The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(9)

‘This is the ninth fire at a redevelopment site in the city in two months. Are you any closer to catching the arsonist?’

‘Who the hell let you in here?’ McLean looked around for the nearest uniformed officer. ‘Constable!’

‘Come on, inspector.’ Dalgliesh glanced over her shoulder as the constable hurried towards them. ‘Just a word. Anything. Surely this isn’t coincidence, all these buildings burning down?’

‘You know I can’t comment until the fire investigation team has been inside, Ms Dalgliesh.’

‘But you’re treating all the fires as connected.’

‘We’re not ruling out anything at this stage.’

‘Which means you haven’t got a clue.’

McLean ignored her. ‘Constable, escort Ms Dalgliesh back behind the security cordon. And make sure no one else gets through. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.’

‘We can help you, inspector. If you let us,’ the reporter protested as she was led away.

‘Aye, right,’ McLean muttered under his breath.

‘She’s got a point,’ Grumpy Bob said.

‘Yes, well, thanks for the support, sergeant. That’s really helpful. So what’s the situation here? You doing any actual policing, or just drinking tea?’

Grumpy Bob downed the dregs, then looked for somewhere to put the empty mug. ‘I’ve had Constable MacBride working the crowd. You never know, we could get lucky. There’s good CCTV coverage. We’ll pull the tapes, see if anyone’s lurking.’

Long hours of staring at grainy television images, trying to see if the same faces turned up at more than one fire. Wonderful.

‘Inspector? Sir?’

McLean looked up to see MacBride winding his way through the abandoned cars and dodging the milling fire crews. He had an airwave set in one hand, his notebook in the other, a look of excitement flushing his face. Either that or he’d been too close to the fire.

‘What is it, constable?’

‘Call just came in ... they’ve found a body.’

McLean rubbed his face, trying to get the tired dryness out of his eyes. The firemen had moved back towards the burning building now, but as far as he could tell no one had gone inside.

‘What, in the fire? How?’

MacBride looked momentarily confused. Then held up his radio.

‘No, sir. South of the city. Looks like a murder.’

‘I’m supposed to be off duty. Can’t they give it to anyone else?’

‘Dagwood’s gone to some important society dinner.’ Grumpy Bob bent his knee, miming the rolling up of his trouser leg. ‘Langley and his crowd won’t want to be first in if there’s no obvious drugs connection.’

‘What about Randall?’

‘Off with the flu.’

‘Oh Christ.’ McLean shook his head to try and scare away the fatigue of a long day about to get even longer. ‘Give us the details then.’

MacBride consulted his notebook. ‘It’s out near Gladhouse. Young woman, naked in the water. Sergeant Thoms said something about her throat being cut.’

Despite the heat from the fire, McLean’s insides were as cold as the wind in an Aberdeenshire graveyard. Beside him, Grumpy Bob went suddenly very still.

‘The Christmas Killer?’

McLean shook his head. ‘It can’t be, Bob. He’s dead. I watched them bury him just this morning.’

But in his mind, he wasn’t so sure.





8





A circle of bright white light hovered over the crime scene like some strange alien spaceship. Or maybe the Star of Bethlehem, given the time of year. That made McLean either a shepherd or a wise man, but he couldn’t decide which. Whatever he was, he was tired. He stifled a yawn as he clambered out of the car, then remembered he was supposed to get it back to the hire company by seven. Even driving like a maniac he’d miss that by an hour. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time his one-day hire had turned into two.

A line of squad cars and a couple of battered old white Transit vans meant he had to walk a short distance to the fluttering crime-scene tape. Closer in, the arc lights set up by the SOC team washed out an area of rough ground below the road. Fat drops of rainwater glistened on the spiky tips of the thick gorse bushes and splashed down from the bare, black, twisted branches of scraggy birch trees. Through it all ran a deep-culverted stream, gurgling loudly with recent rain. It was a while since he’d been out this way. But if memory served, it was part of the reservoir system that fed the city. Just the sort of place you wanted to find a body.

‘I’m sorry, sir, this is a crime scene. You can’t—’

McLean cut off the young uniformed constable who had tried to block his way, wearily pulling out his warrant card for inspection. It wasn’t surprising the lad didn’t recognise him; this was Penicuik’s patch, after all.

‘Who’s the officer in charge?’ McLean asked once the constable had finished apologising.

‘Sergeant Price, sir. He’s down there with the pathologist.’

‘Already? That was quick.’ McLean looked up the line of cars; sure enough, parked at the far end Angus Cadwallader’s British Racing Green and mud-coloured Bentley poked one salt-encrusted headlight out from behind a SOC van.