Natural Causes

by James Oswald

  'Mr Garner, I need to ask you some questions. I can come back later, but it's best if we do it now. While the memories are still fresh.'

  Still the old man didn't respond, didn't look up. Just kept smoothing his hands over his thighs, slowly. McLean reached out and placed his fingers on the back of Garner's hand, stopping him. The contact seemed to break whatever trance he had fallen into. He looked around, his eyes gradually focussing on the inspector. Tears welled up in the puffy, wrinkled lids.

  'I called him a cheating bastard. That was the last thing I said to him.' His voice was thin and high, tinged with a soft Morningside accent that clashed with the swearword.

  'You knew Mr Stewart well, Mr Garner?'

  'Oh yes. Buchan and I first met in the fifties, you know. We've been in business together ever since.'

  'And what line of business is that, sir?'

  'Antiques, art. Buchan has an eye, inspector. He can spot talent, and he always seems to know where the market's going.'

  'So I've seen from his apartment.' McLean looked around Garner's living room. It was well-furnished but not with the same opulence as his business partner. 'And what of you, Mr Garner? What did you bring to the relationship?'

  'Brilliant men need their foils, inspector, and Buchan Stewart is a brilliant man.' Garner swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in his thin, sinewy neck. 'I should say was a brilliant man.'

  'Can you tell me what you argued about?'

  'Buchan was hiding something from me, inspector. Of that I'm sure. Just these past few days, but I've known him long enough.'

  'And you thought he was cheating. What, setting up a business with another man?'

  'You might call it that, yes, inspector. I very much suspect there was another man involved.'

  'The man who killed him, perhaps?'

  'I don't know. Maybe.'

  'Did you see this man?'

  'No.' Garner shook his head, as if reinforcing the answer in his mind, but there was uncertainty in his voice. McLean kept silent, letting the doubt do its work.

  'I can't expect you to understand, inspector. You're young still. Perhaps when you're as old as me you'll know what I'm talking about. Buchan was more than just my business partner. He and I, we were...'

  'Lovers? There's no crime in that, Mr Garner. Not anymore.'

  'Aye, but there's shame still, isn't there. There's still the way people look at you in the street. I'm a private man, inspector. I keep to myself. And I'm too old to be interested in sex these days. I thought Buchan was too.'

  'But now you think he was seeing someone else? Another man?'

  'I was sure of it. Why else would he be so secretive? Why would he lose his temper and send me away?'

  McLean said nothing for a moment. In the quiet he could hear a kettle boiling, the clink of teaspoon on china.

  'Tell me what happened this evening, Mr Garner. How did you find Mr Stewart.'

  The old man paused. His hands started their rhythmic movements again, and he clenched them into fists to stop himself.

  'We'd had a row. This afternoon. Buchan wanted me to go away for a couple of weeks. There's a big art fair in New York and he thought it would do me good to go. He'd even organised the tickets, hotel, everything. But I retired from the business years ago. I told him I didn't have the strength to travel that far, let alone work an auction when I got there. I told him I'd rather stay and let him go. He always had so much more energy than me.'

  'So you'd argued. But you went back over to his apartment to talk to him later, is that right?' McLean saw the old man beginning to wander off topic and gently steered him back.

  'What? Oh, yes. It would have been around nine, maybe quarter past. I don't like leaving an argument unresolved, and I'd said a few harsh words, so I thought I'd go and apologise. Sometimes we'd sit up late, maybe have a wee brandy and talk about the world. I've a key to the apartment, so I could let myself in. But I didn't need it; the door was wide open. I smelled something bad. Like the sewers had backed up. So I went in and... Oh god...'

  Garner started to sob. Constable Kydd chose that moment to come back in bearing a tray with three china cups and a teapot on it.

  'I know this is hard, Mr Garner, but please try and tell me what you saw. If it's any consolation, saying it out loud can often help to lessen the shock.'

  The old man sniffed, accepting a cup of tea with shaky hands and sipping at the milky liquid.

  'He was sitting in there, naked. I thought he'd been doing something to himself. I couldn't understand why he was so still, or why he was staring at the ceiling. Then I saw the blood. Don't know how I could have missed it before. It was everywhere.'

  'What did you do then, Mr Garner? Did you try to help Mr Stewart?'

  'What? Oh. Yes. I... That is, no. I went over to him, but I could see he was dead. I dialled 999, I think. The next thing I knew there was a policeman here.'

  'Did you touch anything? Other than the telephone.'

  'I... I don't think so. Why?'

  'The scene of crime officer who came to see you earlier? She took your fingerprints so we can separate them from any we find in Mr Stewart's apartment. It helps us if we know where you went.' McLean lifted his teacup to his mouth. Garner did the same, taking a long sip. The old man shuddered as the warm tea slipped down his throat, that prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down again with each swallow. They sat in silence for a while longer, then McLean put his cup back down on the tray. He noticed that Constable Kydd hadn't drunk any of hers either.

  'We'll need you to come down to the station and make a statement, Mr Garner. Not now, tomorrow will do,' he added as the old man made to stand up. 'I can send round a car to pick you up and bring you back. Shall we say ten o'clock?'

  'Yes, yes. Of course. Earlier if you want. I shan't think I'll sleep much tonight.'

  'Is there someone we can call to keep you company? I'm sure we could spare a constable.' McLean looked across at Constable Kydd and received a withering stare in return.

  'No. I'll be fine, I'm sure.' Mr Garner put his hands back down on his thighs, but only to lever himself up out of his chair. 'I think I might have a bath, though. That usually helps me sleep.'

  'Thank you. You've been very helpful.' McLean stood with greater ease, offering his hand to the old man. 'There'll be a constable on duty outside Mr Stewart's apartment all night. If you've any worries, let him know and he can radio in to the station.'

  'Thankyou, inspector. That's very considerate.'

  *

  The landing was quiet outside Mr Garner's apartment. The door opposite stood open, but there was no sign of anyone within. McLean clumped downstairs and out onto the street, where a few uniforms were still busying themselves. He accosted Constable Houseman manning the barrier outside the gate; the SOC van had long disappeared.

  'How'd you get on with the other tenements.'

  Big Andy pulled out his notebook. 'Most of them are empty. Seems they belong to a leasing company. They put foreign executives and the like in them. The ground floor's got two flats in it; neither of them heard anything until we arrived. Oh, and there's a basement flat too. He got home with his girlfriend about half an hour ago and was rather abusive when we told him he couldn't go in unescorted. Sergeant Gordon got a bloodied nose and Mr Cartwright's going to be spending some time in the cells.'

  'Drunk and disorderly?'

  'Possession, sir. Probably with intent to deal. You'd think with a pound of hash on his person he'd steer clear of the police.'

  'You would indeed. You were right by the way.'

  'I was? About what?'

  'Buchan Stewart and Timothy Garner. Odd arrangement, though. Living in separate apartments just across from each other.'

  'The world's full of odd people, sir. Sometimes I think I'm the only normal man alive.'

  'That's a fact, Andy.' McLean looked at his watch, it was getting on for two in the morning. 'I think we've done pretty much all we can here tonight. Put two men on gua
rd duty. We have a potential witness. I don't want our murderer coming back to try and silence him.'

  'You don't think he's a suspect, then? Garner?'

  'Not unless he's a very good actor, no. My gut tells me there's more to this than a lovers tiff turned bad, but Garner's in no state to be interviewed tonight. I don't think he'd do too well in a cell either.' McLean looked up to the high windows, light spilling out into the night. 'He's not going anywhere in a hurry. Best let him calm down a bit and I'll talk to him in the morning. Let whoever draws the short straw for guard duty know he's there. If he wants to go anywhere, we'll get a DC round to go with him. OK?'

  'Right you are, sir.' Big Andy lumbered off, shouting orders at the few remaining policemen on the scene. McLean turned to Constable Kydd, who stifled a yawn.

  'I thought you were on day shift.'

  'I am.'

  'Then how'd you get roped into this assignment?'

  'I was using one of the interview rooms at the station to study, sir. My folks aren't the quietest at the best of times. Friday nights it's best to be somewhere else if you want a bit of peace.'

  'And let me guess, Duguid found you and sent you after me. Any idea why he couldn't attend himself?'

  'I wouldn't like to say, sir.'

  McLean stopped himself from interrogating the constable any further. It wasn't her fault they'd both had their evening ruined. He'd find out sooner or later why the case had been handed over to him.

  'Well get yourself home now, and get some sleep. And don't worry about coming in a bit late tomorrow. I'll square it with the desk sergeant, get the rosters juggled.'

  'Thankyou sir.' The constable smiled a weary smile. 'Do you need a lift home?'

  'No thanks.' McLean looked down the high street. There were still people wandering about even at this late hour. Revellers on their way home from the pub, people spilling out of nightclubs, late night kebab and burger bars doing a roaring trade. The city never really slept. And somewhere out there was a killer with blood on their hands. A killer who had cut off a part of his victim and shoved it in their mouth. Just like Barnaby Smythe. Copycat? Coincidence? He needed time, air, distance to consider it all.

  'I think I'll walk.'

  ~~~~

  22

  Saturday should have been his day off. Not that he'd made any plans, but whatever he'd intended doing, sitting in his office at the police station at half past eight in the morning hadn't been high on the list of options. Not after less than four hours sleep. McLean clicked through the digital photographs from the crime scene on his computer. He'd need to get them printed out; it was impossible to work off the tiny screen. Selecting the whole batch, he sent them to the shared colour printer down the corridor, hoping it would have enough paper and toner in it for a change.

  The flat had been thankfully empty when he'd let himself in, having walked the mile and a half back from Buchan Stewart's apartment. It wasn't that he didn't like company, but he preferred to lose himself in a crowd. One to one, without the crutch of his professional persona, was just too fraught with possibilities and difficulties to be ever truly enjoyable. Even if he hadn't just come back from a violent crime scene, he preferred his own company. Just him and his ghosts.

  'Ah, Tony. I was hoping to catch you in this morning.'

  Startled, McLean looked up to see Chief Superintendent McIntyre advancing down the corridor towards him. Her uniform didn't flatter her much, and he wondered idly if she'd put on weight.

  'Ma'am?'

  'You took on the Stewart case last night. Thank you.' She fell in beside him as they carried on walking.

  'I did wonder why there was no-one else to take it.'

  'Ah. Yes. Well, Chief Inspector Duguid did want the case, but as soon as I heard about it, I had to insist he pass it on to someone else.'

  'Why?'

  'Buchan Stewart is... was his uncle.'

  'Ah.'

  'So really you should be flattered that he chose you to conduct the investigation. I know the two of you don't see eye to eye.'

  'That's the polite way of putting it, ma'am.'

  'Well, I have to be tactful in my line of work. And I have to make sure my senior officers can work together. Do a good job on this, Tony, and whatever Dagwood's got against you, I'm sure he'll let it slide.'

  It was the first time he'd ever heard McIntyre use the Chief Inspector's nickname. He smiled at her attempt to be conspiratorial with him, but she'd got the nature of their animosity all wrong. He didn't much like Duguid because the Chief Inspector was a sloppy investigator. Duguid didn't like him because he knew it.

  'So what have you got so far?' McIntyre asked.

  'It's early days, really. But I'm leaning towards jealousy as motivation. Nothing obvious had been stolen, so it wasn't burglary. And Stewart was naked, which suggests he may have been expecting sex. He was homosexual, and could have recently found a new partner. I'd finger him as our prime suspect. If I had to make a guess, I'd say a younger man, maybe considerably younger.'

  'Any witnesses? CCTV?'

  'No-one in the tenement saw anything. I've got DC MacBride going over the tapes from last night, but it's a bit of a camera blackspot. We'll hopefully narrow things down a bit once the pathologist has given us a more accurate time of death.'

  'What about the man who phoned it in?'

  'Timothy Garner. Lived next door. He was Stewart's partner for years, business and, um, personal.'

  'Could he have done it?'

  'I don't think so. It just didn't feel like that kind of case. He's meant to be coming in later this morning to make a statement anyway, but I think I might head over there and interview him at home. He'll be more at ease there.'

  'Good idea. It'll help to keep things low profile too. I suspect DCI Duguid would appreciate that.' McIntyre gave him a conspiratorial wink. 'See Tony, you can do diplomacy if you try hard enough.'

  *

  The blood smear on the stairwell wall looked paler and less ominous in the daylight flooding from the glass canopy overhead. A constable stood on guard outside Buchan Stewart's flat. He looked bored to tears, but snapped to attention when he saw the inspector coming up the stairs. Constable Kydd trailed behind, once more his driver for the day.

  'Anyone coming or going, Don?' McLean asked.

  'Not a peep, sir.'

  'Good.' He knocked gently on the door to Garner's apartment. 'Mr Garner? It's Inspector McLean.'

  No answer. He knocked a little harder.

  'Mr Garner?' McLean turned back to the constable on guard duty. 'He didn't pop out did he?'

  'No sir. I've been here since seven and no-one's moved since then. Phil... Constable Patterson was on before me. Said the place was quiet as the grave.'

  McLean knocked once more, then tried the door handle. It clicked open onto a darkened entrance hall.

  'Mr Garner?' A shiver ran down his spine. What if the old man had died of a heart attack? He turned back to Constable Kydd. 'Come with me,' he said and stepped inside.

  The apartment was silent save for the tick, tick, ticking of an old grandfather clock in the hallway. As McLean went to the living room where they had interviewed Garner earlier in the morning, Constable Kydd headed down a narrow corridor that he assumed lead to the kitchen. The old man was not in the seat where they'd left him, neither was he in his study, which McLean found through the next door off the hallway. The room was neat and tidy, the desk empty save for a green glass shaded library lamp, which was switched on and pointed downwards to illuminate a single sheet of paper.

  He crossed the room, his mind racing. Bending down, he could read the words written on the paper in neat pen.

  I have killed my soul mate, my lover, my friend. I did not mean to but fate has made it so. I could no longer live with him, but now I find I cannot live without him. To whomsoever finds this note...

  A loud gasp echoed through the silent apartment. McLean hurried out of the study.

  'Constable?'

  'Sir
. In here.'

  He rushed across the hallway and down the narrow corridor, but he knew what was coming. Constable Kydd stood in the doorway to the bathroom, her face a pale white, her eyes staring. He gently moved her out of the way and stepped past.

  Timothy Garner had taken his bath. And then he'd taken a razor to his wrists.

  ~~~~

  23

  'That was quick, Tony. You might even have beaten Duguid's record.' DCS McIntyre perched herself on the edge of the desk; there was nowhere else in the room to sit other than the chair McLean was already occupying. She looked pleased for once; there was nothing like a quick result for boosting the clean-up statistics, after all. Just a pity he couldn't share her enthusiasm.

  'I don't think he did it, ma'am.'

  'Didn't he leave a confession?'

  'Yes, he left a note.' McLean picked up the A4 print of the digital photograph which was all he had of Timothy Garner's last words, handing it to McIntyre. SOC had taken the original away to 'do tests.' He could have told them not to bother; they would show it had been written by Garner, using his normal handwriting. The paper would yield no fingerprints other than those of the dead man, but analysis of the liquid that had splashed the last paragraph might well reveal it to have been his tears.

  ' "I have killed my soul mate, my lover, my friend." What part of that isn't a confession? You already said they'd rowed because Garner thought Stewart was getting a bit on the side. It was a brutal attack, sure. But crimes of passion often are. And then, when he realised what he'd done, he couldn't live with it.'

  'I don't know. It doesn't feel right. And his words are so flowery. He could just be blaming himself for not being there with Stewart when it happened.'

  'Come on. He had the motive, he had the weapon.'

  'Did he? Forensics couldn't match his cut-throat to the knife that killed Stewart. They just said it was razor sharp.'

  'Drop it, Tony. OK? You've been through the CCTV tapes for the time of the murder. No one enters or leaves that building half an hour either side of the time of death. There were no witnesses to the murder and the person most likely to have committed it has confessed. Don't go raking over the coals when you don't need to.'