The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries)

by Oswald, James

  'I don't want to hear it, sergeant. This is a murder enquiry, so you're good for the overtime. I'll be back at dawn, and I'll expect to see your smiling face here to greet me.'

  ~~~~

  9

  He wanders the streets in a daze, feet following the familiar path they know from when he was on the beat. The steady rhythm of leather on pavement helps to dull his mind, stop the feelings that threaten to overwhelm him at every turn. Thinking is too painful, so he marches instead.

  What brings him to this place? He doesn't really know. There must be some reason, but teasing it out might dislodge something else. Better just to go with the flow. It's a second hand bookshop, smelling of dust and libraries. The aisles between the shelves are narrow, towering over him, lined with countless ranks of words. He runs his fingers over uneven spines as he walks towards the desk at the back. There was a reason for coming in here. Something he needed to say.

  No-one about. A few old paperbacks lie abandoned on the counter, a ledger open as if the shop owner were called away whilst in the middle of cataloguing them. Beyond the counter, a door opens to a small office. Not quite sure why, he goes through.

  Still no-one. A pair of old filing cabinets stand against one wall, a low shelf of books under the large window that looks out onto a scruffy courtyard behind the shop. An antiques desk fills most of the space, its top empty save for a reading lamp and a large, old, leather-bound book.

  There's something about the book that sends a shiver through him. Has he seen it before? He doesn't know, doesn't want to think. Thoughts are too painful now. But it won't let him go, drags him toward it like a magnet, whispers to him to open it up, to read.

  He is reaching out to it when he notices the marker. A thin strip of fabric slipped between heavy vellum pages, drooping out over the edge of the desk like a wilted flower. His hand moves toward the cloth, takes it between finger and thumb, slides it out of the book. Something like a far-off scream of rage and frustration echoes in the silence, but he pays it no heed. There is only this piece of cloth, this hem torn from a dress. At that touch he knows it.

  He knows everything.

  ~~~~

  10

  Early morning, and a steady stream of buses blocked the flow of traffic as McLean walked briskly across North Bridge towards Princes Street. Heads down, breath steaming in the cold November air, the first wave of commuters spilled out onto the wide pavement, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with their fellow condemned. What would it be like to have a normal job, with regular working hours? It might be nice to have the occasional evening off, some time to spend with his friends. Except that with far too few exceptions, all his friends were either police, or inextricably linked to the job.

  He was so busy working his way through the knot of bodies that at first he didn't notice the person ahead of him. But something about the shape and size, the pattern of wispy hair on the back of the man's head, registered enough to grab his attention. He couldn't think why he felt a frisson of discomfort at the figure, but neither could he get closer through the throng. Then the man turned side on, heading round the corner of the North British Hotel, and McLean's heart nearly stopped.

  'Anderson.' The word came out as a hoarse whisper, ignored by the people all around him. Someone bumped his shoulder and he realised he'd stopped walking. His knees felt weak; the blood rushing in his head sounded like the London train far beneath his feet, out of control and speeding through Waverly station. And the impossible figure was getting further away.

  'Anderson!' This time it was a shout, and the noise propelled McLean into action. No longer caring about the sensibilities of Edinburgh commuters, he pushed through the crowd, trying to make up the distance. The man he was chasing, seemingly deaf and oblivious, disappeared down Princes Street.

  'Oi! Watch what yer doing.' An angry pedestrian turned as McLean tried to jostle past, his face red with quick anger.

  'Police. Get out of the way.' McLean thrust him aside, breaking into a run as he cleared the throng, then slowing down as the next crowd gathered by the crossing. He hugged the wall of the hotel, managing to squeeze past an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley, and a couple of lost tourists, their backpacks lethal to everyone around as they turned to see what the commotion was all about. Round the corner, seeing the flow of sleepy humanity pouring up Waverly steps and onto Princes Street, McLean scanned the crowd, looking for his quarry. Donald Anderson was nowhere to be seen.

  *

  By the time he reached his tiny office, tucked away at the back of the station and the end of the queue for the heating, McLean had almost convinced himself that he'd been mistaken. It couldn't possibly have been Anderson; he'd watched the man's coffin being lowered into the ground less than twenty-four hours ago. And there was no way that Peterhead jail could have made a mistake about the identity of one of their more notorious inmates.

  'You all right, Tony? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

  McLean started at the voice, realising he'd been staring into space. Hovering in the open doorway, Chief Superintendent Jayne McIntyre looked like she'd only just stepped out of the shower; face scrubbed pink, hair still wet, uniform as yet unrumpled by a long day in the office.

  'Didn't get much sleep, Ma'am. We found a body last night. There's some nasty similarities to Anderson's MO.'

  'Aye, I heard from Grumpy Bob. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' McIntyre looked around the room for a spare seat, then propped herself on the edge of the desk.

  McLean's heart dropped. 'You're giving the investigation to someone else.'

  'I thought about it. God only knows, you've enough on your plate right now with Anderson being killed.'

  'With respect, Ma'am, I don't see what that's got to do with anything.'

  'Oh don't be so pompous, Tony. We both know what he did to you, and he's going to be all over the papers for the next few weeks at least. Jo Dalgliesh'll have a new edition of her book out before the end of the month, you can count on that. You might think you've buried the past and moved on, but it's going to come back with a vengeance now.'

  'So that's it then. Who do I hand over to, Dagwood? You do want us to catch whoever did this, don't you?'

  'What is it with you two? Charles is an experienced detective with a very good clear-up rate. And yes, he will be in overall charge of this investigation. But I know you well enough, Tony. You'll just go sticking your nose in it anyway. Make a bloody nuisance of yourself. And we're not exactly overburdened with detectives right now, so you're going to be leading things on the ground.' She smiled, but McLean knew she was only half joking. 'Talking of short staff, I've put the word out around the other forces. See if anyone fancies a transfer to sunny Edinburgh. Do it that way and we can squeeze a couple of detective constables out of the budget. Maybe even a sergeant.'

  'We could certainly do with the help.' McLean looked at the pile of case files strewn across his untidy desk; enough work to keep him busy for months. Just a pity the city kept on throwing up new crimes for him to solve.

  'I know you like to work with just a small team, Tony, but this is high profile. Like you said, nasty similarities to the Christmas Killer. We need to be seen to be doing everything we can.' McIntyre stood up, smoothing imaginary creases from her suit. 'We all know what Anderson did to you. Are you sure you want to rake over all that again?'

  McLean tried to read the superintendent's expression. Was it pity, or worry? He wasn't sure he wanted either.

  'This isn't Anderson, Ma'am. He's dead. I watched them bury him yesterday.'

  *

  Gladhouse reservoir wasn't much better in the early morning light. Snow clung to the flanks of the Moorfoot Hills, a chill wind bringing a taste of deep winter. McLean looked at the unenthusiastic gaggle of uniforms that were all he'd been able to rustle up from Penicuik and Mortonhall. He couldn't really blame them; it was very unlikely they'd find anything after last night's weather.

  'Okay ladies, you know the drill
.' Grumpy Bob directed officers away in various directions, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets. 'Bloody hell but it's cold, sir.'

  McLean shivered in agreement. 'Let's get out of this wind, Bob.' He nodded in the direction of the culvert. 'I want to start where we found the body.'

  It was much the same as the evening before, only without the star attraction, removed to the mortuary to await the attentions of the pathologists. McLean clambered down the rickety staging that had been jury-rigged out of the bits and bobs lurking in the back of the SOC van, then inched out onto the platform above the water. More rain overnight had swollen the flow, threatening to flood the boarding and soak his feet, but he squatted down anyway, trying to remember the scene as it had been.

  'She was splayed out like this,' he began to say, then realised that he was alone on the platform. Looking around and up, he saw Grumpy Bob's face peering back down at him from the safety of the bank.

  'If you think I'm coming down there, sir...'

  McLean shook his head, then grabbed at the ladder as the platform swayed dangerously. He waited for the motion to steady, watching waves slop over the wooden board, tried to imagine the scene as it had been the night before. Where the girl had lain, water gurgled down the grating into some dark underworld.

  'You reckon it's worth getting divers in, sir?' Grumpy Bob asked from above. 'Maybe see if anything's stuck down there?'

  McLean took one last look around, then clambered back up the ladder. 'There's no point, Bob. She was naked when she was dumped. And if the killer did drop anything, it's in the Firth of Forth by now. Still...' He looked around the woods, back up to the roadside hidden up the bank and through the bushes. And then he saw the bridge.

  'What is it, sir?' Bob asked, but McLean was already off, pushing his way through the sodden undergrowth, slipping on the muddy ground as he scrabbled up the steep slope towards the road. Stupid. The culvert took the water from the reservoir on the other side. There had to be a bridge. Why the hell hadn't he thought of it before?

  By the time Grumpy Bob had caught up with him, McLean was under the road, perching on a thin strip of concrete beside the rushing water. He fished around in his pocket for a torch, playing the narrow beam first over the far bank, then around his feet, and finally into the flow itself.

  'Jesus, I'm soaked through. What the hell are you up to sir?' Grumpy Bob wheezed into the narrow space, running a hand through his thinning hair as if that would make it any drier. McLean ignored him, trying to see the shapes distorted by the roiling flow. There was definitely something down there.

  'Grab my hand, Bob.' He poked the end of the torch into his mouth and reached out for the old sergeant. Then he took it out again and added: 'and hold onto something secure with your other one?'

  The water was icy cold, tugging at his trouser bottoms and filling his shoes. McLean ignored it, leaning as far forward as he dared before plunging his arm in. His fingers numbed almost instantly, but he could feel the rough outline of the concrete sloping away from him. Then the iron loop, rusted chain links caked in green weed, and finally, the flash of white his torch had illuminated.

  'You got that pocket knife of yours Bob?'

  'Aye.'

  'Well pass it over then.'

  'Ah. That would mean letting go of the bridge, sir.'

  'Trust me, Bob. It's not going anywhere.'

  Grumpy Bob grumbled something McLean couldn't quite make out over the echoing roar of the culvert. There was a heart-stopping moment when he thought he was going to pitch head-first into the flow, and then the knife was passed over.

  'Grab my coat. I'm going to need both hands.'

  'You know we could have a diver out here in half an hour, sir,' Bob said, but McLean felt the reassuring pressure around his chest. He leant forward again, this time putting both hands into the water. It took a moment to find what he was looking for, longer still to get the knife to cut through. The water was flowing so strongly he nearly dropped his prize, grabbing at it with sausage fingers and hauling it out like a tickled trout. Taken by surprise, Grumpy Bob fell over and in the confined space they both ended up on their backsides.

  'Ah, bastard. I've got a damp arse now. What the hell was that all about?'

  McLean sat on the wet concrete, his back against the arch of the bridge and said nothing. Just looked at the pale white plastic strap lying in his hand. Fresh and clean, not covered in green algae like everything else. A heavy duty cable tie not unlike the ones that were replacing handcuffs these days. He handed it to the old sergeant to shut up his grumbling.

  'I'll lay good odds there's another one like that on the other side,' he said after a while, and pulled an evidence bag out of his damp pocket. Grumpy Bob dropped the cable tie in and took the bag, sealing it up as he stood stiffly.

  'You'll no' mind if I phone that diver now.'

  ~~~~

  11

  McLean left Grumpy Bob to oversee the rest of the search and hitched a lift back into town in a squad car. Even with the heating up full and blowing into the foot well, his feet were still sodden by the time he made it to the station. He squelched uncomfortably up to his cold office, wondering whether he could spare the time to go home and change. The stack of reports piled up on his desk answered that question.

  He banged on the radiator a couple of times in the vain hope that abuse might make it do the job it was supposed to. Come summer no doubt it would be blasting out heat, but now it remained in a cold sulk.

  'Sod you then.' He squeezed around his desk and sunk into the creaky chair, checking the stack of reports in case they were ones he had already dealt with. Well, it was worth a try. The top one was a summary of last night's fire, prepared by Constable MacBride. A green post-it note stuck to it read: 'No joy with Mis-Per. Dr C phoned. PM at 4.30.' It had originally been '4.30 pm' but for some reason the constable had crossed the pm out. Probably reasoning that it was unnecessary. McLean looked at his watch; a quarter to ten and there was bugger all he could do about the dead girl. They didn't know who she was, where she'd come from, when she'd gone missing. Nothing. Just a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach matching the chill in his feet.

  He picked up his phone and dialled the CID room. After eight rings he accepted that no-one was going to answer, grabbed the fire report off his desk and went in search of a detective the old-fashioned way.

  *

  Detective Constable Peter Robertson, newly arrived from Fife Constabulary, was not given much to idle chatter. This suited McLean just fine as they drove south out of town towards the Loanhead offices of Randolph Developments, owners of the site of the previous night's fire. More of a problem was his lack of familiarity with the suburbs and dormitory villages surrounding the capital; he had to be redirected several times before they made it out to Burdiehouse and then on under the bypass.

  'You're in bandit country now, constable,' McLean said as he pointed to the turning they needed to take.

  'Sir?'

  'You never heard of the Border Reivers? Cattle thieves and thugs to a man. They'd cut your throat if you so much as looked at them in a funny way.'

  Robertson looked at him with an expression that was hard to read, but which might have been worry. They were spared a more awkward moment by their arrival at the compound where Randolph Developments had their offices. A high wire fence surrounded a desolate wasteland, with a huge old stone building set towards the back of it. The McMerry Ironworks hadn't produced a single ingot in almost half a century; now it was surrounded by portacabins waiting to be taken to other building sites in the city, heavy machinery and stacks of pallet-loaded concrete blocks. All around it, the old industrial land was slowly being reclaimed for modern offices, small factory units and housing.

  Set closer to the edge of the compound and the gate they had just entered, the headquarters of the company was an architectural melange of glass and steel, surrounded on three sides by ornamental ponds and exotic shrubs. Edinburgh's economic miracle might have
stumbled a bit of late, but it had obviously paid handsomely for some.

  An attractive young receptionist took their names, then went off to fetch them coffee whilst they waited in a spacious atrium. After what seemed like only seconds, the far door banged open and a vast man bounced out. He wore red braces over his blue-striped shirt, but the thing that was most noticeable about him was the way his body tapered from the enormous girth of his stomach up to the flat top of his head in an almost straight line. He put McLean in mind of a toy from his childhood: Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.

  'Inspector McLean? Hi, I'm William Randolph.' He held out a surprisingly small hand to be shaken. 'Come through to my office, won't you.'

  He led them through an open plan area where draughtsmen worked at large flat panel monitors, no doubt drawing the future shape of the city. At the back, a glass wall partitioned off a smaller area dominated by a large desk. Randolph offered them seats on one side before making his way around to the executive chair on the other and dropping himself into it. Leather squealed and springs protested, and for a moment McLean thought the fat man was going to crash to the floor in a tangle of broken office furniture.

  'I take it you've come to see me about last night's fire.' Randolph didn't wait to be asked questions. 'Terrible business. I'm just glad no-one was hurt. And those poor people turfed out of their homes so late at night. I've put my PA onto sorting out some kind of recompense for them. Christmas presents for the kiddies, something a bit warmer for the grown-ups. You know the kind of thing.'

  'That's very decent of you, Mr Randolph.'

  'Decent, nothing. It's self-preservation inspector. There were enough complaints about that development without all this to compound things.'