It was something of a surprise to him to find the company so enjoyable

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.

Emma looked across the table at him. “So what does an inspector do when he’s not at work, Tony?” For the past 18 months, since he’d found her unconscious in her favourite armchair, visit his 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.”

Horrible

“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. “Drank 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 24-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 lives are 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?”

Surprise

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 the 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 led.

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.

“The thing’s useless unless it’s plugged into the wall, which kind of defeats the point.”

“I see what you mean.”

Blank screen

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 on to 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.

More on Monday.