they once belonged to Aleister Crowley.’
A red-faced gentleman in a too-tight suit appeared at the lectern before McLean could say anything in reply, or make good his escape.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this sale of rare and antiquarian books, the collection of the late Donald Anderson.’
The auctioneer lost no time in getting stuck into the collection, rattling off quick descriptions of each book as it was placed on a stand beside his lectern by a pair of assistants. Bidding was brisk, with some pieces fetching quite ridiculously large sums of money. So much for a double-dip recession.
Sitting beside him, McLean could feel Madame Rose twitch with each new sale, as if he were a football fan at a cup final. The medium hadn’t bid for anything, seemed just to be there to watch. Every so often he would make little notes in the catalogue. Names of who was buying what.
‘Lot thirty-two. Gray’s Anatomy . First edition, published London in 1858 by J. W. Parker. Not in brilliant condition, but originally the property of a Mr A. Conan Doyle according to the inscription in the front. That has not been verified, although it is entirely possible. Who’ll start me at five hundred pounds? Five hundred? No? Four hundred then? Three hundred and fifty? I don’t need to remind you that there are no reserves in this sale, but all proceeds are going to a good cause. Three hundred then. Surely someone? Thank you, sir.’
McLean look around to see who had made the first bid, then realized that it was him.
‘Three hundred I’ve got. Who’ll give me three-fifty. Yes? Four?’
And so it went on. Someone across the hall was in for a fight, but McLean had decided he wanted this book. Sohe kept upping his bid. When the hammer finally came down he discovered he’d paid almost fifteen hundred pounds, plus auctioneer’s commission, for a book that probably had nothing to do with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whatsoever.
For some reason he didn’t care.
‘You come very highly recommended, Miss Nairn. Do you have much experience working with younger patients?’
She had arrived not long after he’d come home, deflated after the curious excitement of the sale room. Her feet crunching up the gravel drive had given him a few moments’ notice before the doorbell rang. At first he’d thought she was lost; she certainly didn’t look like the kind of person who lived in this part of town.
He’d forgotten about the appointment, of course, but the letter from Doctor Wheeler was legitimate, so he’d let her in, ushering her into the library for an impromptu interview. It was either there or the kitchen, and that seemed just a little too informal. From the CV sent by the hospital, he’d been expecting someone perhaps a little older than the young woman sitting opposite him, perhaps a little less, what was the word, Gothic? No, that wasn’t right. She had more of an Earth Mother thing going, but with black leather DMs that laced almost up to her knees and piercings in places that surely weren’t meant to be pierced. Still, there was no denying her credentials. Or his desperation.
‘I started off in trauma rehabilitation, Detective Inspector. Most of my patients were in their teens or twenties. Motorbike accidents, a few soldiers injured in Iraq or Afghanistan.’
So she’d done her homework too. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? McLean knew better than to judge someone purely by their outward appearance. Emma herself was hardly conventional.
‘Did Doctor Wheeler tell you about Miss Baird’s condition?’
‘A little, but she’s bound by patient–doctor confidentiality. I understand Emma has some memory loss, she was in the ICU for several months. Other than that, not much. Is she here?’
‘Upstairs.’ McLean glanced at the ceiling. In truth Emma had hardly come out of her bedroom in the days since she’d arrived, apart from her regular early-morning visits to his own room, his own bed. He’d
A red-faced gentleman in a too-tight suit appeared at the lectern before McLean could say anything in reply, or make good his escape.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this sale of rare and antiquarian books, the collection of the late Donald Anderson.’
The auctioneer lost no time in getting stuck into the collection, rattling off quick descriptions of each book as it was placed on a stand beside his lectern by a pair of assistants. Bidding was brisk, with some pieces fetching quite ridiculously large sums of money. So much for a double-dip recession.
Sitting beside him, McLean could feel Madame Rose twitch with each new sale, as if he were a football fan at a cup final. The medium hadn’t bid for anything, seemed just to be there to watch. Every so often he would make little notes in the catalogue. Names of who was buying what.
‘Lot thirty-two. Gray’s Anatomy . First edition, published London in 1858 by J. W. Parker. Not in brilliant condition, but originally the property of a Mr A. Conan Doyle according to the inscription in the front. That has not been verified, although it is entirely possible. Who’ll start me at five hundred pounds? Five hundred? No? Four hundred then? Three hundred and fifty? I don’t need to remind you that there are no reserves in this sale, but all proceeds are going to a good cause. Three hundred then. Surely someone? Thank you, sir.’
McLean look around to see who had made the first bid, then realized that it was him.
‘Three hundred I’ve got. Who’ll give me three-fifty. Yes? Four?’
And so it went on. Someone across the hall was in for a fight, but McLean had decided he wanted this book. Sohe kept upping his bid. When the hammer finally came down he discovered he’d paid almost fifteen hundred pounds, plus auctioneer’s commission, for a book that probably had nothing to do with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whatsoever.
For some reason he didn’t care.
‘You come very highly recommended, Miss Nairn. Do you have much experience working with younger patients?’
She had arrived not long after he’d come home, deflated after the curious excitement of the sale room. Her feet crunching up the gravel drive had given him a few moments’ notice before the doorbell rang. At first he’d thought she was lost; she certainly didn’t look like the kind of person who lived in this part of town.
He’d forgotten about the appointment, of course, but the letter from Doctor Wheeler was legitimate, so he’d let her in, ushering her into the library for an impromptu interview. It was either there or the kitchen, and that seemed just a little too informal. From the CV sent by the hospital, he’d been expecting someone perhaps a little older than the young woman sitting opposite him, perhaps a little less, what was the word, Gothic? No, that wasn’t right. She had more of an Earth Mother thing going, but with black leather DMs that laced almost up to her knees and piercings in places that surely weren’t meant to be pierced. Still, there was no denying her credentials. Or his desperation.
‘I started off in trauma rehabilitation, Detective Inspector. Most of my patients were in their teens or twenties. Motorbike accidents, a few soldiers injured in Iraq or Afghanistan.’
So she’d done her homework too. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? McLean knew better than to judge someone purely by their outward appearance. Emma herself was hardly conventional.
‘Did Doctor Wheeler tell you about Miss Baird’s condition?’
‘A little, but she’s bound by patient–doctor confidentiality. I understand Emma has some memory loss, she was in the ICU for several months. Other than that, not much. Is she here?’
‘Upstairs.’ McLean glanced at the ceiling. In truth Emma had hardly come out of her bedroom in the days since she’d arrived, apart from her regular early-morning visits to his own room, his own bed. He’d
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