FORTY-SIX
The fire in Calum’s office hadn’t even begun to leach the cold from the walls when Graham entered, his usually neat hair falling about his face in dark ribbons.
“You’re needed at Station House Seven,” Graham said, without preamble.
Calum frowned, setting down his teacup with a clink. “What’s going on?”
Graham swept his hair back from his face. “There was a riot. One person was killed in an altercation with a police constable.”
“And they need a DI from another station house to investigate?” Calum asked, already rising to his feet.
“Aye.”
“Why me?” Surely there was an inspector in the city who was a little less loathed by their peers who could investigate.
“Standard procedure is that Station House Seven asks for an inspector from Station House Eight, and vice versa,” Graham said. “It helps avoid any favouritism, or the appearance of such.”
“Well, there’s no risk of that from me.”
“Indeed.” A flicker of a smile crossed Graham’s face. “But tread carefully. After what happened at Station House Six, some think you have a grudge against coppers just doing their job.”
Calum’s cheeks heated. “Morrison wasn’t ‘just doing his job’.”
Graham’s thin lips pressed so tightly together they all but disappeared. “Even so. Your behaviour in this investigation will have consequences for your reputation, however you proceed.”
Calum bristled. “I intend to find the truth, whatever that may be.”
“I know you do.” Graham sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Just do try to be diplomatic.”
Calum nodded and left, making for Station House Seven.
The desk sergeant scowled when Calum arrived and explained why he was there, but directed him to the cells without putting up an argument.
The spiral staircase leading down was cold and damp, and Calum turned the collar of his coat up against the chill.
He reached a windowless stone corridor with one cell on either side. A sergeant leant against the far wall, glowering when he saw Calum.
“Are you the inspector they’ve sent from Shit House Eight?”
Calum stepped into the corridor. “Aye. I’m Detective Inspector Erskine.”
“I don’t see why we need an outside inspector to come in and tell us what we already know,” the sergeant grumbled.
Calum gave an equivocating shrug. “You know the rules. When there’s a chance a police officer has committed a crime, a detective inspector from the nearest station house is called in to investigate.”
“I’ve heard of you.” The sergeant glared at him. “Not sure why they sent you, when you can’t even solve that burgess’s murder. I heard you tried to arrest a guild master for it, of all people.” The sergeant gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s a fucking shambles,” he muttered.
“Do you have the keys?” Calum asked, suppressing a sigh.
“I need to interview the prisoners.” He took another step forwards, far enough to see a large group clustered in the cell on his left, and a much smaller one in the cell on his right.
A shock of recognition rippled through him as he spotted Aly sitting in the latter cell, her knees pulled up to her chin.
“It’s an absolute disgrace, it is,” the sergeant said. “You know one of this lot threw a stone at PC Shaw? And now you’re investigating him?”
Calum stepped closer, so he loomed above the sergeant. “The keys, please.”
The sergeant sighed, but passed over a heavy iron key. Calum unlocked the cell to his right and stepped in front of Aly. “Come on,” he said, keeping his voice gruff.
She lifted her head. Her jaw was set, despite the fear in her eyes, but her expression softened when she recognised him and she unfurled to her feet, following Calum up the stairs to the interview room.
He lit the lamps with a flicker of will and shut the door, throwing the bolt to lock it, then turned to face Aly. She was leaning against the table, her arms folded and her shoulders reaching towards her ears.
“What happened?” Calum asked.
Aly’s eyelashes flicked towards him. “Are you asking as a copper or a friend?”
Calum let out a breath. “I’ve been sent here to investigate because a police officer was involved in the death of a member of the public.
Anything you can tell me that can help me understand what happened would be very helpful.
” He took in her red eyes and rigid shoulders. “But I was mostly asking as a friend.”
“Police raided the Caoineag’s market,” Aly said, her voice stiff. “They were arresting salchs.”
“Salchs?” Calum repeated. “Does this happen often? Raids on salching markets?”
Aly shook her head. “It’s illegal, obviously, but the police usually leave them be.
Too much risk they’ll catch someone like Gibson.
” She scoffed. “Instead, they just satisfy themselves with charging folk they find with scars.” She slid a thumb up the opposite sleeve, no doubt tracing over her own scars.
“They were looking for salchs, though. They didn’t bother arresting the Caoineag, just her workers.
” She dropped her gaze. “And me.” She sniffed in a breath.
“This is Grant’s doing, I’m certain of it. ”
Her words knocked the air out of Calum’s lungs as surely as if she’d hit him. “Grant?”
“Think about it.” She gave a mirthless smile.
“It’s three days to Imbolc, and the police are looking for salchs.
This must be something to do with his secret meetings with the government—you remember how he’s been pushing for reinstating transportation?
This is it. It’s not the coal mines. The new penalty for salching is being sent to Faerie. ”
Her words sucked all the air from the room, all the strength from Calum’s legs. He clutched the back of a chair to keep from crumpling to the ground. This couldn’t be true. The government sanctioning sending people to Faerie—it was like some horrid dream brought to life.
And the most nightmarish part of all was that Aly had come so close to being one of them, saved only because Calum happened to be the DI pulled in to investigate.
“How?” Calum croaked. “No one believes in Faerie.” He clung to that, like a life raft in a storm. They couldn’t be sending salchs—people like Aly—to Faerie.
“That was my thought, too.” Aly worried at her lower lip. “I think . . . I think it must be worded so that most folk would think it’s transportation to the mines. I don’t know if the Council would know the truth, or if Grant just made sure they worded the legislation properly.”
Calum’s grip tightened on the back of the chair, the facts crystallising in his mind. “If they’ve passed this legislation, there must be a record.” He held a hand up to Aly. “Hold on. Wait here.”
Aly scowled. “I’m not exactly allowed to leave.”
Calum left the interview room, snagging a passing constable to ask who was in charge. He was directed to a DCI Murray’s office and knocked on the blue wooden door, waiting for a response before pushing the door open.
A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, her dark hair pulled into a neat plait. Her eyebrows furrowed when she saw Calum. “Who are you?”
“DI Erskine. I’ve been called in from Station House Eight to investigate the death of a protester.”
Murray tilted her head to look at him. “DI Erskine. From Station House Eight. You’re the one who had that bother at Station House Six last year, aren’t you?”
“Aye.” Calum peered at her face, but her expression was inscrutable. “I wanted to know why the salchs are being held prisoner separately from the rest of the protesters.”
“They were arrested under different circumstances, for different crimes.” Murray clasped her hands on her desk, meeting Calum’s eyes. “Those arrested at the salching market are in one cell, those arrested for rioting are in the other.”
Calum stepped closer. He loomed over Murray, but she gave no indication she felt intimidated. “But that’s not entirely true, is it? They were looking for salching scars. This was all a specific effort to arrest as many salchs as possible, wasn’t it?”
Murray’s teeth flashed, the smile gone as quickly as it had materialised.
“I’d heard you were clever.” She opened a drawer, pulling out a piece of paper with the city’s crest at the top.
“The chief constable sent this round yesterday. There’s probably a copy at all the station houses.
” She passed the paper to Calum. “We’ve been told to make arresting salchs a priority, particularly leading up to Quarter Days. ”
Calum’s skin went cold, his hand shaking as he took the sheet of paper. There it was, in black and white. Transportation was the required sentence for salchs. “Thank you.” The words came out as a croak.
He turned and fled for the interview room.
Aly was leaning against the wall, her arms folded and her expression wary when he returned. “You were right.” He set the paper on the table. Aly stepped forwards, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she leant over the paper.
“‘The minimum sentence for salching is transportation, the destination for which is at the sole discretion of the Council and will be determined based on current labour needs and may be kept confidential for security reasons’,” she read.
“Well, that’s a load of shite, isn’t it?
The only destination they’re going to is Faerie.
” She pointed a trembling finger at the paper.
“But this is how Grant’s doing it. Anyone caught salching, or”—she swallowed, the tendons straining in her neck—“or with scars, is going to be sentenced to transportation, and only the burgh council will know where they’re being sent to.
Assuming even they know. Everyone else will just assume the coal mines or something.
” She looked down at the paper again. “And—fuck, did you read this to the end?”
Calum leant over, his arm brushing hers as they bent over the paper. “‘The evidence from scars being considered conclusive, and the risk posed to society so great, such sentencing may happen without trial’.”