The Hangman's Song (Inspector Mclean 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

mantelpiece and stared at her reflection in the mirror hanging over it. ‘No. It’ll just depress me. Why can’t I remember?’
    ‘It’ll come back. Give it time. Doctor Wheeler said …’
    ‘I know what Doctor Wheeler said. But she doesn’t have to live with it, does she?’ Emma swept one arm around in an arc encompassing the room. ‘She doesn’t have to live in a place filled with stuff I don’t remember buying. Or worse, photographs of people twenty years older than I remember them.’
    ‘You want to go somewhere else? I’ve got a spare room. You’re more than welcome.’ The words tumbled out before he’d really considered them. It sounded almost like he was asking her to move in with him. The thought filledhim with conflicting feelings; hope and despair. And guilt. There was always guilt.
    Emma took one more slow look at the living room, eyes finally settling on him with a desperate stare. ‘Please.’
    It took almost an hour to get across town, fighting the traffic chaos caused by the construction work for the trams. By the time the car crunched over the gravel and came to a halt at the back door, the afternoon was almost gone. McLean was grateful that Jo Dexter had given him the time off, but sooner or later someone was going to phone him and drag him back to the station.
    ‘Just the one spare room?’ Emma asked as they walked towards the house. She seemed more relaxed here somehow. Perhaps it was easier being somewhere she wasn’t expected to recognize anything. McLean was searching for a suitable reply as he opened the door, but something large and furry trotted out, twining itself around Emma’s legs, tail high and purring like a badly tuned engine. He felt a moment’s irrational jealousy. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat had never shown him that kind of affection.
    Emma bent down, stroked the cat. It nudged her hand, rubbing the side of its head on her arm, tail quivering with pleasure at meeting an old friend. She picked it up and it started to nuzzle at her face. And then McLean saw tears in the corners of her eyes.
    ‘There was a fire. Everyone was killed. Only the cat survived.’ She turned to face him. ‘The cat and you.’
    ‘There you go. Extra towels in the airing cupboard. I’m not sure how comfortable the bed is, but the sheets are clean.’
    McLean stood just inside the guest bedroom, pointed at the door across the way that led to the en-suite bathroom. Emma sat on the end of a king-size bed looking as pale as the white sheets as she stared around the room. It was one of five spare bedrooms in the house, not counting McLean’s own room and his grandmother’s. Or the old box-rooms up in the roof where in times past the servants would have slept. Not for the first time he wondered why he kept the place. It was way too big for him.
    ‘It’s very nice. Thank you.’ Emma fiddled with the strap on her bag. Awkward. Beside her, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat had leapt onto the bed and was pawing at the bedding, purring as it nuzzled her free hand.
    ‘I’m just across the landing. Shout if you need anything. I’ll leave the light on.’ McLean cringed at his words, treating her like a child. But in some ways that’s what she was. Scared, alone, unsure of anything. He couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through her mind. Only that she didn’t seem to remember much that had happened since she had turned sixteen.
    ‘Tony?’
    He turned in the doorway as he was about to leave. Emma pushed the cat aside, stood up.
    ‘We had something, didn’t we?’
    An image in his head, unbidden. Lying on a cold bed, staring up at the ceiling. Rolling over to see spiky black hair poking up out of the top of the hogged duvet. A hand reaching out, touching his side. Warmth as the duvet and the body it contains envelope him.
    ‘Yes. We did.’
    Another image. Older. A body lies in the dark, coldwater, naked and splayed out. Long dark hair tugged by the current into a fan like seaweed. A loss as deep and