The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries)

by Oswald, James

  'The psychosis is not that unusual, though of course not often seen in such an extreme example.'

  He focuses on the man in the witness box. Dr Matthew Hilton. A psychiatrist occasionally used by the police to create profiles of murderers. If memory serves, Hilton originally suggested that the Christmas Killer would be in his mid-forties, a frustrated underachiever with below average intelligence either living with an elderly, domineering parent or abused by one who has subsequently died. Somehow that doesn't quite tally with the sixty-plus wealthy bookshop owner standing in the dock.

  'The trigger for the behaviour is often obscure, hidden deep in the subconscious. Perhaps a traumatic event in childhood, long suppressed, is brought out by a chance occurrence in later life. The violence is compartmentalised along with that suppressed memory, and so the patient genuinely feels that those acts are perpetrated by another person.'

  The Patient. Hah. Murdering rapist bastard more like. Or is it all part of Hilton's act? Label the accused as a loony and you're halfway towards persuading the jury that's what he is.

  'Faced with the realisation of what he has done, the true horror of his crimes, he constructs a false reality around him, based on his life and work. Thus we have a fixation with an ancient book, somehow possessing the soul of any man who reads it and forcing them to do unspeakable things. It's quite a wonder how inventive the human mind can be.'

  He slumps back in his hard plastic chair, looking from the smug face of Hilton, to Anderson, to the judge and then the jury. Are they buying into this bullshit? Will they acquit on grounds of diminished responsibility?

  'So in your opinion, Dr Hilton, Donald Anderson cannot be held responsible for his actions. He is, in short, insane.' This from the counsel for the defence. Sneaky little shit of an Advocate. How can he sleep at night, knowing he's defending a monster?

  'He's psychotic and delusional. I'd say classic schizophrenic.' Hilton turns to face the jury, letting a smile play across his features. 'I don't like the word, but it is one which most lay-people understand, so yes, I'd say Donald Anderson is insane.'

  ~~~~

  25

  'You seem very tense, inspector. Could it be that my profession puts you on your guard?'

  McLean sat in Chief Superintendent McIntyre's office, on one of the comfy-looking but surprisingly hard armchairs in the informal side of the room. The chief superintendent herself had gone to a meeting at Force HQ, and her door, normally open to all, was firmly closed. In the other chair, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, Professor Matt Hilton tapped an idle pencil against his hand.

  'I don't know if you're aware,' McLean said. 'But we found a body out in the Pentland Hills last night. Young woman, throat cut, staked out in a running burn, under a bridge.'

  'Yes, I had heard. And you found another one a fortnight ago.' Hilton had chubbed up a bit since last they had met. His hair was unfashionably long, tied in a greying ponytail that snaked down his back and seemed to be sucking everything from the front, as if it had been pulled too often by the school bullies.

  'And yet you wonder why I seem a little tense?'

  'Ah. You see the actions of a copycat, aping Donald Anderson. I can imagine that brings back all sorts of unhappy memories. How does that make you feel, inspector? Or may I call you Tony?'

  'No, inspector works fine for me.' McLean forced himself to relax, though every instinct in his body screamed for him to get up and leave the room.

  'So it makes you feel isolated. Persecuted.'

  'I think the word you're looking for is frustrated, Hilton. I'm supposed to be investigating a double murder. I don't even know the identity of the second victim yet, and I'm stuck in here with you because my superiors think I might be under intolerable stress. I've been on enforced leave for two weeks. That's two weeks during which time I might have been able to catch this sick bastard. Then it would have just been the one set of distraught parents I needed to explain myself to. That's your stress right there. Not being able to do my job.'

  'And you don't think Sergeant...' Hilton shiffled through his notes for a moment. 'Sergeant Laird is up to the job? I understand you've worked well with him in the past.'

  'Bob's a good detective, but I like to think two pairs of hands is better than one. Besides, he didn't work on the Anderson case. I did.'

  'Neither did he lose his fiancée to the Christmas Killer. But you did.' Hilton's pencil stopped its tapping. 'And now, just a few days after Anderson dies, someone starts killing using his methods. I ask you again, Tony. How does that make you feel?'

  'It makes me bloody angry that people can publish books telling the world in great detail what those methods are. How do you think this new killer knew how Anderson killed and disposed of the bodies? How do you think he knew what Anderson did to his victims before he killed them? That bloody book which you and Jo bloody Dalgliesh cobbled together.'

  'Anger. Good.' Hilton hitched his smile up a little higher, but it still couldn't reach his eyes. 'And then the day after the first victim is found, you start seeing Anderson in crowds. This despite knowing that he's dead. You went to his funeral, I understand.'

  'His burial. There's a difference.'

  'Indeed. Tell me. Why did you go to Anderson's... ah, burial?'

  'Maybe I just wanted to make sure the bastard was dead. I think you psychobabblers call it looking for closure.'

  'Hmmm. And did you find closure? I'd suggest not, given your rather irrational behaviour in a department store the other night.'

  McLean suppressed the urge to scream. Tried to remind himself that these sessions were meant to help. And that if he didn't play along, they'd continue for a very long time.

  'What do you think you'd do?' he asked. 'You've just found out that someone's been murdered using exactly the same MO as a notorious serial killer who's recently died. Then you see someone in the street who looks exactly like that serial killer. Wouldn't you give chase?'

  'In the street? Give chase?' Hilton flipped through his papers again. 'I thought you said you saw him in John Lewis. In the Christmas Decorations department. Seems very apt, really.'

  McLean ground his teeth to stop himself from saying any more. He'd completely forgotten that he'd not mentioned the first Anderson sighting to anyone.

  'Anyway,' Hilton added. 'On top of all this, your tenement then burns down. I'm told the fire started in a neighbouring apartment that was being used as a cannabis farm. That must be a bit embarrassing, mustn't it.'

  'Very.'

  'There's no suggestion that you knew about the operation, of course. In some ways it might have been better if you had.'

  'Is this relevant?' McLean choked back the rest of what he wanted to say.

  'I don't know. Is it? I'm trying to assess your state of mind here, Tony. Are you fit for work?'

  'Well I'm at work. Or at least I would be if I wasn't in here with you.'

  'So about the fire. You lost everything. That must have been very traumatic. Like losing a loved one.'

  'It was a place to sleep, eat and shower. I spend more of my time here, or out in the city catching criminals than I ever did there.'

  'And yet it was full of memories. I'm told you've lived there since you were a student. That's a long time to be in one place. And of course that's where you and Kirsty made your home together.'

  A light tap at the door was the only thing that saved Hilton's life. Or at least his nose. The professor scowled slightly, glancing at his watch before saying: 'Goodness, we've been here over an hour already.' It gave McLean time to compose himself, count to ten, and stand up. Chief Superintendent McIntyre poked her head around the door.

  'I'm so sorry, Matt,' she said. 'But you said an hour, and we've got a briefing scheduled for fifteen minutes time.'

  'Of course, Jayne,' Hilton said, not looking at McLean as he added: 'I think we're making very good progress, too. But there's a way to go. Might need to make these sessions bi-weekly.'

  'And you'll pass Tony fit to wor
k?'

  'For now, yes.' Hilton said, and McLean felt very much like a child being talked about by two adults who really don't care that he can hear them. 'I'll be able to keep an eye on him anyway. Since I'm going to be working with the team on profiling your serial killer.'

  *

  'The careful attention to detail suggests a ritualistic approach to death. Our killer is most likely reliving some facet of his early life that both traumatised him and brought him comfort.'

  McLean sat in the corner of the CID room, letting the meaningless words wash over him as he watched the performance. Matt Hilton looked like he was in his element, standing in front of the wall-sized whiteboard as if he was delivering a lecture to first year psychology undergrads. The word cocksure sprang to mind, along with another beginning with cock. Just cock would do, actually.

  'Our killer works alone, probably in a job that minimises social contact. I'm thinking night watchman, security guard, that sort of thing.'

  He'd not slept well. Hardly at all to be honest. And what sleep he had managed had been filled with dreams of Kirsty, her long black hair billowing out in the stream. That and the early morning psychoanalysis had left him drained. McLean made no effort to stifle the yawn that shuddered through his whole body as the professor droned on. He'd heard that there were profilers out there who could pinpoint their subjects down to their choice of clothes, favourite foods and the kind of pets they kept, but Hilton wasn't one of them. Much of what he had said already was so hedged with qualifications as to be meaningless.

  'Well, I think I've talked quite enough.' Hilton began to wind up. 'Of course it's early days yet, and I'll be working on refining the profile as more information comes in. In the meantime I'll hand you back to the chief superintendent.'

  MacIntyre stood to take his place, and Hilton looked momentarily confused, as if he had been expecting applause and couldn't quite understand why his audience didn't appreciate his genius. Looking around the team they had managed to cobble together it wasn't hard to see why. A dozen uniform constables who made McLean feel like he must surely be due to retire soon; a couple of civilian support officers who would probably be able to make a cup of tea if they really had to; DC MacBride looking pink and freshly scrubbed; Grumpy Bob looking anything but; and sitting nervously in the chair next to the one just vacated by the chief superintendent, newly arrived from Aberdeen, Detective Sergeant Ritchie. Of Detective Chief Inspector Duguid, nominally in charge of the whole operation, there was no sign. McLean couldn't help thinking this was a good thing.

  'Thank you, Matt,' McIntyre said without a trace of irony. 'I'm sure that's helped to sharpen the picture. Now I know this is a small team for a double murder enquiry, but rest assured you'll be getting more help as soon as I can lay my hands on it. So, any questions?'

  'We're definitely treating the deaths as linked, then?' DC MacBride asked. McIntyre nodded to McLean, who reluctantly levered himself out of his chair and went to the front.

  'For now, yes. The MOs are too similar not to. And the victims are both female, early twenties. Similar size, build, hair colour.'

  'What about the similarities to the Christmas Killer?' One of the infant constables asked.

  'We're going to look into that, of course,' McLean said. 'Our killer is certainly copying Anderson's methods quite closely. It doesn't help that there's a bestselling book about him out there. Pretty much any Tom, Dick or Harry knows what Anderson did and how.'

  'I think we can rule out most of Jo's readership, inspector.' Hilton gave a little simpering smile that reminded McLean just who had co- written Anderson's hagiography. 'Stick to the profile I've drawn up we'll narrow it down pretty damn quickly. And the more information comes in, the better the profile.'

  'Thank you, professor, but I'd rather not wait for another dead body to turn up before you can tell us what kind of toothpaste the killer prefers.'

  ~~~~

  26

  Heavy rain battered against the window, making his office feel even colder than it actually was. McLean felt a moment's guilt that Grumpy Bob was out in it, organising the search of the area around the Flotterstone car park. Then he realised who he was thinking about. Grumpy Bob would be tucked up warm inside the van, directing things from behind a mug of hot tea. It was the poor bastard uniforms who deserved his sympathy.

  Sitting in the middle of his desk, a large cardboard file box awaited his attention. The old case files from the Anderson investigation. They called to him with a siren song. And like a siren, he knew that what lay inside was heartache and sorrow, photographs he really didn't need to see ever again. It was a part of his life he would dearly like to leave behind, and yet every time he thought it was past, it reared up its ugly, spiteful head. Sank ice cold talons into his heart.

  He took a deep breath, started to open the box. Only then did he notice the post-it, perched precariously on top of a pile of papers awaiting his immediate attention. Scooping it up, he tried to read the oddly neat but spidery scrawl, not recognising the handwriting.

  Dr Sharp cld PM @ 2 PM. GN 4 Cof – KR

  It took him a while, but eventually McLean worked it out. First morning of her first day in the new job, and already DS Ritchie was taking his calls. He picked up the styrofoam cup on his desk, peeled off the lid and peered at the scummy muck within. It was cold and uninviting, as was the congealed, half-eaten bacon buttie that had come with it. Dropping the buttie in the bin, he went off with the cup in search of a refill.

  *

  Grumpy Bob's expletive-laden entrance interrupted McLean as he was heading back to his office, cradling a cup of something that approximated coffee. Water dripped from his police issue Macintosh as, head down, the old sergeant crossed towards the locker room, oblivious to anyone else in the building.

  'Bastard, bastard rain. I swear the countryside hates me.'

  'Afternoon Bob. Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?'

  Grumpy Bob looked around, startled. 'Oh, sir. I didn't see you there.'

  'That much is obvious. What's the situation up at Flotterstone?'

  'Bloody miserable is what.' Bob dragged off his coat and shook it out on the grey-blue carpet tiles. 'It's been lashing it down since about five this morning, and now there's a mist so thick you could use it to smother an old age pensioner. Did I mention that it was bloody freezing, too? Brass monkeys. Jesus.'

  'And the search?'

  'Not a bloody thing. I've had twenty constables moaning away at me all bloody morning, and all for what? There was never going to be anything. There never was before.'

  'We still had to look, Bob. And we didn't know. This isn't Anderson doing this. He's dead. Has been for over a month.'

  'Well, whatever. There's nothing suspicious within a couple of hundred metres of where we found the body. The usual garbage has been bagged and given to the SOC labs to play with. It's just fag packets and shite like that. No' even a used bloody condom.'

  'You finished then?'

  'Too bloody right. No way we're going to find anything else in this weather. And even if we did it'd be useless. You know it, too, sir. Waste of manpower keeping those constables out there any longer. And bloody cruel, too.'

  'You're right, Bob. Still, thanks for doing it. I know you hate the countryside, but MacBride's not senior enough to run a search and I don't trust Penicuik to find their way about a crime scene.'

  'What about the new lass?'

  'Should be down in the CID room right now. putting some flesh on the bones of MacBride's report. Where is he, by the way?'

  'Last I heard he was wringing out his heid.' Grumpy Bob ran a hand through his sparse, greying hair, coming up with a good spray of water. 'I'm no kidding, sir. It's pishing it doon out there.'

  McLean went to the back door, peering through the misted-up glass at the crowded car park beyond. Sure enough the rain was coming down in stair rods. And over on the other side, his bright red Alfa was scarcely visible in the haze of rebounding water. Ah well. At least it shoul
d keep it clean. And wash away all the salt on the roads.

  'OK, Bob. You go get yourself a cuppa. DS Ritchie and I'll be going to the PM in...' He looked at his watch. 'About an hour. Meantime, get on to mis per and see if they've got anyone matching our description.'

  'We going to set up an incident room now, sir?'

  'You know if anywhere's free? Last I heard Dagwood'd taken all the big rooms.'

  'Shite, I don't want tae be stuck down in that damp wee cupboard by the bogs.'

  'Well, keep using the CID room for now,' McLean said, clutching at straws. 'We've that few detectives it's not like we'll be getting in anyone's way.'

  *

  The rain had eased off considerably an hour later, but it was still persistent. Consequently when McLean and a strangely silent DS Ritchie tried to find a pool car to take down to the mortuary, they had all been signed out.

  'You got a car?' He asked Ritchie. She shook her head.

  'Sorry sir. I walked this morning. It's not far and I didn't expect this rain.'

  Faced with the options of walking and getting wet, or taking his own car and having to explain to traffic why he'd parked it on a yellow line, McLean opted for the latter. Traffic owed him a favour anyway.

  'Come on then.' He pushed open the back door and held it for Ritchie. 'Far side. Red thing.'

  By the time he'd reached the car, unlocked both doors and opened the drivers side, she was standing in the middle of the car park, stock still and staring. The rain spattered off her hair onto the shoulders of her long black coat, but she didn't seem to notice.