The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(58)

‘Then how do you know the place is creepy?’

‘Look, what’s this all about? I’ve no’ done anything wrong.’

‘I never said you had, Mr Ayre.’ McLean fixed the young man with an uncomfortable stare; he in turn looked away, looked at his feet, across to the television, then fixed on the carpet as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

‘You have been there, haven’t you Mike?’ McLean kept his voice level, quiet. ‘What was it, a dare?’

‘You’ll no tell Mr Weddell, will you?’ Ayre looked up at McLean with a desperate pleading in his eyes. He was suddenly very young, not a man at all, just a boy not long out of school. He might have something to hide, but it wasn’t the murder of Kate McKenzie.

‘If it’s nothing illegal, I don’t see why I should.’

‘It was, I dunno ... like you said, a dare. I knew about the keys; everyone did. Mr Barnes usually checks on the place. But there’s this girl, see. Shanna. She’s into weird stuff. Goth stuff, you know. I told her about Anderson and she thought it was, like, way cool.’

Having overcome his initial reticence, Mike Ayre proceeded to tell McLean all of his short life history, from first getting a job at Carstairs Weddell all those long months ago, to his awkward infatuation with one of the admin staff in the property department. He told about drunken bravado and stealing the keys one Friday afternoon. Going round that evening together, both of them freaking out before they’d managed to, like, do anything, y’know.

McLean only half listened, waiting for an opportune moment to bring the interview to a close. One more name crossed off the list of suspects. He looked around the hideously decorated living room, taking in the cheap glass-fronted cabinets stuffed with DVDs and CDs; the coffee table strewn with gossip magazines; the overly ornate plaster fireplace with its naff faux-Victorian flame-effect electric fire; the mantelpiece with two large portrait photos, one of Mike, the other of a young man who must be Peter.

Dimly aware that Mike was still talking, McLean stood up and went to the mantelpiece, taking up the picture, staring at it. The face was unmistakable, for all that it was younger than the last time he had seen it, and cleaner.

‘This is Peter, right?’ McLean said, seeing that Mike had stopped talking.

‘Aye, that’s him.’

‘You seen him lately?’

‘Couple weeks ago.’ Mike Ayre’s shrug showed how little he thought of his older brother. But a couple of weeks was soon enough.

‘You know where he is?’

‘Somewhere down in Leith, last I heard. I’ve given up asking.’

McLean fished in his pocket, pulling out a business card. ‘Well, do us a favour, will you? Might even help your brother. But if he gets in touch, comes round, anything. Don’t tell him we were here. Just give me a call, eh?’

‘What about, you know, the keys and stuff ?’

‘Your secret’s safe with me, Mike.’ McLean tried a smile. It seemed to work.

‘Aye, OK then.’ Mike tapped the card against his hand. ‘We done?’

McLean nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ll phone if there’s anything else.’ He waited for Constable Gregg to haul herself out of the too-soft sofa, resisting the urge to give her a hand. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. Happy Christmas.’

It was only once they were back in the pool car that McLean realised Mrs Ayre had never returned with tea. It didn’t really matter. He was satisfied that Mike Ayre wasn’t a murderer; but his brother Peter, well, that was a different matter.

‘What was that about, sir?’ Constable Gregg asked. ‘You didn’t even ask him where he was the week Kate McKenzie was abducted. And that stuff about the girl. You believe that? He didn’t even tell us when it happened.’

‘What? Oh yes, constable, I do. And it’s not important. But I want you to get on to control. Put a search out for the brother. If he’s got form then we should have a more recent photo of him.’

‘OK.’ Gregg sounded hesitant. ‘Why are we looking for him?’

‘Because just over a month ago he was living in the flat downstairs from my place in Newington.’





39





The other three men on McLean’s list were of no interest to him whatsoever. None fitted his basic profile, anyway, and it was enough to smell the roasting turkey or see the happy faces of children full of excitement to dispel any thoughts that Kate McKenzie’s murderer might be among them. He was anxious to get back to the station and start trying to track down Peter Ayre anyway. The drug investigation had been stalled for months. This could be their first solid lead.

They arrived well ahead of any of the other teams. McLean sent PC Gregg to the canteen in search of an approximation of a Christmas lunch, and took himself off to Duguid’s incident room, hopeful that there might be some news on the search. He was surprised to find the place almost empty, just a couple of lost-looking constables sitting behind desks and shuffling papers.

‘Is the chief inspector not in today?’ McLean could have sworn he heard one of the constables titter.

‘On Christmas Day, sir? You’ve got to be kidding me. He flew out yesterday evening. Won’t be back from skiing til after Hogmanay.’

‘You got the info about Peter Ayre, though?’