The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (43 page)

McLean squinted at the poor quality image, watching as a pale blue Peugeot kangarooed into a parking space in a series of jerky hops. A short, dark-haired figure got out, opened the boot, took out a big box, slung something in, closed the boot and headed off towards the back door to the station, disappearing off camera soon after.

'I've been through the tapes for the next twelve hours. Admittedly quite fast, but there's no sign of her coming back.'

'This much we knew, Stuart. What did you bring me here for?'

'Ah, well.' The detective sergeant clicked another button and the image changed angle. Now the camera showed the ramp leading down into the basement loading area just off the evidence locker. It was too dark to see if the metal roller doors were open or closed, but after a few moments, a large estate car backed down the ramp and disappeared. Minutes later it came back again and drove off. McLean looked at the timestamp on the video. Half past ten in the morning.

'That's Needy's car, isn't it?'

'There's more, sir,' MacBride said. 'I asked around if anyone had seen him yesterday. Nobody had spoken to him, but Gladys, the canteen lady, said she saw him first thing when she was getting the stock in for the day.'

'Well we know he was here. His car's here.' McLean pointed at the screen..

MacBride pressed another button on the console and the image changed again. This time it showed someone standing by the same estate car that they had seen earlier. He zoomed in on the face, and although the resolution was bad, it was easy to see that something was badly wrong with it.

'Aye, but we all thought he had the flu. Not a broken nose and black eyes that make him look like a panda.'

~~~~

60

'You really think Needy's our man?'

DS Ritchie sat beside McLean as they drove south out of town towards the bypass. The sun low over the Pentland hills made visibility a bitch, and the early rush hour traffic didn't help. It seemed like only a few hours ago he had been talking to Father Anton in the candlelit morning church, and now evening was falling rapidly. McLean wished he could go faster, whilst at the same time knew more haste would ultimately mean less speed.

'Fuck, I hate to have to admit Hilton could be right. But everything's pointing to Needham at the moment.' McLean ignored the angry toot of a horn as he cut up the inside of a dawdling school run mother.  One hand off the steering wheel, he began to count out the points. 'He's a loner, dominated by his father all his life. He's been mouldering away down in the evidence store for years now, passed over for promotion God only knows how many times. He could have been a DCI by now if some toe-rag hooligan hadn't put a broken bottle in his leg. He was on the Christmas Killer team longer than anyone else. And of course he had access to the keys to Anderson's shop.'

Ritchie grabbed for the dashboard, supporting herself as the car tilted alarmingly round a roundabout. 'Look out sir!'

McLean slammed on the brakes as a Taxi swerved across his path and in to the side of the road, where it proceeded to unload an elderly gentleman. McLean wished he'd been able to get hold of a squad car, or even one of the unmarked CID pool cars. They all had sirens and hidden blue lights that could have cleared his route in no time. But as usual, all of them were out or broken, leaving a choice of the Alfa or Emma's Peugeot.

Dropping down into second gear, he roared past the taxi, twin-cam Italian engine bellowing a far better expletive than anything he could have come up with. The road ahead was clear for a bit and he concentrated on driving as fast as he safely could.

'I hope Stuart's managed to get in touch with traffic. It'll be a right pain if you get pulled over.'

'It's all cameras along here,' McLean said. 'And frankly I don't care right now if I set a few of them off. Damn!'

The traffic backed up to the Kaimes junction and once more he was forced to slow down.

Ritchie laughed. 'You sound like Grumpy Bob, you know.'

McLean didn't answer, and her smile soon faded. 'We'll find her. It'll be all right,' she added.

'You knew her, back in Aberdeen.' McLean wasn't sure he wanted to talk about Emma, but anything was better than staring at the glaring brake lights of a thousand unmoving cars. 'I'd be right in saying there was a bit of history?'

Ritchie shuffled in her seat. It could almost have been called squirming

'We met on a few cases, yes.'

'And that's it? So why'd you go all stiff and formal every time she's mentioned? More to the point, what's she got against you?'

Ritchie said nothing for a while, just staring ahead as if she, too, were willing the traffic to evaporate. When she did finally speak it was in an oddly formal voice.

'There might have been a bit of a misunderstanding. Over a certain detective constable.'

'A male detective constable, I presume.'

'As it turns out, he wasn't worth either of our attention. Little creep's a DI now, transferred down to the met. And he shat on everyone to get there so quickly.'

'So he's long gone. Why're you two still fighting over him?'

Ritchie didn't answer, and McLean was left to ponder as the line of cars started to move. Traffic gnarled slowly along the short section of dual carriageway past Burdiehouse and under the bypass, finally freeing up as McLean took the turning to Loanhead. How long was it since he'd come this way with DS Robertson? Not more than a couple of months. It felt like years.

The headquarters of Randolph Developments was a blaze of lights as they slipped past the compound. The old stone factory buildings were surrounded by machinery, but most of the portacabins had been moved away. McLean remembered the models that William Randolph had shown him, his plans for the regeneration of the city and its suburbs. No doubt work was about to begin on turning this place into yet another luxury living experience.

'Give MacBride a call, will you,' McLean said, an odd thought crossing his mind. Ritchie flipped open her phone.

'What do you want to ask him?'

'Did he ever get to speak to that professor at the university?' The message was relayed and an answer came back 'yes.'

'Then ask him if the old...' McLean squinted in the arc-lit gloaming at the name carved in stone above the main factory entrance. 'McMerry Ironworks site in Loanhead was ever associated with the guild.'

Again Ritchie relayed the information, before asking a question of her own. 'Guild?' she mouthed, hand covering the phone's mouthpiece. McLean didn't have time to explain before MacBride's answer came back.

'He says he doesn't know, but he can find out.'

Ritchie ended the call and put her phone away.

'What was all that about?' she asked.

'Just another hunch,' McLean said. 'It's my day for them.'

*

'That's a big old pile for someone on a sergeant's pay.' DS Ritchie looked up at the imposing bulk of Needy's house as the Alfa crunched over the gravel of a long driveway towards something that wouldn't have looked out of place in a period drama.

'It's been in the family a long time. The Needhams built the ironworks back there.' McLean pointed to the rear of the building, where a steep bank rose sharply up, the stone hulk of the old factory just showing through a skeletal line of winter trees. 'We all used to come out here from time to time. When we were working on the Christmas Killer case. It's looking a bit run down since then.'

Closer in, McLean could see the grey-brown render on the walls was cracked in places, the sash windows in bad need of paint. Thick ivy grew up one gable wall, threatening to strangle the chimney stack and bring it crashing down onto the garage roof. He parked the Alfa a good distance away, just in case.

The front door was locked, but then that was no surprise. The windows reflected the low sun, and behind them shutters blocked any view of the rooms inside. McLean went to press the ornate porcelain bell-push, then hesitated.

'Let's just have a wee nosey about first, shall we?'

The gravel drive continued around the back of the house, through a stone arch that connected to the garage block. Not so much parked as abandoned in front of this, the grubby off-green Jaguar estate sat with its rear facing the back door. Looking up, McLean could see no lights from the windows on this side of the house either. Shutters closed the downstairs views of everything except the back lobby and kitchen, both empty. He tried the back door, but it was locked.

'Car's not been anywhere in a while.' DS Ritchie had her hand pressed to the bonnet. She took it off and tried the door handle. 'Locked too.'

The garages were converted from earlier coach houses, and were also locked tight. It wasn't surprising, really, with the house being so close to Loanhead. A place like this would be a magnet for all the unemployed and disaffected youth living in the schemes further down Roslin glen. Overshadowed by the close-by hulk of the ironworks, it almost begged to be burgled and vandalised.

'Looks like something's been dragged here, sir.' DS Ritchie crouched down by the tailgate of Needy's car, looking at the gravel intently. McLean joined her.

'What is it?'

'See here.' She pointed at a shallow depression in the gravel. 'Looks like something heavy was dropped out of the back of the car, then dragged off in that direction.'

McLean ran his hand lightly over the surface, feeling a rough outline of two parallel tracks. Two heels carving a path to Needy's back door.

He stood up, pulled out his phone and hit speed dial as he followed the indentations to the door. DS MacBride answered on the second ring.

'I need a warrant to search Needy's house,' McLean said before the constable could get more than his name out. 'And we need to find him.'

'On it, sir,' MacBride said. 'Oh, and you were right, by the way.;

'I was? What about?'

'The McMerry Ironworks, sir. It's built on an old Guild of Strangers site. Their first site, as it happens. It's where they set up after being driven out of the city by the merchant guilds at the turn of the sixteenth century.'

'Fine, constable. You can give me the history lesson when we've found Emma. Just get me that warrant. Then get yourself over here quick as you can.'

*

Waiting for things to happen was never McLean's style. He paced around, peering into the window that looked onto Needy's kitchen, tried the locked door again, just in case, then looked around for any evidence of a spare key. Ritchie came over to join him.

'You know, I could have sworn I heard someone shout "help" just then.'

'What?' McLean looked at her, standing by the back door.

'There it is again.' Silence filled the air, underlined by the distant hum of the bypass, the whine of a jet plane.

'D'you know, I think you're right sergeant. It sounds very much like someone's in need of help.' McLean shrugged his hand up into his sleeve for protection, picked up a fist-sized rock lying by the back door and used it to smash one of the small windows. The key was still in the lock on the inside, so he reached carefully in and opened the door.

'Jesus! What's that smell?' Ritchie wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the back lobby. McLean sniffed and then wished he hadn't. A mixture of rotting garbage and open sewer assaulted his senses. Shallow breathing through his mouth, he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen and stepped through.

The air was slightly better in here, but still not pleasant. Most of the aroma wafted up from the large double sink, filled to overflowing with unwashed pots and crockery. The table was strewn with rubbish: empty pizza boxes; Chinese takeaway cartons; beer cans and chocolate wrappers. A bowl in the middle of the table contained several pieces of fuzzy green fruit. It was a stark contrast to the spotless tidiness of Needy's cell-office back at the station.

'This isn't what I was expecting,' Ritchie said. McLean could only agree.

They worked their way quickly and quietly through the downstairs rooms. Most looked like they'd not been used in years, shuttered up against the light and left to moulder gently away. Patches on the walls showed where the paintings McLean recalled from earlier visits had gone, and there was far too little furniture. The smell from the kitchen subsided the further they went into the house, to be replaced with the unmistakable reek of mildew. Flicking the lights on in the large drawing room to the front of the house, McLean saw black mould creeping down the walls from the ornate plaster cornicing; brown circle stains in the ceiling and powdery, flaking paint.