Natural Causes (10 page)

16

Force HQ was almost on the way back to the station from the offices of Carstairs Weddell. Near enough that McLean felt justified in taking the detour. That the longer he delayed his return the greater the chance of missing Chief Inspector Duguid had nothing to do with his decision, of course. He needed to talk to someone about crime scene photographs, that was it. At least that's what he told himself.

As usual, the Scene of Crime section was almost completely empty. The bored receptionist buzzed him through to deserted corridors, but at least in here the air conditioning worked. Down in the basement, lit by narrow windows high in the walls, he found the photography lab, its door propped open with a metal stool. He knocked, shouted 'Hello,' and wandered in. The room was filled with quietly humming machinery, none of whose function he could begin to guess. A wooden counter ran along the far wall, under the high-set windows, and a row of computers with enormous flat panel monitors flickered and whined. At the furthest, a lone figure sat hunched in front of a blurred picture. She seemed completely absorbed in whatever task she was performing.

'Hello?' McLean said again, then noticed the white earphone leads. He approached slowly, trying to catch the officer's attention. But the closer he came, the more he could hear the racket coming from her earphones. There was no way easy way to do this.

'Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack.' The woman clutched one hand to her chest, pulling out her earphones and dropping them onto the desk. The cord snaked into the computer in front of her. McLean recognised her now; she had been at the burglary scene looking for fingerprints, and at Smythe's house too.

'I'm sorry. I tried shouting...'

'Yeah. OK. I guess I was playing it a bit loud. What can I do for you, inspector? It's not often we get one of the high heidyins down here in the basement.'

'It's cooler than my incident room.' McLean didn't complain at being accused of seniority; as the most recently promoted inspector on the force, he was more often treated as the new boy. 'And I was wondering if you had the originals of those crime scene photos from the house in Sighthill.'

'Sergeant Laird mentioned something about that.' She reached for the mouse, clicking several windows closed in quick succession. McLean thought he saw a page of thumbnails from Smythe's crime scene amongst the images, but before he could be sure it was gone. Then the screen filled up with a series of pictures all looking identical.

'Forty-five high resolution digital images of a piece of floor. I remember Malky complaining about that; you made him go back into the room with the dead body. Odd, really. It's not as if he hasn't photographed dozens over the years, maybe hundreds. Sorry. I'm blethering. What was it you wanted to see?'

McLean took out his notebook, flipping the pages until he found the first sketch. He cast his mind back to the scene, tried to remember what he had told the photographer to shoot first.

'I saw markings on the floor, near where the wall had been knocked in. They looked like this.' He showed her the picture. She clicked on the first image and it zoomed to fill the screen. There was the smooth wooden floor, a bit rubble-strewn at the edge, but no markings, no sigils.

'That's definitely where I saw them. Could the flash have washed them out?'

'Let's see.' The SOC officer clicked her mouse, bringing up menus and making selections with bewildering speed. Whatever program she was using, she was completely at home with it. The picture greyed, faded, brightened, lost its contrast and then went negative. Still it was roughly the same. There was nothing more to see than in the original.

'Nothing, I'm afraid. Are you sure it wasn't just shadows? The arc lights can throw some pretty odd ones, especially in an enclosed space.'

'Well, it's possible I suppose. But the positioning made me think there was a circle, with six points marked on it. And you know what we found hidden in the walls at each of those points.'

'Hmmm. Well, there's one more thing I could try. Pull up a seat. It'll take a minute or two to process.'

'Thanks... umm, it's Ms Baird, isn't it?' McLean settled himself into the next chair along, noting that it was far more comfortable than either one in his office, and made those in the tiny incident room feel like splinter-covered wooden stools. SOC obviously had a better equipment budget than CID. Or a more creative accountant.

'Miss, actually. But aye it is. How'd you know that?'

'I'm a detective. It's my job to work these things out.' He noticed her face redden slightly under her unruly mop of jet black hair. She scratched her button nose in an unconscious, reflex gesture, her eyes darting back to the screen where an unconvincing hourglass was emptying and turning, emptying and turning.

'Well then, tell me this Mr Smarty-Pants Detective. If you're so observant, how come you didn't notice the sign on the door over there. The one that says 'No Unauthorised Access' on it?'

McLean looked back over his shoulder to the far side of the room. The door was wide open to the corridor beyond, held back by a chair wedged under the handle. There was no sign on it apart from a room number – B12. He looked back, puzzled, to a wide smile.

'Gotcha. Ah, here we are.' She turned back to the screen, clicking the mouse again to focus on one corner of the newly processed picture. 'Let's try and enhance... Yes, there you go. You were right.'

McLean peered at the screen, screwing his eyes up against the glare. Whatever the SOC officer had done, it had rendered most of the image almost pure white. The rubble of the broken wall seemed to float above the floor, etched in the air with sharply contrasting thin black lines. And just past them, the palest shade of grey over the white, something of the swirling sigil patterns.

'What did you do?'

'Would you understand it if I told you?'

'Probably not.' McLean looked down at his notebook then up at the screen. He had begun to doubt what he had seen, and really didn't like where that line of thinking took him.

'Can you run that program on all the other photos?'

'Aye, sure. Well, I'll make a start, then I'll get Malky to do the rest when he comes back in. He'll be chuffed he didn't take them all in vain.'

'Thanks. You've been a great help. I thought for a moment I was going mad.'

'Well, maybe you are. You shouldn't have been able to see those marks, whatever's made them.'

'I'll be sure and ask my optician next time I'm in for an eye test.' McLean pushed himself up off his seat, pocketed his notebook and made to leave.

'I'll send the files over to your printer. Should be waiting for you by the time you get there.'

'You can do that?' Wonders never ceased.

'Aye, no bother. Beats driving them across town. Mind you, I'll be heading up your way soon anyway. You'll be going to the pub with all the others, won't you?'

'Pub?'

'Aye, Duguid's standing everyone on the Smythe investigation a drink. I'm told it's not often he puts his hand in his pocket, so I guess the place'll be packed.'

'Dagwood buying drinks?' McLean shook his head in disbelief. 'Now that I have to see.'

~~~~

17

True to Miss-not-Ms Baird's word, a stack of freshly printed photographs awaited McLean when he returned to the station. He carried them down to the small incident room, empty and quiet in the late afternoon. On the wall, the dead girl still stared back at him, screaming her sixty year silent scream, accusing him of not doing enough, not finding out who she was and who had killed her. He stared at her, then down at the photos, each almost completely white. Thin black lines showed the edges of the floorboards and circled the occasional knot in the wood. Barely distinguishable under the fluorescent lights, a sinuous pattern of pale grey snaked through each photograph.

McLean found a permanent marker pen with a narrow tip and tried to trace the edges of the pattern on the first photograph. It was almost impossible to make out, but as he worked his way through the pile, the repeats became more obvious and the task easier. He moved the tables back against the walls, trying to make as much room on the floor as possible, then spent half an hour arranging the photographs in a circle around the centre of the room. As he put the last piece of the jigsaw in place and looked over what he had done, a cloud passed over the setting sun outside and the air turned suddenly cold.

He stood in the middle of a complex circle made up of six intertwining ropes. At six points equidistant around the circumference, they coiled into fantastic knots, impossible shapes that seemed almost to writhe like snakes as he looked at them. He felt trapped, his chest constricted as if it were wrapped tight in bandages. The lights dimmed, the ever-present rumble of the city outside quietened to almost nothing. He could hear his breath passing through his nose, feel his heart beating slowly, rhythmically. He tried to shift his feet, but they were glued to the floor. All he could move was his head.

A sense of panic filled him, a primal fear, and the ropes began to slowly unravel in front of his eyes. Then the door opened, knocking some of the photographs out of line. The lights snapped back on. The tightness in his chest disappeared and his head felt suddenly light. Somewhere in the distance what sounded like a howl of rage echoed in the night. His invisible restraints broke and McLean lurched forward, off-balance, as Chief Superintendent McIntyre walked into the room.

'What was that?' She cocked her head slightly, as if listening for an echo that never came. McLean didn't answer. He was too busy getting his breath back.

'Are you all right, Tony? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

He crouched down and pulled the photographs towards him, starting with the knotted sigil that had been unravelling. On the glossy paper it was nothing more than a few lines in green marker pen, but it still chilled him to look at.

'I just stood up too quickly,' he said, and even as he said the words, it started to make sense.

'Well, what were you doing down there anyway?'

McLean explained about the photographs, the markings he had seen and how they had lead him to the hidden alcoves. He said nothing of his strange hallucination. Somehow he didn't think the chief superintendent would be all that sympathetic, and besides, it was fading from memory, becoming little more than a vague feeling of disquiet.

'Let's have a look at those.' McIntyre took the photos from him, leafing through them, pausing at the ones showing the six marked points.

'Do they mean anything to you?'

'I don't really know.'

'I thought it might be some kind of circle of protection.'

'What?'

'You know, circle of protection. Five pointed star, candles, traps the demon inside when you summon it kind of thing.'

'I know what a circle of protection is, I'm just not sure how you go about arresting a demon. There's this little problem that they don't actually exist outside the imaginations of pulp novelists and thrash metal fans.'

'I know that, ma'am. Christ knows our job's hard enough as it is without supernatural forces intervening. But just because demons don't exist, it doesn't mean someone can't believe in them enough to kill.'

'Aye, I guess you're right.'

'Doesn't make it any easier trying to track down just which brand of lunacy gave birth to this, mind you.' McLean rubbed at his eyes and face in a vain attempt to chase some of his weariness away.

'Well if it's magic circles and demon worship you want to know about, then you need to talk to Madame Rose, down on Leith Walk.'

'Err... I do?'

'Trust me. There's not many know more about the occult than Madame Rose.'

From the way she spoke, McLean couldn't really be sure whether he was having his leg pulled or not. If he was, then he needed to remember never to play poker with the chief superintendent. He decided that if she was going to play it straight, then he would too.

'I'd better pay her a visit then. I could do with having my fortune told.'

You do that, Tony. But it can wait for now.' McIntyre shuffled the photographs together and placed them firmly on the table. 'I didn't come looking for you to talk about raising demons. Not this kind, anyway. Charles has been bending my ear about the Smythe case. Did you sanction DC MacBride to requisition information from immigration services?'

McLean hadn't in as many words, but he wasn't about to punish the lad for his initiative.

'Yes, I did. I thought it was important to establish motive, and maybe corroborate that with some of Okolo's co-internees. His post mortem threw up some difficult questions.'

'Which is precisely why you should do as Chief Inspector Duguid requested, and let it alone. We know Okolo had been in repatriation proceedings for over two years. It's not nice being locked up, especially if you don't think you've done anything wrong. Smythe was a frequent visitor, so everyone there would have known him. Okolo escaped, tracked down the man he felt was responsible for his torture and murdered him in a frenzy. End of story.'

'But there were other men who escaped. What if they've got the same idea? What about the other members of the Immigration Appeals board?'

'All the other escapees have been captured and returned. Two of them have been repatriated already. Okolo was a lone madman. We might have driven him to madness, but that's not the point. There's no direct evidence to suggest anyone else was involved in this murder. I can't afford the manpower, and frankly I think it's a waste of time pursuing the investigation any further.'

'But...'

'Just let it go, Tony.' McIntyre looked at her watch. 'And why aren't you at the pub anyway? It's not often Charles offers to buy everyone a drink.'

'Chief Inspector Duguid neglected to inform me of the arrangements.' McLean knew it sounded petty even as he said it.

'Oh don't be such a pompous ass. I saw Constable MacBride and Sergeant Laird heading out earlier, and they weren't even on the case. Pretty much the whole day shift's gone. What do you suppose the junior officers are going to think of you, holed up in here with your strange photos? Too good to be seen with the likes of them now you've been made up to inspector?'

Put like that, McLean could see how unreasonable he was being.

'I'm sorry. I guess I just let the case get to me sometimes. I really don't like loose endings.'

'And that's why you're a detective inspector, Tony. But not for more than twelve hours a day, not in my station at least. And certainly not the day after your grandmother has died. Now go to the pub. Or go home. I don't care. But forget about Barnaby Smythe and Jonathan Okolo. We'll worry about the report for the PF tomorrow.'

*

The pub was like a police convention gone wrong. McLean pitied any regulars who had nothing to do with the force, though looking around in the crowd he couldn't see any faces he hadn't already seen in the station earlier that day. The party was obviously well under way; small groups had split off and taken all the available tables, the friendships and alliances clear, the enmities and dislikes even more so. Duguid was at the bar, which presented McLean with something of a dilemma. He didn't want to be in a position where the chief inspector could refuse to buy him a drink, and neither did he particularly want to accept one if the man offered. But it was a bit daft to come in and not have a pint.

'There you are, sir. I was beginning to think you'd bailed on us.' McLean looked around to see Grumpy Bob making his way back from the gents. He pointed to a table in a dark corner, a suspicious-looking crew huddled around it. 'We're over here. Dagwood only put a fifty down on the bar, cheapskate. Wasn't even enough for a half pint each.'

'I don't know what you're complaining about, Bob. You weren't on the investigation.'

'Well, that's not the point. You can't promise to stand everyone a drink and then only pay for a half.'

They reached the alcove before McLean had time to argue. Constable MacBride sat in the far corner, Constable Kydd beside him. Bob pushed his way past the imposing bulk of Andy Houseman and plunked himself down in a seat, leaving McLean to squeeze onto the narrow bench beside Miss-not-Ms Baird.

'You've met Emma? She's come doon tae us frae the giddy heights o' Aberdeen.' Grumpy Bob rolled out the name of the town in a ridiculous parody of a Doric accent.

'Aye, we've met.' McLean slid onto the bench.

'You made it then,' Emma said as Grumpy Bob picked up a full pint of fizzy lager and handed it to McLean, then helped himself to the only other one on the table.

'Get your teeth around that, sir.'

'Cheers.' McLean raised his glass to everyone, then took a sip. It was cold and wet and fizzy. More than that he couldn't tell, as it had no discernible flavour.

'I got your photos, thanks for that.' He turned to the SOC officer.

'All part of the service. Were they any use? I couldn't see anything but white on them myself.'

'Yeah, they were... OK.' McLean shuddered, remembering the strange sensation of helplessness, the odd echoing howl of rage. It felt like a dream, or his imagination running overtime. No, he'd just stood up too quickly after so long crouching on the floor.

'Are you two talking shop? You are, aren't you.' Grumpy Bob grinned in triumph, his pint glass all but empty. He slapped Constable MacBride on the chest. 'That's ten quid you owe me, lad. I said the inspector'd be last in and first to forfeit.'

'What's this?' Emma asked, a crease of concern on her forehead. McLean signed and took his wallet out of his jacket pocket. He was going to get the next round in anyway. Not as if he couldn't afford it.

'Talking about work in the pub's not allowed, under pain of forfeit. It's an old tradition dating back to when Grumpy Bob was just a beat constable, which would mean sometime between the wars, wouldn't it Bob?' He pulled out a twenty pound note and slapped it down on the table, ignoring Grumpy Bob's protests. 'Stuart, do the honours will you?'

'What? Why me?'

'Because you're the youngest.'

Grumbling, Constable MacBride extricated himself from his cosy corner, grabbing the money and heading for the bar.

'And make sure it's decent beer this time.'

*

It was a good deal later that McLean waved off a taxi filled with inebriated constables and scene of crime experts. Big Andy had left earlier, headed home to his wife and young child, leaving just Grumpy Bob to walk him home, and judging by the state of him, sleep in the spare room. It wouldn't be the first time, and it wasn't as if Mrs Bob was waiting up for him either; she'd walked out many years since.

'She's a nice girl, that Emma don't you think?'

'Don't you think you're a bit old to go getting hitched again, Bob?' McLean expected the playful punch to the shoulder, and wasn't disappointed.

'No' for me, you loon. I'm talking about you.'

'I know you are Bob, and yes, she's nice. Odd taste in music, but that's only a minor point. D'you know anything about her?'

'Only that she transferred in a few months back. She frae Aberdeen.' Grumpy Bob rolled out his terrible Aberdonian accent again.

'Yeah, you said that already.'

'Not much else to know. The SOCO crowd think well enough of her, so she must be good at her job. And it's nice to have a pretty face around the place instead of the usual bunch of sourpusses.'

They fell silent for a while, walking up the street in step, like a grizzled old sergeant and his not-so-young constable pounding the night beat. The air was cool, the sky overhead dark with a hint of orange; you could never see the stars anymore, too much light pollution. Without warning, Grumpy Bob stopped in mid-stride.

'I heard about your gran, Tony. I'm sorry. She was a great woman.'

'Thanks, Bob. You know, I find it hard to believe she's really gone. I feel I should be wearing black and tearing my hair. Perhaps wailing and gnashing of teeth might be in there somewhere too. But it's odd. I feel more relieved than sad. She was in a coma so long.'

'You're right. It's a blessing really.' They resumed walking, rounding the corner into McLean's street

'I saw her solicitor today. She left me everything, you know. It's quite a tidy sum.'

'Christ Tony, you're no' going to leave the force are you?'

The thought hadn't occurred to him until that moment, but McLean took all of five seconds to answer.