Broken Bones (DCI Liam Brodie #1)

Chapter 1

EDINBURGH

He knew the place would have a smell, just not like this. Old and musty, the dust from the shelves flew off with the slightest encouragement. It was cloying, invading his nostrils no matter what he did.

Edinburgh had died centuries ago, and with it, its citizens. Then they had started again, building right over the top of the old place, leaving behind in its wake a series of tunnels and chambers.

This was where Detective Chief Inspector Liam Brodie found himself now, in the underground book depository of the Central Library in the middle of the city. A cavernous space filled with row after row of ancient books and papers which reeked of another era, of history clawing at his throat.

The fluorescent lights above his head lay dormant, switched off to save money. To save the killer from being put in the spotlight.

Years ago, Brodie had told somebody: if you think there’s a housebreaker in your home, don’t switch the lights on. You know your way around your house in the dark; an intruder doesn’t.

It was clear that this killer thought the same way, except he knew his way around thousands of square feet of what was essentially an ancient warehouse.

This space had been built a long time ago, and the walls were made of thick stone, yet they didn’t quite keep out the hum of the traffic moving overhead.

Buses hissed as the drivers applied the air brakes, car horns blasted as impatient drivers tried to get out of the city at the tail end of rush hour, desperate to get home and out of the cold winter chill.

This place was where knowledge came to die.

Books written and bound by human beings a long time ago, people who had once thrived in the dirty city that had risen from the ashes of the plague and had killed many less fortunate than themselves.

They were left waiting on a shelf, hoping somebody would come along and give them a new life.

Liam Brodie wasn’t here for that. Somewhere among the long rows of shelves, a killer was waiting for him.

Brodie was down here alone, but his team was upstairs, covering every exit with the help of uniformed officers. Alone. The thought unnerved him for a moment, as every tiny sound was like a ghost from the past walking through him, making him shiver.

The space was in darkness, save for a light in a far corner, a lamp sitting on a desk. He had been told what to expect and had been given a brief description of the area, but he hadn’t been prepared for the sheer number of shelves and books.

His shoes had scuffed on the old stone floor, so he had taken them off and left them at the entrance, something he regretted now as the cold seeped into his feet.

It made him silent, though, as he slowly walked towards the light in the far corner, careful not to bump into any of the shelving, disturbing the sleeping tomes.

He heard another noise and stopped to listen, pressed between two rows of shelves in the narrow passageway they created.

Adrenaline rushed through him, but he had to stay calm.

The killer they had been chasing for months had made one fatal error, and rushing now could make him disappear forever. Or until the next kill.

Brodie was a little over six foot two and had worked out in the gym in his younger days, bulking up his body. Which had come in useful in a few bars when a fight had suddenly broken out, but not so much in here, where the metal shelves seemed to conspire to squeeze the life out of him.

Older sections were near the back, where the desk and the lamp were, marking the halfway point between what they had called the modern section and the ancient section. The brick walls gave way to rough-hewn stone as he moved silently towards the light.

Then he heard it, the movement of paper, then the sound of a page being ripped out of a book.

He turned in that direction, holding his breath for a moment, waiting for the sound to come again.

This was where the killer got the pages he’d left on the dead bodies.

Most of them, Brodie thought, but not the book he’d bought in the second-hand bookshop. The book that had been his downfall.

He started to shiver, wishing that he’d kept his overcoat on, but he’d known the bulky coat might hinder him in a struggle.

Down here, it was climate-controlled but still felt chilly.

Or it could just be his adrenaline level dropping.

Whatever it was, he stayed focused on the light in the corner as he got closer to it.

He heard more movement now, a slight shuffle, a rustle of paper again.

He brushed up against the metal rack, once again smelling the mustiness of the old books.

These passageways were narrower than the main ones, like the one he was heading to now.

He didn’t realise he was holding his breath at first, but let it slowly out as he tried to look through the shelving, past the books, towards the source of the light, but he couldn’t quite make it out.

He moved his head sideways, peeking round the corner, putting his weight on his left leg, not wanting to hold on to the shelves.

He slowly entered the passageway, watching where he put his feet.

There were rows of shelves opposite, filled with musty old books and darkness.

The killer stood at the end of the passageway, his back to Brodie. He wasn’t a tall man, nor particularly big, but he must have presented an imposing aura to the women he’d killed.

He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt.

No jacket. He had dark hair, and his head was tilted down, looking at something.

Brodie looked up and saw a convex mirror up high on the wall that marked the end of the depository.

There was a cart for pushing books around near the desk with the lamp, and the mirror would be used on the off chance that somebody else was down there.

The desk was in this passageway, wider than the ones surrounding it. It was a sturdy old desk, its surface cluttered with papers and books. A single lamp cast eerie shadows on the walls. The killer was engrossed in his task, unaware of Brodie’s approach.

Brodie approached slowly, taking it easy, watching where he put his feet. And still the killer sensed he was there.

He looked up into the convex mirror.

He was holding a book in his hands. He kept staring into the mirror as Brodie got closer. Maybe seventy-five feet separated them, and yet he didn’t move. Brodie wished he had kept his shoes on as he kept on walking forward.

‘It’s over,’ he said.

Yet it wasn’t.

The killer dropped the book onto the desk and, without looking back, turned left round the corner and ran out of sight. Brodie ran, his shoeless feet silent on the old stone, and was about to shout when he realised that doing so would give his position away.

He took his extendable baton out as he turned the corner. A narrower passageway of metal shelves was opposite the wall, the light from the lamp throwing shadows around. There was no sign of the killer in here.

The bastard had the advantage; he knew his way around here. Had spent many hours down here, by all accounts. All in plain sight. Why not? Nobody on the upper levels knew he was a sadistic killer.

‘You can’t get out,’ Brodie shouted. ‘The place is surrounded and the dog handlers will be down here in a few minutes. If you think you can walk out of here, I’ll make sure there’s a hundred-pound German shepherd hanging off your bollocks.’

His voice echoed around the huge cavern, into the deepest corners of the subterranean room.

No answer.

He listened. The silence was absolute. He edged forward, ducking at one point to see if he could look through the shelving to see a pair of legs standing still, or dark hair poking about a rack, but there was nothing.

More shelves created passageways, leading to the left, opposite the foundation wall.

He kept his shoulder close to the wall in case the killer jumped out.

The paint was starting to peel here, as it hadn’t been touched up in many years.

It was a dull cream colour, and Brodie wasn’t sure if this was intentional or if the years were taking their toll.

The light from the lamp was fainter around here, getting dimmer as the shelves got further away. Was the killer running for the doorway as he stood here like a lemon? If so, he wouldn’t get far.

Brodie couldn’t hear running feet, but maybe the killer had done what he had, and taken his shoes off. He moved forward as quietly as he could, looking down each passageway, but still nothing.

It seemed even more ancient and musty down at this end, if that was possible.

Brodie had been in some dumps in his time, but this place – where books went to die – took the biscuit.

He could understand why the killer would want to spend time down here; nobody else would voluntarily venture into this place.

He stopped and stood still, thinking he had heard a noise to his left. Then nothing.

Brodie was about to step forward, his eyes starting to adjust to the darkness again, when he sensed the killer right behind him.

Had this aisle been wider, he might have been able to turn faster, but he didn’t quite make it before the knife was rammed into his back.

Had he not turned at all, the knife could have sliced his spinal cord, but the blade slid in and caught one of his ribs.

As the pain screamed through his body, he felt himself being dragged backwards, and a hand grabbing the knife handle and pulling.

He knew the darkness was coming for him, could feel his grasp on life letting go. He had underestimated the killer and now he was paying the price.

Brodie thought this was going to be his last day on earth as he reached up in one last, futile attempt to try and make the assailant let go, but he was too weak. His mind was exploding with the pain. It was game over.

Then he felt the hand let go without touching it. Then he heard shouting as his mind slipped from reality. He reached out and caught himself on a shelf, holding on for dear life, knowing that if he fell to the floor he was dead.

Another figure was there. A woman. He knew her but couldn’t remember her name for a moment.

Was she real? He thought so, but couldn’t be sure.

The light was hazy, like seen through morning-fuzzy eyes.

He wanted to rub his eyes but couldn’t remember how.

He was closing down. Maybe this woman was an angel.

‘You bastard!’ she shouted, and then clarity came back to him for a moment. DI Lucy Warren.

The killer had turned towards her, advancing in a few steps, but she met him head-on, grappling with him as Brodie clung on to consciousness.

They came back towards him, and then Lucy shoved the killer away.

Before he could get back to her, she picked up a book and swung it, and despite the aisle being narrow, it connected with the killer’s face, breaking his nose.

He screamed out and, when his hands covered his face, Lucy kicked him hard in the bollocks.

He collapsed in a heap.

Brodie collapsed on top of him, just as a rush of boots came thumping up. The last thing Brodie heard was Lucy calling his name.