Natural Causes (24 page)

'Oh? I always thought she was bright.'

'She was. Quite the most brilliant mind I've ever encountered. Razor sharp, could learn anything easily. But she had one huge handicap. She was a woman.'

'They had women doctors in the thirties.'

'Oh yes. A few intrepid souls. But it wasn't easy getting there. It wasn't enough to be as good as the men, you had to be better. Esther, well, she relished that kind of challenge, but it did make her quite single-minded. I'm afraid that for all my charms, I just couldn't compete.'

'It must have been very galling then, when my grandfather came along.'

'Bill?' Wemyss shrugged. 'He was always there. But he was a med student too, so he got to spend more time with Esther than the rest of us.'

'Rest of us?'

'Are you interrogating me, inspector?' Wemyss smiled. 'Or may I call you Tony?'

'Of course. Sorry. For both. I should have said. And it's a habit I'm afraid. All part of being a detective.'

'That surprised me, when I heard.' Wemyss drained his coffee and put the cup down on the table.

'Me being a detective? Why?'

'It's an odd choice. I mean, your grandmother was a doctor, Bill too. Your dad was a lawyer. Would've been a good one if he'd had the chance. Why did you decide to join the police?'

'Well, I never had the brains to be a doctor for one thing.' McLean could picture his grandmother's resigned disappointment each time he came home with yet more poor results in his science subjects. 'As to being a lawyer, it never really occurred to me. My father wasn't exactly a great influence on my life.'

Something like sadness passed over Wemyss' face, though it was difficult to tell through all the reconstructive surgery.

'Your father. Yes. John was a bright lad. I remember him well. I was very fond of him.'

'It seems you know more of my family than I do, Mr Wemyss.'

'Gavin, please. Only my employees call me Mr Wemyss, and even then only when I'm in earshot.'

Gavin. It didn't feel right. Like calling his gran Esther or his grandfather Bill. McLean swilled the coffee dregs around the bottom of his cup, eyed the caffetiere in hope of a refill, unsure whether it was because the coffee was so good or just that he needed a prop to overcome his discomfort. And that was the problem. Why was he uncomfortable in this man's presence? Apart from his disfigurement, and it couldn't be that, Wemyss was nothing if not the perfect gentleman. An old family friend helping out at a time of grieving. So why were McLean's guts telling him something wasn't right.

'Actually, that brings me to another thing,' Wemyss said. 'How would you like to come and work for me?'

McLean almost dropped his coffee cup. 'What?'

'I'm serious. You're wasted in the police, and if what I've heard is true, you're not going to get much further up the greasy pole. Not a politician, am I right?'

McLean nodded his head, unsure quite what to say. It seemed he wasn't the only one playing detective here.

'Whereas I don't give a shit about that kind of thing. It's a person's capabilities that I'm interested in. Like Jethro there. Most people wouldn't have given him a first chance, the way he's built, the way he talks. Not good with words, is Jethro. But he's brighter than he looks and he gets the job done. You get the job done, Tony. That's what I've heard about you. I could use a man with your skills. And let's face it, your training as well.'

'I don't really know what to say.' Except that Grumpy Bob would kill him if he left the force. And why was he even considering it? He loved being a detective, always had. But it wasn't as much fun being an inspector as he'd imagined it would be when he was still a sergeant. And then there were times when the endless stream of shit started to wear you down, it was true. It would be nice to do something where you could stop occasionally and view your achievements with a sense of pride. Nowadays there was barely time to catch a breath before you had to plunge straight back into the shit.

'Just think about it, aye?' Wemyss smiled again, and something familiar ghosted across his disfigured face. Something in those dark eyes, made deeper still by the livid pink and white of the scar tissue surrounding them. What terrible accident had befallen this man to leave him so disfigured? What would it be like to work for a man who had carried that with him for so long? And what harm was there in thinking about the offer? It wasn't as if he was going to take it up, after all.

'OK, Gavin. I will.'

~~~~

43

The car was still there, lurking at the back of the converted coach house that served as garages. He'd walked straight here from Gavin Wemyss' house, mind working overtime at the strange offer the old man had made. It was still just a philosophical question, of course. There was no way he'd leave the force. But it was interesting nonetheless to imagine travelling around the world, troubleshooting problems in the far-flung empire that was Wemyss Industries. Except that he had no real idea what it was that Wemyss Industries did, beyond the vague memory of a company logo on some computer equipment and the occasional snippet of information read in a paper or seen on the news that for whatever reason had lodged in his mind.

Shaking his head, McLean turned his attention to the other mystery the conversation had brought him. He had to move the old lawnmower and several boxes before he could get close enough to pull off the tailored cover, but when he did, the car beneath brought back so many memories.

It was a darker red than he had remembered, the paintwork glossy like new. The tiny mirrors, heart-shaped grille and hubcaps were shiny chrome, though winter road salt had pitted some of the metal. He ran a hand over the roof, tried the door handle. The car was locked, but the keys were on their hook in the box screwed to the wall by the door into what had once been a tack room. The stiff lock resisted at first, then gave with a creaking that spoke of expensive restoration bills to come, which was when he realised he, like his grandmother before him, was going to keep this car alive, the last memento of his long-dead father. What was it MacBride had said when they'd visited Penstemmin Alarms? 'They say you don't even own a car?' Well, he did now.

Inside, the black leather seats seemed impossibly small and thin compared to the bulky padded things he was used to finding in the faceless pool cars he drove most days. The steering wheel was thin as he sunk down behind it, metal spokes pointing to a tiny central boss designed in a time when airbags were a fantasy, and the waiting list for donated organs much shorter. Even seat belts had been an optional extra. That much he remembered his father telling him; a memory he'd not thought about in decades. Those childhood weekends when his parents had taken him out on long trips to the Borders. The endless parade of ruined castles and abbeys had bored him, but the smell of those seats and the thrum of the engine were another thing altogether.

He took a deep breath. It smelled exactly as he had remembered. He put the key in the ignition, turned it one click. Nothing. Well, that was hardly surprising. The car had been stood unused in well over two years. He'd have to dig out the number of that garage out in Loanhead where it used to go for its servicing. Get them to recommission it or whatever it was you did with old cars. Check the brakes, put new tyres on, that sort of things. Reluctantly, McLean climbed out of the car, put everything back the way he'd found it and locked up the garage.

*

The folder for the car was in the filing cabinet exactly where it should have been. McLean was surprised to see that it had been taxed and insured at the time of is grandmother's stroke. He wondered if the solicitors had kept up the payments; they'd probably sent him a note about it at some point and he'd filed it in the things to do pile. There was a lot of stuff in that pile and sooner or later he was going to have to wade through it. Bad enough the paperwork at the office. Did he really have to deal with that shit at home too? Of course he did. That was life, and there was no getting around it.

The phone ringing sent a shock through him as if he'd been wired up to the mains. It had been so quiet in the garage, and now in the house. And who would be phoning him here anyway? Not many people even had the number. He picked the phone up quickly, barked into it louder than he'd intended.

'McLean.'

'That's not a very friendly telephone manner, inspector.' He recognised the voice.

'Sorry, Emma. It's been a long day.'

'Tell me about it. Some of us have been trying to match cocaine samples with known supplies all day. Have you any idea how many different chemicals get mixed in with the average line of blow?'

There'd been a briefing some time last year. Drug Squad trying to show the little detectives how much more important and difficult their job was. It was a war, after all. McLean vaguely recalled some technical stuff about how cocaine was made, and all the shit it got mixed with between the Colombian forests and the end user with his rolled up ten pound note. 'Don't think I don't appreciate it. You get anywhere?'

'Nope. Well, that's not exactly true. It doesn't match any known profile in the UK, but then that's hardly surprising since it's pure.'

'Uncut?'

'Totally. I've never seen anything like it. You can double whatever you thought it was worth. Just as well you're not a coke-head too. A couple of lines would have killed you.'

Very reassuring. 'What about the prints? You get anything off them?'

'Sorry, no. Too degraded. I checked them against McReadie first, but there's just not enough detail to make a watertight case. If I had to guess I'd say they were his, but it'd never stand up in court.'

McLean flicked through the folder on the desk in front of him before realising it was the paperwork for the car.

'Oh well. You tried. Thanks for that. I owe you.'

'You do indeed, inspector. Dinner if I recall. And as I understand it, you're at a loose end right now.'

Forward. That's what Grumpy Bob had said. Well, he couldn't fault the sergeant's character analysis any more than he could fault Emma's logic. McLean glanced at his watch, seven o'clock, wondered what had happened to most of the day.

'Where are you now? HQ?'

'No, I'm at the station. Just been delivering some stuff to the evidence store. Dropped by your office, but they told me you were... well.'

Policemen were nothing if not gossips. No doubt his temporary suspension was all over Lothian and Borders by now. Bloody marvellous.

'OK. I'll meet you in an hour shall I?' He suggested a convenient restaurant, then hung up. Stared at the wall for a while. Outside, across the city people were gearing themselves up for another night of Festival and Fringe, bustle and having fun. He wasn't sure his mood could take much exposure to that. His nice, comfortable, boring, safe old life was slowly unravelling, and he was powerless to do anything about it. His instinct was to hide away. He fought against it. Take control of the situation, that was the answer.

The folder lay open still on the desk in front of him. Well, there was always tomorrow to deal with that. He shuffled the papers together to put them away, and that was when he noticed the photograph tucked into the back. It must have been taken when the car was brand new, the colours slightly unreal, vivid as if the intervening years had faded the world to what he saw now. His mother and father stood in front of the Alfa, itself parked in front of an old-fashioned garage forecourt. He was there too, short trousers and tidy jacket, one hand clutching a teddy bear, the other enveloped in his mother's grip. He flipped the photo over, but there was nothing except the watermark of the paper manufacturer. Back to the image again and as he stared at it the vaguest stirrings of memory. Could he really remember that day, that hour, that second? Or was he just constructing a possible scenario around the fact of the photograph?

He laid it back down on top of the rest of the paperwork, closed the folder. He didn't know these people, no longer felt any emotion when he saw them. But as he stood, put the folder back in the filing cabinet and pushed the drawer closed, he couldn't shake the image from his mind, couldn't help but see the smile in his father's dark eyes.

~~~~

44

They went to a Thai restaurant close to the station. McLean had eaten there often before, mostly with large groups of hungry policemen.

'What's good? I don't think I've ever eaten Thai.' Emma took a sip from her beer; she'd ordered a pint, he noticed.

'That depends. Do you like spicy, or would you prefer something a bit easier?'

'Spicy, always. The hotter the better.'

McLean smiled; he enjoyed a challenge. 'OK, then. I'd suggest you start with Gung Dong and follow up with a panang. See if you've got room for one of their coconut cream puddings after that.'

'Are you this knowledgeable about everything, inspector?' Emma raised an inquisitive eyebrow and shook her short black hair out of her face. McLean knew she was teasing him, but couldn't help taking the bait.

'I'm told even inspectors get to clock off now and then. Besides, I'm on leave until Monday. And you can call me Tony, you know.'

'So what does an inspector do when he's not at work, Tony?'

For the past eighteen months, since I found her unconscious in her favourite armchair, visiting my gran in hospital. Or at work, or just maybe at home asleep. McLean couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the cinema or a show. He hadn't been on holiday for more than a couple of days at a time and even then all he'd done was take his old mountain bike out into the Pentland Hills, wondering why they were so much steeper every time.

'Mostly I go to the pub,' he said, shrugging. 'Or Thai restaurants.'

'Not alone, I hope,' Emma laughed. 'That would be very sad.'

McLean didn't say anything, and Emma's laughter died away to embarrassed silence. It had been far too long since he'd done anything like this; he didn't really know what to say.

'I brought my gran here once,' he finally managed. 'Before she had her stroke.'

'She was very special to you, wasn't she.'

'You could say that. When I was four years old, my parents were killed in a plane crash just south of Inverness. Gran raised me as if I were her own child.'

'Oh Tony, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise.'

'It's all right. I got over it a long time ago. When you're four you adapt quickly. But gran dying, well to me that felt a lot more like I'd imagine losing a parent would feel. And she was in a coma for so long. It was horrible seeing her just waste away like that.'

'My dad died a few years back,' Emma said. 'Drunk himself to death. Can't really say me or my mum were that sad to see the back of him. Is that wrong?'

'I don't know. No. I wouldn't have thought so. Was he a violent man?'

'Not really, just careless.'

'You have any brothers or sisters?' McLean tried to move the conversation away from the maudlin.

'No, there's just me.'

'And what does an SOC officer do with her spare time. Assuming she has any, that is.'

Emma laughed. 'Probably no more than a detective inspector. It's very easy to get absorbed by work, and being on twenty-four hour call-out plays havoc with your social life.'

'Sounds like you've had a few bitter experiences.'

'Haven't we all?'

'So you're not seeing anyone at the moment?'

'You're the detective, Tony. Do you think I'd be sitting in here drinking beer and eating curry with you if I was?'

'Sorry, stupid question. Tell me about cocaine and all the strange things dealers think of to mix it with.'

It was perhaps a little sad, but he found it easier to talk about work than anything else. Emma seemed happier on that topic too, and he suspected that her father had been more than just careless. All our lives defined by the endless little tragedies. By the time their food arrived, they were deep in conversation about the need for absolute cleanliness in the lab. The meal passed in a succession of anecdotes about work colleagues and before long he'd paid the bill and they were stepping out into the night.

'That pudding was gorgeous. What was it called again?' Emma slipped her arm through his, leaning close as they walked slowly up the street.

'Kanom bliak bun, at least I think that's how they pronounce it.' Where they were going, McLean had no idea. He had approached the meal as a chore, an obligation in repayment for a favour. It was something of a surprise to him to find company so enjoyable. And he really hadn't planned anything. The night had turned chill, a north-easterly breeze coming in off the sea. Her body was warm against his side. Years of practice at being alone urged him to push her away, to keep his distance, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he ignored it. 'D'you fancy a nightcap?'

They started off in the Guildford Arms because it was close and served decent beer. After that, Emma suggested they try and find a fringe comedy show that wasn't sold out. McLean suspected she knew where she was going all along, but he was happy to be lead. The bar they eventually managed to get into was tiny and packed with sweaty people. It was an open mic night and a series of hopeful comedians braved a hostile and inebriated audience for their scant minutes of fame. Some of them were quite good, others so bad they raised more of a laugh anyway. By the time the last act had finished and the bar emptied, it was two in the morning and the street outside was noticeable for a complete lack of taxis. McLean fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, pulling it out and staring at the screen in consternation.

'Damned battery's dead again. I swear I'm jinxed when it comes to these bloody things.'

'You should talk to Malky Watt in the SOC office. He's got a theory about people's auras and how some can suck the life out of electrical devices. Especially if someone powerful is thinking negative thoughts about you.'

'He sounds a right nutter.'

'Yup. That'd be about right.'

'It never used to happen to me. Just the last month or so. I've tried changing phones, new batteries, everything. Bloody thing's useless unless it's plugged into the wall, which kind of defeats the point.'

'I see what you mean.' Emma looked at the blank screen on the phone. 'Never mind. My flat's only five minutes from here. You can phone for a taxi from there.'

'Oh, right. I was going to try and get one for you, not me. I can walk back to Newington from here, no bother. I kind of like the city late at night. Reminds me of when I was on the beat. Come on, I'll walk you home.' McLean held out his arm and Emma took it once more.

Her flat was in a terrace of stone houses down in Warriston, backing onto the Water of Leith. McLean shivered as they reached the road-end.

'Cold, inspector?' Emma reached around him with her arm and pulled him against her. He tensed.

'No, not cold. Something else. I'd rather not go into it.'

She looked at him strangely. 'OK.' Then continued to walk. McLean kept up with her, but the moment had gone. He couldn't stop himself from looking back to the bridge where he'd found Kirsty's dead body, all those years ago.

They reached her door after a couple of hundred yards. Emma fished around in her bag for a set of keys. 'You want to come in for a coffee?'

He was tempted, sorely. She was warm and friendly, she smelled of carefree days and fun. For the whole evening, she had chased away his ghosts, but now they were back. If she'd lived in any other street, he might have said yes.

'I can't.' He made a show of looking at his watch. 'I've got to get back. It's been a long day today, and it looks like tomorrow's going to be even worse.'

'Liar, you're supposed to be on leave. You can sleep in as late as you like. You've no idea how much I envy you.' Emma punched him playfully on the chest. 'But it's all right. I've got to be in the lab for eight. This was fun, though.'

'Yeah, it was. We should do it again.'

'Is that a date, Inspector McLean?'

'Ah, I don't know about that. If it was a date, I'd have to cook for you.'

'Fine. I'll bring the wine.' Emma stepped close to him, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, backing away and darting up the steps before he had time to react. 'Night, Tony,' she shouted as she unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

It wasn't until he was halfway back to Princes Street that McLean realised he hadn't thought about Constable Kydd all evening.

~~~~