The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(47)
McLean was uncomfortably aware that there was absolutely nothing festive about the house whatsoever. If you didn’t include the usual round of seasonal circulars, he hadn’t even received any Christmas cards, which was hardly surprising, as he never sent any out.
The vicar called her choir together; they gave a quick rendition of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ and then filed out into the cold night. He watched them troop back down the gravel path and disappear into the street. They talked amongst each other, laughing and joking, revitalised by their unexpected drink. Except the white-haired old man, who hung back a bit and stared up the drive until McLean closed the door. When he had collected all the empty glasses from their various hiding places in the hall, the house felt suddenly very large and empty.
32
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something about a sea of journalists that was the stuff of nightmares. Perhaps it was the eager heads straining forward on stretched necks towards him that reminded him of the horror comics he had read as a child. Or maybe it was the smell of them, part fear, part feeding-frenzy testosterone. Whatever it was, McLean hated press conferences perhaps more than anything in his job. And that included breaking bad news to the recently bereaved.
As penance for his disappearance the day before, he had agreed to attend this particular briefing and answer questions about the investigation. If anything could have made it worse, it was the fact that he was flanked on one side by the station’s press-liaison officer, Sergeant Dan Hwei and on the other by Chief Superintendent McIntyre. He didn’t need his degree in psychology to tell that neither of them was particularly well disposed towards him at that moment. DCI Duguid was lurking at the back with a mischievous grin on his face.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ McIntyre started, ‘thank you for coming. I’m sure you’re all aware of the terrible nature of this crime. Last night we were unable to give out too many details. However, in the light of some fairly lurid speculation, I think it only fair that we bring you up to speed on the investigation so far.’
‘Chief superintendent, can you confirm—’ A voice from the back: female, English. McLean felt the air beside him go still, and possibly drop in temperature by a few degrees.
McIntyre cut the journalist off with a withering stare. ‘There will be time for questions later. Right now I’d like to introduce the principal officer conducting this investigation, Detective Inspector McLean.’
The hubbub that arose from the crowd was in some way gratifying, since it meant that his name was known. But it was also a touch depressing to think that those people murmuring to each other at the back had not recognised him when he’d first taken his place at the podium. McLean leant forward and tapped his microphone a couple of times before speaking.
‘I’m sure you’re all aware that we found the body of a young woman out near the Flotterstone Inn late on Sunday afternoon. I can confirm that we have now identified the victim as a Miss Katherine McKenzie, a resident of Jock’s Lodge. And I can also confirm that post-mortem examination of her body, er ... confirms that she was murdered. We have established her movements up until around midnight of last Wednesday.’
Thanks to DS Ritchie and DC MacBride, who had stayed up late to watch a fascinating movie, finally spotting Kate, leaving alone and walking back down Liberton Brae towards her home.
‘We have reason to believe she was picked up somewhere near Mortonhall at that time. Our major line of enquiry at the moment is trying to establish where she went after that, though of course we’re pursuing other avenues as well.
‘There has been some speculation already as to a connection between this murder and that two weeks ago of Audrey Carpenter. Whilst there are superficial similarities between the two, there are also significant differences. We are progressing both investigations in parallel, with close liaison between the investigating teams.’
Because they’re the same bloody people. McLean sat back, waiting for the onslaught. It didn’t take long for the sea of faces to become a forest of arms. That was when Sergeant Hwei stepped in, picking the first questions from those local reporters he already knew.
‘Inspector McLean, the word is the young woman’s throat was cut. Is this true?’
‘It was a violent attack,’ McLean said, ‘but I don’t wish to confirm any details that might jeopardise either our investigation or any subsequent prosecution.’
‘Inspector, is it true that the victim was killed somewhere other than Flotterstone and then moved to the reservoir to be dumped?’
‘Again, I can’t really say. The body was found just beyond the tourist car park at the south end of the reservoir.’
‘Have Miss McKenzie’s family been informed?’
‘Miss McKenzie’s parents are both dead, and she had no other family. We’ve been working with her ... fiancée.’
‘Do you have any clue as to who might have done this?’
‘We have several lines of investigation open, and it’s early days yet. If I’ve got any suspects in mind, I hope you’ll appreciate it if I don’t share that information with you.’
‘Inspector McLean, does it bother you that there are so many similarities between both these deaths and that of Miss Kirsty Summers in the winter of 1999? I believe you were the detective who eventually brought that killer to justice.’