The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(40)

‘I don’t know,’ McLean said. ‘I’ve never read it.’

‘You haven’t? I’d have thought—’

‘What? That I’d want to be reminded all about what happened? I was there, detective sergeant. I witnessed it first-hand. I found my own fiancée floating face-up in the Water of Leith on f*cking Hogmanay. Some party that turned out to be.’

‘I ... I’m sorry, sir.’ DS Ritchie looked down at her feet and McLean felt a little stupid for snapping at her.

‘Look ... Ritchie.’ He realised he wasn’t sure what to call her. ‘We’ve not got off to a very good start. Today should have been about orientation, introducing you to the team. It’s just bad luck you arrived at the same time as all this.’

‘I understand, sir.’ Ritchie stopped at the back door to the station. ‘Truth be told, I’d far rather be straight in to serious work than pissing about for a month on training and familiarisation courses. And, as I said, it’s Kirsty.’

‘What?’ McLean’s stomach clenched again at the mention of the name.

‘My name. Kirsty. But Ritchie’s fine. That’s what most of Aberdeen CID used to call me. I don’t mind.’

McLean stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. The awkward pause was interrupted only when DC MacBride caught up with them. He was clutching a sheet of paper and looked like he’d run all the way from the CID room.

‘Sir. I think we’ve found her.’ He shoved the paper in McLean’s direction. It was a fax from Missing Persons over at Force HQ, most of the page taken up with a grainy black and white photograph of a young woman’s face. McLean read the name and details before handing it over to Ritchie for her opinion. He didn’t need it; even though the picture quality was poor, there was no mistaking their victim. And now she had a name.

Kate McKenzie.





28





The tenement was eerily like his own, only without the extensive fire damage. Edinburgh was full of these streets: housing built for the growing middle classes in Victorian and Edwardian times, they defined the city as much as did Princes Street or the castle. A vast social experiment where people lived cheek by jowl, it somehow worked here. Unlike the slum tenements in Glasgow or that more modern take on the concept, the great tower blocks of Craigmillar, Trinity and the like.

Kate McKenzie had lived near Jock’s Lodge, sharing a neat little one-bedroom apartment with Debbie Wright, who had reported her flatmate missing almost a week ago. The two young women could not have been more different. Whereas Kate had been slim, fit and dark-haired, Debbie was round, short, rosy of cheek and with an unruly mop of bleach-blonde curls cascading from her head. She took one look at McLean’s warrant card and burst into tears.

‘It’s Katie, isn’t it. I knew something was wrong when she didn’t come home.’

‘I’m very sorry, Miss Wright. Could we maybe come in?’ McLean let DS Ritchie lead the way as Debbie showed them to the living room. He peered about the hallway in passing, seeing open doors leading to a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, along with a closed one for what he assumed was a press cupboard. It was all very tidy, very domesticated.

‘Is she ... is she dead?’ Debbie’s voice trembled. She stood in the middle of the room as if she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. McLean sat down on the low, leather sofa that ranged along one wall.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Debbie.’ He turned to DS Ritchie. ‘Perhaps you could rustle up a cup of tea, sergeant?’

Ritchie gave him what might have been an old-fashioned stare. Debbie started to move, going to help her, but Ritchie stopped her with a light hand placed on her chubby arm.

‘You stay here, OK? Sit down. I’ll find my way.’ She gently pushed Debbie into an armchair, then left the room.

McLean pulled a photo out of his pocket, hesitating slightly before passing it over to the distraught young woman. The killer hadn’t touched Kate’s face, but there was no denying that it was a picture of a dead person.

‘Is this Kate?’ He didn’t really need her answer. There were photographs on the walls and mantelpiece of the two of them together in all manner of places. Always smiling, holding hands, hugging. Best of friends. Alive.

‘She looks so peaceful.’ Debbie sniffed, then rubbed her nose with the scrumpled-up end of her sleeve. ‘I should never have argued with her. It was so stupid.’

‘You had a row?’ McLean tried to keep his voice neutral despite the sudden chill.

‘It was daft. She just wanted rid of all the stuff. Couldn’t care less what it was worth. Said she didn’t want anything from the miserable old git.’

‘Slow down a bit, Debbie. What stuff? Who’s a miserable old git.’

‘Her dad, that’s who.’

McLean took out his notebook, wishing things could, just for once, be simple.

‘Where does he live, her dad?’ He wondered if he could persuade someone else to go and break the bad news. Debbie looked up at him as if he were mad.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he. That’s what it was all about. He left her everything, but she didn’t want none of it. He’d only ever given her grief when he was alive.’

‘What about her mother?’