The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(68)

‘Is he always like that?’ Ritchie asked.

‘Pretty much. Some people he just ignores. I think he likes you, though.’

‘Aye, I got that.’

‘There you go.’ Needham was back, bearing a single large cardboard box. He dumped it down on the counter in front of them. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No. This is fine.’

‘OK. I’ll leave it with you if you don’t mind. I’ve a wee errand to run.’ Needy limped off with surprising speed, leaving the two of them alone with the unopened evidence box.

‘What is it you’re looking for?’ Ritchie asked as McLean pulled the lid off.

‘Inspiration? A bit of luck? I don’t know.’

Inside were a number of objects in plastic ziplock bags. The personal effects of Donald Anderson, including the clothes he had been wearing when McLean had arrested him; a rusty pair of handcuffs last seen dangling from a metal bed frame; several squares of stained cloth cut carefully from an old mattress, along with wads of horsehair padding from inside it; kitchen knives still bearing the traces of forensic examination after all these years; a long, thin rectangular strip of cloth with a repeating floral pattern on it.

McLean lifted the clear plastic bags out of the box one by one, placing them on the table in front of him. And there, filling the bottom of the box, was the old book.

The leather cover was dark and mottled, gilt tooling worn by the caress of countless fingers, the sweat of innumerable hands. He picked it up, marvelling at the weight of it. Turned it over in his hands, seeing the ragged edges of the vellum pages through the clear plastic evidence bag. The spine was cracked, but it had the title embossed on it in gold: Codex Enterius.

He slid the book out of its plastic cover – no longer any need to worry about contaminating evidence. The leather felt curiously warm to the touch, softer than he’d expected.

‘I’ll get the lights. It’s like a dungeon down here.’ DS Ritchie headed for the doorway and the bank of light switches. McLean could have told her not to bother; he knew damn fine that only the two tubes worked. But he was happier with her not looking over his shoulder as he laid the book carefully down on the counter and opened it up.

Nothing happened. No demon leapt out to devour his soul. No arcane force tried to suck his soul out. The book was old, that much was plain, and the quality of the illustrations as he carefully turned the pages was undeniable. There were scribbles in the margins, too, in many different inks and hands. The content, however, was largely a mystery, written in close, archaic script with only rudimentary punctuation and appearing to be in medieval Latin. Codex Enterius perhaps, but not the Book of Souls. As if such a thing had ever existed.

‘Damn things don’t seem to work.’ Ritchie flipped the switch up and down a couple of times to no effect.

‘Sorry. Should’ve said. Saved you the bother.’ McLean closed the book and his hand fell to the bag containing the thin strip of fabric. All that remained of Kirsty now that the fire had destroyed their home. Without really knowing why, he palmed the bag, slipped it into his jacket pocket. No one had seen him. No one need know.

‘Found what you’re looking for, sir?’ Needham limped back into the room, wiping his hands on his trousers.

‘Not really. I thought this might have been something else.’ He struggled the Codex back into its evidence bag and placed it carefully into the box

‘The Book of Souls perhaps? I told you not to go raking over the past, sir.’ Needham whirled a finger round in circles around his temple. ‘It messes with your mind, that stuff. I’d’ve thought you of all people would remember. Those were dark times.’

‘You’re right, Needy. I just, you know, had to look.’

‘Aye, I know Tony.’ He tilted the box, peered inside, then at the items strewn over the table. For a moment McLean thought he was going to notice the one missing item, but Needham just shrugged. ‘Just be careful, right?’

‘Aye.’ McLean turned back to DS Ritchie. ‘So then. I guess it’s back to reviewing those interviews.’

‘Now?’ Ritchie looked nervous. ‘What about DCI Duguid?’

‘Ah, yes. Him.’ McLean looked at the items he had strewn about over the table, then started to put them all back in the box. ‘I was hoping you might have forgotten about him.’





44





‘I thought I made it clear this was important, sergeant.’

Detective Chief Inspector Duguid held court in the middle of the incident room, surrounded by a hubbub of uniforms and plain clothes all trying desperately to look like they were busy. Interrupted, he pretty much ignored McLean, instead fixating on DS Ritchie.

‘You’ve been gone almost an hour. What the hell have you been doing?’

‘That’s my fault, sir.’ McLean stepped up, trying to put himself between the DCI and the sergeant. ‘I dragged DS Ritchie down to the evidence store on an errand. I wasn’t aware that she’d been reassigned to this investigation. I thought the murders took precedence.’

‘Don’t get smart with me, McLean. It’s thanks to your bloody vague descriptions that we’ve had to drag everyone in here. If you’d told us about Peter Ayre before—’

‘If I’d known that was his name, sir, I’d have told you.’ McLean looked past Duguid to the large whiteboard on the far wall. An A3 colour mugshot of the man in question had been tacked up to it, with several lines of black marker pen arrowing away to hastily scribbled questions and actions. He couldn’t read much of it from this far away, but he did see the words ‘Search Teams’ written large and underlined above what looked like the names of every officer in the station.