Natural Causes

by James Oswald

  'What's up Tony? If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to avoid us.' He turned to see Phil standing in the doorway.

  'Just looking for something to eat, Phil.' McLean opened a cupboard by way of demonstration.

  'It's me, Tony. Your ex flat-mate, remember? You might be able to bullshit the stress councillor at work, but I've known you long enough. Something's up. Is it your gran?'

  McLean looked at the packet of papers. He'd dumped them on the kitchen table along with the burglary reports and a file on the dead girl. Another reason why he preferred not to have guests. You never knew what they might find.

  'It's not my gran, no Phil. I lost her eighteen months ago. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with that.'

  'So what's bothering you then?'

  'I found this. Just before you got here.' McLean fetched the dictaphone out of his pocket, set it down on the counter and hit play. The colour drained from Phil's face.

  'Jesus, Tony. I'm sorry.' He sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. 'I remember that message. God it must be ten years ago. How on earth...?'

  McLean began to explain, only then remembering the strange girl's voice that had prompted him to investigate the answering machine tape in the first place. He must have imagined it, but now it merged with Kirsty's words into a desperate plea from someone long dead, far beyond his reach. He shivered at the thought.

  'You look like you could do with some company, mate.' Phil lifted the suspect bag of peanuts, prodding its tumescence before carrying it across to the bin and dropping it into the otherwise empty depths. 'And if Rache and me are going to help drink your extensive wine collection, we'll be needing pizza.'

  'So it's serious then, you and Rachel?'

  'I dunno. Maybe. I'm not getting any younger. And she's put up with me far longer than most.' Phil shuffled his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets and did a good impression of an embarrassed schoolboy. McLean couldn't help but laugh, and he felt instantly better for it. At almost the same instant music exploded from the living room. The Blue Nile belting out Tinseltown in the Rain far too loud, then quieting to a still-unfriendly level. McLean rushed through, meaning to ask them to turn it down, then remembered the nights he'd been kept awake by the students downstairs. It was Friday evening; everyone in the tenement except Mrs McCutcheon would be out enjoying themselves, and she was as deaf as a post. Why should he bother about being quiet?

  Rachel sat perched on the edge of the sofa, looking slightly uncomfortable. She brightened up when Phil entered the living room just behind McLean. Jenny squatted down in front of the shelves that lined one wall, leafing through his record collection. Back turned, and with the music playing loud, she didn't notice them come in.

  'Tony being a hopeless bachelor, there's no food in the house at all, only drink,' Phil said over the noise. 'So we're going to order pizza.'

  'I thought we were going to the pub,' Rachel said. At her voice, Jenny looked up, turning. She reached for the volume control on the stereo, turned down the music.

  'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I...' She flustered, turning pink.

  'It's OK,' McLean said. 'You need to play them from time to time or the music fades away.'

  'I don't think I know anyone who owns a record player anymore. And so many records. They must be worth a fortune.'

  'That's not a record player, Jen,' Phil said. 'That's a Linn Sondek sound system worth slightly more than the gross domestic product of a small African dictatorship. Tony must like you a lot. He'd cut my hands off just for touching it.'

  'Come off it Phil. I know you used to play that old Alison Moyet record of yours whenever I was out.'

  'Alison Moyet! You insult me Detective Inspector McLean. I shall have to challenge you to a duel, sir.'

  'The usual weapons?'

  'Of course.'

  'Then I accept your challenge.' McLean smiled as Jenny and Rachel looked on bemused. Phil disappeared from the room, returning moments later with two loofahs from the bathroom. They were brittle dry and covered with cobwebs, untouched in many years.

  'Rachel will be my second. Jen, would you do the honours for our host?' Phil bowed, handing her one of the loofahs. 'In the hall, I think.'

  'You're serious about this, aren't you?' Rachel said. In the background, Neil Buchanan had started to sing 'Stay,' his mournful tones at odds with the growing hilarity.

  'Of course I am, my lady. Honour has been slighted, and now it must be regained.' He strode out into the hallway, and McLean followed.

  'Umm, what are you doing?' Jenny asked him as he rolled up the rug and pushed it into one corner of the long, narrow hallway.

  'Duelling with loofahs. It's how we used to settle arguments when we were students.'

  'Men.' She rolled her eyes, handing the weapon over and retreating to a safe distance as Phil took his place at the kitchen door.

  *

  They were clearing up the mess when the pizza delivery man arrived. McLean was unsure who had won, but he felt better than he had done in days. The cynical detective in him realised that Phil had engineered the whole situation. Normally his old friend would have come round much later in the evening, most likely alone. They'd have listened to depressing music and drunk malt whisky, moaning about life and the terrible effects of getting old. By bringing the two sisters round with him, he'd turned it into more of a party. A vigil for Esther McLean, and in a manner his grandmother would have heartily approved.

  Quite what she'd have made of Jenny, he wasn't so sure. She was a good bit older than her sister, which made her probably the same age as him. She'd changed from the outfit she'd been wearing in the shop, dressed casually in jeans and a plain white blouse. Without the makeup that was no doubt part of her working face, she was attractive in a slightly worn around the edges way. He wasn't really sure why he'd not noticed when they'd met before. Possibly because the lighting in the Newington Arms was hardly flattering; more likely because his mind had been full of mutilated bodies.

  'Penny for them.' The object of his musing leaned over, helping herself to another slice. Phil and Rachel were deep in conversation about some film they'd seen.

  'Eh? Oh. Sorry. I was miles away.'

  'I could see that. You're not often here, are you. So where were you, inspector?' She used the title as a joke, but it was painfully close to the bone. Even here, with wine and pizza and good company, the job was in the background, never leaving him alone.

  'Just wondering if your sister's going to make an honest man out of my old friend.'

  'Oh, I doubt that. She's always been a very corrupting influence.'

  'Is there something I should be warning Phil about?'

  'I think it's too late for that.'

  'Aren't you worried about her hooking up with an older man?'

  'Nah, she always had a thing for her big brother's friends, and Eric's probably older than you are.'

  'A well-spaced family then.'

  'Rae was what might be called a happy accident. I was ten when she as born, Eric was fourteen. So what about you, then Tony? Have you got any brothers hidden away?'

  'Not that I know of, no. I'm sure my gran would've told me if there were any other McLeans lurking out there.'

  'Oh, I'm sorry. That was insensitive of me. Phil told me about her... passing.' Jenny sat up straight, clasping her hands primly in her lap, embarrassed.

  'Not at all. I'd much rather talk about her than pussyfoot about the subject. She had a stroke eighteen months ago. It put her in a coma and she never recovered from it. She's been dead for over a year, really, only I couldn't bury her and get on with life.'

  'You were very fond of her, though.'

  'My parents died when I was four. I don't think I ever heard my gran complain about having to raise me. Even though she'd lost her only son. She was always there, even when...' But he was interrupted by the phone ringing out in the hall. For a moment he thought about leaving it for the answering machine. Then he remembered taking the tape
out and a flood of other memories washed through him. 'Excuse me, I'd better get that. It could be work.'

  McLean glanced at his watch as he picked up the phone. Just past eleven; where had the evening gone?

  'McLean.' He tried not to let the irritation in his voice show. There was only one thing anyone could possibly be ringing him about at this hour.

  'You're not pissed are you?' Duguid's nasal tones were made worse by the tinny phone. McLean considered his intake, maybe half a bottle spread over three hours or more. And he'd eaten, too, which was unusual for him.

  'No, sir.'

  'Good. I've sent a car round to pick you up. Should be there any moment.' As if by perverse magic, the door intercom bell buzzed.

  'What's this about, sir? What's so important it can't wait until the morning?' He knew the question was stupid even as he said it. Maybe he had drunk a little too much.

  'There's been another murder, McLean. Is that important enough for you?'

  ~~~~

  20

  Constable Kydd said nothing as they drove across the city, which made McLean suspect she was not meant to be on duty either. He thought about asking her for more information than Duguid had offered, but he could feel the waves of resentment boiling off her, and didn't want to offer himself as a target.

  As it was, their destination was only a few minutes from his flat. Patrol cars flashed blue lights on the cobbles of the Royal Mile just across from St Giles' cathedral as uniforms fended off curious Friday night revellers, keen to get an eyeful of whatever was happening. The constable parked in the middle of the cordoned-off road and McLean walked across to the SOC van. It was backed up as close as possible to a narrow alleyway between two shop fronts. Dim lighting showed a line of wheelie-bins tucked away behind a cast-iron security fence and gate. Beyond them, a set of shallow stone steps lead up to a tenement door.

  'Where's Chief Inspector Duguid?' McLean showed his warrant card to one of the constables rolling out blue and white tape.

  'No idea, sir. I've not seen him here. SOC and the doctor are upstairs.' The man looked up and pointed to the top of the five story building.

  Bloody marvellous. Just like Dagwood to send him out after hours rather than shifting his own sorry arse. He stomped past the SOC van and down the alleyway, was just about to step up into the building when a loud voice rang out over the night noise.

  'Oi! Where the bloody hell d'you think you're going?'

  McLean froze, looking round to see a white boiler-suit clad figure stepping down out of the dark recesses of the SOC van. When she stepped into one of the weak pools of light, he recognised Miss-not-Ms Emma Baird. She nearly dropped the bag she was carrying.

  'Ohmygod. I'm sorry sir. I didn't realise it was you.'

  'It's OK, Emma. I take it you've not finished examining the scene then?' Stupid of him. He should have checked before marching in.

  'At least put a boiler suit and gloves on, sir. The boys won't be happy if they have to take samples from everyone's clothes for elimination.' She went back to the van and fetched out a white bundle. McLean struggled into the suit, pulling white paper covers over his shoes and latex gloves over his hands before following the young woman up a narrow winding staircase.

  A full length glass canopy in the roof would have lit the wide landing at the top of the stairs by day. This late at night two wall-mounted lights provided illumination, one mounted beside each of the apartment doors. Both of these were open, and smears of blood on the white-painted walls made it impossible to guess which was the correct one. McLean opted to continue following the SOC officer but she stopped at the door she was entering and pointed to the other one.

  'Witness fingerprints for elimination, sir. Your body's in there.'

  Feeling like an idiot for not knowing anything about the crime scene, or for that matter the crime, McLean nodded his thanks, turned and crossed the landing. He could hear low voices inside the apartment and peered through the door. Sergeant Andy Houseman stood in the hallway. He wasn't wearing overalls.

  'Andy, what have you got for me?' McLean winced as the big sergeant almost jumped out of his skin.

  'Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack.' The big man looked around, saw who it was and relaxed. 'Thank Christ, a detective at last. I've only been on the bloody radio for the last two hours.'

  'Well I only got the call about twenty minutes ago, Andy. So don't go blaming me. It's meant to be my weekend off.'

  'Sorry sir. It's just. Well, I've been stuck in here all that time, and it's not a nice place to be.'

  McLean looked around the hallway of the apartment. It was expensively decorated, with antique furniture cluttering up the living space. The walls were covered with an eclectic mix of paintings, leaning towards the modern in style. One nearby caught his eye and he peered more closely.

  'It's a Picasso, sir. Least I think it is. I'm no expert.'

  'OK, Andy. Assume that I know exactly nothing about this crime. Fill me in.'

  'Me and Constable Peters were patrolling the High Street when we got the call, sir. That would have been about twenty-one hundred hours. Break-in and violent assault. We proceeded to this address and found the gate and front door open. We followed the trail, found old Mr Garner up on the top landing in his dressing gown.'

  'Mr Garner?'

  'The neighbour, sir. He and Mr Stewart were good friends. Well, if you ask me I think it maybe went a bit further than that, but that's none of my business, sir.'

  'Mr Stewart?' McLean felt like a complete idiot and cursed Duguid for his predicament.

  'The victim, sir. A Mr Buchan Stewart. He's in there.' The sergeant pointed to the only open door in the hallway, but made no sign of going anywhere near.

  'OK, Andy. I'll take it from here. But don't go too far. I still need a full briefing.' McLean watched the sergeant leave the apartment, then stepped into the room.

  The smell hit him first. It had been there, lingering, all the while. But outside it was muted. Here it was a full iron tang, the scent of recently spilled blood. The room was the private study of a wealthy man, filled with yet more antique furniture and modern art. Mr Buchan Stewart had been catholic in his tastes; there was something for everyone. But none of it would do him any good now.

  He sat in a Queen Anne chair facing into the room. He had been wearing pyjamas and a long velvet dressing gown, but someone had removed all his clothes and laid them neatly on the desk. Blood matted and stained the wiry grey hair on his chest, oozing from a wound that had opened up his neck from ear to ear. His head tilted back, staring blindly at the ornately plastered ceiling, and yet more blood smeared around his mouth, dribbled over his chin.

  'Ah, McLean. It's about time a detective showed up.' McLean's eyes flicked down towards the dead man's lap, and he suddenly noticed the white boiler-suited pathologist and his assistant hunkered down on the floor. Dr Peachey was not his favourite among the city's forensic experts.

  'And a good evening to you too, doctor.' He stepped forward gingerly, aware of the pool of blood spreading out in a dark stain around Buchan Stewart's chair. 'How's the patient?'

  'I've been here an hour and a half waiting for one of your lot to show up so we could get this body out of here. Where the bloody hell have you been?'

  'At home, with some friends, sharing a bottle of wine and some pizza. I got the call exactly half an hour ago, doctor. I'm sorry if your evening's been ruined, but you're not the only one. I guess Mr Stewart here's not exactly thrilled at the way events have turned out either. So why don't you just tell me what's going on, eh?'

  Dr Peachey looked up at him with narrow eyes, a fierce debate raging across his pale face. It would have been easier with Angus, McLean thought. Just my luck to get doctor bolshie.

  'Cause of death is most likely due to massive blood loss.' Doctor Peachey spoke in short, clipped sentences. 'Victim's throat has been cut with a sharp knife. The rest of the body shows no signs of immediate injury, except the groin.' He heaved his bulk u
p from the floor and moved to one side so that McLean could get a better look. 'Penis and scrotum have been removed.'

  'Are they gone? Did the killer take them?' McLean felt the pizza weigh heavy in his stomach; the wine go sour. Doctor Peachey reached for an evidence bag that lay beside his open medical case, lifting it up to the light for him to see. It contained what looked remarkably like the bits you find shrink-wrapped inside a Christmas turkey.

  'No, he left them behind. But he shoved them in the victim's mouth before he went.'

  ~~~~

  21

  Timothy Garner was frail and shaky. His skin had that translucent quality you only see in the very old, like a rice-paper covering over yellow muscle and blue veins. Constable Kydd sat with him in his tidy apartment, and she looked up with hope in her eyes when McLean entered the room. He had watched the undertakers remove Buchan Stewart's body to the mortuary, seen the SOC officers pack up and leave, taking all the wheelie bins outside. Someone was going to have fun. Sergeant Houseman was organising a half dozen uniforms to interview the tenement owners on the lower floors, which just left the witness who had reported the incident in the first place.

  'Mr Garner. I'm Detective Inspector McLean.' He held out his warrant card, but the old man didn't look up. He was staring at nothing, his hands slowly smoothing the folds of his dressing gown over his thighs.

  'You couldn't rustle up a cup of tea, could you constable?'

  'Sir.' The constable stood up like someone had jabbed a fork in her arse and scurried out of the room. Mr Garner's company must not have been the most pleasant. McLean took her seat close by the old man.