'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 Ins
pector.' 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.
McLean ignored her. 'Constable, escort Ms Dalgliesh back behind the security cordon. And make sure no-one else gets through. We don't want anyone getting hurt.'
'We can help you, Inspector. If you let us,' the reporter protested as she was led away.
'Aye, right,' McLean muttered under his breath.
'She's got a point,' Grumpy Bob said.
'Yes, well, thanks for the support sergeant. That's really helpful. So what's the situation here? You doing any actual policing, or just drinking tea?'
Grumpy Bob downed the last dregs, then looked for somewhere to put the empty mug. 'I've had Constable MacBride working the crowd. You never know, we could get lucky. There's good CCTV coverage. We'll pull the tapes, see if anyone's lurking.'
Long hours of staring at grainy television images, trying to see if the same faces turned up at more than one fire. Wonderful.
'Inspector? Sir?' McLean looked up to see the new boy himself, Constable Stuart MacBride, winding his way through the abandoned cars and dodging the milling fire crews. He had an airwave set in one hand, his notebook in the other, a look of excitement flushing his face. Either that or he'd been too close to the fire.
'What is it, constable?'
'Call just came in... they've found a body.'
McLean rubbed his face, trying to get the tired dryness out of his eyes. The firemen had moved back towards the burning building now, but as far as he could tell no-one had gone inside.
'What, in the fire? How?'
MacBride looked momentarily confused. Then held up his radio.
'No sir. South of the city. Looks like a murder.'
'I'm supposed to be off duty. Can't they give it to anyone else?'
'Dagwood's gone to some important society dinner.' Grumpy Bob bent his knee, miming the rolling up of his trouser leg. 'Langley and his crowd won't want to be first in if there's no obvious drugs connection.'
'What about Randall?'
'Off with the flu.'
'Oh Christ.' McLean shook his head to try and scare away the fatigue of a long day about to get even longer. 'Give us the details then.'
MacBride consulted his notebook. 'It's out near Gladhouse. Young woman, naked in the water. Sergeant Thoms said something about her throat being cut.'
Despite the heat from the fire, McLean's insides were as cold as the wind in an Aberdeenshire graveyard. Beside him, Grumpy Bob went suddenly very still.
'The Christmas Killer?'
McLean shook his head. 'It can't be, Bob. He's dead. I watched them bury him just this morning.'
But in his mind, he wasn't so sure.
~~~~
8
A circle of bright white light hovered over the crime scene like some strange alien spaceship. Or maybe the Star of Bethlehem, given the time of year. That made McLean either a shepherd or a wise man, but he couldn't decide which. Whatever he was, it was tired. He stifled a yawn as he clambered out of the car, then remembered he was supposed to get it back to the hire company by seven. Even driving like a maniac he'd miss that by an hour. Well, it wouldn't be the first time his one day hire had turned into two.
A line of squad cars and a couple of battered old white transit vans meant he had to walk a short distance to the fluttering crime scene tape. Closer in, the arc lights set up by the SOC team washed out an area of rough ground below the road. Fat wet drops of rainwater glistened on the spiky tips of the thick gorse bushes and splashed down from the bare, black, twisted branches of scraggy birch trees. Through it all ran a deep-culverted stream, gurgling loudly with recent rain. It was a while since he'd been out this way. But if memory served, it was part of the reservoir system that fed the city. Just the sort of place you wanted to find a body.
'I'm sorry sir, this is a crime scene. You can't...'
McLean cut off the young uniformed constable who had tried to block his way, wearily pulling out his warrant card for inspection. It wasn't surprising the lad didn't recognise him; this was Penicuik's patch, after all.
'Who's the officer in charge?' McLean asked once the constable had finished apologising.
'Sergeant Price, sir. He's down there with the pathologist.'
'Already? That was quick.' McLean looked up the line of cars, and sure enough, parked at the far end, Angus Cadwallader's British Racing Green and mud-coloured Bentley poked one salt-encrusted headlight out from behind a SOC van.
'Dunno about that, sir. I've been here over two hours already. Call came in about four o'clock.'
Long before Dagwood had set out for his Masonic knees-up. Bloody marvellous.
Knee-high grass and gorse bushes soaked his trousers and shoes long before he made it to the edge of the culvert. A group of people clustered around an improbably Heath-Robinson arrangement of scaffolding poles, light stands and other paraphernalia. Steam rose off the hot lights, adding to the already surreal, hellish feel of the place.
'Sergeant Price?' McLean waited while an overlarge, white-haired, uniformed officer turned slowly around, trying not to slip on the wet concrete edge to the culvert. The drop to the water was about ten feet, spate-swelled waters running noisily below, so McLean couldn't really blame him his caution.
'About bloody time someone senior showed up,' was all the greeting the old sergeant gave. That and a cursory nod. McLean tried not to rise to the bait.
'It's my day off, OK? I spent the morning in Aberdeen burying Donald fucking Anderson. So cut the small talk and tell me the story.'
If Sergeant Price was impressed by McLean's sacrifice, he didn't show it.
'Couple of lads out on their mountain bikes saw her first,' he said. 'What they were doing down here is anyone's guess.'
'They still about?'
'No. They called in from Temple. You can't get a mobile signal here. I've got names and addresses.'
'OK. What about the body?'
Price shrugged. 'See for yersel'. Crime scene's a' yours.'
McLean inched slowly to the edge, giving the two SOC officers holding the arc lamps time to shuffle aside. A ladder dropped down to a makeshift platform rigged up over the flowing water, two people kneeling together like penitent sinners, praying before a third. He recognised the balding pate of Angus Cadwallader, city pathologist, and the shiny black bob of his assistant Tracy, but the other person in the threesome was a stranger to him.
It looked like the water had carried her downstream until she had been pinned against a rusty iron grating. Her arms were splayed wide, her legs twisted back underneath her body as if she were posing for some arty erotic photograph. Wisps of green-black pondweed trailed across skin so white it could have been porcelain, and only the ugly dark welt across her neck stopped him from thinking she was merely sleeping.
'Tony. Good God, could they not have given this to someone else?' Angus Cadwallader looked up, shuffling carefully off his knees and upright before helping his assistant do the same. Only when he was safely out of the culvert did he finally give McLean a quizzical raise of the eyebrow and add: 'I thought you were in Aberdeen today. Christ, talk about timing.'
'I was,' McLean said, remembering the windswept cemetery as if it had been a lifetime ago. 'So, what's the score here?'
Cadwallader pulled off his latex gloves and ran a hand over his wet hair. 'It's difficult to say much from where she is. Rain's washed her down from somewhere upstream, I'm fairly sure. She's also very clean. Not been in the water too long, though.'
'Cause of death? Time of death?'
'Ah, Tony. You always ask, and I always tell you I can't say. Not now. It looks like she's had
her throat cut, but that might have been post mortem. As to time, well, it's cold here, and she's been in the water. But unless she was kept on ice, I'd say somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours. Thirty-six tops.'
'What about bruising? Any ligature marks?'
'She's ten feet down in a concrete culvert that's barely wide enough for the two of us, Tony. Let me get her back to the mortuary, then I'll tell you what happened to the poor wee lass.' Cadwallader put a damp hand on McLean's shoulder. 'We're not going to find anything here.'
'You're right, Angus. I just. Well...' McLean tailed off, unsure what he wanted to say. He needed answers, but even he could tell he wasn't going to get any here. 'I guess you'd better get her out of there then.'
Cadwallader nodded to one of the SOC officers, who scurried off to get help. They followed him back up through the gorse to the roadside, just in time for another squall of rain. The pathologist hurried to his car, Tracy leaping into the passenger seat without even bothering to remove her white overalls.
'It's not the same, Tony,' Cadwallader said. 'This isn't another Christmas Killer victim.'
'You sure of that, Angus? It looks pretty close to me.'
'I'll get the PM scheduled as soon as possible, but you know what I mean. He's been locked up for the last ten years. And now he's dead. This is something else. Someone else.'
McLean shivered, though whether it was the cold he couldn't be certain. 'I hope you're right, Angus.'
*
The lumpy beat of an engine at tick over and spiral of steam in the damp darkness gave away Sergeant Price's position, sitting in the warmth of one of the squad cars. When McLean tapped on the misted up windscreen, he wound it down with obvious reluctance.
'It's your lucky night,' McLean said.
'Aye?'
'I want this road closed for a quarter mile either side of the crime scene. First light, a search team's going to be back to go over the whole area, and I don't want anyone to have disturbed it in my absence. OK?'
'But my shift ends in an hour. I've got stuff to do...'
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 3