Natural Causes (2 page)

3

The Western General Hospital smelled of illness; that mixture of disinfectant, warm air and leaked bodily fluids that clung to your clothes if you spent more than ten minutes in the place. The nurses at reception recognised him, smiling and nodding him through without a word. One of them was Barbara and the other Heather, but he was damned if he could remember who was who. They never seemed to be apart for long enough to work it out, and staring at the too-small badges on their chests was just embarrassing.

McLean walked as quietly as the squeaky linoleum floor would allow along the soulless corridors; past shuffling men in skimpy hospital smocks, clutching their wheeled intravenous drip stands with arthritic claws; busy nurses weaving their way from one crisis to another; pallid junior doctors looking like they were about to drop from exhaustion. It had all long since ceased to shock him, he'd been coming here that long.

The ward he was looking for was at a quiet end of the hospital, tucked away from the hustle and bustle. It was a nice room, with windows looking out over the Firth of Forth to Fife. It always struck him as a bit daft, really. This would be a better place to put people recovering from major operations or something. Instead it was home to those patients who couldn't care less about the view or the quiet. He wedged open the door with a fire extinguisher, so the distant hum of activity would follow him, then stepped into the semi-darkness.

She lay propped up on several pillows, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. Wires flowed from her head to a bedside monitor, which ticked a slow, steady rhythm. A single tube dripped clear liquid into her wrinkled and liver-spotted arm and a slim white continuous pulse monitor clamped onto one withered finger. McLean pulled up a chair and sat down, taking his Gran's free hand and staring at her once-proud and lively face.

'I saw Angus earlier. He was asking after you.' He spoke softly, no longer sure she could hear him. Her hand was cool, room temperature. Apart from the mechanical rising and falling of her chest, his grandmother didn't move at all.

'How long have you been in here now? Eighteen months is it?' Her cheeks had shrunk away more since the last time he had visited her, and someone had cut her hair badly, making her skull look even more skeletal.

'I used to think you'd wake up eventually, and it would all be the same. But now I'm not sure. What is there for you to wake up to?'

She didn't answer; he hadn't heard her voice in over a year and a half. Not since she had phoned him that evening, saying she didn't feel well. He remembered the ambulance, the paramedics, locking up the empty house. But he couldn't remember her face when he had found her, unconscious in her armchair by the fire. The months had wasted her away, and he had watched her fade until all he knew was this shadow of the woman who had raised him since he was four.

'Who's done this. Honestly.' McLean looked around, startled by the noise. A nurse stood in the doorway, struggling to remove the fire extinguisher. She flustered in, looking around and then finally seeing him.

'Oh, Mr McLean. I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there.'

Soft Western Isles accent, her pale face topped with a bob of flame red hair. She wore the uniform of a ward sister and McLean was sure he knew her name. Jane or Jenny or something. He thought he knew the names of almost all the nurses in the hospital, either from work or his regular visits to this quiet little ward. But for the life of him, as she stood staring, he couldn't remember hers.

'It's OK,' he said, standing up. 'I was just going.' He turned back to the comatose figure, releasing her cold hand. 'I'll come see you again soon, Gran. I promise.'

'D'you know, you're the only person who comes here to visit regularly,' the nurse said. McLean looked around the ward, noting the other beds with their silent, motionless occupants. It was creepy, in a way. Queued up for the morgue. Waiting patiently for the Grim Reaper to get around to them.

'Don't they have family?' he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the other patients.

'Sure, but they don't visit. Oh they come at first. Sometimes every day for a week or two. Even a month. But over time the gaps get longer and longer. Mr Smith over there's not had a visitor since May. But you come here every week.'

'She doesn't have anyone else.'

'Well, still. It's not everyone would do what you do.'

McLean didn't know what to say. Yes, he came to visit whenever he could, but he never stayed long. Not like his gran, who was condemned to spend the rest of her days in this quiet hell.

'I have to go,' he said, making for the door. 'I'm sorry about the fire extinguisher.' He stooped, lifting it back onto its hook on the wall. 'And thank you.'

'For what?'

'For looking after her. I think she would have liked you.'

*

The taxi dropped him off at the end of the drive. McLean stood for a while in the evening coolness, watching the steam of the retreating exhaust dissipate into nothing. A lone cat strode confidently across the road not more than twenty yards away, then stopped suddenly as if realising it was being watched. Its sleek head moved from side to side, sharp eyes scanning the scene until it spotted him. Threat detected and assessed, it sat down in the middle of the road and began licking a paw. He leant against the nearest in a line of trees that burst through the paving slabs like the end of civilisation, and watched. The street was quiet at the best of times, almost silent at this hour. Just the background quiet roar of the city to remind him that life went on. An animal shriek in the distance stopped the cat mid-lick. It peered at McLean to see whether he had made the noise, then trotted off, disappearing into a nearby walled garden with an effortless leap.

Turning back to the driveway, McLean faced the blank edifice of his grandmother's house, the dark windows as empty as the old lady's coma-shrunk face. Eyes shutter-closed against the never-dark night. Visiting the hospital was a duty he undertook willingly, but coming here felt more like a chore. The house he'd grown up in was long gone, the life of the place leached out of it as surely as it had been leached out of his grandmother until there was nothing left but bones of stone and memories gone sour. He half wished the cat would come back; any company right now would be welcome. But he knew it was really just a distraction. He'd come here to do a job; might as well get on with it.

A week's worth of junk mail littered the front hallway. McLean scooped it up and took it through to the library. Most of the furniture was covered in white sheets, adding to the other-wordliness of the house, but his grandmother's desk was still clear. He checked the phone for messages, deleting the telesales offerings without bothering to listen to them. Should probably switch the machine off, really, but you never knew if some old family friend might be trying to get in touch. The junk mail went into the bin, which he noticed would need emptying soon. There were two bills that he'd have to remember to forward onto the solicitors dealing with his grandmother's affairs. Just the walk-around and he could go home. Maybe even get some sleep.

McLean had never really been afraid of the dark. Perhaps it was because the monsters had come when he was four, taken his parents away from him. The worst had happened and he'd survived. After that, the darkness held no fear. And yet he found himself switching lights on so that he never had to cross a room in darkness. The house was large, far larger than one elderly lady needed. Most of the neighbouring houses had been turned into at least two apartments, but this one still held out, and with a substantial walled garden surrounding it. Christ alone knew what it was worth; one more thing he'd have to worry about in the fullness of time. Unless his grandmother had left everything to some cat charity. That wouldn't really surprise him; definitely her style.

He stopped, hand reaching up to flick off the light switch, and realised it was the first time he'd thought about the consequences of her being dead. The possibility of her dying. Sure, it had always been there, lurking at the back of his mind, but all the months he'd been visiting her in the hospital it had been with the thought that eventually there would be some improvement in her condition. Today, for whatever reason, he had finally accepted that wasn't going to happen. It was both sad and oddly relieving.

And then his eyes noticed where he was.

His grandmother's bedroom was not the largest in the house, but it was still probably bigger than McLean's entire Newington flat. He stepped into the room, running a hand over the bed still made up with the sheets she'd slept in the night before she'd had her stroke. He opened up wardrobes to reveal clothes she'd never wear again, then crossed the room to where a Japanese silk dressing gown had been thrown over the chair that stood in front of her dressing table. A hairbrush lying bristles up held strands of her hair; long white filaments that glinted in the harsh yellow-white glow of the lights reflected in an antique mirror. A few bottles of scent were arranged on a small silver tray to one side of it, a couple of ornately-framed photographs to the other. This was his grandmother's most private space. He'd been in here before, sent to fetch something as a boy or nipping through to the bathroom to pinch a bar of soap, but he'd never lingered, never really taken much notice of the place. He felt slightly uneasy just being in here, and at the same time fascinated.

The dressing table was the focus of the room, much more so than the bed. This was where his grandmother prepared herself for the world outside, and McLean was pleased to see that one of the photographs was of him. He remembered the day it was taken, when he passed out of Tullialan. That was probably the tidiest his uniform had ever been. Police Constable McLean, on the fast track sure, but still expected to pound the beat like any other copper.

The other photo showed his parents, taken at their wedding. Looking at the two pictures together, it was clear that he'd inherited most of his looks from his father. They must have been similar ages when the two photographs were taken, and apart from the difference in film quality, they could almost have been brothers. McLean stared at the image for a while. He barely knew these people, hardly ever thought about them anymore.

Other photographs were dotted about the room; some on the walls, some in frames on the top of a wide, low chest of drawers that undoubtedly contained underwear. Some were pictures of his grandfather, the dour old gentleman whose portrait hung above the fireplace in the dining room downstairs, presiding over the head of the table. They charted his life, from young man through to old age in a series of black-and-white jumps. Other pictures were of his father, and then his mother too as she came into his life. There were a couple of McLean's grandmother too, as a strikingly beautiful young woman dressed in the most fashionable of 1930s clothes. The last of these showed her flanked by two smiling gentlemen, also dressed for the period, and in the background the familiar columns of the National Monument on Calton Hill. McLean stared at the photograph for long moments before he realised what was bothering him about it. On his grandmother's left was his grandfather, William McLean, quite obviously the same man who appeared in so many of the other pictures. But it was the man on her right, one arm around her waist and smiling at the camera as if the world were his oyster, who looked the spitting image of the photos of the newly married man and the fresh out of training college Police Constable.

~~~~

4

'Just what exactly's gone missing, Mr Douglas?'

McLean tried to settle himself into the uncomfortable sofa; there were lumps in the cushions that felt like bricks. Giving up, he looked around the room as, beside him, Detective Sergeant Bob Laird, Grumpy Bob to all his friends, took down notes in a long, loopy scrawl.

It was a well-furnished room, the lumpen sofa notwithstanding. An Adam fireplace filled one wall, a collection of tasteful oil paintings covering the rest. Two more sofas formed a neat cordon around the hearth, though all that filled it in the sweltering summer heat was a neat arrangement of dried flowers. Mahogany dominated, the smell of polish competing with the faint odour of cat. Everything was old but valuable, even the man sitting opposite.

'Nothing was taken from here.' Eric Douglas touched his black-rimmed spectacles with a nervous finger, pushing them up to the bridge of his long nose. 'They went straight to the safe. Almost as if they knew exactly where it was.'

'Perhaps you could show us, sir.' McLean stood up before his legs went numb. He might gain useful information from seeing the safe, but even more he needed to move. Douglas lead them through the house to a small study that looked like it had been hit by a tornado. A wide antique desk was piled with books, pulled from the oak shelves behind to reveal a safe door. It hung open on its hinges.

'This is pretty much how I found it.' Douglas stood in the doorway, as if not entering the room might make it revert to normal. McLean pushed past him and picked his way carefully behind the desk. Telltale grey-white dust on the shelves and around the frame of the one large window showed that the fingerprint specialist had already been and gone. She was still busy elsewhere in the house, dusting doorframes and windowsills. He fished in his jacket pocket for a pair of rubber gloves anyway, snapping them on before reaching for the small pile of papers still sitting on the floor of the safe.

'They took the jewellery, left the share certificates. They're worthless anyway. It's all electronic these days.'

'How'd they get in?' McLean replaced the papers and turned his attention to the window. It was painted solid, no obvious sign of having been opened in the past decade, let alone the last twenty-four hours.

'All the doors were locked when I got back from the funeral. And the alarm was still set. I've really no idea how anyone could have got in.'

'Funeral?'

'Mother.' A frown passed over Mr Douglas' face. 'She passed away last week.'

McLean silently cursed himself for not paying attention. Mr Douglas was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and black tie. And the whole house felt empty; it had that indefinable air of a place where someone has recently died. He should have known of the bereavement before barging in and asking questions. He cast his mind back over the meeting so far, trying to remember if anything he had said might have been insensitive.

'I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Douglas. Tell me, was the funeral well-advertised?'

'I'm not sure what you mean. There was an announcement in the paper; time and place, that sort of... Oh.'

'There are evil people who'll take advantage of your grief, sir. The men who did this probably keep an eye on the papers. Can you show me the alarm?'

They left the study, crossing the hall once more. Mr Douglas opened a door tucked under the wide staircase, revealing a set of stone steps leading down to the basement. Just inside the door, a slim white control panel flickered green lights. McLean studied it for a while, noting down the name of the company who serviced it. Penstemmin Alarms, a well-respected firm, and a sophisticated system too.

'You know how to set this properly?'

'I'm not a fool, Inspector. This house contains many valuable things. Some of the paintings are worth six figure sums, but to me they are priceless. I set the alarm myself before making my way to Mortonhall.'

'I'm sorry, sir. I just need to be sure.' McLean slipped his notebook into his pocket. The SOC officer trudged down the stairs. He caught the eye of the young technician but she just shook her head, crossed the hall and went out of the door.

'We'll not take any more of your time, but if you could supply us with a detailed description of the stolen items, that would be very helpful.'

'My insurance company has a full inventory, I'll have them send you a copy.'

*

Outside, McLean approached the SOC officer as she struggled out of her overalls and threw her equipment into the back of her car. She was the new girl he'd seen at the Smythe murder scene; quite striking with her pale skin and unruly mop of black hair. Her eyes were lined with some kind of thick mascara; either that or she'd been on a serious bender.

'Find anything?'

'Not in the study, no. Place is as clean as a nun's mind. There's plenty prints around the rest of the house, but nothing unusual. Probably the owner's mostly. I'll need to get a set of reference prints.'

McLean swore. 'They cremated her this morning.'

'Well, there's not much we can do anyway. There's no sign of forced entry, no prints or other marks in the room with the safe.'

'Get me what you can, eh?' McLean nodded his thanks to the SOC officer and watched as she drove off. He turned back to the anonymous pool car Grumpy Bob had signed out that morning when he'd been handed the case. His first proper case since being made up to inspector. It wasn't much, really; a burglary that would be damned hard to solve unless they got lucky. Why couldn't it just be some crackhead stealing the video to pay for his next fix? Of course, something like that would have been left to a sergeant to investigate. Mr Douglas must have had some influence to get an inspector involved in such a minor crime, however new he was to the job.

'What d'you want to do next, sir?' Grumpy Bob looked across from the driver's seat as McLean climbed into the car.

'Back to the station. Let's make a start on putting these notes into some sort of order. See if there's anything similar in the unsolved pile.'

He settled himself into the passenger seat and watched the city flow by as they drove back through the busy streets. They'd only gone five minutes when Grumpy Bob's airwave set went off. McLean picked it up, fiddling with the unfamiliar buttons until he managed to answer the call.

'McLean.'

'Ah, Inspector. I tried your mobile, but it doesn't seem to be switched on.' McLean recognised the voice of Pete the duty sergeant. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, pressing the power button. It had been fully charged when he'd left home that morning, but now, just a few hours later, it was as dead as a old Mrs Douglas.

'Sorry, Pete. Battery's gone. What can I do for you, anyway?'

'Got a case for you, if you're not too busy that is. The super said it would be right up your street.'

McLean groaned, wondering what petty misdemeanour he'd be given now.

'Go on, Pete. Give us the details.'

'Farquhar House, sir. Over in Sighthill. Some builder phoned, said they'd uncovered a dead body.'

~~~~