Rehabilitate for what? McLean wanted to ask. It wasn’t as if Bale was ever going to be released back into society on purpose.
‘Tell me how that worked then. Did they bring him to the mobile library, or did you go into the hospital?’
‘Like I said before, they used to have their own library in the hospital. It’s still there, but it’s only shelves. There’s a rack with maybe a couple of dozen bestsellers on it, but nothing like the stock they used to have. Mostly that was enough, for the patients who wanted books and the staff too. But when I started getting requests for more . . .’ Braithwaite searched for the right word. ‘. . . unusual books, well, I must confess I was interested in who wanted to read them. Why they wanted to read them. That’s the part of being a librarian that’s most satisfying, you see? Finding the spark of interest and nurturing it.’
‘And you did that with Bale?’ McLean tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He could tell Braithwaite was passionate about her job, but even so she must have known what the man was in hospital for.
‘Well, nurture’s perhaps a bit too strong. But the topic he was interested in is a particular hobby of mine too. So we had that in common. And I was able to suggest a few books to him. I even lent him a couple from my own collection.’
‘That topic being Scottish folk history, I take it.’
‘The very same. He said he was working on a book of his own, a review of all the literature, as it were. Quite an undertaking, although I suppose he didn’t have much else to keep him occupied.’
‘And did he say how that was coming along?’ McLean asked.
‘Well, it’s funny you should ask that, Detective Chief Inspector. You see, he had become somewhat fixated on a particularly grim set of folk myths of late. Not one particular period in our history, you understand, but a recurrent theme that pops up every so often in the oral records. He was fascinated by tales of cannibalism and what they represent. From the earliest stories thought to be Pictish in origin, or even earlier, right up to our most famous cannibal, Sawney Bean.’
McLean winced at hearing the name again, although given what Bale had said both to him and to Grumpy Bob, it was hardly surprising that Agnes Braithwaite would know about it too. He recalled the book on the desk in Bale’s room, its page corner folded at the beginning of the relevant chapter. Another message, but why?
‘Did he ever say why he was so interested in that subject?’
‘Well, not in so many words, but I know a little bit about his . . . how might I put it? Psychosis? I read the papers, and of course I’ve spoken with him. I think he has a morbid fascination for the evil that men do. Where it comes from and how it manifests itself. He wants to understand it so that he can overcome it in himself. He wants to be pure of spirit.’
‘And you still agreed to meet him? To help him?’ McLean once more had difficulty keeping his voice level.
‘I was never in any danger.’ Braithwaite paused and only then seemed to understand where she was, why she was there. ‘At least, I never felt like I was in any danger.’
‘So, why do you think he was interested in Sawney Bean?’
‘Oh, it was much more than just that. And anyway, that tale’s largely discredited. There’s no legal record, for one thing, and the story is full of inconsistencies. It’s nothing more than horror meant to entertain and frighten us. Norman knew that of course, but he was fascinated by the background to it all. He began researching all sorts of equally gruesome tales. “The Druids of Knockdarry”, for instance, and “The Red Monks of Oakhill Priory”.’
Two stories, or variations of two stories, that until a day ago McLean had never heard of. Another coincidence he didn’t like.
‘That’s useful to know, Ms Braithwaite. Thank you. It might suggest why Bale absconded, and maybe even where he’s going. Hopefully we’ll catch him soon, but in the meantime we’ll keep a constable stationed at your home, just to be on the safe side.’
The librarian raised a hand to her throat, no longer quite so sure of herself. ‘Of course. But he wouldn’t . . . I mean, why would he?’
‘I’m afraid with people like Bale it’s almost impossible to know.’
59
A patrol car took up his usual parking space when McLean finally arrived home, much later than he had wanted. A quick glance at the downstairs windows on the front side of the house showed that someone had gone around and closed all the shutters. How effective a deterrent that would be should Bale choose to break in and kill him in his sleep was a point he didn’t desperately want to debate with anyone.
Two uniformed officers, Sergeant Stephen from Torphicen Street station and a constable McLean didn’t know, sat at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and a plate of the good biscuits. They both stood up hastily as he entered, but he waved for them to sit.
‘No need for that, Kenny. Enjoy your tea, you’ve earned it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The sergeant sat down and helped himself to another biscuit. The younger constable hesitated a moment before taking his seat again.
‘I saw the shutters closed. Your idea, I take it?’ McLean asked.
‘Just as a precaution, aye, sir. Don’t think Bale’s going to try and come here, but a big old house like this, he could be in one end and you’d never know. Least the shutters will slow him down. You’ll set the alarm when you go to bed, right enough.’
McLean looked across to the Aga, where Mrs McCutcheon’s cat would normally be sleeping even in the heat of summer. She was nowhere to be seen, doubtless affronted by the arrival of strangers in her kitchen.
‘I’ll need to find the cat and make sure she’s shut away in here, but, yes, I’ll be setting the alarm.’
McLean considered making himself a cup of tea, but it wasn’t all that long since he’d drunk one while interviewing the librarian, Agnes Braithwaite. Bad enough that he was unlikely to sleep tonight; the last thing he needed was to be getting up every half-hour to go to the toilet. And there was a dram in the library with his name on it too.
‘A search team’s been through Bale’s house, haven’t they?’ he asked, even though he knew they had.
‘Aye, sir. No sign of anyone having been there any time recently. Well, apart from the decorators. You know it’s up for sale, right?’
‘Yes, I saw that. Surprised it wasn’t done earlier, to be honest. But I guess Bale was sectioned, so they’d have to sort out powers of attorney and all that nonsense. Can’t imagine he’s too happy about it either. Family’s owned that place almost as long as there’s been McLeans here.’
Sergeant Stephen merely raised an eyebrow at that, drained his tea and sneaked the last biscuit off the plate. The constable’s Airwave set gave a squawk in the silence and he stood up swiftly with an ‘I’d better just check this’ before disappearing through to the utility room at the back.
‘We’d both best be getting on, sir. Now you’re back.’ Stephen levered himself out of the chair with all the reluctance of a beat sergeant who knows a nice cup of tea and a biscuit when he sees one. ‘We’ve extra patrol cars in the area tonight. Everyone’s on high alert. We’ll catch the bastard.’
‘Thanks, Kenny. I know we will. Just hope it’s sooner rather than later.’
Emma lay on her back on the sofa in the library, one arm crooked across her eyes to blot out the ceiling light. The room felt strange with the shutters closed, somehow smaller and less welcoming. The heat of the day still lingered, and McLean would have liked nothing more than to open the French windows onto the garden, let the night air in. A decent summer was rare enough, after all. Yet another thing Norman Bale had spoiled for him.
‘That you, Tony?’ Emma stirred, blinking as her eyes adjusted. ‘What time is it?’
‘Late. I thought you were asleep.’ He walked over and sat down beside her as she swung her feet out and onto the floor. She was still wearing the clothes sh
e’d left for work in that morning, her hair mussed up from lying on the sofa and sporting far more grey than he remembered in the black.
‘I couldn’t. Not upstairs anyway. Why do you live in such a big old creepy house?’
‘Never really thought of it as creepy. It’s always felt safe to me.’
Before the words were even out of his mouth, something moved in the shadows by the shuttered window. McLean was on his feet in an instant, hand already reaching for the phone in his pocket, as if it would be much use in a fight. A moment later, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat leaped onto the arm of the sofa and arched her back. Emma smiled, put her hand out and the cat nuzzled it, a deep rumbling purr soon following.
‘Wondered where you’d got to,’ McLean said to cover his embarrassment. The cat ignored him, leaping lightly onto the seat he’d just vacated, then into Emma’s lap. ‘Don’t get too comfortable. Sergeant Stephen wants me to set the alarm, so you’re confined to the kitchen tonight.’
‘Actually, I’d rather she was upstairs with me.’ Emma lifted the cat with ease and stood up. ‘Think I trust her to keep us safe more than any alarm system. No offence to the sergeant.’
McLean knew better than to argue, and he had to admit Emma had a point. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat had been something of a good luck charm for him ever since he’d rescued her from the burned-out remains of his Newington tenement. Not that he was prepared to admit in public to trusting in luck. Or cats. Knowing she’d be prowling the upper floors, keeping an eye out for would-be assailants, was curiously comforting though, even if it was more likely she’d be curled up asleep at Emma’s feet, oblivious. He wasn’t quite ready for bed yet himself though, cat or no cat.
‘I’ll be up soon,’ he said. ‘Thought I might sit and think for a bit.’
‘With a dram to help the process along?’ Emma gave him a knowing look, but there was no malice in her words. Another plank in the bridge they were slowly rebuilding. ‘Don’t be too late, OK?’
‘Half an hour, tops.’ He walked over to the bookcase and opened the hidden cabinet where the good stuff lived. Emma carried the cat across the room with her, something that would have earned McLean an unreasonable number of painful scratches, but seemed to present her with no danger whatsoever. She gave him a light kiss on the cheek, her closeness and scent both pleasant, and then she walked out into the hall.
He poured himself a thumb of cask-strength Balblair that he couldn’t remember buying, sniffed its heady aroma for a while, then topped it up with what was almost certainly too much water from a bottle that should probably have been thrown away weeks earlier. Retreating to his favourite armchair, he settled down in the silence to think.
Bale’s escape was a disaster, a headache for all of them and an added complication he could have well done without. The man was dangerously delusional, completely amoral, and would do whatever he needed to get to where he wanted to be. Heaven help anyone who got in his way.
McLean let out a brief bark of humourless laughter, almost spilling his whisky. Heaven help. That was the point, wasn’t it? Bale had believed he was gifted by God to see the state of people’s souls. His victims were chosen for their purity of spirit, their single-mindedness and focus. At least, those of his victims who had been his actual target, rather than the poor nurse who’d been unfortunate enough to get in his way. He truly believed he was doing God’s work. With a capital G. Sending those pure souls to heaven by killing them at their moment of apotheosis. Being caught, stopped from carrying out his sacred mission, had shaken his faith, at least for a little while.
Leaving his chair, McLean went to the desk in the corner of the library and fired up the computer. It took a while to log in, but eventually he found what he was looking for. Transcripts of the early psychologist’s interviews and assessment following Bale’s arrest. Dr Millicent Graham hadn’t been involved in any of that, although presumably she had read it all in preparation for his therapy. The report he read had been prepared by a more familiar name. Dr Matthew Hilton hadn’t seen any hope of recovery or redemption in his patient, only a disturbing intelligence. ‘An almost preternatural ability to know what a person is thinking after only a few minutes of conversation with them’ was a phrase that popped out. What had Billy the psychiatric nurse said? ‘Like he can see right through your skull and read the thoughts in your head.’ She’d also called him a right creepy bastard, and she had the measure of him far more than Dr Graham, at least in McLean’s opinion.
‘What are you up to?’ He asked the question out loud, not expecting an answer and not surprised when none was voiced. It was only one of many that swirled around in his head. Why was Bale interested in Scottish folk history, cannibalism, Sawney Bean? What did it have to do with Anya Renfrew’s disappearance? Or was that just Bale’s way of dragging McLean into his latest insane plan? If that was all there was to it, then why did he want McLean involved? Was it some strange kind of revenge? It had to be a trap of course. There was no way Bale would actually be trying to help. Unless something really had changed in him, taken him back to the lonely boy who’d been McLean’s friend so many years before.
He reached for the glass, tipped it to his lips and only then realised he had already finished the whisky. Tempting though it was to help himself to another, McLean knew better than that. He needed a clear head in the morning – later in the morning, he corrected himself after a quick glance at the clock in the corner of his screen. There was nothing to be gained from sitting up into the wee small hours as the thoughts tumbled and fought. Better to try and get some sleep, even if it would be fitful. The problem would still be waiting for him when he woke.
60
There are no days, no nights. There is only time. Time and an emptiness that gnaws at her like rats sewn up inside her stomach.
She has no idea how long she has been here, in this dark and foetid hole. The cycle of wake and sleep is more like a continuous nightmare than a progression of time. She knows only cold and hunger, a punishment for something she has forgotten, like she has forgotten who she is.
The thin blanket that covers her must be a new one. There is no odour from it, and none from the bucket across the room. The floor looks like the same, dry, hard-packed earth that it has always been; there is nothing to suggest where she might have thrown up and worse. Was that all a dream?
She reaches shaking hands to her face, feels her skin. Her fingers trace over her cheeks, then up to her eyebrows. They are gone, along with all the hair on her head, and she remembers the scrape and sting of the razor, the smell of the coal tar soap. She can smell that still, under her fingernails when she brings them close to her nose.
She feels no pressure in her bladder now, only a terrible parched dryness in her throat to match the utter emptiness of her stomach. She has had nothing but water for what feels like a lifetime. Water laced with something to make her vomit, and something to make her empty what little there might have been in her bowels. She remembers that much even as the core of her identity eludes her. A word floats across her semi-consciousness, spoken in the voice of an old woman. Purged. They have taken everything from her, even who she is. Left nothing but an empty vessel.
Does she sleep? She can no longer tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness. She lies on her side, knees pulled tight to her chest, blanket tighter still, and lets her mind go blank. Nothing will happen here. She will die here. Maybe she already did.
The light goes out, plunging her into darkness that is almost instantly shattered as the door swings open. Rough hands grab her, force her arms behind her. She could no more fight than run, but they hold her tight all the same. She is lifted off her feet, carried from the room that has been her prison. Up swift stairs and then she is blinded by brilliant sunlight, so bright it sears deep into her brain. She screws her eyes closed, but the light still burns.
Blind, the plunge into water comes as such a shock she feels certain her heart wil
l stop. It doesn’t help that she is still held, that whoever is carrying her has come into the water with her. All she can feel is the panic as her head goes under, the urge to breathe and the choking as she takes in a mouthful of liquid instead of air. She is held down for long enough for her to wonder why they are doing this to her? Why starve her for what feels like weeks, only to drown her now? And then she is hauled up into the air again.
‘Christ is with us this day. He is with us every day. His blessing is upon us.’
The words are chanted, a deep male voice that almost sings but not quite. He is the one holding her, arms pinned behind her back. She pukes out water, gasping for breath, risks opening her eyes against that harsh, bright light. Only now it’s not nearly so painful. She has barely moments to take in a round pool, its dark surface reflecting the rippled image of trees overhead, before she feels a hand at the back of her head and she is forced under again.
She would fight, but she has no strength left. Her arms are held tight behind her, and that strong hand is like a mountain, pressing her ever deeper towards the bottom. She can see only the bubbles of her escaping scream, then more water forces its way down her throat, choking into her lungs. She is doomed, dying, and all she wants is for it to end.
And then with a heave she is in the air again, spewing water from mouth and nose as she splutters and gasps for breath.
‘In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Bless this empty vessel. Purify it so that it might become one with the Lord.’ The man’s voice roars, his words running through her like hot knives. She is aware of nothing save the hold he has on her, the crazed surface of the pond and the silent trees that witness this strange ceremony. She coughs up yet more water, lets out a moan as her lungs struggle to find room for air. But before she can even begin to breathe, she’s plunged under again.
Bury Them Deep Page 33
