Natural Causes (25 page)

45

A harsh buzzing sound filtered in from the edges of his dreams, bringing McLean back to the land of the living. He opened an eye to stare at his bedside alarm. Six o'clock and he felt like death. It seemed rather unfair, after such a pleasant time the night before. And he'd been looking forward to that lie-in, too.

Reaching out, he hit the snooze button on the alarm. The buzzing continued and now he realised it was coming from the top of the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Stumbling out of bed, he reached his crumpled jacket just as the noise stopped. Underneath it, plugged into its charger, his phone flashed a single text message for him to contact the station. He was just about to call in when his home phone started to ring out in the hall.

Stomping out in his boxers, McLean reached the handset just as it, too rang off. He'd still not replaced the tape in the answering machine. Perhaps he'd go and buy a new one. Something digital that wouldn't preserve the voices of the dead. He looked down at the text message on the phone in his hand, hit the speed-dial number and asked to be put through. Ten minutes later he was showered, dressed and out the front door. Breakfast would have to wait.

*

Chill morning wind cut down the narrow street, sharpened by the tall buildings on either side. Lazy wind, his gran would have called it; goes straight through you rather than making the effort to go round. McLean shivered in his thin summer suit, still cold from no breakfast, too little sleep and a sudden, rude awakening with news he could have done without. Sometimes the life of an office worker seemed very attractive indeed; shift end and knock off. Go home safe in the knowledge that no-one was going to call in the middle of the night asking you to come in and process a few more reports, or whatever it was people in offices with normal jobs did.

Detective Constable MacBride was waiting for him at the entrance to the city mortuary, nervously loitering in the street like some fresh-faced first-year student wondering if he had the nerve to go alone into one of the Cowgate's more notorious pubs. He looked even colder than McLean felt, if that was possible.

'What's the story, constable,' McLean asked, flashing his warrant card to a young uniform carefully rolling out black and yellow tape around the vehicle entranceway.

'It's the young girl, sir. The one from the house in Sighthill. She... Well, I think you'd be better off talking to Doctor Sharp.'

Inside the building it was unusually busy. A SOC team were dusting everything in their search for fingerprints and other clues, watched by a nervous pathology assistant.

'What's happening, Tracy?' McLean asked. She looked relieved to see him, a familiar face in the chaos.

'Someone broke in here and stole one of our bodies. The mutilated girl. They took her preserved organs. too.'

'Anything else gone?'

'Gone, no. But they've been at the computers. We've got password protection, but when I came in mine was switched on. I could have sworn I turned it off last night. Didn't think much of it until we noticed the body gone. Nothing's been deleted as far as I can tell, but they could have made copies of any of my files.'

'And the other bodies in storage?' McLean looked out through the glass panes that separated the office from the autopsy theatre. Emma Baird was popping away with her flashgun. Stopped when she saw him and gave a cheery wave.

'Don't appear to have been touched. Whoever did this, they knew what they were looking for.'

'Chances are SOC won't find anything, then. It looks like this has been very well planned. Are you sure it went last night?'

'I can't be a hundred percent. It's not like we took her out every day to check. But the organs were stored in the secure room over there.' She pointed to a heavy wooden door with a small reinforced glass window in it at head height. 'They were there last night when I put the suicide victim's clothes away; gone this morning when I went to get another box of specimen jars. As soon as I noticed, I checked the drawers and she wasn't there.'

'What time did you leave last night?'

'About eight, I think. But there's someone here twenty-four hours a day. We never know when a body's going to come in.'

'I'm assuming not just anyone can walk in off the street in here.' McLean knew already the security measures in place. They weren't perfect, but they had seemed more than adequate before now. Enough to stop people coming in without authorisation. 'How do you suppose someone would take a body out of here? I mean, you can't exactly throw it over your shoulder and walk out onto the Cowgate.'

'Most bodies are brought here by ambulance or undertakers. Maybe they took her away that way?'

'Makes sense, I guess. How many bodies came in last night?'

'Let me check.' She turned to her computer, then paused. 'Is it OK to use this?'

McLean grabbed a passing SOC officer and asked the same question.

'Dusted it for prints, but it's unlikely we'll get anything off it. There's none on the security keypad, and nothing on the chiller doors. My guess is whoever did this was wearing gloves.'

'Go ahead then.' McLean nodded to Tracy. She clicked a few keys.

'We had your suicide logged in at half past one. A suspected heart attack victim came in at eight. Yes, I remember them bringing him in. Nothing else after that. Must have been a quiet night.'

'And the night desk can confirm that?'

'I'll ask.' Tracy picked up the phone without asking a SOC officer if that was all right. She spoke briefly, scribbling down a number, then hung up and dialled it. Silence for a long while. Then finally. 'Pete? Hi it's Trace at work. Yeah, I'm sorry, I know you're on nights. We've had a break-in though. Police all over the place. No, I'm not joking. They're going to want to talk to you. Look, did you process any bodies after Mr Lentin came in yesterday evening?' Pause. 'What? You're sure? OK. OK. Thanks.' She put down the phone.

'An ambulance came in at two this morning. Pete swears he logged it in, but there's nothing on the system.'

'That would be the system you found switched on when you came in yourself?' McLean had to admire the thoroughness of the thief. It was a professional job from top to bottom. But why would anyone want to steal a sixty years dead corpse they still hadn't been able to identify?

*

'You were right, you know.'

'I was? What about?' McLean stood in the doorway of Chief Superintendent McIntyre's office. It was famously always open, but he was reluctant to commit himself. Her weary, resigned sigh at seeing him there had been enough to know he was pushing his luck.

'McReadie. He wasn't due in for interview for another day, but his lawyer phoned up and persuaded Charles to move him up the schedule. That's why he was in here when Constable Kydd was run down. Won't do him any good. He's on his way to Saughton right now.'

That wouldn't be much solace for poor bloody Alison. 'I phoned the hospital.'

'Me too, Tony. No change, I know. She's a tough kid, but they almost lost her on the operating table. I don't need to tell you how slim her chances are.' Or how much of a life she's going to have even if she does pull through. McLean watched as McIntyre rubbed a tired palm against her face. Let her get to the point in her own time. 'Now what exactly are you doing here. You're meant to be on leave.'

He told her about the missing body. 'We know that Bertie Farquhar was one of the killers, but I think at least one of the others is still alive.'

'You think they took it?'

'At least arranged for it to be taken. Farquhar would have been in his nineties if he hadn't crashed his car. I'm guessing anyone else involved would have been much the same age. Not exactly the type of people to go breaking into the city mortuary.'

'More likely they'd be wheeled in.' McIntyre tried to raise a smile without much success.

Whoever it is, they've got influence. Or money. Both, really. We've not exactly been public about the body, but someone knew we'd found it, and where we were keeping it. I'm guessing they're trying to cover their tracks.'

'You do know I said Monday. You shouldn't be here.'

'I know. But I can't leave this to Grumpy Bob. Not with everything else he's got going on. And I'll go mad if I have to sit at home knowing the killer's out there erasing every last shred of evidence we have.'

The chief superintendent said nothing for a while, leaned back in her chair and stared at him. McLean let her have as much time as she needed.

'What are you going to do?' She asked finally.

'I'm trying to trace Bertie Farquhar's friends. Constable MacBride's already gone through the archives, and we've asked for his war record. I was going to see if Emily Johnson's come up with anything else. She was going to have a search through the attic for any of Farquhar's old photo albums or stuff.'

'Why do I get the feeling you'd have been paying Miss Johnson a visit today anyway?' McIntyre waved away McLean's protestation of innocence. 'Go, Tony. Find your missing dead girl and her geriatric murderer. But stay away from McReadie. I hear you've been anywhere near him and it'll be Professional Standards, you understand?'

~~~~

46

Grumpy Bob looked perfectly happy as he perched on the edge of an elderly, hair-covered sofa. The Dandie Dinmonts were locked away in the kitchen, he had tea and he had biscuits. At this time of the day, McLean knew, the sergeant could want for little more.

Emily Johnson had welcomed them in, announcing that she'd been up in the attic going through old trunks of stuff. Now they were all in the living room, flicking through endless black and white photos.

'I think I might have to get a professional valuer in,' she said. 'There's so much stuff up there just mouldering away. I thought maybe I'd have a charity auction. Give everything to the sick kids. It's not as if I need the money, and none of it has any sentimental value.'

McLean thought about his own situation, suddenly awash with old family heirlooms he had no great liking for and no desire to keep. Maybe that was the way to go; auction it all and use the proceeds to set up some charitable fund.

'I'd be grateful if you'd give us time to go through Albert's things before you start disposing of them, Mrs Johnson.' The last thing he wanted was to lose any useful evidence to the auction room.

'Don't worry about that, inspector. It'll take me years to get anything organised. Oh. I found this by the way.' Mrs Johnson stood and retrieved something small from a china bowl on the mantelpiece, handing it to McLean as she returned. He looked at the small, tooled-leather jewellery box, worn rough at the edges. Underneath, in faded gold lettering, was the brief description: Douglas and Footes, Jewellers. Opened, it was lined with dark green ruched velvet, and in the lid was the inscription: To Albert Menzies Farquhar, on the reaching of his majority, August 13th 1932. Stuck into their holes in the velvet were four small shirt studs, topped with sparkling red rubies like little tears of blood. Two further studs had lost their heads. There was a space for the signet ring, but it was empty.

'You found the cufflinks that made up the set.'

'We did, and this nicely confirms what I've suspected all along.' McLean snapped the box shut, handing it back. 'I suppose technically the stolen cufflink belongs to you. Bob, make a note to return both of them to Mrs Johnson when the investigation is finally over.'

'Don't do that, inspector. I don't want the beastly things. I couldn't stand Bertie when he was alive. Frankly it doesn't surprise me at all that he might have killed someone. He ran into that bus stop, after all.'

'Did you know him well?'

'Not enormously, thank god. He was Toby's age, I think, and he was quite fond of my husband, John. But he gave me the creeps, always staring at me with those hooded eyes of his. It made me feel dirty just being in the same room.'

'What about the house in Sighthill? Did you ever visit there?'

'Oh god, Emperor Ming's Folly. That's what we used to call it. I'm sure it was a grand place once. But it just looked so ridiculous in amongst all those council estates. And so close to the prison, too. I don't know why the old man didn't just bulldoze it and have done with it. It's not like he couldn't afford to.'

'I rather think he was trying to keep something hidden.' McLean reached out for one of the leather bound photograph albums that Mrs Johnson had laid out on the coffee table. Across from him, Grumpy Bob helped himself to another biscuit and continued flicking through the album he had already begun. 'He knew what his son had done, and tried to cover it up. Even after he died, Farquhar's Bank kept a hold of that empty house. They sold off the rest of the estate, so why keep it? An old established firm like that would have respected the founder's dying wishes, but when they were bought out by Mid Eastern Finance all bets were off.'

'You found a body in that house?' Mrs Johnson clasped a hand to her throat, her whole body suddenly still.

'I'm sorry. I didn't tell you before. Yes we did. A young girl hidden away in the basement. We think she was killed just after the end of the war.'

'My god. All those times. All those dreadful parties in that place and I never knew. How did she die?'

'Let's just say that she was murdered and leave it at that, Mrs Johnson. I'm more interested in finding out who might have helped Albert Farquhar, and whether anyone involved is still alive.'

'Of course. Well, he had friends, I suppose. I mean Toby and he were... You don't think Toby was involved do you?'

'Right now I've an open mind. I know Farquhar was guilty. Your father-in-law died a long time ago, and there's not a lot I can do about the dead. But there's someone out there still alive who's connected to it all, and I'm not giving up until I bring him to justice.'

'Well, look at this.' Grumpy Bob interrupted the conversation with a note of triumph in his voice. He held open the photo album, swinging it round and placing it down on top of all the others on the coffee table. McLean leant forward for a better look and was rewarded with a black and white image of five men in white flannel trousers and blazers. They were all young, late teens or early twenties, and sported the sort of hair styles that had been fashionable just before the war. Four of them stood shoulder to shoulder and held a wooden trophy shield. The fifth lay on the ground at their feet, and behind them all, McLean could make out a sleek rowing boat, oars and a river. Beneath the photograph someone had pasted in the caption: 'Edinburgh University Coxed Four. Henley Regatta June 1938', but what interested him more than that was the signatures scrawled on the photograph itself.

Tobias Johnson.

Albert Farquhar.

Barnaby Smythe.

Buchan Stewart.

Jonas Carstairs.

~~~~