The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(65)

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

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Tony McLean.’ There was no point telling the man he was police. Not yet, at least. He’d get nothing from him that way.

‘I’m Tapper. You got a fag?’ The tramp snorted, and for a moment McLean thought he was going to spit on the floor.

‘This is a hospital, Mr Tapper. You can’t smoke in here.’

‘Tapper. Jes’ Tapper. Gettin’ so youse can’t smoke anywhere these days. How’d I get in here?’

‘You were in a fire. Old factory building up in Slateford. What were you doing there, Tapper?’

‘What d’ye think? Keeping warm.’

‘What about your friends? Who were they?’

Tapper shrugged. ‘Dunno. Jes’ folk. Ain’t many places a man can doss down these days. You find one, you don’t complain ‘bout nobody’s already there.’

‘So what happened? You make a campfire and sit around it with a bottle of meths?’

‘Fuck off, meths. You wouldn’t catch me drinkin’ shite like that. Makes you go blind.’

McLean settled back in his chair and thought for a moment.

‘But you did have a fire.’

‘You’re fuzz, aren’t you?’ Tapper sniffed the air as if his own odour, even after some poor nurse had washed him, were not overpowering any other smell in the ward. ‘I can smell you a mile off.’

‘You’re right,’ McLean said. ‘I’m a detective inspector, if that’s of any interest. But as you can see, I’m on my own. No constable taking notes, no caution. This is just an informal chat. If you help me, I’ll make sure that’s all it ever needs to be.’

Tapper choked back a laugh. ‘That’s no’ how it works.’

‘It is with me.’ McLean caught the tramp’s gaze and held it. ‘Look. I know that building was empty. You weren’t doing anybody any harm dossing in there. But you were trespassing, and the building you were in burned down. Your two friends died in that fire.’

‘They weren’t my friends,’ Tapper said, but McLean could see a flicker of uncertainty in those eyes.

‘Maybe, maybe not. But you’re the one who survived. All that could add up to a whole heap of trouble. We start digging into your background, what’re we going to find?’

McLean felt sorry for the old man. And now that was what he looked like; not a tramp, not someone hiding behind a nickname. He was old, and the life he’d lived had been hard. He slumped back against the soft white pillows as if somehow it had finally all defeated him.

‘What is it you want, copper?’

‘You saw what the place was like before it started. Tell me.’

‘Not much to say really. Dark, wasn’t it.’

‘OK. How’d you get in?’

‘Round the back. There was a door they’d not boarded up proper. Might’ve used a bit of force on it. So what if I did?’

‘So you got in. You had a bit of a look round, then decided to kip down in the back. Away from the factory floor. Why not in the main hall?’

‘Coz there was a f*cking fireplace in there is why. That and the hall was full of all sorts of shite just waiting to go up.’

‘What sort of shite?’

‘I dunno. Pallets, cardboard boxes. Building stuff. I said to old Clunie at the time: “That’s just an accident waiting to happen.” Guess I was right there, eh?’

‘So how did it all catch fire then. If it wasn’t you and your friends?’

‘You’re the polis. You tell me. All I ken is it was cold as hell when I went oot to take a piss. Next thing the whole place is on fire. Never saw anything go up so quick. We was trapped in that wee office. Only way out was across the hall and you’d have to be mad to try that.’

‘And you’ve no idea how it all started?’

The old tramp coughed, looked around for something to spit into, then reluctantly swallowed. ‘Wasn’t natural. I can tell you that much. One minute it’s like a f*cking freezer in there. Next it’s like I’ve died and gone straight to hell.’





42





She’s angry with herself, kicking out at the cracks in the pavement as she tries to walk off her temper. What the f*ck was she thinking? The same every bloody Christmas. She knew damned well what was going to happen. His bitch of a mother coming round, poking her nose into everything, tutting at this, sneering at that. Just checking to make sure she was looking after her ‘wee boy’. Wee boy like f*ck. Harry hadn’t ever been wee. He was a fat bastard now and if his photos were anything to go by, he’d been born a fat bastard.

Wet, lazy flakes slap into her face as she takes the hill in big strides. Snow. Just brilliant. She can’t go home now, not while that two-faced cow’s still there. Probably cooking up yet more food for her disgusting son. Why the f*ck she agreed to marry him, she just doesn’t know.

A car, struggling up the hill – change down, you idiot – sweeps her back with its headlights. Throws her shadow against the wall. Ignore it, just like all the others. Not many now. Not this late. Not today. Everyone’s tucked up in bed. Back to work tomorrow. Unless they’ve got the whole week off. Like Harry’s harpy of a mother. Why can’t she just bugger off back to Glasgow and leave them alone?