Natural Causes (26 page)

47

'Do you have a minute, sir?'

McLean stood in the doorway of the largest incident room in the building. It appeared to be a re-run of the Barnaby Smythe investigation, only in place of the banker's photograph now one of Jonas Carstairs was pinned to the wall. Once again Duguid had managed to bully, cajole and order most of the active personnel in the building onto his investigation, and once more it seemed his approach to getting results was to interview everyone over and over again until some clue presented itself. The man himself was standing a few paces away, hands on hips and surveying the general busyness as if activity in itself was a sign that things were going well. Quite probably that was what he truly believed. He'd have made a natural civil servant.

'I thought you were on forced leave until Monday.' The Chief Inspector didn't look entirely pleased to see him.

'Something came up. I squared it with the Chief Superintendent.'

'I'll just bet you did.'

McLean ignored the sneer. This was too important. 'I was wondering if you'd got anywhere with the Carstairs investigation?'

'Come to gloat have you?' A vein ticked in Duguid's temple, his cheeks reddening.

'Not at all, sir. It's just that his name's come up in one of my investigations. The ritual killing?'

'Ah yes. The cold case. Jayne only gave it to you because she didn't think you'd be able to cause much trouble over it. I bet she's regretting that.'

'Actually we've positively identified one of the murderers already.'

'Arrested him, have you?'

'He's dead, actually. Has been for nearly fifty years.'

'So you've achieved bugger all then.'

'Not really, sir.' McLean fought back the urge to punch his superior in the face. It would be fun, but the repercussions would be a pain to live with. 'Actually I've uncovered new evidence that links him to Jonas Carstairs, Barnaby Smythe and your uncle.'

OK, that last jibe might have been unwise, but the man really asked for it. McLean took an involuntary step back as the DCI stiffened, his hands twitching into fists.

'Don't you dare mention that in here.' Duguid's voice was a growl of menace. 'You'll be suggesting he's a suspect next. Bloody ridiculous.'

'Actually, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Him, Carstairs, Smythe and a couple of others. And I think there as a sixth man involved too. Someone who's still alive and who's doing everything he can to stop us finding him.'

'Including killing his co-conspirators?' Duguid actually laughed, which at least lessened his anger. 'We know who killed Smythe and Buchan Stewart. It's only a matter of time until we catch the sick bastard who did for your lawyer friend too.'

Christ alive. How did you ever get to be a chief inspector? 'So you're close then? You've got a suspect in mind?'

'Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Carstairs.'

'Didn't we go over this already? I hardly knew the man.'

'And yet you had dealings with his firm for the past eighteen months.'

McLean fought the urge to sigh. How many times did he have to say this before it sunk into that balding head?

'He was a friend of my gran. His firm had been managing her affairs for years. I just let them get on with it once she'd had her stroke. It seemed easier that way. I never met Carstairs, always dealt with some bloke called Stephenson.'

'And in all those eighteen months you never saw Carstairs? Never talked to this man who was such an old family friend your grandmother had entrusted her not inconsiderable wealth to his care? This man who was so fond of you he left you his entire personal wealth?'

'No. And the first I knew about that was when you told me, the morning after he was killed.' McLean knew he should stop speaking then, just answer the question and no more, but there was something red rag to the bull about Duguid. He just couldn't help himself. 'I don't know if you remember, sir, but it's often busy being a detective inspector. I was really quite glad there was something in place before my grandmother had her stroke so I didn't have to add managing her affairs to my ever-growing mountain of paperwork. I'd really much rather be out there catching the bad guys.'

'I don't like your tone, McLean.'

'And I don't care, sir. I came here to see if you had any leads on Carstairs' murder, but since it's obvious you haven't got a clue, I'll not keep you any longer.'

McLean started to turn away, not wanting to give Duguid time to react, then thought what the hell? He might as well go for the full house.

'One thing though. You really should re-open the Smythe and Stewart cases, sir. Go over the forensics with a fresh pair of eyes, double check the witness statements, that sort of thing.'

'Don't you bloody well tell me how to run my investigation.' Duguid reached for McLean's arm, but he shrugged the grip away.

'They all knew each other, sir. Carstairs, Smythe, your bloody uncle. They were at university together, they were in the army together. They raped and killed a young woman together. And now they've all died in a remarkably similar way. Don't you think that at least deserves a cursory glance?'

He didn't wait for an answer, left Duguid to stew about it on his own. The chief inspector would either shout at someone to go and look into it or go scuttling off to the chief superintendent to complain. Neither was what was bothering McLean as he hurried down the corridor towards his own incident room. No, what was bothering him was the gut certainty that he was right, about the three men being involved in the ritual murder and about their deaths all being somehow linked. An organ for each of the ritual murderers; an organ ripped from their own bodies and shoved in their mouths. The coincidences had long since stacked too high to be safe. It wouldn't take much to bring the whole lot toppling down.

*

'What if he's still alive?'

Puzzled faces looked up at McLean as he entered the incident room. Grumpy Bob had at least put his newspaper down for a moment, although his feet were up on the table, so he might have been having a quick forty winks. MacBride was hunched over his laptop, peering at what looked like thumbnail images spread across the screen. When he looked up, McLean was surprised how pale he looked, his eyes rimmed red as if he'd not slept in days. His suit wasn't its normal pressed perfection, and his hair hadn't seen a comb recently either.

'The sixth man. The one who's not there.' McLean pointed at the photograph pinned to the wall and showing the young rowing team. 'What if he's still alive, knows we've uncovered the body and is trying to cover his tracks?'

Grumpy Bob continued to give him the blank stare of the recently roused.

'Look. The body's gone, along with all the organs and jars. The only stuff we've still got is the artefacts they left behind. We know they're clean for prints and DNA traces, so they're not going to be much use. Even if we got a name, we'd have a difficult time pinning anything on them. Just being associated with Bertie Farquhar's not going to be enough. Hell, my grandmother knew at least three of these people, and I don't think she had anything to do with it. But until a month ago, three of those five men were still alive.'

MacBride was the first to pick up the thread. 'But we know Jonathan Okolo killed Barnaby Smythe. And Buchan Stewart was killed by a jealous lover.'

'Are you sure of that, constable? 'Cause I'm not. I think that investigation was wrapped up quickly to save a chief inspector from being embarrassed. Just like Smythe's murder was never investigated once we had Okolo. And Duguid's not got a clue who killed Jonas Carstairs. Now we know that they were all linked to the ritual murder, and someone's been cutting out their organs. Three murders, all too similar to be coincidence.'

'Umm, actually, there was something might explain that, sir.' MacBride swivelled his laptop around to reveal the screen. 'I was trying to find our leak. You know, to explain how a copy-cat could know so much about Smythe's murder when we've not told the press anything. Well, it occurred to me that SOC photographs are all digital now. It's easy to make electronic copies. You can fit thousands of photos on a card the size of a stamp. But I couldn't exactly walk into the SOC offices and ask them, and I couldn't think what anyone would want with copies if they weren't going to sell them to the papers.'

'They'd get good money for them in Brazil.'

'What?'

'It's a part of the culture over there, death. They have newspapers that specialise in publishing pictures of fatal accidents. Sometimes the photographers are there before the police and ambulances. You can buy the papers from street vendors. Images like this would be very popular.'

MacBride shuddered. 'How do you know this stuff, sir?'

'Benefits of an expensive education. I know a little bit about a lot of things. That and the Discovery Channel, of course. Anyway, you were telling me about Smythe and his pictures.'

'Was I? Oh, aye. Well, I figured if they were selling them, they'd be doing it on-line. So I went looking for dodgy photos.'

'On a station computer? That was brave.'

'It's all right, sir. Mike gave me this laptop. It's outside the main tech monitoring loop. Otherwise I'd have had to ask Dagwood to sign a waiver form, and you know what he's like.'

'The pictures, constable.' McLean pointed back at the screen.

'Yes, sir. Well, I found lots. Crime scene photos, car accidents. I guess some of that Brazilian stuff you were mentioning, though I couldn't understand the language. It was like Spanish only different.'

'That's because they speak Portuguese in Brazil.'

'Portuguese. Right. Anyway, eventually I found this newsgroup tucked away behind some serious security. And there was all this stuff there. Smythe's crime scene, Buchan Stewart, Jonas Carstairs. Even those two suicides. There's loads of other stuff up there too, but the pictures I recognised were all posted by someone calling themselves MB.'

McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.

'Whoever's doing this must have access to every photo we've ever taken,' he said. 'How many SOC photographers are there?'

'About a dozen specialise in it, but they're all trained to use the cameras. And I guess the technicians and support staff might have access, too. But it could be a police officer just as easily, sir. We all have access to these photos.'

'Can we track this MB person back from this site?'

'I doubt it, sir. Mike's going to have a look at it tomorrow, but it's all anonymous servers and routing through overseas accounts. Way over my head. But it does explain how someone might know the details of Smythe's murder. And I guess if you get your kicks from looking at this kind of thing, it's only a matter of time before you escalate.'

Damn. He'd been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore. 'That's good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I'll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work. Meantime I still want to work on the theory we've got our sixth man still out there and he's doing everything he can to make sure we don't find him.'

'Did I hear someone mention my name?'

McLean looked around to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway. MacBride leapt to his feet as if someone had just zapped him with a tazer. Grumpy Bob nodded and took his feet off the desk.

'I asked constable MacBride to look into the crime-scene leak. I rather think he's found it.' McLean gave McIntyre a quick run-down of what he'd just himself learnt. She fidgeted throughout his short presentation, like a young girl needing to be excused but not knowing how to ask.

'That's top work, constable,' she said when they were finished. 'And Christ only knows, we could do with some good news.'

And now McLean could see what was coming. It was written all over her face.

'Do you want me to...?' He motioned towards the door.

'No. It's OK, Tony. This is my job. And I thought it only fair I tell you myself. Tell all of you.' McIntyre straightened her uniform jacket, momentarily unsure how to go on. 'It's Constable Kydd. She took a turn for the worse. The doctors did their best, but she was too badly injured. She died about an hour ago.'

~~~~

48

There weren't many places he could go when the shit really hit the fan. There was Phil, of course, except that Phil's normal cure for any ills came on tap or in a bottle, and McLean really didn't feel like getting drunk. Grumpy Bob could usually be relied on keep him from getting too morose, but the old sergeant seemed to have taken an avuncular liking to Constable Kydd, and took the news of her death with uncharacteristic tears. McIntyre had told him to take the rest of the day off, told them all in that school matron manner of hers that she didn't want to see any of them for twenty-four hours. She had enough shit of her own to deal with, so he couldn't really burden her with his own guilt. In the past there had been his grandmother; even when she was lying comatose in the hospital she'd been a good listener, but now even she had left him. Which was why, less than an hour after hearing the news, and still slightly numb, McLean found himself in the mortuary. So much for a wide and vibrant social circle.

'We have a phrase for it, Tony. It's called survivor's guilt.' Angus Cadwallader was still wearing his scrubs from the last post mortem of the day.

'I know, Angus. Psychology. University. Got a First, remember. It's just, knowing doesn't seem to help. She pushed me out of the way. She gave up her own life so I could live. How is that fair?'

'Fairness is something we tell children exists to keep them in line.'

'Hmmm. Not sure that exactly helps.'

'I try my best.' Cadwallader stripped off his long rubber gloves and dumped them in the sterile bin. McLean looked over the mortuary, realising for the first time that there was no sign of any forensic examination going on.

'SOC didn't spend long in here,' he said. 'Normally they like to take days searching for tiny clues.'

'Well, I'm glad they didn't. It was bad enough losing a day's work. People don't stop dying, you know. I've a backlog that's going to take weeks to sort out thanks to your helpful thief.'

'Who's that then?' McLean nodded towards the covered body as Cadwallader guddled around in nearby drawers looking for something.

'That's your suicide victim. The Waverley Station woman. Still haven't got a name for her, poor thing. We examined her this morning. Tracy's still got to finish cleaning her up and then she'll have to wait until she's identified. Strange thing, though. You remember her hands and hair were covered in blood. Couldn't see where it had all come from?'

McLean nodded, although truth was so much had happened since he'd been called to her suicide he'd forgotten all about it.

'Well that's because it wasn't hers.'

*

Emma Baird almost walked into him as he was leaving the mortuary. She was fighting with a large insulated box, the contents of which McLean was happy not to know, and had backed through the doorway just as he was opening it. In any other circumstance, the site of her tumbling backwards into his arms would have been amusing.

'Watch yourself there.'

'Bloody stupid. What the fuck...' Emma struggled, turned, realised who it was. 'Oh god, Tony. Umm, inspector. Sir.'

McLean helped her to her feet, trying to stifle the chuckle that wanted to burst from his throat. She looked so angry and flustered and full of life. He knew if he started laughing he probably wouldn't be able to stop.

'Sorry Em. I didn't see you coming through the door. And Tony's fine, really. Can't be doing with this sir and inspector nonsense at the best of times.' He didn't need to say that these weren't.

'Yeah. I heard the news. I'm so sorry. She was a nice kid.'

A nice kid. Not much of an epitaph, really. And she was just a kid. Not that long out of training college, keen to make detective as soon as possible. Bright, enthusiastic, friendly, dead.

'You on your way in, or out?' Emma's questioned filled the uncomfortable silence.

'What? Oh. Out.' McLean looked at his watch. Long past knocking off time, even if the chief superintendent hadn't sent his team home already. He nodded at the box. 'What about yourself? Delivering or collecting?'

'This? Oh I was just dropping it off. Dr Sharp loaned us it last week when we were one short. It was on my way home so I said I'd drop it off.'

'Here, let me give you a hand then.' McLean reached for the box.

'No, you're OK.' Emma hugged it to her side as if it were a cherished keepsake. 'But I wouldn't mind the company.'

It didn't take long to hand over the box and get back to the door. McLean didn't even have to say anything; Emma was quite capable of talking for two.

'That you off for the evening then?' She asked as he held the door open for her.

'Should probably head back to the station. There's a stack of paperwork with my name on it and a duty sergeant who gets more creative with his threats every day.' Even as he said it, the thought filled him with a weary resignation. He'd creep in the back way to avoid being seen, sit there and work his way through the pile until either it was done or he was. And even if he finished it, there would be another one to replace it soon enough. Times like these, he wondered why he did the bloody job. Might as well go work for Gavin Wemyss and live in a big house with a swimming pool.

'Say it like that, I could even be tempted to do some paperwork myself. Find some just special.'

'Well, if you're offering...'

'Tell you what. Come and have a drink first. Then see how keen you are.' Emma set off up the Cowgate in the direction of the Grassmarket before he could answer. McLean had to hop and skip to catch up, grabbing her by the shoulder.

'Emma.'

'Honestly inspector. Did anyone ever tell you you're no fun.'

'Not recently, no. It's just that I'm guessing you don't know Edinburgh all that well, aye?' He pointed across the road in the opposite direction. 'The only decent pub round here's that way.'

*

One beer turned into two, then a quick tour of the better city centre pubs, a curry. It was almost enough of a distraction that he could forget Alison Kydd was dead. Almost, but not quite. McLean avoided the usual police haunts, knowing they'd be full of coppers raising a few to their fallen comrade. He couldn't could cope with their sympathy, and didn't want to have to deal with the inevitable few who'd blame him rather than the hit and run driver. Emma had sensed it too, he could tell. She chatted constantly, but mostly about he own work and the delights of moving from Aberdeen down to Edinburgh. They parted with a simple 'this was fun, we should do it again.' The lightest of touches on his arm and she turned away, disappeared down the dark street to the place of his nightmares. He shook them away, shoved his hands in his pockets, head down for the walk home.

The city never really slept, especially during the festival. The usual crowd of late shift workers and rough-sleepers were augmented by drunken students and wannabe actors, dustbin men and road sweepers. The streets were quiet in comparison with the day, but it was early yet, and a steady stream of cars still fought their single-occupant ways to destinations unknown. Vans meandered from drop-off point to drop-off point like fat, smelly bees. McLean tried to push away his guilt as he walked, looked for the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to bring some answers to all the questions milling around his head. There was something he was missing, something that didn't add up. No, there were many things he was missing, many things that didn't add up. Not the least of which was the grisly similarity between the deaths of three elderly men, all friends of old, all connected to one horrible, violent crime. A fanciful man would say that they were being visited by an unholy vengeance. Opus Diabuli. They had dabbled in the devil's work and now he had come to claim them. But the reality was far more mundane. Barnaby Smythe had been gutted by an illegal immigrant with a grudge; Buchan Stewart had fallen victim to a jealous lover; and Jonas Carstairs? Well, no doubt Duguid would find someone to pin that one on.

Click, clack, click, clack, his feet drummed out a steady beat along the flagstones. The slow tempo marking time with his thoughts. He knew that Okolo had killed Smythe, that much was true. He'd bet his job that Timothy Gardner hadn't killed Buchan Stewart though, which meant there was a killer still out there. Had someone found DC MacBride's Brazilian photo archive and gone on a spree? Would they be looking for someone else? And if so, how were they choosing their victims? Was it possible that someone else knew about the ritual killing, and had managed to track down the murderers?

Or was it the sixth man covering his tracks, killing his old partners in crime, stealing the body that was the only real piece of evidence, paying someone to run down the policeman investigating? That scenario fitted better than the alternatives, but it wasn't exactly reassuring. McLean stopped suddenly, realising he was alone in the street. He shivered, looking around, expecting to see a white van gunning its engine, heading straight for him. His feet had brought him, perhaps inevitably, to The Pleasance. A big blue 'Police Notice' sign on the pavement accused him with its own demands. An accident occurred here... Did you see... Contact us... He was standing on the spot where Alison had been hit. Where she'd sacrificed herself so that he could live. Christ what a waste of a life. He clenched his fists and swore that he'd track down the man responsible. It didn't make him feel any better.

It wasn't far to his tenement building, which was just as well. Guilt and anger battling each other made it hard to pick up the threads of his earlier thoughts. The door was propped open with a couple of stones again; bloody students losing their keys and too tight to pay for a new set. At least at this hour Mrs McCutcheon should be tucked up asleep. He could be spared the joy of smiling as she voiced her concern for the long hours he worked. He trudged up the stairs feeling the weariness seep in around his eyes. Bed beckoned and he was more than ready for it.

Only there was someone at the top of the stairs.

~~~~