The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (29 page)

41

Grumpy Bob hadn't arrived on the scene by the time McLean and Emma pulled up in her battered old Peugeot. He'd cadged a lift when her own phone had rung not long after his, demanding she get on over to a certain suspected arson crime scene. There was a moment's awkwardness as they both sat in the car, staring through the window at the burnt-out remains of an old factory, surrounded by fire crews and squad cars.

'I suppose I still owe you breakfast, technically,' he said.

'That you do, inspector. Or possibly even dinner. I'll give you a call.' She made the universal hand to head signal for holding a telephone. Then she was out of the car and trotting away towards the white and rust-brown SOC van before he had a chance to say anything.

McLean found Jim Burrows, the fire investigator, over by the entrance to the old stone factory building. Its front was largely undamaged; black soot charring to the walls above the burnt-out windows the only obvious sign of the fire. The roof was intact too, at least in the middle, where a squat tower rose above the roofline. No doubt an architectural flourish built to disguise chimneys or something. A large sign nailed to the wall was twisted and blackened, half melted in the heat, but there was still enough of it left for McLean to make out the familiar logo of Randolph Developments. He tried to remember whether this was one of the model buildings he'd seen at the offices in Loanhead, but too much else had gone on since then.

'Morning inspector.' The fire investigator greeted him with a weary grin. 'I was beginning to hope I'd seen the last of these.'

'You sure it's the same as before? I heard there were people inside.'

'Well, that's different, true. But I don't think they started this. Here.' Burrows handed him a hard hat and set off for the large steel doors that opened into the building beyond. They were pulled closed, but a smaller door set into them hung open, more black soot spilling upwards from the hole as if gravity had been reversed.

'You've checked for hidden basements, I take it.'

'Aye, we're safe enough in here.' Burrows stepped through and McLean followed. What lay beyond was a mess of blackened, fallen beams, charcoal underfoot and the horrible wet smell of a recently-extinguished fire. And laid on top of it all, the faintest lingering odour of burnt wool that stuck to the back of the throat like a cheap burger and fries.

'We got in here early enough to save the roof. More or less.' Burrows looked up to the criss-cross of beams high overhead. A few slates were missing, and the skylights had all cracked, dropping their glass down into the litter on the floor below just to make life more difficult.

'Where were the bodies?' McLean asked. Burrows pointed towards the front corner of the building, where a small door led through to what probably had been offices before the factory closed down. A white overalled SOC officer appeared at the doorway carrying a heavy aluminium case.

'You moved them?'

'Thought they were still alive. One of them was, as it turns out.'

'So they weren't burned?'

'Not badly, no. Mostly superficial – face and hands. They're tramps, they were well wrapped up. No, I reckon it was the smoke did for them.'

'Where're the bodies now?' McLean looked around, expecting to see a space cleared, the dead laid out ready for the duty doctor to confirm their condition, state the time and bugger off back home.

'Ambulance out front. Survivor's gone to hospital already.'

'And you really don't think they started the fire.'

'No. They'd set themselves up back there.' Burrows pointed to the small office. 'That's where all their stuff is.'

'Stuff?'

'Bedrolls, plastic bags. One of them had an old rucksack.'

'Makes sense, I guess,' McLean said. 'So where'd the fire start, then?'

'Over here.' Burrows picked a way through the debris. McLean was careful to tread only where the fire investigator had already been. They moved deeper into the building, surrounded on all sides by sagging wooden beams and broken slates, ending up finally in a large clear area in the centre. Looking up, he could see the ornate tower that topped the whole building, opened up to him by the collapsed ceiling. Ancient ductwork led from the four sides out into the wider building.

'From the spread of the fire, and the damage done to these here,' Burrows pointed out several cast iron pillars, their paint bubbled away to char. 'I'd have to say that the fire originated about here. What I can't tell is how it started. No obvious sign of accelerant, no electrical wires to short out. It's almost as if a flame spontaneously appeared out of nowhere.'

'Just like all the others, then.' McLean turned in a slow circle, trying to picture the place before the fire had gutted it and failing. Burrows gave an eloquent, if unhelpful, shrug of his broad shoulders.

'Just like all the others, aye.'

*

The Western General Hospital wasn't McLean's favourite place to be. Too many memories, and none of them good. Coming through the front doors reminded him too that he'd still not been to visit DC Robertson, stuck in traction whilst the rest of the world enjoyed their Christmas. Another thing he'd have to do. When he had the time.

There were half a dozen men in the ward, ages varying from about nineteen up to ninety. All had that sallow, sickly pallor that comes over anyone who spends too much time in a hospital, and all looked at him suspiciously as he pulled the curtains round the bed where the rescued tramp was sleeping. McLean was prepared to wait for him to wake up again, but as he pulled up a chair and sat down, the tramp's eyelids flickered and his hand started to twitch.

'What's your name?' McLean asked quietly. The tramp opened his eyes, slowly at first, then wide in fear. He struggled, trying to sit up, choking as he did so. The intravenous drip in his arm flailed about, and for a moment McLean thought it would pop out of his arm.

'Calm down. You're in hospital. Remember? You're safe.'

Slowly, the tramp stopped thrashing around, his eyes still darting from point to point as he tried to work out where he was. His free hand went to the tube in his arm, the heart rate monitor on his finger flapping wildly. 

'You're all right.' McLean reached out and touched the tramp's hand lightly. Something about the contact must have worked; he immediately fixated on McLean, all other motion stopped.

'Who're you? Where'm I? Where's a' my stuff?' The tramp's voice was hoarse, though whether that was from smoke inhalation or a lifetime of substance abuse it was hard to tell. Now that he wasn't thrashing about, McLean could see his face clearly. It wasn't much to look at, really. He'd been washed, but his hair was still lank and greasy, mixed grey and white. He wore the sort of stubbly beard that comes from shaving no more than once a fortnight. It wasn't enough to hide the deep lines and folds of loose skin of a man who had once been fat, but now was not.

'What's your name?' McLean asked again.

'Who's asking?'

'Tony McLean.' There was no point telling the man he was police. Not yet, at least. He'd get nothing from him that way.

'I'm Tapper. You got a fag?' The tramp snorted, and for a moment McLean thought he was going to spit on the floor.

'This is a hospital, Mr Tapper. You can't smoke in here.'

'Tapper. Jes' Tapper. Gettin' so youse can't smoke anywhere these days. How'd I get in here?'

'You were in a fire. Old factory building up in Slateford. What were you doing there, Tapper?'

'What d'ye think. Keeping warm.'

'What about your friends? Who were they?'

Tapper shrugged. 'Dunno. Jes' folk. Ain't many places a man can doss down these days. You find one, you don't complain 'bout nobody's already there.'

'So what happened? You make a campfire and sit around it with a bottle of meths?'

'Fuck off, meths. You wouldn't catch me drinkin' shite like that. Makes you go blind.'

McLean settled back in his chair and thought for a moment.

'But you did have a fire.'

'You're fuzz aren't you.' Tapper sniffed the air as if his own odour, even after some poor nurse had washed him, were not overpowering any other smell in the ward. 'I can smell you a mile off.'

'You're right,' McLean said. 'I'm a detective inspector, if that's of any interest. But as you can see, I'm on my own. No constable taking notes, no caution. This is just an informal chat. If you help me, I'll make sure that's all it ever needs to be.'

Tapper choked back a laugh. 'That's no' how it works.'

'It is with me.' McLean caught the tramp's gaze and held it. 'Look. I know that building was empty. You weren't doing anybody any harm dossing in there. But you were trespassing, and the building you were in burned down. Your two friends died in that fire.'

'They weren't my friends,' Tapper said, but McLean could see a flicker of uncertainty in those eyes.

'Maybe, maybe not. But you're the one who survived. All that could add up to a whole heap of trouble. We start digging into your background, what're we going to find?'

McLean felt sorry for the old man. And now that was what he looked like; not a tramp, not someone hiding behind a nickname. He was old, and the life he'd lived had been hard. He slumped back against the soft white pillows as if somehow it had finally all defeated him.

'What is it you want, copper?'

'You saw what the place was like before it started. Tell me.'

'Not much to say really. Dark, wasn't it.'

'OK. How'd you get in?'

'Round the back. There was a door they'd not boarded up proper. Might've used a bit of force on it. So what if I did?'

'So you got in. You had a bit of a look round, then decided to kip down in the back. Away from the factory floor. Why not in the main hall?'

'Coz there was a fucking fireplace in there is why. That and the hall was full of all sorts of shite just waiting to go up.'

'What sort of shite?'

'I dunno. Pallets, cardboard boxes. Building stuff. I said to old Clunie at the time: "that's just an accident waiting to happen." Guess I was right there, eh?'

'So how did it all catch fire then. If it wasn't you and your friends?'

'You're the polis. You tell me. All I ken is it was cold as hell when I went oot to take a piss. Next thing the whole place is on fire. Never saw anything go up so quick. We was trapped in that wee office. Only way out was across the hall and you'd have to be mad to try that.'

'And you've no idea how it all started?'

The old tramp coughed, looked around for something to spit into, then reluctantly swallowed. 'Wasn't natural. I can tell you that much. One minute it's like a fucking freezer in there. Next it's like I've died and gone straight to hell.'

~~~~

42

She's angry with herself, kicking out at the cracks in the pavement as she tries to walk off her temper. What the fuck was she thinking? The same every bloody Christmas. She knew damned well what was going to happen. His bitch of a mother coming round, poking her nose into everything, tutting at this, sneering at that. Just checking to make sure she was looking after her 'wee boy.' Wee boy. Like fuck. Harry hadn't ever been wee. He was a fat bastard now and if his photos were anything to go by, he'd been born a fat bastard.

Wet, lazy flakes slap into her face as she takes the hill in big strides. Snow. Just brilliant. She can't go home now, not while that two-faced cow's still there. Probably cooking up yet more food for her disgusting son. Why the fuck she agreed to marry him, she just doesn't know.

A car, struggling up the hill, change down you idiot. sweeps her back with its headlights. Throws her shadow against the wall. Ignore it, just like all the others. Not many now. Not this late. Not today. Everyone's tucked up in bed. Back to work tomorrow. Unless they've got the whole week off. Like Harry's harpy of a mother. Why can't she just bugger off back to Glasgow and leave them alone?