The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (25 page)

'And your mum?'

'Tucked up at home with Uncle Derek and a bottle of whisky.'

'Dad?'

Ritchie stopped mid stride. 'Am I being interrogated here sir?'

McLean felt a bit foolish for being so insensitive. Truth was he was out of practice with the whole idle chit-chat thing.

'Sorry. Force of habit.'

'I guess that's how you get to be an inspector.' Ritchie smiled and they continued walking back towards the station. McLean couldn't help but notice she hadn't answered the question.

'So, what's the next step then? More interviews with lawyers? At least they don't need to have a lawyer present.'

'I'm not sure that seeing them at work's going to help, anyway. We're looking for someone who's obsessed with Anderson enough to take his victim down into that basement and kill her there. That kind of person might seem quite sane and normal in everyday life. I'd need to see where they lived to get a better idea of them.'

'So you reckon it could be someone from the law firm?'

'They're the ones who had the keys. And anyway, where else can we start?'

'It's not going to be easy, interviewing that many people at home.'

'I know, which is why I'm going to need all the detectives I can get my hands on, and then hit the list hard. With luck we can do everyone in a day. But it needs to be soon. I don't really want them all talking to each other.'

'So you do want to do it tomorrow then. Strike while the iron's hot.'

'Yeah, I guess so.' Apart from the fact he'd have to justify the overtime to the chief superintendent, and persuade quite a few people to give up their Christmas, it made perfect sense.

'Where are you going to get the manpower?' Ritchie put her finger on the knotty problem that had been facing McLean ever since he saw the size of Carstairs Weddell's payroll.

'God help me, I'm going to have to ask Dagwood,' he said. 'And after that, I'm going to need a drink.'

*

The pub closed early. Well, it was Christmas eve, after all. He couldn't expect the bar staff to work all night. Not quite thrown out into the cold night, a hard core of drinkers stood around debating what they should do next before all deciding to call it a night. Grumpy Bob somehow managed to hail down a taxi, and he, Ritchie and two detective constables piled in.

'You wanting a lift, sir?' Bob asked.

McLean looked at the four of them, and realised that he wanted to be alone.

'No, thanks. I think I'll walk. I'll see you guys tomorrow morning. Briefing at nine, remember.'

He watched the taxi chug off up the hill, then turned for home, hunching his shoulders against the chill. It was a dark night, the clouds low overhead and moving swiftly with the breeze. Perhaps there'd be rain later, maybe even snow, but all McLean could think of as his feet marked out a none-too steady rhythm on the pavement was the tangled knot of circumstance linking the deaths of Audrey Carpenter and Kate McKenzie back to Donald Anderson; of Jo Dalgliesh's book and its mad theories; of Matt Hilton and all the comfortably suppressed thoughts the counsellor was winkling out of him.

Sighing at the complication of it all, McLean reached into his pocket for his keys as he turned the corner at the top of his street. And then stopped in his tracks. He shook his head, trying to feel the fuzziness of too much alcohol, but it was no more than the usual buzz he'd expect from a relatively quiet session after work.

And yet somehow he'd managed to walk back to the burned out shell of his Newington tenement flat.

~~~~

37

The street was quiet, but not empty. A few people walked past him as he stood gawping; mostly couples arm in arm. All around him, light flickered and shimmered from windows filled with Christmas decorations, or just glowed behind curtains pulled to shut out the winter cold. All, that was, except the one block directly in front of him.

Scaffolding clung to it like ivy on a diseased tree; warning tape flapped in the breeze. The windows at ground floor level had been boarded up, but on the top floor, his old living room, he could still see through the eyeless sockets and out into the night sky beyond. It was the first time he'd been anywhere near the place since the day after fire; nothing of his worldly goods and chattels had survived in any state to be worth recovering.

He crossed the road, approaching the front door with its blistered paintwork. The entry intercom panel still hung from the stonework, but the lights were no longer on behind the buttons. By the diffracted glow of the street lamps he could just make out the names, from top to bottom: McLean/Summers; Sheen; Polson; a cracked and scratched button where a decade of students had tried to replace the little paper insert; two empty buzzers for the rented flats; McCutcheon. Not quite sure why he did it, he put his key in the lock. He was surprised that there wasn't a large padlock on the door, even more so when it swung open on the latch. Beyond that, it was like stepping into another world.

The builders had been busy, securing the structure and clearing out the remaining debris. The old heavy flagstones of the entrance hallway were familiar under his feet, but looking up, McLean could see clouds high overhead. As he let the door close behind him, it shut out the noise of the street, cutting him off from reality.

He walked to the end of the hall, where the stone staircase still climbed upwards in its wide spiral. The iron railing had been removed, but he wasn't too bothered. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the place didn't stink of cat piss, just a damp mixture of charcoal and mildew. He climbed up to the first landing, staying close to the wall. At the top, the stone slabs still held, secured by the walls that defined the entrance hall below. This was the core of the building, unaffected by the fire. To either side, where the individual flats had been, everything had gone.

More stairs, and now he was standing outside his own front door. Only there was nothing left of the wood he remembered sanding down and painting with such pride. Just an empty hole opening up onto a suicidal leap. Ceiling height was now open air, and up here the wind whistled around, bringing in the faintest sounds of life outside. He ignored them, just standing on his threshold, unable to enter, imagining the familiar sights.

There were the polished floorboards, slightly warped and creaky. There the coat rack beside the bathroom door, the box room with its curious arrangement for getting natural light. The kitchen was off to the right, at the back of the flat and overlooking the scruffy wee square of garden below. Next to it, his bedroom with all his clothes and shoes; the cufflinks that had been his father's; his mother's wedding portrait in a silver frame on the dresser. To the front of the flat, three rooms. The spare bedroom, where Grumpy Bob had crashed in the dark days after his divorce, and before that, his best friend and one-time flatmate Phil. Next, his study, full of useless correspondence and rubbish in filing cabinets, a computer he hardly ever used, shelves of books he'd never read again.

And then finally the living room, with its ornate plaster cornice, its open fireplace and deep bay window. The press cupboard with the door taken off where his extensive collection of records was filed alphabetically. The comfy leather armchair he'd picked up for a song in that old furniture salvage yard. His fantastically expensive Linn sound system.

The memories came alive, the happy times he'd spent in this place. His home. He could hear Phil singing out of tune in the bath; see the kitchen full of students drinking red wine and talking pretentiously about Cognitive Behavioural Therapy or whether or not Morrissey had sold out when The Smiths broke up. He watched as Kirsty stepped out of his bedroom, wrapped in a large towel, and padded barefoot across to the living room to put on some music. Something classical he didn't immediately recognise, then she padded back again. At the door, she took off the towel, dropping it to the floor before going naked into the darkness beyond.

And then he could see her lying on the bed. No sheets, no blankets, just a stained old mattress with sharp metal springs poking out from threadbare corners. She was spread-eagled, her arms cuffed to the bedstead above her head in an awkward, uncomfortable position, legs wide apart like some disgusting old pornographer's wet dream. Her breasts flattened and lifeless, skin as pale as the winter moon. Her hair splayed out as if it were a halo of darkness.

A wave of vertigo almost sent him toppling into the abyss. McLean clutched at the burnt remains of the doorframe, felt it crumble and give. Instinct threw him backwards; he tumbled over, crashing hard on the stone floor of the landing and rolling perilously close to the edge where the railings had been removed. He scrabbled about until his back was pressed up against the safe, stone wall, hugged his knees to his chest and tried to squeeze the terrible image out of his mind.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear a young boy sobbing. It was a long time before he realised that the boy was him.

~~~~

38

The station was as quiet as a church at prayer when McLean arrived none too early on Christmas morning. He felt slightly sick, though whether that was from too much beer or the shock of seeing his burnt-out flat he couldn't tell. Either way, it wasn't enough to keep him from work.

If he thought he felt bad, then DC MacBride looked ten times worse. McLean found the detective constable slumped at his desk, staring bleary-eyed at the screen of his laptop.

'Morning constable. Happy Christmas.' McLean kept his voice reasonably quiet, but still the young man winced at the noise.

'What's so happy about it, sir?'

McLean considered this for a moment, then said: 'Good point.' He pulled up a chair from the next desk and sat down beside the detective constable.

'I thought you were going home after the pub last night.'

MacBride turned his head slowly, his pale forehead sheened with sweat. 'So did I sir, but Kir... Detective Sergeant Ritchie invited us back to her place. Said she had a bottle of tequila needed finishing. I didn't realise she hadn't actually started it yet.'

McLean didn't know whether to feel aggrieved or grateful at being left out of the impromptu party, but before he had time to mull it over much, the door to the CID room banged open and the object of his indecision walked in carrying a tray of coffees. As ever, she was neatly presented; if she'd been on the slammers herself it didn't show.

'Oh, Sir. You're in already. Happy Christmas.' Ritchie smiled and put the tray down on her desk. There was a greasy paper bag too, and McLean wondered where on earth she'd found a place open to buy breakfast. Or had she made them herself and brought them in? When she opened it up, filling the air with the smell of recently fried bacon, he didn't really much care.

'Please tell me you brought enough of those for everyone,' he said.

'It's all right, sir. You can have mine.' MacBride paled as Ritchie approached bearing bag and coffee.

'Thanks.' McLean took the proffered booty, turning away from MacBride so as to ease the lad's discomfort. 'Is Grumpy Bob in yet?'

'Aye, he's down in the canteen rounding up constables with DC Johnson. Thought we'd better make a start.' Ritchie went back to her desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. 'I've broken the list up into two. Those who would have had regular access to the file store where the keys were held, and those who just work in the office.'

McLean scanned the first list, grateful that it wasn't as long as he'd expected.

'OK,' he said. 'We'll split up into teams. One detective and one uniform to each. With a bit of luck, we should be able to get through them all before lunch.'

'What if they're not in?' Ritchie asked.

'Then we'll try again tomorrow.'

'And if they're pissed off at us for spoiling their Christmas?' This time it was MacBride, clutching a cup of steaming coffee and breathing in the fumes.

'Tell them they're not the ones having to work.'

*