'You know anything about cats, Bob?' McLean asked.
'Don't even ask, sir.'
'Then it looks like this one's coming home with me.'
*
They were just about to leave when McLean heard the patter of running feet. Before he could turn to look, the rear door had been wrenched open and someone jumped in.
'Hope you don't mind.' Emma Baird was a little breathless, but no longer wore her SOC overalls.
'Umm, what are you doing, Emma?' McLean asked.
'What are you doing?'
'I'm going home. Well, to my Gran's place, but I guess it's home now. Then I'm going to head into town and buy myself some fresh clothes.'
'Exactly.' Emma grinned. 'And if that suit's anything to go by, you're going to need all the help you can get.'
~~~~
22
'Just wait outside the office, Tony. This shouldn't take long.'
The words rang in McLean's ears as he sat in his moulded plastic chair. He felt like a naughty schoolboy sent to see the headmistress, but if that was the case, he didn't know what Sergeant Dunstone beside him had done. The union rep couldn't stop fidgeting, constantly playing with his hands, looking up at the clock, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closing it again with a loud pop. Behind Superintendent McIntyre's door, closed for once, the unmistakable sounds of argument could be heard, voices rising and falling like waves. The words were unintelligible; the emotions behind them all too clear.
Sergeant Dunstone snapped to his feet so suddenly it took McLean a moment to realise that the office door had opened. Before he could even begin to stand up, Chief Inspector Callard marched out of the room and was gone. By the thunderous look on his face, things hadn't gone entirely his way.
'It's all right, John,' McIntyre addressed Sergeant Dunstone before he could ask. 'There's not going to be any disciplinary procedure.'
McLean watched the relief spread across the sergeant's face. No disciplinary procedures meant no tiresome paperwork. No shuffling the work rotas. No breaking in a brand new, wet behind the ears detective inspector. For himself he was surprised to find a level of disappointment mixed in with his relief, but it was short-lived. Perhaps he could get back to work now. Perhaps he could get back to finding who had killed Audrey Carpenter.
'I need a quick word.' McIntyre gestured towards her now-open office door and retreated inside. He looked at Sergeant Dunstone, giving him a nod of thanks. 'I'll see you in the canteen,' then followed the superintendent into her den.
'It'd be a good idea if you didn't do anything to piss off Professional Standards in the next, I don't know, lifetime?' McIntyre sat herself at her desk, not motioning for McLean to take the other seat. He stood instead, hoping this meant whatever she had to say would be short.
'I don't know how you talked them around, Ma'am, but...'
'I went out on a limb for you Tony. That's how. Chief Inspector Callard wanted you demoted back to sergeant and taken out of CID. Quite frankly I'm short enough staffed as it is, without losing a seasoned detective to traffic.'
McLean fought back the urge to say anything about Callard's rather extreme sanction, but something of what he felt must have shown on his face.
'Rab Callard's been a friend of Charles Duguid since they were both at Tulliallan, Tony. That would probably explain some of the more daft allegations he made against you.'
'You can't believe I actually knew about the drugs operation. I...'
'Of course not. But you did call Duguid an idiot to his face. And you did accuse a very powerful Glasgow gangster of murdering his own daughter.' McIntyre smiled a weary smile. 'Callard has the ear of important people, including the Deputy Chief Constable. Best you keep under his radar as much as possible. OK?'
'I understand, Ma'am.' McLean started to leave.
'There's one more thing, Tony.'
He stopped, turned back again. It was never going to be that easy. 'Yes?'
'I had to give them something, you know that. Otherwise Callard would have insisted on a full enquiry. You'd have been on gardening leave at least until Charles' investigation was over, and we both know how long that's likely to be.
'You're going to have to take another week off,' McIntyre continued. 'Technically you're on suspension pending internal enquiries, but we're calling it medical leave just to keep the media at bay.'
It could have been worse. Grumpy Bob had already been making regular visits to the house to keep him up to speed on the investigations. No reason why that shouldn't continue.
'And I had to agree to you undergoing psychiatric counselling.'
'You... What?' McLean rocked on the balls of his feet as if he'd been punched. 'Why?'
'Stress, Tony. Why else?'
'But I'm...'
'This is always a hard time of year for you. Doubly so with Anderson's death in the news. Don't think I haven't noticed your work patterns. Add to that the loss of your home and everything that means to you, it's hardly surprising if you start making small mistakes.'
'But I...'
McIntyre held up her hand. 'I know, I know. But like I said, I had to throw PS a bone. There's no harm in going to a few counselling sessions. Might even do you some good.'
*
Mrs McCutcheon's cat sat on the counter beside the old Aga, licking at its paws and occasionally treating him to an imperious stare. McLean slouched in a wooden chair in front of the vast kitchen table, a mug of tea in one hand and a thick report in the other, staring off into the distance as he tried to take in the details of his late Grandmother's estate. Police work was one thing; he relished ferreting out the tiniest details, piecing the puzzle together, forcing the chaos of everyday life into some kind of order. But this was a different beast altogether. Even months after her death it showed no sign of coming together. Accounts, share certificates, IHT and trust funds. Somewhere in among all the dancing figures there was a bottom line, he was sure. He just needed to summon up the energy to find it.
The doorbell was a welcome distraction. No doubt Grumpy Bob dropping round to bring him up to speed on everything. He drained the last of the tea, almost choking on the sludgy mess of biscuit at the bottom, then padded out across the hallway in his socks to the front door.
A six foot four mass of muscle and tattoo blocked the light. Not Grumpy Bob.
'Mr MacDougal wants to speak to you.'
McLean went to shut the door in the man's face. 'I'm on leave. He'll have to talk to DCI Duguid.'
The door slammed open again and the big man stepped inside. 'Mr MacDougal wants to speak to you. Now.'
McLean looked up into the overlarge face. Eyes set just too far apart to convey any sign of intelligence.
'I'll get my coat.'
'No need.' The big man pushed the door even further open, then stood to one side. Razors MacDougal stood on the gravel driveway, looking up at the house. He treated McLean to an evil grin.
'I guess there's no' much point trying to bribe youse then.'
*
'Well this is all very grand now, isn't it. I like what you've done with the decorations, too.'
MacDougal turned on the spot, looking around the large drawing room at the front of the house where McLean had directed him and his gargantuan minder. All the furniture was hiding under dustsheets and the shutters had been closed for longer than he could remember in an attempt to stop the hideous flock wallpaper fading. It was about as inviting as a disused crypt, which suited him just fine.
'What do you want, Mr MacDougal?' McLean whipped a sheet off an ancient, squashy sofa and indicated for his uninvited guest to sit.
'Ah, that famous Edinburgh hospitality.' MacDougal settled himself down gently. 'As it happens, I have had my tea.'
'The point?'
'You asked me when last I saw my daughter, inspector. You and I both know what that was all about. But you've got me wrong. I loved Violet.'
McLean suppressed the urge to mutter: 'Aye, that's what I heard too.' Inste
ad he leant back against the mantelpiece and crossed his arms.
'I've been doing a bit of digging, you know,' the gangster continued. 'Since your visit. Seems you've lost someone close to you, too. Turned up much the same as my wee girl, I heard. Was that why they put you on this case? Figured you'd have a special insight?'
McLean gritted his teeth, pushing down the anger that flushed hot in his cheeks. He looked up at the minder with his piggy little eyes and tree-trunk biceps. No point even thinking about getting physical.
'You should know that I can't discuss an ongoing investigation, even with a relative of the victim.'
'Oh come on, inspector. Get real. I can find out anything I want to about your investigation wi' a single phone call. But that's my wee girl lying there in the mortuary. Some bastard locked her away and raped her, then cut her throat and tossed her in a burn. You'll ken I'm no happy about that.'
So that was why he was here; a none too subtle way of letting McLean know just how well-connected he was.
'What do you want from me, Mr MacDougal? Or are you just here to finish the interview I started a week ago. Because if that's the case you'll need to speak to Detective Sergeant Laird down at the station. I can give him a call if you want.' McLean pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, but before he could do anything, MacDougal was on his feet, reaching out a hand to stop him. Grasping his arm with a grip that was more desperate than violent.
'I want you to catch him, inspector. I want you to find him and put him away.' MacDougal's voice was quiet, but edged with steel. 'I'll take care of it after that.'
~~~~
23
Sunday afternoon should have been peaceful. He'd found some coal down in the basement, and after a couple of false attempts had managed to conjure up a fire in the library. Now it was just him, a book and Mrs McCutcheon's cat, which seemed to have taken a liking to its new home. What had become of the other half dozen or more the old lady had kept, he had no idea. It was enough to be looking after this one.
There were still moments when McLean felt the world spinning out of control beneath him. The house was too big, for one thing, and every corner held memories of his Grandmother. Going through the empty rooms was a reminder of all that had passed, all the people who had left him. All the people he'd failed. That was why he'd been avoiding the place all those months since she'd died, why he'd ignored it for the eighteen months she'd been in a coma. Always putting off doing anything about it. And now his hand was forced.
The phone ringing brought McLean back out of his self-indulgent musing. He put the book down, stepped around the cat and managed to reach the elegant writing desk before the answering machine switched on.
'McLean,' he said to the silence on the other end.
'Ah, sir. I was hoping you'd be in.' Grumpy Bob sounded like he meant the exact opposite.
'I'm supposed to be on leave, Bob. What's up?'
'I think we've got another one '
'Another what?'
'Another Christmas Killer victim. They've found a body out in the Pentlands. Near the Flotterstone.'
'It can't be the Christmas Killer, Bob. He only kills once a year. And anyway, he's dead.' Mclean stuck the heel of his hand into his eye socket and rubbed hard. This wasn't what he wanted to deal with on his first day back at the office. And that wasn't supposed to be for another sixteen hours. He looked out the window. Dusk would be falling soon, and fast this close to Christmas. Someone wasn't going to have much of a festive time of it.
'Who's out there now?'
'The lad's on site, liaising with Penicuik.'
'No-one more senior?'
'Dagwood's away at some conference, DI Randall's got the flu again. Everyone else is suddenly busy. I was at home, but when I heard the details I thought I'd better let you know. I'm just about to head out myself.'
'OK, Bob. I'll see you there.' McLean scribbled down where he was supposed to be going and hung up. The hall was cold after the warmth of the library fire, but something else entirely made him shiver as he pulled on his coat and checked the pocket for his notebook and keys. Only then did he realise that he couldn't exactly nip down to the station and grab a pool car. And a taxi would take forever to arrive this late on a Sunday afternoon. There was only one thing for it; he'd have to take his Grandmother's car.
*
In the summer, the Flotterstone Inn was busy with tourists, some of whom had even intended visiting it, rather than just ending up there after getting lost in the maze of tiny B-roads that criss-crossed the high Midlothian plain and washed up on the flanks of the Pentland Hills. A hundred yards further up the glen, on the single track road leading to the Glencorse reservoir and some serious mountain biking, a second, larger car park catered for the day trippers and casual hikers from the city. This close to Christmas, and with snow sticking to the upper faces of Scald Law, it was pretty much deserted. Unless you counted the three squad cars, SOC van and ambulance huddled together at the far end for warmth. A young uniformed constable marched up as McLean pulled into the car park, a local he assumed, since he didn't recognise him.
'I'm afraid you can't park here, sir,' the PC said as McLean opened the door and started to get out. 'Police business.'
McLean fished out his warrant card and held it up. 'It's OK, constable. I'm supposed to be here.'
'Sorry, sir.' The constable looked from the warrant card to McLean's face and then to the bright red sports car. 'I didn't think...'
'Fair enough, it's not your average detective inspector's car.'
'Erm... What is it?' The constable asked, then added: 'Sir?'
'This is a nineteen sixty-nine Alfa Romeo GTV, and it really doesn't like salted roads.' But needs must, even if he could hear his Gran tutting her disapproval from her grave.
'She's a beauty, sir. Had her long?'
'She?' McLean raised an eyebrow. He'd not really thought of the car in such terms, but it seemed oddly appropriate. 'My father bought it in sixty-nine, so you could say it's been in the family a while. Now I believe there was something about a body?'
The constable's face darkened. 'Yes, of course, sir. Up the burn a-ways.'
McLean followed him across the car park then along a short path that ran parallel to the road. He could hear the water babbling over rocks some way below the path, and up ahead, through a gap in the spindly winter trees, narrow concrete and steel bridged the water. Just before it, someone had broken a rough path through the undergrowth and marked it off with blue and white Police tape.
'Down there, sir. I'll stay up here.'
'That bad is it?'
'It's... Well... There's not a lot of room.'
McLean nodded his understanding. The young constable couldn't have been long out of training college, so there was every chance that this was his first body. Based in a quiet station like Penicuik, it was unlikely he'd ever encounter many. Lucky sod.
The path was slick with recent rain. McLean had to hold onto branches overhead to stop himself tumbling down and into the cold brown water. His new shoes might have been comfortable, but they had no grip on their soles to speak of. Through the scrub, he saw a small group of people and recognised Detective Constable MacBride amongst them. And there, at their feet, the victim.
She lay on her back, face staring sightless at the darkening sky, hair waving like seaweed in the flow. Arms outstretched in parody of crucifixion. His eyes transfixed by the familiar, horrifying sight, it was a while before McLean noticed the neat slash across her throat that had almost certainly been the cause of her death.
'Not the most pleasant way to spend the afternoon, Tony.' Angus Cadwallader shifted around slightly, affording him a better view. 'But that's the price we pay for our professions.'
'Who found her?' McLean asked.
'A fisherman, headed up for the loch,' MacBride said.
'What? On a Sunday?'
'Aye, well. They've got him up at the car park if you want a word.'
'You've interviewed him?'
MacBride nodded.
'Then you can let him go. Just make sure we can get back in touch. And ask him to come into the station tomorrow to give us a full statement.'
The detective constable hurried away with obvious relief, and McLean stepped carefully into the position on the bank he had been occupying. Cadwallader sported a pair of fishing waders, his assistant thigh length galoshes that were just about adequate for standing in the flow. They both looked chilled to the bone, but nothing like as bad as the dead woman.
'How long have you been here?' McLean asked.
'About half an hour. I don't think the call's long in.' Cadwallader bent down the better to examine his subject, then stood up again. 'Where're those bloody lights. I can hardly see a thing here.'
As if in reply, twin arc lamps banged into life directly overhead and a voice called down: 'That better, doc?'
McLean didn't hear what Cadwallader muttered in reply; his attention was on the young woman. Like long-gone fireworks overhead, the details came to him in flashes. Plastic cable ties fixed her wrists to two rusty metal poles bashed into the riverbed. A third, at her feet, wobbled dangerously in the flow. Water bubbled up between her pale white legs and that neatly-trimmed dark triangle. Washed over her flat stomach and barely noticeable breasts. Gurgled around the raw gaping wound that was her throat. Billowed her hair out around her head like an auburn halo.
'I can't tell you anything here, Tony.' Cadwallader levered himself out of the water and helped his assistant join him on the bank. 'She's been in the water too long to give you an accurate time of death, but it's at least twelve hours ago.'
~~~~
24
He sits towards the front of the courtroom; media attention has waned and the public have lost their appetite for the spectacle. No doubt they'll be back for the verdict and sentence, but for now this farcical drama is played out to judge, jury and few else. Donald Anderson sits in the dock, his face impassive. Two burly constables stand behind him, but it's inconceivable that this slight, mild-mannered man would do anything untoward. Never abduct women, one a year for ten years, rape and torture them in the basement underneath his respectable antiquarian bookshop, then murder them when he has grown tired of them. Never wash down their battered bodies and stake them out in fast-flowing water, under a bridge where they will be easily found.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 10