The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(78)

‘I think you know what I mean, Tony.’ McIntyre got out of her seat, glanced at her watch and then at Hilton. ‘Forty minutes enough, Matt?’

‘For now, Jayne. Plenty.’ The psychologist finally stood up, but instead of leaving the room, he motioned for McLean to take the other armchair.

‘Just go with it, Tony,’ McIntyre said. ‘Matt really is here to help.’ She patted him once on the shoulder, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘Do we have to do this just now?’ McLean asked. ‘I’m really very busy.’

Hilton didn’t answer, just settled himself back into the leather armchair. ‘Please, Tony, sit.’

Unsure what else he could do, McLean complied. ‘So you still think I’m going nuts,’ he said.

‘Well, are you?’

‘No.’

‘You seem very sure of that.’ Hilton slumped back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other at the knee and pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket. Unlike the earlier session, he had, as far as McLean could see, nothing to write on. Instead he clicked absentmindedly at the top. Open, closed. Click, click. It was a trick McLean had used himself during interviews; he knew better than to say something just to get the man to stop.

‘Let’s recap, shall we? You’ve been under a lot of strain recently. What with Anderson’s death, your house burning down. Your grandmother dying, too. Not that long ago, and she pretty much raised you since you were a bairn. Now these two ... no, three murders. Tell me, Tony. How do you feel about these things happening to you?’

McLean shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Pissed off mostly. Look, I’m pretty sure we covered all this. I really haven’t got the time—’

‘Interesting. And that’s why you argue with Detective Chief Inspector Duguid is it?’

Ah, so it was Dagwood who’d said something. No doubt to the deputy chief rather than McIntyre. Well, it made sense.

‘I argue with the DCI when I think he’s doing something wrong, Hilton. And when he bullies my junior officers.’

‘Please, call me Matt. So you’re very protective of your team then? You consider them your family?’

McLean thought of Grumpy Bob crashing on his spare bed after a heavy night. ‘Not particularly. I just find that I get better results with a kind word than by shouting. Call it different man-management styles.’

Hilton smiled and resumed clicking his pen.

‘You worked Christmas Day this year,’ he said. ‘And all the way through to today in fact. Despite being told to take Boxing Day off.’

‘I was planning on having tomorrow instead.’

‘I’ve checked the records.’ Hilton continued as if McLean had not said anything. ‘Apparently you always work Christmas and New Year. Why’s that, Tony?’

‘Someone has to. I’ve not got any family, as I’m sure you know. Might as well be here and let some other poor sod go home to his wife and kids.’

‘That’s very ... noble. Are you sure there isn’t any other reason? Something you don’t want to admit to yourself, perhaps?’

‘What could you possibly mean, Hilton?’ McLean looked him straight in the eye, fought to keep his voice level and calm, his rising anger under control. Stress he could cope with; counselling was another matter entirely. ‘Like the fact that it was Hogmanay when I found my fiancée’s dead body floating naked in the Water of Leith? I told you last time: I’ve had more than ten years to come to terms with that, and you know what? It’s not nearly enough. Call it a work-in-progress.’

The pen clicking had stopped, but Hilton held McLean’s stare. ‘How did it feel when you learnt of Anderson’s death? I’d imagine that must have been hard to take. I mean, that’s it. He’s dead. You can’t ever have your revenge on him.’

‘Did you use this technique when you were counselling Anderson? Only it seems a little, I don’t know, unorthodox?’

‘I never counselled Anderson, Tony. You know that.’

‘Oh? You testified in court that he was insane. You spent enough time with him to work that out, and yet you never tried to help him?’

‘Anderson didn’t want helping. You’re very like him in that respect, you know.’

McLean ignored the barb. He’d smelled Hilton’s discomfort and was enjoying the sensation. ‘It doesn’t say much for your professional curiosity, does it though? I mean, weren’t you even interested in his motive? You must have asked him about his precious book.’

‘It’s not unusual for a murderer to shift the blame for his actions onto an inanimate object. Anderson’s fixation on his book was notable only for the richness of his fantasy. But then he was a well-read man, he was fluent in many ancient languages. I’ve never met someone with such broad knowledge. And antiquarian books were his speciality, after all.’

‘Sounds to me like you rather admired him.’

Hilton almost replied, then stopped himself, a slight smile playing across his thin lips. ‘I believe we were talking about your revenge.’

‘No, you were. But if it makes you any happier, I had my revenge when I put the bastard away.’

‘And yet you still went up to Aberdeen to witness his funeral. What was that about? Wanted to make sure he was really dead?’