26

A smell of fresh baking greeted McLean as he walked into the kitchen. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of food, and he couldn’t remember whether the sandwich he’d eaten had been lunch yesterday or today. Given the rush of events it had probably been the day before.

‘Someone’s been busy,’ he said to Mrs McCutcheon’s cat. She didn’t answer him, just held his gaze with her own imperious stare for a moment, then went back to washing her leg with her tongue. He put his briefcase down on one of the chairs around the kitchen table and went in search of the industrious baker.

A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out through the open door to the library. Not Emma’s light voice, but not entirely masculine either. Stepping into the room, McLean wasn’t at all surprised to find Madame Rose there, sitting on the sofa as demurely as a woman of her great stature could. She looked up as he entered, face creasing into a broad smile.

‘Ah, Tony. You’re home. You really should try to work slightly more sociable hours you know.’

Emma had been sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, but she unfolded herself, came over and gave him a hug.

‘Want some tea?’ she asked. ‘Rose baked a cake.’

McLean glanced at the clock. It was more like time for a beer, and perhaps a perusal of the takeaway menus on the board by the phone in the kitchen. He had learned over the months since she had come back that Emma wasn’t particularly interested in cooking. Not for herself or for anyone else. She’d tried at first, keeping the fridge stocked with worryingly healthy things like salads, but that effort hadn’t lasted long. It didn’t bother him; she shared his taste in curry and pizza anyway. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was considerably slimmer these days, too. Grumpier but slimmer.

‘Maybe a mug of tea would be good. Thanks.’

She gave him a peck on the cheek, then disappeared out the door in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’d rather be helping yourself to something out of that wee hidden cabinet of yours?’ Madame Rose tilted her head in the direction of the false bookcase, behind which McLean kept his collection of fine single malt whiskies.

‘Even I know it’s a bit early for that. Maybe later, though. It’s been a long day.’

‘Aren’t they all. You work too hard, Tony. That’ll have to change, you know? When the baby’s born.’

McLean slumped into the armchair Emma had just vacated. The low table in front of the sofa was piled high with a selection of old books from the shelves, slips of coloured paper poking out from some.

‘Finally come back to do that cataloguing have you?’

‘Some rare old books here, you know. Have you ever read any of them?’ Madame Rose picked up the top one, opened it with surprising delicacy for her large hands, turned it round and presented it to him.

‘Treasure Island?’ McLean flicked the pages, noted the silent tutting from his companion and turned them more carefully. The paper had turned sepia with age, a few mottled spots here and there. The words were familiar though.

‘My father read this to me. It’s one of my earliest memories. One of my few memories of him.’ McLean closed the book and put it back on the pile. ‘I tried to read it again when I was older, but I couldn’t. I always heard his voice.’

‘Losing a parent at such a young age. It must be a terrible thing.’ Madame Rose’s voice softened, her eyes staring at something far in the past. Absent-mindedly, she picked the book up again, gently opened it to the title page, her fat fingers caressing the paper. Then she snapped back to the present with a shudder.

‘It’s as well you couldn’t read it. Left on the shelf is the best place for a first edition. And signed, too. I hate to be so crude as to talk money, but this is worth a lot.’

‘Gran said it was a gift to her father when he was a wee boy.’

‘From Stevenson himself?’ Madame Rose clutched the book to her ample bosom. ‘Oh that just makes it even more valuable. This house is full of such rare treasures. It’s an oasis of calm in the maelstrom.’

‘You make it sound like the world outside is terrible.’ Comfortable in his armchair, McLean had to admit she had a point.

‘Oh, but it is, Tony. The forces of darkness gather all around us. Can you not see them? Can you not feel them?’

‘Is this where I’m supposed to scoff and say don’t be so silly? Because lately I’ve found that hard to do. I’m not sure I subscribe to your conspiracy, but there’s certainly a lot of shit around. I don’t know. People just don’t seem to care much any more, everyone’s out for themselves and screw everyone else.’

‘Exactly. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts. Nothing so easy to see as a monster in our midst, but the core of our society is slowly rotting away. We need to gird ourselves against it.’ Madame Rose put the book carefully back down on the table, then hauled her considerable bulk to her feet. ‘But I’m intruding on your domestic bliss. I should leave now. I will come back and work on these again tomorrow.’

‘Emma’s at the lab tomorrow, but I can give you a key if you’re happy to work alone. Or would I be right in thinking it’s as much about keeping an eye on her as the books?’

Madame Rose gave him a shifty look. ‘I sometimes forget that you’re a detective. And one Jayne McIntyre speaks highly of. Yes, I’m worried about Emma, and your child. There are things you can’t see and there are things you won’t see. But I can see both, and I can see the threat they pose.’

‘If you know something, Rose, then tell me. I’ll –’

‘You’re not listening, Tony. This isn’t something you can scare off with a few constables and a restraining order. You’ve met these … people before. Mrs Saifre, Gavin Spenser, Norman Bale. These are not normal folk. But there’s something else out there right now. Something indistinct and ill-formed. I don’t know what it is, and that scares me. It seeks vengeance, I can see that much, but I can do nothing about it until I can name it.’

The room had gone very quiet, Madame Rose’s voice dropping almost to a low, rumbling whisper. Despite the warmth of the afternoon that had persisted well into evening, a chill settled around the library. McLean opened his mouth to say something in response, but the door swung open, pushed by a well-placed foot as Emma returned. She held a mug of tea in one hand, a plate piled high with the most enormous wedge of cake he had ever seen in the other. Warmth tumbled in around her.

‘Oh, Rose. Are you going?’

‘Duty calls, my dear. But I will see you again soon. These books won’t catalogue themselves.’ The medium headed for the door, brushing close by McLean as she went with a whispered ‘Be wary.’

And then she was gone.

He snapped awake, sitting bolt upright in the wide bed. Sweat sheened his back and chest, hair damp on his head. His heart hammered away as if he’d run a marathon, or the hundred yards from the Usher Hall to the scene of the crash still playing itself out in his mind as the nightmare faded. He let the cool air dry his skin as he calmed his breathing, staring across the room to the still-dark window that looked out on to the garden. Beside him, Emma snored a gentle rhythmic rumble. She snorted once, then rolled over, dragging the covers with her. A moment’s silence, underlined by the ticks and creaks and groans of the old house settling around him. Then the snoring started up again.

Demon-red numbers told him that it was almost half past four in the morning. He’d not been late to bed, but even so that was early for McLean. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep, though.

He used one of the guest bathrooms, not wanting to wake Emma from her slumbers. The closer she came to term, the more erratic her sleep patterns. The snoring was something new, too. She looked constantly tired, so the last thing she needed was him disturbing what little sleep she could manage. Was this what the future held? When their child was born? Yawning and stretching, McLean wondered whether he was prepared for that. Whether anything could prepare him for that.

Mrs McCutcheon’s cat stared up at him from her place in front of the Aga when he walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. A flurry of motion at the far side of the room, where the door lay slightly ajar through to the utility room and the catflap to the outside world, suggested that she’d not been alone in her slumbers. Mostly the army of cats that had taken up residence in the gardens kept to the outdoors, but occasionally one might poke a nose inside. He didn’t much mind as long as they kept out of the main house.

The dream troubled him as he drank his coffee and munched a bit of cold pizza left over from last night’s supper. It wasn’t perhaps surprising, given the horror of the accident, that it kept coming back to haunt him. He’d lied about it to the counsellor, which was probably stupid. On the other hand, if he admitted to the bad dreams then she would most likely force him to take time off. That might please Emma, but the last thing McLean wanted was to sit around and dwell on the horror. He’d always found that throwing himself into the investigation was the best way to deal with things. Clear up the case, find some small restitution for the dead and the bereaved. Then the nightmares would end.

Not quite sure why he did it, McLean took his coffee back through to the library. The approach of dawn had begun to chase away the deeper shadows, but he still had to switch on the light to see properly. The pile of books lay on the table, untouched from the evening before. He picked up the top one, opened it again. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Cassel and Company, first edition, published in 1883. Amazing that something could survive so long undamaged by the unfolding events all around it.

His memories of his parents were vague now, the experiences of a four-year-old warped by ten times as many years laid on top of them. Still, he could see his old bedroom, the pictures on the wall, the solid wooden furniture and narrow, iron-framed bed. His father would come in of an evening, pull up a chair that was far too small for him, open this very book and begin to read. Was this something he would do for his own child? He hoped so.

Carefully turning the pages from the top corner the way he had been shown by the ancient librarian at his hated boarding school, McLean read the opening paragraphs quietly out loud, and wondered how much his echoing voice sounded like his father’s.