1

 

He shouldn’t have stopped. It wasn’t his case. He wasn’t even on duty. But there was something about the blue flashing lights, the Scene of Crime van and uniforms setting up barriers that Detective Inspector Anthony McLean could never resist.

He’d grown up in this neighbourhood, this rich part of town with its detached houses surrounded by large walled gardens. Old money lived here, and old money knew how to protect its own. You were very unlikely to see a vagrant wandering these streets, never mind a serious crime, but now two patrol cars blocked the entrance to a substantial house and a uniformed officer was busy unwrapping blue and white tape. McLean fished out his warrant card as he approached.

‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s been a murder, sir. That’s all anyone’s told me.’ The constable tied off the tape and started on another length. McLean looked up the sweeping gravel drive towards the house. An SOC van had backed halfway up, its doors wide; a line of uniforms inched their way across the lawn, eyes down in search of clues. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look, see if there was anything he could do to help. He knew the area, after all. He ducked under the tape and made his way up the drive.

Past the battered white van, a sleek black Bentley glinted in the evening light. Alongside it, a rusty old Mondeo lowered the tone. McLean knew the car, knew its owner all too well. Detective Chief Inspector Charles Duguid was not his favourite superior officer. If this was one of his investigations, then the deceased must have been important. That would explain the large number of uniforms drafted in, too.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

McLean turned to the familiar voice. Duguid was considerably older than him, mid-fifties at least; his once-red hair now thin and greying, his face florid and lined. White paper overalls pulled down to his waist and tied in a knot beneath his sagging gut, he had about him the air of a man who’s just nipped out for a fag.

‘I was in the neighbourhood, saw the patrol cars in the lane.’

‘And you thought you’d stick your nose in, eh? What’re you doing here anyway?’

‘I didn’t mean to butt in to your investigation, sir. I just thought, well, since I grew up in the area, I might’ve been able to help.’

Duguid let out an audible sigh, his shoulders sagging theatrically.

‘Oh well. You’re here. Might as well make yourself useful. Go and talk to that pathologist friend of yours. See what wonderful insights he’s come up with this time.’

McLean started towards the front door, but was stopped by Duguid’s hand catching him tight around the arm.

‘And make sure you report back to me when you’re done. I don’t want you sloping off before we’ve wrapped this up.’

 

*

 

The inside of the house was almost painfully bright after the soft city darkness descending outside. McLean entered a large hall through a smaller, but still substantial, porch. Inside, a chaos of SOC officers bustled about in white paper boilersuits, dusting for fingerprints, photographing everything. Before he could get more than a couple of steps, a harassed young woman handed him a rolled-up white bundle. He didn’t recognise her; a new recruit to the team.

‘You’ll want to put these on if you’re going in there, sir.’ She motioned behind her with a quick jab of her thumb to an open door on the far side of the hallway. ‘It’s an awful mess. You’d no’ want to ruin your suit.’

‘Or contaminate any potential evidence.’ McLean thanked her, pulling on the paper overalls and slipping the plastic covers over his shoes before heading for the door, keeping to the raised walkway the SOC team had laid out across the polished wood floor. Voices muttered from inside, so he stepped in.

It was a gentleman’s library, leather-bound books lining the walls in their dark mahogany shelves. An antique desk sat between two tall windows, its top clear save for a blotter and a mobile phone. Two high-backed leather armchairs were arranged either side of an ornate fireplace, facing the unlit fire. The one on the left was unoccupied, some items of clothing neatly folded and placed across the arm. McLean crossed the room and stepped around the other chair, his attention immediately drawn to the figure sitting in it, his nose wrinkling at the foul stench.

The man looked almost calm, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair, his feet slightly apart on the floor. His face was pale, eyes staring straight ahead with a glazed expression. Black blood spilled from his closed mouth, dribbling down his chin, and at first McLean thought he was wearing some kind of dark velvet coat. Then he saw the guts, blue-grey shiny coils slipping down onto the Persian rug on the floor. Not velvet, not a coat. Two white-clad figures crouched beside them, seemingly unwilling to trust their knees to the blood-soaked carpet.

‘Christ on a stick.’ McLean covered his mouth and nose against the iron tang of blood and the richer smell of human ordure. One of the figures looked around and he recognised the city pathologist, Angus Cadwallader.

‘Ah, Tony. Come to join the party have you?’ He stood, handing something slippery to his assistant. ‘Take that will you, Tracy.’

‘Barnaby Smythe.’ McLean stepped closer.

‘I didn’t realise you knew him,’ Cadwallader said.

‘Oh, yes. I knew him. Not well, I mean. I’ve never been in this place before. But sweet Jesus, what happened to him?’

‘Didn’t Dagwood brief you?’

McLean looked around, expecting to see the Chief Inspector close behind and wincing at the casual use of Duguid’s nickname. But apart from the assistant and the deceased, they were alone in the room.

‘He wasn’t too pleased to see me, actually. Thinks I want to steal his glory again.’

‘And do you?’

‘No. I was just off up to my gran’s place. Noticed the cars …’ McLean saw the pathologist’s smile and shut up.

‘How is Esther, by the way? Any improvement?’

‘Not really, no. I’ll be seeing her later. If I don’t get stuck here, that is.’

‘Well, I wonder what she’d have made of this mess.’ Cadwallader waved a blood-smeared, gloved hand at the remains of what had once been a man.

‘I’ve no idea. Something gruesome I’m sure. You pathologists are all alike. So tell me what happened, Angus.’

‘As far as I can tell, he’s not been tied down or restrained in any way, which would suggest he was dead when this was done. But there’s too much blood for his heart not to have been beating when he was first cut open, so he was most likely drugged. We’ll know when we get the toxicology report back. Actually most of the blood’s come from this.’ He pointed to a loose red flap of skin circling the dead man’s neck.’ And judging by the spray on the legs and the side of the chair, that was done after his entrails were removed. I’m guessing the killer did that to get them out of the way whilst he poked about inside. Major internal organs all seem to be in place except for a chunk of his spleen, which is missing.’

‘There’s something in his mouth, sir,’ the assistant said, standing up with a creak of protest from her knees. Cadwallader shouted for the photographer, then bent forward, forcing his fingers between the dead man’s lips and prising his jaw apart. He reached in and pulled a slimy, red and smooth mess out of it. McLean felt the bile rise in his gorge and tried not to retch as the pathologist held the organ up to the light.

‘Ah, there it is. Excellent.’

 

*

 

<fo>Night had fallen by the time McLean made it back out of the house. It was never truly dark in the city; too many street lights casting the thin haze of pollution with a hellish, orange glow. But at least the stifling August heat had seeped away, leaving a freshness behind it that was a welcome relief from the foul stench inside. His feet crunched on the gravel as he stared up at the sky, hopelessly looking for stars, or any reason why someone would tear out an old man’s guts and feed him his own spleen.

<np>’Well?’ The tone was unmistakeable, and came with a sour odour of stale tobacco smoke. McLean turned to see Chief Inspector Duguid. He’d ditched the overalls and was once more wearing his trademark over-large suit. Even in the semi-darkness McLean could see the shiny patches where the fabric had worn smooth over the years.

‘Most probable cause of death was massive blood loss, his neck was cut from ear to ear. Angus … Doctor Cadwallader reckons time of death was somewhere in the late afternoon. Between four and seven. The victim wasn’t restrained, so must have been drugged. We’ll know more once the toxicology screening’s done.’

‘I know all that, McLean. I’ve got eyes. Tell me about Barnaby Smythe. Who’d cut him up like that?’

‘I didn’t really know Mr Smythe all that well, sir. He kept himself to himself. Today’s the first time I’ve ever been in his house.’

‘But you used to scrump apples from his garden when you were a boy, I suppose.’

McLean bit back the retort he wanted to give. He was used to Duguid’s taunting, but he didn’t see why he should have to put up with it when he was trying to help.

‘So what do you know about the man?’ Duguid asked.

‘He was a merchant banker, but he must have retired by now. I read somewhere that he donated several million to the new wing of the National Museum.’

Duguid sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I was hoping for something a bit more useful than that. Don’t you know anything about his social life? His friends and enemies?’

‘Not really, sir. No. Like I said, he’s retired, must be eighty at least. I don’t mix much in those circles. My gran would have known him, but she’s not exactly in a position to help. She had a stroke, you know.’

Duguid snorted unsympathetically. ‘Then you’re no bloody use to me, are you. Go on, get out of here. Go back to your rich friends and enjoy your evening off.’ He turned away and stalked towards a group of uniforms huddling together smoking. McLean was happy to let him go, then remembered the chief inspector’s earlier warning about sloping off.

‘Do you want me to prepare a report for you, sir?’ he shouted at Duguid’s back.

‘No I bloody well don’t.’ Duguid turned on his heel, his face shadowed, eyes glinting in the reflected light of the street lamps. ‘This is my investigation, McLean. Now fuck off out of my crime scene.’

The first of the Detective Inspector McLean series.

A young girl’s mutilated body is discovered in a sealed room. Her remains are carefully arranged, in what seems to have been a cruel and macabre ritual, which appears to have taken place over 60 years ago.

For newly appointed Edinburgh Detective Inspector Tony McLean this baffling cold case ought to be a low priority – but he is haunted by the young victim and her grisly death.

Meanwhile, the city is horrified by a series of bloody killings. Deaths for which there appears to be neither rhyme nor reason, and which leave Edinburgh’s police at a loss.

McLean is convinced that these deaths are somehow connected to the terrible ceremonial killing of the girl, all those years ago. It is an irrational, almost supernatural theory.

And one which will lead McLean closer to the heart of a terrifying and ancient evil . . .