The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (4 page)

'I still don't know how you did it, though. After what he'd done to you. Christ knows, I'd have beaten him to death if it was me'd found him.' Needy flexed his hands, claw-like and liver-spotted. 'I'd have throttled him there and then.'

McLean reached for his beer, knocked back as much as he dared without disturbing the crusty bits milling around the bottom of the glass.  He glanced at his watch.

'I thought about it. I still do. Look, I've got to go. I'm supposed to be preparing Dagwood's briefing at six and it'd be nice to get home and have a shower.'

'Aye, you're right.' Needy picked up his glass, swirled around the beer left in it. 'Think I might have another one of these though. Maybe something to help with the taste.'

'You'll be all right getting home?'

'Don't you worry about me, inspector. We Needhams survive. Always have, always will.'

*

Oily puddles shivered on the pavement when McLean stepped out of the time-warp pub and back out into the real world. The rain had stopped, but a lazy wind blew in off the sea; too idle to go round, it cut through everything in its path, stealing any spare heat it could find. He hunched his shoulders against it, pulled up the collar of his overcoat and started out on the long walk home. In this weather, he could see the sense in owning a car. Or perhaps he should say owning a proper car. Not the impractical classic Alfa Romeo his Gran had left him. It would be nice to be warm, dry. But then again, the traffic was crawling more slowly than he could walk, and if he owned a car there'd be nowhere to park at the other end, and a massive annual charge from the council for the privilege. A taxi was the answer, of course, but there weren't any to be seen. Not here, not now.

The phone buzzed against his hand, thrust deep into his coat pocket. McLean pulled both out, peering at the screen to see who was calling him. It was the station, no doubt Dagwood wanting to make his life a misery again.

'Tony? You at home?' Not Dagwood.

'Oh, Chief Superintendent, Ma'am? Umm... No. I'm out walking. It's...' He didn't really know what to say. He'd got the impression from Needy that few people knew, and the sergeant would prefer it to stay that way as long as possible. On the other hand, there wasn't much got past Jayne McIntyre. 'I took Needy to the pub.'

The silence at the other end of the line was the chief superintendent working out what that meant. To her credit, it didn't take long.

'Damn. That's going to be hard for him.'

'He'll be OK, Ma'am. Those Needhams are tough old bastards.'

'Aye, you're right there. But still.' The line went silent again.

'I take it that's not why you called me though.' McLean assumed that word of his morning cock-up had made it to the top of the pile, no doubt suitably embellished by Duguid to make him look even more stupid than he felt. He'd be expected in first thing for a professional bollocking.

'No. Something else.' McIntyre paused once more, as if she was trying to find the right words. Christ, he hadn't screwed up that badly had he?

'I thought you needed to hear this from me first. Before you got it second hand. It's about Anderson.'

McLean felt a chill in his gut that had nothing to do with the wind. 'Oh, aye? They letting him out for good behaviour are they?'

'Not exactly, Tony. I've just had a message from Peterhead. Seems someone took a knife to him in the kitchens. He's dead.'

~~~~

7

'In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?'

McLean stared out over the ranks of headstones towards a small knot of people clustered around a grave in the spattering rain. A sharp November wind blew off the North Sea, tugging at the thin grey hair of the priest, his head down in his prayer book. A brace of uniformed police officers shifted uncomfortably, like they would rather be anywhere else. A slim, red-haired woman struggled with her useless umbrella, rain darkening the grey of her tailored trouser suit. Two scowling men dressed in the dirty green overalls of Aberdeen City Parks Department waited impatiently to one side. No family, of course. Not much of a turn-out for the deceased at all.

'Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.'

McLean dug his hands deep into the pockets of his heavy overcoat and huddled against the cold that seeped into his bones. Low clouds scudded across the sky, blanking out what little weak afternoon sun could hope to reach this far north. Dreich was the word. It matched his mood.

'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer.'

He tuned out the words, looking around the cemetery. Flowers dotted here and there, even the odd photograph. The headstones glistened wetly, granite grey like the city that spawned them. Just the occasional angel to break the monotony. What the hell was he doing here?

'Suffer us not, at our last hour, through any pains of death, to fall from thee.'

The council workers hoisted the heavy coffin up on thick canvas straps, kicking aside the scaffold planks it had been resting on before dropping it clumsily into the hole. No elegant sashes and six young men to lower the bastard to his last resting place. He deserved nothing more than he was getting.

'In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brother...' The priest paused, then scrabbled around in his prayer book, coming up with a small scrap of paper. He peered at it myopically before the wind whipped it from his arthritic fingers and away over the graveyard. '...Our brother Donald Anderson and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

McLean couldn't suppress the smile that slid across his face at the priest's mistake, but it was short-lived. He felt no satisfaction, no closure. Turning away from the scene, he walked to his car. It was a long drive back to Edinburgh; might as well get started. Not like there was going to be a wake or anything.

'Might I ask what your interest in Anderson is?'

McLean turned at the voice, seeing the woman with the useless umbrella standing a couple of paces away. She was slightly shorter than him, her face pale and freckled, its elfin shape exaggerated by the way the rain had plastered her short red hair across her scalp.

'Might I ask yours?'

'Detective Sergeant Ritchie, Grampian Police.' She fumbled in the large canvas bag slung over one shoulder and pulled out her warrant card. McLean didn't even bother looking at it. He probably should have told Aberdeen Headquarters he was coming, but then they'd have escorted him everywhere, dragged him down the pub to celebrate Anderson's death.

'McLean,' he said. 'Lothian and Borders.'

'You're a fair bit off your patch, inspector.' So she knew of him, even if she hadn't recognised his face.

'I put Anderson away. Just wanted to make sure he was gone for good.'

'Aye, well. I can understand that.'

The two uniformed officers trudged past, the collars of their black fleeces turned up, yellow fluorescent jackets pulled tight against the wind. Behind them, the priest looked as if he was going to hang around and say something, then thought better of it. McLean stared back towards the grave where a mini digger was dumping heavy earth onto the coffin. 'How does a piece of shit like Anderson end up being buried in a place like this?'

'Plot was bought and paid for, apparently. Some solicitor from Edinburgh sorted it all out. Seems Anderson had money. Plots here aren't cheap.'

'What about the man who killed him?'

Ritchie didn't answer straight away. McLean didn't know her, couldn't read the expression on her face. She looked young for a DS, boyish even with her short-cropped hair and businesslike suit, but she held his gaze as if to say his seniority didn't intimidate her.

'Harry Rugg. Anderson's cell-mate in Peterhead. They were both on kitchen duty. Rugg took a carving knife and stabbed Anderson in the heart.'

'So I heard. Any chance of having a word with him?'

Ritchie wiped wet hair out of her eyes. 'I could talk to DCI Reid for you. He's in charge. But I doubt he'd let another force anywhere near. What do you want to ask him anyway?'

'Ask? Nothing. I just wanted to say thanks.'

*

The phone rang as he was crossing the Forth Road Bridge, and he fumbled with the buttons as he coasted to a slow stop. Sudden rain squalls made angry red stars of the brake lights ahead of him; commuter traffic welcoming him home. He cradled the receiver to his ear, hoping there weren't any traffic cops around. It would be embarrassing to be pulled over on his day off.

'McLean.'

'You back from Aberdeen yet?' Detective Chief Inspector Duguid didn't bother with any conversational niceties.

'On the bridge, sir. But...'

'Well get yourself over to Sciennes. There's another fire.'

McLean was about to complain that he was off duty, but Duguid cut the call. There was no point arguing, anyway. It never did any good.

The traffic grew steadily worse as he approached the scene; exhausted office workers fighting to get home down unfamiliar roads. At least the uniforms had cordoned off the whole street, which meant he could abandon his car and walk the last couple of hundred yards. Smoke drifted down between the tenements in choking swirls, ash falling like black snow. Everything smelled of childhood bonfires, and high overhead the dark sky reflected rippling orange.

The fire was in an old factory, built well over a hundred years ago, its stone façade dark and grimy. The redevelopment signs had appeared several months back; just before the credit crunch had set in. Nothing much seemed to have changed since then. Until now. Six fire engines clustered around the site, two of them hosing down the adjoining tenement blocks to try and stop them catching. The factory itself was past saving. Flame roared from shattered windows, and as McLean watched, the roof began to buckle and collapse. Firemen sprinted away; uniforms pushed the security cordon further back; onlookers gasped with excitement.

'Enjoy the funeral did you, sir?' Grumpy Bob strolled up, cradling a mug of tea in his large hands. Oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him.

'Where the hell did you...?' McLean pointed at the steaming cuppa. 'No, don't bother. Just bring me up to speed, Bob.'

'It looks like another one of ours. But we won't really know until it's out and the fire investigation team have had a crack.'

'Christ, that's just what we need.'

'Aye. Place is boarded up like Fort Knox. There's plate steel over the downstairs windows and all the doors. Took the first fire crew twenty minutes to cut their way in. Too late by then.'

McLean stared up at the roaring fire, feeling the heat radiating from the old stones. It seeped into his body, making him drowsy despite the noise and hubbub around.

'Inspector McLean.' A light tap on his shoulders. He turned, then cursed. Short and scruffy in a grubby old leather coat, Joanne Dalgliesh might have been mistaken for someone's mum, but she had a nose for a good story, And the newspaper she wrote for wasn't known for pulling its punches, especially where Lothian and Borders Police were concerned.

'This is the ninth fire at a redevelopment site in the city in two months. Are you any closer to catching the arsonist?'

'Who the hell let you in here?' McLean looked around for the nearest uniformed officer. 'Constable!'

'Come on Inspector.' Dalgliesh glanced over her shoulder as the constable hurried towards them. 'Just a word. Anything. Surely this isn't coincidence, all these buildings burning down?'

'You know I can't comment until the fire investigation team has been inside, Ms Dalgliesh.'

'But you're treating all the fires as connected.'

'We're not ruling out anything at this stage.'

'Which means you haven't got a clue.