Natural Causes (12 page)

'You want to go back there now, sir?'

'No. I want to go and look at the house again. Sooner or later I'm going to have to let McAllister get on with his work. I know SOC have wiped the place clean. But I need to see it for myself one more time.'

*

A deserted building greeted their arrival, the portacabins locked. Heavy plywood boards filled the ground floor windows and a solid hasp and padlock denied entry through the door. McLean told Constable MacBride to get on the phone for a key, then set off around the grounds to see what he could find.

Unusually for a house of this type, the ornamental tower was at the back. From the number of broken slates and flaked off plasterwork lying in the overgrown garden, McLean guessed no-one had lived in the house for many years. Brambles twined their way up the damp walls towards the broken first storey windows, and what must once have been a lawn was dotted with substantial saplings from a nearby sycamore. The whole was surrounded by a high stone wall topped with broken glass set in crumbling mortar. A well-worn path led to a small arched gateway. The old wooden door lay in the undergrowth, rotting, the gap it left now filled with more thick plywood. Tommy McAllister was obviously less welcoming of Sighthill's addicts and vandals than Farquhar's Bank.

It took only ten minutes for a car to arrive with keys; the young constable who had guarded the site the night the body had been uncovered.

'You going to be finished with this place soon, sir? Only I've had that Tommy McAllister on the phone three times a day, bending my ear about paying workmen to do nothing.' She unlocked the padlock and pocketed the key.

'I'll bear that in mind, constable, but I'm not conducting this investigation for Mr McAllister's convenience.'

'Aye, I know that sir. But you don't have to listen to him, do you.'

'Well if he complains, tell him to come to me,' McLean said.

'I'll do that, sir. And I'll leave you to lock up after you're done.' The constable turned away, heading back to her squad car. McLean shook his head and stepped into the old house, realising as he did that he still didn't know her name.

Police tape barred entry to the basement, but when he stepped under it and went down the stone stairs, McLean was certain someone had been in and cleared up. The plaster debris around the hole that revealed the hidden chamber was all gone, only clean-swept flagstones now. It was possible that SOC had tidied before they left, but that would have been a first.

Pulling out his torch, he stepped through the small hole and into the room. It felt very different, now that the poor tortured body had been removed. There were six neat holes, spaced at regular intervals around the smooth plastered wall. He peered into every one of them in turn, not expecting to see anything much. They were simple alcoves made by removing some of the bricks that lined the whole basement. Beneath each, a small pile of plaster and wood spokes showed how they had been concealed.

'Is this where she was found?' McLean looked around to see DC MacBride standing in the entrance, blocking the light from the bare bulbs outside. He hadn't been to the crime scene before, McLean realised.

'This is it, constable. Come in and have a look around. Tell me what you see.'

MacBride had a larger torch than his own, McLean noticed. It might have been part of the pool car's standard equipment, but he doubted it. The constable walked slowly around the room, playing his light on the ceiling, then the floor and the four small holes where the nails had been driven in. Finally he looked at the walls, running his hand over the plaster.

'It's a nightmare plastering a round room,' he said. 'Whoever did this was a skilled builder.'

McLean stared at him. Then looked back at the alcoves and the arch of the original doorway that had been bricked up to conceal the horrible crime. How could he have been so stupid?

'That's it.'

'That's what?'

'The work that's been done here. Concealing the alcoves, bricking up the doorway. You'd need a builder to do that.'

'Well, yes.'

'And if we're going with the ritual theory, that would suggest educated men. If they came to parties at places like this, then wealthy men, too.'

'So?'

'So sixty years ago, wealthy men didn't do DIY. They wouldn't know a plasterer's trowel from a pick-axe.'

'I don't see...'

'Think about it, constable. The organs were hidden in the alcoves, which means the plastering happened after the girl was killed. Whoever did this, they had to employ someone to finish all this off. And that person must have seen what was in here. Now how do you suppose the killers stopped him from talking about what he'd seen?'

'Killed him after he'd done the job?'

'Exactly. There's no way they could have let him live.'

'But how does that help? I mean, if he's dead, then... Well, that's it. And if they hid his body?'

'You're forgetting something, constable. We can't begin to trace the girl through missing persons because we don't know anything about her. She could have been a vagrant, a foreigner, anything. But whoever plastered this room, hid these alcoves. He was a tradesman, and probably a local.'

'But couldn't he have been one of them? One of the six, I mean.'

McLean paused, his train of deduction derailed by MacBride's remorseless logic. Then he remembered the items placed in the alcoves. A gold cuff-link, silver cigarette case, netsuke box, pill case, tie pin. Only the spectacles might have belonged to a labourer in the nineteen-forties, and even then it was unlikely, wasn't it?

'It's possible,' he conceded. 'But I think it's unlikely. And for now it's the best line of investigation we've got. We might have to go through twenty years of paper records, but there'll be something about a missing plasterer. Find him and we can find who he worked for.'

~~~~

19

'Oh, Mr McLean. Just a minute, I've a package for you.'

McLean paused at the bottom of the stairs, trying not to breathe in the smell of cat piss. Old Mrs McCutcheon must have been sitting in her little inner hall, waiting for him to come in. She left her door open whilst she disappeared back into the depths of her apartment. No sooner had she gone, than a slim black cat came snaking out, head bobbing as it sniffed the air. For a moment McLean had a mad fancy that the old woman was a witch and had turned into this creature. Perhaps she made a habit of wandering the night-time streets of Newington, peering in windows and seeing what everyone was up to. That would certainly explain how she knew so much about what was going on.

'I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a good woman.' Mrs McCutcheon came back out with a large parcel clutched in her wrinkled and shaky hands. The cat twined around her legs, threatening to topple her over. So much for that theory.

'Thankyou, Mrs M. That's very kind of you.' McLean took the parcel before she dropped it.

'Mind you, I'd no idea she'd done so much with her life. And to lose her son like that and... Oh.' Mrs McCutcheon's eyes met his for a moment, then she dropped her gaze to the floor. 'Oh I'm so sorry. Of course. He must have been your father.'

'Please, Mrs M. Don't worry about it,' McLean said. 'It was a long time ago, after all. But how did you find out about it?'

'Och it's in the paper.' She disappeared back into the apartment, appearing moments later with that day's edition of the Scotsman. 'Here, you can keep it. I've read it all now.'

McLean thanked her again, then climbed the winding stone stairs to the top floor and his own flat. The answering machine was flashing a big red number two; he hit the button, putting down the parcel and paper as the tiny tape rewound.

'Hi Tony, Phil here. Put your handcuffs away and meet us in the pub at eight. Jen tells me you've been cross-dressing and I want to know all the details.'

The machine beeped, then spoke a second message.

'Inspector McLean? It's Jonas Carstairs here. Just confirming that the funeral is set for midday on Monday. I've arranged for a car to pick you up at eleven. Call me if you need anything else. You've got my home and mobile numbers. Oh, you should get a package over the weekend. It's just copies of all the legal papers and other stuff relating to your grandmother's estate. Thought you might like to have a look through it all. We can discuss the details later. '

McLean looked at the parcel. It was stamped with the postmark of the solicitors firm, Carstairs Weddell. He opened it and pulled out a thick wad of papers, still smelling slightly of the photocopier. The top sheet bore a flowery script reading 'Last Will and Testament,' and he was about to read it when the answering machine beeped once more.

'Please help me. Please find me. Please save me. Please. Please.'

The voice sent a shiver up his spine. It was a young woman, maybe a girl. Her accent was strange to him. Scottish, east coast, but not Edinburgh. He looked at the answering machine; the red LED readout said two. Two messages. He hit play again, waiting impatiently as the tape spooled back. Phil's cheery voice came on, then Jonas Carstairs. Then nothing. The machine clunked and stopped.

He rewound and played the messages twice more. Still only two. Going through into his study, he fished around in his desk for an old dictation machine, then spent ten minutes looking for batteries for it. He put the tape from the answering machine in it, played it from the start. There was the outgoing message; did his voice really sound so dreary and bored? Then a short gap followed by Phil's message. Another short gap then Jonas. A bunch of old messages that hadn't been overwritten by new ones yet, but nothing that sounded remotely like what he had heard before. Or what he thought he'd heard. And then silence. He let it play a bit more, then hit fast forward. The dictaphone would play anything that had been recorded, but at fast speed. He should have been able to hear the girl. But there was just a gap and then a succession of very old messages stretching out for a few minutes. Then silence.

Had he imagined it? It seemed an odd hallucination if that was the case. And yet the tape sped forward silently until it reached the end. He pulled it out, turned it over, hit play.

'Hi, this is Tony and Kirsty's phone. We're far too busy righting wrongs and fighting crime to answer it right now. You'll just have to make do with leaving a message after the tone.'

McLean sunk slowly to his knees, the muscles in his legs no longer prepared to hold his weight. He was dimly aware of the room around him, but it was a darker place, indistinct. Her voice. How many years had it been since he'd heard her voice? That final, fateful, lying 'See you later'? And all the while it had been on this tape in this stupid machine.

Without thinking, he hit rewind and played the message again. Her words echoed in the empty flat, and for a time it felt as if the city noise melted away. He looked around the room, seeing the same old pictures on the wall; the rug, a little threadbare now, covering the pale sanded floorboards; the narrow table beside the door where the telephone lived, and his keys. They'd bought that in the old architectural salvage place down in Duddingston. Nest building, Phil had called it. So little of his flat had changed since Kirsty had died. She'd gone so suddenly, she'd even left her voice behind.

The door buzzer startled McLean out of his melancholy. For a moment he considered not answering, pretending to be out. He could spend an evening listening to her voice and believing she might come back. But he knew that was impossible. He'd seen her cold dead corpse laid out on the slab. Watched her coffin slide behind the final curtain. He picked up the intercom.

'Yes?'

It was Phil. McLean buzzed open the door, realising as he did that the students downstairs must have stopped propping it open with rocks. He cracked open his own front door and listened to the sound of footsteps clambering upwards. More than one set, so Phil must have brought Rachel with him. That was ominous; his old flatmate always came to visit alone.

They burst into the flat, Phil, Rachel and Jenny, laughing at some joke they'd shared on the way up. The laughter died all too quickly.

'Jesus, Tony. You look like you've seen a ghost.' Phil stepped into the hallway like he still lived there; the two young women stood uncertainly in the doorway. For a moment, McLean felt bitter resentment at their presence. He wanted to be alone with his misery. Then he realised just how daft that was. Kirsty was gone. He had come to terms with that long ago. Hearing her voice had just taken him by surprise.

'You caught me at a bad moment, sorry. Ladies, come in. Make yourselves at home. I know Phil does.' He slipped the Dictaphone into his pocket, then pointed towards the living room door, hoping that it was tidy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in there. 'Would anyone like a drink?'

*

It was strange to have women in his flat. McLean was used to the dubious company of Grumpy Bob after a particularly heavy post-investigation celebration, and Phil came round occasionally, usually when he'd just split up with one of his students and needed to find solace in a bottle of malt whisky. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd entertained guests. He liked living alone, preferred to do his socialising in the pub. Which was why his kitchen was ill-stocked with any kind of food. He'd found a large packet of dry roasted peanuts, but it was approaching the first anniversary of its sell-by date and bulged ominously, like a dead man's stomach.

'What's up Tony? If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to avoid us.' He turned to see Phil standing in the doorway.

'Just looking for something to eat, Phil.' McLean opened a cupboard by way of demonstration.

'It's me, Tony. Your ex flat-mate, remember? You might be able to bullshit the stress councillor at work, but I've known you long enough. Something's up. Is it your gran?'

McLean looked at the packet of papers. He'd dumped them on the kitchen table along with the burglary reports and a file on the dead girl. Another reason why he preferred not to have guests. You never knew what they might find.

'It's not my gran, no Phil. I lost her eighteen months ago. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with that.'

'So what's bothering you then?'

'I found this. Just before you got here.' McLean fetched the dictaphone out of his pocket, set it down on the counter and hit play. The colour drained from Phil's face.

'Jesus, Tony. I'm sorry.' He sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. 'I remember that message. God it must be ten years ago. How on earth...?'

McLean began to explain, only then remembering the strange girl's voice that had prompted him to investigate the answering machine tape in the first place. He must have imagined it, but now it merged with Kirsty's words into a desperate plea from someone long dead, far beyond his reach. He shivered at the thought.

'You look like you could do with some company, mate.' Phil lifted the suspect bag of peanuts, prodding its tumescence before carrying it across to the bin and dropping it into the otherwise empty depths. 'And if Rache and me are going to help drink your extensive wine collection, we'll be needing pizza.'

'So it's serious then, you and Rachel?'

'I dunno. Maybe. I'm not getting any younger. And she's put up with me far longer than most.' Phil shuffled his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets and did a good impression of an embarrassed schoolboy. McLean couldn't help but laugh, and he felt instantly better for it. At almost the same instant music exploded from the living room. The Blue Nile belting out Tinseltown in the Rain far too loud, then quieting to a still-unfriendly level. McLean rushed through, meaning to ask them to turn it down, then remembered the nights he'd been kept awake by the students downstairs. It was Friday evening; everyone in the tenement except Mrs McCutcheon would be out enjoying themselves, and she was as deaf as a post. Why should he bother about being quiet?

Rachel sat perched on the edge of the sofa, looking slightly uncomfortable. She brightened up when Phil entered the living room just behind McLean. Jenny squatted down in front of the shelves that lined one wall, leafing through his record collection. Back turned, and with the music playing loud, she didn't notice them come in.

'Tony being a hopeless bachelor, there's no food in the house at all, only drink,' Phil said over the noise. 'So we're going to order pizza.'

'I thought we were going to the pub,' Rachel said. At her voice, Jenny looked up, turning. She reached for the volume control on the stereo, turned down the music.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I...' She flustered, turning pink.

'It's OK,' McLean said. 'You need to play them from time to time or the music fades away.'

'I don't think I know anyone who owns a record player anymore. And so many records. They must be worth a fortune.'

'That's not a record player, Jen,' Phil said. 'That's a Linn Sondek sound system worth slightly more than the gross domestic product of a small African dictatorship. Tony must like you a lot. He'd cut my hands off just for touching it.'

'Come off it Phil. I know you used to play that old Alison Moyet record of yours whenever I was out.'

'Alison Moyet! You insult me Detective Inspector McLean. I shall have to challenge you to a duel, sir.'

'The usual weapons?'

'Of course.'

'Then I accept your challenge.' McLean smiled as Jenny and Rachel looked on bemused. Phil disappeared from the room, returning moments later with two loofahs from the bathroom. They were brittle dry and covered with cobwebs, untouched in many years.

'Rachel will be my second. Jen, would you do the honours for our host?' Phil bowed, handing her one of the loofahs. 'In the hall, I think.'

'You're serious about this, aren't you?' Rachel said. In the background, Neil Buchanan had started to sing 'Stay,' his mournful tones at odds with the growing hilarity.

'Of course I am, my lady. Honour has been slighted, and now it must be regained.' He strode out into the hallway, and McLean followed.

'Umm, what are you doing?' Jenny asked him as he rolled up the rug and pushed it into one corner of the long, narrow hallway.

'Duelling with loofahs. It's how we used to settle arguments when we were students.'

'Men.' She rolled her eyes, handing the weapon over and retreating to a safe distance as Phil took his place at the kitchen door.

*

They were clearing up the mess when the pizza delivery man arrived. McLean was unsure who had won, but he felt better than he had done in days. The cynical detective in him realised that Phil had engineered the whole situation. Normally his old friend would have come round much later in the evening, most likely alone. They'd have listened to depressing music and drunk malt whisky, moaning about life and the terrible effects of getting old. By bringing the two sisters round with him, he'd turned it into more of a party. A vigil for Esther McLean, and in a manner his grandmother would have heartily approved.

Quite what she'd have made of Jenny, he wasn't so sure. She was a good bit older than her sister, which made her probably the same age as him. She'd changed from the outfit she'd been wearing in the shop, dressed casually in jeans and a plain white blouse. Without the makeup that was no doubt part of her working face, she was attractive in a slightly worn around the edges way. He wasn't really sure why he'd not noticed when they'd met before. Possibly because the lighting in the Newington Arms was hardly flattering; more likely because his mind had been full of mutilated bodies.