The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(2)
‘Um. Why did we come here, sir?’ The question choked in MacBride’s throat, as if he had tried to stop himself asking it at the last minute.
‘That’s a very good question, constable.’ McLean shone his torch down into the empty stairwell, then up at the ceiling with its high-angled roofline and reinforced glass light well. That was out of reach of the vandals, and tough enough to withstand thrown missiles, but even so a couple of panes were crazed and sagging. ‘An informant. A snitch. What is it they like to call them these days? A Covert Human Intelligence Source?’ He made little bunny-ear inverted commas with his fingers, bouncing the light from his torch up and down as he did. ‘Bugger that. Mine’s a stoner called Izzy and he’s a useless tosser. Spun me a load of old crap just to get me out of his hair, I’ve no doubt. Told me this place was used as a distribution hub. My own fault for believing him, I guess.’
More lights flickering in the darkness downstairs were Detective Sergeant Bob Laird and Police Constable Taffy Jones stumbling through the rubbish sacks in the entrance hall. If they’d found anything they’d have shouted, so it looked like the whole episode was a complete waste of time. Just like every other bloody raid. Wonderful. Dagwood was going to be so pleased.
‘Come on then. It’s probably best if we don’t make Grumpy Bob climb all the way up here. Let’s get back to the nice warm canteen.’ McLean set off down the stairs, only realising he wasn’t being followed when he was halfway to the next floor. He looked back and saw MacBride’s torch pointed at a space above the fanlight over one of the flat doors. A small hatch gave entry to the building’s loft space. It looked almost completely unremarkable, except for the shiny new padlock hasp screwed into it.
‘D’you think there might be something up there, sir?’ MacBride asked as McLean rejoined him on the landing.
‘Only one way to find out. Give us a leg-up.’
McLean shoved his torch in his mouth, then trod gently in the cup made by the constable’s interlocked fingers. There was nothing to hold onto except a small lip below the hatch, and he had to stretch his other leg out to the wobbly banister before he could reach up with one hand and unclip the hasp. It gleamed where until recently a padlock had swung.
‘Hold steady.’ McLean pushed against the hatch. It resisted slightly, then swung in on well-used hinges. Beyond was a different darkness, and a sweet musk quite at odds with the rank odour wafting up from below. He swung his head around until his torch pointed in through the hatchway, seeing aluminium foil over the rafters, low wooden benches, fluorescent lighting.
‘I can’t hold on much longer, sir.’ MacBride’s voice shook with the effort of holding twelve stone of detective inspector. Well, maybe thirteen. McLean transferred as much of his weight as he dared to the banister, then swung around and dropped back down to the stone landing. The constable looked at him with a worried expression, as if expecting to be shouted at for his weakness. McLean just smiled.
‘Get on your airwave set,’ he said. ‘I think we’re going to need a SOC team here as soon as possible.’
Removing the rubbish bags had helped clear the air, but the flagstone floor they had covered was sticky and slippery with fluids best not thought about too deeply. McLean watched the stream of white-suited SOC officers as they trooped from their van, along the corridor and up the stairs, lugging battered aluminium cases of expensive equipment.
‘Pity the poor bastard who’s going to have to go through all that.’ Grumpy Bob nodded at the pile of rubbish bags each now sporting a ‘Police Evidence’ tag and waiting in the middle of the road for a truck to come and take them away.
‘That would be me, as it happens. Who’s the officer in charge here?’ A white-suited figure stopped mid-corridor, pulling off a hood to reveal an unruly mop of spiky black hair. Emma Baird either was or wasn’t going out with McLean, depending on which station gossip you spoke to. He’d not seen her in a couple of weeks; something about a training course up north. As she scowled in the half-light, he wished their reunion could have been in better circumstances. He looked at Grumpy Bob, who shrugged back at him an eloquent refusal to take any responsibility.
‘Hi, Em.’ McLean stepped out of the shadows so he could be seen. ‘I thought you were still up in Aberdeen.’
‘I’m beginning to wish I’d stayed there.’ She looked at the growing pile of rubbish. ‘You know that attic’s not been disturbed in months, right?’
‘Shite.’ Another dead end. And it had all been looking so promising.
‘Exactly, shite. Twenty-three stinking black bin bags of it, to be precise. And I’m going to have to go through every last one of them knowing there’s going to be bugger all in there of any use to your investigation. Unless you decide it’s unnecessary...’ She trailed off, looked at the two of them, eyes flicking between them as if unsure who she should be addressing.
‘If I could, I would, Em.’ McLean tried a smile, knowing it would just look like a grimace. ‘But you know Dagwood.’
‘Oh crap. He’s no’ in charge, is he?’ Emma scrunched her hood in her gloved hands, shoved it in a pocket of her overalls, turned and shouted to the assembled SOC crowd. ‘Come on you lot. Quicker we get started, quicker we can hit the shower.’ And she stalked off without another word.