The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(46)

He supposed he should have realised. It wasn’t as if the shops weren’t full of tinsel and tat, and the street decorations had been up for at least six weeks. Perhaps he could lie to himself and say he’d been so wrapped up in his work that he’d just let time pass him by, but the truth of the matter was that he always hid from the festive season.

The cat twined around his legs again as he stood staring at the diary. There was nothing written in it, just a blank accumulation of days almost finished. He’d have to pick up one for next year soon.

‘You wanting out then?’ McLean opened the back door onto darkness and cold wind. The cat looked out, sniffed the air a little, then turned back to the warmth of the kitchen.

‘Smart thinking.’ He closed the door, then bent down and removed the cover over the cat flap. At least it could come and go if it wanted to. If it knew how to use one, of course. He didn’t recall Mrs McCutcheon ever having one; her cats just used an open window. Ah well, he’d show it how or it would work it out for itself.

The fridge yielded little in the way of food, but there was a half bottle of Riesling that clearly needed finishing. He poured himself a glass, and was about to phone the pizza delivery place when the front doorbell rang.

McLean froze. There was no reason for anyone to come and see him. Not that many people at work knew where he lived now anyway. Grumpy Bob and MacBride had been here, and Emma of course. Guilt warmed his cheeks as he thought about her. Thought about the way he’d treated her. He’d not exactly been cruel so much as unresponsive, and for the life of him he couldn’t think why. Except that she was friendly and warm, obviously liked him enough to put up with his many failings, and he really didn’t want to go getting close to someone like that again.

The doorbell rang again and for a moment he considered hiding, pretending not to be in. It was daft, he knew. The kitchen lights would be painting a wide distorted square over the driveway outside; it would be obvious to anyone approaching the house that someone was home. And what if it was something important?

Sighing, he put down his unfilled glass and set off across the hall, flicking on the light over the porch as he did so. No sooner had he opened the front door than a dozen or more lusty voices burst into song.

Good King Wenceslas looked out





On the feast of Stephen





When the snow lay round about





Deep and crisp and even ...





And on they went, through all the verses whilst he stood there, mouth open like a half-wit. Carol singers. He hadn’t heard them in years. Not since he’d been a boy at school. Looking at the heavily coated mob, he thought he recognised some of his grandmother’s neighbours. It was possible that some of the younger ones were people he’d known as a child.

The carol came to an end with more or less everyone finishing at the same time, and only then did McLean remember that he was supposed to give them something. His wallet was back in the kitchen, in his jacket pocket hanging over a chair.

‘Um, that was ... great,’ he said, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could in the howling, icy wind that whistled around the garden and in through the door. ‘Look, it’s freezing out here. Why don’t you come in. I’m sure I can find something to warm you all up.’

The words were out before he’d really considered the implications of what he was offering. The carol singers murmured desperate thanks anyway, and all trooped into the hall. McLean went back to the kitchen, fished out his wallet and then fetched a bottle of malt whisky from the cupboard. By the time he’d found enough glasses, filled a jug with water and carried the whole lot through on a tray, most of his unexpected guests were staring at the pictures and trying hard not to look like they were being nosey.

They were an odd assortment of people, he discovered as he handed over restorative drams. Only one person declined the offer, an elderly gentleman with a rather pinched expression, thinning white hair and a profuse white beard. He wore a long overcoat and thick gloves, and kept himself pretty much to himself. McLean would probably have tried harder to make conversation, but there were others clamouring for his attention, eager hands reaching for the generously filled whisky glasses.

By the time he came to the last of the carol singers, she had loosened off her overcoat to reveal a black shirt and the inset dog collar of the Episcopalian Church. She was perhaps in her late forties, though it was hard to tell; her face had that lived-in look of someone who’s seen a lot, and her shoulder-length straight black hair was shot with grey. But there were few lines around her eyes and mouth.

‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ She held out her hand. ‘Mary Currie.’

‘Tony McLean. Have you been in the parish long, Ms Currie?’

‘Mary, please. Long enough to have known your grandmother. I was sorry to hear when she passed away. We had a few good arguments, Esther and I. She didn’t really see God in quite the same way as me.’

McLean wondered why his grandmother had never mentioned that the local vicar was a woman. Maybe she had and he’d forgotten.

‘Still, I’m glad you decided to move in,’ Mary carried on.

‘I don’t think I’m likely to swell the numbers of your congregation. Religion’s not really my thing.’

‘Well, there’s always room for improvement.’ She smiled, then knocked back the last of her whisky. ‘Thank you for that, it’s not many remember the old traditions of hospitality. Though you might want to put up a few decorations, brighten the place up a bit.’