What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

‘Dear me, Inspector. You don’t read the tabloids, it would appear.’ Mrs Galloway finally took a drink from her mug, then grimaced slightly at the taste. ‘Lizzie was Brian’s wife, until about eighteen months ago when the divorce came through. She got the house in Barnton, the kids, most of his money. But that’s what happens when you have sex with the babysitter.’

‘I have to admit, I wasn’t aware of any of this, Mrs Galloway. However, it was, as you say, eighteen months ago. If we could perhaps come back to this morning?’

‘Aye, well. I’ve not had much to do with him since the divorce. He was always such an angry child, angry when he grew up too. I was happy enough to let him get on with his life. But he had a nasty accident, broke his nose and some of the fingers on his right hand. He called me asking for help, and, well, I’m his mother. Couldn’t really say no now, could I?’

‘When did you last see him?’ McLean asked. ‘Before this morning, I mean.’

‘Yesterday evening. Around six, I guess. I came round to help him with a few things. Oh, you’d think he’d been paralysed from the neck down, the fuss he made. It’s just a busted nose and some broken fingers. But I got him cleaned up, took his dirty washing home to deal with. When I left he was in that same chair, watching the telly and waiting for his takeaway pizza to arrive.’ Mrs Galloway gave another heavy sigh as the full enormity of what had happened began to sink in through the shock. ‘When I came in this morning I thought he’d fallen asleep in that chair. Only he hadn’t, had he? Fallen asleep.’

The old woman fell silent after that, and McLean felt no need to intrude any further on her grief. It was clear that she’d not seen eye to eye with her son for a while, but in his experience that usually made things worse, bringing guilt into the equation when it didn’t really belong there.

‘I’ll go and see how they’re getting on.’ He stood up, then indicated the PC. ‘Constable Wells will stay with you until Family Liaison get here. They’ll arrange to take you home.’

Mrs Galloway had gone back to staring blankly at the wall, her hands cupped around her still full coffee mug. At the last moment, she looked up swiftly.

‘Do you think this is suspicious? Was my boy murdered, Inspector?’

There was an odd tone of hope in the question, something McLean had heard many times before. Grief was easier to deal with if served with a side order of outrage. Far better for a mother that there be a reason for her son’s death than that it simply be his time come before hers.

‘I don’t think so, Mrs Galloway, no. It’s unexpected though, and the pathologist will be able to confirm things one way or the other. I’m just here because these things have to be looked into.’ He reached into his pocket and drew out a business card, slid it on to the table. ‘That’s got my contact details on it. Call me at any time if you have a question, or if you remember something you think might be important. I’ll be in touch soon.’

The front room was a lot busier when McLean reached it a few moments later. Tom MacPhail and his assistant stood in the corner by the TV, making as much room as possible for a couple of paramedics and a stretcher, already laid out with a black body bag. The pathologist noticed him standing in the doorway and beckoned him in.

‘Ah, Tony. Good. We’re ready to move him, if you’re OK with that?’

McLean shrugged. ‘It’s your call, Tom. Have you worked out what killed him yet?’

MacPhail indicated to the paramedics to carry on, and they eased the body out of the chair. Brian Galloway had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in, which made getting him into the body bag an interesting task. Maybe it would have been better to get Mrs Galloway out of the house and on her way first; she must surely be able to hear all the noise from the kitchen.

‘It’s a bit of a puzzle, actually.’ The pathologist stepped around the struggling paramedics and joined McLean in the hall, both of them squeezing against the far wall so MacPhail’s assistant could leave with the heavy bag of instruments. DC Mitchell picked that moment to come down the stairs, but hung back when she saw there was no room.

‘Not natural causes then,’ McLean said.

‘What are natural causes though, Tony? Your man in there had suffered a recent head trauma, and also fractures to some of his fingers. I’m told he fell down the steps at Fleshmarket Close, although his superficial injuries don’t really square up with that account.’

‘Have you been talking to DS Harrison?’ DC Mitchell asked.

MacPhail raised a surprised eyebrow, McLean too. ‘No. Should I have been?’

‘I heard she’d been asking questions about that incident. DI Ritchie wasn’t too happy about it. If this is the same man . . .’ Mitchell left the sentence unfinished.

‘We’ll need to follow that up.’ McLean added questioning the detective sergeant to his list of immediate actions. ‘Are you saying his injuries might have been fatal?’

‘I doubt it was the injuries. I’ve not found out what painkillers he was prescribed yet. There wasn’t anything close by him, so they’ll probably be upstairs in the bathroom. It’s possible he had a reaction to them, but that doesn’t explain the way he seems to have died. That’s the real puzzle, see?’

McLean didn’t, because the pathologist hadn’t told him yet. MacPhail could be like that, he remembered. So could Cadwallader for that matter. It must have been something they were taught at pathologist school.

‘How did he die then?’

‘I’ll not be able to confirm it until I’ve got him on the examination table at the mortuary, but he shows distinct signs of