The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries)

by Oswald, James

  *

  'Well, that wasn't as bad as it could have been.'

  An hour later. McLean looked at DS Ritchie and tried to work out whether she was being sarcastic or not. Her expression gave nothing away, but then she had learned fast from shadowing Grumpy Bob. On balance, given the hour they had just spent with the gentlemen and ladies of the press, he was going to side with sarcasm.

  'What do you think's going on back there?' He nodded in the direction of the ante-room where Superintendent McIntyre had closeted herself with the DCC. Dagwood was in there with them too, which didn't bode well.

  'Your guess is as good as mine, sir. We didn't have much time for the press back in Aberdeen. Not if we could work without them.'

  'Yeah, well, Harry bloody Lubkin's knocked that idea for six. Moaning bastard. If he'd come to us the day his wife walked out, and not left it until almost a week later, we might've had a chance. Stirring things up with the press isn't going to bring her back now, is it.'

  Ritchie said nothing, which showed she had some sense. McLean rolled his shoulders and tried to ease the tension out of his neck. It had grown increasingly stiff as the press conference had degenerated into a series of ever wilder allegations of police incompetence. Why had it taken so long to start the search for the missing woman? Why hadn't the city been alerted about the appearance of a serial killer? What were they going to do to protect the young women of Edinburgh? Were they re-opening the Anderson case to see if there'd been a miscarriage of justice? Could they find their own arses with two hands and a torch?

  'Sometimes they're nice to us, you know. The press,' McLean said after a while. 'Don't know what we did to deserve that kicking. I don't much fancy Dan Hwei's job when the papers come out tomorrow morning.'

  Ritchie looked like she was about to say something, but she was interrupted by the click of the anteroom door opening. Superintendent McIntyre came out first, her face dark and angry. Behind her, DCI Duguid and Deputy Chief Constable Wodehouse were sharing a joke. McLean stood up, a feeling of impending doom in his stomach.

  'Ah, Detective Inspector, you're still here. Good.' There was little warmth left in the DCC's voice after he'd finished laughing with Dagwood.

  'Sir?' McLean prepared himself for the bollocking that was the only conceivable result of the fiasco they had just been through.

  'Well that was a bit of a bloody disaster, wasn't it. Have you actually got any leads to work on?'

  'We're still collating a list of everyone who had access to the keys to Anderson's shop, sir. And we're working on forensic evidence...'

  'So that's a no then. Have you any idea what you're doing at all?'

  McLean suppressed his anger as best he could; there was no point in antagonising someone who could make his life even more difficult than it was already.

  'We found out where the killer took his first two victims, sir. I think that's not a bad result.'

  'Oh come on, McLean.' Dagwood actually guffawed. There was no other way of describing the noise he made. 'You found his lair and didn't even think to set up surveillance on the place, see who turns up?'

  Because you had every single available officer running your ridiculous actions.

  'I don't know about you, sir, but I was hoping to catch this bastard before he abducted someone else. Not after. And anyway, I had no way of knowing he hadn't seen us going in there. The SOC team were there long enough.'

  'So what you mean is you didn't have a clue what you were doing.'

  'I don't think this is really helping.' McIntyre cut into the conversation before it could descend into a brawl. 'Charles, you know as well as I do that surveillance wasn't an option here.' She turned away from the DCI before he could say anything, addressing her next remarks to McLean. 'And Tony, you have to admit that you're flying blind here. We've got three dead women, I don't want to hear about a fourth.'

  McLean slumped his shoulders in defeat. It looked very much like the investigation was going to be taken away from him before he'd even had a chance to get started. 'I take it you have something in mind, ma'am,' he said.

  'Actually it was Terry's idea.' McIntyre nodded towards the DCC, and something in her tone suggested that she wasn't altogether happy with the intrusion. That cheered McLean up, for all of ten seconds.

  'We need to profile this killer,' DCC Wodehouse said. 'We need to get a handle on his motivation so that we can predict his next move. What started him off? How does he choose his victims? Why's he following Anderson's method so closely, but killing much more frequently?'

  'With respect, sir. Professor Hilton's already drawn up a profile, for what it's worth. If you'd read the case review notes I prepared yesterday, you'd see that DS Ritchie here's been working with him on just those questions.'

  'DS Ritchie?' Wodehouse said. 'I'd have thought you'd have been doing it yourself. You do have the most insight into Anderson's mind, after all.'

  'We're not trying to profile Anderson, sir. He's dead.'

  'I know that, McLean. You're trying to profile someone who worships Anderson, wants to be like him in every way. I'd have thought your experience of the man himself would have been essential. Isn't that why you were given the case in the first place?'

  McLean glanced at Superintendent McIntyre for a second before answering. 'That might have had something to do with it, sir.'

  'Of course it bloody well does, man,' Wodehouse said. 'But from the way things are going right now, it looks like you're not the Anderson expert we thought you were. We need results, and fast.'

  'You think I don't know that sir?' McLean asked. 'Do you think this is easy for me?'

  'That's precisely my point, man. You're too close. And anyway, this is far too important an investigation to be headed by a mere inspector. The CC's being leant on by the minister. There've been questions in Holyrood. You think that press conference was bad, just wait until the politicians get stuck in.' Wodehouse turned his back on McLean, facing McIntyre. 'Which is why I need you to take overall charge, Jayne, with Charles directing operations. McLean will head up the team pursuing the Anderson angle, but I want separate teams on each of the individual murders.'

  Dagwood's face cycled from glee, through concern and into consternation as the ramifications of what the Deputy Chief Constable was saying slid through his mind. 'But sir, I've got...'

  'No buts, Charles.' Wodehouse cut him off before he could get started. 'Results.'

  ~~~~

  56

  'You seem unusually tense today, Tony.'

  As if it couldn't get any worse. Kicked off his own case, having to prepare a detailed report of the entire investigation so far for Dagwood to ignore, and now this. McLean sat in one of Chief Superintendent McIntyre's uncomfortable easy chairs and stared around the room, trying not to meet eyes with Matt Hilton. The psychologist had his favourite pen in his hand, clicking it open and closed over and over.

  'Could it be that the case isn't going well? I heard there was a press conference this morning about the third victim.'

  Like you don't know exactly what's going on. 'Why am I here, Hilton?'

  'Why do you think you're here, Tony?'

  McLean had given up rising to Hilton's bait. If these sessions were one more thing he had to endure to get the job done, then he'd just have to suffer them with as good grace as he could manage.

  'I think I'm here because my commanding officer thought I needed stress counselling. Who knows, she might have been right. But we've had what, six sessions? You decided after the first that I was fit for work. So why do you insist I keep on coming back? You're not on an hourly rate, are you?'

  Hilton feigned a look of indignant shock, then smiled. 'Lothian and Borders pay me a retainer. How they make use of my time is up to them. But you're right, Tony. You are fit for work. And you're also under a kind of stress that few people will ever have to cope with. The best way to deal with that is to share it. I guess I keep making you come back because I hope you'll start to share.'

  M
cLean shifted on his seat, trying to ease the numbness that was spreading through his buttocks. 'OK then, so you want me to share with you. Fine. How about we discuss your profile of this new killer.'

  'That's...' Hilton started to object, then obviously thought the better of it. 'OK. What about it?'

  'Well, you focus on the background. We know we're looking for a loner, someone who's been smothered by an overbearing parent, had a traumatic experience in childhood, possibly abused, yadda yadda. You already know I don't think much about that kind of generalisation.'

  Hilton nodded, but said nothing.

  'What I'm more interested in is why. Why is this man obsessed with Anderson, why has he decided to copy him now?'

  'Well, I'd have thought the answer to the second question was fairly obvious.'

  'Anderson's death?'

  'Exactly. You have to understand the nature of obsession, Tony. Our killer doesn't just worship Anderson, he wants to be him. But he can't make that final leap whilst the object of his obsession is still alive. Anderson's death gave him the permission to start killing, but I suspect he's been preparing for it for many years.'

  'Which just leaves the first question. Why Anderson? OK, there's that bloody book, but thousands of people have read that and not turned into psychopathic killers.'

  'It's likely that our killer empathises with some key facet of Anderson's personality. He sees in him a reflection of his own self, his own upbringing. Anderson was an orphan, right?'

  'That's what I was told.'

  'So I'd be fairly confident our killer is an orphan too. Or abandoned by a parent he loved. Anderson never married, but we've nothing to suggest he was gay either. I'm guessing he had a difficult time forming close relationships. It's quite common in those abandoned at an early age.'

  'So we're looking for an orphan who can't commit to close relationships.' McLean almost chuckled. 'We don't know anyone who fits that description, do we.'

  Hilton gave him an odd look. 'It's not you, though. Is it?'

  'That's not even remotely funny, Hilton.'

  'You're right, sorry.'

  'And anyway, I'm more interested in Anderson's number one fan than the man himself. How do we go about finding him?'

  'Well.' Hilton clicked his pen once, then looked at it as if he'd only just noticed he was holding it. 'Our killer's looking to Anderson for guidance, and we've already established that he waited until Anderson was dead before he abducted his first victim. As I said, Anderson's death gave him permission to assume that persona. What if the killer already approached Anderson whilst he was still alive, though?'

  *

  'Does anyone in Aberdeen owe you a favour?'

  DS Ritchie looked up from her desk where she had been typing manically. The fruits of her afternoon's labours were strewn all around; case notes being whipped into something resembling order.

  'I don't know. Depends what it's for, I guess.'

  McLean pulled out a chair from an empty desk and dropped into it. His backside was still numb from McIntyre's chair.

  'I need to know the names of everyone who visited Anderson whilst he was in Peterhead. And everyone who wrote to him too, if that information's available. Could go through the usual channels, but you know how long that can take.'

  Ritchie frowned. 'Shouldn't be a problem. DCI Reid's been in charge of the investigation into Anderson's death. That's the sort of stuff he'd insist on collecting even if we know damn well who did it.'

  'Well, see what you can get by the end of today. Then I want you and MacBride to go through the list and get me as much information as possible about everyone who's on it.'

  'What about the case review, sir?' Ritchie picked up a sheaf of A4 sheets and waffled them around, as if it wasn't obvious what she meant. 'Dagwood wants that on his desk by five.'

  McLean looked at the clock above the door. Quarter to three already. Where had the day gone?

  'He won't read it anyway, trust me. Just put all your notes in chronological order and bind the whole thing so it looks pretty. Sue in admin will do it for you if you promise her some chocolate. I need that list now. It's much more important than Dagwood's bloody filing.'

  *

  'Christ what a day.'

  McLean slumped into the window seat and reached for the untouched pint on the table in front of him. It was cold, wet and the first pleasurable thing that had happened to him since waking that morning. He drank deep, sinking fully a third of the beer before coming up for breath.

  'Looks like you needed that.' Phil sat on the other side of the table, a half-grin on his face. His own pint was barely touched.

  'God save me from journalists,' McLean said. 'A pox on all of them. And bloody profilers, too.'

  'Let me guess. They've been writing unhelpful things about the police again.'

  'Worse, I've got to work with them.' McLean told his friend about the press conference, the DCC and Matt Hilton. He'd spent the whole afternoon closeted in a stuffy room with the psychologist, feeling like it was him being analysed, not the man who they were trying to catch.

  'I swear, if I hear someone say 'conflict resolution' once more I'm going to hit them.' He took the pint down to the half-way line. 'That or 'Oedipus complex.' Can you believe that someone actually suggested Donald Anderson killed all those people because he was trying to come to terms with being abandoned as a child? The little tit actually said he chose women that represented some idealised notion of his mother, then raped and killed them to get his revenge. Jesus.' And the rest of the pint was gone.

  'You must be stressed,' Phil said. 'I've never seen a drink disappear so fast. And you don't normally talk about your cases until they're closed.'

  McLean rubbed at his face, picked up the empty glass and looked at the foamy suds in the bottom. Put it back down on the table.

  'Sorry, Phil. It's just picking at the scab, you know. Everyone's gabbing away about motives and planning and the symbolic importance of this and that, and there I am thinking about Kirsty. What that bastard did to her.'

  'D'you really think you should be working this case, then?' Phil reached for the glass but McLean beat him to it.

  'No, my turn Phil. You know the rules.' He stood up and shuffled around the table. 'And I asked for the case. I pleaded for it. There's no way I was going to let anyone else fuck it up.'

  The pub was busy, with only one harassed barmaid serving the throng of thirsty students. McLean waited his turn in a parody of a queue and tried to forget the job, just for a moment. Forget Hilton's increasingly wild speculation. Forget the frustration of waiting for Aberdeen to get back with their list. Forget that he now had to waste valuable hours writing up reports for Dagwood that would never be read. Forget... ah fuck it, who was he kidding.

  Clutching two fresh pints and with a packet of chilli flavour crisps between his teeth, McLean made it back to the table after what seemed like only a week or so. Phil was still nursing the first half of his beer, so maybe it hadn't been that long.

  'How was your Christmas then? How's Rae?' he asked after he had split open the bag for them to share.

  'Fraught,' Phil said, then after a little consideration added: 'both of them.'

  'Oh? Did she not get on with your parents, then?'

  'I guess so. Sort of. But you know what my mum's like. Give her a drama and she'll make a crisis out of it. Rae's gone completely mad about the wedding anyway. Put the two of them together and, well, it's light the blue touch paper and stand back.'

  'Ah well. At least they're a long way away. You only need to see them every once in a while.'

  'Don't you believe it. They're talking about coming up here for a few weeks to help get things sorted out. A few weeks!' Phil took a long drink, then looked at McLean with a conspiratorial air. 'You're rattling around in that old place of your Gran's, Tony. You could put them up.'

  'Rattling around? Says who? I'll have you know I've had plenty of people come to see me since I moved in.'

  'Aye, Grumpy
Bob and that lad MacBride I'll bet. Drinking your whisky. I know what they're like.'

  'Actually they're probably the only ones who haven't been round yet. I had the carol singers in before Christmas. Emma's been a couple of times.'

  'Oh yes?' Phil nudged McLean in the ribs. 'Tell Uncle Phil all the details.'

  'In your dreams, Jenkins. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.'

  'So there was kissing involved. Better and better. At least tell me you've asked her to the wedding. Rae's going to go mental if you haven't.'

  McLean looked at his watch, then around the bar. 'She's supposed to be meeting me here tonight, as it happens. I didn't think she'd be this late. Maybe she's still mad at me.'

  'Mad at you? What've you been up to, Tony?'

  McLean did his best to explain, though for the life of him he couldn't see what the problem had been. 'She was in the station this morning though, delivering stuff to the evidence store. Said she'd meet here at eight. Everything seemed fine.'

  'Well that's women for you. Right now she's probably sitting with her feet up on the sofa, watching a soppy movie on the telly. She's got a litre carton of ice cream and just the one spoon. And that's all the company she needs right now. Tomorrow she'll phone you with some excuse about a crap day and falling asleep in the armchair. Mark my words.'

  'But she said...' McLean stopped as his brain caught up with his mouth. Phil was right, of course. This was just a little light revenge for a missed lunch.

  'Mind you, she's cutting off her nose to spite her face. I mean, she could have had my delightful company, fine ale and the distinct possibility of kebabs. Instead she's got Meg Ryan, Sleepless in Seattle and a quart of Hagen Daaz. A poor deal, I reckon.'

  McLean looked at his empty glass, then up to the bar with its line of hand pumps waiting to be sampled. Thought about the shitty day that had just passed and the one that was going to come tomorrow.