Free Book of Souls by James Oswald Page A

this evil man. But all he can feel is despair and helplessness. Nothing he can do will bring her back, and nothing this court can do will make it all unhappen.
    ‘I didn’t kill her.’ Anderson’s voice is calm. The patient tones of a teacher long used to explaining things to those less intelligent than he. ‘My body may have done these terrible things, but I was not in control of it. The book was in control. It made me kill her.’
    ‘This would be the so-called
Liber animarum
you claim to have found in a house clearance sale.’ The advocate makes a show of consulting his notes. ‘The Book of Souls.’
    ‘Precisely.’ Anderson’s smile is like a slash in the face of hell.
    ‘And this same book forced you to abduct and murder all those other women? Laura Fenton, Diane Kinnear, Rosie Buckley, Joss Evans. You must have had it a long time, Mr Anderson.’
    ‘No, no, no. That wasn’t me. That was the book. It takes control of you, you see. So that it can feed.’
    ‘Feed?’
    ‘On their souls, sir. That’s what it does. It feeds on their souls.’

16
    Jim MacDougal, known to most as Razors, lived in an ex-council semi in one of the better parts of Calton, which was to say right on the very edge of the place, pretending to be somewhere else. Over the years there had been some attempts at gentrification, but it pretty much remained the shit-hole that had been the battleground of the Tongs in the sixties and seventies. Only the crime had become more sophisticated; now the prostitutes spoke with Eastern European accents and the drugs came in designer packaging. The thugs running the show were just the same.
    McLean sat in the driver’s seat of the CID pool car, glad that it was one of the older models and generally not worth stealing. Beside him, Detective Constable MacBride fidgeted with the edge of his too-shiny suit. Still new to plain clothes, there was no worry anyone would think he wasn’t a copper.
    ‘You phoned Strathclyde, told them we needed some local back-up, right?’ McLean peered through the grubby windscreen, surveying the streets for anything remotely resembling a squad car.
    ‘Of course, sir. I spoke to a Detective Sergeant Coombes. Told him we’d be here at six. He said he’d have someone meet us.’
    McLean looked at the clock on the dashboard. Half-past, and they’d been sitting here for forty minutes waiting.
    ‘You want I should call him again?’ MacBride pulled his bulky airwave set out of his pocket.
    ‘No. I’ve got better things to do than wait on some daft Weegie to get his arse in gear. Come on. Let’s get this over with.’
    The front door opened almost before MacBride had knocked. The man standing in front of them looked like he’d have to turn sideways to fit through the frame. His chest was enormous, his forearms the size of a bodybuilder’s biceps, and he must have been six foot seven if he was an inch.
    ‘Um, Mr MacDougal?’ MacBride asked. McLean didn’t have the heart to correct him.
    ‘Who the fuck are youse?’
    ‘Detective Inspector McLean, Lothian and Borders.’ McLean held up his warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Constable MacBride.’
    ‘Thought I smelled pork. Why’ve you been watching us?’
    ‘I was waiting for my colleagues from Strathclyde Region to join us, but they seem to have been delayed. Look, this isn’t what you think it is. It’s about Mr MacDougal’s daughter, Audrey.’
    Something that sounded like a small animal being flayed alive escaped from the hallway behind the huge minder. He was elbowed aside and a thin, pale woman darted out of the house.
    ‘My Audrey! You’ve found her? Is she ... ?’ Jenny MacDougal’s eyes darted from MacBride to McLean and back again, her hands wringing together as if in prayer. But no more words escaped from her and the minder put a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder, steered her back into the house.
    ‘You’d better come in then.’
    ‘Please forgive my wife. These past two years