Natural Causes

by James Oswald

  ~~~~

  44

  They went to a Thai restaurant close to the station. McLean had eaten there often before, mostly with large groups of hungry policemen.

  'What's good? I don't think I've ever eaten Thai.' Emma took a sip from her beer; she'd ordered a pint, he noticed.

  'That depends. Do you like spicy, or would you prefer something a bit easier?'

  'Spicy, always. The hotter the better.'

  McLean smiled; he enjoyed a challenge. 'OK, then. I'd suggest you start with Gung Dong and follow up with a panang. See if you've got room for one of their coconut cream puddings after that.'

  'Are you this knowledgeable about everything, inspector?' Emma raised an inquisitive eyebrow and shook her short black hair out of her face. McLean knew she was teasing him, but couldn't help taking the bait.

  'I'm told even inspectors get to clock off now and then. Besides, I'm on leave until Monday. And you can call me Tony, you know.'

  'So what does an inspector do when he's not at work, Tony?'

  For the past eighteen months, since I found her unconscious in her favourite armchair, visiting my gran in hospital. Or at work, or just maybe at home asleep. McLean couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the cinema or a show. He hadn't been on holiday for more than a couple of days at a time and even then all he'd done was take his old mountain bike out into the Pentland Hills, wondering why they were so much steeper every time.

  'Mostly I go to the pub,' he said, shrugging. 'Or Thai restaurants.'

  'Not alone, I hope,' Emma laughed. 'That would be very sad.'

  McLean didn't say anything, and Emma's laughter died away to embarrassed silence. It had been far too long since he'd done anything like this; he didn't really know what to say.

  'I brought my gran here once,' he finally managed. 'Before she had her stroke.'

  'She was very special to you, wasn't she.'

  'You could say that. When I was four years old, my parents were killed in a plane crash just south of Inverness. Gran raised me as if I were her own child.'

  'Oh Tony, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise.'

  'It's all right. I got over it a long time ago. When you're four you adapt quickly. But gran dying, well to me that felt a lot more like I'd imagine losing a parent would feel. And she was in a coma for so long. It was horrible seeing her just waste away like that.'

  'My dad died a few years back,' Emma said. 'Drunk himself to death. Can't really say me or my mum were that sad to see the back of him. Is that wrong?'

  'I don't know. No. I wouldn't have thought so. Was he a violent man?'

  'Not really, just careless.'

  'You have any brothers or sisters?' McLean tried to move the conversation away from the maudlin.

  'No, there's just me.'

  'And what does an SOC officer do with her spare time. Assuming she has any, that is.'

  Emma laughed. 'Probably no more than a detective inspector. It's very easy to get absorbed by work, and being on twenty-four hour call-out plays havoc with your social life.'

  'Sounds like you've had a few bitter experiences.'

  'Haven't we all?'

  'So you're not seeing anyone at the moment?'

  'You're the detective, Tony. Do you think I'd be sitting in here drinking beer and eating curry with you if I was?'

  'Sorry, stupid question. Tell me about cocaine and all the strange things dealers think of to mix it with.'

  It was perhaps a little sad, but he found it easier to talk about work than anything else. Emma seemed happier on that topic too, and he suspected that her father had been more than just careless. All our lives defined by the endless little tragedies. By the time their food arrived, they were deep in conversation about the need for absolute cleanliness in the lab. The meal passed in a succession of anecdotes about work colleagues and before long he'd paid the bill and they were stepping out into the night.

  'That pudding was gorgeous. What was it called again?' Emma slipped her arm through his, leaning close as they walked slowly up the street.

  'Kanom bliak bun, at least I think that's how they pronounce it.' Where they were going, McLean had no idea. He had approached the meal as a chore, an obligation in repayment for a favour. It was something of a surprise to him to find company so enjoyable. And he really hadn't planned anything. The night had turned chill, a north-easterly breeze coming in off the sea. Her body was warm against his side. Years of practice at being alone urged him to push her away, to keep his distance, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he ignored it. 'D'you fancy a nightcap?'

  They started off in the Guildford Arms because it was close and served decent beer. After that, Emma suggested they try and find a fringe comedy show that wasn't sold out. McLean suspected she knew where she was going all along, but he was happy to be lead. The bar they eventually managed to get into was tiny and packed with sweaty people. It was an open mic night and a series of hopeful comedians braved a hostile and inebriated audience for their scant minutes of fame. Some of them were quite good, others so bad they raised more of a laugh anyway. By the time the last act had finished and the bar emptied, it was two in the morning and the street outside was noticeable for a complete lack of taxis. McLean fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, pulling it out and staring at the screen in consternation.

  'Damned battery's dead again. I swear I'm jinxed when it comes to these bloody things.'

  'You should talk to Malky Watt in the SOC office. He's got a theory about people's auras and how some can suck the life out of electrical devices. Especially if someone powerful is thinking negative thoughts about you.'

  'He sounds a right nutter.'

  'Yup. That'd be about right.'

  'It never used to happen to me. Just the last month or so. I've tried changing phones, new batteries, everything. Bloody thing's useless unless it's plugged into the wall, which kind of defeats the point.'

  'I see what you mean.' Emma looked at the blank screen on the phone. 'Never mind. My flat's only five minutes from here. You can phone for a taxi from there.'

  'Oh, right. I was going to try and get one for you, not me. I can walk back to Newington from here, no bother. I kind of like the city late at night. Reminds me of when I was on the beat. Come on, I'll walk you home.' McLean held out his arm and Emma took it once more.

  Her flat was in a terrace of stone houses down in Warriston, backing onto the Water of Leith. McLean shivered as they reached the road-end.

  'Cold, inspector?' Emma reached around him with her arm and pulled him against her. He tensed.

  'No, not cold. Something else. I'd rather not go into it.'

  She looked at him strangely. 'OK.' Then continued to walk. McLean kept up with her, but the moment had gone. He couldn't stop himself from looking back to the bridge where he'd found Kirsty's dead body, all those years ago.

  They reached her door after a couple of hundred yards. Emma fished around in her bag for a set of keys. 'You want to come in for a coffee?'

  He was tempted, sorely. She was warm and friendly, she smelled of carefree days and fun. For the whole evening, she had chased away his ghosts, but now they were back. If she'd lived in any other street, he might have said yes.

  'I can't.' He made a show of looking at his watch. 'I've got to get back. It's been a long day today, and it looks like tomorrow's going to be even worse.'

  'Liar, you're supposed to be on leave. You can sleep in as late as you like. You've no idea how much I envy you.' Emma punched him playfully on the chest. 'But it's all right. I've got to be in the lab for eight. This was fun, though.'

  'Yeah, it was. We should do it again.'

  'Is that a date, Inspector McLean?'

  'Ah, I don't know about that. If it was a date, I'd have to cook for you.'

  'Fine. I'll bring the wine.' Emma stepped close to him, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, backing away and darting up the steps before he had time to react. 'Night, Tony,' she shouted as she u
nlocked the door and disappeared inside.

  It wasn't until he was halfway back to Princes Street that McLean realised he hadn't thought about Constable Kydd all evening.

  ~~~~

  45

  A harsh buzzing sound filtered in from the edges of his dreams, bringing McLean back to the land of the living. He opened an eye to stare at his bedside alarm. Six o'clock and he felt like death. It seemed rather unfair, after such a pleasant time the night before. And he'd been looking forward to that lie-in, too.

  Reaching out, he hit the snooze button on the alarm. The buzzing continued and now he realised it was coming from the top of the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Stumbling out of bed, he reached his crumpled jacket just as the noise stopped. Underneath it, plugged into its charger, his phone flashed a single text message for him to contact the station. He was just about to call in when his home phone started to ring out in the hall.

  Stomping out in his boxers, McLean reached the handset just as it, too rang off. He'd still not replaced the tape in the answering machine. Perhaps he'd go and buy a new one. Something digital that wouldn't preserve the voices of the dead. He looked down at the text message on the phone in his hand, hit the speed-dial number and asked to be put through. Ten minutes later he was showered, dressed and out the front door. Breakfast would have to wait.

  *

  Chill morning wind cut down the narrow street, sharpened by the tall buildings on either side. Lazy wind, his gran would have called it; goes straight through you rather than making the effort to go round. McLean shivered in his thin summer suit, still cold from no breakfast, too little sleep and a sudden, rude awakening with news he could have done without. Sometimes the life of an office worker seemed very attractive indeed; shift end and knock off. Go home safe in the knowledge that no-one was going to call in the middle of the night asking you to come in and process a few more reports, or whatever it was people in offices with normal jobs did.

  Detective Constable MacBride was waiting for him at the entrance to the city mortuary, nervously loitering in the street like some fresh-faced first-year student wondering if he had the nerve to go alone into one of the Cowgate's more notorious pubs. He looked even colder than McLean felt, if that was possible.

  'What's the story, constable,' McLean asked, flashing his warrant card to a young uniform carefully rolling out black and yellow tape around the vehicle entranceway.

  'It's the young girl, sir. The one from the house in Sighthill. She... Well, I think you'd be better off talking to Doctor Sharp.'

  Inside the building it was unusually busy. A SOC team were dusting everything in their search for fingerprints and other clues, watched by a nervous pathology assistant.

  'What's happening, Tracy?' McLean asked. She looked relieved to see him, a familiar face in the chaos.

  'Someone broke in here and stole one of our bodies. The mutilated girl. They took her preserved organs. too.'

  'Anything else gone?'

  'Gone, no. But they've been at the computers. We've got password protection, but when I came in mine was switched on. I could have sworn I turned it off last night. Didn't think much of it until we noticed the body gone. Nothing's been deleted as far as I can tell, but they could have made copies of any of my files.'

  'And the other bodies in storage?' McLean looked out through the glass panes that separated the office from the autopsy theatre. Emma Baird was popping away with her flashgun. Stopped when she saw him and gave a cheery wave.

  'Don't appear to have been touched. Whoever did this, they knew what they were looking for.'

  'Chances are SOC won't find anything, then. It looks like this has been very well planned. Are you sure it went last night?'

  'I can't be a hundred percent. It's not like we took her out every day to check. But the organs were stored in the secure room over there.' She pointed to a heavy wooden door with a small reinforced glass window in it at head height. 'They were there last night when I put the suicide victim's clothes away; gone this morning when I went to get another box of specimen jars. As soon as I noticed, I checked the drawers and she wasn't there.'

  'What time did you leave last night?'

  'About eight, I think. But there's someone here twenty-four hours a day. We never know when a body's going to come in.'

  'I'm assuming not just anyone can walk in off the street in here.' McLean knew already the security measures in place. They weren't perfect, but they had seemed more than adequate before now. Enough to stop people coming in without authorisation. 'How do you suppose someone would take a body out of here? I mean, you can't exactly throw it over your shoulder and walk out onto the Cowgate.'

  'Most bodies are brought here by ambulance or undertakers. Maybe they took her away that way?'

  'Makes sense, I guess. How many bodies came in last night?'

  'Let me check.' She turned to her computer, then paused. 'Is it OK to use this?'

  McLean grabbed a passing SOC officer and asked the same question.

  'Dusted it for prints, but it's unlikely we'll get anything off it. There's none on the security keypad, and nothing on the chiller doors. My guess is whoever did this was wearing gloves.'

  'Go ahead then.' McLean nodded to Tracy. She clicked a few keys.

  'We had your suicide logged in at half past one. A suspected heart attack victim came in at eight. Yes, I remember them bringing him in. Nothing else after that. Must have been a quiet night.'

  'And the night desk can confirm that?'

  'I'll ask.' Tracy picked up the phone without asking a SOC officer if that was all right. She spoke briefly, scribbling down a number, then hung up and dialled it. Silence for a long while. Then finally. 'Pete? Hi it's Trace at work. Yeah, I'm sorry, I know you're on nights. We've had a break-in though. Police all over the place. No, I'm not joking. They're going to want to talk to you. Look, did you process any bodies after Mr Lentin came in yesterday evening?' Pause. 'What? You're sure? OK. OK. Thanks.' She put down the phone.

  'An ambulance came in at two this morning. Pete swears he logged it in, but there's nothing on the system.'

  'That would be the system you found switched on when you came in yourself?' McLean had to admire the thoroughness of the thief. It was a professional job from top to bottom. But why would anyone want to steal a sixty years dead corpse they still hadn't been able to identify?

  *

  'You were right, you know.'

  'I was? What about?' McLean stood in the doorway of Chief Superintendent McIntyre's office. It was famously always open, but he was reluctant to commit himself. Her weary, resigned sigh at seeing him there had been enough to know he was pushing his luck.

  'McReadie. He wasn't due in for interview for another day, but his lawyer phoned up and persuaded Charles to move him up the schedule. That's why he was in here when Constable Kydd was run down. Won't do him any good. He's on his way to Saughton right now.'

  That wouldn't be much solace for poor bloody Alison. 'I phoned the hospital.'

  'Me too, Tony. No change, I know. She's a tough kid, but they almost lost her on the operating table. I don't need to tell you how slim her chances are.' Or how much of a life she's going to have even if she does pull through. McLean watched as McIntyre rubbed a tired palm against her face. Let her get to the point in her own time. 'Now what exactly are you doing here. You're meant to be on leave.'

  He told her about the missing body. 'We know that Bertie Farquhar was one of the killers, but I think at least one of the others is still alive.'

  'You think they took it?'

  'At least arranged for it to be taken. Farquhar would have been in his nineties if he hadn't crashed his car. I'm guessing anyone else involved would have been much the same age. Not exactly the type of people to go breaking into the city mortuary.'

  'More likely they'd be wheeled in.' McIntyre tried to raise a smile without much success.

  Whoever it is, they've got influence. Or money. Both, really. We've not exactl
y been public about the body, but someone knew we'd found it, and where we were keeping it. I'm guessing they're trying to cover their tracks.'

  'You do know I said Monday. You shouldn't be here.'

  'I know. But I can't leave this to Grumpy Bob. Not with everything else he's got going on. And I'll go mad if I have to sit at home knowing the killer's out there erasing every last shred of evidence we have.'

  The chief superintendent said nothing for a while, leaned back in her chair and stared at him. McLean let her have as much time as she needed.

  'What are you going to do?' She asked finally.

  'I'm trying to trace Bertie Farquhar's friends. Constable MacBride's already gone through the archives, and we've asked for his war record. I was going to see if Emily Johnson's come up with anything else. She was going to have a search through the attic for any of Farquhar's old photo albums or stuff.'

  'Why do I get the feeling you'd have been paying Miss Johnson a visit today anyway?' McIntyre waved away McLean's protestation of innocence. 'Go, Tony. Find your missing dead girl and her geriatric murderer. But stay away from McReadie. I hear you've been anywhere near him and it'll be Professional Standards, you understand?'

  ~~~~

  46

  Grumpy Bob looked perfectly happy as he perched on the edge of an elderly, hair-covered sofa. The Dandie Dinmonts were locked away in the kitchen, he had tea and he had biscuits. At this time of the day, McLean knew, the sergeant could want for little more.

  Emily Johnson had welcomed them in, announcing that she'd been up in the attic going through old trunks of stuff. Now they were all in the living room, flicking through endless black and white photos.

  'I think I might have to get a professional valuer in,' she said. 'There's so much stuff up there just mouldering away. I thought maybe I'd have a charity auction. Give everything to the sick kids. It's not as if I need the money, and none of it has any sentimental value.'