The shop seemed strange, robbed of all the ancient leather and dusty cloth bindings. Still it was eerily familiar, sending an involuntary shudder through him as he stepped over the threshold.
Beyond the shop itself, the small office room that connected with the back hall and the stairs up to the flat above looked somewhat more like a room abandoned for ten years should. The old desk was there, and the chair. Two filing cabinets stood in the corner by a window that would have looked out onto the concrete courtyard out behind the building, had it not also been boarded up. Everything here was covered in a thin layer of dust, undisturbed by recent passage. McLean opened a couple of desk drawers, but they were empty. Anything that might conceivably have been evidence had been taken away during the investigation.
Through the office, McLean peered up the wooden stairs with their threadbare carpet to the landing above. The windows on the first floor hadn't been boarded up, but neither had anyone cleaned them since Anderson had been taken away in a Black Maria all those years ago. Now they were encrusted with muck on the outside, thick with spider webs and dangling dead fly carcasses on the inside. He climbed up, going from room to room, not really knowing what to expect. He'd searched this place before, and nothing much had changed since then. Only the smell was different; where once it had been heavy with leather oil and glue, cooking odours and cheap aftershave, now it was just empty, dusty, slightly mouldy.
Grumpy Bob hadn't come upstairs. He was still standing in the small hallway, looking back out to the shop when McLean came down. It was odd; if anyone should have been freaked out by this place, it was him, not the old sergeant. But he felt only a heavy sadness as he looked around.
'You're going down there, aren't you.' Grumpy Bob nodded towards the closed door under the stairs. By way of reply, McLean twisted the handle. It was locked, and even though he tried all the keys he'd been given, none of them fitted. He knelt down, feeling the wooden floorboards at his feet. In the edges, near the skirting boards, they were thick with dust. But in the middle, where people might walk, there was none. A path had been worn from the back door to the basement, and recently.
'Give me a hand here, Bob.' McLean put his shoulder to the door; it was only a flimsy thing with a single mortise lock. It shouldn't have put up much of a challenge, but there wasn't a lot of room to manoeuvre in the narrow corridor. In the end it took their combined weight to crack the frame.
The smell hit as soon as the door swung open. McLean gagged a little, covering his nose and mouth with his hand as he looked for the light switch. It hung on a cord by the door and he was about to reach for it when his brain finally caught up with him. He fished around in his pocket for a pair of latex gloves. Beside him, Grumpy Bob did the same. Then he gripped the cord close to the top and pulled.
Light flooded the basement below, but all they could see from where they were standing was a small patch of flagstone floor and the stairs. McLean knelt down once more, checking the treads for dust, finding them disturbingly clean.
'You okay with this Bob?'
'Shouldn't I be the one asking?'
'Yeah, well. Wait up here until I've got to the bottom. We don't want these stairs collapsing under both of us.'
The stairs creaked under his tread, but no more than might be expected. He reached the bottom without accident, then motioned for Grumpy Bob to follow. The memories were flooding back now. There was a small space, flagstone floors and white-painted low brick arch ceiling, then, through a wide opening, a bigger vault that ran the length of the shop above and out a ways under the courtyard behind. This was the room were Anderson had brought his victims, where he had done unspeakable things to them before finally killing them. One a year, every Christmas, for ten terrible years.
Like the flat upstairs, the room was largely unchanged from how it had been left by the forensic team all those years ago. They had removed the tin bath, but the taps and drain were still there. A stiff brush on a long pole leaned up against the wall beside them, a bucket with a plastic bottle of cheap supermarket floor cleaner in it nearby. The bed frame still sat across the room, lit by the single bare bulb fixed close to the apex of the central brick arch, but there was something wrong. Ten years ago, the mattress had been taken away for forensic analysis, but now it was back, and covered up with a thick, coarse blanket, dark brown and stained. A coil of rope looped over the bedstead, one end fallen to the floor. It dragged McLean's attention down to the flagstones, which was when he saw the blood. And as his perceptions adjusted to take in the scene, he realised that the blanket wasn't dark brown at all. Or at least it hadn't started out that way.
'Out,' he said to Grumpy Bob, pointing with his free hand to the stairs they had just come down. The sergeant didn't need to be told twice. They both retraced their steps, all worries about the stairs forgotten in their anxiety to get away without disturbing any crucial evidence. Only when they were back in the hallway and the relatively fresh air, did McLean take his hand from over his nose and mouth.
'We need an SOC team here as soon as possible.' He pulled out his mobile phone as a fat, lazy bluebottle buzzed up the stairs from the hidden depths below and bumbled out into the hall.
~~~~
36
'You do realise they all hate you, Tony.'
'Eh? What?' McLean woke from his stupor to see the diminutive form of Emma Baird standing in front of him. She at least didn't seem to be suffering from the ill-effects of the previous night in the pub. Her white paper overalls, white paper overboots and white paper hat contrasted strongly with the black and expensive-looking camera hanging from her neck on a thick strap.
They were standing in Anderson's shop, where a couple of similarly pale technicians were dusting for fingerprints and finding loads. Hopefully DS Ritchie was even now speaking to the firm of auctioneers to get a list of all their employees who had been involved in moving Anderson's books. He doubted any of them would turn out to be his murderer; that would have been far too easy. But they needed to be eliminated from enquiries anyway. As did the lawyers who had been in charge of the place whilst Anderson was in prison. And anyone else who might have had access in the past decade.
'Are you listening to me?'
'Sorry, Em. I'm just trying to get my head around this.' He thought back to what she'd said. 'Why do they hate me?'
'Because it's Christmas Eve. You're not supposed to uncover any crimes over Christmas. It's an unwritten rule.'
'Yeah, well. Sorry about that. But just think about the overtime.'
Emma let out a small harrumph and headed towards the door.
'You done upstairs already?' McLean asked.
'Upstairs?' The question echoed between Emma and the senior SOC officer, who had just emerged from the basement door, his feet clacking on the metal walkway his team had laid down to avoid disturbing McLean and Grumpy Bob's footprints. The two fingerprint technicians stopped their dusting and stared at him too. No one was smiling.
'What? You think someone was using the basement as their torture chamber and never went upstairs?'
The SOC officer gave a weary sigh and trudged back down into the basement, shouting instructions to his team. Emma stalked past him, fuming.
'Now I hate you, too,' she said. He hoped she was only joking.
*
A last-minute frenzy had the city in its grip, as if the previous three months of advertising had been just practice for the main event. People bustled around like ants disturbed by some giant invisible echidna, each carrying their own body weight in bags, some also leading small, screaming children. It was as close to a vision of Hell as he could imagine. Even coming from the carnage of Anderson's basement.
McLean had arranged to meet DS Ritchie outside the offices of Carstairs Weddell, Solicitors and Notaries Public. She was waiting for him at the door, five minutes early, long leather coat drawn tight against the cold.
'Afternoon, sir.' She stamped her feet. 'And I thought Aberdeen was cold.'
'You think
this is bad? Wait 'til there's snow in the Pentlands, then you'll know what cold is. How'd you get on with the auctioneers?'
'Pretty much everyone's off for the fortnight, but I've got a list of names and addresses for the team that cleared the shop out. Spoke to their antiquarian book guy. He was with them most of the time, says he didn't see anyone go into the house. They pretty much cleared the shop into a truck and left.'
'And the keys?'
'From these guys.' Ritchie nodded at the doorway.
'Well, I guess we'd better go and talk to them.'
The receptionist's smile looked tired; perhaps she'd been a little overenthusiastic at the office party. She showed them through into the elegantly furnished office where a dark-suited man waited for them, surely far too young to be the senior partner of one of the city's oldest law firms.
'Detective Inspector McLean? Jonathan Weddell.' He held out a hand to be shaken. 'And you must be Detective Sergeant Ritchie. I'd wish you the blessings of the season, but given the reason you're here, that might seem a little inappropriate. Exactly how may I help you?'
'We're trying to track down anyone who might have had access to Donald Anderson's shop and house in the last few months. I understand you've been holding the keys?'
'Yes, of course, detective sergeant. We were charged with looking after Mr Anderson's estate whilst he was in prison, and with dealing with his will when he died.'
'Can you tell me what will happen to his estate?'
'Everything is to be sold. As you know, the auctioneers have already been into the shop. Everything is to be sold and the proceeds given to the Children's Hospital. A bit of a double-edged gift, but I dare say they'll take it.'
Nothing for the ten bereaved families though. Not even a deathbed apology.
'Well, it's something I suppose. He didn't get to take it with him.'
'None of us do, Detective Inspector, as I'm sure you're aware.'
'Yes, well. About Anderson's shop. I need to see everyone who had access to it, or the keys.'
Weddell picked up a slim folder from his desk. 'I suspected as much, so I've had a list prepared. Would you like to interview them here?
*
Darkness had fallen across the city by the time they left the offices of Carstairs Weddell. They'd only managed to interview about twenty people; half of the practice seemed to have taken a fortnight off for the festive season and many of the admin staff had gone home after lunch. Still, it was a start.
'I don't suppose we've much chance of getting round to the rest for a few days,' DS Ritchie said as they walked back along Princes Street towards the last hurrah of the shopping crowds. Her breath misted in the orange glow of the streetlights, and she pulled her coat tight around her.
'What, you don't fancy working the Christmas shift?'
'Oh, I don't mind that. But you're not going to get very co-operative answers if you turn up on people's doorsteps when they're carving the turkey.'
'Or listening to the Queen's speech. So you're not much of a Christmas person, then?'
'No. Can't see what all the fuss is about, really. Sure, when I was a kid I loved it. Well, when mum and dad were still together. After he fucked off things got a bit less cheery.'
'How so?'
'Well, mum didn't have much spare cash for one thing. Then good old Uncle Derek turned up.' Ritchie made inverted commas with her black leather gloved fingers around the word uncle.
'Abusive?'
'Nah, not really. Just wanted mum, not the kids.'
'Kids plural? So there's more of you?'
'Aye, I've a wee brother, Jamie.'
McLean stored the information away, realising how little he knew about the latest addition to his team. 'So where's he then? Not visiting his big sister?'
'He's a Ski Bum. No, that's unfair. He's an instructor. He follows the snow. Right now he's in Canada. Whistler, I think.'
'And your mum?'
'Tucked up at home with Uncle Derek and a bottle of whisky.'
'Dad?'
Ritchie stopped mid stride. 'Am I being interrogated here sir?'
McLean felt a bit foolish for being so insensitive. Truth was he was out of practice with the whole idle chit-chat thing.
'Sorry. Force of habit.'
'I guess that's how you get to be an inspector.' Ritchie smiled and they continued walking back towards the station. McLean couldn't help but notice she hadn't answered the question.
'So, what's the next step then? More interviews with lawyers? At least they don't need to have a lawyer present.'
'I'm not sure that seeing them at work's going to help, anyway. We're looking for someone who's obsessed with Anderson enough to take his victim down into that basement and kill her there. That kind of person might seem quite sane and normal in everyday life. I'd need to see where they lived to get a better idea of them.'
'So you reckon it could be someone from the law firm?'
'They're the ones who had the keys. And anyway, where else can we start?'
'It's not going to be easy, interviewing that many people at home.'
'I know, which is why I'm going to need all the detectives I can get my hands on, and then hit the list hard. With luck we can do everyone in a day. But it needs to be soon. I don't really want them all talking to each other.'
'So you do want to do it tomorrow then. Strike while the iron's hot.'
'Yeah, I guess so.' Apart from the fact he'd have to justify the overtime to the chief superintendent, and persuade quite a few people to give up their Christmas, it made perfect sense.
'Where are you going to get the manpower?' Ritchie put her finger on the knotty problem that had been facing McLean ever since he saw the size of Carstairs Weddell's payroll.
'God help me, I'm going to have to ask Dagwood,' he said. 'And after that, I'm going to need a drink.'
*
The pub closed early. Well, it was Christmas eve, after all. He couldn't expect the bar staff to work all night. Not quite thrown out into the cold night, a hard core of drinkers stood around debating what they should do next before all deciding to call it a night. Grumpy Bob somehow managed to hail down a taxi, and he, Ritchie and two detective constables piled in.
'You wanting a lift, sir?' Bob asked.
McLean looked at the four of them, and realised that he wanted to be alone.
'No, thanks. I think I'll walk. I'll see you guys tomorrow morning. Briefing at nine, remember.'
He watched the taxi chug off up the hill, then turned for home, hunching his shoulders against the chill. It was a dark night, the clouds low overhead and moving swiftly with the breeze. Perhaps there'd be rain later, maybe even snow, but all McLean could think of as his feet marked out a none-too steady rhythm on the pavement was the tangled knot of circumstance linking the deaths of Audrey Carpenter and Kate McKenzie back to Donald Anderson; of Jo Dalgliesh's book and its mad theories; of Matt Hilton and all the comfortably suppressed thoughts the counsellor was winkling out of him.
Sighing at the complication of it all, McLean reached into his pocket for his keys as he turned the corner at the top of his street. And then stopped in his tracks. He shook his head, trying to feel the fuzziness of too much alcohol, but it was no more than the usual buzz he'd expect from a relatively quiet session after work.
And yet somehow he'd managed to walk back to the burned out shell of his Newington tenement flat.
~~~~
37
The street was quiet, but not empty. A few people walked past him as he stood gawping; mostly couples arm in arm. All around him, light flickered and shimmered from windows filled with Christmas decorations, or just glowed behind curtains pulled to shut out the winter cold. All, that was, except the one block directly in front of him.
Scaffolding clung to it like ivy on a diseased tree; warning tape flapped in the breeze. The windows at ground floor level had been boarded up, but on the top floor, his old living room, he could still see through the eyeless sockets and o
ut into the night sky beyond. It was the first time he'd been anywhere near the place since the day after fire; nothing of his worldly goods and chattels had survived in any state to be worth recovering.
He crossed the road, approaching the front door with its blistered paintwork. The entry intercom panel still hung from the stonework, but the lights were no longer on behind the buttons. By the diffracted glow of the street lamps he could just make out the names, from top to bottom: McLean/Summers; Sheen; Polson; a cracked and scratched button where a decade of students had tried to replace the little paper insert; two empty buzzers for the rented flats; McCutcheon. Not quite sure why he did it, he put his key in the lock. He was surprised that there wasn't a large padlock on the door, even more so when it swung open on the latch. Beyond that, it was like stepping into another world.
The builders had been busy, securing the structure and clearing out the remaining debris. The old heavy flagstones of the entrance hallway were familiar under his feet, but looking up, McLean could see clouds high overhead. As he let the door close behind him, it shut out the noise of the street, cutting him off from reality.
He walked to the end of the hall, where the stone staircase still climbed upwards in its wide spiral. The iron railing had been removed, but he wasn't too bothered. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the place didn't stink of cat piss, just a damp mixture of charcoal and mildew. He climbed up to the first landing, staying close to the wall. At the top, the stone slabs still held, secured by the walls that defined the entrance hall below. This was the core of the building, unaffected by the fire. To either side, where the individual flats had been, everything had gone.
The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Page 16
