Free Natural Causes by James Oswald Page A

dress, neatly folded as if it were about to be put on the shelf in Marks and 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 officer sidled up to him with actions for approval, or more often ridicule. McLean watched from 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 solid leads, not idle speculation.' The Chief Inspector looked up, saw McLean. 'Ah, inspector.' He managed to make the word sound like an insult. 'Good of you to join us. And Constable Kydd, you might want to check with your commanding officer before swanning off to help out with other investigations.'
    McLean was about to defend the constable, but she ducked her head in apology and scurried off to join the line of uniforms working away at computers. He remembered all too well Duguid's man management skills. Bullying and shouting were high up on the list. Any officer with a sense of self-preservation learnt early on to accept it, and never answer back.
    'Well? How did the autopsy go?'
    'Death was most likely from blood loss due to the cut throat. Dr Cadwallader's not sure, but he thinks Smythe may have been anaesthetised before he was cut open. There's no sign of struggle, and nothing to suggest he was strapped down. Given that he wasn't dead until after his spleen was removed, he must have been sedated in some manner.'
    'Which means the killer would have to have some degree of medical knowledge,' Duguid said. 'Do we know what they used?'
    'Blood tests should be complete by this evening, sir. I can't do much more until then.'
    'Well, chase them up, man. We can't afford to waste a moment here. The chief constable's been on the phone to me all day asking for updates. The press are going to start reporting this death tonight, and we need to be on top of it.'
    So it was important the case be solved quickly to avoid embarrassment to the CC, not because there was a madman out there who liked to cut out people's organs and shove bits of them in their mouths. Interesting set of priorities.
    'I'll get right on it, sir,' McLean said, turning to leave.
    'What've you got there? Anything important?' Duguid's tone was that of a man grasping at straws. McLean wondered if a day's interviewing had turned up so little. Or maybe the chief inspector just didn't know where to start.
    'The Sighthill case. It's the dress the young girl was wearing when she was murdered.' He held up the plastic bag, but Duguid didn't take it. 'I'm going to show it to someone who might know when it was made. Try and narrow down our time of death a bit.'
    For a moment McLean thought Duguid was going to shout at him; the way he had when he'd still been a sergeant. The chief inspector's face reddened and a vein started to tick on the side of his forehead. With visible effort, he calmed himself.
    'Good. Well, yes. Of course. But don't forget how important this case is.' He swept the room with one hand. 'Chances are your killer's long dead. We need to find a living one.'

    *

    He couldn't remember when the shop had first opened. Sometime in the mid Nineties, probably. It was confusing because it looked like one of those places that had always been there. Clerk Street was full of them, catering to the impoverished students who made up more than half of the area's inhabitants. It specialised in second-hand clothing, particularly party dresses and evening wear made in a time when quality mattered. McLean had been in a few times, looking for something different to the mass-produced dark business suits that were his daily uniform since passing his detective exams. But nothing had caught his eye. It was all too contrived, really. In the end he'd been to a bespoke tailor and had a couple of