If he’d thought the living room small, it was palatial compared to the tiny kitchen at the back of the house. That same inexperienced designer responsible for the whole street must have worked hard to fit everything in, but at least the single window allowed for a bit of natural daylight. Most of the space that wasn’t designer kitchen units was taken up by a table and four chairs, what an estate agent would optimistically call a dining area, no doubt. Two women sat at the table in silence as he entered, one young, one old. Only the young one moved, springing to her feet as she saw him.
‘Detective Inspector, sir.’
McLean hadn’t been sure whether he knew Police Constable Wells by sight, although he was sure he’d heard her name before. He was relieved to see that he did recognise her. She’d been part of the team that had searched the woods south of the city that summer, turning up one key piece of evidence that had helped crack open that case. He’d been put on suspension for months for solving it, of course, but that wasn’t her fault.
The old woman moved more slowly. She’d been staring at her coffee mug – still full, McLean saw – but now she turned her head to fix her gaze on him. It was hard to see any similarity between her and the dead man, but then he’d been sporting black eyes and a broken nose.
‘Mrs Galloway? I’m Detective Inspector McLean.’ He considered holding out his hand to shake, even though the woman only stared at him, mouth very slightly open. Her hands twisted in her lap as if she had arthritis in her fingers and was stretching them against the cold, but it was warm in the kitchen.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ he said, after a moment’s awkward silence. ‘Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’
It took a while, and obvious effort, but slowly Mrs Galloway pulled herself back together. She took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a long, heartfelt sigh.
‘I suppose so. Gets it over and done with.’
McLean pulled out the chair recently vacated by Constable Wells, and with a brief nod in her direction, settled himself into it. He was tempted to help himself to her coffee, but reckoned that might be a step too far.
‘This is your son Brian’s house, is it not? He lives here alone?’
Mrs Galloway breathed out heavily through her nose in a minimalist humourless laugh. ‘As if there’s room for anyone else.’ She sat up a little straighter. ‘Aye, this is his place. Not quite as luxurious as he was used to, but times change, eh?’
McLean had the nasty feeling he wasn’t getting something that should have been obvious. ‘Did he only move in here recently, then?’ he asked.
Something of a smile crept across the old woman’s face. She took hold of her mug, but didn’t lift it to drink. ‘You’ve no idea who he is, have you, Inspector?’ As much a statement as a question, although she didn’t wait long enough for him to answer. ‘Brian Galloway? Frontman for the Idle Lunatics?’
It still didn’t mean anything to him, but the context helped McLean guess. ‘I’m not familiar with their music,’ he admitted.
‘Aye, well. Guess you’re maybe a bit old for them, though you don’t look it.’ Mrs Galloway shook her head, as if remembering something. ‘I guess that’ll put a spanner in the works of their reunion tour, mind. Poor old Brian. He was looking forward to getting back on the road.’
‘You were here very early this morning, Mrs Galloway,’ he said, in an attempt to get the interview back on track. ‘Was that normal?’
‘Heavens, no. I kept away from this place since the day he moved in. Lizzie was right to kick him out. He got exactly what he deserved.’ She paused a moment, her words catching up with her. ‘Except perhaps this.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Galloway. Who’s Lizzie?’
‘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 severe hypoxia. And yet I couldn’t find any obstruction in his throat and there’s no sign on his neck of strangulation. He didn’t choke on anything, but something stopped him from breathing. Almost as if he drowned, only without any water.’
‘Find anything interesting, Constable?’ McLean asked, once the mortal remains of Brian Galloway had been manhandled out of the narrow hallway and into the ambulance blocking the street outside. DC Mitchell paused before answering, as Mrs Galloway was escorted from the kitchen by PC Wells and another uniformed constable who must have been the family liaison officer.
‘Not a lot, sir. Don’t think he’d been living here long by the look of things. Seems kind of, I don’t know, impersonal? There’s no pictures on the walls, no bookshelves or books. Two bedrooms upstairs, but one of them’s so full of boxes you can hardly get in.’
‘His mother said he was recently divorced.’ McLean thought back to the conversation. ‘Well, eighteen months ago. You’d think he’d have settled in a bit more. Put a bit of a stamp on the place.’
‘Unless he’s only just moved in. He’s unpacked some clothes, mind you. Pretty wild costumes.’
‘Sort of thing a rock star might wear on stage?’ McLean asked.
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Mitchell narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘Was he? A rock star?’
‘Apparently so. Lead singer of some band called the Idle Lunatics.’
From narrow slits to wide in surprise in an instant. ‘Mad Bastard? That was Mad Bastard? No way.’
So apparently it was only McLean who had never heard of them. ‘The same.’
‘Christ, but he’s loaded, isn’t he? Their last album went double platinum. Heard they were rehearsing for a reunion tour.’ Mitchell’s face, excited for a moment, now fell. ‘Shit. Don’t suppose that’ll happen now. Can’t have the Idle Lunatics without Mad Bastard.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. What’s the story about him falling down the steps at Fleshmarket Close?’
Mitchell looked a little uncomfortable at being asked. ‘Something Janie was looking into. Apparently two drunk blokes fell down the steps, got themselves banged up pretty badly. Heard one ruptured a bollock and blew out his knee. DI Ritchie told her to leave it alone, concentrate on the Slater case. It was only when I saw the injuries there it clicked this must be the other one. Christ, Mad Bastard. Just like him to get so drunk.’
McLean suspected there was more to it than that, but he could take it up with Harrison when he got into the station. ‘You find any drugs upstairs?’ he asked, then added ‘prescription or illegal’.
‘Nothing illegal, which is a bit disappointing now I know who he is.’ Mitchell pulled a clear plastic evidence bag from her pocket, inside which was a half-flattened cardboard box with a couple of layers of blister-packed pills still in it. ‘Found these though. Prescription mark’s from the Royal Infirmary. Pretty strong painkillers.’
McLean glanced out the open front door, where the ambulance was still parked. ‘OK. See if the pathologist’s still here and give them to him. Otherwise, make sure they go with the body.’
Mitchell nodded, then hurried off, passing PC Wells on the steps outside. McLean climbed the stairs to give the constable room on her way back to the kitchen, and was half tempted to go and have a look around the first floor anyway. No, it was a waste of time, and what was the point in asking Mitchell to do it if he then went and did it again himself? Wasn’t that what everyone was telling him not to do?
PC Wells was washing up the mugs when McLean stepped into the tiny kitchen once more.
‘Thanks for staying with her,’ he said, as she dried them up and put them in a cupboard. What would become of them now?
‘Poor woman. That must have been some shock coming in and finding her son dead like that.’
‘You get anything else from her? Apart from what we spoke about?’
‘Not much, sir. She was putting on a brave face, but, well, I’ve seen folk do that before and she was definitely shocked by the whole thing. Doesn’t help that she seems to have rowed with him recently, either. I think she took her daughter-in-law’s side in the divorce.’
Something niggled at the back of his mind when Wells mentioned the divorce. A conversation with someone else, perhaps. Another broken marriage? McLean shook his head slightly. It would come to him if it was important.
‘OK then. I think we’re done here for now. You’ve got keys?’
Wells shoved a hand in her pocket and brought out a keyring. ‘I was even given a lesson in how to set the alarm.’
‘Lock it all up then. We’ll have to wait and see what the pathologist has to say.’