James Oswald is the author of the Detective Inspector McLean series of crime novels. Currently there are two available, Natural Causes and The Book of Souls. He has also written an epic fantasy series, The Ballad of Sir BenfroIn as well as comic scripts and short stories.
In his spare time he runs a 350 acre livestock farm in North East Fife, where he raises pedigree Highland Cattle and New Zealand Romney Sheep.

 A young girl's mutilated body is discovered in a sealed room. Her remains are carefully arranged, in what seems to have been a cruel and macabre ritual, which appears to have taken place over 60 years ago.

For newly appointed Edinburgh Detective Inspector Tony McLean this baffling cold case ought to be a low priority - but he is haunted by the young victim and her grisly death.

Meanwhile, the city is horrified by a series of bloody killings. Deaths for which there appears to be neither rhyme nor reason, and which leave Edinburgh's police at a loss.

McLean is convinced that these deaths are somehow connected to the terrible ceremonial killing of the girl, all those years ago. It is an irrational, almost supernatural theory.

And one which will lead McLean closer to the heart of a terrifying and ancient evil . . .

1

He shouldn’t have stopped. It wasn’t his case. He wasn’t

even on duty. But there was something about the blue

flashing lights, the Scene of Crime van and uniforms setting

up barriers that Detective Inspector Anthony McLean

could never resist.

He’d grown up in this neighbourhood, this rich part of

town with its detached houses surrounded by large walled

gardens. Old money lived here, and old money knew how

to protect its own. You were very unlikely to see a vagrant

wandering these streets, never mind a serious crime, but

now two patrol cars blocked the entrance to a substantial

house and a uniformed officer was busy unwrapping blue

and white tape. McLean fished out his warrant card as he

approached.

‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s been a murder, sir. That’s all anyone’s told me.’

The constable tied off the tape and started on another

length. McLean looked up the sweeping gravel drive

towards the house. A SOC van had backed halfway up, its

doors wide; a line of uniforms inched their way across the

lawn, eyes down in search of clues. It wouldn’t hurt to

have a look, see if there was anything he could do to help.

He knew the area, after all. He ducked under the tape and

made his way up the drive.

Past the battered white van, a sleek black Bentley glinted

in the evening light. Alongside it, a rusty old Mondeo

lowered the tone. McLean knew the car, knew its owner

all too well. Detective Chief Inspector Charles Duguid

was not his favourite superior officer. If this was one of

his investigations, then the deceased must have been

important. That would explain the large number of uniforms

drafted in, too.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

McLean turned to the familiar voice. Duguid was considerably

older than him, mid-

fifties at least; his once-red hair now thin and greying, his face florid and lined. White

paper overalls pulled down to his waist and tied in a knot

beneath his sagging gut, he had about him the air of a

man who’s just nipped out for a fag.

‘I was in the neighbourhood, saw the patrol cars in the

lane.’

‘And you thought you’d stick your nose in, eh? What’re

you doing here anyway?’

‘I didn’t mean to butt in to your investigation, sir. I just

thought, well, since I grew up in the area, I might’ve been

able to help.’

Duguid let out an audible sigh, his shoulders sagging

theatrically.

‘Oh well. You’re here. Might as well make yourself useful.

Go and talk to that pathologist friend of yours. See

what wonderful insights he’s come up with this time.’

McLean started towards the front door, but was

stopped by Duguid’s hand catching him tight around

the arm.

‘And make sure you report back to me when you’re

done. I don’t want you sloping off before we’ve wrapped

this up.’

The inside of the house was almost painfully bright after

the soft city darkness descending outside. McLean entered

a large hall through a smaller, but still substantial, porch.

Inside, a chaos of SOC officers bustled about in white

paper boilersuits, dusting for fingerprints, photographing

everything. Before he could get more than a couple of

steps, a harassed young woman handed him a rolled‑up

white bundle. He didn’t recognise her; a new recruit to the

team.

‘You’ll want to put these on if you’re going in there, sir.’

She motioned behind her with a quick jab of her thumb

to an open door on the far side of the hallway. ‘It’s an

awful mess. You’d no’ want to ruin your suit.’

‘Or contaminate any potential evidence.’ McLean

thanked her, pulling on the paper overalls and slipping the

plastic covers over his shoes before heading for the door,

keeping to the raised walkway the SOC team had laid out

across the polished wood floor. Voices muttered from

inside, so he stepped in.

It was a gentleman’s library, leather-bound books lining

the walls in their dark mahogany shelves. An antique

desk sat between two tall windows, its top clear save

for a blotter

and a mobile phone. Two high-backed leather

armchairs were arranged either side of an ornate

fireplace, facing the unlit fire. The one on the left was

unoccupied, some items of clothing neatly folded and

placed across the arm. McLean crossed the room and

stepped around the other chair, his attention immediately

drawn to the figure sitting in it, his nose wrinkling at the

foul stench. The man looked almost calm, his hands resting lightly

on the arms of the chair, his feet slightly apart on the

floor. His face was pale, eyes staring straight ahead with a

glazed expression. Black blood spilled from his closed

mouth, dribbling down his chin, and at first McLean

thought he was wearing some kind of dark velvet coat.

Then he saw the guts, blue-grey shiny coils slipping down

onto the Persian rug on the floor. Not velvet, not a coat.

Two white-clad figures crouched beside them, seemingly

unwilling to trust their knees to the blood-

soaked carpet. ‘Christ on a stick.’ McLean covered his mouth and nose

against the iron tang of blood and the richer smell of

human ordure. One of the figures looked around and he

recognised the city pathologist, Angus Cadwallader.

‘Ah, Tony. Come to join the party have you?’ He stood,

handing something slippery to his assistant. ‘Take that will

you, Tracy.’

‘Barnaby Smythe.’ McLean stepped closer.

‘I didn’t realise you knew him,’ Cadwallader said.

‘Oh, yes. I knew him. Not well, I mean. I’ve never been

in this place before. But sweet Jesus, what happened

to him?’

‘Didn’t Dagwood brief you?’

McLean looked around, expecting to see the chief

inspector close behind and wincing at the casual use of

Duguid’s nickname. But apart from the assistant and the

deceased, they were alone in the room.

‘He wasn’t too pleased to see me, actually. Thinks I

want to steal his glory again.’

‘And do you?’

‘No. I was just off up to my gran’s place. Noticed the

cars . . .’ McLean saw the pathologist’s smile and shut up.

‘How is Esther, by the way? Any improvement?’

‘Not really, no. I’ll be seeing her later. If I don’t get

stuck here, that is.’

‘Well, I wonder what she’d have made of this mess.’

Cadwallader waved a blood-

smeared,

gloved hand at the

remains of what had once been a man.

‘I’ve no idea. Something gruesome I’m sure. You

pathologists are all alike. So tell me what happened, Angus.’

‘As far as I can tell, he’s not been tied down or restrained

in any way, which would suggest he was dead when this was

done. But there’s too much blood for his heart not to have

been beating when he was first cut open, so he was most

likely drugged. We’ll know when we get the toxicology

report back. Actually most of the blood’s come from this.’

He pointed to a loose red flap of skin circling the dead man’s

neck. ‘And judging by the spray on the legs and the side of

the chair, that was done after his entrails were removed. I’m

guessing the killer did that to get them out of the way whilst

he poked about inside. Major internal organs all seem to be

in place except for a chunk of his spleen, which is missing.’

‘There’s something in his mouth, sir,’ the assistant said,

standing up with a creak of protest from her knees. Cadwallader

shouted for the photographer, then bent forward,

forcing his fingers between the dead man’s lips and prising

his jaw apart. He reached in and pulled a slimy, red, smooth

mess out of it. McLean felt the bile rise in his gorge and

tried not to retch as the pathologist held the organ up to

the light.

‘Ah, there it is. Excellent.’

Night had fallen by the time McLean made it back out of

the house. It was never truly dark in the city; too many

street lights casting the thin haze of pollution with a hellish,

orange glow. But at least the stifling August heat had

seeped away, leaving a freshness behind it that was a welcome

relief from the foul stench inside. His feet crunched

on the gravel as he stared up at the sky, hopelessly looking

for stars, or any reason why someone would tear out an

old man’s guts and feed him his own spleen.

‘Well?’ The tone was unmistakable, and came with

a sour odour of stale tobacco smoke. McLean turned to

see Chief Inspector Duguid. He’d ditched the overalls

and was once more wearing his trademark over-

large suit. Even in the semi-darkness McLean could see the

shiny patches where the fabric had worn smooth over

the years. ‘Most probable cause of death was massive blood loss,

his neck was cut from ear to ear. Angus . . . Dr Cadwallader

reckons time of death was somewhere in the late

afternoon, early evening. Between four and seven. The

victim wasn’t restrained, so must have been drugged. We’ll

know more once the toxicology screening’s done.’

‘I know all that, McLean. I’ve got eyes. Tell me about

Barnaby Smythe. Who’d cut him up like that?’

‘I didn’t really know Mr Smythe all that well, sir. He

kept himself to himself. Today’s the first time I’ve ever

been in his house.’

‘But you used to scrump apples from his garden when

you were a boy, I suppose.’

McLean bit back the retort he wanted to give. He was

used to Duguid’s taunting, but he didn’t see why he should

have to put up with it when he was trying to help.

‘So what do you know about the man?’ Duguid asked.

‘He was a merchant banker, but he must have retired by

now. I read somewhere that he donated several million to

the new wing of the National Museum.’

Duguid sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I was

hoping for something a bit more useful than that. Don’t

you know anything about his social life? His friends and

enemies?’

‘Not really, sir. No. Like I said, he’s retired, must be

eighty at least. I don’t mix much in those circles. My gran

would have known him, but she’s not exactly in a position

to help. She had a stroke, you know.’

Duguid snorted unsympathetically. ‘Then you’re no

bloody use to me, are you. Go on, get out of here. Go

back to your rich friends and enjoy your evening off.’ He

turned away and stalked towards a group of uniforms

huddling together smoking. McLean was happy to let him

go, then remembered the chief inspector’s earlier warning

about sloping off.

‘Do you want me to prepare a report for you, sir?’ he

shouted at Duguid’s back.

‘No I bloody well don’t.’ Duguid turned on his heel, his

face shadowed, eyes glinting in the reflected light of the

street lamps. ‘This is my investigation, McLean. Now fuck

off out of my crime scene.’

2

The Western General Hospital smelled of illness; that

mixture of disinfectant, warm air and leaked bodily fluids

that clung to your clothes if you spent more than ten minutes

in the place. The nurses at reception recognised him,

smiling and nodding him through without a word. One of

them was Barbara and the other Heather, but he was

damned if he could remember who was who. They never

seemed to be apart for long enough to work it out, and

staring at the too-

small badges on their chests was just embarrassing.

McLean walked as quietly as the squeaky linoleum floor

would allow along the soulless corridors; past shuffling

men in skimpy hospital smocks, clutching their wheeled

intravenous drip stands with arthritic claws; busy nurses

weaving their way from one crisis to another; pallid junior

doctors looking like they were about to drop from exhaustion.

It had all long since ceased to shock him, he’d been

coming here that long.

The ward he was looking for was at a quiet end of the

hospital, tucked away from the hustle and bustle. It was a

nice room, with windows looking out over the Firth of

Forth to Fife. It always struck him as a bit daft, really. This

would be a better place to put people recovering from

major operations or something. Instead it was home to

those patients who couldn’t care less about the view or

the quiet. He wedged open the door with a fire extinguisher,

so the distant hum of activity would follow him,

then stepped into the semi-

darkness. She lay propped up on several pillows, her eyes closed

as if she were sleeping. Wires flowed from her head to a

bedside monitor, which ticked a slow, steady rhythm. A

single tube dripped clear liquid into her wrinkled and

liver-spotted arm and a slim white continuous pulse monitor

was clamped onto one withered finger. McLean pulled

up a chair and sat down, taking his gran’s free hand and

staring at her once-proud and lively face.

‘I saw Angus earlier. He was asking after you.’ He spoke

softly, no longer sure she could hear him. Her hand was

cool, room temperature. Apart from the mechanical rising

and falling of her chest, his grandmother didn’t move at all.

‘How long have you been in here now? Eighteen

months is it?’ Her cheeks had shrunk away more since the

last time he had visited her, and someone had cut her hair

badly, making her skull look even more skeletal.

‘I used to think you’d wake up eventually, and it would

all be the same. But now I’m not sure. What is there for

you to wake up to?’

She didn’t answer; he hadn’t heard her voice in over a

year and a half. Not since she had phoned him that evening,

saying she didn’t feel well. He remembered the

ambulance, the paramedics, locking up the empty house.

But he couldn’t remember her face when he had found

her, unconscious in her armchair by the fire. The months

had wasted her away, and he had watched her fade until

all he knew was this shadow of the woman who had raised

him since he was four.

‘Who’s done this. Honestly.’ McLean looked around,

startled by the noise. A nurse stood in the doorway, struggling

to remove the fire extinguisher. She flustered in,

looking around and then finally seeing him.

‘Oh, Mr McLean. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.’

Soft Western Isles accent, her pale face topped with a

bob of flame-red hair. She wore the uniform of a ward

sister and McLean was sure he knew her name. Jane or

Jenny or something. He thought he knew the names of

almost all the nurses in the hospital, either from work or

his regular visits to this quiet little ward. But for the life of

him, as she stood staring, he couldn’t remember hers.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, standing up. ‘I was just going.’ He

turned back to the comatose figure, releasing her cold

hand. ‘I’ll come see you again soon, Gran. I promise.’

‘D’you know, you’re the only person who comes here

to visit regularly,’ the nurse said. McLean looked around

the ward, noting the other beds with their silent, motionless

occupants. It was creepy, in a way. Queued up for the

morgue. Waiting patiently for the Grim Reaper to get

around to them.

‘Don’t they have family?’ he asked, nodding his head in

the direction of the other patients.

‘Sure, but they don’t visit. Oh they come at first. Sometimes

every day for a week or two. Even a month. But

over time the gaps get longer and longer. Mr Smith over

there’s not had a visitor since May. But you come here

every week.’

‘She doesn’t have anyone else.’

‘Well, still. It’s not everyone would do what you do.’

McLean didn’t know what to say. Yes, he came to visit

whenever he could, but he never stayed long. Not like his

gran, who was condemned to spend the rest of her days

in this quiet hell.

‘I have to go,’ he said, making for the door. ‘I’m sorry

about the fire extinguisher.’ He stooped, lifting it back

onto its hook on the wall. ‘And thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For looking after her. I think she would have liked you.’

The taxi dropped him off at the end of the drive. McLean

stood for a while in the evening coolness, watching the

steam of the retreating exhaust dissipate into nothing. A

lone cat strode confidently across the road not more than

twenty yards away, then stopped suddenly as if realising it

was being watched. Its sleek head moved from side to

side, sharp eyes scanning the scene until it spotted him.

Threat detected and assessed, it sat down in the middle of

the road and began licking a paw.

He leant against the nearest in a line of trees that burst

through the paving slabs like the end of civilisation, and

watched. The street was quiet at the best of times, almost

silent at this hour. Just the background quiet roar of the

city to remind him that life went on. An animal shriek in

the distance stopped the cat mid-

lick.

It peered at McLean

to see whether he had made the noise, then trotted off,

disappearing into a nearby walled garden with an effortless

leap.

Turning back to the driveway, McLean faced the blank

edifice of his grandmother’s house, the dark windows

as empty as the old lady’s coma-

shrunk face. Eyes shutter-closed against the never-

dark night. Visiting the hospital was a duty he undertook willingly, but coming

here felt more like a chore. The house he’d grown up in

was long gone, the life of the place leached out of it as

surely as it had been leached out of his grandmother until

there was nothing left but bones of stone and memories

gone sour. He half wished the cat would come back; any

company right now would be welcome. But he knew it

was really just a distraction. He’d come here to do a job;

might as well get on with it.

A week’s worth of junk mail littered the front hallway.

McLean scooped it up and took it through to the library.

Most of the furniture was covered in white sheets, adding

to the other-worldliness of the house, but his grandmother’s

desk was still clear. He checked the phone for

messages, deleting the telesales offerings without bothering

to listen to them. Should probably switch the machine

off, really, but you never knew if some old family friend

might be trying to get in touch. The junk mail went into

the bin, which he noticed would need emptying soon.

There were two bills that he’d have to remember to forward

on to the solicitors dealing with his grandmother’s

affairs. Just the walk-around and he could go home. Maybe

even get some sleep.McLean had never really been afraid of the dark. Perhaps

it was because the monsters had come when he was

four, taken his parents away from him. The worst had

happened and he’d survived. After that, the darkness held

no fear. And yet he found himself switching lights on so

that he never had to cross a room in darkness. The house

was large, far larger than one elderly lady needed. Most of

the neighbouring houses had been turned into at least two

apartments, but this one still held out, and with a substantial

walled garden surrounding it. Christ alone knew what

it was worth; one more thing he’d have to worry about in

the fullness of time. Unless his grandmother had left

everything to some cat charity. That wouldn’t really surprise

him; definitely her style.

He stopped, hand reaching up to flick off the light

switch, and realised it was the first time he’d thought

about the consequences of her being dead. The possibility

of her dying. Sure, it had always been there, lurking at

the back of his mind, but all the months he’d been visiting

her in the hospital it had been with the thought that eventually

there would be some improvement in her condition.

Today, for whatever reason, he had finally accepted that

wasn’t going to happen. It was both sad and oddly

relieving.

And then his eyes noticed where he was.

His grandmother’s bedroom was not the largest in the

house, but it was still probably bigger than McLean’s

entire Newington flat. He stepped into the room, running

a hand over the bed still made up with the sheets she’d

slept in the night before she’d had her stroke. He opened

up wardrobes to reveal clothes she’d never wear again,

then crossed the room to where a Japanese silk dressing

gown had been thrown over the chair that stood in front

of her dressing table. A hairbrush lying bristles up held

strands of her hair; long white filaments that glinted in

the harsh yellow-

white glow of the lights reflected in an

antique mirror. A few bottles of scent were arranged

on a small silver tray to one side of it, a couple of

ornately framed photographs to the other. This was his

grandmother’s most private space. He’d been in here

before, sent to fetch something as a boy or nipping

through to the bathroom to pinch a bar of soap, but he’d

never lingered, never really taken much notice of the

place. He felt slightly uneasy just being in here, and at the

same time fascinated.

The dressing table was the focus of the room, much

more so than the bed. This was where his grandmother

prepared herself for the world outside, and McLean was

pleased to see that one of the photographs was of him.

He remembered the day it was taken, when he passed out

of Tulliallan. That was probably the tidiest his uniform

had ever been. Police Constable McLean, on the fast track

sure, but still expected to pound the beat like any other

copper.

The other photo showed his parents, taken at their

wedding. Looking at the two pictures together, it was clear

that he’d inherited most of his looks from his father. They

must have been similar ages when the two photographs

were taken, and apart from the difference in film quality,

they could almost have been brothers. McLean stared at

the image for a while. He barely knew these people, hardly

ever thought about them anymore.

Other photographs were dotted about the room; some

on the walls, some in frames on the top of a wide, low

chest of drawers that undoubtedly contained underwear.

Some were pictures of his grandfather, the dour old

gentleman whose portrait hung above the fireplace in the

dining room downstairs, presiding over the head of the

table. They charted his life, from young man through to

old age in a series of black-

and-white jumps. Other pictures were of his father, and then his mother too as she

came into his life. There were a couple of McLean’s grandmother

too, as a strikingly beautiful young woman dressed

in the most fashionable of 1930s clothes. The last of these

showed her flanked by two smiling gentlemen, also

dressed for the period, and in the background the familiar

columns of the National Monument on Calton Hill.

McLean stared at the photograph for long moments

before he realised what was bothering him about it. On

his grandmother’s left was his grandfather, William

McLean, quite obviously the same man who appeared in

so many of the other pictures. But it was the man on her

right, one arm around her waist and smiling at the camera

as if the world were his oyster, who looked the spitting

image of the photos of the newly married man and the

fresh out of training college police constable.