The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(12)
‘Didn’t get much sleep, ma’am. We found a body last night. There’s some nasty similarities to Anderson’s MO.’
‘Aye, I heard from Grumpy Bob. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ McIntyre looked around the room for a spare seat, then propped herself on the edge of the desk.
McLean’s heart dropped. ‘You’re giving the investigation to someone else.’
‘I thought about it. God only knows, you’ve enough on your plate right now with Anderson being killed.’
‘With respect, ma’am, I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’
‘Oh don’t be so pompous, Tony. We both know what he did to you, and he’s going to be all over the papers for the next few weeks at least. Jo Dalgliesh’ll have a new edition of her book out before the end of the month, you can count on that. You might think you’ve buried the past and moved on, but it’s going to come back with a vengeance now.’
‘So that’s it then. Who do I hand over to, Dagwood? You do want us to catch whoever did this, don’t you?’
‘What is it with you two? Charles is an experienced detective with a very good clear-up rate. And yes, he will be in overall charge of this investigation. But I know you well enough, Tony. You’ll just go sticking your nose in it anyway. Make a bloody nuisance of yourself. And we’re not exactly overburdened with detectives right now, so you’re going to be leading things on the ground.’ She smiled, but McLean knew she was only half joking. ‘Talking of short staff, I’ve put the word out around the other forces. See if anyone fancies a transfer to sunny Edinburgh. Do it that way and we can squeeze a couple of detective constables out of the budget. Maybe even a sergeant.’
‘We could certainly do with the help.’ McLean looked at the pile of case files strewn across his untidy desk; enough work to keep him busy for months. Just a pity the city kept on throwing up new crimes for him to solve.
‘I know you like to work with just a small team, Tony, but this is high profile. Like you said, nasty similarities to the Christmas Killer. We need to be seen to be doing everything we can.’ McIntyre stood up, smoothing imaginary creases from her suit. ‘We all know what Anderson did to you. Are you sure you want to rake over all that again?’
McLean tried to read the superintendent’s expression. Was it pity, or worry? He wasn’t sure he wanted either.
‘This isn’t Anderson, ma’am. He’s dead. I watched them bury him yesterday.’
Gladhouse Reservoir wasn’t much better in the early morning light. Snow clung to the flanks of the Moorfoot Hills, a chill wind bringing a taste of deep winter. McLean looked at the unenthusiastic gaggle of uniforms that were all he’d been able to rustle up from Penicuik and Mortonhall. He couldn’t really blame them; it was very unlikely they’d find anything after last night’s weather.
‘OK ladies, you know the drill.’ Grumpy Bob directed officers away in various directions, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Bloody hell but it’s cold, sir.’
McLean shivered in agreement. ‘Let’s get out of this wind, Bob.’ He nodded in the direction of the culvert. ‘I want to start where we found the body.’
It was much the same as the evening before, only without the star attraction, removed to the mortuary to await the attentions of the pathologists. McLean clambered down the rickety staging that had been jury-rigged out of the bits and bobs lurking in the back of the SOC van, then inched out onto the platform above the water. More rain overnight had swollen the flow, threatening to flood the boarding and soak his feet, but he squatted down anyway, trying to remember the scene as it had been.
‘She was splayed out like this,’ he began to say, then realised that he was alone on the platform. Looking around and up, he saw Grumpy Bob’s face peering back down at him from the safety of the bank.
‘If you think I’m coming down there, sir ...’
McLean shook his head, then grabbed at the ladder as the platform swayed dangerously. He waited for the motion to steady, watching waves slop over the wooden board, tried to imagine the scene as it had been the night before. Where the girl had lain, water gurgled down the grating into some dark underworld.
‘You reckon it’s worth getting divers in, sir?’ Grumpy Bob asked from above. ‘Maybe see if anything’s stuck down there?’
McLean took one last look around, then clambered back up the ladder. ‘There’s no point, Bob. She was naked when she was dumped. And if the killer did drop anything, it’s in the Firth of Forth by now. Still ...’ He looked around at the woods, back up towards the roadside, hidden by the bank, and through the bushes. And then he saw the bridge.
‘What is it, sir?’ Bob asked, but McLean was already off, pushing his way through the sodden undergrowth, slipping on the muddy ground as he scrabbled up the steep slope towards the road. Stupid. The culvert took the water from the reservoir on the other side. There had to be a bridge. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it before?
By the time Grumpy Bob had caught up with him, McLean was under the road, perching on a thin strip of concrete beside the rushing water. He fished around in his pocket for a torch, playing the narrow beam first over the far bank, then around his feet, and finally into the flow itself.
‘Jesus, I’m soaked through. What the hell are you up to, sir?’ Grumpy Bob wheezed into the narrow space, running a hand through his thinning hair as if that would make it any drier. McLean ignored him, trying to see the shapes distorted by the roiling flow. There was definitely something down there.