The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (31 page)

He slid the book out of its plastic cover - no longer any need to worry about contaminating evidence. The leather felt curiously warm to the touch, softer than he'd expected.

'I'll get the lights. It's like a dungeon down here.' DS Ritchie headed for the doorway and the bank of light switches. McLean could have told her not to bother; he knew damn fine that only the two tubes worked. But he was happier with her not looking over his shoulder as he laid the book carefully down on the counter and opened it up.

Nothing happened. No demon leapt out to devour his soul. No arcane force tried to suck his soul out. The book was old, that much was plain, and the quality of the illustrations as he carefully turned the pages was undeniable. There were scribbles in the margins, too, in many different inks and hands. The content, however, was largely a mystery, written in close, archaic script with only rudimentary punctuation and appearing to be in medieval Latin. Codex Enterius perhaps, but not The Book of Souls. As if such a thing had ever existed.

'Damn things don't seem to work.' Ritchie flipped the switch up and down a couple of times to no effect.

'Sorry. Should've said. Saved you the bother.' McLean closed the book and his hand fell to the bag containing the thin strip of fabric. All that remained of Kirsty now that the fire had destroyed their home. Without really knowing why, he palmed the bag, slipped it into his jacket pocket. No-one had seen him. No-one need know.

'Found what you're looking for, sir?' Needham limped back into the room, wiping his hands on his trousers.

'Not really. I thought this might have been something else.' He struggled the Codex back into its evidence bag and placed it carefully back into the box

'The Book of Souls perhaps? I told you not to go raking over the past, sir.' Needham whirled a finger round in circles around his temple. 'It messes with your mind, that stuff. I'd've thought you of all people would remember. Those were dark times.'

'You're right Needy. I just, you know. Had to look.'

'Aye, I know Tony.' He tilted the box, peered inside, then at the items strewn over the table. For a moment McLean thought he was going to notice the one missing item, but Needham just shrugged. 'Just be careful, right?'

'Aye' McLean turned back to DS Ritchie. 'So then. I guess it's back to reviewing those interviews.'

'Now?' Ritchie looked nervous. 'What about DCI Duguid?'

'Ah, yes. Him.' McLean looked at the items he had strewn about over the table, then started to put them all back in the box. 'I was hoping you might have forgotten about him.'

~~~~

44

'I thought I made it clear this was important, sergeant.'

Detective Chief Inspector Duguid held court in the middle of the incident room, surrounded by a hubbub of uniforms and plain clothes all trying desperately to look like they were busy. Interrupted, he pretty much ignored McLean, instead fixating on DS Ritchie.

'You've been gone almost an hour. What the hell have you been doing?'

'That's my fault, sir.' McLean stepped up, trying to put himself between the DCI and the sergeant. 'I dragged DS Ritchie down to the evidence store on an errand. I wasn't aware that she'd been reassigned to this investigation. I thought the murders took precedence.'

'Don't get smart with me, McLean. It's thanks to your bloody vague descriptions that we've had to drag everyone in here. If you'd told us about Peter Ayre before...'

'If I'd known that was his name, sir, I'd have told you.' McLean looked past Duguid to the large whiteboard on the far wall. An A3 size colour mug shot of the man in question had been tacked up to it, with several lines of black marker pen arrowing away to hastily scribbled questions and actions. He couldn't read much of it from this far away, but he did see the words 'Search Teams' written large and underlined above what looked like the names of every officer in the station.

'Please don't tell me you've got uniforms sweeping through Leith and Trinity.'

'That's where you said he'd be. We'll find him, then we'll get him to tell us everything he knows about the organisation he's working for.' Duguid looked absurdly pleased with himself. 'Once you confirm that he's our man, that is. We could've caught him already if you weren't so bloody hard to find.'

McLean walked over to the mugs hot, studying the face with feigned intensity. Peter Ayre looked a lot worse here than he had done in the family photo on the mantelpiece back at home. Years of drug abuse had taken the promising school-leaver and shrunken his skin until it clung to his bones like dried leather on a long-dead skeleton. His eyes were black holes, his half-mad grin to the camera showing cracked, brown-stained teeth, some missing. His hair was long, but thin and greasy. Frizzy greying stubble half-hid the yellow acne that pocked his cheeks and chin.

'Well? Is it him?' Duguid barked the question from the centre of the room, and for a moment McLean thought about saying no.

'It's him all right,' he said. Duguid turned straight away to one of his sergeants, ready to set the search in motion. McLean interrupted before he could speak. 'But if you go charging in heavy handed, he'll disappear.'

'Don't be stupid, man. He's a junkie, not a master of disguise.'

'He'll disappear, sir. Or he'll be disappeared. Either he'll find somewhere to lie low, or the people he's working for will make sure we never find him. He'll end up in the foundations of a new building somewhere, or fed to the pigs on some Borders farm.'

'Nonsense, man. We pick up junkies all the time.'

'But you don't send the whole damned station in to find them, sir.' McLean tried his best not to emphasise the title, realising as Duguid's face reddened that he had failed.

'This is my investigation, McLean. Don't presume to tell me how to run it.'

McLean turned away from the gathering storm, casting his eyes over the lists of search teams. He spotted a few names that he recognised, hunted around for the board wiper, then deleted all of them: DS Ritchie, DC MacBride, DS Laird, DC Johnson. He paused for a second, then added PCs Gregg, Houseman and Crowe to his tally.

'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.