Natural Causes (16 page)

26

Tuesday morning and interview room three was stuffy and airless. It had no window, just a vent in the ceiling that was meant to pump fresh air but didn't. A plain white-topped table sat squarely in the middle, a few cigarette burns marking the formica. On the far side of it from the narrow door, a plastic chair had been bolted to the floor just too far away for its occupant to lean his elbows comfortably. He had tried, several times, and now slumped back, his cuffed hands in his lap.

McLean watched him for a while, not saying a thing. So far the burglar had refused to give his name, which was a nuisance. He was a young man, late twenties to early thirties at a guess. Fit, too. McLean had a nice bruise on his right side where he'd wrestled him to the ground, but it was nothing compared to the mess that was the other guy's face.

The door banged open and Grumpy Bob pushed in. He carried a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on it. Setting the whole lot down on the table, he handed one mug to McLean and took the other for himself, dunking a rich tea biscuit in the hot milky liquid.

'What about me? Do I no' get anythin'?' The young burglar's accent was broad Glaswegian, making him seem like some Ned from the schemes. But McLean wasn't fooled. Anyone with the skill to pick a lock and the nous to use night-vision goggles was a cut above your average drug-addict burglar.

'Let me see.' He pretended to think for a while, sipping from his own mug of tea. 'No. You don't. Here's how it works. You co-operate, we'll be nice.'

'How about a ciggy then? I'm gasping here.'

McLean pointed to the No Smoking sign fixed to the wall. The effect was slightly marred by the heavy biro marks erasing the word 'No.'

'One of the few good things to come out of Holyrood, that. You can't smoke anywhere in this building. Not even the cells. And you're going to be spending a long time in the cells if you don't co-operate.'

'You can't keep me locked up in here. I know my rights. I want to see a lawyer.'

'Got that off the telly did you?' Grumpy Bob asked. 'Think you know all about the polis because you watch The Bill? You don't get a lawyer until we say so, sunshine. And the longer you piss us about, the longer that'll be.' He took another biscuit from the plate and bit into it, sending a shower of crumbs to the floor.

'OK. Let's start with what we know.' McLean took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. He fished in one of the pockets, coming out with a pair of latex gloves which he slowly pulled on, snapping the rubber and smoothing the fingers. All the while the burglar watched him with wide, grey eyes.

'You were found last night in the house of the late Mrs Esther McLean.' McLean bent down and lifted a cardboard box from the floor, dumping it on the table. He pulled out a heavy canvas duffle bag, wrapped in plastic. 'You were carrying this bag, and wearing these.' He took the night vision goggles from the box and placed them on the table. They too were encased in a clear plastic evidence bag.

'Inside the bag, we found several items taken from the house.' He lifted out a set of silver ornaments that had been in a display cabinet in the hall. It felt odd to be handling his grandmother's possessions like this, even wrapped up. 'You were also carrying a set of lock-picking tools, a stethoscope, a high-speed electric drill and a set of clothes a man of your age might wear to a nightclub.' He laid the offending articles out on the table. 'Oh, and this set of keys, which I assume is to your house. There were BMW car keys on the ring as well, but my colleague Detective Constable MacBride has taken them to the nearest franchised garage to get the code checked against their owners database.'

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door, it opened a fraction, and then Constable MacBride popped his head in. 'Something for you, sir,' he said, handing over a sheet of paper and another clear evidence bag. McLean looked at it and smiled.

'Well, Mr McReadie, it seems we won't be needing your co-operation after all.' He stared at the burglar, looking for signs of discomfort and finding them writ large.

'Take him back down to the cells, Bob. And tell the duty sergeant, no fags OK?' He picked up the evidence bag with the keys in it and shoved them in his pocket. 'Stuart, round up a couple of constables and meet me at the front. I'm going to see about getting a search warrant organised.'

*

For a Ned, Mr Fergus McReadie had done rather well for himself. His address was a large loft conversion apartment in an old warehouse down in Leith Docks. Twenty years earlier, it would have been the haunt of prostitutes and drug dealers, but with the Scottish Office relocation and HMS Britannia, Leith was upmarket these days. Judging by the cars parked in their allocated bays, the development wasn't cheap either.

'How the other half live, eh sir?' Constable MacBride said as they took the lift to the loft floor five storeys up. It opened onto a spotless hallway with just two apartment doors leading off. McReadie's was the one on the left.

'I don't know. Can't really call it a tenement if it doesn't smell of stale piss.' McLean pointed at the other door. 'See if the neighbours are home. With any luck they might know a bit about our cat burglar's other life.'

As the constable buzzed on the right hand door, McLean let himself into McReadie's apartment. It was a vast hangar of a space, old wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. The loading doors had been converted into full height windows, overlooking the docks and out into the Firth of Forth. One corner of the room formed an open-plan kitchen, and at the far end, spiral steps lead up into the rafters and a sleeping platform. Underneath it, two doors suggested more partitioned space.

'OK, people. We're looking for anything that might be stolen goods, any information about Mr McReadie we can find.' He stood in the middle of the room as Constable Kydd and Grumpy Bob started to rummage around, opening doors and looking under cushions. A huge plasma TV screen dominated one wall, and beneath it neatly arranged shelves of discs. McLean looked at some of the titles; they were mostly Japanese Manga and Kung-Fu films. Tacked on the end, almost as if they were an afterthought, were the complete set of Pink Panther movies. The boxes were battered and worn, as if they had been watched many times. Except the last one, which still had its cellophane wrapping around it.

'Sir?'

McLean looked around to see DC MacBride standing in the open doorway. A woman stood behind him, her long blonde hair tousled as if she had been asleep, her eyes wide as she watched the policemen search the flat. He hurried over.

'This is Miss Adamson,' MacBride said. He looked slightly stunned. 'She lives next door.'

On closer inspection, McLean could see that Miss Adamson was dressed only in a long silk dressing gown. Her feet were bare.

'What's going on? Where's Fergus? Is he in trouble?' Her voice was thick with sleep.

'Miss Adamson. Detective Inspector McLean.' He held up his warrant card for her to see, but she hardly seemed able to focus. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you could answer a few questions for us.'

'Sure. I s'pose. I'm not in trouble, am I?'

'Not at all, miss. No. I'm interested in what you know about your neighbour, Fergus McReadie.'

''kay. Come over and I'll put some coffee on.'

Miss Adamson's apartment was smaller than McReadie's but still large enough. She stepped lightly round a stainless steel counter that separated her kitchen from the bulk of the living space, busying herself with beans and grinder. Soon the air filled with a powerful aroma.

'So what's Fergus done then, inspector? I always thought there was something slightly creepy about him.'

McLean settled himself on one of the tall stools that were arranged along its length. Behind him he could sense Constable MacBride's unease.

'I can't exactly say, not until he's been charged. But we caught him red-handed, Miss Adamson.'

'Vanessa, please. Only my agent calls me Miss Adamson.'

'Vanessa, then. Tell me. Have you known Fergus McReadie long?'

'He was there when I moved in about, what, two years ago? I'd see him in the elevator, we'd say hello. You know how it is.' She plunged the coffee then poured it into three mugs, turning to pull a large carton of fat-free milk from the enormous fridge behind her. McLean couldn't help noticing that, apart from a couple of bottles of champagne, it was pretty much empty. 'He tried to hit on me a couple of times. But he wasn't my type. Too geeky, and that accent just used to get on my nerves.' Her own voice was soft, with the faintest trace of American mixed in with the Edinburgh.

'Do you know what he does for a living, then?' McLean accepted the proffered drink, unsure quite why MacBride was so reluctant to come forward and claim his.

'He's some sort of computer security expert, I think. He tried to explain it to me once. My mistake for inviting him to the party, I guess. He made it sound glamorous, like he spent his life trying to break into banks and stuff. You know, so he could show them where their weaknesses were? I got the impression most of it involved sitting in front of a computer watching numbers scroll past.'

There was a light tapping at the door. McLean looked round to see Constable Kydd framed in the doorway. Her gaze shifted from him to Vanessa and her eyebrows shot up. He looked back at his hostess, wondering what he was missing.

'Oh, do come in officer. There's plenty more coffee.' Miss Adamson stooped for another cup and McLean averted his eyes as the dressing gown parted to reveal perhaps more than was intended.

'That's very kind ma'am,' the constable said, not moving from the doorway. 'But I think the inspector should come see what we've found.'

'No rest for the wicked, eh?' McLean levered himself off the stool. 'Constable MacBride, stay here and get as much detail as you can about our burglar. Vanessa, thankyou for your help. I'll be back for the rest of that coffee if you don't mind.'

'Not at all inspector. It's quite the most exciting thing that's happened to me all summer. And who knows when I might have to play the part of a policewoman. This is a wonderful opportunity for research.'

As he turned to leave, McLean was almost certain he saw Constable Kydd mouth a silent, questioning 'Vanessa?' to MacBride, but her expression dropped back to its normal not-quite-angry self before he could be sure. He followed her out, across the hall and back into McReadie's apartment. One of the two doors at the far end stood open.

'Am I missing something, constable?' McLean asked as they crossed the huge space.

'You didn't recognise her, sir? Vanessa Adamson? Won a bafta last year for her role in that BBC period drama? Oscar nominated for that Johnny Depp movie?'

He hadn't seen either, but he'd seen her on the news, now that he thought about it. McLean felt the tips of his ears heat up. No wonder she'd looked a bit familiar.

'Really? I thought she was taller.' He took refuge from his embarrassment in the room through the open door, a large study, lit by a single floor to ceiling window. A wide, glass-topped desk supported a laptop computer and a phone, but nothing else. Grumpy Bob sat in the black leather executive chair, spinning it from side to side.

'Found something, Bob?'

'I think you'll like this, sir.' He stood up and reached for a book on the top shelf behind him. When he pulled it out, the whole shelving unit clicked, moved forward and slid sideways on silent runners. Behind it, there was another set of shelves, glass this time and lit from above and below. They were stacked with a bewildering collection of jewellery.

'How on earth did you find that, Bob?' McLean walked around the desk, peering into the hoard.

'I was looking at the titles, sir. Saw one that McReadie'd written himself. Thought I'd have a look at it, see if there was a biography in it. Only he hadn't written it, had he. It was his little joke.'

'Well, ten out of ten for observation. Eleven out of ten for jammy luck.'

'It gets better, sir. I found these too.' Bob reached down and pulled a couple of newspapers out of the bin beneath the desk. The Scotsman from the previous week. He unfolded them both and spread them out. One had been left open at the announcements page, the other at the obituaries. Both had circles of black biro on them. McLean recognised the grainy black and white photograph of his grandmother, taken forty years earlier. Grumpy Bob beamed the smile that had earned him his nickname so many years before.

'I think this just might be our obituary man, sir.'

~~~~

27

'McLean! Where the fuck were you yesterday morning? Why weren't you answering your phone?'

Chief Inspector Duguid marched down the corridor towards him, face livid red, hands clenched into ugly fists. McLean struggled for a moment to remember what he had been doing, so much had happened since. Then it all clicked back into place.

'I had the day off, sir. I was burying my grandmother. If you'd spoken to Chief Superintendent McIntyre she'd doubtless have told you. She might also have let you know that I came in early anyway to finish up the report on your uncle's death and his killer's suicide.'

Duguid's face went from livid red to ghostly white in an instant. His piggy little eyes widened and his nostrils flared like a bull pawing the ground ready to charge.

'Don't you dare mention that in here, McLean.' Duguid's voiced hissed out through tight lips and he looked around nervously to see if anyone had heard. There were a number of uniforms going about their business, but they had enough of a sense of self-preservation to avoid eye contact with the chief inspector. If they had heard anything, they weren't showing it.

'Was there something you wanted, sir?' McLean kept his voice level and steady. The last thing he needed was to have Duguid raging at him; not after the day had started so well.

'Too bloody right I do. Some lunatic called Andrews walked into a busy office in the city centre yesterday and opened up his neck with a cut-throat razor. I want you to find out who he was and why he did it.'

'Is there no-one else available? I've got quite a full case-load as it is...'

'You wouldn't know the meaning of full bloody caseload if it bit you in the arse, McLean. Stop whingeing and do the job you're paid to do.'

'Of course, sir.' McLean bit his tongue trying not to argue. There was no point when Duguid was in a rage. 'Who conducted the initial investigation?'

'You did.' Duguid looked at his watch. 'In the next half hour if you've any sense. There's a report on your desk from the sergeant who attended the scene. You do remember your desk, don't you inspector? In your office?' And on that sarcastic note, he stalked off, muttering under his breath.

Only then did Grumpy Bob come out of his hiding place behind the photocopier.

'Bloody hell. What's crawled up his arse and died?'

'I don't know. Probably found out his uncle left all his money to the animal sanctuary or something.'

'His uncle?' So Bob hadn't been listening.

'Forget it Bob. Let's go find out about this suicide. It'll take a while for forensics to process all that jewellery. We can't match anything with the other burglaries until then.'

'What about McReadie? You want to charge him?'

'I guess we better had. But you know he's going to have a weasel lawyer get him out on bail before the end of the day. You saw his apartment; he's got money coming out of his ears. He can buy his freedom and he knows it.'

'I'll leave it until the last minute then. Better check with the duty sergeant when you logged him in.'

Grumpy Bob sauntered off towards the front desk; McLean headed for his office. Sure enough, on the top of a huge pile of overtime sheets, a slim manila folder contained a single typed sheet reporting the apparent suicide of Mr Peter Andrews. There were names and addresses of a dozen witnesses, all employees of the same financial management company, Hoggett Scotia. Andrews had been an employee there himself. He'd apparently walked into the front reception area, looking like he'd slept in his clothes for the past two days, pulled out a cut-throat razor blade from his pocket and, well, cut his throat. And all this had happened almost twenty-four hours ago. Since which time the police had done bugger all.

McLean sighed. Not only was it likely to be a fruitless task investigating the suicide, he was also going to be met with hostility and anger that it had taken so long for him to do anything about it. Bloody marvellous.

Grabbing the phone, he dialled the number for the mortuary. Tracy's chirpy voice answered.

'Did you get a suicide in yesterday? Name of Andrews?' McLean asked after she had tried her usual flirtation.

'Mid morning, yes,' she confirmed. 'Dr Cadwallader was planning on doing him late afternoon. About four.'

McLean thanked her, said he'd see her there, then hung up. He looked at the notes again, at least the address wasn't far to walk. Interviews first, then the post mortem. With a little bit of luck, by the time he got back from that the jewellery they'd found in McReadie's apartment would be back from forensics. Then they could have endless fun trying to match it to the lists of stolen items.

He picked up the file, ignoring the pile of overtime sheets that needed to be processed, and went off in search of Detective Constable MacBride.

*

'You've been keeping us busy this last week, Tony.'

McLean grimaced at the pathologist. 'Good afternoon to you, too, Angus. And thanks for coming yesterday, by the way.'

'Think nothing of it. The old girl taught me a thing or two. Least I could do was make sure she was seen off properly.' The pathologist already wore his scrubs, long surgical gloves pulled tight over his hands. They went through into the autopsy room, where Peter Andrews lay in his pale glory on the stainless steel table. Apart from the ragged mess of his throat, he looked strangely clean and peaceful. His hair was dishevelled and grey, but his face looked young. McLean would have put him in his late thirties to early forties. It was difficult to tell from such a pale, pasty corpse.

Cadwallader began with a thorough inspection of the body, looking for signs of injury, drug abuse or disease. McLean watched, only half listening to the quietly spoken commentary and wondering what could bring a man to commit suicide in such a violent and messy way. It was all but impossible to understand the broken thought processes that made killing yourself seem better than life. He'd known despair himself, more than once, but he had always imagined the anguish and alarm of the people who might find his dead body, the mental scars that might leave. Perhaps that was the difference between the suicidal and the depressed; you had to no longer care how other people felt.

If that was the case, then maybe Andrews was a good candidate after all. According to his boss, he had been a ruthless businessman. McLean didn't quite understand the ins and outs of fund management, but he knew enough to know that by deciding to remove a stock from his portfolio, Andrews could well destroy a company. But whilst that ruthlessness might make him the sort of man who could kill himself, the rest of his life spoke of someone with everything to live for. He wasn't married, had no girlfriend to tie him down. He was rich, successful, doing a job he seemed to enjoy. In fact no-one at Hogget Scotia Finance had a bad word to say about him. There was still the matter of his parents to interview; they lived in London and were heading north that afternoon.

'Ah, now that's interesting.' Cadwallader's change in tone cut through McLean's thoughts. He looked up and saw that the pathologist had begun his internal examination.

'What's interesting?'

'This.' He pointed to the shiny mess of entrails and other bits. 'He has cancer, well, everywhere. Looks like it started in his bowel, but it's spread to every organ in his body. If he hadn't killed himself he'd have been dead within a month or two. Do we know who his doctor was? He should have been on serious drug therapy for this.'

'Don't chemo patients usually lose their hair?' McLean asked.

'Good point, inspector. I guess that's why you're a detective and I'm just a pathologist.' Cadwallader bent close to the dead man's head, tweaking some of his hairs out with a pair of forceps. He placed them in a steel dish held out by his assistant. 'Run a spectrographic analysis on those will you, Tracy. I'm willing to bet he wasn't on any medication at all stronger than ibuprofen.' He turned back to McLean. 'Chemo leaves other, more subtle changes in the body, Tony. This man shows none of them.'

'Could he have refused treatment?'

'I can't see what else he could have done. He must've known what was happening to him. Otherwise why kill himself?'

'Why indeed, Angus. Why indeed?'

~~~~