Free Natural Causes by James Oswald

perfectly preserved liver, a small silver pill box with some residue of aspirin in it and the word ‘Wombat’. Next came the cracked jar that had contained the lungs, a jewel-studded cufflink and the word ‘Toots’; then to go with the well-preserved spleen, a Japanese netsuke box containing a few flakes of dried snuff, and the word ‘Professor’. Another unbroken specimen jar came next in the circle, containing the dead girl’s ovaries and womb. It had been found with a pair of plain wire-framed spectacles and the word ‘Grebo’. And finally, placed in an alcove in line with the girl’s head, her heart, the word ‘Skipper’ and a slim silver cigarette case.
    An uneasy silence hung over the room as the last piecesof the puzzle were laid out. Of the six specimen jars, two had mysteriously been damaged. Had they been walled up that way? Was it intentional, or just a coincidence?
    McLean stood up, his knees popping in protest. ‘OK. Who wants to go first?’
    A long pause like the schoolroom when teacher’s asked a trick question.
    ‘Could they be nicknames?’ It was the young Constable Kydd who broke the spell, her voice hesitant.
    ‘Go on,’ McLean said.
    ‘Well, there’s six of them. Six personal items. Six organs taken from the victim. Six people?’
    McLean shuddered. It made sense that there had to be more than one person involved in the killing; it would have been too difficult to hide otherwise. But six?
    ‘I think you’re right. There has to be some twisted reason for this; Christ alone knows what. But if there were six people involved and they needed to be associated with the ritual in some way, then if each of them left some token of themselves behind, and took a part of the girl ...’
    ‘That’s ... disgusting. Why would anyone do that?’ Grumpy Bob asked.
    ‘The Fore people of Papua New Guinea used to eat their dead.’ All eyes turned on DC MacBride, who turned red around the cheeks at the sudden attention.
    ‘What’s that got to do with anything, lad?’
    ‘Well, I don’t know. They believed that if you ate someone you took their strength and power for yourself. They used to have big funeral feasts and everyone would get a bit of the body. The chief and the important men wouldget the best bits, and the women and children were left with the offal and brains.’
    ‘Just how is it you know this, Stuart?’ McLean asked.
    ‘Well they all started to die from this mysterious wasting disease. Kuru, I think they called it. It almost completely wiped them out. Scientists reckon one of the ancestors got a form of mad cow disease. You know, Creutzfeldt–Jakob’s? And when they ate him, it was passed on to the next generation.’
    ‘A fount of useless information. How’s this relevant to our poor wee murdered girl, eh? Nobody’s eaten her, have they?’ Grumpy Bob said.
    ‘Well, if they each of them took a part of her, then maybe the idea was to ... I don’t know ... have a bit of her youth for themselves or something.’
    ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched,’ Grumpy Bob said.
    ‘Go easy on him, Bob. Right now we’ve absolutely no idea as to why this girl was murdered. I’m open to suggestions no matter how off the wall they might seem. But I think we should concentrate our efforts on the physical evidence first.’ McLean pulled the last bag out of the box. It contained the floral print dress, neatly folded as if it were about to be put on the shelf in Marks & Spencer’s.
    ‘Let’s see if we can’t narrow down the time of her death a bit.’
    Detective Chief Inspector Charles Duguid stood in the centre of the Smythe murder incident room, directing operations like a conductor before a particularly inept orchestra. Reluctant officers sidled up to him with actions for approval, or more often ridicule. McLean watchedfrom the doorway for a moment, wondering if the whole thing wouldn’t run more smoothly if Duguid weren’t actually there.
    ‘No, don’t waste your time on that. I need