The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (38 page)

‘Don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched.’ This voice was plainly that of a woman, but the accent was rich, plummy, English. Not Emma’s gentle Aberdeen brogue.

‘Please, I can’t find her. Has anyone seen her? She was just here.’ A child’s voice, thick with anxiety. Emma’s twitching was more pronounced now, almost a fit, and still the cat sat quietly, as if this were something that happened every day. McLean knelt down beside her, but still seemed unable to reach out and touch.

‘You have to help her, Tony. Bring her back and let us go.’ This voice shocked him to the core. It was a voice he knew as well as his own; a voice he’d not heard in over a decade. The voice of a young woman dead before her time.

‘Kirsty?’

At the word, Emma went stiff, knocking the book to the floor. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat rose up on its legs, fur prickling as if someone had passed a thousand volts through it. McLean could only watch as Emma arched her back, her head twisted further than it should surely go. He struggled to reach her, putting all his force into moving his arm.

‘You cannot save her. I have her soul. She is mine.’ This voice was old, deep. It wired itself straight into the fear centres in McLean’s brain. The cat screeched now, wide mouth showing sharp white needle teeth. It looked for all the world like it was going to leap, attack Emma, scratch
out her eyes, and as his focus shifted from her to it, so he felt his limbs lighten. The pent-up energy he hadn’t realized he was exerting released and he sprung forward at the same instant as the cat, catching it in mid-air. Then gravity took over and the two of them fell on top of Emma in a tangle of arms and teeth and claws.

‘Oww. What are you doing?’

Emma struggled up from under McLean, awake now and speaking in her own voice. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat shot from his grasp like a bar of wet soap in the shower, disappearing into the shadows so quickly it bounced off the trunk, sending the mug of tea toppling. The crash of shattering china broke whatever spell had fallen, bringing with it the muted roar of the city back into the room. He pushed himself away, sitting down on the floor as Emma shuffled herself upright and yawned.

‘What was all that about?’

McLean looked up at her, hair tousled from sleep. For the briefest of moments she was the Emma he remembered, and then the little-girl-lost expression settled back down over her face like a veil.

‘You were talking in your sleep.’

‘Was I? Oh. There were people all around me. So many people all trying to get my attention.’ She scanned the room, craning her neck to see behind her as if looking for them. ‘I can’t see them.’

‘It was just a dream. You’re awake now. It’ll be fine. You’ll be OK.’ McLean reached out and took Emma’s hand, patted it like he would a child’s. That, increasingly, was what he seemed to be dealing with.

Jenny Nairn was stuffing her book and writing pad into an old leather satchel when McLean entered the kitchen ten minutes later, cradling the shards of broken mug in one hand. She almost jumped when she saw him, but covered her surprise well.

‘I was just getting ready to go out.’ A frown crossed her face. ‘You’re still OK with me having the evening off, aren’t you.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ McLean dropped the broken pottery into the bin, then pulled out a chair, dropped into it.

‘That’s good. I’ve booked a taxi. Wouldn’t want to have to cancel.’

‘No, you’re fine. Could do with another cup of tea though. Bloody cat knocked that one over.’

Jenny gave him a wry grin as she put the kettle on the Aga. ‘I’m a carer, you know. Not a domestic.’

McLean struggled to his feet, heading for the cupboard where the mugs lived. ‘You’re right, sorry. I can get my own tea.’

‘Sit down. I’m only joking.’

He did as he was told, grateful for the small rest. Already the incident up in the attic was fading away. True, it had been unsettling, but he’d just imagined those voices, surely. And Emma had always talked in her sleep. At least, he thought she had.

‘I really should spend more time with Em. Sometimes it feels like I’m never here.’

‘You finally noticed.’

‘You could say that. More someone just shoved it in my face today.’ He rubbed at eyes sore and tired. ‘Times like
this I feel like I could sleep for a week, wake up and it’s all gone away.’

‘Only problem is it never does. Go away that is.’

‘How does someone so young get to be so wise?’

‘Who says I’m young?’ Jenny poured boiling water from the kettle into the waiting tea pot, set it down on the kitchen table. ‘But I’ll take the compliment in the spirit it was intended.’

McLean watched as she fetched mugs and milk, wondered whether he’d be chancing his arm asking her to get out the biscuits while she was at it. After Emma’s strange turn in the attic he felt completely drained; the final straw in a monumentally shitty day.

‘Don’t forget Em’s got an appointment with Eleanor tomorrow morning.’ Jenny poured tea into his mug as if she’d known him all her life. McLean found it hard to care about the curious old tradition his grandmother had insisted on, that you couldn’t pour tea in someone’s house unless you’d known them at least seven years. He just wanted his drink, wasn’t really fussed how he got it. He’d have liked a biscuit too, but right now moving was too much effort. When had he got so tired?

‘I don’t suppose there’s any way you could take her for me?’

Jenny leaned her back against the Aga, her own mug of tea clasped in her pale, skinny hands. The smile was gone. ‘You think that’s a good idea?’

He shook his head. ‘Probably not. I just really don’t fancy sitting in on another session. The last one didn’t go so well.’

‘Only because you forgot to turn your phone off. Look, Tony. Emma needs you in there with her.’

‘Does she really? Half the time I just fall asleep. I feel like I’m getting in the way.’

‘You’re not. Trust me on that.’ Jenny fell silent a moment, as if in deep thought, then added: ‘Why did you do it? Take her in?’

McLean slumped in his chair. He didn’t have the energy for this. Jenny just stared at him, her silence demanding the question be answered.

‘We had something. Before … Well, before. She’s got no one else.’

Still the silent stare.

‘And yes, dammit. I feel like it’s my fault she’s the way she is. I need to do everything I can to try and put it right.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere. So doing everything means throwing your money at the problem. ’Cause that’s what it sounds like when you pay me to take your girlfriend to her therapy sessions.’

‘I …’ McLean started to speak, realized his mouth was open, closed it with an audible click. It was never easy to admit when someone else was right and he was wrong. Jenny’s words had raised questions he’d been avoiding for months now; ever since he’d found Emma unconscious, shackled to that dirty bed in Needy’s underground chapel. Yes, they’d had a relationship then, Emma and him, but it had only been for a few months. More off than on, if he was being honest. And yet as soon as she’d been taken from him he’d felt like his world had collapsed. Was that because he loved her? Or because of what had happened
before, with Kirsty? Christ, it was no surprise he’d lived alone for so long. Life was much easier that way.

The crunching of gravel under tyres outside broke through the whirl of thoughts, any that might have stuck around chased off by a car horn destroying the quiet.

‘That’ll be my taxi.’ Jenny pushed herself away from the Aga, put her mug down and grabbed her bags. ‘Think about it, Tony. You feel responsibility for Emma? Go talk to her. Spend some time with her. Help her yourself, don’t pay others to do it for you.’

And without another word, she was gone.

39

I walk the drab city streets, scenting the air like a predator. It is not meat I hunt, but the much sweeter taste of hopelessness and despair. There is so much, each person wrapped in their own little aura of gloom. Sometimes it is hard to know where to start, but tonight my trail is clear. The sickly smell of a soul in turmoil guides me to my prey.

On the outside she is carefree, confident, happy even. But the spirit can see through to her core. The spirit knows the secrets of her heart. The failure, the fear, the darkness that has dogged her all her days. The spirit sees her true nature, and through it I know her too.

The world is so much brighter when the spirit enters me. People glow with an inner fire, and everything is pin sharp. I know no doubt when he is with me; anything is possible. I work my way through the crowd, chatting occasionally, charming people, laughing. It’s so easy.

‘You come here often?’ Sure, it’s corny. A cliché even. But that’s why it works. She looks up, gives me a weary little smile. Contact.

The bar is dark, intimate. Not so noisy that you can’t talk, but not so quiet that you can be easily overheard. I buy wine, and she comes with me to my favourite little alcove. I knew she would, even without the spirit guiding me. She is hungry for the happiness of others, clings to it in weary desperation.

She comes here every week, regular as clockwork. I know this because she tells me so, in her soft, bubbly voice. But I also know it because I’ve watched her for months now, sensing the misery in her, waiting for the spirit to come to me. Waiting for it to confirm what I’d already suspected. We talk of inconsequential things, for that is all she has. Her life has no meaning, and deep inside she knows it. She drinks the wine I have bought her, seeking courage there to admit to the failures that have dogged her. I wait patiently, the spirit coiling behind my eyes. The moment will come. Soon.

She reaches for her glass, then pauses, leans forward. Her hand slips uncertainly across the narrow table, gently brushing my own. At that touch, the spirit surges within me. I have been looking down, demure, but now I catch her gaze, hold it with my own. Her pupils dilate, a shock of electricity between us as I grasp her hand firmly in mine. Then the spirit leaps from me, fills her with its promise. She does not resist, knows that this is the fate she has been seeking. I feel a thrill of anticipation shiver through me.

‘You are mine!’

40

McLean watched from the leathery comfort of the sofa as Doctor Austin conducted yet another hypnotherapy session with Emma. Once more, Dave had brought him a cup of rich, black coffee, but rather than savouring it, this time he’d downed it in one. The taste still lingered in his mouth and the caffeine was keeping him at least partly awake.

‘Breathe in. Hold. And out. In. Hold. And out.’ The Doctor’s voice rose on each ‘in’, kept the same tone for the hold, then dropped with the ‘out’, rising and falling like waves. It was all but impossible not to get sucked in to the same breathing pattern, but he did his best.

Across the room, Emma sat ramrod straight in her high-backed armchair. She was so thin, she almost disappeared into the dark depths, her pale face framed by her black hair. It had grown since she had woken from her coma, and she’d shown no great desire to get it cut. Now it hung below her shoulders in sharp contrast to the short, spiky chaos she’d worn when first they had met.

‘Now, we’re going back in time. Just like we did before. Breathe in. Hold. And out.’

Something had changed in the room. McLean couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. The air wasn’t noticeably colder, but he had a feeling that it should be. He looked across to the door through to the reception room and
Dave. It hadn’t opened, and neither had the window. Yet there was a different quality to the air, as if it had been disturbed. As if something invisible had moved through the room.

‘You’re at college in Aberdeen. It’s your first term and you’re meeting new friends. Breathe in. Hold. And out.’

New friends. McLean found himself back in Freshers’ Week, Edinburgh University in the early nineties. He’d made some good friends then, ended up quite by chance sharing digs with a young Phil Jenkins. He probably ought to give Phil a another call some time. Better yet, he could take some time off, fly over and visit. It was many years since he’d last been to the States. Actually, it was many years since he’d last been anywhere overseas. That trip to Iceland where he’d finally summoned up the courage to ask Kirsty if she’d marry him. He’d met her at university, too.