The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(33)

The doorbell was a welcome distraction. No doubt Grumpy Bob dropping round to bring him up to speed on everything. He drained the last of the tea, almost choking on the sludgy mess of biscuit at the bottom, then padded out across the hallway in his socks to the front door.

A six-foot-four mass of muscle and tattoo blocked the light. Not Grumpy Bob.

‘Mr MacDougal wants to speak to you.’

McLean went to shut the door in the man’s face. ‘I’m on leave. He’ll have to talk to DCI Duguid.’

The door slammed open again and the big man stepped inside. ‘Mr MacDougal wants to speak to you. Now.’

McLean looked up into the over-large face. Eyes set just too far apart to convey any sign of intelligence.

‘I’ll get my coat.’

‘No need.’ The big man pushed the door even further open, then stood to one side. Razors MacDougal stood on the gravel driveway, looking up at the house. He treated McLean to an evil grin.

‘I guess there’s no’ much point trying to bribe youse, then.’

‘Well, this is all very grand now, isn’t it. I like what you’ve done with the decorations, too.’

MacDougal turned on the spot, looking around the large drawing room at the front of the house where McLean had directed him and his gargantuan minder. All the furniture was hiding under dustsheets and the shutters had been closed for longer than he could remember in an attempt to stop the hideous flock wallpaper fading. It was about as inviting as a disused crypt, which suited him just fine.

‘What do you want, Mr MacDougal?’ McLean whipped a sheet off an ancient, squashy sofa and indicated for his uninvited guest to sit.

‘Ah, that famous Edinburgh hospitality.’ MacDougal settled himself down gently. ‘As it happens, I have had my tea.’

‘The point?’

‘You asked me when last I saw my daughter, inspector. You and I both know what that was all about. But you’ve got me wrong. I loved Violet.’

McLean suppressed the urge to mutter, aye, that’s what I heard too. Instead he leant back against the mantelpiece and crossed his arms.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging, you know,’ the gangster continued, ‘since your visit. Seems you’ve lost someone close to you, too. Turned up much the same as my wee girl, I heard. Was that why they put you on this case? Figured you’d have a special insight?’

McLean gritted his teeth, pushing down the anger that flushed hot in his cheeks. He looked up at the minder with his piggy little eyes and tree-trunk biceps. No point even thinking about getting physical.

‘You should know that I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, even with a relative of the victim.’

‘Oh come on, inspector. Get real. I can find out anything I want to about your investigation wi’ a single phone call. But that’s my wee girl lying there in the mortuary. Some bastard locked her away and raped her, then cut her throat and tossed her in a burn. You’ll ken I’m no’ happy about that.’

So that was why he was here; a none too subtle way of letting McLean know just how well-connected he was.

‘What do you want from me, Mr MacDougal? Or are you just here to finish the interview I started a week ago. Because if that’s the case you’ll need to speak to Detective Sergeant Laird down at the station. I can give him a call if you want.’ McLean pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, but before he could do anything, MacDougal was on his feet, reaching out a hand to stop him, grasping his arm with a grip that was more desperate than violent.

‘I want you to catch him, inspector. I want you to find him and put him away.’ MacDougal’s voice was quiet, but edged with steel. ‘I’ll take care of it after that.’





23





Two weeks on from the fire, and Sunday afternoon should have been peaceful before plunging back in to the maelstrom that was work. He’d found some coal down in the basement, and after a couple of false starts had managed to conjure up a fire in the library. Now it was just him, a book and Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, which seemed to have taken a liking to its new home. What had become of the other half dozen or more the old lady had kept, he had no idea. It was enough to be looking after this one.

There were still moments when McLean felt the world spinning out of control beneath him. The house was too big, for one thing, and every corner held memories of his grandmother. Going through the empty rooms was a reminder of all that had passed, all the people who had left him. All the people he’d failed. That was why he’d been avoiding the place all those months since she’d died, why he’d ignored it for the eighteen months she’d been in a coma. Always putting off doing anything about it. And now his hand was forced.

The phone ringing brought McLean back out of his self-indulgent musing. He put the book down, stepped around the cat and managed to reach the elegant writing desk before the answering machine switched on.

‘McLean,’ he said to the silence on the other end.

‘Ah, sir. I was hoping you’d be in.’ Grumpy Bob sounded like he meant the exact opposite.

‘I am supposed to be on leave, Bob. What’s up?’

‘I think we’ve got another one.’

‘Another what?’

‘Another Christmas Killer victim. They’ve found a body out in the Pentlands. Near the Flotterstone.’