The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(64)

‘Morning, inspector.’ Burrows greeted him with a weary grin. ‘I was beginning to hope I’d seen the last of these.’

‘You sure it’s the same as before? I heard there were people inside.’

‘Well, that’s different, true. But I don’t think they started this. Here.’ Burrows handed him a hard hat and set off for the large steel doors that opened into the building beyond. They were pulled closed, but a smaller door set into them hung open, more black soot spilling upwards from the hole as if gravity had been reversed.

‘You’ve checked for hidden basements, I take it?’

‘Aye, we’re safe enough in here.’ Burrows stepped through and McLean followed. What lay beyond was a mess of blackened, fallen beams, charcoal underfoot and the horrible wet smell of a recently extinguished fire. And laid on top of it all, the faintest lingering odour of burnt wool that stuck to the back of the throat like a cheap burger and fries.

‘We got in here early enough to save the roof. More or less.’ Burrows looked up to the criss-cross of beams high overhead. A few slates were missing, and the skylights had all cracked, dropping their glass down into the litter on the floor below just to make life more difficult.

‘Where were the bodies?’ McLean asked. Burrows pointed towards the front corner of the building, where a small door led through to what probably had been offices before the factory closed down. A white overalled SOC officer appeared at the doorway carrying a heavy aluminium case.

‘You moved them?’

‘Thought they were still alive. One of them was, as it turns out.’

‘So they weren’t burned?’

‘Not badly, no. Mostly superficial – face and hands. They’re tramps, they were well wrapped up. No, I reckon it was the smoke did for them.’

‘Where’re the bodies now?’ McLean looked around, expecting to see a space cleared, the dead laid out ready for the duty doctor to confirm their condition, state the time and bugger off back home.

‘Ambulance out front. Survivor’s gone to hospital already.’

‘And you really don’t think they started the fire.’

‘No. They’d set themselves up back there.’ Burrows pointed to the small office. ‘That’s where all their stuff is.’

‘Stuff ?’

‘Bedrolls, plastic bags. One of them had an old rucksack.’

‘Makes sense, I guess,’ McLean said. ‘So where’d the fire start, then?’

‘Over here.’ Burrows picked a way through the debris. McLean was careful to tread only where the fire investigator had already been. They moved deeper into the building, surrounded on all sides by sagging wooden beams and broken slates, ending up finally in a large, clear area in the centre. Looking up, he could see the ornate tower that topped the whole building, opened up to him by the collapsed ceiling. Ancient duct-work led from the four sides out into the wider building.

‘From the spread of the fire, and the damage done to these here’ – Burrows pointed out several cast-iron pillars, their paint bubbled away – ‘I’d have to say that the fire originated about here. What I can’t tell is how it started. No obvious sign of accelerant, no electrical wires to short out. It’s almost as if a flame spontaneously appeared out of nowhere.’

‘Just like all the others, then.’ McLean turned in a slow circle, trying to picture the place before the fire had gutted it and failing. Burrows gave an eloquent, if unhelpful, shrug of his broad shoulders.

‘Just like all the others, aye.’

The Western General Hospital wasn’t McLean’s favourite place to be. Too many memories, and none of them good. Coming through the front doors reminded him too that he’d still not been to visit DC Robertson, stuck in traction whilst the rest of the world enjoyed their Christmas. Another thing he’d have to do. When he had the time.

There were half a dozen men in the ward, ages varying from about nineteen up to ninety. All had that sallow, sickly pallor that comes over anyone who spends too much time in a hospital, and all looked at him suspiciously as he pulled the curtains round the bed where the rescued tramp was sleeping. McLean was prepared to wait for him to wake up again, but as he pulled up a chair and sat down, the man’s eyelids flickered and his hand started to twitch.

‘What’s your name?’ McLean asked quietly.

The tramp opened his eyes, slowly at first, then wide in fear. He struggled, trying to sit up, choking as he did so. The intravenous drip in his arm flailed about, and for a moment McLean thought it would pop out of his arm.

‘Calm down. You’re in hospital. Remember? You’re safe.’

Slowly, the man stopped thrashing around, his eyes still darting from point to point as he tried to work out where he was. His free hand went to the tube in his arm, the heart-rate monitor on his finger flapping wildly.

‘You’re all right.’ McLean reached out and touched the man’s hand lightly. Something about the contact must have worked; he immediately fixated on McLean, all other motion stopped.

‘Who’re you? Where’m I? Where’s a’ my stuff ?’ The tramp’s voice was hoarse, though whether that was from smoke inhalation or a lifetime of substance abuse it was hard to tell. Now that he wasn’t thrashing about, McLean could see his face clearly. It wasn’t much to look at, really. He’d been washed, but his hair was still lank and greasy, mixed grey and white. He wore the sort of stubbly beard that comes from shaving no more than once a fortnight. It wasn’t enough to hide the deep lines and folds of loose skin of a man who had once been fat, but now was not.