Natural Causes

by James Oswald

  'Not her blood. She was covered in someone else's.'

  'Did you find out whose?'

  Cadwallader shook his head. 'We've typed it, but it's fairly common. O Rhesus D Pos. I've sent a sample off for DNA analysis, but unless you know of someone who's lost a lot recently it could take us a while to find a match.'

  Someone who's lost a lot recently. A horrible, impossible thought crossed McLean's mind. 'What about Jonas Carstairs?'

  'You what? You think that slight woman in there,' Cadwallader pointed towards the rows of cold storage. 'You think she restrained and cut open a strong, healthy man like Carstairs?'

  'He was an old man, he couldn't have been that strong.' As he spoke, McLean realised he hadn't seen the report into Carstairs' death either.

  'He was as fit as a fiddle. Must have been into all that yoga and muesli that's so fashionable these days.' The pathologist turned back to his computer, tapped at a few keys to bring up the relevant report and scanned down the page. 'Here we are. Analysis of the blood found on Sally Dent's hair and hands.' He clicked again, bringing up another window. 'Blood sample from Jonas Carstairs... Good God.'

  McLean looked over Cadwallader's shoulder at the report, not really taking in what it said. The Pathologist swivelled his chair round slowly. 'They're the same.'

  'The same type?'

  'No, the same blood. Near as dammit. I'll run the DNA profile to be sure, but all the markers are the same.'

  'Do it anyway, please.' McLean leant back against the counter trying to work out where all the conflicting pieces of information were taking him. Opus Diabuli. The devil's work. It wasn't to a very comfortable place.

  'Have you still got Peter Andrews in here?' he asked.

  Cadwallader nodded. 'Bloody nuisance. He was meant to be shipped down to London last week, but that break-in buggered up all the schedules. I'm still waiting for them to come and get him.'

  'What about blood on him?'

  'He cut his throat, Tony. He was covered in the stuff.'

  'Yes, but was it all his?'

  'I'd say so. We cleaned him up. Well, Tracey cleaned him up. She didn't say anything about layers. Where are you going with this Tony?'

  'I'm not sure. At least, I don't think I want to be sure. Look, Angus, could you do me a huge favour?'

  'That depends on what it is. If you want me to stand in for you at another of the Chief Constables little soirees, then I'm afraid not.'

  'No, nothing like that. I was wondering if you could have another look at Peter Andrews.'

  'I examined him pretty thoroughly.' The pathologist looked slightly hurt, but McLean knew he was putting it on.

  'I know, Angus, but you were looking at a suicide. I want you to go over him like you would if he were a murder victim.'

  ~~~~

  53

  Chief Inspector Duguid was waiting in the tiny incident room, sitting on Grumpy Bob's chair and perusing the photos pinned to the wall. McLean almost ducked back through the door, but some boils you just have to lance straight away.

  'Can I help you with anything, sir?'

  'Thought you were meant to be having some time off.'

  'And I thought my time would be better spent catching criminals, sir. You remember catching criminals, don't you?'

  'I don't like your tone, McLean.'

  'Not too happy about people trying to kill me, but we all have our crosses to bear. Now what did you want to see me about?'

  Duguid levered himself out of the chair, his face darkening. 'I didn't even know you were in the station. I was looking for that young constable of yours, Mac-something. He said you'd got a lead on our leak. Something about some internet site?'

  'What about it, sir?'

  'Well what is it, McLean? How do you expect me to investigate Carstair's murder if you don't pull your end? Tracing that leak is a major string of our enquiry.'

  The only string, if you're down here bullying my team for answers. McLean didn't have the nerve to tell the man that the murderer was lying dead in the mortuary. Let Cadwallader run the DNA tests first, make certain and pass those results on himself. He wanted no credit for the discovery if it meant Duguid would be even more antagonistic towards him. He'd made the mistake of solving the chief inspector's cases for him before.

  'Detective Constable MacBride found a secure site on the internet where people display and trade gruesome images, including forensic crime scene photographs, sir. It seems there's quite a collection of ghouls out there in cyberspace. I recognised pictures from Barnaby Smythe's study posted there.'

  'So whoever killed Carstairs might be a regular viewer. And what? They've decided to start acting out their sick fantasies? Christ, that's all we need.' Duguid massaged his forehead with his fingers. 'So who is it? Who's posting these pictures and feeding this sicko ideas?'

  'I don't know, sir.'

  'But you've got an idea, haven't you McLean. I know the way your mind works.'

  'I need to make a few checks first, sir. Before...'

  'Bollocks, inspector. You've got a suspicion, then share it. We can't waste time pussyfooting about here. There's a killer out there probably sizing up their next victim.'

  No there isn't. They're all dead now. He's cleared up his dirty little secret, though Christ alone knows how he did it. The site's just a red herring.

  'I don't think there's a need to rush at all, sir.' McLean tried to choose his words carefully. If he was right, and Emma really had been responsible for posting those crime scene photographs, he wanted to be the one to catch her. What he did once his suspicions were confirmed, he just didn't know.

  'You're protecting them, aren't you inspector. Hoping to get all the glory of the collar to yourself?' Duguid levered himself out of Grumpy Bob's chair and pushed past, heading out of the incident room. 'Or is it something else entirely?'

  McLean watched Duguid go, then picked up the phone and tried to dial out. It was dead. He fished his mobile out of his pocket, shook it and pressed the 'on' button. Nothing. Damn. If Cadwallader knew about his dinner with Emma, it was a sure thing that Dagwood did too, and it wouldn't take the chief inspector that long to put two and two together; he was a detective after all, even if it was sometimes hard to believe. He looked at the phone again. Should he really be warning her that she was under suspicion? Yes, he should. If she was guilty, they'd try to pin an accessory to murder charge on her. Even if they couldn't make it stick, they'd drag her name through the media. And if he was being really honest, he didn't want to be blackened by association just as much as he didn't want to see that done to a friend.

  Cursing, he stomped out of the room in search of a phone, almost crashing into DC MacBride running down the corridor outside.

  'Bloody hell. What's got into you?'

  'They've found it, sir.' MacBride's face was flushed with excitement.

  'Found what?'

  'The van, sir. The one that killed Alison.'

  *

  The winds of change had swept through Edinburgh over recent years, clearing out the tired old tenements, the bonded warehouses, goods marshalling yards and sink estates; replacing them with new developments, leisure centres, luxury apartments and malls. But there were some places that resisted gentrification with all the grace of a raised middle finger. Newhaven still hung out against the forces of improvement, holding on where Leith and Trinity had succumbed. The windswept south shore of the Firth of Forth was just too bleak to welcome incomers, its reclaimed land too blighted by industry.

  McLean watched from the passenger seat of the pool car as DC MacBride drove in through the jimmied open wire gates to an abandoned compound. Two squad cars were already in attendance. They parked alongside the SOC van, and McLean felt a sudden surge of hope that Emma would be there. If he could just get a moment to talk to her away from everyone else, he could find out the truth behind the photographs; warn her if necessary. It surprised him that he was also hoping she would be there for purely personal reasons. He couldn't remember the
last time he'd felt that way about anyone.

  The warehouse had probably stored something valuable once, but now its roof was gone, its cast iron girders home to pigeons and rust. Even in the summer, after days of dry heat, the concrete floor was puddled with filthy water. In the winter when the east wind blew in sleet from the North Sea, it must have been a really welcoming place. A foul stench filled the area; rotting carcasses and smoke mixed with bird shit and the salt tang of the sea. In the centre, surrounded by SOC officers like ants around a dead bird, stood a blackened Transit van.

  They all looked the same, McLean said to himself as he walked closer. But something about this van made him certain it was the one that he'd last seen screeching around the corner at the bottom of The Pleasance, heading towards Holyrood. The plates were missing, but they had been before. Chances were the chassis numbers had been ground off too. There was one identifying mark though; a long, fresh dent in the burnt metalwork of the bonnet, exactly where a promising young life had been cut short.

  He walked around the van, keeping well back to avoid contaminating the scene. A white-suited SOC officer crouched close, picking at the blistered and bubbled paint with a pair of tweezers. A flash blinked behind him and he turned, expecting to see Emma. Another technician was behind the lens this time. Malky, McLean remembered, the photographer from the Farquhar House murder scene. The chap who smelled of soap and reckoned negative thoughts could leach the power from mobile phone batteries. Well, it made a kind of perverse sense. As much sense as this.

  'Emma Baird not here?'

  'She's on another case.' The accent was Glaswegian, but more cultured than Fergus McReadie's.

  'You must be Malky,' McLean said. No sooner were the words out than he realised it was a mistake. The man's features hardened in a mask of distaste that made DCI Duguid seem easy-going.

  'It's Malcolm, actually. Malcolm Buchanan Watt.'

  'I'm sorry, Malcolm. I was just...'

  'I know what the other SOC officers call me, inspector. They show the same carelessness with detail in other aspects of their work. You'd do well to remember that the next time you're working with the likes of Ms Baird.'

  'Come off it, Malcolm. Emma's a professional just the same as you.'

  The photographer didn't bother responding to this, choosing instead to hide behind his camera and take more photographs. McLean shook his head. Why did people have to be so touchy? He was about to head around to the other side of the van, where the sliding door was wide open to face the sea, but a familiar voice hailed him.

  'Thank Christ for that. A detective inspector at last.' Big Andy Houseman grinned. 'Glad they gave it to you, sir. We all want a good result on this one.'

  'Actually, I'm not here, Andy. You never saw me, OK?'

  'What? Don't tell me they're going to give this to Dagwood.'

  'I'm one of the victims, Andy. Can't be involved.' McLean held his hands out in supplication, even though he shared the sergeant's frustration. 'What's the story here?'

  'Chap walking his dog down on the shore saw it, thought he'd phone it in. I've a couple of constables asking questions in the units over the road, but my guess is nobody saw anything. Even if they saw something.'

  'What about the van. Got an ID on it yet?.'

  'We're working on it, sir. But from what we can see here it's been professionally cleaned. No plates, no VIN stamp.'

  'How'd you know it's the van that hit Alison?'

  'We don't. Not for sure. But it's likely. The front end's smashed in like it hit something. You're probably the best witness, but we know it was a Transit. SOC are working on it, but I'd bet my holiday pay it's the same one.'

  'Any chance we can get prints? Find out who was driving it?'

  'We can do better than that. We've got a body. This way.' Big Andy lead McLean around to the other side of the van. A familiar figure hunched over something black and burned inside, the obvious epicentre of the blaze. Angus Cadwallader stood up, his back creaking as he stretched.

  'If we keep meeting like this, Tony, I'm going to have to introduce you to my mother.'

  'You already did, Angus. That party at Holyrood, remember? What've you got here.'

  Cadwallader turned back to the subject of his investigation, pointing with a gloved finger at the pale flecks in what looked like a half-burned roll of carpet. The white latex was smeared with greasy ash. He didn't need to say anything at that point; McLean's nose had already told him what was really there.

  'Not so much a what,' the pathologist said, 'as a who.'

  ~~~~

  54

  Cadwallader had promised he would do an initial examination of the body as soon as he got it back to the mortuary. That and the warning that DCI Duguid was on his way to the crime scene meant that McLean had no choice but to leave. He let DC MacBride drive again, watching the city slip past as they fought through the traffic back towards the station.

  'Do you believe in ghosts, constable?' he asked as they sat at traffic lights.

  'Like that wifey off the telly? Running around with the weird camera that makes everything look green? No. Not really. My uncle swears he saw a ghost once, mind.'

  'What about demons? The devil?'

  'Nah. That's just stuff made up by the priests to stop you misbehaving. Why? You think there might be something in it, sir?'

  'Christ no. Life's hard enough dealing with normal criminals. I don't want to think about having to arrest the infernal hosts. But Bertie Farquhar and his friends believed in something enough to kill that girl. What makes a man so sure, and why do that anyway? What could they possibly get from it?'

  'Wealth? Immortality? Isn't that what people usually want?'

  'Didn't work out so well for them, then.' Only it had, up to a point. They'd all been fabulously wealthy and successful, and none of them had died of natural causes. What had Angus said about Smythe? Lungs that wouldn't have shamed a teenager? And hadn't he mentioned that Carstairs was fit as a fiddle too? How far could you push the placebo effect before it started to look like other forces were at work?

  The car inched forwards, past roadworks for the trams that would never come. Across the street, the seedy buildings of this poor end of town drifted past in their mottled, dirty colours. Grimy windows looking on to pawn shops, a chipper you'd likely get food poisoning from if you hadn't been raised in the area, immunised against it. His eyes fell on a familiar flaked-paint door, a sign outside: 'Palms Read, Tarots, Fortunes told.'

  'Pull over, constable. Find somewhere to park.'

  MacBride did as he was told, much to the annoyance of the cars behind.

  'Where are we going?' he asked as they climbed out. McLean pointed across the road.

  'I feel the need to have my fortune told.'

  *

  Madame Rose had just finished with a punter; a bewildered looking middle-aged woman with her hair in a headscarf, recently-lightened handbag clutched tightly under one arm. McLean raised an eyebrow but said nothing as they were lead through to the study at the back of the building.

  'Mrs Brown's been coming to see me ever since her husband died. Must be what, three years now? Every couple of months.' Madame Rose cleared cats from two chairs, pointed for them to sit before taking her own seat. 'I can't do anything for her. Talking to the dead's not really my thing, and I get the feeling her Donald doesn't want to speak to her, anyway, but I can't stop her giving me her money, aye?'

  McLean smiled to himself as much as anyone. 'And here's me thought it was all smoke and mirrors.'

  'Oh no.' Madame Rose clasped a large bejewelled hand to her substantial but false bosom. 'I'd have thought you of all people would have understood, inspector. What with your past.'

  The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. 'I can't imagine what you mean.'

  'And yet here you are. Come to me for advice on demons. Again.'

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. McLean knew it was all mumbo jumbo, but even he had to admit that Madame Rose'
s act was very well done. Then again, his past was a matter of public record for all he wished it wasn't. It was all part of the act, to know one's subject just well enough to make them uncomfortable. It took their mind off all the other stuff you were doing. Made it harder to keep to your own script.

  'You make it sound like you were expecting us.'

  'Expecting you, inspector.' Madame Rose tilted her head towards him. 'I will admit I didn't see your young friend here when last I read the cards.'

  And it would probably have been easier to ask what he wanted without MacBride there to listen. McLean almost had to suppress the urge to squirm like a schoolboy needing to be excused but not daring to ask teacher for permission.

  'You want to know if they truly exist. Demons, that is.' Madame Rose asked his question before he could speak, answered it just as quickly. 'Come. Let me show you something.'

  She stood up, sparking curious glances from the cats. McLean followed, but when MacBride stirred from his seat, Madame Rose waved him back.

  'Not you, dear. This is for the inspector's eyes only. Stay here and keep and eye on my babies.'

  As if it had been ordered, the nearest cat leapt onto the DC's lap. He put out a hand to ward it off, but it just butted him with its head, purring loudly.

  'Better stay here, constable. I don't suppose this will take long.' McLean followed Madame Rose out of the study by a different door to the one they had entered. It lead to a storeroom filled with books, shelves lining the walls and marching across the floor, leaving only narrow aisles barely big enough for the clairvoyant, let alone him as well. They were pressed uncomfortably close together and the air had that dry smell of old paper and leather, putting him on edge. Antiquarian bookshops were not his favourite places, and this room was a pure distillation of the essence.

  'You're ill at ease with the knowledge, Inspector McLean.' Madame Rose dropped the mystical tones she affected for her customers, the gruff edge of the transvestite coming through. 'But you've been touched by demons yourself.'