The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(15)

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 I 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 1842. ‘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 what looked like a shiny 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-four 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?’

‘There were nae lights in there. Took the ‘lectrics out a week past. That’s why I didnae much like staying there after dark.’