The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(99)
The temperature seemed to rise as he climbed slowly down the steps, the stone walls radiating heat as if he were descending into the magma layer, not just a few yards underground. Ritchie pressed in close behind him, her scent filling the enclosed space as they moved further away from the reek upstairs. As he reached the bottom, he put his hand up for her to stay behind him, and brushed gently against her arm. At least he hoped it was her arm. Keeping as much of his body behind the half-open door as possible, he peered around it into the room beyond.
It looked like a small chapel, or perhaps the undercroft of a larger church. Heavy stone pillars rose up from the floor like the petrified trunks of long-dead trees. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, shadows of ornately carved figures lurking in the eaves. The walls were adorned with heavy plaques, their inscriptions too dark to see in the flickering candlelight that spread from half a dozen sconces. The scent of burning tallow was heavy in the air, only half masking something less pleasant. It was warmer even than the tunnel, lending the place a hellish feel.
Slowly, McLean edged into the room, looking around and trying to make out detail in the semi-darkness. A low stone altar stood at one end, holding up more candles that illuminated more elaborate carvings. Beside it, a heavy wooden lectern angled towards the room, shaped like an eagle with its claws extended, wings spread wide to land. But there were only a few old pews near the front for any congregation to sit on. The rest of the space had been cleared back to smooth flagstone floor, then piled with an odd assortment of boxes, some rolled-up carpet, an old sit-up-and-beg pushbike with a wicker basket mounted on the handlebars. A heavy, cast-iron bedstead, complete with manky, bloodstained mattress, stood to one side. From where he stood, he could only see a corner, but it was enough. A pale, small hand was chained to the headboard with a shiny new handcuff.
All thoughts of stealth forgotten, McLean ran across the dimly lit chapel to the bed. Emma lay on her back, spreadeagled and naked, bound by her hands and legs. The bare mattress stank of dried blood and piss. For too long he just stared at her, trying to work out if she was dead or alive. She looked so pale, so still; like Kirsty had looked when he had found her all those years ago. Please God, don’t let it happen again.
‘We have to get her out of here.’ McLean dug in his pockets, looking for a set of handcuff keys. His hand found them nestling beneath the strip of cloth, still in its plastic evidence bag. Not knowing quite why he did it, he pulled both out, palmed the keys and opened the bag. The fabric was soft, thin between his fingers, a little jolt of something like electricity running through him at that first touch. Hastily he shoved it into his trouser pocket, reached over with the keys. Emma didn’t stir as he undid the cuffs, one by one. She didn’t stir as he gently eased her arms back down by her sides. Nor did she stir as he pulled off his jacket and laid it gently over her. And all the while DS Ritchie stood hesitantly nearby, as if unsure whether she should help or not. If she’d seen him handling the strip of cloth, she said nothing about it.
‘Is she ... Is she breathing?’
McLean knelt down, gagging at the smell coming off the mattress, and touched a finger lightly to Emma’s neck. He just caught the merest motion of a pulse in the flickering light before a scream pierced the quiet.
‘She’s mine!’ Needy came from nowhere, brandishing a heavy brass candlestick and moving faster than McLean had ever seen him. He was wearing some kind of long cloak and a gold medallion around his neck that glinted in the candlelight as it swung. Ritchie ducked to avoid the blow, but was too slow. It connected with the side of her head as she turned, and she crumpled like a discarded puppet. Needy didn’t even look at her, swinging the candlestick round again as he rushed on, eyes lit with a mad fire. Kneeling down, McLean could only put up his arms for defence, trying to parry the blow rather than take it full on.
The pain was instant, and he could swear he heard bones cracking. The shock ran up his arms into his shoulders, dulling his vision. He could barely move, and yet he knew that Needy would be swinging the candlestick around for a second blow. A killing blow. He rolled onto the floor, felt the air split where his head had been a second earlier. There was a dull crash as the candlestick connected with the flagstone floor and McLean took his opportunity.
Needy was bent over, off balance as he tried to haul back his makeshift weapon. From his position on the floor, McLean swept his legs round, trying to bring Needy down. The sergeant jumped out of his way, laughing, seemingly unencumbered by his damaged leg.
‘Can’t get me like that.’ And he brought the candlestick down again.
McLean rolled under the bed, feeling something sticky on the floor pull at his shirt. The candlestick clanged against the edge of the bed, tumbling rust and other less pleasant things onto his face. His forearms still hurt like he’d bench-pressed a train, but at least he was getting his wits together. As Needy pulled the candlestick up again, McLean rolled right under the bed and scrambled up on the other side.
‘Put it down, Needy. It’s over. You don’t want to hurt anyone else.’
‘She’s mine, I tell you. Mine. It said I could have her if I read her a story.’
‘John, look at yourself.’ McLean kept one eye on the wavering candlestick, but he was close enough to see Needy’s face. It was contorted in a grimace that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy, black eyes and swollen nose making him look like an insane ape. God only knew what he was on. Some mixture of painkillers and amphetamines by the look of him. Was there any possibility of talking him down?