The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (18 page)

'It's beautiful. Alfa Romeo, right. GT Veloce. 105 series. This would be the 1750?'

'You know your cars, Detective Sergeant Ritchie.' McLean inched carefully out of the car park and into the street beyond.

'Aye, well. It was either that or football if I wanted to be taken seriously in the job. Never really saw the point of football.' Ritchie leaned back into her seat, ran a finger lightly over the dashboard. 'And it's Kirsty, by the way.'

McLean jabbed the brakes rather harder than he'd intended, juddering the car to a halt and throwing them both forward, eliciting an angry beep of the horn from a following car.

'Sorry. What?'

'Kirsty. My name. Or you can call me Ritchie. I don't mind. Detective sergeant just seems so formal, don't you think?'

McLean didn't respond. It was only a name, after all. Shouldn't be a problem. Just why did she have to pronounce it that way?

~~~~

27

Angus Cadwallader was already prepped and eager to start when McLean showed DS Ritchie into the autopsy theatre. They were both drenched from the short walk from the car to the mortuary, the cold December rain soaking through the thin fabric of McLean's new coat. His old one would have been a bit more robust, of course. But his old one was just ashes now.

'You're late, Tony,' the pathologist said. 'That's getting to be a bit of a habit.'

'We had to find somewhere to park.' McLean wiped at his face with a handkerchief.'

'Raining again, is it?' Cadwallader ran his eyes over the two of them, lingering perhaps a little longer than was polite over DS Ritchie before breaking into a broad, welcoming smile and adding, 'Since the rude detective inspector isn't going to introduce us, please allow me. Angus Cadwallader, city pathologist.'

'Umm, Detective Sergeant Ritchie,' she said, slightly uncertainly.

'Detective sergeant?' Cadwallader looked at McLean. 'Have you been keeping secrets from me, Tony?'

'That depends, Angus. DS Ritchie only started work here this morning. Before that she was up in Aberdeen.'

'Aberdeen,' Cadwallader echoed. 'Well, I'm afraid my humble mortuary isn't a patch on your facilities up there, but I'll try to live up to your high standards. Shall we begin?'

The dead woman's body lay on the cold stainless steel examination table like some narcissistic sunbather, basking under the harsh rays of the overhead lamp. Dried and cleaned after her time in the river, she looked younger than McLean had first assumed, and tragically pretty. Her body was well-toned, despite its death pallor and yellowing grey bruises. In life she would have been both fit and attractive.

'I'd estimate age at very early twenties.' Cadwallader began his detailed exploration of the victim's body. McLean had watched his friend work far more times than he would care to admit. Mostly he'd been alone, left to the gruesome task by a superior officer. Occasionally he'd been accompanied by Grumpy Bob or another colleague. But now, with DS Ritchie standing beside him, he felt oddly self-conscious. Perhaps it was because the dead woman was young, naked, and, well, a woman, but this time the post mortem examination felt like more of a violation than normal.

He glanced across at Ritchie, who was studying the procedure with an intense glare. Apart from that obvious concentration, her expression was impossible to read. Rocking back onto his heels, McLean folded his arms over his chest and settled down for an uncomfortable show.

*

Too long later and Tracy was busy sewing their Jane Doe back together. McLean and Ritchie followed Cadwallader into the little office off the main examination theatre, peeling off his scrubs and dumping them into a laundry bin on the way.

'Cause of death is definitely the wound to the throat,' he said. 'Happened somewhere between twenty-four hours and two days before we found her. I'd estimate she'd been in the water not more than six hours and she was washed with some kind of soap before that. She's got bruising around her ankles and wrists consistent with being tied up for at least a few days. And she's had sexual intercourse. Unwillingly, judging by the bruising and tearing. About a day before she died. Her stomach's empty, too, so she hadn't eaten anything in at least two days before her death. Possibly more.'

'What about toxicology? Anything useful there?'

'We're still waiting on results of the last body. I'm guessing we're not going to have much more luck with this one. She's been starved, and then bled almost dry. We've got very little to work with.'

'No chance it's not the same person who killed Audrey Carpenter?' McLean knew the answer, but he still asked anyway. Cadwallader shook his head.

'There's always a chance, Tony. But it's vanishingly small.'

*

By the time they reached the station, McLean had almost convinced himself.

'It can't be Anderson,' he said. 'Anderson's dead.'

'What about Dalgliesh?'

McLean stopped walking so abruptly that DS Ritchie kept on for a couple of paces before she noticed.

'You think it could be her? But why?'

'No, I didn't mean her murdering the girl. What I meant was, what about her book? Does that give out as much detail as our killer seems to know about? If not, then we've got an angle to work on.'

'I don't know,' McLean said. 'I've never read it.'

'You haven't? I'd have thought...'

'What? That I'd want to be reminded all about what happened? I was there, detective sergeant. I witnessed it first hand. I found my own fiancée floating face up in the Water of Leith on fucking Hogmanay. Some party that turned out to be.'

'I... I'm sorry sir.' DS Ritchie looked down at her feet and McLean felt a little stupid for snapping at her.

'Look... Ritchie.' He realised he wasn't sure what to call her. 'We've not got off to a very good start. Today should have been about orientation, introducing you to the team. It's just bad luck you arrived at the same time as all this.'

'I understand, sir.' Ritchie stopped at the back door to the station. 'Truth be told, I'd far rather be straight in to serious work than pissing about for a month on training and familiarisation courses. And it's Kirsty, by the way.'

'What?' McLean's stomach clenched at the mention of the name.

'My name. Kirsty. But Ritchie's fine. That's what most of Aberdeen CID used to call me. I don't mind.'

McLean stared at her, unable to think of anything to say. The awkward pause was interrupted only when Detective Constable MacBride caught up with them. He was clutching a sheet of paper and looked like he'd run all the way from the CID room.

'Sir. I think we've found her.' He shoved the paper in McLean's direction. It was a fax from Missing Persons over at Force HQ, most of the page taken up with a grainy black and white photograph of a young woman's face. McLean read the name and details before handing it over to Ritchie for her opinion. He didn't need it; even though the picture quality was poor, there was no mistaking their victim. And now she had a name.

Kate McKenzie.

~~~~

28

The tenement was eerily like his own, only without the extensive fire damage. Edinburgh was full of these streets. Housing built for the growing middle classes in Victorian and Edwardian times, they defined the city as much as did Princes Street or the castle. A vast social experiment where people lived cheek by jowl, it somehow worked here. Unlike the slum tenements in Glasgow or that more modern take on the concept, the great tower blocks of Craigmillar, Trinity and the like.

Kate McKenzie had lived near Jock's Lodge, sharing a neat little one-bedroom apartment with Debbie Wright, who had reported her flatmate missing almost a week ago. The two young women could not have been more different. Whereas Kate had been slim, fit and dark-haired, Debbie was round, short, rosy of cheek and with an unruly mop of bleach blonde curls cascading from her head. She took one look at McLean's warrant card and burst into tears.

'It's Katie, isn't it. I knew something was wrong when she didn't come home.'

'I'm very sorry, Miss Wright. Could we maybe come in?' McLean let DS Ritchie led the way as Debbie showed them to the living room. He peered about the hallway in passing, seeing open doors leading to a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, along with a closed one for what he assumed was a press cupboard. It was all very tidy, very domesticated.

'Is she... Is she dead?' Debbie's voice trembled. She stood in the middle of the room as if she didn't quite know what to do with herself. McLean sat down on the low, leather sofa that ranged along one wall.

'Why don't you sit down, Debbie.' He turned to DS Ritchie. 'Perhaps you could rustle up a cup of tea, sergeant?'

Ritchie looked at him with what might have been an old fashioned stare. Debbie started to move, going to help her, but Ritchie stopped her with a light hand placed on her chubby arm.

'You stay here, OK? Sit down. I'll find my way.' She gently pushed Debbie into an armchair, then left the room.

McLean pulled a photo out of his pocket, hesitating slightly before passing it over to the distraught young woman. The killer hadn't touched Kate's face, but there was no denying that it was a picture of a dead person.

'Is this Kate?' He didn't really need her answer. There were photographs on the walls and mantelpiece of the two of them together in all manner of places. Always smiling, holding hands, hugging. Best of friends. Alive.

'She looks so peaceful.' Debbie sniffed, then rubbed her nose with the scrumpled up end of her sleeve. 'I should never have argued with her. It was so stupid.'

'You had a row?' McLean tried to keep his voice neutral despite the sudden chill.

'It was daft. She just wanted rid of all the stuff. Couldn't care less what it was worth. Said she didn't want anything from the miserable old git.'

'Slow down a bit, Debbie. What stuff? Who's a miserable old git.'

'Her dad, that's who.'

McLean took out his notebook, wishing things could, just for once, be simple.

'Where does he live, her dad?' He wondered if he could persuade someone else to go and break the bad news. Debbie looked up at him as if he were mad.

'He's dead isn't he. That's what it was all about. He left her everything, but she didn't want none of it. He'd only ever given her grief when he was alive.'

'What about her mother?'

'Nonna died when Katie was just ten.' Debbie looked up at McLean, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. 'How's that fair, inspector? To lose someone like that and be left with your drunken bastard of a father to raise you?'

'Did she... did Kate have any other family?'

'I'm her family. We were going to get married.' Debbie held up a shaking hand to show a slim silver band on her ring finger. 'We needed to save up for the wedding. That's why I was so angry with her throwing out her dad's stuff. He had some valuable things, but she just gave them away.'

McLean supposed he should have seen it. One-bedroom flat, no sign of a fold-down bed anywhere. But what did he know about modern relationships? Nothing at all, it would seem. He sighed, pulling the other photograph out of his pocket.

'Listen, Debbie. I know this is hard. But could I ask you to look at something?' He handed the picture over, all too aware of how similar Audrey Carpenter was to Kate McKenzie. And how different. 'Do you know this woman at all?'

Debbie sniffed loudly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand whilst she looked at the photograph. Her eyes were already red and puffy, and now new tears filled them to overflowing. But McLean saw no glint of recognition in them. She shook her head once, before handing the picture back.

'She's... She's dead too?'