The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(6)

‘Needy?’

The sobbing stopped as if a switch had been flipped. Sergeant Needham looked up, rubbing at his cheeks as he tried to focus through raw-red eyes.

‘Who –? Oh, Inspector McLean, sir.’

McLean recalled the conversation earlier, asking about old man Needham. They’d been close, father and son, in that curious, reserved way of a family robbed of female influence. There was only really one thing that could account for this.

‘Your dad?’

Needy nodded. ‘Aye. About two hours ago.’ He sniffed, produced a tangled white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose, then used a corner to dab at his eyes. ‘Poor bugger. They were going to operate on his cancer today, but when the doctor opened him up ... Well, there wasn’t much point.’

‘I’m sorry, Needy. I really am. He was a good copper.’

‘Aye, he was that. Right crabbit bastard at times too.’ Needy gave a grimacing smile and glanced past McLean, who followed his gaze to a clock on the far wall. Half-past five, Edinburgh time. ‘So what brings you down here this evening?’ he asked.

McLean looked at Needham and remembered the detective sergeant who had in turns bossed him around and shown him the ropes, all those years ago when he’d first joined CID. Needy had been a good detective, solid and thorough. Some might have even called him obsessive, but not McLean. They had been friends after a fashion, though never close. So what was it friends were meant to do at a time like this?

‘It wasn’t important. Just some background stuff, but it can wait. Why don’t we get out of here? Go get a pint? I reckon we’ve both earned one, eh?’

‘Funny. I had you as more a real-ale man.’

Needy sat on the cheap vinyl bench in an alcove that looked like an escapee from a bad gangster movie, his hands folded together on the cheap fake-wood Formica table. McLean put down the two pints of ice-cold fizzy keg beer that was the closest the place came to something drinkable, and squeezed his way onto the opposite bench.

‘Not much choice, really.’ He pushed one of the glasses across the table, noticing as he did that neither of them were what would pass for clean. The pub was close to the station, and that was about all it had going for it.

Needy took his pint, studiously ignoring the grimy ring around its middle, and raised it into the air.

‘To Esther McLean.’

‘Aye, and Tom Needham,’ McLean added, raising his own glass. They both drank, then fell silent for an awkward, long moment. It was Needy who broke first.

‘How long was it, mind? That your gran was ... You know? Before she ...’

‘Eighteen months, give or take a day or two.’

‘Jesus. That long? How’d you cope with that?’

‘I don’t know. You just have to, I guess. Nothing else you can do.’

‘Yeah, I think I know what you mean.’ Needy took another long drink. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s easy though. Watching someone die in front of you, bit by bit.’

The silence was even longer this time. McLean tried to hurry it along, but his pint was too gassy to gulp.

‘You thought about what you’re going to do?’ Stupid question. Of course not. Old man Needham’s not cold yet. His gran had been dead half a year now, and he’d still not begun to sort out her affairs

‘Christ no. One day at a time, I guess.’

McLean raised his glass again. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Needy took a sip, then slumped back against the wall. ‘You know, this is almost like old times. The two of us in a god-awful pub somewhere, moaning about the bitterness of life. We just need Bob Laird and Mac Duff, and we’d have the whole team.’

‘I can give Grumpy Bob a call, if you want.’ McLean fished his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Duff, though ...’

‘I heard he was in a home somewhere in the Borders. Alzheimer’s.’

That killed off the conversation for another long pause. Needy studied his pint, nervous fingers caressing the sides of the glass. He didn’t look up when he finally spoke again.

‘I’ve always wondered, Tony. How’d you do it? How did you find him?’

And this is why the old team never got back together. McLean didn’t need to ask Needy who he was talking about. Donald Anderson, the Christmas Killer, was never far from his thoughts. Least of all when the nights were long and dark and cold.

‘I got lucky.’ McLean laughed like a man who’s been knifed in the gut. ‘Hah, lucky. Don’t know why I went into his shop. Can’t remember much from back then. But he kept mementoes. You know as well as I do. And he had that piece of her dress.’

Needy looked up then and McLean saw the grief in his eyes, realised the deep bond that had formed between the sergeant and his father. How many years was it now since his own parents had died? Too many to count, and he’d been too young to really understand.

‘I still don’t know how you did it, though. After what he’d done to you. Christ knows, I’d have beaten him to death if it was me’d found him.’ Needy flexed his hands, claw-like and liver-spotted. ‘I’d have throttled him there and then.’

McLean reached for his beer, knocked back as much as he dared without disturbing the crusty bits milling around the bottom of the glass. He glanced at his watch.