Book of Souls by James Oswald Page B

fire?’
    ‘I told you. The building did it tae itself.’ McGregor leant forward in his saggy armchair, gnarled hands clenching the faded and ripped covers on the arms as if he were about to have a heart attack. McLean rocked back on his heels, bashing against a box that clinked as if it were full of china.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr McGregor.’
    ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. You young lads’re all the same. No idea of place, you dinnae ken whit history’s all aboot. It’s no’ kings and queens an’ dates and shite like that. It’s folk living an’ working an’ dying. That’s what the Woodbury was. A place of work, a factory for all those years. Centre of the community like the kirk and the pubs. Then they went and turned it into a warehouse. That was bad enough, but this – expensive flats for rich folk, a swimming pool. Jings, the building couldnae take that. All those memories. All those lives. The sweat and blood. I could feel it coming. Feel something coming. I wasnae surprised when they telt me it had gone. It wanted to die, y’see. It burned itself.’
    The cold air outside Mr McGregor’s flat was a welcome relief when they finally escaped ten minutes later. DC Robertson started to walk back to the car, but McLean stopped him.
    ‘Leave it where it is, constable. You don’t want to lose a parking space round here. They’re like gold dust.’
    ‘Are we no’ going back to the station?’ Robertson looked at his watch.
    ‘Not just now, no. We’re only a few minutes’ walk from the Woodbury. Might as well drop by. See if the fire investigation team have had a chance to look at it yet.’
    A temporary traffic-light system was doing its best to ease the congestion when they reached the burnt-out hulk of the building. A large fire investigation truck took up the southbound lane, and high metal barriers had been erected all around the front to protect idiots from falling masonry. The street wasn’t a major thoroughfare, but itwas busy. Chances were it was going to be blocked for quite some time. Judging by the sounding of horns, and the air of barely constrained rage, the city’s travelling public weren’t very happy about that.
    The investigation truck housed all manner of arcane equipment, but most of it was turned over to a temporary command centre. A harassed-looking fireman greeted them with what might have been a smile but looked more like a grimace. He had a phone tucked between his head and hunched shoulder and was juggling with several sheets of paper.
    ‘Aye?’
    ‘DI McLean.’ McLean held out his warrant card but didn’t say any more.
    ‘You’ll need to speak to Jim. Jim Burrows. He’s inside. Follow the path and you’ll find him.’
    ‘Thanks.’ McLean made to leave but before he reached the door the man shouted back.
    ‘Wait a mo. You’ll need these.’ He held up a couple of hard hats which McLean took, handing one on to DC Robertson.
    ‘Not that they’ll do you much good,’ the fireman added. ‘If a wall comes down or summat.’
    Suitably hatted, the two detectives ventured through the front doors of the building, into an image from World War II London. The fire had been completely extinguished, but it hadn’t left much behind. Most of the detritus was made up of broken roof tiles, with here and there a charred piece of roof truss or floorboard. A path had been cleared in a wide circle, picking its way past the biggest piles of rubble towards the middle of the vastspace. Looking up, McLean could see the cold grey clouds rushing past with the wind. For a moment, framed against the stark, blackened stone walls, it felt as if the whole building were hurtling along at great speed. He quickly looked back down again, staggering slightly as his sense of motion caught up with him. Ahead, DC Robertson didn’t seem to have noticed.
    They found two fire investigators busy conferring over a folded paper floor plan in a small patch of clear ground at the heart