'Christ, why?'
Grumpy Bob looked very uncomfortable. 'They're playing the Anderson angle, sir.'
'Anderson's dead, Bob.'
'Aye, I know. But bloody Jo Dalgliesh's got hold of detailed info about both murders. She's been harping on about Anderson being fitted up and us not knowing our arses from a hole in the ground. You can bet it's going to be all over the papers tomorrow.'
McLean looked down at the handful of video tapes. He'd been planning on handing them over to DC MacBride to sit through, but right now the thought of hiding himself in a dark viewing room was extremely tempting. Better still if he could go in there and not come out until spring. He looked at his watch, it was almost eight. Thirteen hours since he'd started that morning. Grumpy Bob had been up just as long if not longer. Well, it wouldn't be the first time they'd pulled long shifts.
'OK then Bob, let's go and see the super. Might as well get the bollocking over and done with.'
*
Mrs McCutcheon's cat stared at him from the kitchen table when he let himself in the back door many hours later. McLean shooed it off, but all it did was twist itself around his legs, waiting to be fed. He dug a scoop of dried food out of the bag in the larder, ladled it into the bowl on the floor and then went to check the litter box. There was a cat flap in the back door, but he'd kept it shut for the few weeks since he'd adopted the beast; someone somewhere had told him once that you needed to keep cats locked up in their new homes for a while, otherwise they'd just wander back to the old one. For the life of him he couldn't remember how long it was you were supposed to confine them, but looking at the diary pinned up by the phone in the kitchen, he saw to his dismay both that it was three weeks since his flat had burned down, and that it was only three days to Christmas.
He supposed he should have realised. It wasn't as if the shops weren't full of tinsel and tat, and the street decorations had been up for at least six weeks. Perhaps he could lie to himself and say he'd been so wrapped up in his work that he'd just let time pass him by, but the truth of the matter was that he always hid from the festive season.
The cat twined around his legs again as he stood staring at the diary. There was nothing written in it, just a blank accumulation of days almost finished. He'd have to pick up one for next year soon.
'You wanting out then?' McLean opened the back door onto darkness and cold wind. The cat looked out, sniffed the air a little, then turned back to the warmth of the kitchen.
'Smart thinking.' He closed the door again, then bent down and removed the cover over the cat flap. At least it could come and go if it wanted to. If it knew how to use one, of course. He didn't recall Mrs McCutcheon ever having one; her cats just used an open window. Ah well, he'd show it how or it would work it out for itself.
The fridge yielded little in the way of food, but there was a half bottle of Riesling that clearly needed finishing. He poured himself a glass, and was about to phone the pizza delivery place when the front doorbell rang.
McLean froze. There was no reason for anyone to come and see him. Not that many people at work knew where he lived now anyway. Grumpy Bob and DS MacBride had been here, and Emma of course. Guilt warmed his cheeks as he thought about her. Thought about the way he'd treated her. He'd not exactly been cruel so much as unresponsive, and for the life of him he couldn't think why. Except that she was friendly and warm, obviously liked him enough to put up with his many failings, and he really didn't want to go getting close to someone like that again.
The doorbell rang again and for a moment he considered hiding, pretending not to be in. It was daft, he knew. The kitchen lights would be painting a wide distorted square pattern of light over the driveway outside, it was obvious to anyone approaching the house that someone was home. And what if it was something important?
Sighing, he put down his unfilled glass and set off across the hall, flicking on the light over the porch as he did so. No sooner had he opened the front door than a dozen or more lusty voices burst into song.
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
Where the snow lay all about
Deep and crisp and even
And on they went, through all the verses whilst he stood there, mouth open like a half wit. Carol singers. He hadn't heard them in years. Not since he'd been a boy at school. Looking at the heavily-coated mob, he thought he half recognised some of his Grandmother's neighbours. It was possible that some of the younger ones were people he'd known as a child.
The carol came to an end with more or less everyone finishing at the same time, and only then did McLean remember that he was supposed to give them something. His wallet was back in the kitchen, in his jacket pocket hanging over a chair.
'Umm, that was... great,' he said, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could in the howling icy wind that whistled around the garden and in through the door. 'Look, it's freezing out here. Why don't you come in. I'm sure I can find something to warm you all up.'
The words were out before he'd really considered the implications of what he was offering. The carol singers murmured desperate thanks anyway, and all trooped into the hall. McLean went back to the kitchen, fished out his wallet and then fetched a bottle of malt whisky from the cupboard. By the time he'd found enough glasses, filled a jug with water and carried the whole lot through on a tray, most of his unexpected guests were staring at the pictures and trying hard not to look like they were being nosey.
They were an odd assortment of people, he discovered as he handed over restorative drams. Only one person declined the offer, an elderly gentleman with a rather pinched expression, thinning white hair and a heavy white beard. He wore a long overcoat and heavy gloves, and kept himself pretty much to himself at the back of the crowd. McLean would probably have tried harder to make conversation, but there were others in the crowd clamouring for his attention, eager hands reaching for the generously-filled whisky glasses.
By the time he came to the last of the carol singers, she had loosened off her heavy overcoat to reveal a dog collar and black shirt of the Episcopal Church. She was perhaps in her late forties, though it was hard to tell. Her face had that lived-in look of someone who's seen a lot, and her shoulder length straight black hair was shot with grey. But there were few lines around her eyes and mouth.
'I don't believe we've met.' She held out her hand. 'Mary Currie.'
'Tony McLean. Have you been in the parish long? Ms Curry?'
'Mary, please. Long enough to have known your Grandmother. I was sorry to hear when she passed away. We had a few good arguments, Esther and I. She didn't really see God in quite the same way as me.'
McLean wondered why his Grandmother had never mentioned that the local vicar was a woman. Maybe she had and he'd forgotten.
'Still, I'm glad you decided to move in,' Mary carried on.
'I don't think I'm likely to swell the numbers of your congregation. Religion's not really my thing.'
'Well, there's always room for improvement.' She smiled, then knocked back the last of her whisky. 'Thank you for that, it's not many remember the old traditions of hospitality. Though you might want to put up a few decorations, brighten the place up a bit.'
McLean was uncomfortably aware that there was absolutely nothing festive about the house whatsoever. If you didn't include the usual round of seasonal circulars, he hadn't even received any Christmas cards, which was hardly surprising as he never sent any out.
The vicar called her choir together, gave a quick rendition of In the Bleak Midwinter and then they all filed out into the cold night. He watched them troop back down the gravel path and then disappear into the street. They all talked amongst each other, laughing and joking, revitalised by their unexpected drink. Except the white-haired old man, who hung back a bit and stared up the drive until McLean closed the door. When he had collected all the empty glasses from their various hiding places in the hall, the house felt suddenly very large and empty.
~~~~
/> 32
He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about a sea of journalists that was the stuff of nightmares. Perhaps it was the eager heads straining forward on stretched necks towards him that reminded him of the horror comics he had read as a child. Or maybe it was the smell of them, part fear, part feeding frenzy testosterone. Whatever it was, McLean hated press conferences perhaps more than anything in his job. And that included breaking bad news to the recently bereaved.
As penance for his disappearance the day before, he had agreed to attend this particular briefing and answer questions about the investigation. If anything could have made it worse, it was the fact that he was flanked on one side by the station Press Liaison Officer, Sergeant Dan Hwei and on the other by Chief Superintendent McIntyre. He didn't need his degree in Psychology to tell that neither of them were particularly well disposed towards him at that moment. DCI Duguid was lurking at the back with a mischievous grin on his face.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' McIntyre started. 'Thank you for coming. I'm sure you're all aware of the terrible nature of this crime. Last night we were unable to give out too many details. However, in the light of some fairly lurid speculation, I think it only fair that we bring you up to speed on the investigation so far.'
'Chief Superintendent, can you confirm...' A voice from the back, female, English. McLean felt the air beside him go still, and possibly drop in temperature by a few degrees.
'There will be time for questions later.' McIntyre cut the journalist off with a withering stare. 'Right now I'd like to introduce the principal officer conducting this investigation. Detective Inspector McLean.'
The hubbub that arose from the crowd was in some way gratifying, since it meant that his name was known. But it was also a touch depressing to think that those people murmuring to each other at the back had not recognised him when he'd first taken his place at the podium. McLean leant forward and tapped his microphone a couple of times before speaking.
'I'm sure you're all aware that we found the body of a young woman out near the Flotterstone Inn late on Sunday afternoon. I can confirm that we have now identified the victim as a Miss Katherine McKenzie, a resident of Jock's Lodge. And I can also confirm that Post Mortem examination of her body, er... confirms that she was murdered. We have established her movements up until around midnight of last Wednesday.' Thanks to DS Ritchie and DC MacBride, who had stayed up late to watch a fascinating movie, finally spotting Kate, leaving alone and walking back down Liberton Brae towards her home.
'We have reason to believe she was picked up somewhere near Mortonhall at that time. Our major line of enquiry at the moment is trying to establish where she went after that, though of course we're pursuing other avenues as well.
'There has been some speculation already as to a connection between this murder and that two weeks ago of Audrey Carpenter. Whilst there are superficial similarities between the two, there are also significant differences. We are progressing both investigations in parallel, with close liaison between the investigating teams.' Because they're the same bloody people. McLean sat back, waiting for the onslaught. It didn't take long for the sea of faces to become a forest of arms. That was when Sergeant Hwei stepped in, picking the first questions from those local reporters he already knew.
'Inspector McLean, the word is the young woman's throat was cut. Is this true?'
'It was a violent attack,' McLean said. 'But I don't wish to confirm any details that might jeopardise either our investigation or any subsequent prosecution.'
'Inspector, is it true that the victim was killed somewhere other than Flotterstone and then moved to the reservoir to be dumped?'
'Again, I can't really say. The body was found just beyond the tourist car park at the south end of the reservoir.'
'Have Miss McKenzie's family been informed?'
'Miss McKenzie's parents are both dead, and she had no other family. We've been working with her... fiancée.'
'Do you have any clue as to who might have done this?'
'We have several lines of investigation open, and it's early days yet. If I've got any suspects in mind, I hope you'll appreciate it if I don't share that information with you.'
'Inspector McLean, does it bother you that there are so many similarities between both these deaths and that of Miss Kirsty Summers in the winter of 1999? I believe you were the detective who eventually brought that killer to justice.'
'Thank you Ms Dalgliesh. We're all aware of your theories here.' Chief Superintendent McIntyre stepped in before McLean could answer. If he could answer. The question had quite literally knocked him back in his seat, even as he had recognised the voice of the woman asking it.
'But surely it's an important line of investigation is it not?' Dalgliesh persisted. 'If there's the slightest possibility that Anderson didn't...'
'Anderson killed her. And the others before her. He killed them all.' McLean was surprised at the vehemence in his voice, the anger behind it. How dare this scrawny wee shite come in and even suggest that he'd got the wrong man? And why now?
'And yet here we are, nine years later, and two young women's bodies are found placed exactly the same way as all those others before. Killed exactly the same way. Will you at least be reviewing the old case files?'
McLean pictured the unopened cardboard box on his desk. He could feel McIntyre beside him gearing herself up to end the press conference. Her anger was almost like a wall growing between him and the collected journalists. But before the superintendent could speak, he leant forward, focussing solely on the scruffy woman in her leather coat as she sat a few rows from the front.
'Ms Dalgliesh, Donald Anderson was guilty. A jury found him guilty. We had incontrovertible evidence of his guilt. He even confessed, though that was just an attempt to get off on an insanity plea.
'But you're right, there are disturbing similarities between these murders and Anderson's. I'll be investigating those similarities very thoroughly.' He looked straight at Joanne Dalgliesh. 'Of course, my job would be a lot easier if his methods hadn't been made public in quite such intimate detail.'
*
McLean watched from the relative safety of the corridor as the reporters filed out of the briefing room. Only visitors with passes could find him here, peering through the wire-mesh toughened glass window. And, of course, serving police officers.
'I think that went as well as could be expected.'
He turned around to see Chief Superintendent McIntyre standing behind him, her uniform serving only to emphasise her seniority.
'You do? I was just about ready to strangle Dalgliesh in there. What the hell was she doing, dragging Kirsty's name into all this?'
McIntyre leant against the wall, perhaps trying to inject a little informality into the conversation. 'You know as well as I do that she's only trying to sell more papers. And there's a new edition of that book of hers, of course. Now Anderson's dead. She doesn't care whose feelings get trampled as long as she gets paid.'
'But you heard her, ma'am. She as good as said we framed an innocent man.'
McIntyre fixed McLean with an oddly puzzled stare, staying silent for a moment as if she was trying to make a decision. McLean could only seethe, glancing back to see the last of the journalists depart. No doubt some of them would be doing pieces to camera out in the street, but at least he'd been spared the added worry of TV recording the actual press conference.
'Come with me, Tony,' McIntyre said finally. He had to hurry to keep up as she led him back up to her office. Once there, he expected her to go straight to her chair on the far side of the desk, but instead she went to the bookcase in the 'informal' corner with the uncomfortable armchairs and the coffee machine. She made a good impression of a person trying to decide what to read in the bath that evening, then finally pulled out a fat, hardbound book that McLean recognised with a heavy heart. The cover bore a chilling photograph of Donald Anderson, and above it the legend 'The Christmas Killer,' subtitled 'Donald
Anderson and the Book of Souls.'
'You really don't know what Dalgliesh is on about.' McIntyre clutched the book to her bosom. 'And I can understand that, Tony. From a personal point of view. But you're a policeman. A detective. I know that it's painful. Christ, I can't begin to imagine just how painful, losing your fiancée like that. But you can't go on sticking your head in the sand. There's more than one opinion where Anderson's concerned.'
'Ma'am, Anderson is guilty. He killed all of those women. Not just my...'
'I know, Tony. I saw the evidence, and I trust your skills as a detective.' McIntyre pulled the book away from her and held it out for him to take. 'But not everyone else in the world does.'
McLean made no move to accept the book, so McIntyre forced it on him.
'Take it, Tony. Read it. I know it's going to hurt, and I know it's going to make you angry. But you need to understand where people like Jo Dalgliesh are coming from.'
~~~~
33
McLean had never really liked Joanne Dalgliesh as a person. Fifty pages into The Christmas Killer, he felt utterly justified in his contempt of her as a writer too.
For some unfathomable reason, the reporter had taken it upon herself to defend Anderson, seeing him as some victim of both a terrible miscarriage of justice and mental illness brought on by his upbringing. She didn't deny that he had killed Kirsty Summers in the winter of 1999, but the bulk of the book was a detailed exploration of the possibility that he might not have killed the other nine Christmas Killer victims.
The book glossed neatly over the hard forensic evidence that had put Anderson away and focused instead on the mementos he had kept from his victims. Dalgliesh seemed to think that because none of these were individually conclusive, Anderson must have been fitted up for the earlier murders; Lothian and Borders taking the opportunity of Anderson's arrest to clear an embarrassing backlog of unsolved crimes. McLean knew himself that none of the mementos on their own meant anything; the first victim, Laura Fenton's St Christopher was a mass-produced piece that could have belonged to anyone. Rosie Buckley's ring had been a cheap piece of shit from Ratners the Jewellers, one of millions. And so on with all the other items found in the office behind the shop.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 14
