The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(73)

‘Yes, well ... She can be a bit headstrong, inspector. But that’s what I love about her.’ Harry looked at his mother. ‘Mostly we get along just fine. Sometimes though, well it all gets a bit much. She usually goes off and stays with a friend. That’s why I didn’t think much about it. But when she’d not come back for Hogmanay, I phoned around. Nobody’s seen her all week.’

Mrs Lubkin made a small ‘tsch’ noise which spoke far more eloquently of her true feelings on the matter than any words. McLean looked at the two of them and began to understand.

‘Do you live with your son and daughter-in-law, Mrs Lubkin?’ he asked. She looked at him as if he was mad.

‘Me? Don’t be daft. I’d sooner take my chances at the old folks’ home.’

‘So you’re just visiting for Christmas and New Year.’

‘That’s right. Came over on the train Christmas Eve. I’d be heading back tomorrow morning, but if she doesn’t turn up I’ll have to stay and look after my wee boy.’

McLean did some counting in his head. ‘So you’d been staying a couple of days before she walked out. And she shouted at you, you say. Attacked Mr Lubkin here.’

‘That’s right. Called me some right filthy things.’

McLean turned back to Harry. ‘And you spoke to her friends, you say.’

‘I spoke to her mate Shelley, aye. But she’s not heard anything.’

‘Does she have a mobile? Your wife, that is.’

‘She left it behind.’ The fat man dug into the pocket of his voluminous trousers and pulled out a tiny mobile, dwarfed by his great, fat sausage-fingers. ‘Her purse too. Just took a coat and her keys.’

That all-too-familiar creeping, cold sensation began to form in the pit of his stomach. Looking down at his notepad, McLean realised he’d started writing things down.

‘Have you got a picture of your wife we could use, Mr Lubkin? Something we can run past the hospitals just in case there’s been an accident.’

It was Mrs Lubkin who produced a photograph from the depths of her canvas bag. McLean took it, seeing a young, red-haired woman, not thin but neither in the same league as her husband. Trisha Lubkin. Quite what she was doing married to the Bunter sweating opposite him, he had no idea.

‘I didn’t get your address, Mr Lubkin.’ McLean looked at the half-filled form that Sergeant Dundas had given him. Lazy sod couldn’t even be bothered to process the initial contact properly.

‘Liberton,’ Harry Lubkin said. ‘Up on the brae near the university. Usually when she’s angry Trisha just walks up the hill to Mortonhall. That’s where her mate Shelley lives.’

And suddenly it wasn’t funny at all.





48





Snow whipped through the skeletal trees, driven sideways by a cold, lazy wind. McLean hunched his coat up around his shoulders, trying to keep what little warmth he had taken from the van to himself, rather than sharing it with the rest of Midlothian. A motley crew of grumpy looking uniforms gathered around him, stamping feet and clapping hands together in the deepening gloom.

‘Right, you’ve all got a picture of Trisha Lubkin, and you’ve each got a list of addresses.’

He looked around the group for signs of assent, but wasn’t surprised not to receive any. A blue-faced DC MacBride finished handing out the last of the photocopies and shoved his hands under his armpits.

‘Now, we’re assuming she walked up the hill. That was her preferred direction, and that’s where her friend lives. Most likely destination for a woman in a light coat. I want you to split up and start knocking on doors. She was last seen around six-thirty on the evening of Boxing Day. That’s the twenty-sixth for those of you who’re hard of thinking. I want to know if anyone saw her, or if anyone saw anything unusual that night.’

McLean shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, as if there might be some heat down there he hadn’t known about before. The constables stayed huddled around him in a small semi-circle, looking to each other for reassurance, or company.

‘Come on, people. The quicker we get started, the quicker we’ll be finished.’

He watched them scuttle off, knocking on doors and peering through letterboxes. DC MacBride stood beside him, shivering slightly.

‘You reckon they’ll get anything?’ he asked.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing. She’s been gone a week, Stuart. The trail was probably cold an hour after she left the house.’

The sound is so alien to her that it takes long moments for her to realise what it is. Lost in her world of misery, she has withdrawn so far that she isn’t even sure she’s alive. But now she can hear. The tap, tap, tapping of footsteps, echoing down a corridor. And with the noise come other sensations. First the warmth, all around her like an enveloping cocoon. Then there’s the pain in her ankles and wrists, where rope chafes at her flesh. And finally the emptiness in her stomach, the parched dryness in her throat. She breathes shallow, trying to avoid the foul smells that surround her. Has she pissed herself? She can’t tell, her skin is so numb against the harsh mattress.

‘Help, please!’ she tries to shout, but it would be easier to walk on water. Her voice isn’t there; just a harsh outflow of breath. And then it occurs to her that the tap, tap, tapping of feet might be whoever brought her here, undressed her, tied her up.