Natural Causes (9 page)

14

'That's three times in forty-eight hours, inspector. If I didn't know better I'd say you were stalking me.' Dr Cadwallader's assistant, Tracy, waited for them as they walked into the mortuary. 'Who's your handsome sidekick?'

'This is Detective Constable MacBride. Go easy on him, it's his first time.' McLean ignored MacBride's reddening face. 'Is the doctor in?' he asked.

'Just getting prepped,' Tracy said. 'Go right ahead.'

The examination room was not much changed from the day before. Only the body laid out on the slab was different. The pathologist greeted them as they walked in.

'Ah, Tony. I can see you've not got the hang of delegation yet. Normally when you send a junior officer to do something for you, it's because you're not intending to come along yourself. Why'd you think Dagwood sent you in the first place.'

'Because this place reminds him too much of home?'

'Well, quite.' Cadwallader smirked. 'Shall we get down to business?'

As if she had been waiting for the cue, Tracy appeared from the little room that served as their office. She had donned a set of scrubs and long rubber gloves and wheeled a steel trolley on which had been laid out various instruments of torture. McLean could feel Constable MacBride tense beside him, rocking slightly on his heels.

'Subject is male, African, six foot two. At a guess I'd say late fifties.'

Forty-four.' MacBride's voice was slightly higher than usual, and there'd been no cutting yet.

'I'm sorry?' Cadwallader put his hand over the microphone hanging above the table.

'He was forty-four, sir. It says so in his file.' MacBride held up the sheaf of papers he had retrieved from the printer on their way out.

'Well, he doesn't look it. Tracy, have we got the right body?'

The assistant checked her paperwork, looked at the tag on the dead man's foot, then went over to the racks of cold cabinets, opening a couple and peering inside before coming back.

'Yup,' she said. 'Jonathan Okolo. Brought in late last night. Identified by fingerprints from his immigration services file.'

'Well, that is odd.' Cadwallader turned back to his patient. 'If he's only forty-four, I hate to think what kind of life he's had. OK, let's continue.' He went on, examining the body minutely.

'His hands are rough, fingernails chipped and short. He has a couple of recent scars consistent with splinters in his palms and fingers. Manual labourer of some kind, though I can't imagine he'd be much good at it, given his health. Ah, here we go.' The pathologist turned his attention to the dead man's head, reaching into his thinning, tight-curled, grey hair with a pair of forceps. 'Specimen jar, please, Tracy. If I'm not mistaken, that's plaster. His hair's full of it.'

McLean noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Constable MacBride furiously scribbling down notes. He smiled; all of this would be typed up and presented to them within the day, but a little enthusiasm never hurt. And besides, it might distract the constable from what was coming next.

There was a certain elegance to the way a skilled pathologist opened up a body. Cadwallader was perhaps the best McLean had ever watched. His deft touch and quiet banter with his assistant went some way towards making the whole process bearable. Even so, he was glad when it was all over and the job of stitching up began. It meant they could get out of the examination room, which in turn meant they could soon leave the building.

'What's the verdict, Angus? Can you save him?' McLean saw the joke raise a flicker of a smile, but it was soon replaced with a worried frown.

'I'm surprised he lived long enough to kill Smythe, let alone himself,' Cadwallader said.

'What do you mean?'

'He has advanced emphysema, acute cirrhosis of the liver, his kidneys are diseased. Christ alone knows how a heart with so much scar tissue on it could possibly beat regularly enough to let him walk.'

'Are you suggesting he didn't kill Smythe?' A cold shiver ran down McLean's spine.

'Oh, he killed him all right. His clothes were soaked in Smythe's blood and there are traces of it under his fingernails. That Stanley knife is a perfect fit for the notches in his neck vertebrae. He's definitely your man.'

'Could he have had an accomplice?' McLean had that dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew he'd be unpopular for even mentioning the possibility, but he couldn't ignore it.

'You're the detective, Tony. You tell me.'

~~~~

15

Carstairs Weddell occupied the entirety of a large Georgian terraced house in the west end of the city. Where the more modern and progressive law firms had moved into purpose-built offices on the Lothian Road or further out towards Gogarburn, this one small partnership had held out against the tides of change. McLean remembered a time, not so long ago, when all the old Edinburgh family firms, the lawyers and stockbrokers, merchant bankers and importers of fine wares had their offices in the grand old houses of the west end. Now most of them had moved out and the streets were full of basement restaurants, boutique shops, health clubs and expensive apartments. Times changed, but the city always adapted.

He was an hour early for his appointment, but the secretary told him that she didn't think it would be a problem. She left him waiting in an elegant reception room, lined with portraits of stern-faced men and furnished with comfortable leather armchairs. It was more like a gentleman's club than anything else, but at least it was cool compared with the ever rising heat outside.

'Inspector McLean. It's good to see you again.' McLean looked around at the voice. He'd not heard the door open, but now a white-haired man with thin round metal-rimmed spectacles stood with his hand outstretched. McLean shook it.

'Mr Carstairs. Have we met before?' There was something familiar about him. It was always possible that he had been in court whilst McLean was giving evidence, of course. Perhaps he had been cross-examined by the lawyer.

'I should think so. It's been quite a few years, though. Esther used to hold such wonderful parties, but she stopped around the time you went off to University. I never did find out why.'

McLean pictured the string of people who had frequently turned up at his grandmother's house. The only thing he could remember about most of them was that they had been very old. But then, so had his grandmother so that was hardly surprising. Jonas Carstairs was old now, but he would have been too young surely to have been part of that set.

'I think she always wanted to be a recluse, Mr Carstairs. She just thought it would be good for me to meet people. When I left home and moved to Newington, she stopped.'

Carstairs nodded, as if that made perfect sense to him. 'Please, call me Jonas.' He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, flipped it open to see the time, then carefully slid it back again in a fluid, practised motion.

'What would you say to a spot of lunch? There's a new place opened up just around the corner from here and I've heard it's very good.'

McLean thought about the pile of papers on his desk waiting to be sorted; the girl dead so long that a few more hours would make no difference. Grumpy Bob had the burglary investigation in hand, and MacBride would be busy ferreting out whatever information on Jonathan Okolo he could find. He'd really only be getting in the way.

'That sounds like a good idea to me, Jonas. But if I'm off duty, you'll have to stop calling me inspector.'

*

It wasn't the kind of eating establishment McLean was used to visiting. Newly opened, and tucked into the basement of a substantial terrace house, it was quite busy, filled with the subdued noise of contented customers enjoying a leisurely lunch. They were shown to a small table in an alcove with a window that looked out onto a recess below the pavement level. Looking up towards the sky, McLean realised he could see up the skirt of any women who walked past, and concentrated instead on the menu.

'They do fish rather well, I'm told,' Carstairs said. 'I expect the wild salmon will be good at this time of year.'

McLean ordered the salmon, suppressing the urge to ask for chips with it, and restricted himself to sparkling mineral water. It arrived in a blue tear-drop shaped bottle with something written on it in Welsh.

'In the old days, apothecaries kept poisons in blue bottles. That way they knew not to drink them.' He poured himself a glassful and offered the same to the lawyer.

'Well, Edinburgh has its fair share of poisoners, as I've no doubt you know. Have you been to the Pathology Museum at the Surgeon's Hall?'

'Angus Cadwallader showed me around it a couple of years back. When I was still just a sergeant.'

'Ah yes, Angus. He has a distressing habit of leaving the theatre halfway through a performance. The job, no doubt.'

They talked about police work, legal matters and those few mutual friends and acquaintances they could identify until the food arrived. McLean was only half disappointed to find his salmon poached rather than battered and deep fried. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate fine food, more that he rarely had the time for it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to a restaurant like this one.

'You're not married, Tony.' Carstairs' question was innocent enough, but it brought an uncomfortable silence as McLean realised he did remember the last time he'd been to a fine restaurant like this one. His companion then had been far younger, prettier and completely unaware of the life-changing question he had been screwing up his courage to pop.

'No,' he said, aware that his voice was flat, unable to do anything about that.

'Seeing anyone?'

'No.'

'A shame. Young man like you should have a wife to look after him. I'm sure Esther would have...'

'There was someone. A few years back. We were engaged. She... she died.' McLean could still see her face, eyes closed, skin as smooth as alabaster and just as white. Lips blue and long black hair splayed out around her, tugged by the icy, sluggish flow of the Water of Leith.

'I'm so sorry. I didn't know.' Carstairs' voice cut through his reminiscing, and McLean knew, somehow, that the old lawyer was lying. There couldn't be many people in the city who didn't remember the story

'You said you needed to see me about my grandmother's will,' he said, latching onto the first subject he could think of.

'Yes, indeed I did. But I thought it might be nice to catch up with an old family friend first. You won't be surprised to learn that Esther left everything to you, of course. She had no-one else to give it to.'

'I'd really not given it much thought, to be honest. I'm finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that she's gone. Half of me still thinks it needs to remember to stop by the hospital and visit her this evening.'

Carstairs said nothing, and they continued to eat in silence for a while. The lawyer cleaned his plate, wiping at his face with the soft white napkin. Only then did he speak.

'The funeral will be on Monday. Ten o'clock at Mortonhall. A notice went in today's Scotsman.'

McLean nodded, abandoning the rest of his meal. Delicious though it was, he had quite lost his appetite.

*

Back at the office, Carstairs led him through to a large room at the rear of the building, overlooking a well-tended garden. An antique desk angled into one corner of the room, but Carstairs indicated to McLean to sit in one of the leather armchairs beside the empty fireplace before taking the other for himself. It reminded the inspector of his chat with the superintendent the day before. Formal informality. A thick folder tied together with black ribbon waited on the low mahogany table that sat between them. Carstairs leant forward, picking up the folder and untying the ribbon. McLean couldn't help but notice that he moved with remarkable agility and grace for a man of his age. Like a younger actor playing the role of an old man.

'This is a summary of your grandmother's estate at the time of her death. We've administered her affairs for many years now, since your grandfather died, in fact. She had quite a large portfolio of shares as well as her property.'

'She did?' McLean was genuinely astonished. He'd known his grandmother was comfortable, but she'd never shown any signs of being rich. Just an old lady who'd inherited the family home. A doctor who'd worked hard and retired on a comfortable pension.

'Oh yes. Esther was quite the shrewd investor. Some of her recommendations surprised even our own finance department, but she rarely lost money.'

'How is it I knew nothing of this?' McLean didn't know whether he was shocked or angry.

'Your grandmother gave me power of attorney long before she had her stroke, Anthony.' Carstairs' voice was soft, calming, as if he knew that the news he was bringing might be disturbing. 'She also asked me specifically not to disclose her assets to you before she died. She was quite old-fashioned in her thinking, was Esther. I suspect she thought you might be distracted from pursuing a career if you knew you stood to inherit a large estate.'

McLean couldn't argue. That sounded so like his grandmother he could almost picture her, sitting in her favourite armchair by the fire, lecturing him about the importance of hard work. She also had a mischievous sense of humour, and somewhere right now she was laughing her head off. He was surprised to find a smile forming on his lips as he thought about her. It was the first time in months he'd remembered her as a vibrant, living person, rather than the worse than dead cabbage she had become.

'Do you have any idea what it's all worth?' The question sounded mercenary to his ears, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

'A valuation on the property is a best estimate from our conveyancing department. The shares are priced as of the close of the market the day after she died. Obviously there are sundry other items; I suspect the furnishings and pictures in the house are worth something, and there's a few other bits and bobs. Esther always did have a good eye.' Carstairs took a single sheet from the top of the file and placed it on the table, twirling it around so that McLean could read it. He picked it up with trembling fingers, trying to take in all the different columns and figures, until his eyes lighted on a total underlined and in bold at the bottom.

'Bloody hell.'

His grandmother had left him a large house and a portfolio of shares worth considerably more than five million pounds.

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