The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(19)

‘Lucky?’ McLean could think of other adjectives. ‘So who is she then? How come you know her?’

‘Ah now, inspector. You know how it goes. I show you mine, you show me yours. What’s in it for me?’

McLean shuddered at the thought. There was nothing about Joanne Dalgliesh he imagined ever wanting to see not covered by her manky old coat.

‘Do I need to remind you that we’re investigating a murder here, Ms Dalgliesh?’

‘Please, call me Jo. And aye, I’m just teasing. She’s a wanderer. A vagrant. That’s why nobody bothered to report her missing. Well, not round here, anyways.’

McLean pictured the dead body in his mind, recalled the post-mortem he’d just witnessed. She’d been thin, sure, but not emaciated. In overall good health, Angus had said. Apart from the lack of blood and being dead bit.

‘You sure about this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just been at her post-mortem and there was no sign of drug abuse.’

‘Aye, well, there wouldn’t be. Strongest stuff Aud ever touched was a bit of blow. She wasn’t living on the street because she had to, she was there because she wanted to. Told me she was going to write a book about it some day.’

‘Told you? When did you last see her?’

‘’bout a week back. Supposed to meet her again last Tuesday, but she never showed.’

‘And you didn’t think to report her missing?’

Dalgliesh laughed. ‘Jings, no. If I called the polis every time one of my sources didn’t turn up you’d have no time for real work.’

McLean realised he’d stopped walking. ‘Look, why were you meeting with this Audrey ...’

‘Carpenter. Audrey Carpenter. I was going to do one of those in-depth profiles for the Sunday supplement. Probably still will, but I’ll need to change things a bit now. Do a bit more background. See, Carpenter wasn’t the name she was christened with. No, that was her mum’s name. Aud took it to get away from her father.’

‘And this is leading somewhere?’ McLean fumbled for his notebook, dropped it into the gutter, then realised he wouldn’t have been able to write anything down anyway.

‘Does the name Jim MacDougal mean anything to you?’

‘What, Razors MacDougal?’

‘Aye, that’s him. When he wasn’t busy carving out his wee empire in Tongland he married his childhood sweetheart, Jenny Carpenter. They had a daughter, Violet Audrey. Seems old Jim was rather too fond of sitting young Audrey on his knee, if you know what I’m saying. She did a runner about two years back. Been living in squats ever since.’

‘Shit.’ McLean rubbed at his face with his free hand. The last thing he needed was a link to a Glasgow crime lord. But there was potential motive there, and he at least had an ID to work with.

‘Look, Ms Dalgliesh, I really need you to come down to the station and make a statement. Anything you can tell us about Audrey’s movements before she went missing could be crucial in catching her killer.’

‘Aye, well it’ll have tae wait til tomorrow. My train’s jest coming into Dundee.’

‘Dundee? What’re you doing there?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to ask, inspector. And since I’ve given you a solid lead, maybe you could answer me a few questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘You’re heading up this investigation, right?’

McLean admitted that he was. At least for now.

‘They’re suggesting it bears all the hallmarks of the Christmas Killer. Is that right?’

‘I don’t know, Ms Dalgliesh. You’ll have to tell me who “they” are.’

‘C’mon, inspector. You of all people ought to see the similarities.’

‘We’re not ruling anything out at this stage. Neither are we going to jump to any conclusions.’

‘So you’re considering the possibility that this might be the Christmas Killer come back. That Anderson might have been the wrong man after all?’





15





‘You deny abducting and murdering Kirsty Summers, Mr Anderson, and yet the police found forensic evidence in your cellar proving that she was held there against her will. That she was killed there.’

He sits in the gallery, staring down at the old man in the dock. White hair shaved close to the scalp in an almost monastic tonsure; tweed suit hanging elegantly off a slim frame; horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a long, tapering nose; dark, pin-prick eyes fixed intently on the counsel for the defence. He should really hate Donald Anderson; should burn with an almost unstoppable urge to leap down into the court, vault over the low rail and throttle the life out of this evil man. But all he can feel is despair and helplessness. Nothing he can do will bring her back, and nothing this court can do will make it all unhappen.

‘I didn’t kill her.’ Anderson’s voice is calm. The patient tones of a teacher long used to explaining things to those less intelligent than he. ‘My body may have done these terrible things, but I was not in control of it. The book was in control. It made me kill her.’

‘This would be the so-called Liber animarum you claim to have found in a house clearance sale.’ The advocate makes a show of consulting his notes. ‘The Book of Souls.’