNair’s done in the last twenty years is into his bed.’ He paused for a moment and frowned. ‘Why?’

Brodie said, ‘I could go.’

Maclaren’s frown deepened. ‘What happened to your medical condition?’ The way he stressed the word medical betrayed a certain scepticism.

‘I’ve been given the all-clear, sir. I brought in my backpack and my climbing gear just in case.’

‘Well, la-de-fucking-da. McNair will be your friend for life.’ He shuffled through the detritus on his desk to retrieve a buff-coloured folder and held it out. ‘The background’s all in there. The water taxi will take you downriver to pick up an eVTOL from the temporary airbase at Helensburgh golf course. You’ll go via Mull to pick up the pathologist. She’s been there carrying out PMs on the victims of the Tobermory fire.’ He paused. ‘You do know what an eVTOL is, don’t you? Never know with you old-timers.’

‘It’s an electric vertical take-off and landing vehicle, sir. What us old-timers used to call a chopper.’ He paused long enough for Maclaren to register the sarcasm, then said quickly, ‘When was the body actually discovered?’

‘Three days ago. Too bloody long. They’ve been keeping it in some kind of cold cabinet. It was found by a young part-time meteorologist who’s married to the local cop. She was up there servicing a mountaintop weather station. Installed it herself apparently, along with a whole bunch of others in the area about six years ago. She now only works a few hours a week, on a service and maintenance basis. Childcare issues, apparently.’

Brodie felt the skin tighten across his face.

‘I need you to determine whether it was an accident or foul play and report back.’

Brodie said nothing. He was still reeling.

‘If it’s foul play, we’ll have to send in a full team.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better hurry. The water taxi’s booked for half past.’