The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(94)

‘Purse is still in here.’ Ritchie guddled around in the bag. ‘Pager too. And phone.’ She pushed a couple of buttons and peered at the screen. ‘You left a lot of messages.’

McLean ignored the comment, looking around the parking lot for inspiration. The back of the station loomed over on three sides, the fourth protected from the rest of the world by a high stone wall. CCTV cameras covered the whole area, as did windows, behind which were offices where police sat all day. As he stood there, a couple of squad cars came in, another one leaving on patrol. Almost all of the parking bays were taken, his elderly Alfa looking very small and frail beside a BMW 4 x 4 that meant the deputy chief constable was in again. The only spaces of any size were the yellow-hatched area in front of the workshop, and the narrow ramp that led down to the basement stores.

‘Come with me,’ McLean said, setting off for the back door to the station.

‘What should I do with this, sir?’ Ritchie held the bag aloft, and McLean realised he was still holding the car keys in his hand. He threw them to her.

‘Stick it back in the boot, and lock up,’ he said, waiting impatiently as she complied.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asked as he hurried back to the station door, but McLean was already on his mobile.

‘MacBride? Get the CCTV tapes of the car park. From nine o’clock yesterday morning until the same time today. I want to know who went near Emma’s car. It’s in bay twenty-three, next to the ramp. And get Grumpy Bob to give Needy a call, can you. I know he’s off sick, but he’s the last person who’ll have seen her. She might have said something about where she was headed next.’

He hung up as they stepped from the cold dry day into the warm, moist interior, Ritchie still a step behind him.

‘Come on, sergeant, get a move on,’ McLean said. ‘Time’s wasting.’ And he set off down the steps into the basement.

The evidence store wasn’t the same without Sergeant Needham’s cheery face to welcome you. In his place, PC Jones was manning the fort, and by the look of it struggling with the computer system. He looked up as McLean and Ritchie approached, worry writ large across his broad, young face.

‘Sir, ma’am.’ He sprang to his feet behind the counter like a Jack-in-the-Box. McLean thought he might even salute.

‘It’s Tim, isn’t it?’ McLean asked, trying to put the constable at his ease.

‘Terence, sir.’

‘Sorry, Terence. How are you coping? I hear Needy’s off sick today.’

‘It’s alright, sir. Just a bit confusing, sir. Sergeant Needham has a unique filing system, sir.’

McLean tried a smile, though with each new hurdle the effort became ever greater. ‘You had some evidence brought in yesterday morning, about ten. Emma Baird, the SOC officer?’

‘I can check, sir. But there’s something up with the system.’

‘May I?’ Ritchie pointed towards the computer screen. PC Jones looked a bit worried, but then nodded. Ritchie settled in the vacated chair and was soon tapping away at the keys.

‘Did you see Needy ... Sergeant Needham yesterday, Terence?’ McLean asked, partly to distract the constable from what Ritchie was doing. Technically neither of them should be accessing this computer without leaving a paper trail. Contaminating evidence could jeopardise a conviction, bugger up any number of cases, even his own. McLean put a guilty hand in his jacket pocket, feeling the folded strip of fabric still there.

‘No, sir. He’d gone by the time I arrived.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About twelve, sir. I had the morning off, sir.’

‘Here it is,’ Ritchie said after a moment. ‘Evidence pertaining to the McMurdo investigation. Logged in at ten minutes past ten yesterday morning. Emma Baird handed them over.’

‘Should be a paper record, too.’ McLean turned back to the constable. ‘Is that all still kept in the filing cabinets?’

‘I ... Yes, sir. Would you like to see it, sir?’

‘Please.’

Constable Jones took a large set of keys from the desk and crossed over to one of the filing cabinets that lined the wall, returning soon afterwards with a series of sheets of paper, all stapled together neatly. The top was a form with the investigation code number and various other details filled in, Emma’s loose signature at the bottom alongside Needy’s more formal autograph. The other sheets were a manifest of everything that had been in the cardboard box. No different from the paperwork accompanying Anderson’s things, but it proved one thing: Emma had been here at the back of ten. He glanced at his watch; twenty-two hours ago. So where had she gone?

The first thing McLean noticed when they got back to the CID room a few minutes later was that Emma’s photograph had disappeared from the whiteboard. Grumpy Bob was at his desk, doing a good job of looking busy. He looked up as McLean came through the door, eyes darting to the side. Too late, he realised what was happening.

‘Just what the hell are you playing at, McLean?’

Dagwood had been hiding behind the door. At least that’s what it seemed like. He held Emma’s photograph in one hand and slapped at it with the other like it was some unruly child needing discipline.

‘I’m conducting my investigation, sir. What did you think I was doing?’