'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, McLean?' Duguid had relinquished his command at the centre of the room and was bearing down on him.
'These officers are on my team, sir. And in case you'd forgotten, we're investigating a double murder. I thought you said that the Chief Constable himself was pressuring for a quick result. You might want to consider that before you start bullying them into helping out with your little drug bust.'
Duguid looked like he was about to explode. The room had fallen silent, and McLean was all too aware that everyone was looking at him. He put his hand in his pocket to brace himself, and felt the smooth plastic of the evidence bag. It sent a jolt of energy up his arm, or at least that was what it felt like. He no longer cared about the chain of command, about being respectful to senior officers, about obeying the rules. They really didn't matter.
'Little drug bust?' Duguid's voice was quiet, almost controlled, which was in some ways scarier than if he had been his usual shouty self. 'Little drug bust? Is that all it is to you, McLean? Just another unfortunate necessity? Would you be happier perhaps if it was all perfectly legal, shooting up on Leith Walk and mugging tourists for the money?'
McLean said nothing, but he stared Duguid down. The incident room held its breath around them, everyone waiting for the explosion like children at a fireworks display. It was the DCI who broke contact first. He turned away, spitting out reluctant words.
'Get out. Take your 'team' with you. Just don't expect much sympathy when you go to pieces again.'
McLean let out a long, slow breath, feeling as if he'd been kicked in the gut. In truth, he'd never expected his behaviour over the Christmas holidays to go unremarked, but the thought that of all the senior officers, Duguid was the one to first make the dig filled him with an inexplicable anger. His fists balled without any input from his brain, and he found himself leaning forward, ready to take the older man on. A small voice of reason, sounding very much like Detective Sergeant Ritchie, broke through
'Perhaps we'd better get on with reviewing those interviews, sir?'
McLean was almost too wrapped up in his own anger, but he saw the intent in Duguid's motion as the DCI spun around ready to tear a strip off Ritchie. He wasn't sure what the emotion was that ran through him, but it was immediate and protective.
'I think we're done here, sergeant,' he said before Duguid could speak. Ritchie said nothing but her confusion was evident as he pushed past her and strode towards the door.
~~~~
45
He'd noticed the old man loitering in the street as the patrol car dropped him off, so the knock on the door was unexpected, but not a surprise. Since their last meeting Father Anton had been lurking nearby, but never actually approaching the house. McLean was sure he'd seen him about the city too, walking the streets like a vagrant, always turning away to avoid meeting his eye, or pretending to be interested in a street sign, an advertising billboard, a bus timetable. A paranoid man might think he was being followed, but McLean knew that was nonsense. The old man knew where he lived, had sat at his table drinking tea, had told him a cock and bull story about a book that didn't exist. He didn't need to follow McLean around like some amateur private eye; he could just come and talk to him.
Which was probably what he wanted to do now, given the urgency of the knocking. Sighing, McLean put his takeaway curry on the counter by the stove and went through to the front hall to open the door.
'Have you found it yet?' Father Anton's grey face gave no hint of emotion, as if the flesh itself had been long-since paralysed. But his eyes blazed with something that could almost have been desperation.
'Come in, why don't you,' McLean said, barely able to step aside as the old man pushed past into the lobby.
'Have you got it?' Father Anton's eyes flashed with hope, then something dead descended inside. 'No, of course you haven't. I was a fool to even think you might.'
The hall was dark; McLean still hadn't quite got the hang of all the different switches and had only managed to turn on the carriage light above the outer door. It cast long shadows through the glass skylight, picking up some of his Grandmother's more eccentric furnishings in a macabre light. Father Anton stood beneath the empty shell of a giant tortoise, fixed to the wall like some bizarre trophy. He didn't move any further into the house, but shuddered with a piercing cold.
'Look, come through to the kitchen,' McLean said. 'It's warmer there. You must've frozen half to death . What were you doing, waiting around like that anyway? You could've phoned if you wanted to talk.'
He led the way, startling the cat which had been sniffing around the bag full of curry. The large stove cost a fortune in oil to run, but he didn't care. It belted out a welcome heat and always reminded him of childhood. Shooing the cat away, he opened up one of the hobs and put the kettle on to boil before turning back to his uninvited guest. In the light, Father Anton looked even worse than he had before. His skin was white, his lips blue. He shuddered involuntarily every few moments, as if in the grip of some neurological disease. Maybe he was; it would certainly explain a thing or two.
'Sit yourself down, father. I'll make us some tea.' He set about the cupboards, looking for everything he needed, but when he turned back, the old man was still standing, watching him with hooded eyes. His coat was still buttoned up to his chin, his gloved hands shoved under his armpits.
'Look, I don't know what it is you think I can do to help you. But at least have the sense to warm yourself up a bit. I'll give the vicar a phone after you've had a cuppa. She'll come and pick you up.'
'I'm not senile, inspector.' Father Anton's voice took on a slightly annoyed edge, as if he felt patronised.
'Are you sure?' McLean looked sideways at his curry, congealing in its little metal box, so close and yet so far away. 'You certainly seem to be behaving that way.'
There was a short silence, whilst he poured boiling water into the tea pot and wondered what he thought he was doing. There was beer in the cellar and whisky in the library. He'd been looking forward to some of both before an early night. Now he was stuck here drinking tea with an old lunatic ex-monk.
'I'm sorry, inspector,' Father Anton said eventually. He took his hands from his armpits, slipped off gloves to reveal white flesh and spidery blue veins, unbuttoned his coat and then sat. 'I had no right coming here.'
'Why did you come here?' McLean poured tea into mugs, added milk, found biscuits in an old tin. All the while the old man said nothing. Only when they were both seated did he speak.
'I told you about the book. That was no small thing. I broke a sacred vow to do that.'
'If it's any consolation, I haven't told anyone. They'd probably think I was mad if I did.'
'You might call it madness, inspector. But you cannot begin to understand the mysteries I've seen. Nor the sacrifices I have made in my life. Oh, I'm not looking for pity. I knew what I was getting into long ago. I accepted it, embraced it even. But that doesn't make the pain any less for these tired old bones.'
McLean studied the old man as he took a sip of tea, shaking hands making the hot liquid slop against his lips. Here was a person he couldn't begin to fathom; someone with absolute faith in God; someone who had dedicated his life to religious service. It made him uncomfortable to be in the presence of such undeniable certainty, but he was even more uncomfortable with what he was about to do. He fetched a thick folder from its resting place beside his takeaway, bringing it back to the table and opening it out.
'I probably shouldn't be showing you this.' He pulled out a thin sheaf of photocopied papers and slid it across the table towards the old man.
'What is it?'
'It's the full inventory of everything that was taken from Donald Anderson's shop the day he was arrested.' McLean remembered the exasperated look on DS Ritchie's face as he'd made her go through it item by item, cross-referencing with the list from the auction house, the contents of the evidence locker and the few worthless bits and bobs that would like
ly turn up at the next police sale. It wasn't unheard of for valuable but portable objects to go missing, but all of Anderson's money had been in his stock, and that was all accounted for.
'I don't understand.' Father Anton ran a thin finger down the list. Most of the books were recorded by description as well as title, since in some instances that had been hard to read. 'This is everything?'
'Every single item. All checked in, all checked out. And every single book is subsequently listed in here.' McLean pulled the auctioneer's draft catalogue from the folder. It was marked with blue biro in Ritchie's scratchy handwriting and he flicked through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. 'Even this one. The Codex Enterius, I think it's called.' He pulled the inventory sheet back, flipping it to the front page. 'And here, taken from Anderson's desk. Contained a strip of cloth identified as coming from... one of his victims.'
Father Anton took the catalogue, staring at the neatly typed pages, then back at the inventory. Back and forth, back and forth.
'You're sure of this?' he asked finally. 'This is the book you saw? The book that Anderson was reading when you caught him?'
'It was on his desk, open. He wasn't reading it when I caught him. But yes, that's the book.'
At least, McLean was fairly sure it was the book. And why shouldn't it be? It looked like the one he'd seen; same size and shape, same colouring to the leather and vellum. And at the time he'd not been too interested in the book itself so much as the marker.
Something seemed to die in Father Anton's eyes as he placed first the inventory and then the catalogue back down on the table.
'Then I have been a fool. Anderson must have hidden the book somewhere. Or passed it on to someone else.'
~~~~
46
The headache wakes her up; that and the sharp pain in her stomach. She struggles out of sleep cursing her fat bastard of a husband for stealing the duvet again. And what the fuck is that smell? Has he shat himself or something? Probably got himself blootered again. She must have had a few herself, judging by the state of her head. Christ, she hopes they didn't have sex.
She tries to grope for the duvet and realises her hands are tied. How could she not notice that, strung up above her head? And how shitfaced could she possibly have got herself to let her slob of a husband tie her up? Fuck, she can't believe they could have made up and had sex. Not again. Not with that evil Harpy in the same house.
Her arms are stiff and sore; pins and needles spring agonisingly into her flesh now that she's started moving. God, how did she get into this state? She rolls over, only half successfully, and discovers her legs tied as well. That's when the fug of sleep washes away with all the subtlety of a tsunami.
For a moment she thinks she's gone blind. There's nothing at all. Blackness so utter she can feel it crushing in on her. She moves her head slowly, wincing at the pain in her skull. It feels like her brain has shrunk in there, rattling around the walls like a dried pea in a whistle. The skin of her cheek rubs against her upper arm, but the darkness is so total she can't even see that. She moves her head some more, trying to roll over onto her side even though whatever it is that binds her arms and legs has her stretched out too far. Fear comes then; she can't remember getting this drunk before. And fat Harry wouldn't tie her up; that was never his style.
She tests the ropes, drawing her knees up as far as she can. They knock together, skin against skin, and she understands that she is naked. The pain in her head makes little stars sparkle in her eyes when she moves. A pity they don't cast any light on her prison.
Her prison.
How did she get here, wherever here is? Memories tumble through her brain: mother-in-law sneering at her; husband fat and useless on the sofa watching the Eastender's Christmas special; a row about nothing in particular, about everything that was wrong with her life; and then... what? She can't remember.
It's too quiet, now she's stopped moving. She can hear her breaths rasping in and out, hear her heart beating too fast in her chest, hear the blood pounding through her ears. But nothing else. No traffic, no sirens in the distance, no aeroplanes making their final approach to Dalhousie. No wind.
'He... Hello?' She means to say the words quietly, but they come out as little more than a dry whisper. Her throat is parched, her tongue thick and dusty.
No-one answers.
~~~~
47
New Year's Day was always quiet in the station. A few overindulgent souls were sleeping it off in the cells, watched over by a skeleton staff. Most of the uniforms had put in enough overtime at the Hogmanay Street Party to justify taking time off. Even Duguid's drugs investigation was on hold. McLean liked to think that the DCI had seen sense and called off the Leith raids, but in truth it was the chief superintendent who'd talked him out of it. Unfortunately Duguid thought that someone had gone to her over his head, and he was quite happy to assume that person was McLean. There was a battle to be fought another day.
He sat at his desk and stared out the window at the grey tenements beyond. The sky was much the same colour, tinged perhaps with a tiny bit of purple that promised more snow. It was cold in his office, as usual; his fingers ached as he tapped away at the keyboard, catching up on some of the paperwork that was attracted to his little cubby-hole by some magical power. Perhaps it was because there was so much in here already. Like attracts like, and the paperwork has obviously decided this is the place to be. Maybe it was even a spawning ground for yet more paperwork. That would explain why there was so much of it. Though he'd expect to find more baby paperwork around, in little paperwork crèches. Though of course paperwork could be like aphids. He'd read somewhere that they were born pregnant.
The phone rang. McLean stared at it for a while uncomprehending. It never rang. No-one ever phoned him on his office phone; if someone wanted to talk they'd just come up and knock on the door. But it was ringing. He picked it up, noticing as he did that the little card which told you where the call had originated from was missing. Gone to find a suitable partner no doubt.
'McLean,' he said.
'Ah, thank Christ for that. A detective at work.' The dulcet tones of Sergeant Dundas on the front desk.
'And a Happy New Year to you too, Pete. What can I do for you?'
'I've got a man here says he's lost his wife.'
'Is this the beginning of some complicated joke, Pete? Only I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through.'
There was a sound of rustling and the phone muffled, as if the desk sergeant were moving. He said something that McLean didn't quite catch, presumably to the man who had lost his wife, then came back, more quietly.
'I'm sorry sir. I wouldn't normally bother you with something like this. But, well, I can't get rid of the guy. And his mother.' The phone muffled again, like it was being pressed against a police-issue sweater. Through the crackling, McLean thought he heard something along the lines of 'He'll be down in a minute. Just be patient, please.'
'You still there, sir?' Sergeant Dundas' voice was once more clear.
'Yes, Pete.'
'Well could you speak to them, please. I know it's uniform work, but there's no-one else more senior than a constable and this bloke keeps going on about his wife being abducted. From the look of him I'd say she more likely just walked out. But he's not going to leave until he's spoken to a detective.'
'He said that?'
'Aye. Well, actually it was his mother. But...'
'OK, Pete. I'll come down.' McLean stood, secretly grateful for an excuse to get out of his dismal office. 'But you owe me one.'
*
Harry Lubkin was fat; there was no other way of putting it. His face was a mess of loops that couldn't in all honesty be called cheeks or chins. More an extension of his neck, which itself was an extension of his over-large body. McLean would have put him at around five and a half feet tall and comfortably as round. His eyes were deep set, and circled with dark bruising; his squidgy nose offset to one side. As is often the w
ay with very fat men, he had shaved his scalp, but tufts of hair fuzzed around the edges of a couple of recent cuts. A slimmer man McLean would have taken for a brawler.
His mother, on the other hand, was whippet thin. Her thick-rimmed spectacles and pointed hairstyle made her look like something from a Gary Larsen cartoon. If she'd been wearing a twinset and holding a square-edged handbag, the image would have been complete. As it was, she wore a nylon shell-suit and clutched a canvas bag that could probably hold enough for a week's holiday.
The two of them were waiting in the front lobby of the station when McLean arrived, one sat primly on her plastic chair, the other slouched over two... no three. Mrs Lubkin sprang to her feet when he arrived; Harry stayed seated.
McLean pretended to consult the sheet of paper that Sergeant Dundas had handed him for a moment, then approached with caution and introduced himself.
'And it's about time, too.' Mrs Lubkin spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent.
'I'm sorry,' McLean tried to sound it as he motioned for Mrs Lubkin to sit again and pulled the last chair out for himself. 'We're a bit short-staffed today. A lot of officers worked late last night at the street party. Now, you said Mrs Lubkin had gone missing?'
'Aye, the dirty wee stop-out that she is.'
'Mother, can you no' give it a rest?' Harry Lubkin's first words were something of a surprise. Unlike his mother, his accent was neutral, with perhaps the slightest hint of Edinburgh about it, and his voice was high-pitched for his bulk.
'Let's start at the beginning, shall we.' McLean glanced over his shoulder at the reception desk, hoping to give Sergeant Dundas a withering stare. He was nowhere to be seen, but the door through to the control office behind was propped slightly ajar. Pete was going to owe him big time for this.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 21