The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(57)

Most of PC Gregg’s breathless monologue seemed to be fuelled by outrage at having to work the Christmas Day shift, even though she had to admit that the overtime was handy, what with her Kevin not being in work right at the moment, and with all those mouths to feed and the mortgage not getting any cheaper. McLean tried his best to tune it out as he prepared himself for yet another confrontation with festive cheer.

It was odd, really. This was what, the tenth, eleventh Christmas in a row that he’d worked the day? And Boxing Day afterwards to boot. He was used to spending the time on his own, or with one or two work colleagues, ploughing through the paperwork that had built up over the previous months. Sometimes there was an investigation ongoing that needed urgent input, like today. But usually that was visiting a fresh crime scene. Today he had five homes to visit; five families celebrating whatever it was Christmas was meant to be about these days. And to each one he was bringing a little bit of bleakness, even if they had nothing to do with Donald Anderson, Audrey Carpenter or Kate McKenzie. It was enough to have a policeman turn up on your doorstep to cast a shadow over the rest of the day. Especially today. He felt a bit like the anti-Santa.

The family man they’d just interviewed, Matthew Power, was definitely not what he was looking for; far too wrapped up in his young children and beautiful wife. Maybe the next one on the list, Mike Ayre, would be a better match. If their killer was working for Carstairs Weddell at all.

The door to No. 15 Maiden Avenue was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman with greying hair and a florid complexion. She wore a green-striped apron around her middle and clutched a wooden spoon like it was an offensive weapon. When she saw Constable Gregg’s uniform, her shoulders sagged.

‘What’s he done now?’ Her voice was a mixture of resignation and anger.

‘Um, Mrs Ayre?’ McLean tried not to let his surprise show. This wasn’t how he had expected the interview to start.

‘Aye?’

‘I was hoping I might have a quick word with Michael Ayre.’

Mrs Ayre’s expression changed to one of bemusement. ‘Mike? No’ Peter?’

‘Mike Ayre. Works for Carstairs Weddell, the solicitors?’

‘So Peter’s no’ done anything?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, Mrs Ayre. Is Mike in?’

‘Aye, come on in then. I’ll gie him a shout.’ She stood aside, letting them into a narrow hallway carpeted in a hallucinogenic pattern of purple swirls and wallpapered with a migraine-inducing splash motif that must have been an escapee from the early 1980s.

‘Sit yersel’s doon in there.’ She pointed to what turned out to be the living-room door. ‘You’ll no’ be long, will you? Only I’ve Christmas dinner tae cook.’

McLean was about to assure Mrs Ayre that they wouldn’t be long at all, but she turned away from them, peered up the stairs and bellowed, ‘Michael? Michael! It’s the polis want tae speak to you.’ Only then did she turn back and ask, ‘Would youse two like a cup of tea?’

A few moments later, a young man in scruffy jeans and a torn T-shirt bearing the logo of a band McLean had never heard of appeared down the stairs. He was barefoot and his hair looked like he’d been dragged backwards through a gorse bush. Sleep crinkled the corners of his eyes as he looked at the two police officers.

‘Oh, aye? What’s Pete done now?’

‘Pete would be your brother, I take it.’ McLean motioned for the young man to lead them into the living room, following behind. A cream leather three-piece suite dominated the small room, angled towards a large flat-screen television. Mike dropped himself into an armchair, ran his hands through his hair and said, ‘Aye. He’s a lazy wee shite too.’

‘Often in trouble, is he?’ Constable Gregg asked, much to McLean’s annoyance. He didn’t need an untrained interviewer butting in.

‘You tell me, officer. Last time youse lot picked him up for shoplifting, but the crowd he’s been hanging out with I’d no’ be surprised if it weren’t something worse.’

‘Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to.’ McLean made a mental note to check out Peter Ayre when he got back to the station. ‘About Carstairs Weddell.’

Mike Ayre sat upright in his chair, his back straight, his bare feet pressed down into the thick, orange carpet. ‘Oh, aye?’

‘You work in the filing room, is that right?’ McLean asked.

‘Mostly, aye. I do the mail run and stuff too.’

‘They ever ask you to check out the old bookshop down on the Canongate?’

‘The Anderson place? No. I don’t much fancy it either. Creepy, eh?’

‘But you knew where the keys were.’

‘In the file, sure. I had to fetch it for Mr Weddell just yesterday morning. Why?’

‘It’s not important,’ McLean said, though he wasn’t so sure Ayre was telling the truth about Anderson’s bookshop. ‘How long have you been working for Carstairs Weddell?’

‘About six months now, I guess. Finished school in the summer and they took me on. Money’s no’ exactly brilliant, but it’s a job, eh?’

‘And in all those months, you never went with someone else in the office to collect mail from Anderson’s shop? They never sent you to do that?’

‘No.’ Ayre clasped his hands together, intertwining nervous fingers.