The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (28 page)

'And you think Anderson took this book.'

'Took it, yes. Read it, too. And he was found wanting. That's why he turned bad. It consumed his soul.'

McLean looked at old man sitting in his kitchen; a total stranger to him. He wasn't entirely sure why he was giving him the time of day, let alone listening to his mad tales. He was tired, irritable from days of frustration, lack of sleep and the slow picking of old scabs.

'I can't do anything for you,' he said.

'But inspector...'

'I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave. I've had enough of people making excuses for Anderson. He wasn't mad, wasn't possessed by some demonic book. He was just evil, and now he's dead.'

Father Anton didn't move, just sat at the table, his hands cupped around his mug, shuddering gently as if even the warmth of the tea couldn't reach him.

'Look, if Anderson stole your books, all you need to do is contact the auctioneers. They'll pull the sale until it's all been cleared up.'

'Those books are unimportant now.' Anton nodded at the catalogue lying on the table. 'In truth, they were never that important, though their value is immeasurable. Call them camouflage, if it helps. They were there to hide what our order was charged with protecting. What we failed to protect.'

Father Anton picked up the catalogue and flicked it open, leafing through the typed pages far too quickly for McLean to register any of the details within.

'If something good comes of their sale, then so be it. At least the people who can afford them will know how to look after them.'

'So why did you come here then? Surely the tea's not that good.'

Anton didn't raise a smile, but he shifted his gaze, stared McLean straight in the eye.

'I've been through this list a dozen times. Donald never sold any of the books he stole from us; they're all still there. Except one. It's missing, inspector. The Book of Souls is gone.'

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40

Boxing day morning, early. Most of the country would be still in bed, sleeping off hangovers or hiding from their disappointment. McLean sat at the kitchen table, hands cupped around a mug of coffee as he stared out the window at the rising dawn; cold sunlight bouncing off the ice that had crackled onto every available surface.  Mrs McCutcheon's cat lay curled on a rug in front of the Aga, purring to no-one in particular. Everything else was silence.

He picked up his new mobile phone, lying on the table in front of him. It looked surprisingly sleek, with a huge screen and too few buttons. He thumbed at it absentmindedly, flicking through the menus he only half-remembered from the demonstration in the shop, all those weeks ago. What he really needed was a teenager to show him how it worked. Or failing that, Detective Constable MacBride, since he wasn't far off that age.

The contact list was pitifully small; Grumpy Bob, the station, MacBride, the mortuary. With a wry smile, he noticed that Emma's mobile number was in there; she must have put it in when they were all ogling over the new technology down the pub. Pretty forward of her, or was it justified? She'd slept in his bed, after all, even if it had been without his invitation. He'd even taken her out to dinner a couple of times, and she'd helped him rebuild his wardrobe for an afternoon, which had certainly made the chore of shopping a little more bearable. But any spark that might have been there had fizzled away under his studied indifference. Matt Hilton would say he was avoiding any deep personal relationships deliberately, and the annoying little shit would be right.

Of course it could well be someone else's number and part of an elaborate joke. He wouldn't have put that past the likes of Grumpy Bob.

Sighing, he put the phone back down on the table, then noticed that the screen had changed colour. Somehow he'd managed to hit 'dial' without realising. He snatched up the phone, searching for the off button, found it and jabbed it with his thumb. Hopefully the call wouldn't have gone through; it was really very early after all. Especially for Boxing Day.

He'd have gone to the station, waded through the ever-increasing mounds of paperwork that threatened to engulf his office, if he hadn't received graphic instructions from Chief Superintendent McIntyre as to what she would do to him if she caught him anywhere near the building. Which just meant he'd have to think of something else to do. Most likely wade through the ever-increasing mounds of paperwork that his Grandmother's death had generated.

The trilling of his phone took him by surprise. Even Mrs McCutcheon's cat stopped purring and looked up with a disgusted expression. The screen said helpfully; 'Emma Baird calling,' so at least he was going to find out whether it was a joke or not.

'Hello?'

'Who is this?' Not a joke. Emma, and sounding very grumpy indeed.

'Ah... Emma?'

'Yeah. Who is this? You any idea what time of the morning it is?'

'I'm sorry, it's Tony McLean. I didn't mean to wake you up.'

'S'okay. I was awake anyway.' Not a good liar, McLean recalled. 'What'd you phone me for anyway?'

'Yeah, about that. Sorry, it was an accident. I thought I'd stopped it before it rang.'

'I still don't get why... Oh, right. I put my number in your phone, didn't I.'

'Something like that, aye.'

'Well, that kind've backfired, didn't it.' There was a muffled sound of movement in the background, a shuffling of phone from one hand to another. 'So what are you doing up at... Jesus is that what time it is? Working on some important case, I guess.'

'Actually I've got the day off. At something of a loose end.' Even as he said the words, McLean cringed. He hadn't meant to come on to her like that, had he?

'Well in that case, inspector, there's a place not far from here that'll be open at this ungodly hour, even today. Lofty's café, you know it?'

'Aye, I know Lofty's. Not been there in a while, mind you.'

'Well I doubt it's changed. Meet me there in half an hour and see for yourself. You can buy me breakfast at the same time.'

*

History didn't relate who the original Lofty was. Certainly not the current proprietor, who went by the name of Alphonse, and was a good six inches short of five feet tall. A third generation Scottish-Italian, Alphonse had been supplying fine coffee and simple food for as long as McLean could remember, and you had to be up pretty damned early in the morning to find the place closed, even on Boxing Day. As it was, by the time he got there, forty minutes after hanging up on Emma, more than half of the tables were taken. None by the woman herself.

McLean ordered a coffee and a bacon buttie, then retreated to a table by the window, checking his phone as he sat down to see if there were any messages. A couple nearby held hands and looked deep into each other's eyes, oblivious to anything else going on around them and certainly unaware of the old man in a mud-splattered overcoat who was watching them with a curious intensity from the far corner. Most of the other people in the place were shift-workers by the look of them; the unlucky mob who'd lost the Christmas lottery. And there, in the far corner, two beat constables from his own station. They didn't appear to have seen him yet, but it was only a matter of time. Briefly, McLean thought about ducking out of the café there and then. Anything to avoid the inevitable comments that would follow after he was seen meeting Emma. But then it was too late. The door clattered open with a jangle of bells and a long, heavy overcoat with a mop of spiky black hair poking from the top of it stepped inside.

On the face of it, there was no real reason to be embarrassed about meeting a work associate for breakfast, and yet McLean couldn't help cringing as Emma stamped her feet a couple of times, shucked off her coat and scarf and shouted to Alphonse: 'Bloody brass-monkeys weather out there, Al.' All eyes turned toward her; even the mooning couple broke off their love-in and looked to see what the commotion was all about.

'I like the cold,' Alphonse replied with his curious hybrid Edinburgh-Milan accent. 'It brings the beautiful ladies into my little café.'

'Flattery will get you a long way, Al, but I'm on a promise this morning. Someone owes me breakfast.' Emma looked around as she spoke. 'Ah, there you are Tony.'

If she'd waved and jumped up and down it could hardly have been more obvious. Still, he smiled, stood up and pulled out a chair for her. She slumped into it with all the grace of a dead swan.

'I thought for a moment you weren't coming,' McLean said.

'I thought for a moment I might not.' Emma pulled off a pair of fingerless gloves knitted in a riot of primary colours and shoved them into a pocket. 'It's not nice waking a girl up at this time of the morning.'

'I'm sorry, it was a mistake. New technology and all that.' McLean picked up his phone from where he had left it on the table. 'And besides, if you hadn't put your number in the address book...'

'Oh, so all of a sudden it's my fault is it?' Emma pouted, but then broke into a big grin. 'I guess then you'd have been sitting here with Grumpy Bob instead of me.'

'Well, if you put it like that, then it's just as well you did.'

There was a bit of an awkward silence, broken only by Alphonse arriving with coffee and a bacon roll. Emma ordered the same, then turned back to McLean. 'So, was Santa good to you this year, then?'

It took him a while to realise what she meant. He'd got a half dozen or so cards, including one from the hospital, but no presents. There wasn't anyone left to give him any.

'Oh, the usual. How about you?'

'So so.' Emma made a non-committal gesture with one hand. That topic of conversation pretty much exhausted.

'You didn't go home to Aberdeen for Christmas, then.' McLean realised the foolishness of the statement as he said it, and added: 'obviously.'

'Couldn't.' Emma rummaged around in her pocket and pulled out her own mobile phone. 'On call. The curse of the childless, eh. We always get to work the antisocial shifts.'

She put the battered phone down on the table and reached across for McLean's shiny new one. 'Still, some of us get better perks that others. I guess that's the upside of being an inspector rather than a lowly technician.'

McLean was about to point out that he'd bought the phone with his own money, and perhaps add something about there being nothing lowly about being a technician, but before he could speak, his phone rang in Emma's hands. She tapped the screen and held it up to her ear.

'Hello? Detective Inspector McLean's phone.' She frowned at whatever was being said on the other end, then handed the phone over. 'It's for you. Grumpy Bob.'

'What's up, Bob?' McLean asked.

'I was going to tell you about the fire, but I guess you're already there if Emma's with you. Why'd she answer your phone?'

McLean felt his cheeks redden, and wondered why. 'Er, what fire would this be, Bob?'

There was a moment's pause before the detective sergeant answered. Enough time for a penny to drop.

'Right you are sir. It's over in Slateford. Old factory being turned into apartments. Started about two this morning. Fire crews have got it out now, but, well it looks like another of our mystery arsons.'

'According to the super I'm meant to be having the day off, Bob.'

'Aye, I heard about that. And I'd no' have bothered you. But I thought you'd want to know. There were a couple of casualties this time. Tramps getting out of the cold.'

'They didn't set the fire themselves?' It seemed the most likely cause, and quite different from the empty, locked up buildings he had been investigating before.

'Not according to the fire investigator, no. I'm just heading over myself.'

'I'll meet you there then, Bob. Any ID on the dead men yet?'

'One man, one woman. And no, not yet. But we might be lucky.

'Oh aye?'

'There was a third tramp caught in the blaze, and he survived.'

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