The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (6 page)

He knows everything.

~~~~

10

Early morning, and a steady stream of buses blocked the flow of traffic as McLean walked briskly across North Bridge towards Princes Street. Heads down, breath steaming in the cold November air, the first wave of commuters spilled out onto the wide pavement, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with their fellow condemned. What would it be like to have a normal job, with regular working hours? It might be nice to have the occasional evening off, some time to spend with his friends. Except that with far too few exceptions, all his friends were either police, or inextricably linked to the job.

He was so busy working his way through the knot of bodies that at first he didn't notice the person ahead of him. But something about the shape and size, the pattern of wispy hair on the back of the man's head, registered enough to grab his attention. He couldn't think why he felt a frisson of discomfort at the figure, but neither could he get closer through the throng. Then the man turned side on, heading round the corner of the North British Hotel, and McLean's heart nearly stopped.

'Anderson.' The word came out as a hoarse whisper, ignored by the people all around him. Someone bumped his shoulder and he realised he'd stopped walking. His knees felt weak; the blood rushing in his head sounded like the London train far beneath his feet, out of control and speeding through Waverly station. And the impossible figure was getting further away.

'Anderson!' This time it was a shout, and the noise propelled McLean into action. No longer caring about the sensibilities of Edinburgh commuters, he pushed through the crowd, trying to make up the distance. The man he was chasing, seemingly deaf and oblivious, disappeared down Princes Street.

'Oi! Watch what yer doing.' An angry pedestrian turned as McLean tried to jostle past, his face red with quick anger.

'Police. Get out of the way.' McLean thrust him aside, breaking into a run as he cleared the throng, then slowing down as the next crowd gathered by the crossing. He hugged the wall of the hotel, managing to squeeze past an old lady with a tartan shopping trolley, and a couple of lost tourists, their backpacks lethal to everyone around as they turned to see what the commotion was all about. Round the corner, seeing the flow of sleepy humanity pouring up Waverly steps and onto Princes Street, McLean scanned the crowd, looking for his quarry. Donald Anderson was nowhere to be seen.

*

By the time he reached his tiny office, tucked away at the back of the station and the end of the queue for the heating, McLean had almost convinced himself that he'd been mistaken. It couldn't possibly have been Anderson; he'd watched the man's coffin being lowered into the ground less than twenty-four hours ago. And there was no way that Peterhead jail could have made a mistake about the identity of one of their more notorious inmates.

'You all right, Tony? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

McLean started at the voice, realising he'd been staring into space. Hovering in the open doorway, Chief Superintendent Jayne McIntyre looked like she'd only just stepped out of the shower; face scrubbed pink, hair still wet, uniform as yet unrumpled by a long day in the office.

'Didn't get much sleep, Ma'am. We found a body last night. There's some nasty similarities to Anderson's MO.'

'Aye, I heard from Grumpy Bob. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' McIntyre looked around the room for a spare seat, then propped herself on the edge of the desk.

McLean's heart dropped. 'You're giving the investigation to someone else.'

'I thought about it. God only knows, you've enough on your plate right now with Anderson being killed.'

'With respect, Ma'am, I don't see what that's got to do with anything.'

'Oh don't be so pompous, Tony. We both know what he did to you, and he's going to be all over the papers for the next few weeks at least. Jo Dalgliesh'll have a new edition of her book out before the end of the month, you can count on that. You might think you've buried the past and moved on, but it's going to come back with a vengeance now.'

'So that's it then. Who do I hand over to, Dagwood? You do want us to catch whoever did this, don't you?'

'What is it with you two? Charles is an experienced detective with a very good clear-up rate. And yes, he will be in overall charge of this investigation. But I know you well enough, Tony. You'll just go sticking your nose in it anyway. Make a bloody nuisance of yourself. And we're not exactly overburdened with detectives right now, so you're going to be leading things on the ground.' She smiled, but McLean knew she was only half joking. 'Talking of short staff, I've put the word out around the other forces. See if anyone fancies a transfer to sunny Edinburgh. Do it that way and we can squeeze a couple of detective constables out of the budget. Maybe even a sergeant.'

'We could certainly do with the help.' McLean looked at the pile of case files strewn across his untidy desk; enough work to keep him busy for months. Just a pity the city kept on throwing up new crimes for him to solve.

'I know you like to work with just a small team, Tony, but this is high profile. Like you said, nasty similarities to the Christmas Killer. We need to be seen to be doing everything we can.' McIntyre stood up, smoothing imaginary creases from her suit. 'We all know what Anderson did to you. Are you sure you want to rake over all that again?'

McLean tried to read the superintendent's expression. Was it pity, or worry? He wasn't sure he wanted either.

'This isn't Anderson, Ma'am. He's dead. I watched them bury him yesterday.'

*

Gladhouse reservoir wasn't much better in the early morning light. Snow clung to the flanks of the Moorfoot Hills, a chill wind bringing a taste of deep winter. McLean looked at the unenthusiastic gaggle of uniforms that were all he'd been able to rustle up from Penicuik and Mortonhall. He couldn't really blame them; it was very unlikely they'd find anything after last night's weather.

'Okay ladies, you know the drill.' Grumpy Bob directed officers away in various directions, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets. 'Bloody hell but it's cold, sir.'

McLean shivered in agreement. 'Let's get out of this wind, Bob.' He nodded in the direction of the culvert. 'I want to start where we found the body.'

It was much the same as the evening before, only without the star attraction, removed to the mortuary to await the attentions of the pathologists. McLean clambered down the rickety staging that had been jury-rigged out of the bits and bobs lurking in the back of the SOC van, then inched out onto the platform above the water. More rain overnight had swollen the flow, threatening to flood the boarding and soak his feet, but he squatted down anyway, trying to remember the scene as it had been.

'She was splayed out like this,' he began to say, then realised that he was alone on the platform. Looking around and up, he saw Grumpy Bob's face peering back down at him from the safety of the bank.

'If you think I'm coming down there, sir...'

McLean shook his head, then grabbed at the ladder as the platform swayed dangerously. He waited for the motion to steady, watching waves slop over the wooden board, tried to imagine the scene as it had been the night before. Where the girl had lain, water gurgled down the grating into some dark underworld.

'You reckon it's worth getting divers in, sir?' Grumpy Bob asked from above. 'Maybe see if anything's stuck down there?'

McLean took one last look around, then clambered back up the ladder. 'There's no point, Bob. She was naked when she was dumped. And if the killer did drop anything, it's in the Firth of Forth by now. Still...' He looked around the woods, back up to the roadside hidden up the bank and through the bushes. And then he saw the bridge.

'What is it, sir?' Bob asked, but McLean was already off, pushing his way through the sodden undergrowth, slipping on the muddy ground as he scrabbled up the steep slope towards the road. Stupid. The culvert took the water from the reservoir on the other side. There had to be a bridge. Why the hell hadn't he thought of it before?

By the time Grumpy Bob had caught up with him, McLean was under the road, perching on a thin strip of concrete beside the rushing water. He fished around in his pocket for a torch, playing the narrow beam first over the far bank, then around his feet, and finally into the flow itself.

'Jesus, I'm soaked through. What the hell are you up to sir?' Grumpy Bob wheezed into the narrow space, running a hand through his thinning hair as if that would make it any drier. McLean ignored him, trying to see the shapes distorted by the roiling flow. There was definitely something down there.

'Grab my hand, Bob.' He poked the end of the torch into his mouth and reached out for the old sergeant. Then he took it out again and added: 'and hold onto something secure with your other one?'

The water was icy cold, tugging at his trouser bottoms and filling his shoes. McLean ignored it, leaning as far forward as he dared before plunging his arm in. His fingers numbed almost instantly, but he could feel the rough outline of the concrete sloping away from him. Then the iron loop, rusted chain links caked in green weed, and finally, the flash of white his torch had illuminated.

'You got that pocket knife of yours Bob?'

'Aye.'

'Well pass it over then.'

'Ah. That would mean letting go of the bridge, sir.'

'Trust me, Bob. It's not going anywhere.'

Grumpy Bob grumbled something McLean couldn't quite make out over the echoing roar of the culvert. There was a heart-stopping moment when he thought he was going to pitch head-first into the flow, and then the knife was passed over.

'Grab my coat. I'm going to need both hands.'

'You know we could have a diver out here in half an hour, sir,' Bob said, but McLean felt the reassuring pressure around his chest. He leant forward again, this time putting both hands into the water. It took a moment to find what he was looking for, longer still to get the knife to cut through. The water was flowing so strongly he nearly dropped his prize, grabbing at it with sausage fingers and hauling it out like a tickled trout. Taken by surprise, Grumpy Bob fell over and in the confined space they both ended up on their backsides.

'Ah, bastard. I've got a damp arse now. What the hell was that all about?'

McLean sat on the wet concrete, his back against the arch of the bridge and said nothing. Just looked at the pale white plastic strap lying in his hand. Fresh and clean, not covered in green algae like everything else. A heavy duty cable tie not unlike the ones that were replacing handcuffs these days. He handed it to the old sergeant to shut up his grumbling.

'I'll lay good odds there's another one like that on the other side,' he said after a while, and pulled an evidence bag out of his damp pocket. Grumpy Bob dropped the cable tie in and took the bag, sealing it up as he stood stiffly.

'You'll no' mind if I phone that diver now.'

~~~~

11

McLean left Grumpy Bob to oversee the rest of the search and hitched a lift back into town in a squad car. Even with the heating up full and blowing into the foot well, his feet were still sodden by the time he made it to the station. He squelched uncomfortably up to his cold office, wondering whether he could spare the time to go home and change. The stack of reports piled up on his desk answered that question.

He banged on the radiator a couple of times in the vain hope that abuse might make it do the job it was supposed to. Come summer no doubt it would be blasting out heat, but now it remained in a cold sulk.

'Sod you then.' He squeezed around his desk and sunk into the creaky chair, checking the stack of reports in case they were ones he had already dealt with. Well, it was worth a try. The top one was a summary of last night's fire, prepared by Constable MacBride. A green post-it note stuck to it read: 'No joy with Mis-Per. Dr C phoned. PM at 4.30.' It had originally been '4.30 pm' but for some reason the constable had crossed the pm out. Probably reasoning that it was unnecessary. McLean looked at his watch; a quarter to ten and there was bugger all he could do about the dead girl. They didn't know who she was, where she'd come from, when she'd gone missing. Nothing. Just a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach matching the chill in his feet.