The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(56)
And then finally the living room, with its ornate plaster cornice, its open fireplace and deep bay window. The press cupboard with the door taken off where his extensive collection of records was filed alphabetically. The comfy leather armchair he’d picked up for a song in that old furniture salvage yard. His fantastically expensive Linn sound system.
The memories came alive, the happy times he’d spent in this place. His home. He could hear Phil singing out of tune in the bath; see the kitchen full of students drinking red wine and talking pretentiously about Cognitive Behavioural Therapy or whether or not Morrissey had sold out when The Smiths broke up. He watched as Kirsty stepped out of his bedroom, wrapped in a large towel, and padded barefoot across to the living room to put on some music. Something classical he didn’t immediately recognise, then she padded back again. At the door, she took off the towel, dropping it to the floor before going naked into the darkness beyond.
And then he could see her lying on the bed. No sheets, no blankets, just a stained old mattress with sharp metal springs poking out from threadbare corners. She was spread-eagled, her arms cuffed to the bedstead above her head in an awkward, uncomfortable position, legs wide apart like some disgusting old pornographer’s wet dream. Her breasts flattened and lifeless, skin as pale as the winter moon. Her hair splayed out as if it were a halo of darkness.
A wave of vertigo almost sent him toppling into the abyss. McLean clutched at the burnt remains of the doorframe, felt it crumble and give. Instinct threw him backwards; he tumbled over, crashing hard on the stone floor of the landing and rolling perilously close to the edge where the railings had been removed. He scrabbled about until his back was pressed up against the safe, stone wall, hugged his knees to his chest and tried to squeeze the terrible image out of his mind.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear a young boy sobbing. It was a long time before he realised that the boy was him.
38
The station was as quiet as a church at prayer when McLean arrived none too early on Christmas morning. He felt slightly sick, though whether that was from too much beer or the shock of seeing his burnt-out flat he couldn’t tell. Either way, it wasn’t enough to keep him from work.
If he thought he felt bad, then DC MacBride looked ten times worse. McLean found the detective constable slumped at his desk, staring bleary-eyed at the screen of his laptop.
‘Morning, constable. Happy Christmas.’ McLean kept his voice reasonably quiet, but still the young man winced at the noise.
‘What’s so happy about it, sir?’
McLean considered this for a moment, then said: ‘Good point.’ He pulled up a chair from the next desk and sat down beside the detective constable.
‘I thought you were going home after the pub last night.’
MacBride turned his head slowly, his pale forehead sheened with sweat. ‘So did I, sir, but Kir ... Detective Sergeant Ritchie invited us back to her place. Said she had a bottle of tequila needed finishing. I didn’t realise she hadn’t actually started it yet.’
McLean didn’t know whether to feel aggrieved or grateful at being left out of the impromptu party, but before he had time to mull it over much, the door to the CID room banged open and the object of his indecision walked in carrying a tray of coffees. As ever, she was neatly presented; if she’d been on the slammers herself it didn’t show.
‘Oh, sir, you’re in already. Happy Christmas.’ Ritchie smiled and put the tray down on her desk. There was a greasy paper bag too, and McLean wondered where on earth she’d found a place open to buy breakfast. Or had she made them herself and brought them in? When she opened it up, filling the air with the smell of recently fried bacon, he didn’t really much care.
‘Please tell me you brought enough of those for everyone,’ he said.
‘It’s all right, sir. You can have mine.’ MacBride paled as Ritchie approached bearing bag and coffee.
‘Thanks.’ McLean took the proffered booty, turning away from MacBride so as to ease the lad’s discomfort. ‘Is Grumpy Bob in yet?’
‘Aye, he’s down in the canteen rounding up constables with DC Johnson. Thought we’d better make a start.’ Ritchie went back to her desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve broken the list up into two. Those who would have had regular access to the file store where the keys were held, and those who just work in the office.’
McLean scanned the first list, grateful that it wasn’t as long as he’d expected.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll split up into teams. One detective and one uniform to each. With a bit of luck, we should be able to get through them all before lunch.’
‘What if they’re not in?’ Ritchie asked.
‘Then we’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘And if they’re pissed off at us for spoiling their Christmas?’ This time it was MacBride, clutching a cup of steaming coffee and breathing in the fumes.
‘Tell them they’re not the ones having to work.’
By the time they’d reached the second on his short list of five addresses, McLean was beginning to wish he’d come out on his own. He couldn’t quite believe that PC Sandra Gregg, or Sandy as she insisted he call her, had actually passed her driving test, let alone attended any of the advanced-driving courses that were supposed to be mandatory before you could sign out a pool car. It helped that the roads were relatively quiet, but she kept up a constant stream of chatter as she drove, frequently taking her eye off the road to look at him, and occasionally her hands off the wheel to gesticulate. He’d have called it a conversation, only that would have implied that it was a two-way exchange.