Natural Causes (18 page)

30

She can't understand what's wrong with her. It all started...when? She can't remember. There was shouting, people running around. She'd been scared, a little sick even. But then a warm blanket fell over everything, even her mind.

Voices whisper to her, chiding and comforting, pushing her on. Somehow she has walked for miles, but she has no memory of the distance. Only a dull ache in her legs, her back, the pit of her stomach. She is hungry. So hungry.

The smell catches her nose and drags her along as surely as any rope. She is powerless to resist its call, even though her feet feel like bloody scars on the end of her legs. There are people around, going about their business. She feels ashamed to be seen by them, but they ignore her anyway, moving aside as she staggers along. Just another stupid binge drinker.

She is angry with them for assuming that weakness in her. She wants to hit out, to hurt them, to show them up for the petty-minded fools they are. But the voices calm her, take her anger and bottle it for later. She doesn't ask what later means, only walks towards the smell.

It's like a dream. She leaps from one still image to the next without the boring motion in between. She is in a busy street; she is in a quiet lane; she is standing in front of a large house set back from the road; she is inside.

He sees her standing there, turns toward her. He is old, but youthful in his movements as he walks towards her. Then his eyes meet hers and something in her dies. There is an arrogance in his posture that awakens her anger once more. The whispering voices become a tumult, a rage undammed. Memories hidden for a lifetime blossom like black flowers, rank and rotting. Old men sweating and thrusting, pain enveloping her. Make it stop. God, please make it stop. But it never does. On and on, night after night after night. They did things to her. He did things to her, she is sure of it now, even as she forgets everything else that she ever was.

Something cold and hard and sharp is in her hand now. She has no idea how it got there, no idea where she is, who she is. But she knows why she came here, and what she has to do.

~~~~

31

'Where's McReadie? Which cell is he in?' McLean burst through the doors into the duty sergeant's office like an explosion. The sergeant looked up from his mug of tea, the late shift admin staff turning to see what the noise was all about.

'McReadie? He left here couple hours ago.'

'What?'

'I'm sorry sir, we left it late as we could. But we had to charge him with the burglary eventually. Soon as we did, his lawyer was down here like a shot. There was no reason to oppose bail.'

'Damn. I need to speak to him.'

'Can't it wait until tomorrow, sir? You go rushing after him and he'll start claiming harassment. You don't want him getting off on a technicality do you?'

McLean tried to calm himself. It could wait. The young girl wasn't going to get any less dead.

'You're right, Bill,' he said. 'Sorry I banged in like that.'

'No problem, sir. But while you're here, could you do something about that pile of overtime sheets on your desk? Only month end's coming up and we need to sort out the roster.'

'I'll get them done,' he promised, backing out of the control room. But instead of heading up to his office, he went back to the small incident room, clutching the clear plastic evidence bag all the while. DC MacBride was still there, searching through a different pile of cardboard boxes.

'Found it yet?'

'It's in here somewhere, sir. Ah, here we go.' The constable straightened up, holding another clear evidence bag, also containing an ornate, jewelled cuff-link. He handed it over and McLean held them side by side. There was no doubting that they were a pair, though the one found in the basement alcove was cleaner and bore fewer scratches, as if whoever had left it behind had continued to wear the other. Until it had somehow ended up in the collection of Mr Fergus McReadie.

He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eight. Neither of them should be in the station now. It was frustrating to be so close and yet still have to wait. But Bill the duty sergeant was right; he couldn't haul McReadie in this soon after his release without it looking like harassment. Not after having taken so bloody long to charge the man. It would have to wait until morning.

'How's your cousin Mike getting on with the computer?' McLean asked.

'Last I heard he said he hoped to have cracked it by tomorrow.'

'OK, go home, Stuart. We'll run with this tomorrow. I'm not sure what you're doing here this late anyway.'

The constable reddened under his mop of blonde hair and muttered something about waiting for someone else to finish their shift at nine.

'Well, as a special treat then, you can do some real policing work for a change.'

'I can?' MacBride's face lit up like Christmas had come early.

'Yes, you can. Go up to my office and sort through the overtime sheets. I'll sign them off when I get in tomorrow.' McLean didn't wait to hear the constable's thanks.

*

It was a short walk from the station down to Inverleith and the Colonies. The sun had disappeared behind the buildings and exhaust haze somewhere in the north-west, but it was still light. Proper darkness wouldn't come for another couple of hours at least at this time of year. They'd pay for it in the winter, of course.

Over the Water of Leith, the streets changed from Georgian terraces to large detached houses as he approached the Botanical Gardens. The address Carstairs had given him was an imposing three storey building in a narrow side street blocked off at one end to stop it being a rat-run for commuter traffic. It was pleasantly quiet and clean away from the main road, and reminded him of the street where his grandmother's house stood, on the other side of the city. Edinburgh was full of these pockets of gentility, hiding silently among less salubrious neighbourhoods.

As he walked towards the house, McLean caught a glimpse of a young woman, drunk before the evening had even started, weaving down the pavement away from him. With the festival and fringe in full swing, it wasn't that odd to see revellers at all hours, so he gave it little thought. A heavy lorry rattling past the street-end snatched his attention away momentarily, and when he looked back, she was gone. Shaking the image from his head, he climbed the half dozen wide stone steps that lead to Carstairs' front porch, and lifted his hand to the bell-pull.

The door was already open.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the hour. McLean stepped inside, reasoning that Carstairs was expecting him. He may well have left the door open on purpose. A small lobby held an umbrella stand with three umbrellas and a couple of walking sticks in it. A row of elderly overcoats hung from cast iron hooks. Another door, open too, lead into the central hall of the house.

'Mr Carstairs?' McLean raised his voice to just below a shout. He had no idea where his host might be within such a large house. Silence greeted him as he stepped onto the black and white tiled floor. It was darker in here, light filtering through a tall window at the back, halfway up the stairs and obscured outside by a large tree.

'Mr Carstairs? Jonas?' He looked around, noting the dark wood panelling, the fireplace, empty now but no doubt very welcoming to winter guests. Large oil paintings of sombre gentlemen lined the walls; an ornate brass chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Something smelled odd.

It was a smell he had encountered recently before, and as it worked its way into his memory, McLean found himself looking down at the chequerboard floor. A trail of dark stains meandered across from the entrance lobby to a half-open door on the left of the hall. He followed them, careful not to tread in anything.

'Jonas? Are you in there?' McLean spoke the words, but he already knew the answer. He nudged the half-open door with his foot. It swung easily on silent, well-oiled hinges, releasing an overpowering smell of hot iron and shit. He had to grab a handkerchief, shove it over his nose and mouth to stop from retching

The room beyond was a small study, lined with books and with a neat, antique desk in the centre. Sitting at the desk, his head tilted back to the ceiling, was Jonas Carstairs. His lower half was thankfully obscured from view by the desk. His upper body was a naked, bloody mess.

~~~~

32

When the first squad car arrived five minutes later, McLean was sitting on the stone steps outside, breathing the fresh city air and trying not to think about what he had seen. He set the two PCs to secure the area, knowing full well that the back door was locked, and carried on waiting for the police doctor to arrive. Meanwhile the SOC van rumbled up the street and half a dozen officers piled out. He was surprised to find himself pleased at seeing the smiling face of Miss-not-Ms Emma Baird, her digital camera already out of its case and slung around her neck. Then he remembered what she'd be photographing.

'You've got another dead body for us, inspector. This is becoming something of a habit, isn't it?'

McLean let out a half-hearted laugh by way of a reply, watching as the SOC team clambered into their white paper overalls and grabbed their cases from the back of the van.

'What've you touched?' the senior technician asked, passing a set of overalls to McLean.

'The front door, the inner door and the back door. I had to use the phone, too. To call it in.'

'Don't they give inspectors mobiles anymore?'

'Battery's dead.' McLean lifted the offending article out of his pocket, waved it in front of the technician and put it back again, then started to pull on the overalls. As they were getting ready, a battered old VW Golf rattled up, parked itself in the middle of the street and disgorged an enormous man in an ill-fitting suit. He pulled a medical bag from the passenger seat and waddled over. Doctor Buckley was an amiable fellow, as long as you didn't ask him stupid questions.

'Where's the body then?'

'You'll need to suit up, Doc,' McLean said, knowing it would get him a scowl and not being disappointed. There was a scramble to find a pair of overalls that would fit, but finally they were able to re-enter the house. He lead them straight to the study. If anything the smell was worse. Lazy houseflies buzzed around the body.

'He's dead,' Dr Buckley said, without even entering the room. He turned to leave.

'Is that it? You're not going to examine him?' McLean asked.

'Not my job, and you know it inspector. I can see from here that his throat's been cut. Death would have been near instantaneous. Doctor Cadwallader will be able to give you more details when he gets here. Good day.'

McLean watched the fat man waddle out of the house, then turned back to the SOC team. 'OK, I guess you can start on the room, but don't touch the body until the pathologist gets here.'

They moved in like a small but efficient swarm of ants. The flash on Emma's camera popped away as McLean finally entered the room. The first thing he noticed was the pile of clothes, neatly draped over the back of a leather armchair in the corner. Shirt, jacket, tie. He looked back at the body and realised it was undressed from the waist up. Moving behind the desk, he winced as he saw the mess of entrails spilling into the lawyer's lap, draping to the polished wooden floorboards. His chair had been pushed back from the desk a small distance, and he sat upright, almost posed, with his hands dropping to either side. Blood had trickled down his bare arms, dripping from the ends of his fingers to form twin pools beneath. A short-bladed Japanese kitchen knife lay on the desk in front of him, smeared in blood and gore.

'Good God, Tony. What the hell's been going on here?'

McLean looked round to see Angus Cadwallader standing in the doorway. He had already pulled on a paper overall, and his assistant Tracy stood nervously behind him.

'Does any of this look familiar to you, Angus?' McLean stepped aside to let the pathologist get a closer look.

'Superficially, yes. It's obviously a copy of the Smythe killing.' Cadwallader bent down close to the body, prodding the gash in Carstairs' neck with his gloved fingers. 'But I can't say here what came first, the throat cut or the evisceration. Hard to see if anything's missing, either. Ah, what's this?' He stood, leaning over the corpse and prising open its mouth.

'Bag please, Tracy, and a pair of forceps.' Cadwallader took the instrument and started to fish around. 'You wouldn't have thought it would all fit in there. Ah, no, it's been cut in half. That would explain it.'

'Explain what, Angus?' McLean stifled a belch. Christ but it'd be embarrassing to throw up. It wasn't as if he was some fresh-faced PC seeing his first corpse. But then he'd come here to have supper with Carstairs.

'This, inspector, is what we doctors call the liver.' Cadwallader lifted up a long, slimy purple-brown strip of material, pincered in his forceps, then dropped it into the waiting bag. 'Your killer's cut a strip of it and shoved it in his victim's mouth. I can't tell from here whether it's his or not, but I can't think of any other reason for tearing him up like that.' He pointed at the mess that had once been Carstairs' stomach and chest.

'Let's get him back to the mortuary, shall we. See what secrets he has to reveal.'

~~~~