The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(104)
McLean paused as they crossed the chapel. ‘We need to secure this. It’s a crime scene.’ His voice was little more than a croak. DS Ritchie leant against the wall by the door back to the house, panting.
‘With respect, sir, f*ck the crime scene. We need to get out of here before the whole place explodes.’
As if to underline her point, a dull thwump echoed from the tunnel, followed by a roar that rose in tone as it rose in volume. Brain addled by lack of oxygen, it took McLean long moments to realise what was happening. Then the hidden door in the wood panelling disintegrated in a ball of flame. Splinters stung his face and the force of the blast knocked him to the ground. He crawled over to the doorway as flames started to eat away at the wooden plaques and the eagle lectern.
‘You’re right, sergeant. Fuck the crime scene.’
They leant on each other for support, struggling up the stone stairs, first to the basement and then to the hall. The acrid smell of smoke was everywhere, even in the hallway. And overlaid on top of it was that horrible rotten-egg gaseous smell. McLean tried to place it, but his brain was too addled to make any sense. Marsh gas? Broken sewers?
The air outside was a blessed relief, cold and sweet and pure. The two of them struggled across the gravel to the car, still no sign of the promised back-up, or the air ambulance. They’d only gone halfway when a huge explosion shattered the calm. McLean turned, seeing a great black cloud rising from the site of the ironworks. Then there was an odd whistling noise, like a train coming out of a tunnel at full speed, and the whole front entrance to Needy’s house blew open in a gout of flame. Windows shattered, firing razor shards of glass out across the driveway.
Both of them were knocked to the ground. McLean ended up face-down in the gravel, clinging on as if he were about to fall off the world. His head rang with the explosions, the heat, the onset of concussion. But slowly, as the winter chill eased his burns and the vertigo ebbed away, he began to hear the wail of distant sirens and the reassuring whup whup whup of an approaching helicopter.
66
He walks down the street the same as he did almost every day for two years. It was part of his beat, part of the regular rhythm of the job. But today is different. He hasn’t worn the uniform for a while now, and in his absence this part of the city has changed. At first he’s worried as he sees the new coffee bars and expensive fashion boutiques. Perhaps the shop he seeks is no longer there. So much is different now that the parliament is being built; the old order demolished to make way for the new.
But it is there still, the little shop with its neat green paint and tinted windows. Some things will always hold out against the march of progress, and that is good. He pushes open the door, hears the tinkle of the bell and glances up at the movement of it jangling on its little spring. Nods in approval; the shop has the right feel to it.
Not all the books are old, but none of them are new. He runs his fingers down their spines as he walks through the line of shelves towards the little counter at the back. The shopkeeper greets him with a friendly smile. He’s an old man, with a trustworthy face.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A trustworthy voice, too. Warm and relaxing.
‘I’m looking for a gift, actually.’ He’s embarrassed a little, but the old man’s smile wins him over. ‘It’s for my fiancée. We’re getting married in the spring.’
‘My congratulations, sir. And did you have anything particular in mind?’
‘Well, this might seem a little stupid. But she’s a junior doctor. Just graduated. And I thought maybe some old medical text. You know, something from a time when they used leeches and cupping and stuff. I thought it would be ...’ He tails off. Spoken aloud, the idea seems almost insulting. These are valuable books, after all. They need to be cherished and protected. Not the sort of thing you give on a whim.
‘But what a splendid gift.’ The shopkeeper’s smile notches up another inch. ‘And so appropriate. Of course, there are doctors today who still subscribe to both cupping and leeches. But a memento of a time when medicine was raw and experimental. Yes, splendid.’
And then everything is fine. The shopkeeper knows the very thing, and it’s reasonably priced too. Not in the shop at the moment, but if he could take some details, he’ll be in touch just as soon as he’s retrieved it from his store.
He leaves the shop with a spring in his step. She’s normally so difficult to buy presents for, but she’ll love this. He just knows it.
67
It was going to take more than twenty-four hours’ rest and a change of clothing to make McLean feel fully human again. For a start his face and hands felt like he’d been on holiday in the Costa del Sol for a fortnight and forgotten to pack the sun cream. And there was the nagging sense of unreality about it all, too. He’d heard about anoxia and the strange hallucinations it could bring on, but knowing that didn’t make it any easier to accept.
‘You were in here when it started? Jesus, inspector. What the hell happened?’
McLean snapped out of his reverie, remembering where he was, and with whom. Jim Burrows, the fire investigator, was surveying the steaming remains of what had once been the McMerry Ironworks. There wasn’t much left of the vast building; the roof had burned out completely, and half of the walls had collapsed. From where they stood on the edge of the debris field, McLean could see the stumps of the great iron pillars that had held up the wooden rafters, black with soot and piled all around with rubble. To the rear of the building, a team of firemen were slowly clearing a path, searching for bodies.