The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (19 page)

McLean nodded.

'Oh my god. Was it the same person? Oh god. Katie.' Then DS Ritchie arrived with tea and Debbie burst into tears.

*

An orange-red gloaming had filled the sky by the time a family liaison officer arrived to escort a white-faced Debbie Wright to the mortuary for a formal identification. Rush hour traffic already clogged the roads, and McLean could only watch in frustration as the water temperature gauge on his Grandmother's Alfa Romeo climbed past the one hundred mark and on towards the red. So much for the romantic image of the detective in the classic sports car. A line of unmoving vehicles snaked away from them towards the gates to Holyrood Park, brake lights blazing angrily.

'What do you reckon to Debbie Wright then, sergeant?'

Beside him, uncomfortably upright in the passenger seat and looking like she was terrified she might break something, Ritchie didn't answer at once.

'She's either genuinely distraught or a very good actress,' she said after a while. 'But she does have a copy of Dalgliesh's book.'

'You had a snoop around while you were making the tea?'

'No. Well, yes. But it was in the living room. She had quite a collection of true crime books, and some novels, too.'

'So you reckon it was a crime of passion covered up to look like the return of a famous monster?'

'It's always possible.' Ritchie didn't sound as if she meant it.

'No, not really. Kate McKenzie was raped. That kind of rules out Debbie. And there's no sign she was accidentally pushed down the stairs, or even stabbed in a fight. Whoever abducted her planned the whole thing in minute detail. He knew what he was going to do, and how he was going to get rid of the body afterwards.'

'So we're not much further along with the investigation than we were first thing this morning.'

'On the contrary,' McLean said. 'We know our victim's name and we know the address where she was most likely staying. We've got a timeframe for her abduction. Now all we have to do is work out where it happened and who did it.'

'You make it sound easy, sir.' Ritchie's voice dripped sarcasm.

'It's never easy, sergeant. But we have to keep trying. And we know more about Kate McKenzie than we've managed to find out about Audrey Carpenter in over two weeks.'

The traffic freed up as they entered the park. McLean increased his speed a little, hoping some airflow over the radiator would stop the engine from blowing up.

'This isn't the way back to the station,' DS Ritchie said after a while.

'Top marks for observation. We're not finished yet.' McLean negotiated a set of double miniature roundabouts outside Holyrood Palace, and then ground to a halt in the next snaking queue of traffic.

'Where're we going, then?'

'Gracemount,' McLean said. 'Just off the top of Liberton Brae, if memory serves. That's where Kate McKenzie's father lived, and that's where she most likely went after she ran out on her girlfriend.'

'Don't we need a warrant to get in?'

'Who're we going to serve it against? Father and daughter are both dead.'

'Well then? How're we going to get in?'

McLean smiled, keeping his eyes on the road as the traffic lurched forward again. 'I really have no idea.'

~~~~

29

Lifford Road was a fairly nondescript suburb, perched on the east side of Liberton Brae; a rat run for commuter traffic making its way to Moredun and Gilmerton. Number Thirty-One, home of the late Donald McKenzie, had the look of neglect empty houses soon acquire. The front lawn was little more than a few square yards of overgrown scrubby grass and dead bedding plants, strewn with litter blown in on the constant wind that howled off the Firth of Forth across the city. McLean parked over the road from it, next to a wet patch of parkland empty save for an old man walking an arthritic Westie.

'That it, then?' DS Ritchie peered through the quickly fogging car window.

'If Debbie's telling us the truth, aye. That's it.' McLean didn't move from his seat, nor undo his seat belt. Instead he watched the houses to either side of Number Thirty-One.

'So what are we waiting for?' Ritchie started to open her door, but McLean leant over and stopped her.

'Just a minute. Watch.' He pointed to the left hand house, and sure enough there was a twitch of the curtain. An elderly Honda Civic stood on the short driveway in front of the house. A sensible car, probably bought new and used no more than once a week for the trip to the shops. 'OK, let's go.'

Ritchie headed for Number Thirty-One, but McLean called her over as he walked up the driveway to the neighbour's house. Number Twenty-Nine, even though there were no houses on the other side of the road. Or Dunroamin, if you believed the cast iron plaque attached to the wall beside the frosted glass front door. He pressed the doorbell, half expecting it to sound the tune of some dreadful musical, but it just sang a plaintive 'ding-dong' in the hall beyond. Somewhere deep within the house, a terrier began to yip.

'Why here, sir?' DS Ritchie looked uncertain as to what was going on.

'We go snooping around next door, she'll only call the police.'

'How d'you know it's a she?'

'Call it intuition. Unless you want to put money on it.'

The noise of bolts being clacked back interrupted any chance of making the bet. Through the frosted glass, McLean could make out a short figure bending down. Then the door opened a fraction on a slim golden chain. An old lady's blue-rinsed head peered through the gap at shoulder height, a black and tan hairy-nosed face at ankle level. The latter yapped and growled.

'I'm no' buying anything. My Barry told me not to trust nobody.'

'Your Barry is very wise, madam.' McLean showed his warrant card, which the old lady peered at with surprisingly keen eyes. 'We're not here to sell anything, but I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?'

'Of course, of course.' The old lady closed the door on them and unhooked the chain. Through the glass they could see her bend down and scoop up the wee dog, then she opened the door wide. 'Why don't you come in. Don't mind Archie. He tries to bite but he's no' teeth anymore.'

McLean let DS Ritchie go first, then followed the two women through into the front room with the net curtains. It was spotlessly clean and every available surface was covered in what could only be described as Tartan Tat. There were little figurines of pipers and dancers, Westie dogs and Skye Terriers. The walls were heavy with picture frames holding up quotes from Burns and cheap reproductions of Landseer paintings.

'Would you maybe like a cup of tea?' The little old lady pointed to the immaculate red sofa, indicating that they should sit. McLean considered the cup he'd just recently drunk at Debbie Wright's flat.

'That would be lovely, Mrs...?'

'Stokes. Doris Stokes. Like the famous medium, you know. Please, inspector. Sit you down. I won't be a moment.' And before he could say anything more, she had scuttled out of the room, terrier still under her arm.

McLean had a poke around, peering at the few photographs on the mantelpiece. There were two of dogs and one of a balding man, his last few strands of hair swept over his pate Bobby Charlton style.

'Just what are we doing here, sir?' DS Ritchie stood directly behind him so that when he turned to face her he nearly fell over. She stepped back and narrowly missed crashing into the coffee table.

'Trying not to wreck the place?' McLean smiled at her sudden blush. 'We're here because the curtain twitched. Mrs Stokes knows everything that happens in this street I'll wager. She'll have seen Kate coming and going and I reckon she'll remember exactly when it was.'

'Couldn't we just ask her, sir?'

'We could, yes. But we wouldn't get very far. Trust me, I know the type. She needs to feel involved.'

It was a few minutes before Mrs Stokes came back into the room, bearing a tray with tea things on it. The little terrier trotted in behind her, then went to sniff at DS Ritchie's ankles. Absent-mindedly she put down a hand to be licked and began to pat the dog on its head. McLean took the tray from the old lady, placing it down on the table as she sat herself down in a particularly hideous armchair close by. As she bent herself to the task of pouring tea, he turned back to the mantelpiece.

'Is this your Barry, Mrs Stokes?'

'Och, no. That's Norman. God rest his soul. He passed, oh, gone five years ago. Barry's my wee nephew. Norman's brother's boy. He's a good lad is Barry. Keeps an eye on his old auntie.'

'You're lucky to have someone like that. And I'm sorry, about your husband.'

'That's kind of you to say, inspector.' Mrs Stokes poured the tea, handing a cup to DS Ritchie. 'There you go, lass. Biscuit?'

McLean took his own cup and retreated to the sofa beside the sergeant; keeping the coffee table as a barricade between him and the old lady. A plate on the tray offered chocolate Hobnobs so he took one, sneaking a guilty bite. It was soggy, stale and on close inspection the chocolate bore a white, crazed coating that he hoped wasn't mould. He balanced the rest precariously on the edge of his saucer, chewing the mouthful he'd already taken and swallowing it with great difficulty.

'Well now, inspector. I can't say it's not nice to see a policeman round here from time to time, but I don't suppose you just stopped in for tea. I've no' done anything wrong, have I?'

'Of course not, Mrs Stokes. It's about next door.' McLean nodded towards Number Thirty-One.

'Oh aye. Donnie McKenzie's place? Such a shame when he died. Used to keep his garden lovely. But that was months ago. Has something happened?'

'Have you seen his daughter lately?'

'Wee Katherine? Aye, she was in and out for a while about a week ago. There's a poor wee lassie, growing up without her mum. I know Donnie tried his best with her, but she was always a handful. Sich a temper when she was a bairn.'

'Was she staying at the house? You know, overnight?'

'A couple of nights, aye.' Mrs Stokes put her own cup and saucer back down on the tray, got up and went to the other side of the room. For a moment McLean thought she was going to bring back a diary with all Kate McKenzie's movements listed in it, but instead she unfolded a copy of the Radio Times onto her lap, then pulled a pair of spectacles up from where they had been tucked neatly down her cardigan front on a chain around her neck.

'Let me see now.' She leafed through the pages. 'I was watching that program about the Polar Bears the first night she came in. Aye, that was Tuesday. She was there on Wednesday afternoon. I heard the vacuum cleaner going. Yes, that's right. She went out about seven o'clock that evening and that's the last time I saw her.'

Mrs Stokes thumbed quickly through the rest of the pages, as if Kate McKenzie might suddenly appear from the middle of them, then dropped the magazine into her lap all of a sudden.

'Oh me. She's gone missing hasn't she.'

'I'm afraid it's worse than that, Mrs Stokes. Kate...Katherine is dead.'

The little terrier ceased its snuffling around DS Ritchie's feet almost as soon as McLean had said the words. Silently it returned to its owner and leapt with surprising grace into her lap. She started to stroke its head with long, rhythmic motions of her hand, saying nothing for what felt like hours but was probably only a minute.

'Was it... Was it an accident?' She asked eventually. 'I know these roads can be dreadful these days.'

'I'm afraid she was murdered, Mrs Stokes.'

'Murdered. Crivens. Who could do such a thing?'

'That's what we're trying to find out.'

'Here, it didn't happen around here did it?'

'No, I don't think so,' he said. 'We found her... outside the city. What I'm trying to do now is put together her last movements. See what she was doing, where she was going.'

'Oh, I see.' Mrs Stokes put the terrier back down on the floor and once more levered herself out of her chair. She headed back to the corner of the room where the Radio Times had come from. 'You know she has her own flat on the other side of town. Shares it with a nice young girl. So much safer sharing like that. Not like these student places where there's boys and girls all cooped up together. I've got the number here somewhere.'