The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) by James Oswald Page B

city's Central Monitoring Facility, where the surveillance culture really started. The security manager stifled a yawn as he fiddled with buttons, focusing the image down to just one man. The picture deteriorated to a series of flesh-coloured blobs, but even then McLean could tell.
    'No, sorry. That's not him. Go back a bit will you.'
    'Is this going to take a lot longer, sir?' the manager asked. 'Only I was due to clock off an hour ago.'
    McLean looked at his watch. Half past ten and they'd scarcely made a dent on the available footage. The shop seemed to be awash with cameras, all of them showing an endless bustle of desperate shoppers just slightly out of focus. It was a mammoth task, and the rational part of his brain was already telling him he was being an idiot. It wasn't Anderson, just someone who happened to look a bit like him. Perhaps he was just over-reacting because of the burial. And the dead girl.
    'You're right. Sorry.' McLean rubbed at his aching eyes. He needed to do something, but perhaps staring at a flickering screen for yet more hours wasn't it. 'Look, is there any way I could get a copy of this evening's footage? Just a couple of hours leading up to closing?' Or a few minutes. He'd already seen his own hurried entry into the building immortalised on tape, or hard disc or whatever it was they used these days.
    'I'm not sure. I'd have thought so, but I'll  have to run it past the senior manager. Did you want it now?' The security manager gave him a look of such utter desperation that McLean had to relent.
    'No, you're all right.' He fished in his jacket for a card, handed it over. 'It's not that urgent, but if I could get it in the next couple of days.'
    The security manager took the card like it was a winning lottery ticket. 'Aye, well, I'll see what I can do.'
     
     
    ~~~~

 
     
     
    18
     
    McLean thumbed the number as he stepped out of the staff door into the cold night air. He should probably have programmed it into the phone's memory, but it was imprinted in his brain just fine. What he needed now was a drink anyway, not a half hour fight with some irritating but essential technology.
    'Hello?' Female voice at the end of the line. Rachel. Damn, he'd been hoping not to have to talk to her.
    'Hi Rae, Tony here. How's things?'
    'Oh, you know, same old. Got some samples through for the bridesmaids dresses, and I need to finalise the menu. The band's mucking us about, too. I don't suppose you could, oh I don't know, give them a parking ticket or something?'
    McLean laughed. 'Rae, the wedding's not for another six months.'
    'Six months is nothing, Tony. It'll be gone like that. I have to have it planned.'
    'You'll be fine. And anyway, I thought Phil was going to spirit you off to Vegas, get you hitched by an Elvis impersonator.'
    'Don't you even start. I suppose you want to talk to him.'
    'Actually, I was hoping I might be able to borrow him for the evening.' He glanced at the dark clouds, the empty, lamplit back street. 'What's left of it.'
    'Please, take him. He's only getting in the way here. Just promise to bring him back.'
    'OK, Rae. It's a deal. Tell him I'll be in The Arms in half an hour.'
    Putting his phone away, McLean voiced an unheard thanks that he'd caught Rachel in a good mood. Lately, as the impending wedding loomed slightly closer, she'd taken to calling him at the oddest of times to ask him stupid questions. Had he organised the Stag Night? Did he have a partner for the wedding? What was she going to wear? He could only pity Phil. His ex flat-mate and best friend was surely having to endure ten times worse.
    Even allowing the time it took to grab a kebab and eat it in the steamy warmth of the shop, McLean still made it to the pub first. He was halfway down his pint before the swinging doors drew in a blast of chill air and the gangly, unkempt figure he'd been expecting.
    'You're late.' McLean held up the full glass that had once been twin to his own. Phil took it, draining enough to