The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (7 page)

He picked up his phone and dialled the CID room. After eight rings he accepted that no-one was going to answer, grabbed the fire report off his desk and went in search of a detective the old-fashioned way.

*

Detective Constable Peter Robertson, newly arrived from Fife Constabulary, was not given much to idle chatter. This suited McLean just fine as they drove south out of town towards the Loanhead offices of Randolph Developments, owners of the site of the previous night's fire. More of a problem was his lack of familiarity with the suburbs and dormitory villages surrounding the capital; he had to be redirected several times before they made it out to Burdiehouse and then on under the bypass.

'You're in bandit country now, constable,' McLean said as he pointed to the turning they needed to take.

'Sir?'

'You never heard of the Border Reivers? Cattle thieves and thugs to a man. They'd cut your throat if you so much as looked at them in a funny way.'

Robertson looked at him with an expression that was hard to read, but which might have been worry. They were spared a more awkward moment by their arrival at the compound where Randolph Developments had their offices. A high wire fence surrounded a desolate wasteland, with a huge old stone building set towards the back of it. The McMerry Ironworks hadn't produced a single ingot in almost half a century; now it was surrounded by portacabins waiting to be taken to other building sites in the city, heavy machinery and stacks of pallet-loaded concrete blocks. All around it, the old industrial land was slowly being reclaimed for modern offices, small factory units and housing.

Set closer to the edge of the compound and the gate they had just entered, the headquarters of the company was an architectural melange of glass and steel, surrounded on three sides by ornamental ponds and exotic shrubs. Edinburgh's economic miracle might have stumbled a bit of late, but it had obviously paid handsomely for some.

An attractive young receptionist took their names, then went off to fetch them coffee whilst they waited in a spacious atrium. After what seemed like only seconds, the far door banged open and a vast man bounced out. He wore red braces over his blue-striped shirt, but the thing that was most noticeable about him was the way his body tapered from the enormous girth of his stomach up to the flat top of his head in an almost straight line. He put McLean in mind of a toy from his childhood: Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.

'Inspector McLean? Hi, I'm William Randolph.' He held out a surprisingly small hand to be shaken. 'Come through to my office, won't you.'

He led them through an open plan area where draughtsmen worked at large flat panel monitors, no doubt drawing the future shape of the city. At the back, a glass wall partitioned off a smaller area dominated by a large desk. Randolph offered them seats on one side before making his way around to the executive chair on the other and dropping himself into it. Leather squealed and springs protested, and for a moment McLean thought the fat man was going to crash to the floor in a tangle of broken office furniture.

'I take it you've come to see me about last night's fire.' Randolph didn't wait to be asked questions. 'Terrible business. I'm just glad no-one was hurt. And those poor people turfed out of their homes so late at night. I've put my PA onto sorting out some kind of recompense for them. Christmas presents for the kiddies, something a bit warmer for the grown-ups. You know the kind of thing.'

'That's very decent of you, Mr Randolph.'

'Decent, nothing. It's self-preservation inspector. There were enough complaints about that development without all this to compound things.'

'Complaints? Do you think anyone was angry enough to set fire to the place?'

Randolph did a passing impression of looking aghast, as if the thought had never occurred to him before.

'I don't know. I guess so. But why? Burning the place down's not going to help. I've seen the damage and frankly the best we can do is demolish the place. Start from scratch.'

'And is that what you wanted all along, Mr Randolph?'

'Ah. I see where you're coming from.' Randolph hauled himself out of his chair and McLean wondered whether he imagined the sigh of relief coming from the crushed leather. The fat man motioned for him to follow as he left the office they'd just entered and walked across the open plan room to the far end. Here a series of detailed models were laid out on separate tables, each showing a Randolph Developments project.

'These are our current works,' Randolph said. 'There's a half dozen in Edinburgh city. These two in Peebles and Biggar, and three sites awaiting planning in Glasgow. Not to mention the ironworks out there. I've got great plans for that. But this...' He reached out and carefully removed the roof from the model of the building McLean had watched burn the night before. Inside were detailed layouts of a couple of large apartments filling the roof space. Beneath that were two further storeys of living space and on the ground floor a swimming pool and gym, all lovingly recreated in miniature. There were even Matchbox Porsches, BMWs and Mercedes parked in the tree-lined yard at the back, but no Alfa Romeos, McLean noticed.

'This was our flagship project, inspector. The site alone cost me two million. I was planning on having the rear penthouse for my own city home. Do you think I'd really want to burn it all down and shove some cheap boxes on the site?'

'I really don't know, Mr Randolph. That's why I'm here. It could all be a dreadful accident, but we've been seeing rather a lot of those in the city these past few months. Two of your other sites included. And I've heard property development's gone tits up recently. Insurance money'd be very useful for a man with cash flow problems.'

'I can see where you're coming from, inspector, but you're wrong. Yes, we had insurance, and I dare say the money will help. But we're not a fly-by-night operation here. We deal in prestigious, luxury developments. Our customer base hasn't really been affected by the credit crunch and our bottom line is quite healthy. I'm quite happy to let you see our accounts, if it helps.' Randolph slowly put the pieces of the model back together, his tiny fingers caressing the top floor apartment with its steel gantry balcony looking out over the car park towards Arthur's Seat. It was clear to McLean that he hadn't torched his own building for the insurance money.

'How far down the line were you with the project then?' He asked.

'We'd done all the preparations, stabilising the foundations and stonework, sorting out the drainage, that sort of stuff. We were about to start taking the floors out. A pity we hadn't done it already, really.'

'Why's that sir?' Detective Constable Robertson asked. McLean noticed he'd been taking notes.

'Because then there'd have been nothing in the place to burn. It's got a concrete ground floor and stone walls. But the floorboards and roof joists are all hundred and fifty year old timber.'

'It was empty last night?' McLean remembered the smoke and angry orange flames. Could all that have come from just floorboards and joists?

'Completely stripped. I went round it in the afternoon with a couple of the lads.' Randolph pointed to two young men working at their computer screens, raising his voice as he added. 'Pat, Gary, the Woodbury Building. The clear-out was finished when we went round yesterday, wasn't it?'

Pat, or possibly Gary, looked up and nodded. 'That's right. Should have been some plant being delivered in the morning, but they called to say it wouldn't be 'til today. Damn, I hope someone's cancelled.' He reached for the phone and began dialling.

'Did anyone else have access to the place yesterday? After you were there?' McLean asked.

'Only old George McGregor. He's the caretaker. Apparently he used to work there when it was still a furniture factory. Mad as a coot, but reliable. You should hear the stories he tells about the place.'

'I will,' McLean said. 'If you'll just tell me where I can find him.'

~~~~

12

George McGregor lived in a tiny basement flat not far from the burned-out Woodbury building. He opened the door a crack when DC Robertson knocked, then spent long minutes peering through manky, scratched spectacles at both detectives' warrant cards before letting them in with obvious grudging. They entered a low-ceilinged, narrow hallway and followed the old man down it to a door that stood open on the right. The sitting-room beyond gained what little light it could from a grimy window that looked out onto a grey concrete wall, street level just visible if you craned your neck. A bare light bulb hung from a short flex in the ceiling, but the old man made no move to switch it on. He shuffled across the room, weaving through piles of books and taped-up cardboard boxes that littered the floor, before dropping himself into a tired old armchair. Clouds of dust puffed out of the worn cloth, bringing with them an odour of long-departed cat.

'So what's it you're wanting?' McGregor didn't offer them a seat, and looking around the room McLean realised he would have been hard put to do so. There was a sofa, wedged into one corner, but it was covered in piles of old newspapers.

'The fire last night,' he said. 'William Randolph tells me you're the caretaker on the site.'

'I didnae torch it.'

'I never said you did, Mr McGregor. I can't see how doing so would help you in any way. I just wanted to ask what time you locked up.'

'Burnt itself. Jes' like all those others.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Was twelve years old when I went tae work in that factory. Proudest day've my life. Old Man Woodbury himself welcomed me. Shook me by the hand an' give me my card. Six years, I was apprentice there. Six years, ye ken. Aye, we learnt our trade back then. No' like today. It's nae wonder the country's goin' tae pot.'

McLean sighed. He knew where this was going.

'Mr McGregor, you were telling us what time you locked up last night.'

'No I wisnae. Do ah look stupit?'

McLean didn't answer that. 'Well, what time was it, then?'

'Back of four. Maybe half past.'

'Why so early?'

'There's nae work going on there the noo. Would've stayed later, if there'd been a delivery or anything. But they postponed.'

'And what time did Mr Randolph leave?'

'Four, mebbe a wee bit earlier. No' much mind.'

'So you didn't hang around.'

'No, no. It's no' a nice place to be after dark. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.'

'Ghosts?'

'Aye, ghosts.' McGregor was warming to his tune now. 'D'ye ken they built that factory in eighteen forty-two. 'Fore that there was a wee close there, wi' a dozen workshops. Folk've been working on that site for more'n five hundred years. It's got history. There's blood in the ground.'

'So you think a ghost set fire to the place, sir?' DC Robertson's question was asked without any hint of sarcasm, but even so McLean winced. He'd met too many crabbit old men like McGregor before.

'Don't be daft, son. There's no such thing as ghosts. No' like you see on the telly.' McGregor nodded towards an ancient wood-veneer box with a shiny round glass bowl on the front of it. Late sixties black and white Rediffusion, if McLean wasn't mistaken, and probably worth a bit to a collector. Most likely the old man had owned it from new.

'But you said...' Robertson started to say, but was cut off by an angry tirade.

'Don't you tell me what I said, son. I'm eighty-two years old an' never took a day off sick in my life, you know. I fought in the war.'

'I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to upset you. We're just trying to understand...'

'You're a Fifer, aren't you laddie. I can tell by your accent. East Neuk if I'm no' wrong.'

'Pittenweem, sir.'

'My Esme was frae 'Struther,' McGregor said, and his face changed, his eyes looked haunted and lost behind his thick, grease-smeared lenses. McLean wondered how long it had been since his wife had died; wondered too if social services were even aware of this half-mad old man living alone in his squalor.

'Mr McGregor.' He hunkered down in the middle of the room so as to be on the same eye-level. 'How do you think the Woodbury building was set alight? You were the last person in there. Could you have left a light on or something?'