The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(38)

Grumpy Bob’s expletive-laden entrance interrupted McLean as he was heading back to his office, cradling a cup of something that approximated coffee. Water dripped from his police-issue macintosh as, head down, the old sergeant crossed towards the locker room, oblivious to anyone else in the building.

‘Bastard, bastard rain. I swear the countryside hates me.’

‘Afternoon, Bob. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?’

Grumpy Bob looked around, startled. ‘Oh, sir. I didn’t see you there.’

‘That much is obvious. What’s the situation up at Flotterstone?’

‘Bloody miserable is what.’ Bob dragged off his coat and shook it out on the grey-blue carpet tiles. ‘It’s been lashing it down since about five this morning, and now there’s a mist so thick you could use it to smother an old-age pensioner. Did I mention that it was bloody freezing, too? Brass monkeys. Jesus.’

‘And the search?’

‘Not a bloody thing. I’ve had twenty constables moaning away at me all bloody morning, and all for what? There was never going to be anything. There never was before.’

‘We still had to look, Bob. And we didn’t know. This isn’t Anderson doing this. He’s dead. Has been for over a month.’

‘Well, whatever. There’s nothing suspicious within a couple of hundred metres of where we found the body. The usual garbage has been bagged and given to the SOC labs to play with. It’s just fag packets and shite like that. No’ even a used bloody condom.’

‘You finished then?’

‘Too bloody right. No way we’re going to find anything else in this weather. And even if we did it’d be useless. You know it, too, sir. Waste of manpower keeping those constables out there any longer. And bloody cruel, too.’

‘You’re right, Bob. Still, thanks for doing it. I know you hate the countryside, but MacBride’s not senior enough to run a search and I don’t trust Penicuik to find their way about a crime scene.’

‘What about the new lass?’

‘Should be down in the CID room right now, putting some flesh on the bones of MacBride’s report. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Last I heard he was wringing out his heid.’ Grumpy Bob ran a hand through his sparse, greying hair, coming up with a good spray of water. ‘I’m no’ kidding, sir. It’s pishing it doon out there.’

McLean went to the back door, peering through the misted-up glass at the crowded car park beyond. Sure enough the rain was coming down in stair rods. And over on the other side, his bright red Alfa was scarcely visible in the haze of rebounding water. Ah well. At least it should keep it clean. And wash away all the salt on the roads.

‘OK, Bob. You go get yourself a cuppa. DS Ritchie and I’ll be going to the PM in ...’ He looked at his watch. ‘About an hour. Meantime, get on to Mis-Per and see if they’ve got anyone matching our description.’

‘We going to set up an incident room now, sir?’

‘You know if anywhere’s free? Last I heard Dagwood’d taken all the big rooms.’

‘Shite, I don’t want tae be stuck down in that damp wee cupboard by the bogs.’

‘Well, keep using the CID room for now,’ McLean said, clutching at straws. ‘We’ve that few detectives it’s not like we’ll be getting in anyone’s way.’

The rain had eased off considerably an hour later, but it was still persistent. Consequently when McLean and a strangely silent DS Ritchie tried to find a pool car to take down to the mortuary, they had all been signed out.

‘You got a car?’ He asked Ritchie. She shook her head.

‘Sorry, sir. I walked this morning. It’s not far and I didn’t expect this rain.’

Faced with the options of walking and getting wet, or taking his own car and having to explain to Traffic why he’d parked it on a yellow line, McLean opted for the latter. Traffic owed him a favour anyway.

‘Come on then.’ He pushed open the back door and held it for Ritchie. ‘Far side. Red thing.’

By the time he’d reached the car, unlocked both doors and opened the driver’s side, she was standing in the middle of the car park, stock still and staring. The rain spattered off her hair onto the shoulders of her long black coat, but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Hurry up. I don’t want to get the seats wet.’

McLean got in and started up the engine, setting the heater to full demist and the fan on high. A few moments later, DS Ritchie delicately opened the passenger door, climbed in and closed it again with barely a clunk.

‘Is this ... ? I never thought ...’ She looked at him with utter bewilderment.

‘That manky thing I brought up to Aberdeen was a hire car.’

‘But this?’ Ritchie was obviously searching for words. ‘It’s like Inspector Morse. Don’t you get the piss taken out of you? Sir?’ she added as an afterthought.

‘Actually this is the first time I’ve brought it in.’ McLean peered through the slowly clearing windscreen, flicked on the wipers and decided it was clear enough to proceed. ‘I’ve never had to drive to work before. I kind of inherited it about a year ago and it’s the only car I own.’

‘It’s beautiful. Alfa Romeo, GT Veloce, 105 series. This would be the 1750?’