The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(8)

McLean couldn’t suppress the smile that slid across his face at the priest’s mistake, but it was short-lived. He felt no satisfaction, no closure. Turning away from the scene, he walked to his car. It was a long drive back to Edinburgh; might as well get started. Not like there was going to be a wake or anything.

‘Might I ask what your interest in Anderson is?’

McLean turned at the voice, seeing the woman with the useless umbrella standing a couple of paces away. She was slightly shorter than him, her face pale and freckled, its elfin shape exaggerated by the way the rain had plastered her short red hair across her scalp.

‘Might I ask yours?’

‘Detective Sergeant Ritchie, Grampian Police.’ She fumbled in the large canvas bag slung over one shoulder and pulled out her warrant card. McLean didn’t even bother looking at it. He probably should have told Aberdeen headquarters he was coming, but then they’d have escorted him everywhere, dragged him down the pub to celebrate Anderson’s death.

‘McLean,’ he said. ‘Lothian and Borders.’

‘You’re a fair bit off your patch, inspector.’ So she knew of him, even if she hadn’t recognised his face.

‘I put Anderson away. Just wanted to make sure he was gone for good.’

‘Aye, well. I can understand that.’

The two uniformed officers trudged past, the collars of their black fleeces turned up, yellow fluorescent jackets pulled tight against the wind. Behind them, the priest looked as if he was going to hang around and say something, then thought better of it. McLean stared back towards the grave where a mini digger was dumping heavy earth onto the coffin. ‘How does a piece of shit like Anderson end up being buried in a place like this?’

‘Plot was bought and paid for, apparently. Some solicitor from Edinburgh sorted it all out. Seems Anderson had money. Plots here aren’t cheap.’

‘What about the man who killed him?’

Ritchie didn’t answer straight away. McLean didn’t know her, couldn’t read the expression on her face. She looked young for a DS, boyish even, with her short-cropped hair and business-like suit, but she held his gaze as if to say his seniority didn’t intimidate her.

‘Harry Rugg. Anderson’s cell-mate in Peterhead. They were both on kitchen duty. Rugg took a carving knife and stabbed Anderson in the heart.’

‘So I heard. Any chance of having a word with him?’

Ritchie wiped wet hair out of her eyes. ‘I could talk to DCI Reid for you. He’s in charge. But I doubt he’d let another force anywhere near. What do you want to ask him anyway?’

‘Ask? Nothing. I just wanted to say thanks.’

The phone rang as he was crossing the Forth Road Bridge, and he fumbled with the buttons as he coasted to a slow stop in the traffic. Sudden rain squalls made angry red stars of the brake lights ahead of him; welcoming him home. He cradled the receiver to his ear, hoping there weren’t any traffic cops around. It would be embarrassing to be pulled over on his day off.

‘McLean.’

‘You back from Aberdeen yet?’ Duguid didn’t bother with any conversational niceties.

‘On the bridge, sir. But—’

‘Well get yourself over to Sciennes. There’s another fire.’

McLean was about to complain that he was off duty, but Duguid gave him the street name, then cut the call. There was no point arguing, anyway. It never did any good.

The traffic grew steadily worse as he approached the scene; exhausted office workers fighting to get home down unfamiliar roads. At least the uniforms had cordoned off the whole street, which meant he could abandon his car and walk the last couple of hundred yards. Smoke drifted down between the tenements in choking swirls, ash falling like black snow. Everything smelled of childhood bonfires, and high overhead the dark sky reflected rippling orange.

The fire was in an old factory, built well over a hundred years ago, its stone fa?ade dark and grimy. The redevelopment signs had appeared several months back; just before the credit crunch had set in. Nothing much seemed to have changed since then. Until now. Six fire engines clustered around the site, two of them hosing down the adjoining tenement blocks to try and stop them catching. The factory itself was past saving. Flame roared from shattered windows, and as McLean watched, the roof began to buckle and collapse. Firemen sprinted away; uniforms pushed the security cordon further back; onlookers gasped with excitement.

‘Enjoy the funeral did you, sir?’ Grumpy Bob strolled up cradling a mug of tea in his large hands, oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him.

‘Where the hell did you ... ?’ McLean pointed at the steaming cuppa. ‘No, don’t bother. Just bring me up to speed, Bob.’

‘It looks like another one of ours. But we won’t really know until it’s out and the fire investigation team have had a crack.’

‘Christ, that’s just what we need.’

‘Aye. Place is boarded up like Fort Knox. There’s plate steel over the downstairs windows and all the doors. Took the first fire crew twenty minutes to cut their way in. Too late by then.’

McLean stared up at the roaring fire, feeling the heat radiating from the old stones. It seeped into his body, making him drowsy despite the noise and hubbub around.

‘Inspector McLean.’ A light tap on his shoulder. He turned, then cursed. Short and scruffy in a grubby old leather coat, Joanne Dalgliesh might have been mistaken for someone’s mum, but she had a nose for a good story, and the newspaper she wrote for wasn’t known for pulling its punches, especially where Lothian and Borders Police were concerned.