The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(101)
He paused at the door; should he have waited for back-up? Why had he come back down here anyway? Needy wasn’t going anywhere, not with a broken nose and a face full of pepper spray. And he was handcuffed to the bed, wasn’t he.
McLean’s hand went unbidden to his pocket, where the handcuff keys were safely stowed. He’d shoved them in there after freeing Emma, he was sure of it. And yet there was nothing but the thin strip of fabric that he’d taken from the evidence store. Kirsty’s dress. A shiver ran down his back, despite the warmth, and an image coalesced in his mind of the key slipping out as he rolled under the bed. He tensed, listening for the faintest sound. It was silent, not the dull background roar of the city bypass, not even the rasping breath of a man with a broken nose and a lungful of pepper spray. Crouching low in self-preservation, McLean edged around the half-open door and into the chapel, crossing as quickly as he could to the old cast-iron bed. A shiny new handcuff hung from the bedstead, one half open, a key protruding from the lock.
Needy was nowhere to be seen.
McLean whirled around, expecting to be attacked, but he was alone. The candlestick still lay on the ground where Needy had dropped it. The smell of the pepper spray hung acrid in the air, hurting McLean’s eyes and tickling the back of his throat. How could Needham have done anything with a face full of that, let alone found the key and freed himself?
A pool of vomit and blood marked where the sergeant had been lying, and sticky wet footprints led away from it. McLean followed them, though they went in the direction of the altar rather than the door. There was no junk piled up at this end of the chapel, just a few wooden pews facing the altar. The walls were lined with delicately carved plaques. Playing Ritchie’s torch over the nearest, McLean could see that it was actually wooden, not the stone he had assumed. It bore an inscription to one Torquil Burroughs, and the next one was dedicated to a Septimus Needham. A particularly ornate plaque read: ‘IN MEMORIAM: ANGUS CADWALLADER – GRAND MASTER OF THE GUILD OF STRANGERS’ and was dated 1666. Beneath it was some Latin McLean couldn’t immediately translate, but it brought a welcome smile to his face. Later, perhaps, he’d be able to point it out to his friend the pathologist, but for now there were more important things to do.
As he shone the torch back down on the floor to try and follow Needy’s footprints, the light flickered once and then died. McLean shook it, but nothing happened. He crossed over to the altar, to grab one of the candles. The eagle-carved lectern was empty. He was sure there had been a book on it earlier, and stooping low he could see that the footprints led first there, then around the back of the altar. Then they disappeared.
He studied the carved panelling behind the altar as best he could in the yellow flickering candlelight, but it was hard to see anything in great detail. Then he noticed that the flame guttered as he moved it past a certain spot. There was a gap in the woodwork, and when he pushed at it, something gave. A door opened up on darkness beyond.
63
‘It is the judgement of this court that you are found guilty of all charges. Namely the abduction, rape and murder of Laura Fenton, Diane Kinnear, Rosie Buckley, Jane Winston, Sarah Chalmers, Sarah Smythe, Josephine English, Henrietta Adamson, Corrine Farquhar and Kirsty Summers.’
The press are back again, filling the courtroom as if it were some cheap theatre. He sits at the front listening as the judge reads out the names, each one a stiletto in his soul. And then the last. Kirsty Summers. His Kirsty. He looks up at the guilty man. No longer the accused, no longer the slightest potential of innocence. Donald Anderson stares back with blank eyes, his face unreadable.
‘There is only one sentence for the crime of murder, and that is life imprisonment. Given the evil nature of your crimes, and since you have shown no remorse for your actions, and indeed have attempted a quite preposterous plea of insanity, I am recommending that you serve a minimum of thirty years with no opportunity for parole before that time. Gentlemen, take the prisoner down.’
The bang of the gavel is a starter pistol for a thousand voices. It is all over, and now the chatter starts. He watches as two policemen lead Donald Anderson away. He is sixty-three years old; he will die in prison. Justice has been served.
It is not enough.
It can never be enough.
64
The blood and vomit footprints dried up after a half dozen steps, but there was no doubting that this was the way Needham had escaped. A gentle breeze fluttered the candle flame so that McLean had to hold his hand out in front of it to stop it going out. Enough light escaped to show a well-built arched tunnel with stone walls and floor. The silence was eerie, as was the unusual warmth of the breeze, as if it were midsummer outside, not the depths of winter. There was a slight brimstone smell, too, and the air felt oddly unsatisfactory, leaving him short of breath. The candle flame was tiny, as if it too were struggling to breathe. He moved slowly, all too aware that even the dim light would mark him out to anyone watching and waiting at the other end, yet still reluctant to extinguish it. After a short while, the passageway stopped at a spiral staircase, climbing up.
Disorientated by the twists and turns of the basement under Needham’s house, McLean wasn’t sure quite where this might bring him. The garage perhaps? Or were there any other outbuildings in the garden? Too late to back out now. He took a step upwards.