The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) (43 page)

Then there was the mysterious case of the missing Mikhailevic. Of course, nobody had been looking for him; they’d all thought he was dead. But neither had he turned up at work or college, so either he’d done a runner, or he too was swinging in the wind somewhere.

And looming over everything else was the simple fact that he wasn’t supposed to be investigating this any more. He was meant to be sitting in his office, typing up a report that ignored all the complications and drew a line under the point where each case was a simple, tragic suicide. The problem was, his conscience wouldn’t let him do that, even before it turned out they’d mis-identified one of the victims. Now the loose ends were getting tangled and out of control.

McLean glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Another day almost gone, unless you were an inspector, in which case it had hardly begun. MacBride would be needing to get back to the station for shift end though. No overtime on this one.

Almost as if he’d known it all along, McLean’s unfocused gaze shifted and he realized what he’d been staring at. The shop front hadn’t changed at all, still just a small door between a bookmaker’s and a chip shop. The faded sign said ‘Madame Rose: Tarots Read. Fortunes Told.’ Below it, equally faded but somehow something he had missed before, it also said ‘Esoteric and Antiquarian Books.’

‘You go on back to the station, Stuart. It’s near enough knocking-off time anyway.’ McLean unclipped his seatbelt and climbed out of the car just as the traffic started to
move again. MacBride had no time to question his actions before the car behind started tooting its horn in irritation at the added microseconds of delay. ‘See you tomorrow. Briefing at eight, OK.’

The shop door creaked like something from the BBC special effects department. McLean wondered how much business was coming this way. Not much call for a fortune teller in a time of austerity. As he climbed the stairs, his feet brought up a smell of mould and stagnant air, but the reception room was at least warm. There was no one manning the reception desk though. For a clairvoyant, Madame Rose didn’t seem to have much idea of who was coming to visit, and when.

‘Hello?’ No answer. McLean went to the door that opened onto the consulting room, knocked and then pushed it open. It was empty, but the door on the far side was slightly ajar.

‘Hello? Anyone about?’ This time louder. Still no reply, and then the clumping sound of large feet on loose floorboards.

‘Inspector, what a pleasant surprise!’ Madame Rose burst into the room like a diva, dressed for the part as well. Even at home, it would seem, the transvestite medium preferred to stay in character. Unless she really was a woman. But no. McLean found himself shaking his head. She couldn’t be. He couldn’t be.

‘I was just passing. Thought I might pick your brains about something.’

‘Of course, of course. Any time.’ Madame Rose held the door wide. ‘Come through to my inner sanctum.’

He’d been in the large room at the back of the building before, but it still surprised him just how crowded the space was. There were shelves on every available wall, and a couple free-standing, all filled with old books. Display cabinets heaped one upon another, their contents too dark to see or too strange to fathom. The desk, arranged under the one window so that it at least had some light on it, was covered in papers, small boxes, things McLean had no name for, and cats. It made his own office back at the station look tidy.

‘Perhaps a cup of tea?’ Madame Rose didn’t wait for an answer. McLean was left standing in the middle of the chaos as the medium disappeared through yet another door. He hardly dared touch anything; there was a fragility about the place that put him in mind of old black-and-white slapstick comedies. Picking up a book would surely set something rolling that would knock something over that would startle a cat that would jump up at something else, and the whole place would be destroyed around him. He was still hearing the comedy sound of a metal plate rolling round and round until it clattered to a halt when Madame Rose came back in bearing a tray.

‘Sit, please, Inspector. Don’t mind the cats.’ She, or he, put the tray down on top of the papers and proceeded to pour tea into mugs. McLean found an old armchair with only one occupant, who looked at him with feline hatred before slinking away to join some of its friends. He took his tea, and then sat down.

‘So. You want to pick my brains.’ Madame Rose settled into an armchair close by, not the chair on the other side of the desk where he had expected. ‘About books? Or other matters.’

Faced with the question, McLean wasn’t at all sure. Something had brought him here, though. He remembered a conversation he’d had with Jenny Nairn in the library back at his gran’s house.

‘Probably a bit of both. Book-wise, I was wondering if you’d be interested in cataloguing and valuing my grandmother’s collection. I’ve no idea what’s there, but I suspect some of it’s valuable. I’d pay you for your time, of course.’

‘I’d be happy to.’ Madame Rose beamed a genuinely happy smile. ‘As you may have guessed, there’s not a lot of call for my other talents at the moment. Everybody knows the future’s grim. They don’t want to be told it. I’ll come around tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient?’

‘I’ll most likely be out.’ McLean remembered his shout to DC MacBride about their eight o’clock briefing. ‘Emma will be in, and Jenny. They’ll probably try and help.’

‘Ah yes, Miss Nairn. She’s a strange one. And Emma. How is poor Emma? Improved at all?’

McLean shook his head. ‘That was the other thing I wanted to ask about. Do you know much about regression therapy?’

Madame Rose said nothing for a while, took a very un-ladylike gulp of tea and wiped the moisture from her lips with the back of her hand. Placed the mug on the side of the desk.

‘Is that what you’re trying now? To help Emma get her memories back?’

McLean admitted that it was. ‘I’m not sure it’s working though. We’ve only had a few sessions. Doctor Austin seems to think it’s going well. Can’t say I’ve seen much difference myself. Emma doesn’t seem to respond to hypnosis.’

‘Some people don’t. And I’d be very surprised if Emma did, not in her current state.’ Madame Rose leaned forward in her seat, lowering her voice as if there might be spies listening in. ‘Hypnotic regression can be useful at times, Inspector, but there are dangers inherent in the therapy. You can go back too far, and if you’re not careful, that’s where your patient stays. Correct me if I’m incorrect, but isn’t that Emma’s problem already? She’s already regressed to the little girl she was over twenty years ago? How is regressing her further going to help?’

‘What about hypnotism itself? You know, to stop smoking, stuff like that? Does it really work?’

‘That depends. There’s a lot of charlatans out there peddling cheap cures, but if you’ve got to the point you’re looking for a hypnotist to help you give up smoking, you probably want to quit anyway. It’s a kind of placebo effect.’

‘Always? What about those shows, you know, where they make people in the audience bark like a dog or stand on one leg?’

‘You mean those shows where people pay to be entertained?’ Madame Rose left the question hanging for a while, then added: ‘But that’s not what you’re trying to ask really, is it, Inspector?’

‘I don’t know. It sounds silly saying it. But when Emma was being hypnotized, it was almost as if I was the one – what did you call it? Going under?’

‘I never said hypnotism doesn’t work, Inspector. Just that it doesn’t work on everybody. And in the hands of someone who isn’t well tuned to the spiritual plane, it can easily go wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you’re under hypnosis, you’re suggestible. That’s how it can seem like a good idea to bark like a dog or stand on one leg. You’re open to outside influences, but not just those of the hypnotist. Any perturbation in the ether might influence you. It could be benign and give you a sense of euphoria unlike any you’ve experienced. Or it could be malign. Could take over your soul and drive you mad.’

Madame Rose’s gravelly voice had descended almost to a whisper, and McLean found he had leaned in closer to hear what she was saying. ‘But you don’t have much belief in souls, do you, Inspector? Just like you don’t believe in demons and magic. They don’t fit in with your science, do they.’

McLean stared at the large medium for a moment, a strange idea forcing its way through the mess of thoughts clogging up his mind. ‘What about suicide?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Could you hypnotize someone to commit suicide?’

‘Hypnotize? No.’

‘But you’re saying there are ways you could persuade someone to, say, hang themselves?’

‘Like I said, Inspector. There are forces out there beyond what we perceive as normal. You’ve encountered them before, even if you won’t admit it. I’ve no doubt such demons could drive a person insane, and what is suicide if not the ultimate insanity?’

As her words sank in, more mumbo-jumbo and not quite the useful insight he’d been hoping for, Madame Rose slapped her overlarge hands on her thighs and pushed herself back into the chair. Startled, McLean looked at his watch. Where had the time gone?

‘I’m sorry, I need to get cracking. It’s Jenny’s night off tonight.’

‘Then you’d better not keep her waiting.’ Madame Rose stood, and McLean reflexively followed her cue. ‘But think about what I’ve said, Inspector. And what I told you before. There are forces beyond your understanding. You’ve seen them in action, dealt with them in your own haphazard way.’

‘There’s a rational explanation for everything, however bizarre.’ Even as he said it, McLean knew he didn’t really believe it.

‘Sometimes the rational is irrational Inspector.’ Madame Rose led him out of the room, back the way he had come in. ‘You of all people should know that.’

45

She’s happy for the first time she can remember. The drink’s got something to do with that; more wine than she’s been able to afford in far too long. But there’s something else, too. A fuzziness that has nothing to do with alcohol. As if something had been weighing on her mind for months, possibly years, never quite resolved. Then this evening she made a decision, and everything is fine.

What the decision was, she can’t exactly recall. It’s hard to think about anything but what she’s doing now. Not the job with its endless weirdness. Not her studies that seem to be going nowhere. Not even the crazy infatuation she’s developed with her new boss. She’s not falling in love with him, of course. That would be silly. He’s far older than her, for starters. And taken, as all the best ones are. But he’s fascinating, complex and completely unaware of the maelstrom whirling around him.

Of course, Ellie wasn’t happy when she told her, but then Ellie’s always been the possessive type. Ellie really doesn’t like to share. They might even have had a little argument about that, but nothing serious. And now she’s heading home across the city. Walking, the way she likes to.

It’s dark, as much as the city ever gets dark. This late there’s not so many cars about, and hardly any people. Some fear the city at night, but not her. This is her place.
And anyway, she’s made her decision; she’s not afraid of anything now.

Not even the beast that roars at her from the top of the hill. Its eyes glow with malevolent fire and she can see within it the writhing forms of the people it has already consumed. They scream in agony, lost souls damnation-bound. Unless she can slay the beast, cut open its guts and set them free.

There is no moment’s hesitation. She is in the now and this situation demands action. Fearless, decided, she steps into the path of the onrushing monster.

46

The tinny electronic beep of his phone on its charging stand told him that it was time to get up, but McLean had been awake for a while. Beside him, Emma slept the sleep of a small child, curled up almost foetally, and wearing her heavy fleece pyjamas with the cow print on them. She had a knack for taking up the whole bed, and stealing all the bedclothes. He could ask her not to climb in with him in the wee small hours, but there were times he’d lain awake and listened to her frightened whimpers. Sleep was not a place of solace for her, no escape from whatever monsters plagued her there.