The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(90)
‘But she said—’ McLean stopped as his brain caught up with his mouth. Phil was right, of course. This was just a little light revenge for a missed lunch.
‘Mind you, she’s cutting off her nose to spite her face. I mean, she could have had my delightful company, fine ale and the distinct possibility of kebabs. Instead she’s got Meg Ryan, Sleepless in Seattle and a quart of H?agen Dazs. A poor deal, I reckon.’
McLean looked at his empty glass, then up to the bar with its line of handpumps waiting to be sampled. Thought about the shitty day that had just passed and the one that was going to come tomorrow.
‘Did you say kebabs?’
57
He knows it is a dream before he even sees anything. The fear is there, lurking like an old friend in the back of his mind. Like a murderer. Like a rapist.
The fog swirls around him, thick as tar and just as black. For a moment it is difficult to breathe, and then breathing isn’t important any more. Just the fear.
A lamp-post appears ahead of him, chasing away some of the darkness. It’s old-fashioned, cast iron, with a heavy glass head on the top of it, sputtering as it burns the poor-quality gas. He can smell the rotten-egg sulphur of the smoke, thick like the fog. Alive.
Onwards, and the street opens up to him like a corpse on the mortuary table. Incised, peeled back to reveal the sick secrets behind each new fa?ade. His feet are cold. The sensation causes him to look down, moist cobbles glistening like the round coils of spilled entrails. And when he looks back up again, he is here already.
No time passes between opening the door and standing in the oddly bright office, but he remembers the shop he must surely have crossed. Dark, dusty shelves, long emptied of the books that gave this place reason. All are gone save one. It lies open in front of him.
Kirsty stares up at him from the open page. Her eyes are dead, her hair splayed out around her head like a halo of dark, rippling softly as the Water of Leith tries to carry it away to the sea.
He turns the page.
Audrey Carpenter scowls at him, angry at the world, her father, her stupid death. She struggles against the bonds that tie her, then tumbles away in the flow as they snap.
He turns the page.
Kate McKenzie sobs for her lost love as she floats face-up in the cold, cold burn. Tears trickle from her eyes, sliding down the sides of her face in a never-ending stream. The water is deep now, his shoes ruined, his trousers soaked. He can feel it rising up to his chin, threatening to overwhelm him. Drowned in a sea of tears.
Grasping for a lifeline, he turns the page again.
Trisha Lubkin fights against invisible shackles, shouting and screaming silent curses. Her head snaps back and forward as she tries to head-butt an invisible, faceless foe. Then her eyes catch his and he can hear her chastising him, in the voice of the deputy chief constable. ‘Why didn’t you look for me sooner? Why did you let him kill me?’
Ashamed, he turns the page once more.
It is blank; plain parchment scraped smooth, ready for the next soul. But as he watches, lines start to appear, bubbling up from nowhere. They form a rectangle at the top of the page, the border of a new picture as yet indistinct. The fear grips him harder now, sinking its talons into him so that he can’t escape. Can’t turn the page. Can’t turn his head or close his eyes. Only watch as the image slowly forms, like a photograph being developed. And like a darkroom, everything is bathed in hellish red.
He knows what he is seeing long before the image has set. A woman lies spreadeagled on a blood-stained mattress, her arms and legs chained to the metal frame of an ancient bed. She is naked, motionless, he cannot tell if she is dead or alive. He strains to see her face, knowing full well who she is. He has seen that body before.
And beneath the picture, a word begins to form, beginning with a large, drop-cap letter E.
58
The phone woke him for the second time in as many days. For a moment he was confused; he’d set the alarm, he was sure of it. Then he noticed the time: five in the morning. Never a good time to get a call.
‘McLean.’ He winced at the dryness of his throat. The voice on the other end was not one he recognised.
‘Inspector McLean? Lothian and Borders?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’ A female voice, but beyond that he had no clue.
‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I’m Alison, Alison Connell. I work with Emma Baird on the SOC team. I think we’ve probably met a few times actually. Um, is she there? Emma?’
A chill gripped McLean’s body that had nothing to do with the lack of central heating. He scrabbled out of bed and went to the window, staring out at the frosty darkness beyond. ‘No, she’s not. I’ve not seen her since yesterday morning. Why?’
‘We’ve been trying to page her for the last hour. She’s meant to be on call. I tried her home number but it just went to message. And, well ... She mentioned something about seeing you, so I thought ... sorry.’
‘No, don’t be.’ McLean rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his muddled thoughts from the outside. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘I’ve been on a different shift since Monday, but I asked around here and no one’s seen her since she left yesterday morning. I had a quick check of her computer and she’s not logged on since then either.’