The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(97)

The message was relayed and an answer came back: ‘Yes.’

‘Then ask him if the old ...’ McLean squinted in the arc-lit gloaming at the name carved in stone above the main factory entrance. ‘McMerry Ironworks site in Loanhead was ever associated with the Guild.’

Again Ritchie relayed the information, before asking a question of her own. ‘Guild?’ she mouthed, hand covering the phone’s mouthpiece. McLean didn’t have time to explain before MacBride’s answer came back.

‘He says he doesn’t know, but he can find out.’

Ritchie ended the call and put her phone away.

‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

‘Just another hunch,’ McLean said. ‘It’s my day for them.’

‘That’s a big old pile for someone on a sergeant’s pay.’ DS Ritchie looked up at the imposing bulk of Needy’s house as the Alfa crunched over the gravel of the long driveway towards something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a period drama.

‘It’s been in the family a long time. The Needhams built the ironworks back there.’ McLean pointed to the rear of the building, where a steep bank rose sharply up, the stone hulk of the old factory just showing through a skeletal line of winter trees. ‘We all used to come out here from time to time. When we were working on the Christmas Killer case. It’s looking a bit run down since then.’

Closer in, McLean could see the grey-brown render on the walls was cracked in places, the sash windows in bad need of paint. Thick ivy grew up one gable wall, threatening to strangle the chimney stack and bring it crashing down onto the garage roof. He parked the Alfa a good distance away, just in case.

The front door was locked, but then that was no surprise. The windows reflected the low sun, and behind them shutters blocked any view of the rooms inside. McLean went to press the ornate porcelain bell-push, then hesitated.

‘Let’s just have a wee nosey about first, shall we?’

The gravel drive continued around the back of the house, through a stone arch that connected to the garage block. Not so much parked as abandoned in front of this, the grubby off-green Jaguar estate sat with its rear facing the back door. Looking up, McLean could see no lights from the windows on this side of the house either. Shutters blocked the downstairs views of everything except the back lobby and kitchen, both empty. He tried the back door, but it was locked.

‘Car’s not been anywhere in a while.’ DS Ritchie had her hand pressed to the bonnet. She took it off and tried the door handle. ‘Locked too.’

The garages were converted from earlier coach houses, and were also locked tight. It wasn’t surprising, really, with the house being so close to Loanhead. A place like this would be a magnet for all the unemployed and disaffected youth living in the schemes further down Roslin Glen. Overshadowed by the hulk of the ironworks, it almost begged to be burgled and vandalised.

‘Looks like something’s been dragged here, sir.’ DS Ritchie crouched down by the tailgate of Needy’s car, looking at the gravel intently. McLean joined her.

‘What is it?’

‘See here.’ She pointed at a shallow depression in the gravel. ‘Looks like something heavy was dropped out of the back of the car, then dragged off in that direction.’

McLean ran his hand lightly over the surface, feeling a rough outline of two parallel tracks. Two heels carving a path to Needy’s back door.

He stood up, pulled out his phone and hit speed dial as he followed the indentations to the door. DS MacBride answered on the second ring.

‘I need a warrant to search Needy’s house,’ McLean said before the constable could get more than his name out. ‘And we need to find him.’

‘On it, sir,’ MacBride said. ‘Oh, and you were right, by the way.’

‘I was? What about?’

‘The McMerry Ironworks, sir. It’s built on an old Guild of Strangers site. Their first site, as it happens. It’s where they set up after being driven out of the city by the merchant guilds at the turn of the sixteenth century.’

‘Fine, constable. You can give me the history lesson when we’ve found Emma. Just get me that warrant. Then get yourself over here quick as you can.’

Waiting for things to happen was never McLean’s style. He paced around, peering into the window that looked onto Needy’s kitchen, tried the locked door again, just in case, then looked around for any evidence of a spare key. Ritchie came over to join him.

‘You know, I could have sworn I heard someone shout “Help” just then.’

‘What?’ McLean looked at her, standing by the back door.

‘There it is again.’ Silence filled the air, underlined by the distant hum of the bypass, the whine of a jet plane.

‘D’you know, I think you’re right, sergeant. It sounds very much like someone’s in need of help.’ McLean shrugged his hand up into his sleeve for protection, picked up a fist-sized rock lying by the back door and used it to smash one of the small windows. The key was still in the lock on the inside, so he reached carefully in and opened the door.

‘Jesus! What’s that smell?’ Ritchie wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the back lobby. McLean sniffed and then wished he hadn’t. A mixture of rotting garbage and open sewer assaulted his senses. Shallow breathing through his mouth, he pushed open the door that led to the kitchen and stepped through.