The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(81)

‘You’re freezing,’ she said, her voice hoarse and croaky with sleep. McLean didn’t think he’d ever heard anything sound quite so erotic.

‘That’s because you’ve stolen the duvet.’

There was a pause, then the whole mound of bedding rose up, engulfing him in the warm scent of Emma Baird.

‘You know, you really should go shopping once in a while.’

Much later. They were breakfasting on black coffee and cold pizza from the night before. There would have been enough milk, McLean thought, at least for a quick bowl of cereal. But that was before Father Anton had come round and drunk tea. He’d not been expecting Emma at all. Not that he was begrudging her unannounced visit, far from it. Black coffee and cold pizza were just fine from where he was looking.

‘It was much easier when I was back in Newington,’ he said. ‘I could just pop out to Ali’s round the corner. There’s nothing near here at all.’

‘That’s the privilege of living in one of the city’s most upmarket areas.’

‘I could always get stuff delivered, I suppose. Don’t the supermarkets do that nowadays?’

Emma mentioned something about squashed bananas, but McLean’s attention was diverted by the clatter of mail falling through the letterbox. He padded barefoot across the hall, wishing he had slippers or at least underfloor heating for the cold, stone tiles, and rescued the pile of letters from the mat. It was unusual for him to be at home when the postman called, so it was a rather novel experience to leaf through the mail while it was still fresh.

A number of companies wished to invite him to take out credit cards; one even suggested his grandmother consolidate all her loans into one, at a particularly usurious rate. That she had been dead half a year, and in a coma for eighteen months before that, didn’t seem to have registered on whatever mailing database the company was using. Which didn’t speak well for any customer service they might be hoping to offer.

Hidden among the shiny plastic-wrapped catalogues and fliers, McLean found a hefty, plain, A4 envelope, with his name and address handwritten, a motley collection of Christmas stamps stuck in the top right corner. Dropping the rest of his mail on the kitchen table, he broke open the seal of this one with his thumb and ripped the paper apart.

‘What is it?’ Emma asked, idly leafing through the pile as if she lived here too. McLean scanned down the loose page of a letter, then handed over a series of slim brochures to her before reading out loud.

‘ “Dear Mr McLean. Thank you for your recent enquiry about Alfa Romeo cars.” ’ He looked up from the letter. ‘I wasn’t aware that I had made a recent enquiry. Must’ve been Ritchie then.’ McLean turned back to the letter, but not before he had seen what looked like a dark cloud pass over Emma’s face.

‘Ritchie?’ she asked.

‘Detective Sergeant Ritchie. She transferred down from Aberdeen just before Christmas. You might have met her when you were still up there.’

‘Oh, that Ritchie. Yeah, I remember her.’ There was something just a little too casual about the way Emma said it. ‘But she was just a constable then, not long out of uniform. So she made DS already? What’s she doing sending you car brochures for?’

‘No idea. Probably something to do with seeing me driving around my gran’s old car. She might’ve mentioned something about it when we were all down the pub one evening.’ McLean shrugged. ‘Seems there’s a new showroom being opened. Today as it happens. They’ve invited me along to have a glass of wine and some cheese. Maybe buy a car, I’m sure.’

‘Well, you do need a car. Something a bit more practical than that old banger of yours.’

‘Banger? It’s a classic.’ McLean tried not to take offence, drank some more of his coffee. It wasn’t as nice cold. ‘But you’re right. If I’m going to stay here, I’ll have to get a car. It’ll have to wait though. I’ve got to go to the station.’

The cloud over Emma’s face darkened. ‘It’s your day off, Tony. ‘

‘I know. But I’m in the middle of a case.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re always in the middle of a case? When was the last time you weren’t actively investigating something?’

McLean opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again when his brain failed to come up with an answer.

‘What if I told you that Chief Superintendent McIntyre herself asked me to make sure you took some time off ?’ Emma asked.

McLean opened his mouth again, and once more no words came out. Instead he felt a flush of embarrassment colour his face, tinged perhaps with a bit of anger. Was that why she’d dropped round? Not because she cared, but because she was told to?

‘OK, so that’s not quite true.’ Emma dropped the brochure back onto the table, stood up and walked over to where McLean was sitting. ‘But she did tell me she was worried about you, Tony.’ She bent over and kissed the top of his head. ‘The rest was my idea.’

She smelled of soap and coffee, mothballs from one of his grandfather’s old shirts which she had decided to wear. Just having her stand close to him made his heart thump louder in his chest, made him feel like a schoolboy all over again. There was no arguing with that. But there was no arguing with three dead women, either.

‘Jayne McIntyre’s not my mother,’ he said. ‘Everyone worries too much. I’m fine, honest. I don’t really need a day off. Not when there’s a nutter out there needs catching.’