More stairs, and now he was standing outside his own front door. Only there was nothing left of the wood he remembered sanding down and painting with such pride. Just an empty hole opening up onto a suicidal leap. Ceiling height was now open air, and up here the wind whistled around, bringing in the faintest sounds of life outside. He ignored them, just standing on his threshold, unable to enter, imagining the familiar sights.
There were the polished floorboards, slightly warped and creaky. There the coat rack beside the bathroom door, the box room with its curious arrangement for getting natural light. The kitchen was off to the right, at the back of the flat and overlooking the scruffy wee square of garden below. Next to it, his bedroom with all his clothes and shoes; the cufflinks that had been his father's; his mother's wedding portrait in a silver frame on the dresser. To the front of the flat, three rooms. The spare bedroom, where Grumpy Bob had crashed in the dark days after his divorce, and before that, his best friend and one-time flatmate Phil. Next, his study, full of useless correspondence and rubbish in filing cabinets, a computer he hardly ever used, shelves of books he'd never read again.
And then finally the living room, with its ornate plaster cornice, its open fireplace and deep bay window. The press cupboard with the door taken off where his extensive collection of records was filed alphabetically. The comfy leather armchair he'd picked up for a song in that old furniture salvage yard. His fantastically expensive Linn sound system.
The memories came alive, the happy times he'd spent in this place. His home. He could hear Phil singing out of tune in the bath; see the kitchen full of students drinking red wine and talking pretentiously about Cognitive Behavioural Therapy or whether or not Morrissey had sold out when The Smiths broke up. He watched as Kirsty stepped out of his bedroom, wrapped in a large towel, and padded barefoot across to the living room to put on some music. Something classical he didn't immediately recognise, then she padded back again. At the door, she took off the towel, dropping it to the floor before going naked into the darkness beyond.
And then he could see her lying on the bed. No sheets, no blankets, just a stained old mattress with sharp metal springs poking out from threadbare corners. She was spread-eagled, her arms cuffed to the bedstead above her head in an awkward, uncomfortable position, legs wide apart like some disgusting old pornographer's wet dream. Her breasts flattened and lifeless, skin as pale as the winter moon. Her hair splayed out as if it were a halo of darkness.
A wave of vertigo almost sent him toppling into the abyss. McLean clutched at the burnt remains of the doorframe, felt it crumble and give. Instinct threw him backwards; he tumbled over, crashing hard on the stone floor of the landing and rolling perilously close to the edge where the railings had been removed. He scrabbled about until his back was pressed up against the safe, stone wall, hugged his knees to his chest and tried to squeeze the terrible image out of his mind.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear a young boy sobbing. It was a long time before he realised that the boy was him.
~~~~
38
The station was as quiet as a church at prayer when McLean arrived none too early on Christmas morning. He felt slightly sick, though whether that was from too much beer or the shock of seeing his burnt-out flat he couldn't tell. Either way, it wasn't enough to keep him from work.
If he thought he felt bad, then DC MacBride looked ten times worse. McLean found the detective constable slumped at his desk, staring bleary-eyed at the screen of his laptop.
'Morning constable. Happy Christmas.' McLean kept his voice reasonably quiet, but still the young man winced at the noise.
'What's so happy about it, sir?'
McLean considered this for a moment, then said: 'Good point.' He pulled up a chair from the next desk and sat down beside the detective constable.
'I thought you were going home after the pub last night.'
MacBride turned his head slowly, his pale forehead sheened with sweat. 'So did I sir, but Kir... Detective Sergeant Ritchie invited us back to her place. Said she had a bottle of tequila needed finishing. I didn't realise she hadn't actually started it yet.'
McLean didn't know whether to feel aggrieved or grateful at being left out of the impromptu party, but before he had time to mull it over much, the door to the CID room banged open and the object of his indecision walked in carrying a tray of coffees. As ever, she was neatly presented; if she'd been on the slammers herself it didn't show.
'Oh, Sir. You're in already. Happy Christmas.' Ritchie smiled and put the tray down on her desk. There was a greasy paper bag too, and McLean wondered where on earth she'd found a place open to buy breakfast. Or had she made them herself and brought them in? When she opened it up, filling the air with the smell of recently fried bacon, he didn't really much care.
'Please tell me you brought enough of those for everyone,' he said.
'It's all right, sir. You can have mine.' MacBride paled as Ritchie approached bearing bag and coffee.
'Thanks.' McLean took the proffered booty, turning away from MacBride so as to ease the lad's discomfort. 'Is Grumpy Bob in yet?'
'Aye, he's down in the canteen rounding up constables with DC Johnson. Thought we'd better make a start.' Ritchie went back to her desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. 'I've broken the list up into two. Those who would have had regular access to the file store where the keys were held, and those who just work in the office.'
McLean scanned the first list, grateful that it wasn't as long as he'd expected.
'OK,' he said. 'We'll split up into teams. One detective and one uniform to each. With a bit of luck, we should be able to get through them all before lunch.'
'What if they're not in?' Ritchie asked.
'Then we'll try again tomorrow.'
'And if they're pissed off at us for spoiling their Christmas?' This time it was MacBride, clutching a cup of steaming coffee and breathing in the fumes.
'Tell them they're not the ones having to work.'
*
By the time they'd reached the second on his short list of five addresses, McLean was beginning to wish he'd come out on his own. He couldn't quite believe that PC Sandra Gregg, or Sandy as she insist he call her, had actually passed her driving test, let alone attended any of the police advanced driving courses that were supposed to be mandatory before you could sign out a pool car. It helped that the roads were relatively quiet, but she kept up a constant stream of chatter as she drove, frequently taking her eye off the road to look at him, and occasionally her hands off the wheel to gesticulate. He'd have called it a conversation, only that would have implied that it was a two-way exchange.
Most of PC Gregg's breathless monologue seemed to be fuelled by outrage at having to work the Christmas day shift, even though she had to admit that the overtime was handy, what with her Kevin not being in work right at the moment, and with all those mouths to feed and the mortgage not getting any cheaper. McLean tried his best to tune it out as he prepared himself for yet another confrontation with festive cheer.
It was odd, really. This was what, the tenth, eleventh Christmas in a row that he'd worked the day? And Boxing Day afterwards to boot. He was used to spending the time on his own, or with one or two work colleagues ploughing through the paperwork that had built up over the previous months. Sometimes there was an investigation ongoing that needed urgent input, like today. But usually that was visiting a fresh crime scene. Today he had five homes to visit; five families celebrating whatever it was Christmas was meant to be about these days. And to each one he was bringing a little bit of bleakness, even if they had nothing to do with Donald Anderson, Audrey Carpenter or Kate McKenzie. It was enough to have a policeman turn up on your doorstep to cast a shadow over the rest of the day. Especially today. He felt a bit like the anti-Santa.
The family man they'd just interviewed, Matthew Power, was definitely not what he was looking for; far too wrapped up in his young children and beautiful wife. Maybe the next one on the list
, Mike Ayre, would be a better match. If their killer was working for Carstairs Weddell at all.
The door to Number Fifteen Maiden Avenue was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman with greying hair and a florid complexion. She wore a green-striped apron around her middle and clutched a wooden spoon like it was an offensive weapon. When she saw Constable Gregg's uniform, her shoulders sagged.
'What's he done now?' Her voice was a mixture of resignation and anger.
'Umm, Mrs Ayre?' McLean tried not to let his surprise show. This wasn't how he had expected the interview to start.
'Aye?'
'I was hoping I might have a quick word with Michael Ayre.'
Mrs Ayre's expression changed to one of bemusement. 'Mike? No' Peter?'
'Mike Ayre. Works for Carstairs Weddell, the solicitors?'
'So Peter's no' done anything?'
'Not that I'm aware of, Mrs Ayre. Is Mike in?'
'Aye, come on in then. I'll gie him a shout.' She stood aside, letting them into a narrow hallway carpeted in a hallucinogenic pattern of purple swirls and wallpapered with a migraine-inducing splash motif that must have been an escapee from the early nineteen-eighties.
'Sit yersel's doon in there.' She pointed to what turned out to be the living room door. 'You'll no' be long will you? Only I've Christmas dinner tae cook.'
McLean was about to assure Mrs Ayre that they wouldn't be long at all, but she turned away from them, peered up the stairs and bellowed, 'Michael. Michael. It's the polis want tae speak to you.' Only then did she turn back and ask, 'Would youse two like a cup of tea?'
A few moments later, a young man in scruffy jeans and a torn T-shirt bearing the logo of a band McLean had never heard of appeared down the stairs. He was barefoot and his hair looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a gorse bush. Sleep crinkled the corners of his eyes as he looked at the two police officers.
'Oh, aye? What's Pete done now?'
'Pete would be your brother, I take it.' McLean motioned for the young man to lead them into the living room, following behind. A cream leather three-piece suite dominated the small room, angled towards a large flat-screen television. Mike dropped himself into an armchair, ran his hands through his hair and said, 'Aye. He's a lazy wee shite too.'
'Often in trouble, is he?' Constable Gregg asked, much to McLean's annoyance. He didn't need an untrained interviewer butting in.
'You tell me, officer. Last time youse lot picked him up for shoplifting, but the crowd he's been hanging out with I'd no' be surprised if it weren't something worse.'
'Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to.' McLean made a mental note to check out Peter Ayre when he got back to the station. 'About Carstairs Weddell.'
Mike Ayre sat upright in his chair, his back straight, his bare feet pressed down into the thick, orange carpet. 'Oh, aye?'
'You work in the filing room, is that right?' McLean asked.
'Mostly, aye. I do the mail run and stuff too.'
'They ever ask you to check out the old bookshop down on the Canongate?'
'The Anderson place? No. I don't much fancy it either. Creepy, eh?'
'But you knew where the keys were.'
'In the file, sure. I had to fetch it for Mr Weddell just yesterday morning. Why?'
'It's not important,' McLean said, though he wasn't so sure Ayre was telling the truth about Anderson's bookshop. 'How long have you been working for Carstairs Weddell?'
'About six months now, I guess. Finished school in the summer and they took me on. Money's no' exactly brilliant, but it's a job, eh?'
'And in all those months, you never went with someone else in the office to collect mail from Anderson's shop? They never sent you to do that?'
'No.' Ayre clasped his hands together, intertwining nervous fingers.
'Then how do you know the place is creepy?'
'Look, what's this all about? I've no' done anything wrong.'
'I never said you had, Mr Ayre.' McLean fixed the young man with an uncomfortable stare; he in turn looked away, looked at his feet, across to the television, then fixed on the carpet as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
'You have been there, haven't you Mike.' McLean kept his voice level, quiet. 'What was it, a dare?'
'You'll no tell Mr Weddell, will you?' Ayre looked up at McLean with a desperate pleading in his eyes. He was suddenly very young, not a man at all, just a boy not long out of school. He might have something to hide, but it wasn't the murder of Kate McKenzie.
'If it's nothing illegal, I don't see why I should.'
'It was, I dunno. Like you said, a dare. I knew about the keys; everyone did. Mr Barnes usually checks on the place. But there's this girl, see. Shanna. She's into weird stuff. Goth stuff you know. I told her about Anderson and she thought it was, like, way cool.'
Having overcome his initial reticence, Mike Ayre proceeded to tell McLean all of his short life history, from first getting a job at Carstairs Weddell all those long months ago, to his awkward infatuation with one of the admin staff in the property department. He told about drunken bravado and stealing the keys one Friday afternoon. Going round that evening together, both of them freaking out before they'd managed to, like, do anything, y'know.
McLean only half listened, waiting for an opportune moment to bring the interview to a close. One more name crossed off the list of suspects. He looked around the hideously decorated living room, taking in the cheap glass-fronted cabinets stuffed with DVDs and CDs; the coffee table strewn with gossip magazines; the overly ornate plaster fireplace with its naff faux-Victorian flame-effect electric fire; the mantelpiece with two large portrait photos, one of Mike, the other of a young man who must be Peter.
Dimly aware that Mike was still talking, McLean stood up and went to the mantelpiece, taking up the picture, staring at it. The face was unmistakable, for all that it was younger than the last time he had seen it, and cleaner.
'This is Peter, right?' McLean said, seeing that Mike had stopped talking.
'Aye, that's him.'
'You seen him lately?'
'Couple weeks ago.' Mike Ayre's shrug showed how little he thought of his older brother. But a couple of weeks was soon enough.
'You know where he is?'
'Somewhere down in Leith, last I heard. I've given up asking.'
McLean fished in his pocket, pulling out a business card. 'Well, do us a favour will you. Might even help your brother. But if he gets in touch, comes round, anything. Don't tell him we were here. Just give me a call, eh?'
'What about, you know, the keys and stuff?'
'Your secret's safe with me, Mike.' McLean tried a smile. It seemed to work.
'Aye, OK then.' Mike tapped the card against his hand. 'We done?'
McLean nodded. 'Yeah. I'll phone if there's anything else.' He waited for Constable Gregg to haul herself out of the too-soft sofa, resisting the urge to give her a hand. 'We'll see ourselves out. Happy Christmas.'
*
It was only once they were back in the pool car that McLean realised Mrs Ayre had never returned with tea. It didn't really matter. He was satisfied that Mike Ayre wasn't a murderer, but his brother Peter. Well, that was a different matter.
'What was that about, sir?' Constable Gregg asked. 'You didn't even ask him where he was the week Kate McKenzie was abducted. And that stuff about the girl. You believe that? He didn't even tell us when it happened.'
'What? Oh. Yes, constable. I do. And it's not important. But I want you to get onto control. Put a search out for the brother. If he's got form then we should have a more recent photo of him.'
'OK,' Gregg sounded hesitant. 'Why are we looking for him?'
'Because just over a month ago he was living in the flat downstairs from my place in Newington.'
~~~~
39
The other three men on McLean's list were of no interest to him whatsoever. None fitted his basic profile, anyway, and it was enough to smell the roasting turkey or see the ha
ppy faces of children full of excitement to dispel any thoughts that Kate McKenzie's murderer might be among them. He was anxious to get back to the station and start trying to track down Peter Ayre anyway. The drug investigation had been stalled for months. This could be their first solid lead.
They arrived well ahead of any of the other teams. McLean sent PC Gregg to the canteen in search of an approximation of a Christmas lunch, and took himself off to Duguid's incident room, hopeful that there might be some news on the search. He was surprised to find the place almost empty, just a couple of lost-looking constables sitting behind desks and shuffling papers.
'Is the chief inspector not in today?' McLean could have sworn he heard one of the constables titter.
'On Christmas day, sir? You've got to be kidding me. He flew out yesterday evening. Won't be back from skiing til after Hogmanay.'
'You got the info about Peter Ayre, though?'
'Aye, we got that sir. Not sure what we can do about it right now.'
'Why the hell not? You should be tracking this guy down.'
The younger of the two constables looked sheepish, but the older, Cameron or something, McLean couldn't be sure, obviously had more backbone.
'With respect, sir. We're not exactly working at full capacity here. You know what happens to the shift patterns at this time of year.'
It hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. As if a little bubble of excitement had grown in his brain, swelling up until it burst and took out most of his reasoning with it. Somehow McLean managed to find his way to a chair, to sink down onto it before his legs gave way. There was nothing in the constable's words that should have affected him so, but he felt like he was suddenly back there on the landing outside his flat, clasping his knees to his chest, leaning against the cold, stone wall as the night sky trundled by overhead. And he was in the flat itself, years earlier, clutching the sides of the wide open window, staring down at the pavement far below, wondering if the fall was enough to end it all, end the gnawing empty pain that was all he knew. And he was kneeling in the slow-moving, ice cold water, slime-covered rocks hard against his uncaring knees, oblivious to the explosions of light overhead that heralded the dawn of a new millennium, conscious only of the stiff body clasped to his sodden chest.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 17