Well, look at this.” Grumpy Bob interrupted the conversation with a note of triumph in his voice

Natural Causes: Episode 74

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?”

Ridiculous

“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?”

Connected

“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 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 were the signatures scrawled on the photograph itself.

Tobias Johnson, Albert Farquhar, Barnaby Smythe, Buchan Stewart, Jonas Carstairs.

Approach

“Do you have a minute, sir?”

McLean stood in the doorway of the largest incident room in the building. It appeared to be a re-run of the Barnaby Smythe investigation, only in place of the banker’s photograph now one of Jonas Carstairs was pinned to the wall.

Once again Duguid had managed to bully, cajole and order most of the active personnel in the building on to his investigation, and once more it seemed his approach to getting results was to interview everyone over and over again until some clue presented itself.

The man himself was standing a few paces away, hands on hips and surveying the general busyness as if activity in itself was a sign that things were going well. Quite probably that was what he truly believed. He’d have made a natural civil servant.

“I thought you were on forced leave until Monday.” The chief inspector didn’t look entirely pleased to see him. “Something came up. I squared it with the chief superintendent.”

“I’ll just bet you did.”

Sneer

McLean ignored the sneer. This was too important. “I was wondering if you’d got anywhere with the Carstairs investigation?”

“Come to gloat, have you?” A vein ticked in Duguid’s temple, his cheeks reddening.

“Not at all, sir. It’s just that his name’s come up in one of my investigations. The ritual killing?”

“Ah yes. The cold case. Jayne only gave it to you because she didn’t think you’d be able to cause much trouble over it. I bet she’s regretting that.”

“Actually we’ve positively identified one of the murderers already.”

“Arrested him, have you?”

“He’s dead, actually. Has been for nearly 50 years.” “So you’ve not really achieved anything then.” “Not really, sir.”

McLean fought back the urge to punch his superior in the face. It would be fun, but the repercussions would be a pain to live with.

“Actually I’ve uncovered new evidence that links him to Jonas Carstairs, Barnaby Smythe and your uncle.”

More tomorrow.