The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries)

by Oswald, James

  'I'm no' buying anything. My Barry told me not to trust nobody.'

  'Your Barry is very wise, madam.' McLean showed his warrant card, which the old lady peered at with surprisingly keen eyes. 'We're not here to sell anything, but I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?'

  'Of course, of course.' The old lady closed the door on them and unhooked the chain. Through the glass they could see her bend down and scoop up the wee dog, then she opened the door wide. 'Why don't you come in. Don't mind Archie. He tries to bite but he's no' teeth anymore.'

  McLean let DS Ritchie go first, then followed the two women through into the front room with the net curtains. It was spotlessly clean and every available surface was covered in what could only be described as Tartan Tat. There were little figurines of pipers and dancers, Westie dogs and Skye Terriers. The walls were heavy with picture frames holding up quotes from Burns and cheap reproductions of Landseer paintings.

  'Would you maybe like a cup of tea?' The little old lady pointed to the immaculate red sofa, indicating that they should sit. McLean considered the cup he'd just recently drunk at Debbie Wright's flat.

  'That would be lovely, Mrs...?'

  'Stokes. Doris Stokes. Like the famous medium, you know. Please, inspector. Sit you down. I won't be a moment.' And before he could say anything more, she had scuttled out of the room, terrier still under her arm.

  McLean had a poke around, peering at the few photographs on the mantelpiece. There were two of dogs and one of a balding man, his last few strands of hair swept over his pate Bobby Charlton style.

  'Just what are we doing here, sir?' DS Ritchie stood directly behind him so that when he turned to face her he nearly fell over. She stepped back and narrowly missed crashing into the coffee table.

  'Trying not to wreck the place?' McLean smiled at her sudden blush. 'We're here because the curtain twitched. Mrs Stokes knows everything that happens in this street I'll wager. She'll have seen Kate coming and going and I reckon she'll remember exactly when it was.'

  'Couldn't we just ask her, sir?'

  'We could, yes. But we wouldn't get very far. Trust me, I know the type. She needs to feel involved.'

  It was a few minutes before Mrs Stokes came back into the room, bearing a tray with tea things on it. The little terrier trotted in behind her, then went to sniff at DS Ritchie's ankles. Absent-mindedly she put down a hand to be licked and began to pat the dog on its head. McLean took the tray from the old lady, placing it down on the table as she sat herself down in a particularly hideous armchair close by. As she bent herself to the task of pouring tea, he turned back to the mantelpiece.

  'Is this your Barry, Mrs Stokes?'

  'Och, no. That's Norman. God rest his soul. He passed, oh, gone five years ago. Barry's my wee nephew. Norman's brother's boy. He's a good lad is Barry. Keeps an eye on his old auntie.'

  'You're lucky to have someone like that. And I'm sorry, about your husband.'

  'That's kind of you to say, inspector.' Mrs Stokes poured the tea, handing a cup to DS Ritchie. 'There you go, lass. Biscuit?'

  McLean took his own cup and retreated to the sofa beside the sergeant; keeping the coffee table as a barricade between him and the old lady. A plate on the tray offered chocolate Hobnobs so he took one, sneaking a guilty bite. It was soggy, stale and on close inspection the chocolate bore a white, crazed coating that he hoped wasn't mould. He balanced the rest precariously on the edge of his saucer, chewing the mouthful he'd already taken and swallowing it with great difficulty.

  'Well now, inspector. I can't say it's not nice to see a policeman round here from time to time, but I don't suppose you just stopped in for tea. I've no' done anything wrong, have I?'

  'Of course not, Mrs Stokes. It's about next door.' McLean nodded towards Number Thirty-One.

  'Oh aye. Donnie McKenzie's place? Such a shame when he died. Used to keep his garden lovely. But that was months ago. Has something happened?'

  'Have you seen his daughter lately?'

  'Wee Katherine? Aye, she was in and out for a while about a week ago. There's a poor wee lassie, growing up without her mum. I know Donnie tried his best with her, but she was always a handful. Sich a temper when she was a bairn.'

  'Was she staying at the house? You know, overnight?'

  'A couple of nights, aye.' Mrs Stokes put her own cup and saucer back down on the tray, got up and went to the other side of the room. For a moment McLean thought she was going to bring back a diary with all Kate McKenzie's movements listed in it, but instead she unfolded a copy of the Radio Times onto her lap, then pulled a pair of spectacles up from where they had been tucked neatly down her cardigan front on a chain around her neck.

  'Let me see now.' She leafed through the pages. 'I was watching that program about the Polar Bears the first night she came in. Aye, that was Tuesday. She was there on Wednesday afternoon. I heard the vacuum cleaner going. Yes, that's right. She went out about seven o'clock that evening and that's the last time I saw her.'

  Mrs Stokes thumbed quickly through the rest of the pages, as if Kate McKenzie might suddenly appear from the middle of them, then dropped the magazine into her lap all of a sudden.

  'Oh me. She's gone missing hasn't she.'

  'I'm afraid it's worse than that, Mrs Stokes. Kate...Katherine is dead.'

  The little terrier ceased its snuffling around DS Ritchie's feet almost as soon as McLean had said the words. Silently it returned to its owner and leapt with surprising grace into her lap. She started to stroke its head with long, rhythmic motions of her hand, saying nothing for what felt like hours but was probably only a minute.

  'Was it... Was it an accident?' She asked eventually. 'I know these roads can be dreadful these days.'

  'I'm afraid she was murdered, Mrs Stokes.'

  'Murdered. Crivens. Who could do such a thing?'

  'That's what we're trying to find out.'

  'Here, it didn't happen around here did it?'

  'No, I don't think so,' he said. 'We found her... outside the city. What I'm trying to do now is put together her last movements. See what she was doing, where she was going.'

  'Oh, I see.' Mrs Stokes put the terrier back down on the floor and once more levered herself out of her chair. She headed back to the corner of the room where the Radio Times had come from. 'You know she has her own flat on the other side of town. Shares it with a nice young girl. So much safer sharing like that. Not like these student places where there's boys and girls all cooped up together. I've got the number here somewhere.'

  McLean put his cup down on the tray, got up and walked over to where the old lady was rifling through an address book.

  'It's all right, Mrs Stokes. We've already spoken to Debbie. She was the one who told us Kate was missing.'

  'Oh, right.' Unable to be any more help, she looked rather lost, her eyes slowly sweeping over the room as if it represented the sum total of her existence. Their visit that afternoon had quite possibly been the most exciting thing to happen to her in years.

  'Well, I think we've taken up quite enough of your time, Mrs Stokes.' McLean took out a business card from his pocket and handed it over. 'Thank you so much for the tea. And biscuits. If you think of anything else, please, give me a call.'

  'Och, that's nothing, really. It's nice to have a wee bit of company from time to time.'

  'Will you be all right?' McLean stepped out of the living room into the hallway, almost tripping over the dog as it decided to play a game with his feet. 'I know this must be quite a shock. I can have a constable pop round for a while if you'd like.'

  He could see in her eyes that it was a tempting offer, but eventually she declined. 'No, no. Barry'll be round for his tea in an hour or so. I'll maybe just take Archie here for his walkies before that.'

  'Well, thank you again, Mrs Stokes. You've really been very helpful.' McLean had made it outside now, DS Ritchie ahead of him. The street lights were on in the road, blackening the falling dusk and giving everything an oddly heav
y feel. The old lady watched them from the open front door as they walked down the short driveway, then started up the garden path of Number Thirty-One. Only then did she tell them.

  'If you're wanting inside. I've got a key.'

  ~~~~

  30

  Number Thirty-One Lifford Road was a marked contrast to its neighbour. The house was tidy enough, but it hadn't been decorated in many a year. The furniture was old, worn out like the greying carpets. Mould had begun to form in the bay window of the front room and the Formica on the kitchen units had been peeling off for quite some time. It smelled like a house that hadn't been lived in for months.

  'We looking for anything in particular?' DS Ritchie asked, picking up a folded copy of the Scotsman from the kitchen table.

  'I don't know. What's the date on that paper?'

  'Last Wednesday.' She stooped down, bringing up a bin from beside the sink unit. 'There's another in here. Tuesday. Takeaway burger box. Couple of coke cans.'

  'She was here when the old biddy said, then.' McLean jangled the key ring that he'd finally managed to get from Mrs Stokes without having her come over and get in the way. It was unlikely that they'd find anything here that would point to whoever had abducted Kate; he was fairly sure she'd not been taken from the house. But he didn't want a well-meaning member of the public who'd watched too many episodes of Miss Marple mucking up what might turn out to be a crime scene.

  'Sir, through here.' DS Ritchie called from the utility room beyond the kitchen. A laundry basket sat in front of the washing machine, which was filled with clean washing. The cycle had finished but the machine was still switched on.

  'Might as well check it,' McLean said. Ritchie bent down and opened the door, pulling out a small collection of clothes. They smelled slightly fusty, left too long damp in the machine.

  Upstairs revealed three bedrooms and a bathroom. The smallest bedroom was decorated in shades of baby pink, like a nursery, though the bed was plenty big enough for an adult. It was the only one that looked like it had been slept in. A small wash bag lay on the dressing table, its contents strewn haphazardly in front of the mirror. Lipstick, foundation, deodorant, hairbrush, a bottle of Chanel Number Five perfume. Beside them, a small silver photo frame held a picture of Kate and Debbie, hugging each other, cheek to cheek and grinning like idiots. At the end of the bed, a small grey suitcase with wheels and an extendable handle lay open, clothes spread about in an untidy mess. McLean looked on as Ritchie picked up items of underwear he had no names for. He left the bedroom, worried she might find something even more intimate. That wasn't something he'd be comfortable sharing.

  The bathroom yielded more secrets. A toothbrush and toothpaste, the latter a new tube, its capped end hardly dry at all. Well, it was likely less than a week since it had last been used. In the bath, a Bic Ladyshave and tube of shaving gel propped up against the taps. It all started to fall together in his mind. He stepped back out onto the landing where DS Ritchie was waiting.

  'Are we done here then?'

  'I reckon.' McLean clumped down the steps, stopping only briefly in the hall before going back outside into the falling darkness. The house was as dead as its owners.

  McLean let DS Ritchie lock up. He wandered over the road to his car, staring out across the park towards Liberton Brae. Not far beyond was Mortonhall Crematorium and the garden of remembrance where he'd laid his Grandmother's ashes to rest alongside those of his parents.

  'Back to the station then sir?'

  McLean turned to see DS Ritchie standing by the still-locked passenger door.

  'No, not yet,' he said. 'Now we're going to go to the pub.'

  *

  Early on in the evening, the Balm Well was almost empty; just a couple of old men nursing their half pints and grudges in the corner; a fat man tucking into a burger and chips at a table by the window. Across from the bar, a huge flat screen TV was mercifully blank, the only noise in the bar the occasional electronic chirrup as the one-armed bandit had another epileptic fit.

  McLean approached the barman, who was polishing glasses with a towel, holding them up to the light to check for smears. He stopped as soon as he saw the two police officers.

  'Evening sir, madam. What can I get you?'

  McLean looked at the hand pumps, considering a pint of Deuchars. Then he remembered that he'd driven here. Still, the clock said six, and that was surely late enough.

  'You fancy a drink?' He asked DS Ritchie. Startled, she took a moment to answer.

  'Am I no' still on duty?'

  'Nope. Technically your shift ended at five.'

  'In that case I'll have a white wine spritzer.'

  McLean did the ordering, agonising over the pint before settling for a fresh orange instead. They took their drinks, and a couple of bags of crisps, over to a quiet table away in the corner.

  'Well, here's to my first day with Lothian and Borders.' Ritchie lifted her glass in a mock toast. McLean did the same.

  'It's not over yet,' he said as she took a sip.

  'No?' She eyed her drink nervously.

  'What did you reckon to the house?' McLean nodded towards the window looking out onto the park over which they had just walked.

  'Well. She's obviously been there. Makes sense if she had keys. She'd not packed much, hence the washing. My guess is that she was probably planning to spend a few days there before going back. If it was me I'd probably have kipped on a friend's floor.'

  'Broken up often have you?'

  'I... No...' Ritchie's face flushed again, her freckles darkening across her cheeks. McLean just grinned at her.

  'Sorry, that was uncalled for. Wouldn't want to be accused of sexual harassment.'

  'What about you, sir?' Ritchie asked, then hurriedly added: 'What did you make of the house?'

  'Like you said, she was there. It was her bolt hole after their argument. I don't know if she would have gone back and patched things up or whether it was the last straw in a troubled relationship. What I do know is that she got herself dolled up on Wednesday night and went out to some party she never made it home from.'

  'How do reckon that?'

  'She'd shaved her legs, made herself up and was wearing some fairly risqué underwear. That doesn't sound like a girl popping down the shops for a microwave burger and a bottle of coke. And wherever she went must have been close by, too. She'd only left Debbie on Monday and her mobile's not been used since Tuesday evening. The phone in the house was disconnected, I checked. So she didn't arrange to meet a friend, and she didn't call a taxi.'

  'And that's why we're in the pub?'

  'Exactly. It's the only place within easy walking distance. And Wednesday night was cold and wet, if I remember right.'

  'Shame. I thought you were being nice to me because it's my first day on the job.'

  McLean ignored the jibe, finished his fresh orange and took the glass back to the bar.

  'Can I get you another, sir?' The barman asked.

  'Actually, I was wondering if you might be able to help me.' McLean took out his warrant card and the photograph of Kate McKenzie. 'We're trying to track down this young woman's movements last week. Was she maybe in here on Wednesday night?'

  'I don't know, let me see.' The barman picked up the photograph and looked at it closely. 'It gets pretty hectic in here on a Wednesday, what with the Women's Rugby Club coming in and all.'

  'She'd have been dressed up for the night. You know what young women are like these days.'

  'Hang on a mo. I'll ask Sian.' The Barman stuck his head through an open doorway at the back of the bar and yelled. After a few moments a dark-haired woman came through.

  'What is it, Mike?'

  The Barman showed her the picture. 'She in here Wednesday last?'

  Sian studied the picture for a while. 'Yeah, I think so. She had a yellow top on. Spent the night talking to those rugby lasses.'

  'Any idea what time she left?' McLean asked.

  'Late, that's for sure. Maybe after
midnight.'

  'Was she alone? With someone?'

  'I couldn't rightly say. Wednesdays are always busy with the rugby crowd. So many faces, it's difficult to know who's who.'

  McLean thanked them both, taking back the photograph. DS Ritchie had finished her wine spritzer and brought the glass back to the bar. He told her what he had found as they were walking out.

  'What about CCTV footage?' She asked. 'Any chance we might pick her up on that?'

  'There's no cameras in here, I checked.'

  Ritchie smiled a triumphant little grin. 'Aye, but they've one in the car park looks out onto the road. And we're right next door to Howdenhall nick.'

  ~~~~

  31

  An anxious Grumpy Bob was waiting for them when McLean and DS Ritchie returned to the station some while later, laden with long play video tapes.

  'Where've you been, sir? We've been trying to get in touch for hours.'

  'What's the matter, Bob?'

  'It's the press. They've been hassling us all bloody afternoon. Dan in the liaison office is spitting chunks. Says he had to go on the half six news bulletin without any briefing.'

  McLean dug out his phone, remembering that he'd switched it off before going to see Debbie Wright. He'd completely forgotten to switch it back on again.

  'Bugger. What did Dan do, the usual waiting to talk to next of kin bit?'

  'Not even that much. We didn't know whether you'd confirmed her identity or not.'

  'Shite, so all he could do was say we'd found a body. Oh great. I guess I'd better go see him, try and calm him down.'

  'It's not him you need to worry about, sir. It's the chief superintendent.'

  McLean stopped walking. 'How did she get involved?'

  'She was mobbed, sir. You should have seen it here earlier. There were camera crews blocking the street outside the front door.'