The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(37)
‘For now, yes.’ Hilton said, and McLean felt very much like a child being talked about by two adults who really don’t care that he can hear them. ‘I’ll be able to keep an eye on him anyway. Since I’m going to be working with the team on profiling your serial killer.’
‘The careful attention to detail suggests a ritualistic approach to death. Our killer is most likely reliving some facet of his early life that both traumatised him and brought him comfort.’
McLean sat in the corner of the CID room, letting the meaningless words wash over him as he watched the performance. Matt Hilton looked like he was in his element, standing in front of the wall-sized whiteboard as if he was delivering a lecture to first-year psychology undergrads. The word cocksure sprang to mind, along with another beginning with cock. Just cock would do, actually.
‘Our killer works alone, probably in a job that minimises social contact. I’m thinking night watchman, security guard, that sort of thing.’
He’d not slept well. Hardly at all, to be honest. And what sleep he had managed had been filled with dreams of Kirsty, her long black hair billowing out in the stream. That and the early morning psychoanalysis had left him drained. McLean made no effort to stifle the yawn that shuddered through his whole body as the professor droned on. He’d heard that there were profilers out there who could pinpoint their subjects down to their choice of clothes, favourite foods and the kind of pets they kept, but Hilton wasn’t one of them. Much of what he had said already was so hedged with qualifications as to be meaningless.
‘Well, I think I’ve talked quite enough.’ Hilton began to wind up. ‘Of course it’s early days yet, and I’ll be working on refining the profile as more information comes in. In the meantime I’ll hand you back to the chief superintendent.’
McIntyre stood to take his place, and Hilton looked momentarily confused, as if he had been expecting applause and couldn’t quite understand why his audience didn’t appreciate his genius. Looking around the team they had managed to cobble together, it wasn’t hard to see why. A dozen uniform constables who made McLean feel like he must surely be due to retire soon; a couple of civilian support officers who would probably be able to make a cup of tea if they really had to; DC MacBride looking pink and freshly scrubbed; Grumpy Bob looking anything but; and sitting nervously in the chair next to the one just vacated by the chief superintendent, newly arrived from Aberdeen, Detective Sergeant Ritchie. Of DCI Duguid, nominally in charge of the whole operation, there was no sign. McLean couldn’t help thinking this was a good thing.
‘Thank you, Matt,’ McIntyre said without a trace of irony. ‘I’m sure that’s helped to sharpen the picture. Now I know this is a small team for a double murder enquiry, but rest assured you’ll be getting more help as soon as I can lay my hands on it. So, any questions?’
‘We’re definitely treating the deaths as linked, then?’ DC MacBride asked. McIntyre nodded to McLean, who reluctantly levered himself out of his chair and went to the front.
‘For now, yes. The MOs are too similar not to. And the victims are both female, early twenties. Similar size, build, hair colour.’
‘What about the similarities to the Christmas Killer?’ one of the infant constables asked.
‘We’re going to look into that, of course,’ McLean said. ‘Our killer is certainly copying Anderson’s methods quite closely. It doesn’t help that there’s a bestselling book about him out there. Pretty much any Tom, Dick or Harry knows what Anderson did and how.’
‘I think we can rule out most of Jo’s readership, inspector.’ Hilton gave a little simpering smile that reminded McLean just who had co-written Anderson’s hagiography. ‘Stick to the profile I’ve drawn up, we’ll narrow it down pretty damn quickly. And the more information comes in, the better the profile.’
‘Thank you, professor, but I’d rather not wait for another dead body to turn up before you can tell us what kind of toothpaste the killer prefers.’
26
Heavy rain battered against the window, making his office feel even colder than it actually was. McLean felt a moment’s guilt that Grumpy Bob was out in it, organising the search of the area around the Flotterstone car park. Then he realised who he was thinking about. Grumpy Bob would be tucked up warm inside the van, directing things from behind a mug of hot tea. It was the poor bastard uniforms who deserved his sympathy.
Sitting in the middle of his desk, a large cardboard file box awaited his attention. The old case files from the Anderson investigation. They called to him with a siren song. And like a siren, he knew that what lay inside was heartache and sorrow, photographs he really didn’t need to see ever again. It was a part of his life he would dearly like to leave behind, and yet every time he thought it was past, it reared up its ugly, spiteful head. Sank ice-cold talons into his heart.
He took a deep breath, started to open the box. Only then did he notice the Post-it, perched precariously on top of another pile of papers awaiting his immediate attention. Scooping it up, he tried to read the oddly neat but spidery scrawl, not recognising the handwriting: ‘Mort cld PM @ 2 PM. GN 4 Cof – KR’.
It took him a while, but eventually McLean worked it out. First morning of her first day in the new job, and already DS Ritchie was taking his calls. He picked up the styrofoam cup on his desk, peeled off the lid and peered at the scummy muck within. It was cold and uninviting, as was the congealed, half-eaten bacon buttie that had come with it. Dropping the buttie in the bin, he went off with the cup in search of a refill.