“He realised he hadn’t eaten all day. Then he remembered what he was here for, and decided food was probably not the best idea

Afat vein pulsed at Chief Inspector Duguid’s right temple; never a good sign. “Don’t you ever switch on your bloody mobile?” McLean fished in his jacket pocket, dug out his phone and flipped it open. The screen was blank; pressing the power button elicited no better response. “Battery’s gone again. That’s the third this month.” “Well, you’re an inspector now. You’ve got your own budget. So get yourself a new phone. Preferably one that works. You might even consider an airwave set.”

McLean shoved the offending article back into his pocket, then handed the folder to Constable Kydd, the PC who had accompanied him to McAllister’s building yard and who now looked like she wanted to escape before she was dragged into an argument between two senior officers.

“Can you take that to DC MacBride? And tell him not to lose it. I don’t want to end up beholden to Tommy McAllister in any way.”

“Who’s McAllister? Another one of your dodgy informants?”

Duguid looked past McLean’s shoulder at the retreating constable, no doubt wondering why she wasn’t working on his investigation.

“He owns the house where they found the young woman’s body.”

Important

“Ah, yes. Your ancient ritual sacrifice. I’d heard. Well that should be right up your street, I guess. Rich folk and their unseemly perversions.”

McLean ignored the jibe. He’d heard worse. “What did you want to see me about, sir?”

“This Smythe case. You’ve spoken with Jayne, I understand, so you know how important it is that we get a result, and fast.”

McLean nodded, noting Duguid’s casual use of the chief superintendent’s first name.

“Well, the post-mortem’s in half an hour and I want you there. I want you to keep on top of all the forensic information as it comes in; attack the problem from that direction.

“I’ll be interviewing the staff, trying to find out who might have had a grudge against someone like Smythe.”

It made sense to split the investigation up that way. McLean was resigned to the fact that he was going to have to work with Duguid, and decided it would probably be best to try and get off on the right foot.

“Look, sir. About the other night. I’m sorry I stuck my nose in; it was out of line, I know. This is your investigation.”

“It’s not a competition, McLean. A man’s dead and his killer’s walking the streets. That’s the only thing that’s important right now. As long as you get results, I’ll tolerate you on my team. OK?”

So much for building bridges. McLean nodded again, not trusting his mouth to speak only the words Duguid should hear, rather than the ones he was thinking.

“Good. Now get down to the mortuary and see what your ghoul of a friend Cadwallader’s come up with.”

Results

Dr Sharp looked up from her desk as McLean walked in. She smiled at him then went back to the game of solitaire on her computer.

“He’s not back yet. You’ll have to wait,” she said to the screen.

McLean didn’t mind, really. Watching dead bodies being cut up wasn’t much fun at the best of times, but the building had air conditioning that worked.

“Did you get back any results on the dead girl yet, Tracy?” he asked.

Sighing, she clicked off the screen and turned to an overflowing in-tray. “Let’s see ...” She leafed through the mess, pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Here we are. Hmm. More than 50 years ago.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, no. She was killed less than 300 years ago, but because it was more than 50 years ago we can’t pin it down any closer, I’m afraid. Not with carbon dating, anyway.”

“How does that work then?”

“Thank the Americans. They started doing nuclear testing in the 1940s, but the really big stuff happened in the 1950s.

“Filled the atmosphere with unnatural isotopes. We’re full of them, you and me. Anyone alive after about 1955 is full of them too. And once they die, the isotopes begin to decay.

“We can use that to tell how long ago death occurred, but only back to the mid-50s. Your poor wee girl died before then.”

“I see,” McLean lied. “What about the preservation? What was used to do that?”

Tracy shuffled in the tray until she came up with another sheaf of papers.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing we can detect. As far as the tests go, she simply dried up.”

“It can happen, Tony. Especially if all the blood and bodily fluids have already been removed.”

McLean looked around to see Cadwallader walking into the room.

He held a small brown paper bag out to his assistant. “Avocado and bacon. They didn’t have any pastrami left.”

Tracy grabbed the bag, delving into it and pulling out a long brown baguette. The sight of it made McLean’s stomach gurgle.

He realised he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Then he remembered what he was here for, and decided food was probably not the best idea.

“Are you here for any particular reason, or did you just drop by to chat up my assistant?”

Cadwallader pulled off his jacket and hung it on the door, changed into a clean set of green scrubs.

“Barnaby Smythe. I understand you’re examining him this afternoon.”

“I thought he was Dagwood’s case.”

Powerful

“Smythe had a lot of powerful friends. I reckon McIntyre would pull every officer on the force in if she thought it would get the case solved more quickly. Pressure from above.”

“There must be if she’s put you and old misery-guts together again. Oh well, let’s see if his remains yield up any clues.”

The body awaited them in the post-mortem room, laid out on a stainless-steel table and covered with a shiny white rubber sheet.

McLean stood as far back as he could whilst Cadwallader set about Barnaby Smythe, finishing the job that the killer had begun.

The pathologist was meticulous in his work, examining the pale, firm flesh and inspecting the gaping wound.

“The subject is in exceptionally good health for his age,” he noted. “Muscle tone suggests he took regular exercise.

“No signs of bruising or rope marks, suggesting he wasn’t tied whilst he was being cut open.

“This is consistent with the scene in which he was found. Hands are free of cuts and abrasions; he didn’t struggle or try to fend off his attacker.”

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.