The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (44 page)

Upstairs was, if anything, worse than the ground floor. The roof was obviously in dire need of repair; in places the ceiling had collapsed altogether, leaving just bare laths and daylight peeking in from the attic above. The whole place had a feel of abandonment about it, as if nobody had lived there for years. And yet the key had been in the inside of the door. Needy's car was out the back. The man himself had to be somewhere.

It was Ritchie who found the attic rooms, tucked up in the eaves at the back. The half-hidden staircase was narrow and bare wood, designed for the servants to reach their accommodation without upsetting their master. Most of the rooms were empty, damp-spotted and water stained. One had old trunks piled up in it, covered in dust and spider webs. And one was where Needy had grown his obsession.

An old pedestal desk sat in front of the dormer window, looking out across the narrow gap to the tree-lined bank and the ironworks. It was strewn with newspaper cuttings, spiral bound notebooks filled with neat handwriting, loose paper covered in loping scrawl and crazy doodles. A well worn copy of Jo Dalgliesh's book was half buried under a stack of police files and several more boxes from the archives were piled in a corner. But it was the walls that sent a chill down his spine.

Needham had blown up photographs of Anderson: from the trial; from his shop; even the mug shots taken when he was arrested. And there were other photographs too; the victims, pinned to every available surface, in a disturbing parody of the whiteboard in the CID room. On top of them were post-it notes and larger sheets of paper, stuck up with yellowing sellotape and with cryptic messages scrawled on them. 'How does he choose them?' 'Why under a bridge?' 'Where's the book?' and at least twenty that simply said 'Why?'

'How long's he been doing this?' Ritchie asked. McLean rummaged around the desk, picking up a notebook at random. Needham's handwriting was hard to decipher but the front page was dated over two years earlier.

'A long time.' He put the book down, picked up what looked like a letter. The familiar logo of Carstairs Weddell, Solicitors and Notaries Public caught his eye.

'What you got there, sir?' Ritchie craned her neck to see, so close he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume.

'It's a letter detailing the inheritance tax due on Needy's dad's estate. This house, basically. Seems he owes the Chancellor the thick end of a million quid.'

Ritchie let out an explosive breath. 'Well, that'd tip me over the edge.'

'Oh, I think that just sped his fall.' McLean dropped the letter back onto the desk, looked around the room once more. 'Needy went over a long time ago. We just never noticed.'

~~~~

61

Back downstairs, McLean poked around the large hallway, trying to remember the old house from when he'd last visited it over ten years ago. He was fairly sure they'd covered all the rooms, but a place this big and this old had to have a basement. None of the doors so far had opened up onto stairs, and in the semi-darkness of the shuttered hall, it was almost impossible to make out any detail.

'Have you got a torch, sergeant?'

A short interval, then a narrow beam of light lit up in answer. Ritchie handed it over, and he played the torch over the area under the stairs, boxed in with more of the heavy panelling. Then he saw the turned wooden door handle and well-hidden keyhole. The door opened onto darkness, but as he peered carefully into the space, he could make out a faint glow at the bottom of a short flight of stone stairs. There was light down there somewhere.

'Do you think we should wait for back up, sir?' Ritchie asked.

'Probably.' He set off down the stairs. They brought him to a vaulted corridor about six feet wide that appeared to run the length of the house. He killed the torch, and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the glow coming from one end, Ritchie has joined him. She was about to say something, but he lifted a finger to his lips. Straining his ears, he tried to make out any noise at all but there was nothing.

They crept along the corridor past a number of closed doors until they finally came to the end and the source of the light. More steps dropped further down, and at the bottom, a wide wooden door stood partly ajar. The light beyond it flickered, reflecting off a polished flagstone floor.

The temperature seemed to rise as he climbed slowly down the steps, the stone walls radiating heat as if he were descending into the magma layer, not just a few yards underground. Ritchie pressed in close behind him, her scent filling the enclosed space as they moved further away from the reek upstairs. As he reached the bottom, he put his hand up for her to stay behind him, and brushed gently against her arm. At least he hoped it was her arm. Keeping as much of his body behind the half-open door as possible, he peered around it into the room beyond.

It looked like a small chapel, or perhaps the undercroft of a larger church. Heavy stone pillars rose up from the floor like the petrified trunks of long-dead trees. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, shadows of ornately carved figures lurking in the eaves. The walls were adorned with heavy plaques, their inscriptions too dark to see in the flickering candlelight that spread from half a dozen sconces. The scent of burning tallow was heavy in the air, only half masking something less pleasant. It was warmer even than the tunnel, lending the place a hellish feel.

Slowly, McLean edged into the room, looking around and trying to make out detail in the semi-darkness. A low stone altar stood at one end, holding up more candles that illuminated more elaborate carvings. Beside it, a heavy wooden lectern angled towards the room, shaped like an eagle with its claws extended, wings spread wide to land. But there were only a few old pews near the front for any congregation to sit on. The rest of the space had been cleared back to smooth flagstone floor, then piled with an odd assortment of boxes, some rolled up carpet, an old sit up and beg pushbike with a wicker basket mounted on the handlebars. A heavy, cast iron bedstead, complete with manky, bloodstained mattress. From where he stood, he could only see a corner, but it was enough. A pale, small hand was chained to the headboard with a shiny new handcuff.

All thoughts of stealth forgotten, McLean ran across the dimly lit chapel to the bed. Emma lay on her back, spread-eagled and naked, bound by her hands and legs. The bare mattress stank of dried blood and piss. For too long he just stared at her, trying to work out if she was dead or alive. She looked so pale, so still; like Kirsty had looked when he had found her all those years ago. Please God, don't let it happen again.

'We have to get her out of here.' McLean dug in his pockets, looking for a set of handcuff keys. His hand found them nestling beneath the strip of cloth, still in its plastic evidence bag. Not knowing quite why he did it, he pulled both out, palmed the keys and opened the bag. The fabric was soft, thin between his fingers, a little jolt of something like electricity running through him at that first touch. Hastily he shoved it into his trouser pocket, reached over with the keys. Emma didn't stir as he undid the cuffs, one by one. She didn't stir as he gently eased her arms back down by her sides. Nor did she stir as he pulled off his jacket and laid it gently over her. And all the while DS Ritchie stood hesitantly nearby, as if unsure whether she should help or not. If she'd seen him handling the strip of cloth, she said nothing about it.

'Is she... Is she breathing?'

McLean knelt down, gagging at the smell coming off the mattress, and touched a finger lightly to Emma's neck. He just caught the merest motion of a pulse in the flickering light before a scream pierced the quiet.

'She's mine!' Needy came from nowhere, brandishing a heavy brass candlestick and moving faster than McLean had ever seen him. He was wearing some kind of long cloak, a gold medallion and chain around his neck that glinted in the candlelight as it swung. Ritchie ducked to avoid the blow, but was too slow. It connected with the side of her head as she turned, and she crumpled like a discarded puppet. Needy didn't even look at her, swinging the candlestick round again as he rushed on, eyes lit with a mad fire. Kneeling down, McLean could only put up his arms for defence, trying to parry the blow rather than take it full on.

The pain was instant, and he could swear he heard bones cracking. The shock ran up his arms into his shoulders, dulling his vision. He could barely move, and yet he knew that Needy would be swinging the candlestick around for a second blow. A killing blow. He rolled onto the floor, felt the air split where his head had been a second earlier. There was a dull crash as the candlestick connected with the flagstone floor and McLean took his opportunity.

Needy was bent over, off balance as he tried to haul back his makeshift weapon. From his position on the floor, McLean swept his legs round, trying to bring Needy down. The sergeant jumped out of his way, laughing, seemingly unencumbered by his damaged leg.

'Can't get me like that.' And he brought the candlestick down again.

McLean rolled under the bed, feeling something sticky on the floor pull at his shirt. The candlestick clanged against the edge of the bed, tumbling rust and other less pleasant things onto his face. His forearms still hurt like he'd bench-pressed a train, but at least he was getting his wits together. As Needy pulled the candlestick up again, McLean rolled right under the bed and scrambled up on the other side.

'Put it down, Needy. It's over. You don't want to hurt anyone else.'

'She's mine, I tell you. Mine. It said I could have her if I read her a story.'

'John, look at yourself.' McLean kept one eye on the wavering candlestick, but he was close enough to see Needy's face. It was contorted in a grimace that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy, black eyes and swollen nose making him look like an insane ape. God only knew what he was on. Some mixture of painkillers and amphetamines by the look of him. Was there any possibility of talking him down?

'Sergeant Needham.' McLean tried to put as much authority in his voice as he could muster. 'Stand down.'

'You don't understand. It's what it wants. I have to do what it tells me.'

'What tells you? Who wants you to do this to Emma? She's your friend.'

'No friends. Only people who want things from you. Only people who hurt you. Only people who make jokes about you to your face. But it's different. It understands.'

'Who understands, Needy? Who are you talking about?'

'You should know. It talked to you, too. It told me all about you.' Needham's eyes had been fixed on McLean's, but as he talked they kept darting away, towards the lectern and the heavy old book lying open on it.

'The book?' The eyes flicked back again, and McLean knew he'd guessed right. 'You found Anderson's book? The Book of Souls?'

'It was there all along, only hiding.' Needham's voice steadied slightly. He sounded like he was simply giving an account of a crime he'd solved. He still held the candlestick high though, ready to swing at anyone who came near. 'Biding its time, it was. Waiting. You don't know what it's like, Tony. The voices in your head, the freedom it gives you. There's no guilt, no pain. Just joy and immortality.'

'It's not real, John. There never was a Book of Souls. I should know. I was there, remember. I found Anderson.'

Needy focussed his stare on McLean and the madness was back again. 'You spurned it. You were meant to be next in line but you ignored it. How could you? How...'

'I think I've heard quite enough from you, Sergeant Needham.'

McLean and Needy both turned at the voice, each as surprised as the other. DS Ritchie stood just feet away from Needham, well within range of the candlestick and waving from side to side like a punch-drunk boxer. Blood seeped from a gash at her temple. She had a can of pepper spray in her outstretched hand, and before he could do anything she let Needham have the whole thing in the face.

~~~~

62

'Cuff him to the bedpost, I don't want to take any chances.'

McLean rubbed at his wrists, wincing at the jabbing pains that ran up to the tips of his fingers. Blood stained the arms of his shirt and he hadn't dared to roll up his sleeves to see what damage Needy's candlestick had done. At least they weren't broken, he was fairly sure of that. It hurt way too much.

Ritchie scooped up one of the handcuffs that had been securing Emma to the bed and looped it round one of Needy's wrists. The sergeant didn't resist; he was too busy wheezing and puking onto the floor, his face a puffy red mess around his panda eyes. She clacked the other end onto the bedpost as instructed, then bent to pick up Emma.