The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(92)
‘I have to go. He has Emma.’ McLean stood up, turned to leave, but Father Anton reached out to stop him. His touch was icy cold, like the Water of Leith at Hogmanay.
‘I fear so. But there’s still hope. In your dream the page was just beginning to be written. She is not dead yet.’
Not dead yet. But what she was, where she was, didn’t bear thinking about. McLean freed his hands from the chill embrace, stood up, looked at the altar with its simple wooden cross. No silverware in a city church these days; too easy for someone to steal. He felt no compunction to mutter a short prayer for help.
‘I need to go. Time’s running out.’
Emma’s flat was in a small tenement in that ill-defined area between Warriston and Broughton, a favourite with the city’s ever-shifting student population. There was no answer when McLean leant on the buzzer, but the front door itself swung open when he pushed it. As he walked down the narrow entrance hall, he realised that he’d never been here before; he had no idea which of the apartments was hers. Fortunately the downstairs doors had nameplates, and these also had names. Upstairs was the same, and the one on the left held a smudged scrap of paper with ‘Baird’ scribbled on it in hasty biro. He knocked on the door, then paused, letting the sounds of the building come to him. It was silent at this time of the morning, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t already left.
He knocked again, a bit harder this time. Still nothing. He tried the door, finding it locked; pulled out a supermarket loyalty card and wiggled it into the space between the doorjamb and the lock. Something clicked, he turned the handle again and the door swung open.
The hallway smelled of her and he stood still just breathing it in for long seconds, listening all the while for any sign that the flat was occupied. There wasn’t much to it, really. An open door showed a galley kitchen with a grubby window looking out the back onto the river. Another door opened on a tiny bathroom, lit only by a narrow skylight overhead; a third went through to a surprisingly large living room, deep bay window onto the street, curtains open, unmatched sofa and armchair arranged around a gas fire and small television. He half expected to find an empty ice-cream carton on the floor with a dirty spoon poking out of it, but there was nothing. Not even a wine glass. That left the fourth door. The bedroom.
It was barely big enough for the double bed and the heavy, antique wardrobe, but McLean hardly took in any details. Just that the duvet was neatly pulled up to the pillows, and that the only occupant of the bed was a large, grey, rather threadbare hippopotamus. He slid a hand under the duvet, feeling the cold sheets. No one had slept there recently.
In the kitchen, a mug lay turned upside down on the drainer. Picking it up, he ran a finger around the inside. It was dry, as were the sink and the dishcloth draped over the tap. Unused in at least twenty-four hours. The kettle was cold, too.
The bathroom was the same; no water around either the sink or bath plugholes, no drops clinging to the tiles around the shower. The towel hanging from a peg on the back of the door was soft and smelled intoxicating, but it hadn’t dried anyone in a while. Toothbrush and toothpaste sat in an old mug with a broken handle, again unused, though it was always possible she had a spare for travelling.
It took a while for him to find the answering machine, hiding on the floor behind the sofa in the living room. There were two new messages from him, both left the night before; one from Alison Connell, telling Emma to check her mobile and pager. He listened to them twice, marvelling at just how awful his own voice sounded on the phone, trying not to accept the truth that Emma hadn’t been home when he had recorded them.
A horn sounding in the street outside brought him back to his senses. Looking out, he could see a snarl of traffic beginning to grow around his car where he had abandoned it on a double yellow line. Time to go.
On the way back to the door, he noticed for the first time a handful of framed photographs on a low sideboard. Most were of people he didn’t know, but there was one of himself, somewhere dark, probably the pub. He didn’t remember it being taken. Alongside it, there was a professional portrait of Emma herself, a graduation photo.
Hoping he’d be able to give it back to her soon, he grabbed it and headed out the door.
DS Ritchie clattered into the otherwise empty CID room and dumped her bag on the chair by her desk.
‘Got here as quick as I could, sir. What’s the— oh shit.’
McLean stood back to let her get a better look at Emma’s graduation photograph where he had taped it alongside Audrey Carpenter, Kate McKenzie and Trisha Lubkin. The door banged open again, and DC MacBride’s back appeared, followed by the rest of him bearing a tray with coffee and bacon butties.
‘I got your message, sir. What’s so important it can’t wait— oh.’ To his credit, the detective constable didn’t drop the tray.
‘Is Grumpy Bob here yet?’ McLean asked, not wanting to get down to business until the whole team was there.
‘I saw him coming in the front just now, should be here any minute. But sir. Em? What’s going on?’
‘She’s missing. She didn’t go home last night, and she didn’t meet me in the pub when she was supposed to. She’s not answering her mobile or pager.’
‘I don’t want to sound sceptical, sir, but what makes you think she’s been ... well ... abducted?’ DS Ritchie helped herself to one of the coffees and a brown-paper-wrapped packet.