The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(100)

‘Sergeant Needham.’ McLean tried to put as much authority in his voice as he could muster. ‘Stand down.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s what it wants. I have to do what it tells me.’

‘What tells you? Who wants you to do this to Emma? She’s your friend.’

‘No friends. Only people who want things from you. Only people who hurt you. Only people who make jokes about you to your face. But it’s different. It understands.’

‘Who understands, Needy? Who are you talking about?’

‘You should know. It talked to you, too. It told me all about you.’ Needham’s eyes had been fixed on McLean’s, but as he talked they kept darting away, towards the lectern and the heavy old book lying open on it.

‘The book?’ The eyes flicked back again, and McLean knew he’d guessed right. ‘You found Anderson’s book? The Book of Souls?’

‘It was there all along, only hiding.’ Needham’s voice steadied slightly. He sounded like he was simply giving an account of a crime he’d solved. He still held the candlestick high though, ready to swing at anyone who came near. ‘Biding its time, it was. Waiting. You don’t know what it’s like, Tony. The voices in your head, the freedom it gives you. There’s no guilt, no pain. Just joy and immortality.’

‘It’s not real, John. There never was a Book of Souls. I should know. I was there, remember. I found Anderson.’

Needy focused his stare on McLean and the madness was back again. ‘You spurned it. You were meant to be next in line but you ignored it. How could you? How—’

‘I think I’ve heard quite enough from you, Sergeant Needham.’

McLean and Needy both turned at the voice, each as surprised as the other. DS Ritchie stood just feet away from Needham, well within range of the candlestick and waving from side to side like a punch-drunk boxer. Blood seeped from a gash at her temple. She had a can of pepper spray in her outstretched hand, and before he could do anything she let Needham have the whole thing in the face.





62





‘Cuff him to the bedpost, I don’t want to take any chances.’

McLean rubbed at his wrists, wincing at the jabbing pains that ran up to the tips of his fingers. Blood stained the arms of his shirt and he hadn’t dared to roll up his sleeves to see what damage Needy’s candlestick had done. At least they weren’t broken, he was fairly sure of that. It hurt way too much.

Ritchie scooped up one of the handcuffs that had been securing Emma to the bed and looped it round one of Needy’s wrists. The sergeant didn’t resist; he was too busy wheezing and puking onto the floor, his face a puffy red mess around his panda eyes. She clacked the other end onto the bedpost as instructed, then bent to pick up Emma.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got her.’ McLean scooped her up, marvelling at how light she felt. She was still unconscious, and as he carried her across the empty chapel, he could see blood matting the back of her head. Needham must have hit her, but why? What had he said in his mad ravings? ‘Only people who make jokes about you to your face.’

‘Oh f*ck. I did this.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘I told her about Trisha Lubkin and the broken nose.’ McLean could almost picture the scene now, down in Needy’s little empire beneath the streets. ‘Emma probably made some joke about it when she saw him yesterday morning. He must have hit her to stop her telling anyone else what she’d seen.’

‘Shit. If she’s been out cold for twenty-four hours ...’ Ritchie didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. They needed to get Emma to a hospital, if it wasn’t already too late.

Ritchie unbolted the front door, letting light flood the hallway as McLean staggered out into daylight with Emma in his arms. It felt like he’d been underground for hours, though in truth it had only been a few minutes. He got Emma over to his car, dismayed to see that back-up had yet to arrive.

Emma’s skin was as white as the cloud-filled sky and twice as cold. He somehow managed to get the passenger door open on the Alfa, and lowered her gently onto the seat, then tilted it back as far as it would go. There was a blanket in the back – one of his grandmother’s. He wrapped her up in it as much to preserve her modesty as anything, then went around to the other side and started the engine, cranked the heater up to full. DS Ritchie came over as he was closing the door to keep the heat in; she was still very unsteady on her feet; light-headed from the blow to her head. Even so, she had her phone in her hand.

‘There’s been a pile-up on the bypass and the traffic’s f*cked big time. Penicuik and Dalkeith are both on their way, and I asked for an air ambulance as soon as possible.’

‘You did good, sergeant. Kirsty. Thanks.’

‘All part of the job, sir,’ Ritchie said, then sank to her knees. McLean caught her before she could fall over completely, helped her into the driver’s seat of his car.

‘I don’t think I’m fit to drive anywhere, sir,’ she said.

‘Just wait there in the warm. Keep an eye on Emma.’ He closed the door gently. ‘I’m going to go back and secure the crime scene. You can let the others know when they get here.’

The air in the basement was oppressively thick as McLean trod lightly down the stone steps to the chapel. Brushing the stone vaulting of the passageway with his hand, it was warm to the touch, not the cold dampness he would have expected. It was almost as if he were in an oven, or the stonework was just a narrow barrier between this evil place and hell itself.