Natural Causes by James Oswald Page B

would be even more awkward.
    ‘Maybe, but you have to deal with it now, Tony. And I know you miss her.’
    ‘You know my folks died when I was four, right? Gran raised me as if I were my dad. It must have been hard for her having me around as a reminder of him.’
    ‘And what about you? I can’t imagine what it must have been like, to lose both your parents at such a young age.’
    McLean leant forward on the desk, rubbing at his eyes. These were old wounds, long since healed over. He really didn’t want to be picking at the scars. But his grandmother’s death was going to do just that. Perhaps one more reason why he was finding it hard to accept she was really gone.
    He reached out for the evidence bag and the floral dress, as much for something to do with his hands as anything else.
    ‘We’ve managed to pin down the time of death to the mid-1940s.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’ McIntyre looked at him blankly.
    ‘The dead girl in the house in Sighthill. Her dress wasprobably ten years old, and couldn’t have been made before 1935. Carbon dating puts her death before 1950. Best guess is sometime around the end of the Second World War.’
    ‘So chances are her killer is dead already.’
    ‘Killers. Plural. We reckon there were six of them.’ McLean summed up the investigation as far as it had progressed. McIntyre sat on the edge of his desk, silently listening as he marshalled his thoughts so far. It was very little to go on.
    ‘What about Smythe?’
    The question threw him. ‘You think there’s a connection?’
    ‘No, no. Sorry. I meant what about the Smythe investigation. How are we getting on with that?’
    ‘The PM confirms he was murdered and that probable cause of death was blood loss. I’m still waiting on toxicology reports – whoever did this must have used some powerful anaesthetic. That alone should narrow down our suspect list. Duguid was concentrating on interviewing; I’ve not had a chance to catch up with him yet.’
    ‘OK. We can pull it all together at the briefing tomorrow. But I want you to concentrate on Smythe as much as possible. Your young woman’s trail’s not going to get any colder now. Not after sixty years.’
    It made sense, of course; far more important to catch a killer who had struck just twenty-four hours ago. Why then did he feel the need to concentrate on the girl’s murder? Was it simply because he didn’t like working with Dagwood? McLean stifled a yawn, trying not to look at the pile of papers on his desk requiring his urgentunderlined-three-times attention. They had the suspicious look of overtime forms and expenses claims to be ratified with his budget for the quarter. He started to reach for the top one, but McIntyre stopped him. Her hand was soft; her grip firm.
    ‘Go home, Tony. Have an early night. Get some sleep. You’ll be fresher in the morning.’
    ‘Is that an order, ma’am?’
    ‘Yes, inspector. It is.’

11
    His mind is a whirl of confusion. He doesn’t know this city, doesn’t understand the harsh language they speak here. He feels sick, right down to his core. His breathing is ragged, and every gasp hurts in his throat, his chest burning. Once he was strong, he knows this even though he can’t remember his name. Once he could carry a dozen sheaves of grain at a time, clear a whole field in an afternoon under the hot sun. Now his back is bent, his legs weak and faltering. When did he become old like his father? What happened to his life?
    Noise spills out from a nearby building. Its tall glass windows are frosted, but he can see the colourful shadows of people moving about inside. The central door swings wide and a young woman staggers out, closely followed by two more. They are laughing, jabbering away at each other with words he doesn’t recognise. Drunk and happy, they don’t see him watching from the other side of the street. Their high heels clatter on the pavement as they stagger away, their short skirts riding up their legs, crop-tops