The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (32 page)

'I'm sorry, inspector,' Father Anton said eventually. He took his hands from his armpits, slipped off gloves to reveal white flesh and spidery blue veins, unbuttoned his coat and then sat. 'I had no right coming here.'

'Why did you come here?' McLean poured tea into mugs, added milk, found biscuits in an old tin. All the while the old man said nothing. Only when they were both seated did he speak.

'I told you about the book. That was no small thing. I broke a sacred vow to do that.'

'If it's any consolation, I haven't told anyone. They'd probably think I was mad if I did.'

'You might call it madness, inspector. But you cannot begin to understand the mysteries I've seen. Nor the sacrifices I have made in my life. Oh, I'm not looking for pity. I knew what I was getting into long ago. I accepted it, embraced it even. But that doesn't make the pain any less for these tired old bones.'

McLean studied the old man as he took a sip of tea, shaking hands making the hot liquid slop against his lips. Here was a person he couldn't begin to fathom; someone with absolute faith in God; someone who had dedicated his life to religious service. It made him uncomfortable to be in the presence of such undeniable certainty, but he was even more uncomfortable with what he was about to do. He fetched a thick folder from its resting place beside his takeaway, bringing it back to the table and opening it out.

'I probably shouldn't be showing you this.' He pulled out a thin sheaf of photocopied papers and slid it across the table towards the old man.

'What is it?'

'It's the full inventory of everything that was taken from Donald Anderson's shop the day he was arrested.' McLean remembered the exasperated look on DS Ritchie's face as he'd made her go through it item by item, cross-referencing with the list from the auction house, the contents of the evidence locker and the few worthless bits and bobs that would likely turn up at the next police sale. It wasn't unheard of for valuable but portable objects to go missing, but all of Anderson's money had been in his stock, and that was all accounted for.

'I don't understand.' Father Anton ran a thin finger down the list. Most of the books were recorded by description as well as title, since in some instances that had been hard to read. 'This is everything?'

'Every single item. All checked in, all checked out. And every single book is subsequently listed in here.' McLean pulled the auctioneer's draft catalogue from the folder. It was marked with blue biro in Ritchie's scratchy handwriting and he flicked through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. 'Even this one. The Codex Enterius, I think it's called.' He pulled the inventory sheet back, flipping it to the front page. 'And here, taken from Anderson's desk. Contained a strip of cloth identified as coming from... one of his victims.'

Father Anton took the catalogue, staring at the neatly typed pages, then back at the inventory. Back and forth, back and forth.

'You're sure of this?' he asked finally. 'This is the book you saw? The book that Anderson was reading when you caught him?'

'It was on his desk, open. He wasn't reading it when I caught him. But yes, that's the book.'

At least, McLean was fairly sure it was the book. And why shouldn't it be? It looked like the one he'd seen; same size and shape, same colouring to the leather and vellum. And at the time he'd not been too interested in the book itself so much as the marker.

Something seemed to die in Father Anton's eyes as he placed first the inventory and then the catalogue back down on the table.

'Then I have been a fool. Anderson must have hidden the book somewhere. Or passed it on to someone else.'

~~~~

46

The headache wakes her up; that and the sharp pain in her stomach. She struggles out of sleep cursing her fat bastard of a husband for stealing the duvet again. And what the fuck is that smell? Has he shat himself or something? Probably got himself blootered again. She must have had a few herself, judging by the state of her head. Christ, she hopes they didn't have sex.

She tries to grope for the duvet and realises her hands are tied. How could she not notice that, strung up above her head? And how shitfaced could she possibly have got herself to let her slob of a husband tie her up? Fuck, she can't believe they could have made up and had sex. Not again. Not with that evil Harpy in the same house.

Her arms are stiff and sore; pins and needles spring agonisingly into her flesh now that she's started moving. God, how did she get into this state? She rolls over, only half successfully, and discovers her legs tied as well. That's when the fug of sleep washes away with all the subtlety of a tsunami.

For a moment she thinks she's gone blind. There's nothing at all. Blackness so utter she can feel it crushing in on her. She moves her head slowly, wincing at the pain in her skull. It feels like her brain has shrunk in there, rattling around the walls like a dried pea in a whistle. The skin of her cheek rubs against her upper arm, but the darkness is so total she can't even see that. She moves her head some more, trying to roll over onto her side even though whatever it is that binds her arms and legs has her stretched out too far. Fear comes then; she can't remember getting this drunk before. And fat Harry wouldn't tie her up; that was never his style.

She tests the ropes, drawing her knees up as far as she can. They knock together, skin against skin, and she understands that she is naked. The pain in her head makes little stars sparkle in her eyes when she moves. A pity they don't cast any light on her prison.

Her prison.

How did she get here, wherever here is? Memories tumble through her brain: mother-in-law sneering at her; husband fat and useless on the sofa watching the Eastender's Christmas special; a row about nothing in particular, about everything that was wrong with her life; and then... what? She can't remember.

It's too quiet, now she's stopped moving. She can hear her breaths rasping in and out, hear her heart beating too fast in her chest, hear the blood pounding through her ears. But nothing else. No traffic, no sirens in the distance, no aeroplanes making their final approach to Dalhousie. No wind.

'He... Hello?' She means to say the words quietly, but they come out as little more than a dry whisper. Her throat is parched, her tongue thick and dusty.

No-one answers.

~~~~

47

New Year's Day was always quiet in the station. A few overindulgent souls were sleeping it off in the cells, watched over by a skeleton staff. Most of the uniforms had put in enough overtime at the Hogmanay Street Party to justify taking time off. Even Duguid's drugs investigation was on hold. McLean liked to think that the DCI had seen sense and called off the Leith raids, but in truth it was the chief superintendent who'd talked him out of it. Unfortunately Duguid thought that someone had gone to her over his head, and he was quite happy to assume that person was McLean. There was a battle to be fought another day.

He sat at his desk and stared out the window at the grey tenements beyond. The sky was much the same colour, tinged perhaps with a tiny bit of purple that promised more snow. It was cold in his office, as usual; his fingers ached as he tapped away at the keyboard, catching up on some of the paperwork that was attracted to his little cubby-hole by some magical power. Perhaps it was because there was so much in here already. Like attracts like, and the paperwork has obviously decided this is the place to be. Maybe it was even a spawning ground for yet more paperwork. That would explain why there was so much of it. Though he'd expect to find more baby paperwork around, in little paperwork crèches. Though of course paperwork could be like aphids. He'd read somewhere that they were born pregnant.

The phone rang. McLean stared at it for a while uncomprehending. It never rang. No-one ever phoned him on his office phone; if someone wanted to talk they'd just come up and knock on the door. But it was ringing. He picked it up, noticing as he did that the little card which told you where the call had originated from was missing. Gone to find a suitable partner no doubt.

'McLean,' he said.

'Ah, thank Christ for that. A detective at work.' The dulcet tones of Sergeant Dundas on the front desk.

'And a Happy New Year to you too, Pete. What can I do for you?'

'I've got a man here says he's lost his wife.'

'Is this the beginning of some complicated joke, Pete? Only I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through.'

There was a sound of rustling and the phone muffled, as if the desk sergeant were moving. He said something that McLean didn't quite catch, presumably to the man who had lost his wife, then came back, more quietly.

'I'm sorry sir. I wouldn't normally bother you with something like this. But, well, I can't get rid of the guy. And his mother.' The phone muffled again, like it was being pressed against a police-issue sweater. Through the crackling, McLean thought he heard something along the lines of 'He'll be down in a minute. Just be patient, please.'

'You still there, sir?' Sergeant Dundas' voice was once more clear.

'Yes, Pete.'

'Well could you speak to them, please. I know it's uniform work, but there's no-one else more senior than a constable and this bloke keeps going on about his wife being abducted. From the look of him I'd say she more likely just walked out. But he's not going to leave until he's spoken to a detective.'

'He said that?'

'Aye. Well, actually it was his mother. But...'

'OK, Pete. I'll come down.' McLean stood, secretly grateful for an excuse to get out of his dismal office. 'But you owe me one.'

*

Harry Lubkin was fat; there was no other way of putting it. His face was a mess of loops that couldn't in all honesty be called cheeks or chins. More an extension of his neck, which itself was an extension of his over-large body. McLean would have put him at around five and a half feet tall and comfortably as round. His eyes were deep set, and circled with dark bruising; his squidgy nose offset to one side. As is often the way with very fat men, he had shaved his scalp, but tufts of hair fuzzed around the edges of a couple of recent cuts. A slimmer man McLean would have taken for a brawler.

His mother, on the other hand, was whippet thin. Her thick-rimmed spectacles and pointed hairstyle made her look like something from a Gary Larsen cartoon. If she'd been wearing a twinset and holding a square-edged handbag, the image would have been complete. As it was, she wore a nylon shell-suit and clutched a canvas bag that could probably hold enough for a week's holiday.

The two of them were waiting in the front lobby of the station when McLean arrived, one sat primly on her plastic chair, the other slouched over two... no three. Mrs Lubkin sprang to her feet when he arrived; Harry stayed seated.

McLean pretended to consult the sheet of paper that Sergeant Dundas had handed him for a moment, then approached with caution and introduced himself.

'And it's about time, too.' Mrs Lubkin spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent.

'I'm sorry,' McLean tried to sound it as he motioned for Mrs Lubkin to sit again and pulled the last chair out for himself. 'We're a bit short-staffed today. A lot of officers worked late last night at the street party. Now, you said Mrs Lubkin had gone missing?'

'Aye, the dirty wee stop-out that she is.'

'Mother, can you no' give it a rest?' Harry Lubkin's first words were something of a surprise. Unlike his mother, his accent was neutral, with perhaps the slightest hint of Edinburgh about it, and his voice was high-pitched for his bulk.

'Let's start at the beginning, shall we.' McLean glanced over his shoulder at the reception desk, hoping to give Sergeant Dundas a withering stare. He was nowhere to be seen, but the door through to the control office behind was propped slightly ajar. Pete was going to owe him big time for this.

'When did your wife go missing, Mr Lubkin?' McLean asked.

Harry Lubkin looked like he was going to answer, but his mother got in there first.

'Boxing Day. Wee harpy. Shouted at me. Can you believe that? Her ain mother-in-law. I'll no' tell you what she called me. Then grabs her coat and walks out. Just gone.'