A fanciful man would say that they were being visited by an unholy vengeance. Opus Diaboli

Emma set off up the Cowgate in the direction of the Grassmarket before he could answer. Mclean had to hop and skip to catch up, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Emma.” “Honestly, inspector. Did anyone ever tell you you’re no fun.” “Not recently, no. It’s just that I’m guessing you don’t know Edinburgh all that well, aye?”

He pointed across the road in the opposite direction. “The only decent pub round here’s that way.”

One beer turned into two, then a quick tour of the better city centre pubs, then a curry.

It was almost enough of a distraction that he could forget Alison Kydd was dead. Almost, but not quite.

Mclean avoided the usual police haunts, knowing they’d be full of coppers raising a few to their fallen comrade.

He couldn’t cope with their sympathy, and didn’t want to have to deal with the inevitable few who’d blame him rather than the hit-and-run driver. Emma had sensed it too, he could tell.

She chatted constantly, but mostly about her own work and the delights of moving from Aberdeen down to Edinburgh.

Nightmares

They parted with a simple: “This was fun, we should do it again.”

The lightest of touches on his arm and she turned away, disappeared down the dark street to the place of his nightmares.

He shook them away, shoved his hands in his pockets, head down for the walk home.

The city never really slept, especially during the Festival. The usual crowd of late-shift workers and rough-sleepers was augmented by drunken students and wannabe actors, dustbin men and road sweepers.

The streets were quiet in comparison with the day, but it was early yet, and a steady stream of cars still fought their single-occupant ways to destinations unknown.

Vans meandered from drop-off point to drop-off point like fat, smelly bees.

Mclean tried to push away his guilt as he walked, looked for the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to bring some answers to all the questions milling around his head.

There was something he was missing, something that didn’t add up. No, there were many things he was missing, many things that didn’t add up.

Not the least of which was the grisly similarity between the deaths of three elderly men, all friends of old, all connected to one horrible, violent crime.

A fanciful man would say that they were being visited by an unholy vengeance. Opus Diaboli.

They had dabbled in the devil’s work and now he had come to claim them.

But the reality was far more mundane. Barnaby Smythe had been gutted by an illegal immigrant with a grudge; Buchan Stewart had fallen victim to a jealous lover; and Jonas Carstairs?

Well, no doubt Duguid would find someone to pin that one on.

Click, clack, click, clack, his feet drummed out a steady beat along the flagstones, the slow tempo marking time with his thoughts.

He knew that Okolo had killed Smythe, that much was true. He’d bet his job that Timothy Garner hadn’t killed Buchan Stewart though, which meant there was a killer still out there.

Had someone found DC Macbride’s Brazilian photo archive and gone on a spree?

Would they be looking for someone else? And if so, how were they choosing their victims?

Was it possible that someone else knew about the ritual killing, and had managed to track down the murderers?

Evidence

Or was it the sixth man covering his tracks, killing his old partners in crime, stealing the body that was the only real piece of evidence, paying someone to run down the policeman investigating?

That scenario fitted better than the alternatives, but it wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Mclean stopped suddenly, realising he was alone in the street.

He shivered, looking around, expecting to see a white van gunning its engine, heading straight for him.

His feet had brought him, perhaps inevitably, to the Pleasance.

A big blue “police notice” sign on the pavement accused him with its own demands. An accident occurred here... Did you see... Contact us...

He was standing on the spot where Alison had been hit.

Where she’d sacrificed herself so that he could live. What a waste of a life.

He clenched his fists and swore that he’d track down the man responsible. It didn’t make him feel any better.

It wasn’t far to his flat, which was just as well. Guilt and anger battling each other made it hard to pick up the threads of his earlier thoughts.

The door was propped open with a couple of stones again; bloody students losing their keys and too tight to pay for a new set. At least at this hour Mrs Mccutcheon should be tucked up asleep.

He could be spared the joy of smiling as she voiced her concern for the long hours he worked. He trudged up the stairs feeling the weariness seep in around his eyes. Bed beckoned and he was more than ready for it. Only there was someone at the top of the stairs. She huddled against the door to his flat, curled up with her knees to her chest, her thin coat pulled around her to ward off the night-time chill.

He thought she must have been sleeping, but as he approached she looked up and he recognised her face.

“Jenny? What are you doing here?”

Jenny Spiers stared through puffy eyes, red with crying. Her face was pale, her hair hanging down limply on either side, framing her misery.

The tip of her nose shone bright as if she had been suffering with a cold for days.

“It’s Chloe,” she said. “She’s gone.” And burst into tears. Mclean took the last couple of steps in one bound. He crouched down and took Jenny’s hands.

“Hey, it’s all right. We’ll find her.” Then he realised he didn’t know who was missing. “Who’s Chloe?”

Incredulous

It was probably the wrong thing to say. Jenny burst into even greater floods of tears.

“Look, come on Jen. Get up.” He pulled her to her feet, then unlocked the door and pushed it open, guiding her through into the kitchen and sinking her into a chair.

All thoughts of bed and sleep gone, he filled the kettle and set it to boil, fetching out a couple of mugs and a jar of instant coffee.

“Tell me what’s happened. Why did you come here?” He handed Jenny a roll of kitchen paper to replace the sodden handkerchief she had scrunched up into her fist.

“Chloe’s gone. She should’ve been home by 11. She’s never late. Even if she’s going to be on time she phones.”

“Back a bit, Jen. You’ll have to remind me. Who’s Chloe?”

Jenny looked up at him with incredulous eyes. “My daughter. You know, you met her at the shop.”

More tomorrow.