The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(44)

‘We looking for anything in particular?’ DS Ritchie asked, picking up a folded copy of the Scotsman from the kitchen table.

‘I don’t know. What’s the date on that paper?’

‘Last Wednesday.’ She stooped down, bringing up a bin from beside the sink unit. ‘There’s another in here. Tuesday. Takeaway burger box. Couple of Coke cans.’

‘She was here when the old biddy said, then.’ McLean jangled the key ring that he’d finally managed to get from Mrs Stokes without having her come over and get in the way. It was unlikely that they’d find anything here that would point to whoever had abducted Kate; he was fairly sure she’d not been taken from the house. But he didn’t want a well-meaning member of the public who’d watched too many episodes of Miss Marple mucking up what might turn out to be a crime scene.

‘Sir, through here.’ DS Ritchie called from the utility room beyond the kitchen. A laundry basket sat in front of the washing machine, which was filled with clean washing. The cycle had finished but the machine was still switched on.

‘Might as well check it,’ McLean said. Ritchie bent down and opened the door, pulling out a small collection of clothes. They smelled slightly fusty, left too long damp in the machine.

Upstairs revealed three bedrooms and a bathroom. The smallest bedroom was decorated in shades of baby pink, like a nursery, though the bed was plenty big enough for an adult. It was the only one that looked like it had been slept in. A small wash bag lay on the dressing table, its contents strewn haphazardly in front of the mirror. Lipstick, foundation, deodorant, hairbrush, a bottle of Chanel No. 5. Beside them, a small silver photo frame held a picture of Kate and Debbie, hugging each other cheek-to-cheek and grinning like idiots. At the end of the bed, a small grey suitcase with wheels and an extendable handle lay open, clothes spread about in an untidy mess. McLean looked on as Ritchie picked up items of underwear he had no names for. He left the bedroom, worried she might find something even more intimate. That wasn’t something he’d be comfortable sharing.

The bathroom yielded more secrets. A toothbrush and toothpaste, the latter a new tube, its uncapped end hardly dry at all. Well, it was likely less than a week since it had last been used. In the bath, a Lady shaver and tube of shaving gel propped up against the taps. It all started to fall together in his mind. He stepped back out onto the landing where DS Ritchie was waiting.

‘Are we done here then?’

‘I reckon.’ McLean clumped down the steps, stopping only briefly in the hall before going back outside into the darkness. The house was as dead as its owners.

McLean let DS Ritchie lock up. He wandered over the road to his car, staring out across the park towards Liberton Brae. Not far beyond was Mortonhall Crematorium and the garden of remembrance where he’d laid his grandmother’s ashes to rest alongside those of his parents.

‘Back to the station then, sir?’

McLean turned to see DS Ritchie standing by the still-locked passenger door.

‘No, not yet,’ he said. ‘Now we’re going to go to the pub.’

Early on in the evening, the Balm Well was almost empty; just a couple of old men nursing their half pints and grudges in the corner; a fat man tucking into a burger and chips at a table by the window. Across from the bar, a huge flat-screen TV was mercifully blank, the only noise in the bar the occasional electronic chirrup as the one-armed bandit had another epileptic fit.

McLean approached the barman, who was polishing glasses with a towel, holding them up to the light to check for smears. He stopped as soon as he saw the two police officers.

‘Evening, sir, madam. What can I get you?’

McLean looked at the hand pumps, considering a pint of Deuchars. Then he remembered that he’d driven here. Still, the clock said six, and that was surely late enough.

‘You fancy a drink?’ he asked DS Ritchie. Startled, she took a moment to answer.

‘Am I no’ still on duty?’

‘Nope. Technically your shift ended at five.’

‘In that case I’ll have a white-wine spritzer.’

McLean did the ordering, agonising over the pint before settling for a fresh orange instead. They took their drinks and a couple of bags of crisps over to a quiet table away in the corner.

‘Well, here’s to my first day with Lothian and Borders.’ Ritchie lifted her glass in a mock toast. McLean did the same.

‘It’s not over yet,’ he said as she took a sip.

‘No?’ She eyed her drink nervously.

‘What did you reckon to the house?’ McLean nodded towards the window looking out onto the park over which they had just walked.

‘Well. She’s obviously been there. Makes sense if she had keys. She’d not packed much, hence the washing. My guess is that she was probably planning to spend a few days there before going back. If it was me I’d probably have kipped on a friend’s floor.’

‘Broken up often have you?’

‘I ... No.’ Ritchie’s face flushed again, her freckles darkening across her cheeks. McLean just grinned at her.

‘Sorry, that was uncalled for. Wouldn’t want to be accused of sexual harassment.’

‘What about you, sir?’ Ritchie asked, then hurriedly added: ‘What did you make of the house?’

‘Like you said, she was there. It was her bolt-hole after their argument. I don’t know if she would have gone back and patched things up or whether it was the last straw in a troubled relationship. What I do know is that she got herself dolled-up on Wednesday night and went out to some party she never made it home from.’