The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(71)

‘Every single item. All checked in, all checked out. And every single book is subsequently listed in here.’ McLean pulled the auctioneer’s draft catalogue from the folder. It was marked with blue biro in Ritchie’s scratchy handwriting and he flicked through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. ‘Even this one. The Codex Enterius, I think it’s called.’ He pulled the inventory sheet back, flipping it to the front page. ‘And here, taken from Anderson’s desk. Contained a strip of cloth identified as coming from ... one of his victims.’

Father Anton took the catalogue, staring at the neatly typed pages, then back at the inventory. Back and forth, back and forth.

‘You’re sure of this?’ he asked finally. ‘This is the book you saw? The book that Anderson was reading when you caught him?’

‘It was on his desk, open. He wasn’t reading it when I caught him. But yes, that’s the book.’

At least, McLean was fairly sure it was the book. And why shouldn’t it be? It looked like the one he’d seen; same size and shape, same colouring to the leather and vellum. And at the time he’d not been too interested in the book itself so much as the marker.

Something seemed to die in Father Anton’s eyes as he placed first the inventory and then the catalogue back down on the table.

‘Then I have been a fool. Anderson must have hidden the book somewhere. Or passed it on to someone else.’





46





The headache wakes her up; that and the sharp pain in her stomach. She struggles out of sleep cursing her fat bastard of a husband for stealing the duvet again. And what the f*ck is that smell? Has he shat himself or something? Probably got himself blootered again. She must have had a few herself, judging by the state of her head. Christ, she hopes they didn’t have sex.

She tries to grope for the duvet and realises her hands are tied. How could she not notice that, strung up above her head? And how shit-faced could she possibly have got to let her slob of a husband tie her up? Fuck, she can’t believe they could have made up and had sex. Not again. Not with that evil harpy in the same house.

Her arms are stiff and sore; pins and needles spring agonisingly into her flesh now that she’s started moving. God, how did she get into this state? She rolls over, only half successfully, and discovers her legs tied as well. That’s when the fug of sleep washes away with all the subtlety of a tsunami.

For a moment she thinks she’s gone blind. There’s nothing at all. Blackness so utter she can feel it crushing in on her. She moves her head slowly, wincing at the pain in her skull. It feels like her brain has shrunk in there, rattling around the walls like a dried pea in a whistle. The skin of her cheek rubs against her upper arm, but the darkness is so total she can’t even see that. She moves her head some more, trying to roll over onto her side even though whatever it is that binds her arms and legs has her stretched out too far. Fear comes then; she can’t remember getting this drunk before. And fat Harry wouldn’t tie her up; that was never his style.

She tests the ropes, drawing her knees up as far as she can. They knock together, skin against skin, and she understands that she is naked. The pain in her head makes little stars sparkle in her eyes when she moves. A pity they don’t cast any light on her prison.

Her prison.

How did she get here, wherever here is? Memories tumble through her brain: mother-in-law sneering at her; husband fat and useless on the sofa watching the EastEnders Christmas special; a row about nothing in particular, about everything that was wrong with her life; and then ... what? She can’t remember.

It’s too quiet, now she’s stopped moving. She can hear her breaths rasping in and out, hear her heart beating too fast in her chest, hear the blood pounding through her ears. But nothing else. No traffic, no sirens in the distance, no aeroplanes making their final approach to Dalhousie. No wind.

‘He— Hello?’ She means to say the word quietly, but it comes out as little more than a dry whisper. Her throat is parched, her tongue thick and dusty.

No one answers.





47





New Year’s Day was always quiet in the station. A few overindulgent souls were sleeping it off in the cells, watched over by a skeleton staff. Most of the uniforms had put in enough overtime at the Hogmanay Street Party to justify taking time off. Even Duguid’s drugs investigation was on hold. McLean liked to think that the DCI had seen sense and called off the Leith raids, but in truth it was the chief superintendent who’d talked him out of it. Unfortunately Duguid thought that someone had gone to her over his head, and he was quite happy to assume that person was McLean. There was a battle to be fought another day.

He sat at his desk and stared out the window at the grey tenements beyond. The sky was much the same colour, tinged perhaps with a tiny bit of purple that promised more snow. It was cold in his office, as usual; his fingers ached as he tapped away at the keyboard, catching up on some of the paperwork that was attracted to his little cubby-hole by some magical power. Perhaps it was because there was so much in here already. Like attracts like, and the paperwork had obviously decided this was the place to be. Maybe it was even a spawning ground for yet more paperwork. That would explain why there was so much of it. Though he’d expect to find more baby paperwork around, in little paperwork crèches. Though of course paperwork could be like aphids. He’d read somewhere that they were born pregnant.