Natural Causes by James Oswald Page B

Lothian Road or further out towards Gogarburn, this one small partnership had held out against the tides of change. McLean remembered a time, not so long ago, when all the old Edinburgh family firms, the lawyers and stockbrokers, merchant bankers and importers of fine wares had their offices in the grand old houses of the west end. Now the streets were full of basement restaurants, boutique shops, health clubs and expensive apartments. Times changed, but the city always adapted.
    He was an hour early for his appointment, but the secretary told him that she didn’t think it would be a problem. She left him waiting in an elegant reception room, lined with portraits of stern-faced men and furnished with comfortable leather armchairs. It was more like a gentleman’s club than anything else, but at least it was cool compared with the ever-rising heat outside.
    ‘Inspector McLean. It’s good to see you again.’ McLean looked around at the voice. He’d not heard the door open, but now a white-haired man with thin round metal-rimmed spectacles stood with his hand outstretched. McLean shook it.
    ‘Mr Carstairs. Have we met before?’ There was something familiar about him. It was always possible that he had been in court whilst McLean was giving evidence, of course. Perhaps he had been cross-examined by the lawyer.
    ‘I should think so. It’s been quite a few years, though. Esther used to hold such wonderful parties, but she stopped around the time you went off to university. I never did find out why.’
    McLean pictured the string of people who had frequently turned up at his grandmother’s house. The only thing he could remember about most of them was that they had been very old. But then, so had his grandmother so that was hardly surprising. Jonas Carstairs was old now, but he would have been too young surely to have been part of that set.
    ‘I think she always wanted to be a recluse, Mr Carstairs. She just thought it would be good for me to meet people. When I left home and moved to Newington, she stopped.’
    Carstairs nodded, as if that made perfect sense to him. ‘Please, call me Jonas.’ He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, flipped it open to see the time, then carefully slid it back again in a fluid, practised motion.
    ‘What would you say to a spot of lunch? There’s a new place opened up just around the corner from here and I’ve heard it’s very good.’
    McLean thought about the pile of papers on his desk waiting to be sorted; the girl dead so long that a few more hours would make no difference. Grumpy Bob had the burglary investigation in hand, and MacBride would be busy ferreting out whatever information on Jonathan Okolo he could find. He’d really only be getting in the way.
    ‘That sounds like a good idea to me, Jonas. But if I’m off duty, you’ll have to stop calling me inspector.’
    It wasn’t the kind of eating establishment McLean was used to visiting. Newly opened, and tucked into a basement, it was quite busy, filled with the subdued noise of contented customers enjoying a leisurely lunch. They were shown to a small table in an alcove with a window that looked out onto a recess below the pavement level. Looking up towards the sky, McLean realised he could see up the skirt of any women who walked past, and concentrated instead on the menu.
    ‘They do fish rather well, I’m told,’ Carstairs said. ‘I expect the wild salmon will be good at this time of year.’
    McLean ordered the salmon, suppressing the urge to ask for chips with it, and restricted himself to sparkling mineral water. It arrived in a blue tear-drop shaped bottle with something written on it in Welsh.
    ‘In the old days, apothecaries kept poisons in blue bottles. That way they knew not to drink them.’ He poured himself a glassful and offered the same to the lawyer.
    ‘Well, Edinburgh has its fair share of poisoners, as I’ve no doubt you know. Have you been to the Pathology Museum at the Surgeons’