The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(69)

‘Please don’t tell me you’ve got uniforms sweeping through Leith and Trinity.’

‘That’s where you said he’d be. We’ll find him, then we’ll get him to tell us everything he knows about the organisation he’s working for.’ Duguid looked absurdly pleased with himself. ‘Once you confirm that he’s our man, that is. We could’ve caught him already if you weren’t so bloody hard to find.’

McLean walked over to the mugshot, studying the face with feigned intensity. Peter Ayre looked a lot worse here than he had done in the family photo on the mantelpiece back at home. Years of drug abuse had taken the promising school-leaver and shrunken his skin until it clung to his bones like dried leather on a long-dead skeleton. His eyes were black holes, his half-mad grin to the camera showing cracked, brown-stained teeth, some missing. His hair was long, but thin and greasy. Frizzy greying stubble half-hid the yellow acne that pocked his cheeks and chin.

‘Well? Is it him?’ Duguid barked the question from the centre of the room, and for a moment McLean thought about saying no.

‘It’s him all right,’ he said.

Duguid turned straight away to one of his sergeants, ready to set the search in motion. McLean interrupted before he could speak.

‘But if you go charging in heavy-handed, he’ll disappear.’

‘Don’t be stupid, man. He’s a junkie, not a master of disguise.’

‘He’ll disappear, sir. Or he’ll be disappeared. Either he’ll find somewhere to lie low, or the people he’s working for will make sure we never find him. He’ll end up in the foundations of a new building somewhere, or fed to the pigs on some Borders farm.’

‘Nonsense, man. We pick up junkies all the time.’

‘But you don’t send the whole damned station in to find them, sir.’ McLean tried his best not to emphasise the title, realising as Duguid’s face reddened that he had failed.

‘This is my investigation, McLean. Don’t presume to tell me how to run it.’

McLean turned away from the gathering storm, casting his eyes over the lists of search teams. He spotted a few names that he recognised, hunted around for the board wiper, then deleted all of them: DS Ritchie, DC MacBride, DS Laird, DC Johnson. He paused for a second, then added PCs Gregg, Houseman and Crowe to his tally.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, McLean?’ Duguid had relinquished his command at the centre of the room and was bearing down on him.

‘These officers are on my team, sir. And in case you’d forgotten, we’re investigating a double murder. I thought you said that the chief constable himself was pressuring for a quick result. You might want to consider that before you start bullying them into helping out with your little drug bust.’

Duguid looked like he was about to explode. The room had fallen silent, and McLean was all too aware that everyone was looking at him. He put his hand in his pocket to brace himself, and felt the smooth plastic of the evidence bag. It sent a jolt of energy up his arm, or at least that was what it felt like. He no longer cared about the chain of command, about being respectful to senior officers, about obeying the rules. They really didn’t matter.

‘Little drug bust?’ Duguid’s voice was quiet, almost controlled, which was in some ways scarier than if he had been his usual shouty self. ‘Little drug bust? Is that all it is to you, McLean? Just another unfortunate necessity? Would you be happier perhaps if it was all perfectly legal, shooting up on Leith Walk and mugging tourists for the money?’

McLean said nothing, but he stared Duguid down. The incident room held its breath around them, everyone waiting for the explosion like children at a fireworks display. It was the DCI who broke contact first. He turned away, spitting out reluctant words.

‘Get out. Take your “team” with you. Just don’t expect much sympathy when you go to pieces again.’

McLean let out a long, slow breath, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut. In truth, he’d never expected his behaviour over the Christmas holidays to go unremarked, but the thought that of all the senior officers, Duguid was the first one to make the dig filled him with an inexplicable anger. His fists balled without any input from his brain, and he found himself leaning forward, ready to take the older man on. A small voice of reason, sounding very much like Detective Sergeant Ritchie, broke through.

‘Perhaps we’d better get on with reviewing those interviews, sir?’

McLean was almost too wrapped up in his own anger, but he saw the intent in Duguid’s motion as the DCI spun around ready to tear a strip off Ritchie. He wasn’t sure what the emotion was that ran through him, but it was immediate and protective.

‘I think we’re done here, sergeant,’ he said before Duguid could speak. Ritchie said nothing but her confusion was evident as he pushed past her and strode towards the door.





45





He’d noticed the old man loitering in the street as the patrol car dropped him off, so the knock on the door was not a surprise. Since their last meeting, he’d seen Father Anton lurking nearby a few times, but he’d never actually approached the house. McLean was sure he’d seen him about the city too, walking the streets like a vagrant, always turning away to avoid meeting his eye, or pretending to be interested in a street sign, an advertising billboard, a bus timetable. A paranoid man might think he was being followed, but McLean knew that was nonsense. The old man knew where he lived, had sat at his table drinking tea, had told him a cock-and-bull story about a book that didn’t exist. He didn’t need to follow McLean around like some amateur private eye; he could just come and talk to him.