The puzzled look that must have been plastered over his face brought a smile to hers that sparkled mischievously in her eyes

McLean lifted his beer in mocksalute, then drank whilst his old friend regaled him with tales of molecular biology and the politics of private funding. From there the conversation split off into all manner of inconsequential stuff, the idle chat of folk in the pub. He joined in from time to time, but mostly he was happy just to sit and listen.

For a little while he could try and forget all the insanity, the mutilation, the job.

Not like going out with the lads from the station after shift; that was a different kind of unwind, one that usually meant a heavy head the next morning.

“So what are you up to these days, Tony? We’ve not seen you around much.”

McLean looked across at the young woman who had spoken. He was fairly sure her name was Rachel, and she was writing up her PhD in something he almost certainly couldn’t spell.

She looked a bit like the SOC officer who had worked the burglary scene and Smythe’s murder, only about 10 years younger and with flame-red hair that probably owed as much to a bottle as to nature.

Even post-graduate students seemed impossibly young these days.

“Now, now, Rae. You mustn’t go asking the inspector questions. He might have to arrest you. Might even have to put you in handcuffs.”

Bigger picture

Phil smirked into his pint, a wicked grin that McLean remembered all too well from the many years they had shared a flat.

“I can’t discuss current investigations anyway,” McLean said. “And you really wouldn’t want to know about them. Trust me.”

“Gruesome, are they?”

“Not especially. It’s not like CSI or whatever nonsense they put on the telly these days.

“Mostly it’s dull old burglaries and street crime. And there’s way too much of that going on.

“And anyway, I don’t get to do much real investigation any more. That’s the problem with being an inspector.

“You’re expected to manage people, direct things, sort out the overtime and balance the budgets. Look at the bigger picture. Not much different from what Phil does these days, I guess.”

McLean wasn’t sure why he lied, even if it was only a half-lie. There was far more paperwork and far less leg-work now he was an inspector.

Maybe it was because he had come to the pub to get away from work.

Whatever the reason, the question had spoiled the moment. He couldn’t get Barnaby Smythe’s dead eyes out of his mind; couldn’t forget the agony on the young girl’s face.

“Another round, I think.” He lifted his glass, choking slightly as he drained rather more from it than he’d been expecting.

No one seemed to notice the awkward moment as he escaped to the bar.

“For a policeman, you’re a very poor liar, Detective Inspector McLean.”

McLean turned from the bar to see who had spoken, realised he was standing far too close in the huddle of the crowd, but couldn’t back off even if he wanted to.

She was about his height, with straw-blonde hair cropped at neck length – a bob, if he had the terminology right.

Something about her face was familiar, but she was older than the thicket of students who had been clamouring around Phil.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Expensive

The puzzled look that must have been plastered over his face brought a smile to hers that sparkled mischievously in her eyes.

“I’m Jenny, remember? Jenny Spiers. Rae’s sister? We met at Phil’s birthday party.”

The party. He remembered now.

Too many students getting horribly drunk on cheap wine, Phil holding court like some modern day King Arthur.

He’d dropped off a very expensive bottle of whisky, had a glass of something that had made his teeth itch, and then left early.

That had been the day they’d been called round to the tenement down in Leith.

Neighbours complaining about someone’s dog making an awful racket.

You could hardly blame the poor beast, its owner had died in her bed at least a fortnight before and there hadn’t been much left of the old girl worth eating.

It was entirely possible he had met this woman at that party, but it was hard to get past the image of chewed flesh and gnawed bones rotting into a sunken mattress.

“Jenny, of course. Sorry, I was miles away.”

“I think you probably still are. And not somewhere nice. Bad day at the office?”

“And then some.” McLean caught the eye of the barman and waved him over. “Can I get you something?”

Jenny glanced back across the bar to the crowd of students laughing at their professor’s jokes.

It didn’t seem to take her long to make up her mind where she’d rather be.

“Sure, white wine. Thanks.”

An uncomfortable, noise-filled silence hung in the air between them as the drinks were poured.

McLean tried to look at his unexpected companion without it being obvious. She was older than her sister, considerably older.

Old-fashioned

Her blonde hair was streaked with fine white hairs she’d not bothered to conceal.

Neither did she appear to be wearing any kind of make-up, and her clothes were simple, perhaps a little old-fashioned.

Not dressed up for a night on the town like the crowd she’d come with. No war paint and attitude.

“So Rachel’s your sister,” he said, all too aware of how stupid it sounded.

“Mum and dad’s perfect little mistake, aye.” Jenny smiled at some personal joke.

“Seems to have caught your friend Phil’s eye. You used to share a flat, I hear.”

“Back in my university days. Long time ago.” McLean took a gulp of his beer, watched Jenny sip her wine.

“Am I going to have to drag the story out of you?” “I... No. Sorry. You caught me at a bad time. I’m not the best of company right now.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jenny nodded over at the rowdy band of students egging their professor on to ever more stupid behaviour.

“Given the alternative, I’ll take moody and introverted any day.”

“I –” McLean started to complain but was interrupted by an unfamiliar vibration from his trouser pocket.

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.