The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(42)

‘That it, then?’ DS Ritchie peered through the quickly fogging car window.

‘If Debbie’s telling us the truth, aye. That’s it.’ McLean didn’t move from his seat, nor undo his seat belt. Instead he watched the houses to either side of No. 31.

‘So what are we waiting for?’ Ritchie started to open her door, but McLean leant over and stopped her.

‘Just a minute. Watch.’ He pointed to the left-hand house, and sure enough there was a twitch of the curtain. An elderly Honda Civic stood on the short driveway in front of the house. A sensible car, probably bought new and used no more than once a week for the trip to the shops. ‘OK, let’s go.’

Ritchie headed for No. 31, but McLean called her over as he walked up the driveway to the neighbour’s house: No. 29, even though there were no houses on the other side of the road. Or ‘Dunroamin’, if you believed the cast-iron plaque attached to the wall beside the frosted glass front door. He pressed the doorbell, half expecting it to sound the tune of some dreadful musical, but it just sang a plaintive ‘ding-dong’ in the hall beyond. Somewhere deep within the house, a terrier began to yip.

‘Why here, sir?’ DS Ritchie looked uncertain as to what was going on.

‘We go snooping around next door, she’ll only call the police.’

‘How d’you know it’s a she?’

‘Call it intuition. Unless you want to put money on it.’

The noise of bolts being clacked back interrupted any chance of making the bet. Through the frosted glass, McLean could make out a short figure bending down. Then the door opened a fraction on a slim golden chain. An old lady’s blue-rinsed head peered through the gap at shoulder height, a black and tan hairy-nosed face at ankle level. The latter yapped and growled.

‘I’m no’ buying anything. My Barry told me not to trust nobody.’

‘Your Barry is very wise, madam. My name is Detective Inspector McLean and this is Detective Sergeant Ritchie.’ McLean showed his warrant card, which the old lady peered at with surprisingly keen eyes. ‘I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?’

‘Of course, of course.’ The old lady closed the door on them and unhooked the chain. Through the glass they could see her bend down and scoop up the wee dog, then she opened the door wide. ‘Why don’t you come in. Don’t mind Archie. He tries to bite but he’s no’ teeth any more.’

McLean let DS Ritchie go first, then followed the two women through into the front room with the net curtains. It was spotlessly clean and every available surface was covered in what could only be described as tartan tat. There were little figurines of pipers and dancers, Westie dogs and Skye terriers. The walls were heavy with picture frames holding up quotes from Burns and cheap reproductions of Landseer paintings.

‘Would you maybe like a cup of tea?’ The little old lady pointed to the immaculate red sofa, indicating that they should sit. McLean considered the cup he’d just recently drunk at Debbie Wright’s flat.

‘That would be lovely, Mrs ... ?’

‘Stokes. Doris Stokes. Like the famous medium, you know. Please, inspector. Sit you down. I won’t be a moment.’ And before he could say anything more, she had scuttled out of the room, terrier still under her arm.

McLean had a poke around, peering at the few photographs on the mantelpiece. There were two of dogs and one of a balding man, his last few strands of hair swept over his pate, Bobby Charlton style.

‘Just what are we doing here, sir?’ DS Ritchie stood directly behind him so that when he turned to face her he nearly fell over. She stepped back and narrowly missed crashing into the coffee table.

‘Trying not to wreck the place?’ McLean smiled at her sudden blush. ‘We’re here because the curtain twitched. Mrs Stokes knows everything that happens in this street I’ll wager. She’ll have seen Kate coming and going and I reckon she’ll remember exactly when it was.’

‘Couldn’t we just ask her, sir?’

‘We could, yes. But we wouldn’t get very far. Trust me, I know the type. She needs to feel involved.’

It was a few minutes before Mrs Stokes came back into the room, bearing a tray with tea things on it. The little terrier trotted in behind her, then went to sniff at DS Ritchie’s ankles. Absent-mindedly she put down a hand to be licked and began to pat the dog on its head. McLean took the tray from the old lady, placing it on the table as she sat herself down in a particularly hideous armchair close by. As she bent herself to the task of pouring tea, he turned back to the mantelpiece.

‘Is this your Barry, Mrs Stokes?’

‘Och, no. That’s Norman. God rest his soul. He passed, oh, gone five years ago. Barry’s my wee nephew. Norman’s brother’s boy. He’s a good lad is Barry. Keeps an eye on his old auntie.’

‘You’re lucky to have someone like that. And I’m sorry, about your husband.’

‘That’s kind of you to say, inspector.’ Mrs Stokes poured the tea, handing a cup to DS Ritchie. ‘There you go, lass. Biscuit?’

McLean took his own cup and retreated to the sofa beside the sergeant; keeping the coffee table as a barricade between him and the old lady. A plate on the tray offered chocolate Hobnobs so he took one, sneaking a guilty bite. It was soggy, stale and on close inspection the chocolate bore a white, crazed coating that he hoped wasn’t mould. He balanced the rest precariously on the edge of his saucer, chewing the mouthful he’d already taken and swallowing it with great difficulty.