'What do you want to ask him?'
'Did he ever get to speak to that professor at the university?' The message was relayed and an answer came back 'yes.'
'Then ask him if the old...' McLean squinted in the arc-lit gloaming at the name carved in stone above the main factory entrance. 'McMerry Ironworks site in Loanhead was ever associated with the guild.'
Again Ritchie relayed the information, before asking a question of her own. 'Guild?' she mouthed, hand covering the phone's mouthpiece. McLean didn't have time to explain before MacBride's answer came back.
'He says he doesn't know, but he can find out.'
Ritchie ended the call and put her phone away.
'What was all that about?' she asked.
'Just another hunch,' McLean said. 'It's my day for them.'
*
'That's a big old pile for someone on a sergeant's pay.' DS Ritchie looked up at the imposing bulk of Needy's house as the Alfa crunched over the gravel of a long driveway towards something that wouldn't have looked out of place in a period drama.
'It's been in the family a long time. The Needhams built the ironworks back there.' McLean pointed to the rear of the building, where a steep bank rose sharply up, the stone hulk of the old factory just showing through a skeletal line of winter trees. 'We all used to come out here from time to time. When we were working on the Christmas Killer case. It's looking a bit run down since then.'
Closer in, McLean could see the grey-brown render on the walls was cracked in places, the sash windows in bad need of paint. Thick ivy grew up one gable wall, threatening to strangle the chimney stack and bring it crashing down onto the garage roof. He parked the Alfa a good distance away, just in case.
The front door was locked, but then that was no surprise. The windows reflected the low sun, and behind them shutters blocked any view of the rooms inside. McLean went to press the ornate porcelain bell-push, then hesitated.
'Let's just have a wee nosey about first, shall we?'
The gravel drive continued around the back of the house, through a stone arch that connected to the garage block. Not so much parked as abandoned in front of this, the grubby off-green Jaguar estate sat with its rear facing the back door. Looking up, McLean could see no lights from the windows on this side of the house either. Shutters closed the downstairs views of everything except the back lobby and kitchen, both empty. He tried the back door, but it was locked.
'Car's not been anywhere in a while.' DS Ritchie had her hand pressed to the bonnet. She took it off and tried the door handle. 'Locked too.'
The garages were converted from earlier coach houses, and were also locked tight. It wasn't surprising, really, with the house being so close to Loanhead. A place like this would be a magnet for all the unemployed and disaffected youth living in the schemes further down Roslin glen. Overshadowed by the close-by hulk of the ironworks, it almost begged to be burgled and vandalised.
'Looks like something's been dragged here, sir.' DS Ritchie crouched down by the tailgate of Needy's car, looking at the gravel intently. McLean joined her.
'What is it?'
'See here.' She pointed at a shallow depression in the gravel. 'Looks like something heavy was dropped out of the back of the car, then dragged off in that direction.'
McLean ran his hand lightly over the surface, feeling a rough outline of two parallel tracks. Two heels carving a path to Needy's back door.
He stood up, pulled out his phone and hit speed dial as he followed the indentations to the door. DS MacBride answered on the second ring.
'I need a warrant to search Needy's house,' McLean said before the constable could get more than his name out. 'And we need to find him.'
'On it, sir,' MacBride said. 'Oh, and you were right, by the way.;
'I was? What about?'
'The McMerry Ironworks, sir. It's built on an old Guild of Strangers site. Their first site, as it happens. It's where they set up after being driven out of the city by the merchant guilds at the turn of the sixteenth century.'
'Fine, constable. You can give me the history lesson when we've found Emma. Just get me that warrant. Then get yourself over here quick as you can.'
*
Waiting for things to happen was never McLean's style. He paced around, peering into the window that looked onto Needy's kitchen, tried the locked door again, just in case, then looked around for any evidence of a spare key. Ritchie came over to join him.
'You know, I could have sworn I heard someone shout "help" just then.'
'What?' McLean looked at her, standing by the back door.
'There it is again.' Silence filled the air, underlined by the distant hum of the bypass, the whine of a jet plane.
'D'you know, I think you're right sergeant. It sounds very much like someone's in need of help.' McLean shrugged his hand up into his sleeve for protection, picked up a fist-sized rock lying by the back door and used it to smash one of the small windows. The key was still in the lock on the inside, so he reached carefully in and opened the door.
'Jesus! What's that smell?' Ritchie wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the back lobby. McLean sniffed and then wished he hadn't. A mixture of rotting garbage and open sewer assaulted his senses. Shallow breathing through his mouth, he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen and stepped through.
The air was slightly better in here, but still not pleasant. Most of the aroma wafted up from the large double sink, filled to overflowing with unwashed pots and crockery. The table was strewn with rubbish: empty pizza boxes; Chinese takeaway cartons; beer cans and chocolate wrappers. A bowl in the middle of the table contained several pieces of fuzzy green fruit. It was a stark contrast to the spotless tidiness of Needy's cell-office back at the station.
'This isn't what I was expecting,' Ritchie said. McLean could only agree.
They worked their way quickly and quietly through the downstairs rooms. Most looked like they'd not been used in years, shuttered up against the light and left to moulder gently away. Patches on the walls showed where the paintings McLean recalled from earlier visits had gone, and there was far too little furniture. The smell from the kitchen subsided the further they went into the house, to be replaced with the unmistakable reek of mildew. Flicking the lights on in the large drawing room to the front of the house, McLean saw black mould creeping down the walls from the ornate plaster cornicing; brown circle stains in the ceiling and powdery, flaking paint.
Upstairs was, if anything, worse than the ground floor. The roof was obviously in dire need of repair; in places the ceiling had collapsed altogether, leaving just bare laths and daylight peeking in from the attic above. The whole place had a feel of abandonment about it, as if nobody had lived there for years. And yet the key had been in the inside of the door. Needy's car was out the back. The man himself had to be somewhere.
It was Ritchie who found the attic rooms, tucked up in the eaves at the back. The half-hidden staircase was narrow and bare wood, designed for the servants to reach their accommodation without upsetting their master. Most of the rooms were empty, damp-spotted and water stained. One had old trunks piled up in it, covered in dust and spider webs. And one was where Needy had grown his obsession.
An old pedestal desk sat in front of the dormer window, looking out across the narrow gap to the tree-lined bank and the ironworks. It was strewn with newspaper cuttings, spiral bound notebooks filled with neat handwriting, loose paper covered in loping scrawl and crazy doodles. A well worn copy of Jo Dalgliesh's book was half buried under a stack of police files and several more boxes from the archives were piled in a corner. But it was the walls that sent a chill down his spine.
Needham had blown up photographs of Anderson: from the trial; from his shop; even the mug shots taken when he was arrested. And there were other photographs too; the victims, pinned to every available surface, in a disturbing parody of the whiteboard in the CID room. On top of them were post-it notes and larger sheets of paper, stuck up with yellowing sellotape and with cryp
tic messages scrawled on them. 'How does he choose them?' 'Why under a bridge?' 'Where's the book?' and at least twenty that simply said 'Why?'
'How long's he been doing this?' Ritchie asked. McLean rummaged around the desk, picking up a notebook at random. Needham's handwriting was hard to decipher but the front page was dated over two years earlier.
'A long time.' He put the book down, picked up what looked like a letter. The familiar logo of Carstairs Weddell, Solicitors and Notaries Public caught his eye.
'What you got there, sir?' Ritchie craned her neck to see, so close he caught the faintest whiff of her perfume.
'It's a letter detailing the inheritance tax due on Needy's dad's estate. This house, basically. Seems he owes the Chancellor the thick end of a million quid.'
Ritchie let out an explosive breath. 'Well, that'd tip me over the edge.'
'Oh, I think that just sped his fall.' McLean dropped the letter back onto the desk, looked around the room once more. 'Needy went over a long time ago. We just never noticed.'
~~~~
61
Back downstairs, McLean poked around the large hallway, trying to remember the old house from when he'd last visited it over ten years ago. He was fairly sure they'd covered all the rooms, but a place this big and this old had to have a basement. None of the doors so far had opened up onto stairs, and in the semi-darkness of the shuttered hall, it was almost impossible to make out any detail.
'Have you got a torch, sergeant?'
A short interval, then a narrow beam of light lit up in answer. Ritchie handed it over, and he played the torch over the area under the stairs, boxed in with more of the heavy panelling. Then he saw the turned wooden door handle and well-hidden keyhole. The door opened onto darkness, but as he peered carefully into the space, he could make out a faint glow at the bottom of a short flight of stone stairs. There was light down there somewhere.
'Do you think we should wait for back up, sir?' Ritchie asked.
'Probably.' He set off down the stairs. They brought him to a vaulted corridor about six feet wide that appeared to run the length of the house. He killed the torch, and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the glow coming from one end, Ritchie has joined him. She was about to say something, but he lifted a finger to his lips. Straining his ears, he tried to make out any noise at all but there was nothing.
They crept along the corridor past a number of closed doors until they finally came to the end and the source of the light. More steps dropped further down, and at the bottom, a wide wooden door stood partly ajar. The light beyond it flickered, reflecting off a polished flagstone floor.
The temperature seemed to rise as he climbed slowly down the steps, the stone walls radiating heat as if he were descending into the magma layer, not just a few yards underground. Ritchie pressed in close behind him, her scent filling the enclosed space as they moved further away from the reek upstairs. As he reached the bottom, he put his hand up for her to stay behind him, and brushed gently against her arm. At least he hoped it was her arm. Keeping as much of his body behind the half-open door as possible, he peered around it into the room beyond.
It looked like a small chapel, or perhaps the undercroft of a larger church. Heavy stone pillars rose up from the floor like the petrified trunks of long-dead trees. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, shadows of ornately carved figures lurking in the eaves. The walls were adorned with heavy plaques, their inscriptions too dark to see in the flickering candlelight that spread from half a dozen sconces. The scent of burning tallow was heavy in the air, only half masking something less pleasant. It was warmer even than the tunnel, lending the place a hellish feel.
Slowly, McLean edged into the room, looking around and trying to make out detail in the semi-darkness. A low stone altar stood at one end, holding up more candles that illuminated more elaborate carvings. Beside it, a heavy wooden lectern angled towards the room, shaped like an eagle with its claws extended, wings spread wide to land. But there were only a few old pews near the front for any congregation to sit on. The rest of the space had been cleared back to smooth flagstone floor, then piled with an odd assortment of boxes, some rolled up carpet, an old sit up and beg pushbike with a wicker basket mounted on the handlebars. A heavy, cast iron bedstead, complete with manky, bloodstained mattress. From where he stood, he could only see a corner, but it was enough. A pale, small hand was chained to the headboard with a shiny new handcuff.
All thoughts of stealth forgotten, McLean ran across the dimly lit chapel to the bed. Emma lay on her back, spread-eagled and naked, bound by her hands and legs. The bare mattress stank of dried blood and piss. For too long he just stared at her, trying to work out if she was dead or alive. She looked so pale, so still; like Kirsty had looked when he had found her all those years ago. Please God, don't let it happen again.
'We have to get her out of here.' McLean dug in his pockets, looking for a set of handcuff keys. His hand found them nestling beneath the strip of cloth, still in its plastic evidence bag. Not knowing quite why he did it, he pulled both out, palmed the keys and opened the bag. The fabric was soft, thin between his fingers, a little jolt of something like electricity running through him at that first touch. Hastily he shoved it into his trouser pocket, reached over with the keys. Emma didn't stir as he undid the cuffs, one by one. She didn't stir as he gently eased her arms back down by her sides. Nor did she stir as he pulled off his jacket and laid it gently over her. And all the while DS Ritchie stood hesitantly nearby, as if unsure whether she should help or not. If she'd seen him handling the strip of cloth, she said nothing about it.
'Is she... Is she breathing?'
McLean knelt down, gagging at the smell coming off the mattress, and touched a finger lightly to Emma's neck. He just caught the merest motion of a pulse in the flickering light before a scream pierced the quiet.
'She's mine!' Needy came from nowhere, brandishing a heavy brass candlestick and moving faster than McLean had ever seen him. He was wearing some kind of long cloak, a gold medallion and chain around his neck that glinted in the candlelight as it swung. Ritchie ducked to avoid the blow, but was too slow. It connected with the side of her head as she turned, and she crumpled like a discarded puppet. Needy didn't even look at her, swinging the candlestick round again as he rushed on, eyes lit with a mad fire. Kneeling down, McLean could only put up his arms for defence, trying to parry the blow rather than take it full on.
The pain was instant, and he could swear he heard bones cracking. The shock ran up his arms into his shoulders, dulling his vision. He could barely move, and yet he knew that Needy would be swinging the candlestick around for a second blow. A killing blow. He rolled onto the floor, felt the air split where his head had been a second earlier. There was a dull crash as the candlestick connected with the flagstone floor and McLean took his opportunity.
Needy was bent over, off balance as he tried to haul back his makeshift weapon. From his position on the floor, McLean swept his legs round, trying to bring Needy down. The sergeant jumped out of his way, laughing, seemingly unencumbered by his damaged leg.
'Can't get me like that.' And he brought the candlestick down again.
McLean rolled under the bed, feeling something sticky on the floor pull at his shirt. The candlestick clanged against the edge of the bed, tumbling rust and other less pleasant things onto his face. His forearms still hurt like he'd bench-pressed a train, but at least he was getting his wits together. As Needy pulled the candlestick up again, McLean rolled right under the bed and scrambled up on the other side.
'Put it down, Needy. It's over. You don't want to hurt anyone else.'
'She's mine, I tell you. Mine. It said I could have her if I read her a story.'
'John, look at yourself.' McLean kept one eye on the wavering candlestick, but he was close enough to see Needy's face. It was contorted in a grimace that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy, black eyes and swollen nose making him look like an insane ape. God only knew what he was on. Som
e mixture of painkillers and amphetamines by the look of him. Was there any possibility of talking him down?
'Sergeant Needham.' McLean tried to put as much authority in his voice as he could muster. 'Stand down.'
'You don't understand. It's what it wants. I have to do what it tells me.'
'What tells you? Who wants you to do this to Emma? She's your friend.'
'No friends. Only people who want things from you. Only people who hurt you. Only people who make jokes about you to your face. But it's different. It understands.'
'Who understands, Needy? Who are you talking about?'
'You should know. It talked to you, too. It told me all about you.' Needham's eyes had been fixed on McLean's, but as he talked they kept darting away, towards the lectern and the heavy old book lying open on it.
'The book?' The eyes flicked back again, and McLean knew he'd guessed right. 'You found Anderson's book? The Book of Souls?'
'It was there all along, only hiding.' Needham's voice steadied slightly. He sounded like he was simply giving an account of a crime he'd solved. He still held the candlestick high though, ready to swing at anyone who came near. 'Biding its time, it was. Waiting. You don't know what it's like, Tony. The voices in your head, the freedom it gives you. There's no guilt, no pain. Just joy and immortality.'
'It's not real, John. There never was a Book of Souls. I should know. I was there, remember. I found Anderson.'
Needy focussed his stare on McLean and the madness was back again. 'You spurned it. You were meant to be next in line but you ignored it. How could you? How...'
'I think I've heard quite enough from you, Sergeant Needham.'
McLean and Needy both turned at the voice, each as surprised as the other. DS Ritchie stood just feet away from Needham, well within range of the candlestick and waving from side to side like a punch-drunk boxer. Blood seeped from a gash at her temple. She had a can of pepper spray in her outstretched hand, and before he could do anything she let Needham have the whole thing in the face.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 29