The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(22)

‘He should do. I left a message on his phone and a report on his desk before I went. I thought he’d have told you.’ And slowly the pieces began to fall into place. ‘Shit. He’s not been into his office, and he’s not listened to his messages, has he.’

‘At a guess, I’d say no. And that’s probably why he’s on the warpath right now.’

‘Well, I’d better go and find him before he does something even more stupid than usual. Meantime I need you to get the ball rolling on this one. Put a team together. Set up an incident room.’

‘Erm, this is it,’ Grumpy Bob said, adding as an afterthought: ‘sir.’

‘What? There’s no spare rooms we can use right now?’

‘Nope.’

‘Not even that cupboard we used for the Smythe case?’

‘Tech boys have got it while the basement’s being damp-proofed again.’

‘Nothing on the first floor?’

‘All taken up with the drugs investigation.’

‘Fucking marvellous. How the hell can we be short-staffed and not have enough room? No, don’t answer that, Bob. Just set it up, OK. I’ll go see what’s got up Dagwood’s skirt, and then I think I’m going to need a drink.’





17





McLean found DCI Duguid in his office on the second floor. It was warm, three times the size of McLean’s tiny cupboard, and in the daytime would have a commanding view of Arthur’s Seat. The privileges of seniority, no doubt.

‘I believe you were looking for me, sir?’

Duguid grunted something from his desk, leafing through a file of papers. McLean couldn’t help but notice that his preliminary report on Audrey Carpenter had been carefully laid to one side.

‘You’ve identified the dead girl, I see,’ Duguid said after a long pause. ‘Even been to see her parents.’

‘We needed confirmation, sir. And—’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you that it’s both polite and a good idea to consult with another force if you’re conducting an investigation on their patch?’ Duguid’s tone was neutral, which never boded well.

‘We did contact Strathclyde, sir. Spoke to a DS Coombes who said he’d send some support round to meet us.’

‘Is that so? Then why, tell me, have I just spent an hour on the f*cking phone apologising to some tosspot detective superintendent from SOCA with an impenetrable Weegie accent because one of my officers seriously f*cked-up his ongoing investigation?’

‘Investigation?’

‘What? You thought it’d be OK to just go and have a wee chat with one of Glasgow’s most notorious hard men? Thought it would be fine to accuse him of murdering his own daughter?’

‘I never—’

‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking, McLean.’ Duguid rose up out of his chair like a volcano, hands smashing on the desk. Now he was angry, and that was much easier to deal with. ‘You went to see MacDougal without any back-up, right?’

‘I had Constable MacBride with me.’

‘Brilliant idea. Why not endanger the life of yet another new recruit. No wonder we’ve no bloody staff. You keep on trying to get them killed.’

Remain calm. Don’t rise to the bait. Take the bollocking and move on.

‘What were you even doing there, for Christ’s sake? You could have faxed the photographs through to the nearest station and let them deal with it.’

Aye, and wait a week for a reply. ‘I needed to speak to Mr MacDougal myself, sir.’

‘Why? So you could make wild allegations about him to his face? You do know why they call him Razors, don’t you?’

‘The man abused his daughter. That’s why she ran away. That’s why she was living on the streets. But she was talking to the press. It was only a matter of time before it all came out. I don’t know about you, sir, but I think that’s motive enough for a man like MacDougal.’

Duguid slumped back down into his seat, his expression changing from anger to something more like excitement. He glanced sideways at the report, then back at McLean.

‘You shouldn’t have gone in there without someone from SOCA. Or at least Strathclyde CID. MacDougal’s a career criminal; he knows how to play the system. There’s already been a formal complaint lodged about your behaviour.’

‘If Professional Standards want to talk to me, I’m always available, sir. I’ve done nothing wrong here.’

‘Aye, I’ve heard that about you. Go on, get out McLean. We’ll pick this up at tomorrow’s briefing. If we’ve got a suspect, that’s something to keep the press off our backs at least.’

‘Sir, I really don’t—’

‘Tomorrow, McLean.’ Duguid waved him quiet. ‘Right now I’ve got to make some calls to Glasgow.’

Christmas shoppers thronged the lamp-lit pavements of Princes Street and the upper end of Leith Walk like some vast, unpredictable beast. At least McLean assumed they were Christmas shoppers, even if it was only just December. Getting on for nine and the shops really ought to have been closed by now, but the St James’s Centre was bursting at the seams. So much for the age of austerity.

He hunched his shoulders against the throng and tried to fight his way up towards North Bridge. It had been a long, crap day and he really needed a drink.