Read Online Dead Men's Bones (Inspector Mclean 4) by James Oswald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Oswald
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nothing, perhaps unwilling to open his mouth and thus lose valuable heat.
‘They made gunpowder here in the eighteen hundreds. Built the material stores into the cliffside to contain any accidental explosions.’ McLean led the way as they crossed a modern bridge over the North Esk. The water was deep and fast moving. Enough to wash a body down to the rocks further along? Looking downstream it was impossible to get to the banks on both sides without cutting a path through the thick undergrowth and weed saplings. A water team with dinghies would get a better view; there was certainly no way Penicuik’s uniforms could have done anything more than a very cursory inspection. If they’d done even that much. A single snowflake tumbled lazily down to the rushing black water, no doubt soon to be followed by very many more. McLean found it hard to blame them for taking the lazy option.
At a sharp bend in the road, two heavy stone gateposts formed an entrance into what a sign proudly declared to be Roslin Glen Country Park. That was new to him; it had never had a name before. The old dirt track had been replaced with a wheelchair-friendly path as well, but the scenery was otherwise much as he remembered. They walked upstream, but even though the treeswere leafless it was all but impossible to see the river. This wasn’t somewhere you might stumble in by accident.
Further up, and the track ended by a series of ruined buildings. The stump of an old chimney stood to one side, the narrow shape of a wheelhouse nearby evidence of an earlier form of power. The river here was choked by a weir, diverting water to the wheel that was no longer there. McLean clumped down to the water’s edge.
‘If he’d fallen in further upstream this would have stopped him.’ He turned to where MacBride was standing up the slope. ‘I’d forgotten this was here. Could’ve saved us all a bit of time, really.’
‘You think Penicuik might’ve mentioned it.’
‘Yes, well.’ McLean looked across the river to the trees on the other side. The bank rose steeply, a hundred feet or more, a narrow gully formed by a smaller stream almost directly opposite. Sheltered from the worst of the wind, the ancient oaks and beeches had grown tall and thin. Here and there the earth had given way under their weight, toppling them down to the water. The undergrowth grew thick in the gaps, brambles and gorse fighting for the light. A little further downstream the slope became a cliff of dark yellow sandstone, rhododendrons billowing over the top like spume, cascading down the cracks in the rock.
‘His neck was broken, which would suggest a fall.’
‘You think he fell down there?’ MacBride had followed McLean’s gaze across to the cliff, and now the constable shuddered somewhere in the depths of his overlarge jacket.
‘Micro-lacerationsto the front of the body. Like he’d pushed his way through a gorse bush.’
‘With no clothes on? Jesus. What would make someone do that?’
‘Being in fear of your life, perhaps?’ McLean tapped MacBride on the shoulder, pointed back in the direction they had come. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where’re we going?’
He pointed to the cliff top. ‘Up there. Only I don’t fancy trying to climb it from this side.’
It took a lot longer to walk than McLean had anticipated. Strange how memory changed a place over time, shortening distances and tidying up reality. Perhaps it would have been easier driving rather than struggling up the narrow lane to Roslin Castle station and then down on to the old railway line. The snow was coming in heavier flurries as they walked along the footpath that was the only good thing to come from Dr Beeching’s axe. There were dozens of abandoned railway lines around here, mostly old freight routes for the mines and factories, taking coal and goods to the port at Leith. This one was mostly sunk into a cutting, making it almost impossible to gauge where they were in relation to the ruined
‘They made gunpowder here in the eighteen hundreds. Built the material stores into the cliffside to contain any accidental explosions.’ McLean led the way as they crossed a modern bridge over the North Esk. The water was deep and fast moving. Enough to wash a body down to the rocks further along? Looking downstream it was impossible to get to the banks on both sides without cutting a path through the thick undergrowth and weed saplings. A water team with dinghies would get a better view; there was certainly no way Penicuik’s uniforms could have done anything more than a very cursory inspection. If they’d done even that much. A single snowflake tumbled lazily down to the rushing black water, no doubt soon to be followed by very many more. McLean found it hard to blame them for taking the lazy option.
At a sharp bend in the road, two heavy stone gateposts formed an entrance into what a sign proudly declared to be Roslin Glen Country Park. That was new to him; it had never had a name before. The old dirt track had been replaced with a wheelchair-friendly path as well, but the scenery was otherwise much as he remembered. They walked upstream, but even though the treeswere leafless it was all but impossible to see the river. This wasn’t somewhere you might stumble in by accident.
Further up, and the track ended by a series of ruined buildings. The stump of an old chimney stood to one side, the narrow shape of a wheelhouse nearby evidence of an earlier form of power. The river here was choked by a weir, diverting water to the wheel that was no longer there. McLean clumped down to the water’s edge.
‘If he’d fallen in further upstream this would have stopped him.’ He turned to where MacBride was standing up the slope. ‘I’d forgotten this was here. Could’ve saved us all a bit of time, really.’
‘You think Penicuik might’ve mentioned it.’
‘Yes, well.’ McLean looked across the river to the trees on the other side. The bank rose steeply, a hundred feet or more, a narrow gully formed by a smaller stream almost directly opposite. Sheltered from the worst of the wind, the ancient oaks and beeches had grown tall and thin. Here and there the earth had given way under their weight, toppling them down to the water. The undergrowth grew thick in the gaps, brambles and gorse fighting for the light. A little further downstream the slope became a cliff of dark yellow sandstone, rhododendrons billowing over the top like spume, cascading down the cracks in the rock.
‘His neck was broken, which would suggest a fall.’
‘You think he fell down there?’ MacBride had followed McLean’s gaze across to the cliff, and now the constable shuddered somewhere in the depths of his overlarge jacket.
‘Micro-lacerationsto the front of the body. Like he’d pushed his way through a gorse bush.’
‘With no clothes on? Jesus. What would make someone do that?’
‘Being in fear of your life, perhaps?’ McLean tapped MacBride on the shoulder, pointed back in the direction they had come. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Where’re we going?’
He pointed to the cliff top. ‘Up there. Only I don’t fancy trying to climb it from this side.’
It took a lot longer to walk than McLean had anticipated. Strange how memory changed a place over time, shortening distances and tidying up reality. Perhaps it would have been easier driving rather than struggling up the narrow lane to Roslin Castle station and then down on to the old railway line. The snow was coming in heavier flurries as they walked along the footpath that was the only good thing to come from Dr Beeching’s axe. There were dozens of abandoned railway lines around here, mostly old freight routes for the mines and factories, taking coal and goods to the port at Leith. This one was mostly sunk into a cutting, making it almost impossible to gauge where they were in relation to the ruined
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