The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(34)

‘It can’t be the Christmas Killer, Bob. He only kills once a year. And anyway, he’s dead.’ McLean stuck the heel of his hand into his eye socket and rubbed hard. This wasn’t what he wanted to deal with on his first day back at the office. And that wasn’t supposed to be for another sixteen hours. He looked out the window. Dusk would be falling soon, and fast this close to Christmas. Someone wasn’t going to have much of a festive time of it.

‘Who’s out there now?’

‘The lad’s on site, liaising with Penicuik.’

‘No one more senior?’

‘Dagwood’s away at some conference, DI Randall’s got the flu again. Everyone else is suddenly busy. I was at home, but when I heard the details I thought I’d better let you know. I’m just about to head out myself.’

‘OK, Bob. I’ll see you there.’ McLean scribbled down where he was supposed to be going and hung up. The hall was cold after the warmth of the library fire, but something else entirely made him shiver as he pulled on his coat and checked the pocket for his notebook and keys. Only then did he realise that he couldn’t exactly nip down to the station and grab a car. And a taxi would take for ever to arrive this late on a Sunday afternoon. There was only one thing for it; he’d have to take his grandmother’s car.

In the summer, the Flotterstone Inn was busy with tourists, some of whom had even intended visiting it, rather than just ending up there after getting lost in the maze of tiny B-roads that criss-crossed the high Midlothian plain and washed up on the flanks of the Pentland Hills. A hundred yards further up the glen, on the single-track road leading to the Glencorse Reservoir and some serious mountain biking, a second, larger car park catered for the day trippers and casual hikers from the city. This close to Christmas, and with snow sticking to the upper faces of Scald Law, it was pretty much deserted. Unless you counted the three squad cars, SOC van and ambulance huddled together at the far end for warmth. A young uniformed constable marched up as McLean pulled into the car park, a local he assumed, since he didn’t recognise him.

‘I’m afraid you can’t park here, sir,’ the PC said as McLean opened the door and started to get out. ‘Police business.’

McLean fished out his warrant card and held it up. ‘It’s OK, constable. I’m supposed to be here.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The constable looked from the warrant card to McLean’s face and then to the bright red sports car. ‘I didn’t think ...’

‘Fair enough, it’s not your average detective inspector’s car.’

‘Erm, what is it?’ the constable asked, then added: ‘Sir?’

‘This is a 1969 Alfa Romeo GTV, and it really doesn’t like salted roads.’ But needs must, even if he could hear his gran tutting her disapproval from her grave.

‘She’s a beauty, sir. Had her long?’

‘She?’ McLean raised an eyebrow. He’d not really thought of the car in such terms, but it seemed oddly appropriate. ‘My father bought it in sixty-nine, so you could say it’s been in the family a while. Now I believe there was something about a body?’

The constable’s face darkened. ‘Yes, of course, sir. Up the burn a ways.’

McLean followed him across the car park then along a short path that ran parallel to the road. He could hear the water babbling over rocks some way below the path, and up ahead, through a gap in the spindly winter trees, narrow concrete and steel bridged the water. Just before it, someone had broken a rough path through the undergrowth and marked it off with blue and white police tape.

‘Down there, sir. I’ll stay up here.’

‘That bad is it?’

‘It’s ... well ... there’s not a lot of room.’

McLean nodded his understanding. The young constable couldn’t have been long out of training college, so there was every chance that this was his first body. Based in a quiet station like Penicuik, it was unlikely he’d ever encounter many. Lucky sod.

The path was slick with recent rain. McLean had to hold onto branches overhead to stop himself tumbling down and into the cold brown water. His new shoes might have been comfortable, but they had no grip on their soles to speak of. Through the scrub, he saw a small group of people and recognised Detective Constable MacBride amongst them. And there, at their feet, the victim.

She lay on her back, face staring sightless at the darkening sky, hair waving like seaweed in the flow, arms outstretched in parody of crucifixion. His eyes transfixed by the familiar, horrifying sight, it was a while before McLean noticed the neat slash across her throat that had almost certainly been the cause of her death.

‘Not the most pleasant way to spend the afternoon, Tony.’ Angus Cadwallader shifted around slightly, affording him a better view. ‘But that’s the price we pay for our professions.’

‘Who found her?’ McLean asked.

‘A fisherman, headed up for the loch,’ MacBride said.

‘What? On a Sunday?’

‘Aye, well. They’ve got him up at the car park if you want a word.’

‘You’ve interviewed him?’

MacBride nodded.

‘Then you can let him go. Just make sure we can get back in touch. And ask him to come into the station tomorrow to give us a full statement.’