Ken McClure - White death

‘I’m not sure that we have one but… it’s possible. His wife is absolutely adamant that he did not commit suicide.’

‘Not an uncommon reaction,’ said Steven. ‘It must be a very hard thing to come to terms with.’

‘Well, she apparently has no intention at all of accepting it. She insists that her husband was murdered and has been seizing every opportunity to say so in public. She insists that he was a devoted husband and father, a committed Christian, happy and settled in his work and with everything to live for.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘The body was found in woodland quite near where he lived — a place known as the Hermitage of Braid. He’d cut his wrists. There was nothing to suggest it wasn’t suicide apart from the fact that there was no note and the police failed to establish any reason why Haldane would want to end his life. He seems to have been everything his wife says he was. Perhaps for the same reason, they didn’t come up with any reason why someone would want to kill him either.’

Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘This is all very sad but I’m sorry, I don’t see where Sci-Med comes in.’

‘Haldane’s wife is an intelligent woman: she’s a nursing sister at the new Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh. She insists that her husband was murdered over something to do with one of his patients.’

‘One of his patients killed him?’ exclaimed Steven.

‘Nothing like that,’ said Macmillan. ‘The practice was treating a child for a skin complaint. The mother wasn’t happy with the way her child’s case was being handled by their GP and a transfer was made to Haldane’s list. He referred the child to a skin clinic and something called vitiligo was diagnosed.’ Macmillan gave Steven an enquiring glance.

‘Not really my area but, as I remember, it’s a fairly harmless pigment problem leading to patches on the skin — more embarrassing than dangerous.’

‘That would fit with what I have here,’ said Macmillan. ‘Apparently the child, however, was very sensitive about her condition and her mother came home one day to find — in her opinion — that she’d attempted to remove the patch with boiling water.’

‘My God,’ said Steven.

‘According to Haldane’s wife, there was some disagreement about this. Haldane was sure the scalding had been an accident.’

‘What an awful situation,’ said Steven. ‘How is the child?’

‘She’s still in hospital and quite seriously ill.’

‘Was she able to throw any light on what happened?’

‘She’s hardly said a word since the “accident”.’

‘Poor lass. How old?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘A very self-conscious age,’ said Steven.

‘Any thoughts so far?’

‘Just from what you’ve told me, it’s not inconceivable that the girl did it deliberately, in which case Haldane may have felt guilt over not having referred her for psychiatric help earlier. Whether that might have tipped him over into taking his own life… well, who knows?’

‘Haldane’s wife is adamant that her husband did not believe for a minute that the child had done it deliberately. He was convinced it had been an accident.’

‘I think the popular term could be “in denial”,’ said Steven.

‘Mmm. On the other hand, his wife says that he seemed to be much more upset about some other possibility that he refused to discuss with her.’

‘You mean that someone else might have scalded the girl?’ asked Steven with wide eyes.

Macmillan flinched at the suggestion. ‘I don’t think that was what she meant at all. She says that her husband started making lots of telephone calls, demanding to speak to people about the case, but he constantly ran into some problem because the girl was on some monitoring list that she thinks was called “green sticker patients”. Apparently it made her notes difficult to obtain.’

‘What’s this green sticker business all about?’ asked Steven.

‘That’s where you come in,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’d like you to find out. Have a root around; see what you come up with but most importantly, don’t stand on anyone’s toes, especially not Lothian and Borders Police. They won’t have forgotten the last time you strayed on to their patch. I’ve asked Jean to find you somewhere discreet to stay while you’re up there. She’ll give you details on the way out along with the file.’

‘On my way.’

Jean Roberts smiled when Steven emerged from Macmillan’s office and brought out a folder from the top drawer of her desk which she handed to Steven. ‘All we have on the Edinburgh case. Feel good to be operational again?’

‘I guess,’ smiled Steven. ‘Sir John tells me you were arranging accommodation?’

‘Yes, he said he wanted it to be somewhere discreet where your presence would hopefully go unnoticed. I’ve booked you into a B amp;B in a lovely Victorian building just north of Edinburgh’s New Town called Fraoch House — Fraoch means “heather” in Gaelic. My sister and I stayed there last year when we went up for the festival. It has everything you’ll need. I’ve included directions in the file.’

It was raining when Steven’s flight touched down at Edinburgh airport and the chill wind that caught the side of his face when he stepped out from the aircraft brought back memories of times past in Scotland’s capital. He had mixed feelings about the city. He’d had some good times here with Lisa when they’d come through from Glasgow — as they often had — to visit theatres and galleries but he’d also had some bad when past investigations had brought him into conflict with people who could only be described as plain evil. Glasgow, where he and Lisa had lived for a while, wore its heart on its sleeve while Edinburgh hid its face behind net curtains.

A poster on the wall of the terminal building proclaimed Scotland as the ‘best small country in the world’ while a series of overweight and unsmiling ground staff wearing fluorescent waistcoats herded passengers into snaking queues and shouted at them to keep mobile phones turned off.

‘What the hell do they want this time?’ grumbled the man in the queue beside Steven. ‘Boarding pass? Passport? Shoe size? Inside leg measurement?’

Someone else in the queue whispered, ‘Passport.’ And the fact that she’d whispered it made Steven realise just how much people had come to fear and dislike authority in airports. Security — or imagined security — had no sense of humour at all and common sense was an alien concept to those charged with implementing it. Anyone displaying dissent would end up in very serious trouble. This in itself was a terrorist victory of sorts.

‘Where to?’ asked the taxi driver.

‘Fraoch House in Pilrig Street,’ replied Steven, reading from the note he had in his pocket.

The driver drove without comment, something that suited Steven as he’d had more than enough of taxi drivers’ philosophy over the years. Silence was just fine. He could enjoy the sights instead of listening to a treatise on the Iraq war or the virtues of proclaiming Scotland an independent nation, not that the sights today were particularly welcoming but maybe that was the rain. Everywhere looked nice in sunshine. Anywhere could be depressing in the wet.

The driver uttered his first words as they came to a roundabout at the head of Leith Street when a woman driving a 4x4 swung out in front of him. ‘Bloody loony! No wonder she needs a 4x4 to keep her arse safe!’

Steven didn’t comment and silence was resumed until they pulled up outside Fraoch House. ‘There you go.’

Steven paid the driver and tipped him well. This brought a smile that looked like an unnatural act.