Book of Souls by James Oswald Read Free Book Online

before, only without the star attraction, removed to the mortuary to await the attentions of the pathologists. McLean clambered down the rickety staging that had been jury-rigged out of the bits and bobs lurking in the back of the SOC van, then inched out onto the platform above the water. More rain overnight had swollen the flow, threatening to flood the boarding and soak his feet, but he squatted down anyway, trying to remember the scene as it had been.
    ‘She was splayed out like this,’ he began to say, then realised that he was alone on the platform. Looking around and up, he saw Grumpy Bob’s face peering back down at him from the safety of the bank.
    ‘If you think I’m coming down there, sir ...’
    McLean shook his head, then grabbed at the ladder as the platform swayed dangerously. He waited for the motion to steady, watching waves slop over the wooden board, tried to imagine the scene as it had been the night before. Where the girl had lain, water gurgled down the grating into some dark underworld.
    ‘You reckon it’s worth getting divers in, sir?’ Grumpy Bob asked from above. ‘Maybe see if anything’s stuck down there?’
    McLean took one last look around, then clambered back up the ladder. ‘There’s no point, Bob. She was nakedwhen she was dumped. And if the killer did drop anything, it’s in the Firth of Forth by now. Still ...’ He looked around at the woods, back up towards the roadside, hidden by the bank, and through the bushes. And then he saw the bridge.
    ‘What is it, sir?’ Bob asked, but McLean was already off, pushing his way through the sodden undergrowth, slipping on the muddy ground as he scrabbled up the steep slope towards the road. Stupid. The culvert took the water from the reservoir on the other side. There had to be a bridge. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of it before?
    By the time Grumpy Bob had caught up with him, McLean was under the road, perching on a thin strip of concrete beside the rushing water. He fished around in his pocket for a torch, playing the narrow beam first over the far bank, then around his feet, and finally into the flow itself.
    ‘Jesus, I’m soaked through. What the hell are you up to, sir?’ Grumpy Bob wheezed into the narrow space, running a hand through his thinning hair as if that would make it any drier. McLean ignored him, trying to see the shapes distorted by the roiling flow. There was definitely something down there.
    ‘Grab my hand, Bob.’ He poked the end of the torch into his mouth and reached out for the old sergeant. Then he took the torch out again and added: ‘And hold onto something secure with your other one?’
    The water was icy cold, tugging at his trouser bottoms and filling his shoes. McLean ignored it, leaning as far forward as he dared before plunging his arm in. His fingers numbed almost instantly, but he could feel the roughoutline of the concrete sloping away from him. Then an iron loop, rusted chain links caked in green weed, and finally, the flash of white his torch had illuminated.
    ‘You got that pocket knife of yours, Bob?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘Well pass it over then.’
    ‘Ah. That would mean letting go of the bridge, sir.’
    ‘Trust me, Bob. It’s not going anywhere.’
    Grumpy Bob grumbled something McLean couldn’t quite make out over the echoing roar of the culvert. There was a heart-stopping moment when he thought he was going to pitch head-first into the flow, and then the knife was passed over.
    ‘Grab my coat. I’m going to need both hands.’
    ‘You know we could have a diver out here in half an hour, sir,’ Bob said, but McLean felt the reassuring pressure around his chest. He leant forward again, this time putting both hands into the water. It took a moment to find what he was looking for, longer still to get the knife to cut through. The water was flowing so strongly he nearly dropped his prize, grabbing at it with sausage fingers and hauling it out like a tickled trout. Taken by surprise,