The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (30 page)

Voices. No, one voice. A man calling to her. From the car. Ignore him, he'll go away. Fucking kerb crawler. What's he think she is, a whore?  She just wants to walk around the block. Maybe make it two blocks. Clear her head and try to calm down.

'I said d'you want a lift?'

Don't turn around, don't look... ah, shite.

'I'm fine, OK.' She can't really see his face in the dark of the car. Is he smiling, or leering? Well, he can try something on if he likes.

'Fine. Just offering.' He winds up the window. Posh wanker with electric buttons and shite. Posh car. It's even got two exhaust pipes, spluttering steam into the night air as he pulls away. The snow swirls around a bit, then settles back into its rhythm. Christ but it's cold. She should have put a thicker coat on.

She hates the winter, and not just because Christmas always brings Harry's mum over. The short days and the freezing rain, they don't help. Makes it so you can't get out of the house and that great blob of a beached whale staring at his huge telly. What did she ever see in him? She could have done much better, surely.

A line of cars parked along the side of the road. White snow starting to settle on the tops of them. She likes the snow, really, even if she hates the winter. Maybe tomorrow she'll phone Shelley and they can go out to the park, if the sun comes out. Leave Harry and his mum behind. Maybe never bother going back.

One car, at the end of the line. No snow on it, just melted water dripping down the sides. Isn't that the one just slowed down? Oh fuck. Last thing she needs is hassle from some wanker out looking for prozzies. This isn't a red light zone, you arsehole. And I'm nobody's whore.

She stoops to see if the man's still sitting in the driver's seat, but the car's empty. Maybe he's not an arsehole after all. Maybe he lives round here. Aye, right. Then why'd he offer her a lift? He's probably hiding in the bushes right now, jerking himself off, dirty bastard. Well, fine. She'll go home then. Just turn around and...

A man right behind her. Jesus Christ how did he...? Where'd he...? His hand reaches up, holding something. Spray hits her face, cold and wet like the snow. It smells of marzipan. She hates fucking marzipan.

And then the lights go out.

~~~~

43

McLean always felt that winter hadn't truly arrived until there was a good dusting of snow on the ground. It soon turned to slush in the city centre, but you could always look south to the Pentlands, or across to Arthur's Seat and see the white in all its purity. And the air always tasted cleaner, too. Though maybe that was just the cold.

The city was running at half speed in the week between Christmas and Hogmanay, which suited him fine. There was plenty to be getting on with as it was. His initial interviews of the admin staff at Carstairs Weddell hadn't really come up with anything more positive than Mike Ayre and his Goth girlfriend. SOC had found their prints in the shop, but not the office beyond, which suggested they'd only made it over the threshold before running. McLean couldn't blame them; the place gave him the creeps too.

He flicked through the pages of interviews that the rest of his team had carried out on Christmas Day. They all said pretty much the same thing, and he was quickly coming to the conclusion that their killer wasn't going to be found there. Likewise the staff from the auction house, though he hadn't been able to interview all of them. It was unlikely that whoever had used Anderson's basement would be so stupid as to be easily linked to the place. But then whoever it was would have had to have got hold of the keys from somewhere. None of the locks had been forced.

'You got a minute, sir?' The knock on the open door to his office came at the same time as the question. McLean looked up to see DC MacBride waiting to be invited over the threshold like some unconvincing vampire. He had a slim folder clutched to his breast. More paperwork. Brilliant.

'What is it, constable?'

'Initial Fire report for the old factory over in Slateford.' MacBride took the question as permission to enter, handing over the folder as he looked quickly around the small office. If he was hoping for somewhere to sit, he'd be disappointed.

'You've read it?' McLean flicked open the file and scanned the densely typed report within. A few technical words popped out, hurting his brain.

'There's a summary at the back. Basically it's the same as the others. No obvious sign of arson, no way it could have happened by accident.'

It just caught fire, like it wanted to burn.
No, that was the crazy talk of an old man gone senile.
Like I'd died and gone straight to hell
; the ramblings of a drunken tramp about to hit the DTs. McLean poked around the piles of folders on his desk until he came up with the other arson reports, neatly stacked, tucked away under a mountain of more pressing things to do. Somehow he managed to extricate them without everything toppling off onto the floor. He added the new fire report to the top and handed the whole lot back to MacBride.

'I've heard you're a whiz with the internet and stuff like that, Stuart,' he said. The detective constable took the bundle of folders and looked at it with the expression of a man who thought he was offloading his troubles, only to find them multiplied tenfold.

'Umm, I guess so, sir.'

'Well, I want you to do a bit of digging into all of these buildings.'

'It's all here already, sir. Who owns them, planning applications, the lot.'

'No, I'm not interested in what's there now. I want to know about the sites. We already know that the Woodbury building was on an old close. It's got history. Find out about the others.'

'You think that'll help?'

'I don't know, but right now I've got nothing else.' McLean wasn't sure what it was that flickered across MacBride's face; it looked a bit like incredulity. Well, the lad would have to get used to having his illusions shattered soon enough. Inspectors weren't any more infallible than constables, really. Just older, and better at covering their arses.

'It's either that or back to Dagwood's team. Unless you've got any more leads on Kate McKenzie and Audrey Carpenter.'

MacBride snapped the folders to his chest as if they were the most precious possessions he owned. 'I'll get right on it. What're you going to do sir?'

McLean smiled. 'I'm going down to the basement. See a man about a book.'

*

McLean bumped into DS Ritchie on his way down to the evidence lockers. It was an accident; they just happened to reach the same corner at the same time, coming from different directions. He was preoccupied with thoughts about burning buildings; whatever filled her mind he had no idea. Having a head in height over her, and considerably greater bulk, he came the better off for the collision.

'Oh Christ. I'm sorry. Are you OK?' He bent down to help her up from the floor, then set to picking up the papers she had spilled everywhere. She stooped as well, and their skulls collided with a comedy thwack.

'Ow, sorry sir.' DS Ritchie stood up again, rubbing the top of her head, and let McLean get on with collecting paper. 'I was just coming to find you, actually.'

'Oh yes?'

'Dag... Er, DCI Duguid wanted to have a word.'

'I thought he was away skiing.'

'Apparently Mrs Duguid broke her leg so they came home early. I don't think he's too happy about that. Difficult to tell, mind you. He's not exactly friendly at the best of times.'

Bloody marvellous. Not only was Dagwood back early, he was in a foul mood to boot.

'I don't suppose you know what he wanted me for,' he said.

'Something to do with the man you ID-ed in the drugs case. Peter...' Ritchie started to shuffle through her papers, no doubt finding them in completely the wrong order.

'Ayre. Peter Ayre. Thought I'd left enough information for him to work with. The man's got form as long as my arm.'

'Well, you know that the DCI's like, sir.'

'OK.' McLean sighed. Less than a month in the station and already Ritchie had the measure of the Duguid. Self preservation came above any other loyalty. 'I'll go and see him. But first I've my own errand to run.'

Ritchie looked at him with what might well have been pleading. 'You can't come right away?'

'No, sergeant, I can't. But if you want, you can come down to the evidence store with me. When I'm finished there we can both go and see Dagwood together.'

*

McLean shivered as he stepped through the heavy door to the evidence store. It was cooler in the basement than the rest of the station. Just in front of him, DS Ritchie shuddered as well.

'Bit creepy down here, isn't it?'

'Ah, you get used to it.' McLean walked up to the counter where Sergeant Needham could usually be found keeping inventory. There was no sign of him at his post, and the door to his small office was closed. He knocked, trying the handle and finding it locked.

'Not here?'

'Could be in the back, I suppose. Needy always locks his office when he's away from the front room.'

'Needy?'

'At your service, Madame. Whatever your needs, Needy can service them.'

McLean and Ritchie both turned to see the sergeant in his immaculate uniform standing in the door through which they had just come. He limped across the room to where they were standing.

'You've been keeping secrets from me, inspector. Who is this delectable creature?'

'Come off it, Needy. Nothing happens in this station and you don't know about it.' McLean watched the sergeant ham a pained expression. 'All right, have it your way. Detective Sergeant Ritchie, this is Sergeant John Needham.'

Needy took Ritchie's proffered hand, enveloping it in both of his. 'Pleased to meet you at last,' he said. 'And might I add that it is a genuine delight to see such loveliness down here in my dark lair. Now, how may I help you?'

'I need to have a look at the Anderson stuff,' McLean said.

'Thought you already had it.' Needy produced a set of keys from his jacket and unlocked his office door. 'That young detective constable of yours signed it out before Christmas.'

'It wasn't the case files I was interested in,' McLean said. 'We've still got the forensic evidence, haven't we? The stuff that was needed for the trial?'

'Of course. I'll go and get it.'

Needy limped off into the depths of the evidence store, leaving McLean and Ritchie alone.

'Is he always like that?' Ritchie asked.

'Pretty much. Some people he just ignores. I think he likes you, though.'

'Aye, I got that.'

'There you go.' Needham was back, bearing a single large cardboard box. He dumped it down on the counter in front of them. 'Was there anything else?'

'No. This is fine.'

'OK. I'll leave it with you if you don't mind. I've a wee errand to run.' Needy limped off with surprising speed, leaving the two of them alone with the unopened evidence box.

'What is it you're looking for?' Ritchie asked as McLean pulled the lid off.

'Inspiration? A bit of luck? I don't know.'

Inside were a number of objects in plastic ziplock bags. The personal effects of Donald Anderson, including the clothes he had been wearing when McLean had arrested him; a rusty pair of handcuffs last seen dangling from a metal bed frame; several squares of stained cloth cut carefully from an old mattress, along with wads of horsehair padding from inside it; kitchen knives still bearing the traces of forensic examination after all these years; a long, thin rectangular strip of cloth with a repeating floral pattern on it.

McLean lifted the clear plastic bags out of the box one by one, placing them on the table in front of him. And then, filling the bottom of the box, there was the old book.

The leather cover was dark and mottled, gilt tooling worn by the caress of countless fingers, the sweat of innumerable hands. He picked it up, marvelling at the weight of it. Turned it over in his hands, seeing the ragged edges of the vellum pages through the clear plastic evidence bag. The spine was cracked, but it had title embossed in it in gold. Codex Enterius.