Natural Causes (13 page)

'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?'

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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 up 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.'

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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.

'Mr Garner, I need to ask you some questions. I can come back later, but it's best if we do it now. While the memories are still fresh.'

Still the old man didn't respond, didn't look up. Just kept smoothing his hands over his thighs, slowly. McLean reached out and placed his fingers on the back of Garner's hand, stopping him. The contact seemed to break whatever trance he had fallen into. He looked around, his eyes gradually focussing on the inspector. Tears welled up in the puffy, wrinkled lids.

'I called him a cheating bastard. That was the last thing I said to him.' His voice was thin and high, tinged with a soft Morningside accent that clashed with the swearword.

'You knew Mr Stewart well, Mr Garner?'

'Oh yes. Buchan and I first met in the fifties, you know. We've been in business together ever since.'

'And what line of business is that, sir?'

'Antiques, art. Buchan has an eye, inspector. He can spot talent, and he always seems to know where the market's going.'

'So I've seen from his apartment.' McLean looked around Garner's living room. It was well-furnished but not with the same opulence as his business partner. 'And what of you, Mr Garner? What did you bring to the relationship?'

'Brilliant men need their foils, inspector, and Buchan Stewart is a brilliant man.' Garner swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing in his thin, sinewy neck. 'I should say was a brilliant man.'

'Can you tell me what you argued about?'

'Buchan was hiding something from me, inspector. Of that I'm sure. Just these past few days, but I've known him long enough.'

'And you thought he was cheating. What, setting up a business with another man?'

'You might call it that, yes, inspector. I very much suspect there was another man involved.'

'The man who killed him, perhaps?'

'I don't know. Maybe.'

'Did you see this man?'

'No.' Garner shook his head, as if reinforcing the answer in his mind, but there was uncertainty in his voice. McLean kept silent, letting the doubt do its work.

'I can't expect you to understand, inspector. You're young still. Perhaps when you're as old as me you'll know what I'm talking about. Buchan was more than just my business partner. He and I, we were...'

'Lovers? There's no crime in that, Mr Garner. Not anymore.'

'Aye, but there's shame still, isn't there. There's still the way people look at you in the street. I'm a private man, inspector. I keep to myself. And I'm too old to be interested in sex these days. I thought Buchan was too.'

'But now you think he was seeing someone else? Another man?'

'I was sure of it. Why else would he be so secretive? Why would he lose his temper and send me away?'

McLean said nothing for a moment. In the quiet he could hear a kettle boiling, the clink of teaspoon on china.

'Tell me what happened this evening, Mr Garner. How did you find Mr Stewart.'

The old man paused. His hands started their rhythmic movements again, and he clenched them into fists to stop himself.

'We'd had a row. This afternoon. Buchan wanted me to go away for a couple of weeks. There's a big art fair in New York and he thought it would do me good to go. He'd even organised the tickets, hotel, everything. But I retired from the business years ago. I told him I didn't have the strength to travel that far, let alone work an auction when I got there. I told him I'd rather stay and let him go. He always had so much more energy than me.'

'So you'd argued. But you went back over to his apartment to talk to him later, is that right?' McLean saw the old man beginning to wander off topic and gently steered him back.

'What? Oh, yes. It would have been around nine, maybe quarter past. I don't like leaving an argument unresolved, and I'd said a few harsh words, so I thought I'd go and apologise. Sometimes we'd sit up late, maybe have a wee brandy and talk about the world. I've a key to the apartment, so I could let myself in. But I didn't need it; the door was wide open. I smelled something bad. Like the sewers had backed up. So I went in and... Oh god...'

Garner started to sob. Constable Kydd chose that moment to come back in bearing a tray with three china cups and a teapot on it.

'I know this is hard, Mr Garner, but please try and tell me what you saw. If it's any consolation, saying it out loud can often help to lessen the shock.'

The old man sniffed, accepting a cup of tea with shaky hands and sipping at the milky liquid.

'He was sitting in there, naked. I thought he'd been doing something to himself. I couldn't understand why he was so still, or why he was staring at the ceiling. Then I saw the blood. Don't know how I could have missed it before. It was everywhere.'

'What did you do then, Mr Garner? Did you try to help Mr Stewart?'

'What? Oh. Yes. I... That is, no. I went over to him, but I could see he was dead. I dialled 999, I think. The next thing I knew there was a policeman here.'

'Did you touch anything? Other than the telephone.'

'I... I don't think so. Why?'

'The scene of crime officer who came to see you earlier? She took your fingerprints so we can separate them from any we find in Mr Stewart's apartment. It helps us if we know where you went.' McLean lifted his teacup to his mouth. Garner did the same, taking a long sip. The old man shuddered as the warm tea slipped down his throat, that prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down again with each swallow. They sat in silence for a while longer, then McLean put his cup back down on the tray. He noticed that Constable Kydd hadn't drunk any of hers either.

'We'll need you to come down to the station and make a statement, Mr Garner. Not now, tomorrow will do,' he added as the old man made to stand up. 'I can send round a car to pick you up and bring you back. Shall we say ten o'clock?'

'Yes, yes. Of course. Earlier if you want. I shan't think I'll sleep much tonight.'

'Is there someone we can call to keep you company? I'm sure we could spare a constable.' McLean looked across at Constable Kydd and received a withering stare in return.

'No. I'll be fine, I'm sure.' Mr Garner put his hands back down on his thighs, but only to lever himself up out of his chair. 'I think I might have a bath, though. That usually helps me sleep.'

'Thank you. You've been very helpful.' McLean stood with greater ease, offering his hand to the old man. 'There'll be a constable on duty outside Mr Stewart's apartment all night. If you've any worries, let him know and he can radio in to the station.'

'Thankyou, inspector. That's very considerate.'

*

The landing was quiet outside Mr Garner's apartment. The door opposite stood open, but there was no sign of anyone within. McLean clumped downstairs and out onto the street, where a few uniforms were still busying themselves. He accosted Constable Houseman manning the barrier outside the gate; the SOC van had long disappeared.

'How'd you get on with the other tenements.'

Big Andy pulled out his notebook. 'Most of them are empty. Seems they belong to a leasing company. They put foreign executives and the like in them. The ground floor's got two flats in it; neither of them heard anything until we arrived. Oh, and there's a basement flat too. He got home with his girlfriend about half an hour ago and was rather abusive when we told him he couldn't go in unescorted. Sergeant Gordon got a bloodied nose and Mr Cartwright's going to be spending some time in the cells.'

'Drunk and disorderly?'

'Possession, sir. Probably with intent to deal. You'd think with a pound of hash on his person he'd steer clear of the police.'

'You would indeed. You were right by the way.'

'I was? About what?'

'Buchan Stewart and Timothy Garner. Odd arrangement, though. Living in separate apartments just across from each other.'

'The world's full of odd people, sir. Sometimes I think I'm the only normal man alive.'

'That's a fact, Andy.' McLean looked at his watch, it was getting on for two in the morning. 'I think we've done pretty much all we can here tonight. Put two men on guard duty. We have a potential witness. I don't want our murderer coming back to try and silence him.'

'You don't think he's a suspect, then? Garner?'

'Not unless he's a very good actor, no. My gut tells me there's more to this than a lovers tiff turned bad, but Garner's in no state to be interviewed tonight. I don't think he'd do too well in a cell either.' McLean looked up to the high windows, light spilling out into the night. 'He's not going anywhere in a hurry. Best let him calm down a bit and I'll talk to him in the morning. Let whoever draws the short straw for guard duty know he's there. If he wants to go anywhere, we'll get a DC round to go with him. OK?'

'Right you are, sir.' Big Andy lumbered off, shouting orders at the few remaining policemen on the scene. McLean turned to Constable Kydd, who stifled a yawn.

'I thought you were on day shift.'

'I am.'

'Then how'd you get roped into this assignment?'

'I was using one of the interview rooms at the station to study, sir. My folks aren't the quietest at the best of times. Friday nights it's best to be somewhere else if you want a bit of peace.'

'And let me guess, Duguid found you and sent you after me. Any idea why he couldn't attend himself?'

'I wouldn't like to say, sir.'

McLean stopped himself from interrogating the constable any further. It wasn't her fault they'd both had their evening ruined. He'd find out sooner or later why the case had been handed over to him.

'Well get yourself home now, and get some sleep. And don't worry about coming in a bit late tomorrow. I'll square it with the desk sergeant, get the rosters juggled.'

'Thankyou sir.' The constable smiled a weary smile. 'Do you need a lift home?'

'No thanks.' McLean looked down the high street. There were still people wandering about even at this late hour. Revellers on their way home from the pub, people spilling out of nightclubs, late night kebab and burger bars doing a roaring trade. The city never really slept. And somewhere out there was a killer with blood on their hands. A killer who had cut off a part of his victim and shoved it in their mouth. Just like Barnaby Smythe. Copycat? Coincidence? He needed time, air, distance to consider it all.

'I think I'll walk.'

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