The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries)

by Oswald, James

  Voices. No, one voice. A man calling to her. From the car. Ignore him, he'll go away. Fucking kerb crawler. What's he think she is, a whore? She just wants to walk around the block. Maybe make it two blocks. Clear her head and try to calm down.

  'I said d'you want a lift?'

  Don't turn around, don't look... ah, shite.

  'I'm fine, OK.' She can't really see his face in the dark of the car. Is he smiling, or leering? Well, he can try something on if he likes.

  'Fine. Just offering.' He winds up the window. Posh wanker with electric buttons and shite. Posh car. It's even got two exhaust pipes, spluttering steam into the night air as he pulls away. The snow swirls around a bit, then settles back into its rhythm. Christ but it's cold. She should have put a thicker coat on.

  She hates the winter, and not just because Christmas always brings Harry's mum over. The short days and the freezing rain, they don't help. Makes it so you can't get out of the house and that great blob of a beached whale staring at his huge telly. What did she ever see in him? She could have done much better, surely.

  A line of cars parked along the side of the road. White snow starting to settle on the tops of them. She likes the snow, really, even if she hates the winter. Maybe tomorrow she'll phone Shelley and they can go out to the park, if the sun comes out. Leave Harry and his mum behind. Maybe never bother going back.

  One car, at the end of the line. No snow on it, just melted water dripping down the sides. Isn't that the one just slowed down? Oh fuck. Last thing she needs is hassle from some wanker out looking for prozzies. This isn't a red light zone, you arsehole. And I'm nobody's whore.

  She stoops to see if the man's still sitting in the driver's seat, but the car's empty. Maybe he's not an arsehole after all. Maybe he lives round here. Aye, right. Then why'd he offer her a lift? He's probably hiding in the bushes right now, jerking himself off, dirty bastard. Well, fine. She'll go home then. Just turn around and...

  A man right behind her. Jesus Christ how did he...? Where'd he...? His hand reaches up, holding something. Spray hits her face, cold and wet like the snow. It smells of marzipan. She hates fucking marzipan.

  And then the lights go out.

  ~~~~

  43

  McLean always felt that winter hadn't truly arrived until there was a good dusting of snow on the ground. It soon turned to slush in the city centre, but you could always look south to the Pentlands, or across to Arthur's Seat and see the white in all its purity. And the air always tasted cleaner, too. Though maybe that was just the cold.

  The city was running at half speed in the week between Christmas and Hogmanay, which suited him fine. There was plenty to be getting on with as it was. His initial interviews of the admin staff at Carstairs Weddell hadn't really come up with anything more positive than Mike Ayre and his Goth girlfriend. SOC had found their prints in the shop, but not the office beyond, which suggested they'd only made it over the threshold before running. McLean couldn't blame them; the place gave him the creeps too.

  He flicked through the pages of interviews that the rest of his team had carried out on Christmas Day. They all said pretty much the same thing, and he was quickly coming to the conclusion that their killer wasn't going to be found there. Likewise the staff from the auction house, though he hadn't been able to interview all of them. It was unlikely that whoever had used Anderson's basement would be so stupid as to be easily linked to the place. But then whoever it was would have had to have got hold of the keys from somewhere. None of the locks had been forced.

  'You got a minute, sir?' The knock on the open door to his office came at the same time as the question. McLean looked up to see DC MacBride waiting to be invited over the threshold like some unconvincing vampire. He had a slim folder clutched to his breast. More paperwork. Brilliant.

  'What is it, constable?'

  'Initial Fire report for the old factory over in Slateford.' MacBride took the question as permission to enter, handing over the folder as he looked quickly around the small office. If he was hoping for somewhere to sit, he'd be disappointed.

  'You've read it?' McLean flicked open the file and scanned the densely typed report within. A few technical words popped out, hurting his brain.

  'There's a summary at the back. Basically it's the same as the others. No obvious sign of arson, no way it could have happened by accident.'

  It just caught fire, like it wanted to burn. No, that was the crazy talk of an old man gone senile. Like I'd died and gone straight to hell; the ramblings of a drunken tramp about to hit the DTs. McLean poked around the piles of folders on his desk until he came up with the other arson reports, neatly stacked, tucked away under a mountain of more pressing things to do. Somehow he managed to extricate them without everything toppling off onto the floor. He added the new fire report to the top and handed the whole lot back to MacBride.

  'I've heard you're a whiz with the internet and stuff like that, Stuart,' he said. The detective constable took the bundle of folders and looked at it with the expression of a man who thought he was offloading his troubles, only to find them multiplied tenfold.

  'Umm, I guess so, sir.'

  'Well, I want you to do a bit of digging into all of these buildings.'

  'It's all here already, sir. Who owns them, planning applications, the lot.'

  'No, I'm not interested in what's there now. I want to know about the sites. We already know that the Woodbury building was on an old close. It's got history. Find out about the others.'

  'You think that'll help?'

  'I don't know, but right now I've got nothing else.' McLean wasn't sure what it was that flickered across MacBride's face; it looked a bit like incredulity. Well, the lad would have to get used to having his illusions shattered soon enough. Inspectors weren't any more infallible than constables, really. Just older, and better at covering their arses.

  'It's either that or back to Dagwood's team. Unless you've got any more leads on Kate McKenzie and Audrey Carpenter.'

  MacBride snapped the folders to his chest as if they were the most precious possessions he owned. 'I'll get right on it. What're you going to do sir?'

  McLean smiled. 'I'm going down to the basement. See a man about a book.'

  *

  McLean bumped into DS Ritchie on his way down to the evidence lockers. It was an accident; they just happened to reach the same corner at the same time, coming from different directions. He was preoccupied with thoughts about burning buildings; whatever filled her mind he had no idea. Having a head in height over her, and considerably greater bulk, he came the better off for the collision.

  'Oh Christ. I'm sorry. Are you OK?' He bent down to help her up from the floor, then set to picking up the papers she had spilled everywhere. She stooped as well, and their skulls collided with a comedy thwack.

  'Ow, sorry sir.' DS Ritchie stood up again, rubbing the top of her head, and let McLean get on with collecting paper. 'I was just coming to find you, actually.'

  'Oh yes?'

  'Dag... Er, DCI Duguid wanted to have a word.'

  'I thought he was away skiing.'

  'Apparently Mrs Duguid broke her leg so they came home early. I don't think he's too happy about that. Difficult to tell, mind you. He's not exactly friendly at the best of times.'

  Bloody marvellous. Not only was Dagwood back early, he was in a foul mood to boot.

  'I don't suppose you know what he wanted me for,' he said.

  'Something to do with the man you ID-ed in the drugs case. Peter...' Ritchie started to shuffle through her papers, no doubt finding them in completely the wrong order.

  'Ayre. Peter Ayre. Thought I'd left enough information for him to work with. The man's got form as long as my arm.'

  'Well, you know that the DCI's like, sir.'

  'OK.' McLean sighed. Less than a month in the station and already Ritchie had the measure of the Duguid. Self preservation came above any other loyalty. 'I'll go and see him. But first I've my own errand to run.'


  Ritchie looked at him with what might well have been pleading. 'You can't come right away?'

  'No, sergeant, I can't. But if you want, you can come down to the evidence store with me. When I'm finished there we can both go and see Dagwood together.'

  *

  McLean shivered as he stepped through the heavy door to the evidence store. It was cooler in the basement than the rest of the station. Just in front of him, DS Ritchie shuddered as well.

  'Bit creepy down here, isn't it?'

  'Ah, you get used to it.' McLean walked up to the counter where Sergeant Needham could usually be found keeping inventory. There was no sign of him at his post, and the door to his small office was closed. He knocked, trying the handle and finding it locked.

  'Not here?'

  'Could be in the back, I suppose. Needy always locks his office when he's away from the front room.'

  'Needy?'

  'At your service, Madame. Whatever your needs, Needy can service them.'

  McLean and Ritchie both turned to see the sergeant in his immaculate uniform standing in the door through which they had just come. He limped across the room to where they were standing.

  'You've been keeping secrets from me, inspector. Who is this delectable creature?'

  'Come off it, Needy. Nothing happens in this station and you don't know about it.' McLean watched the sergeant ham a pained expression. 'All right, have it your way. Detective Sergeant Ritchie, this is Sergeant John Needham.'

  Needy took Ritchie's proffered hand, enveloping it in both of his. 'Pleased to meet you at last,' he said. 'And might I add that it is a genuine delight to see such loveliness down here in my dark lair. Now, how may I help you?'

  'I need to have a look at the Anderson stuff,' McLean said.

  'Thought you already had it.' Needy produced a set of keys from his jacket and unlocked his office door. 'That young detective constable of yours signed it out before Christmas.'

  'It wasn't the case files I was interested in,' McLean said. 'We've still got the forensic evidence, haven't we? The stuff that was needed for the trial?'

  'Of course. I'll go and get it.'

  Needy limped off into the depths of the evidence store, leaving McLean and Ritchie alone.

  'Is he always like that?' Ritchie asked.

  'Pretty much. Some people he just ignores. I think he likes you, though.'

  'Aye, I got that.'

  'There you go.' Needham was back, bearing a single large cardboard box. He dumped it down on the counter in front of them. 'Was there anything else?'

  'No. This is fine.'

  'OK. I'll leave it with you if you don't mind. I've a wee errand to run.' Needy limped off with surprising speed, leaving the two of them alone with the unopened evidence box.

  'What is it you're looking for?' Ritchie asked as McLean pulled the lid off.

  'Inspiration? A bit of luck? I don't know.'

  Inside were a number of objects in plastic ziplock bags. The personal effects of Donald Anderson, including the clothes he had been wearing when McLean had arrested him; a rusty pair of handcuffs last seen dangling from a metal bed frame; several squares of stained cloth cut carefully from an old mattress, along with wads of horsehair padding from inside it; kitchen knives still bearing the traces of forensic examination after all these years; a long, thin rectangular strip of cloth with a repeating floral pattern on it.

  McLean lifted the clear plastic bags out of the box one by one, placing them on the table in front of him. And then, filling the bottom of the box, there was the old book.

  The leather cover was dark and mottled, gilt tooling worn by the caress of countless fingers, the sweat of innumerable hands. He picked it up, marvelling at the weight of it. Turned it over in his hands, seeing the ragged edges of the vellum pages through the clear plastic evidence bag. The spine was cracked, but it had title embossed in it in gold. Codex Enterius.

  He slid the book out of its plastic cover - no longer any need to worry about contaminating evidence. The leather felt curiously warm to the touch, softer than he'd expected.

  'I'll get the lights. It's like a dungeon down here.' DS Ritchie headed for the doorway and the bank of light switches. McLean could have told her not to bother; he knew damn fine that only the two tubes worked. But he was happier with her not looking over his shoulder as he laid the book carefully down on the counter and opened it up.

  Nothing happened. No demon leapt out to devour his soul. No arcane force tried to suck his soul out. The book was old, that much was plain, and the quality of the illustrations as he carefully turned the pages was undeniable. There were scribbles in the margins, too, in many different inks and hands. The content, however, was largely a mystery, written in close, archaic script with only rudimentary punctuation and appearing to be in medieval Latin. Codex Enterius perhaps, but not The Book of Souls. As if such a thing had ever existed.

  'Damn things don't seem to work.' Ritchie flipped the switch up and down a couple of times to no effect.

  'Sorry. Should've said. Saved you the bother.' McLean closed the book and his hand fell to the bag containing the thin strip of fabric. All that remained of Kirsty now that the fire had destroyed their home. Without really knowing why, he palmed the bag, slipped it into his jacket pocket. No-one had seen him. No-one need know.

  'Found what you're looking for, sir?' Needham limped back into the room, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  'Not really. I thought this might have been something else.' He struggled the Codex back into its evidence bag and placed it carefully back into the box

  'The Book of Souls perhaps? I told you not to go raking over the past, sir.' Needham whirled a finger round in circles around his temple. 'It messes with your mind, that stuff. I'd've thought you of all people would remember. Those were dark times.'

  'You're right Needy. I just, you know. Had to look.'

  'Aye, I know Tony.' He tilted the box, peered inside, then at the items strewn over the table. For a moment McLean thought he was going to notice the one missing item, but Needham just shrugged. 'Just be careful, right?'

  'Aye' McLean turned back to DS Ritchie. 'So then. I guess it's back to reviewing those interviews.'

  'Now?' Ritchie looked nervous. 'What about DCI Duguid?'

  'Ah, yes. Him.' McLean looked at the items he had strewn about over the table, then started to put them all back in the box. 'I was hoping you might have forgotten about him.'

  ~~~~

  44

  'I thought I made it clear this was important, sergeant.'

  Detective Chief Inspector Duguid held court in the middle of the incident room, surrounded by a hubbub of uniforms and plain clothes all trying desperately to look like they were busy. Interrupted, he pretty much ignored McLean, instead fixating on DS Ritchie.

  'You've been gone almost an hour. What the hell have you been doing?'

  'That's my fault, sir.' McLean stepped up, trying to put himself between the DCI and the sergeant. 'I dragged DS Ritchie down to the evidence store on an errand. I wasn't aware that she'd been reassigned to this investigation. I thought the murders took precedence.'

  'Don't get smart with me, McLean. It's thanks to your bloody vague descriptions that we've had to drag everyone in here. If you'd told us about Peter Ayre before...'

  'If I'd known that was his name, sir, I'd have told you.' McLean looked past Duguid to the large whiteboard on the far wall. An A3 size colour mug shot of the man in question had been tacked up to it, with several lines of black marker pen arrowing away to hastily scribbled questions and actions. He couldn't read much of it from this far away, but he did see the words 'Search Teams' written large and underlined above what looked like the names of every officer in the station.

  'Please don't tell me you've got uniforms sweeping through Leith and Trinity.'

  'That's where you said he'd be. We'll find him, then we'll get him to tell us everything he knows about the organisation he's working for.' Duguid looked absurdly please
d with himself. 'Once you confirm that he's our man, that is. We could've caught him already if you weren't so bloody hard to find.'

  McLean walked over to the mugs hot, studying the face with feigned intensity. Peter Ayre looked a lot worse here than he had done in the family photo on the mantelpiece back at home. Years of drug abuse had taken the promising school-leaver and shrunken his skin until it clung to his bones like dried leather on a long-dead skeleton. His eyes were black holes, his half-mad grin to the camera showing cracked, brown-stained teeth, some missing. His hair was long, but thin and greasy. Frizzy greying stubble half-hid the yellow acne that pocked his cheeks and chin.

  'Well? Is it him?' Duguid barked the question from the centre of the room, and for a moment McLean thought about saying no.

  'It's him all right,' he said. Duguid turned straight away to one of his sergeants, ready to set the search in motion. McLean interrupted before he could speak. 'But if you go charging in heavy handed, he'll disappear.'

  'Don't be stupid, man. He's a junkie, not a master of disguise.'

  'He'll disappear, sir. Or he'll be disappeared. Either he'll find somewhere to lie low, or the people he's working for will make sure we never find him. He'll end up in the foundations of a new building somewhere, or fed to the pigs on some Borders farm.'

  'Nonsense, man. We pick up junkies all the time.'

  'But you don't send the whole damned station in to find them, sir.' McLean tried his best not to emphasise the title, realising as Duguid's face reddened that he had failed.

  'This is my investigation, McLean. Don't presume to tell me how to run it.'

  McLean turned away from the gathering storm, casting his eyes over the lists of search teams. He spotted a few names that he recognised, hunted around for the board wiper, then deleted all of them: DS Ritchie, DC MacBride, DS Laird, DC Johnson. He paused for a second, then added PCs Gregg, Houseman and Crowe to his tally.