Free Natural Causes by James Oswald Page B

doubted many people his age shopped there. And very few men.
    ‘Do you know much about these clothes?’ He waved at the racks, lined up in their decades. ‘The styles, when they were popular?’
    ‘What yer wannae know?’ The accent quite spoiled the effect of her outfit. Close-up, he revised woman to girl. She couldn’t have been much over sixteen, but the outfit aged her.
    ‘When this was made, possibly. Or at least when it might have been worn.’ McLean placed the evidence bag on the till. The assistant picked it up, turning it over.
    ‘You trying tae sell it? We don’t take stuff like this.’
    McLean showed his warrant card. ‘I’m conducting an investigation. This was found at the scene of a crime.’
    The assistant dropped the bag as if it were a live snake, ‘I’ll get Mam. She knows more about this stuff’n me.’ She flounced off to the back of the shop, disappearing behind the racks of clothing. A few moments later another woman came out. She was older, though not as old as the clothes she wore, which would have been more appropriate perhaps a century earlier. And there was something very familiar about her.
    ‘It’s Jenny. Jenny Spiers, isn’t it? I almost didn’t recognise you in those clothes.’
    ‘It’s all right. We all dress up in our favourite decades. You should see Rae when she’s in one of her hippy outfits. How’s your gran, by the way?’
    McLean looked around the shop, seeing the different eras laid out. He couldn’t imagine much of the stuff coming out of the sweatshops of India and Bangladesh these days surviving to take their place in a couple of decades.
    ‘I didn’t realise you worked here.’ It sounded a bit pathetic even as he said it. Avoiding the question like a politician.
    ‘I own it, actually. Ten years now. Well, technically the bank owns it, but ...’ Jenny tailed off, embarrassed. ‘But you didn’t come here for a chat, did you, inspector?’
    ‘Tony’s fine, really. And I was wondering if you might be able to tell me anything about this dress.’ He lifted the plastic once more.
    ‘Can I open the bag?’ Jenny asked. McLean nodded and watched as she deftly pulled out the garment, laying italong the wide counter and inspecting it minutely. Her fingers paused, shaking slightly as she saw the faded blood stains.
    ‘It’s home-made,’ she said finally. ‘Hand-stitched by someone very skilled with a needle and thread. The lace was probably bought in, but it’s difficult to tell. Very similar in cut to something I’ve seen before. Let me see.’ She went off into the depths of the shop, pushing her way down a narrow aisle between two rows of dresses swathed in plastic and hanging from long racks. Swift hands shuffled their way through the garments before alighting on one, which she brought back to the counter with an air of triumph.
    ‘This is a cocktail dress from the late 1930s. Something rich society girls would have worn just before the war. Your dress you’ve got here is very similar, almost as if it’s been copied. But the fabric’s cheaper, and as I said it was hand-stitched. There’s no label, either, which suggests to me it was made by someone who couldn’t afford to buy.’
    ‘So when might it have been made? How long could it have been worn?’
    ‘Well, it wouldn’t have been made in this style much before 1935. Hems were lower before then, and the neckline’s all wrong. It’s been worn quite a bit; there’s some skilled patching around the back and the fabric’s thin in places. I’d say it could have been ten years old. They had to make do and mend over the war years.’
    The mid-1940s then, the end of the Second World War. McLean wondered what chance there was that anyone connected with the murder would be still alive.

10
    He was halfway across the entrance hall of the station when the duty sergeant flagged him down.
    ‘Do you know a chap called Jonas Carstairs?’
    McLean racked his brain. The name was familiar.
    ‘Well,