A deep, husky voice, the product of too many cigarettes, too much whisky

The sign on the door said “palms read, tarots, fortunes told”. McLean had always figured the place as a front for something else, prostitution most likely, but this was the address McIntyre had given him. He’d asked around too, and word was that Madame Rose was as honest as the day, in as much as she did exactly what she said she did.

Everything else was a lie, of course, a pandering to the gullible. There wasn’t a large market in Edinburgh for this particular brand of fool-and-hismoney enterprise, but enough people wanted to believe that an enterprising soul could make a crust at it.

“Why are we here, sir?” Detective Constable MacBride had drawn the short straw and was tagging along on this particular dead-end in the ever-growing list of cases.

Grumpy Bob had the even more fun task of trying to identify the Waverley jumper whilst gathering together all the evidence against Fergus McReadie for the procurator fiscal.

That just left the investigation into the potential leak of crime-scene information that was the most obvious explanation for the disturbing similarities between the murders of Jonas Carstairs and Barnaby Smythe.

And the dead girl, of course. All in a day’s work, really.

Ritual

“We’re here to find out about human sacrifice and demonic ritual. Apparently Madame Rose is something of an expert on the occult.

“All this magic-show stuff is just a front. Or so I’m told.” McLean pushed open the door to reveal a narrow hallway with stairs leading straight up.

Threadbare carpet, more stain than pattern, released an aroma of chip-fat and mould into the air; a curious smell of hopelessness.

Up the stairs, through a once-sparkly bead curtain turned dull with grease and discarded skin, they found themselves in a small room that desperately wanted to be described as a boudoir but really couldn’t even merit reception room.

The same carpet as the stairs ran wall to wall, more stains spreading out like mushroom fairy rings.

In places they had even begun to colonise the walls, competing with nasty flock wallpaper and cheap prints of vaguely oriental and mystic scenes.

Looking up, McLean wasn’t at all surprised to see spots marking the ceiling too.

The heat of the day wasn’t helping either, that cooking smell and damp fug made mouth-breathing preferable, though only slightly. And people came here of their own volition?

A low sofa leaned against the outside wall, under the only window in the room. Sitting on it was probably not a good idea.

Two rickety wooden chairs flanked a low table covered in elderly copies of Reader’s Digest and Tarot Monthly.

In the opposite corner to the stairwell, someone not very good at DIY had built a narrow counter, behind which stood a closed door.

A scruffy piece of paper tacked to the wall showed a menu of prices for services rendered. Ten pounds for a basic palm reading, twenty for consulting the cards.

Some mad punters might even fork out over a hundred for something called a “Full Karmic Workout”.

“Oh. I thought I felt something in the aether. Magnificent.” A deep, husky voice, the product of too many cigarettes, too much whisky.

Surprising

The words were out even before McLean had registered the door opening.

An enormous woman swept through, halving the size of the reception room with her presence.

She wore what appeared to be a red velvet tent, pulled around her body like the swaddling on a oncefat mummy.

Her hands were like tired, gold-studded pink balloons, fleshy fingers squeezed into cheap, ornate rings, nails painted a slightly different shade of red to her dress.

“I simply must see your palms.” Madame Rose grabbed McLean’s hands with surprising speed, flipping one over and tracing the lines with a soft caress.

He tried to pull away but the woman’s grip was like iron.

“Oh, such a tragic life already. And, dear me, so much more to come. You poor, poor boy. And what’s this?”

She let go as suddenly as she had grabbed him. Took a theatrical step back, one hand to her ample breast, splayed fingers reaching up to her wattle-skin throat.

“You’ve been marked out for things. Great things. Terrible things.”

“Enough of the show.” McLean held up his warrant card. “I’m not here for any mumbo-jumbo.”

“I assure you, detective inspector, I do not deal in mumbo-jumbo. Why, I felt your aura the moment you stepped through the front door.”

“And do you know why we’ve come calling then?” It was MacBride who asked the question, but only because he beat McLean to it.

“Of course, of course. You want to know about ritual killing.

“Nasty business. Never works, at least not in my experience, but it’s worse than alcohol for bringing out the devil in people, if you know what I mean.”

“How did you . . . ?” MacBride’s mouth hung open as the words escaped.

Madame Rose let out a snort of most unlady-like laughter. “The spirit world talks to me, detective sergeant. And Jayne McIntyre from time to time.”

“I don’t have a lot of time, and even less patience.” McLean shoved his warrant card back in his pocket. “I was led to believe you knew something about occult practices. If that’s not the case then I’ll not waste any more of your time.”

“Touchy, isn’t he.”

Contrast

Madame Rose winked at MacBride, who reddened about the face and ears. She turned back to McLean.

“Come on through to the office then. It’s a slow day anyway.”

The office turned out to be a sizeable room at the back of the building, one tall window looking out on to a grey courtyard filled with limp washing on sagging lines.

The contrast with the front reception area, and the receiving room through which they had passed to get here, could not have been more marked.

Where they were seedy and loaded with kitsch trinkets of the sort you would expect an old gypsy fortune-teller to collect, the few artefacts on show in this room looked both genuine and unsettling.

All four walls were lined with bookshelves reaching up to the high ceiling, most packed with a seemingly random assortment of ancient and modern books.

Two shelves, either side of the large antique desk, held glass cases housing a wildcat and a snowy owl. Both had been given the full benefit of the taxidermist’s art, posed in the act of killing their respective preys.

On top of the desk, mounted on a dark wooden shield, what looked suspiciously like a withered human hand had been pressed into service as a book stand.

More tomorrow.

Natural Causes by Fife farmer-turned-author James Oswald is the first in the Inspector McLean series. It is published by Penguin, rrp, £7.99. Bury Them Deep, the latest in the series, is published by Headline in February, rrp £14.99.