The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (35 page)

'Umm, will they tell us that, sir? I mean, patient confidentiality and all that?'

'Probably not, no. But if you can persuade them to let you know if anyone's come to them, it might help us narrow down our location. Try the GPs first, and let them know it's a murder enquiry.'

'OK, sir.' MacBride reached for the computer mouse. 'I take it this needs doing now.'

'Or sooner. Why, what else were you working on?'

'Those fire sites. You were right, you know. Well, the ones I've managed to trace back so far. They're all linked to an outfit called the Guild of Strangers. I've not had much of a chance to work out who they were, but I'm guessing they were one of the merchants guilds. You know, back in the sixteenth century.'

'Strangers were normally what merchants and craftsmen who weren't members of guilds were called,' McLean said. 'I've never heard of them forming their own guild.'

'Me neither. I was going to ask my uncle. He knows everything there is to know about Edinburgh history.'

'How many sites have you traced back?'

'Four so far. It's not easy getting hold of the title deeds, and even those don't always go back that far.'

Four out of twelve, few enough to just be a coincidence. And even if it wasn't a coincidence, McLean wasn't sure what he could do with the information. It wasn't as if the Guild of Strangers was still active, and even if it was, why would it be torching its old sites? And how?

'That's good work, constable. And take it up with your uncle when you see him next. But now we need to get onto those doctors. Our killer's had his nose broken since last Thursday, and I want to know where he had it fixed.'

~~~~

51

The phone buzzing on his desk interrupted McLean's frustrated attempts to tame some of the paperwork in his office. Without the little slip of card that identified which internal line it was, he had no way of knowing who was calling. No doubt there was another nutter at the front desk and he'd drawn the short straw again.

'McLean.' He tried to keep the irritation from his voice, just in case.

'If you've got a moment, Tony, could you pop up to my office?' Chief Superintendent McIntyre didn't react to his grumpiness, but he could tell by her tone that it wasn't so much an invitation as an order.

'I'll be right up, ma'am.' No point in asking what it was about. He left the paperwork to go on breeding and hurried to the top floor.

McIntyre's door was always open, but she wasn't alone when he knocked on the door frame. Matt Hilton grinned up at him from one of the uncomfortable armchairs.

'I figured you'd forgotten your appointment, Tony,' McIntyre said. 'Matt say's you're doing well, but I don't think he's ready to give you the green light just yet. And this new case... well.'

'I... I'm fine. Really.' It sounded like denial even to him, but McLean felt he had to say something.

'Then I won't have much to do, will I.' Hilton smirked. There was no other way to describe the frog-like grin on his face.

'Do? What do you mean?'

'I think you know what I mean, Tony.' McIntyre got out of her seat, glanced at her watch and then at Hilton. 'Forty minutes enough, Matt?'

'For now, Jayne. Plenty.' The psychologist finally stood up, but instead of leaving the room, he motioned for McLean to take the other uncomfortable armchair.

'Just go with it, Tony,' McIntyre said. 'Matt really is here to help.' She patted him once on the shoulder, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

'Do we have to do this just now?' McLean asked. 'I'm really very busy.'

Hilton didn't answer, just settled himself into one of the leather armchairs. 'Please, Tony, sit.'

Unsure what else he could do, McLean complied.

'So you still think I'm going nuts,' he said.

'Well, are you?'

'No.'

'You seem very sure of that.' Hilton slumped back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other at the knee and pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket. Unlike the earlier session, he had, as far as McLean could see, nothing to write on. Instead he clicked absentmindedly at the top. Open, closed. Click, click. It was a trick McLean had used himself during interviews; he knew better than to say something just to get the man to stop.

'Let's recap, shall we? You've been under a lot of strain recently,' Hilton said after a while. 'What with Anderson's death, your house burning down. Your Grandmother dying, too. Not that long ago, and she pretty much raised you since you were a bairn. Now these two... no, three murders. Tell me, Tony. How do you feel about these things happening to you?'

McLean shrugged. 'I don't know. Pissed off mostly. Look, I'm pretty sure we covered all this. I really haven't got the time...'

'Interesting. And that's why you argue with Detective Chief Inspector Duguid is it?'

Ah, so it was Dagwood who'd said something. No doubt to the DCC rather than McIntyre. Well, it made sense.

'I argue with the DCI when I think he's doing something wrong, Hilton. And when he bullies my junior officers.'

'Please, call me Matt. So you're very protective of your team then? You consider them your family?'

McLean thought of Grumpy Bob crashing on his spare bed after a heavy night. 'Not particularly. I just find that I get better results with a kind word than by shouting. Call it different man-management styles.'

Hilton smiled and resumed clicking his pen.

'You worked Christmas Day this year,' he said. 'And all the way through to today in fact. Despite being told to take Boxing Day off.'

'I was planning on having tomorrow instead.'

'I've checked the records.' Hilton continued as if McLean had not said anything. 'Apparently you always work Christmas and New Year. Why's that, Tony?'

'Someone has to. I've not got any family, as I'm sure you know. Might as well be here and let some other poor sod go home to his wife and kids.'

'That's very... noble. Are you sure there isn't any other reason? Something you don't want to admit to yourself, perhaps?'

'What could you possibly mean, Hilton?' McLean looked him straight in the eye, fought to keep his voice level and calm, his rising anger under control. Stress he could cope with; counselling was another matter entirely. 'Like the fact that it was Hogmanay when I found my fiancée's dead body floating naked in the Water of Leith? I told you last time. I've had more than ten years to come to terms with that, and you know what? It's not nearly enough. Call it a work in progress.'

The pen clicking had stopped, but Hilton held McLean's stare. 'How did it feel when you learnt of Anderson's death? I'd imagine that must have been hard to take. I mean, that's it. He's dead. You can't ever have your revenge on him.'

'Did you use this technique when you were counselling Anderson? Only it seems a little, I don't know, unorthodox?'

'I never counselled Anderson, Tony. You know that.'

'Oh? You testified in court that he was insane. You spent enough time with him to work that out, and yet you never tried to help him?'

'Anderson didn't want helping. You're very like him in that respect, you know.'

McLean ignored the barb. He'd smelled Hilton's discomfort and was enjoying the sensation. 'It doesn't say much for your professional curiosity, does it though? I mean, weren't you even interested in his motive? You must have asked him about his precious book.'

'It's not unusual for a murderer to shift the blame for his actions onto an inanimate object. Anderson's fixation on his book was notable only for the richness of his fantasy. But then he was a well-read man, he was fluent in many ancient languages. I've never met someone with such broad knowledge. And antiquarian books were his speciality, after all.'

'Sounds to me like you rather admired him.'

Hilton almost replied, then stopped himself, a slight smile playing across his thin lips. 'I believe we were talking about your revenge.'

'No, you were. But if it makes you any happier, I had my revenge when I put the bastard away.'

'And yet you still went up to Aberdeen to witness his funeral. What was that about? Wanted to make sure he was really dead?'

'I told you before, it was a burial; they're not the same thing. Like I said the last time, perhaps I was looking for closure.' McLean managed a smile.

'And did you find it?'

'Not really, no. What's done is done. I can't change the past.'

'That must be very frustrating for you.'

'Not half as frustrating as being stuck here being asked the same stupid questions over and over again when I should be trying to track down a murderer. So if you don't mind, Hilton, I really think I ought to be getting back to that.'

McLean stood up, half expecting the psychiatrist to try and stop him. They'd been talking less than ten minutes; nothing like the forty he'd been expecting to have to endure. But Hilton simply nodded, clicking his pen top and smiling that irritating, knowing smirk.

'Of course. But I want to have another chat with you soon, Tony. I'll be the one to decide when these sessions can stop. There are still unresolved issues you need to address.'

Unresolved issues, McLean thought as he slammed open the superintendent's door, scaring her secretary Janice. Too bloody right.

~~~~

52

Father Anton was waiting at the gates when McLean walked up the street on his way home, still fuming at the short counselling session with Hilton. He couldn't really blame the superintendent for the way she'd bounced him into it. He knew damned well that if she'd told him beforehand he'd have found an excuse not to be there. Well, he'd have plenty of opportunities to stand up the good doctor in the future, no doubt.

'There's been another murder,' the old man said by way of greeting. McLean wasn't surprised when he fell into step beside him, heading up the long gravel drive to the house.

'How'd you know?'

'It was on the television news. The reporter said a body had been found in a millpond. They showed Anderson's picture. He looked much older than I remember him.'

They reached the back door and McLean went in, beckoning the old ex-monk to follow him. Mrs McCutcheon's cat sat on the counter next to the stove and eyed both of them warily as they entered the kitchen.

'If you're looking for answers then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with the public.' McLean filled the kettle then put it on the stove to boil. Father Anton meanwhile took his usual chair at the kitchen table. It seemed almost as if the old man had moved in, and McLean couldn't quite remember the number of times he'd been to visit.

'I'm not the one looking to have questions answered, inspector.'

McLean stopped mid way between taking the jar with the teabags in it out of the cupboard, his hand still in the air as he turned to face the monk. 'Is there something you want to tell me. Something you know about the case?'

'I've already told you, inspector. It's the book. Someone has it. No, that's not the right way of putting it. It has someone in its grip. Just like it had Donald Anderson in its grip. Once it had taken his soul.'

Groping blindly for the tea, McLean knocked a couple of boxes out of the cupboard and had to spin around to catch them. 'Look, I know Anderson was a nasty piece of work. I know someone's mad enough and evil enough to copy what he did. And I know there's a book involved. But it's not some magical medieval text. It's a shitty little piece of tabloid journalism by a hack called Joanne Dalgliesh.'

He slammed the tin with the tea in it down on the counter with enough force to startle the cat. It was the first time in a couple of days that he'd thought about Dalgliesh and her bloody book. But that was the cause of it, surely. That was how the man who had killed Audrey Carpenter, Kate McKenzie and Trisha Lubkin had started his sick fantasy. If Matt Hilton wanted a reason for McLean's lack of closure it was there, hardbound and with a glossy photograph of a dead murderer on its cover. Just a pity that there was a copy of it in almost every house in the country.