The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(89)

‘Christ, what a day.’

McLean slumped into the window seat and reached for the untouched pint on the table in front of him. It was cold, wet and the first pleasurable thing that had happened to him since waking that morning. He drank deep, sinking fully a third of the beer before coming up for breath.

‘Looks like you needed that.’ Phil sat on the other side of the table, a half-grin on his face. His own pint was barely touched.

‘God save me from journalists,’ McLean said. ‘A pox on all of them. And bloody profilers, too.’

‘Let me guess. They’ve been writing unhelpful things about the police again.’

‘Worse, I’ve got to work with them.’ McLean told his friend about the press conference, the DCC and Matt Hilton. He’d spent the whole afternoon closeted in a stuffy room with the psychologist, feeling like it was him being analysed, not the man who they were trying to catch.

‘I swear, if I hear someone say “conflict resolution” once more I’m going to hit them.’ He took the pint down to the halfway line. ‘That or “Oedipus complex”. Can you believe that someone actually suggested Donald Anderson killed all those people because he was trying to come to terms with being abandoned as a child? The little tit actually said he chose women that represented some idealised notion of his mother, then raped and killed them to get his revenge. Jesus.’ And the rest of the pint was gone.

‘You must be stressed,’ Phil said. ‘I’ve never seen a drink disappear so fast. And you don’t normally talk about your cases until they’re closed.’

McLean rubbed at his face, picked up the empty glass and looked at the foamy suds in the bottom. Put it back down on the table.

‘Sorry, Phil. It’s just picking at the scab, you know. Everyone’s gabbing away about motives and planning and the symbolic importance of this and that, and there I am thinking about Kirsty. What that bastard did to her.’

‘D’you really think you should be working this case, then?’ Phil reached for the glass but McLean beat him to it.

‘No, my turn Phil. You know the rules.’ He stood up and shuffled around the table. ‘And I asked for the case. I pleaded for it. There’s no way I was going to let anyone else f*ck it up.’

The pub was busy, with only one harassed barmaid serving the throng of thirsty students. McLean waited his turn in a parody of a queue and tried to forget the job, just for a moment. Forget Hilton’s increasingly wild speculation. Forget the frustration of waiting for Aberdeen to get back with their list. Forget that he now had to waste valuable hours writing up reports for Dagwood that would never be read. Forget ... ah f*ck it, who was he kidding?

Clutching two fresh pints and with a packet of chilli crisps between his teeth, McLean made it back to the table after what seemed like only a week or so. Phil was still nursing the first half of his beer, so maybe it hadn’t been that long.

‘How was your Christmas then? How’s Rae?’, he asked after he had split open the bag for them to share.

‘Fraught,’ Phil said, then after a little consideration added: ‘Both of them.’

‘Oh? Did she not get on with your parents, then?’

‘I guess so. Sort of. But you know what my mum’s like. Give her a drama and she’ll make a crisis out of it. Rae’s gone completely mad about the wedding anyway. Put the two of them together and, well, it’s light the blue touch paper and stand back.’

‘Ah well. At least they’re a long way away. You only need to see them every once in a while.’

‘Don’t you believe it. They’re talking about coming up here for a few weeks to help get things sorted out. A few weeks!’ Phil took a long drink, then looked at McLean with a conspiratorial air. ‘You’re rattling around in that old place of your gran’s, Tony. You could put them up.’

‘Rattling around? Says who? I’ll have you know I’ve had plenty of people come to see me since I moved in.’

‘Aye, Grumpy Bob and that lad MacBride, I’ll bet. Drinking your whisky. I know what they’re like.’

‘Actually they’re probably the only ones who’ve not been round much. I had the carol singers in before Christmas. Emma’s been a couple of times.’

‘Oh yes?’ Phil nudged McLean in the ribs. ‘Tell Uncle Phil all the details.’

‘In your dreams, Jenkins. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.’

‘So there was kissing involved. Better and better. At least tell me you’ve asked her to the wedding. Rae’s going to go mental if you haven’t.’

McLean looked at his watch, then around the bar. ‘She’s supposed to be meeting me here tonight, as it happens. I didn’t think she’d be this late. Maybe she’s still mad at me.’

‘Mad at you? What’ve you been up to, Tony?’

McLean did his best to explain, though for the life of him he couldn’t see what the problem had been. ‘She was in the station this morning though, delivering stuff to the evidence store. Said she’d meet here at eight. Everything seemed fine.’

‘Well that’s women for you. Right now she’s probably sitting with her feet up on the sofa, watching a soppy movie on the telly. She’s got a litre carton of ice cream and just the one spoon. And that’s all the company she needs right now. Tomorrow she’ll phone you with some excuse about a crap day and falling asleep in the armchair. Mark my words.’