Coffin Road

Chapter eleven

I am tempted by the hair of the dog. Not only because I feel like death on this grey September Edinburgh morning, but because I would like to rediscover the level of oblivion I achieved last night. The real world, today, feels even harsher and less forgiving.

It is only a short walk from the hotel to the top of Leith Street, and the turn into Princes Street. The equestrian statue of Wellington stands mounted on a plinth at the foot of the steps to General Register House, looking out over North Bridge.

For some reason I am acquainted with the history of this building. Built in the eighteenth century with funds seized from defeated Jacobite estates, it lay empty for nearly a decade, becoming known as the most magnificent pigeon house in Europe. It also provided a refuge for thieves and pickpockets before work resumed on its interior, turning it into what it is today — one of the oldest custom-built archive buildings still in continuous use anywhere in the world. Only nowadays they call it the ScotlandsPeople Centre.

At the reception desk in the main lobby, I buy, for fifteen pounds, a day search pass, and am escorted through the magnificent circular, glass-crowned Adam Dome, where the ancient records of sasines are stored on shelves that follow the contours of the room and rise in majestic procession to the golden dome high above. Desks with computers are set at intervals around the walls, but this is not the place where I will conduct my search.

The assistant takes me through a hall, past the Reid stairs, which lead to the historical and legal search rooms on the first floor, and into the Reid room itself, where computers sit before blue chairs in serried rows, on tables set along either side of the room. A man and a woman sit at a table in the centre, and the woman looks up and smiles as I approach, and asks to see my pass.

‘Have you used a computer in the search centre before?’ she asks.

If I have, I have no recollection of it and shake my head. She leads me to a desk and I sit down in front of a computer, feeling like a child on his first day at school. She pulls up a chair beside me, to boot up the computer and log me in.

‘Now, what exactly are you looking for?’

‘Anything at all about a Neal David Maclean.’ I fumble in my shoulder bag and bring out the extract of birth.

‘Ah, you must have accessed ScotlandsPeople online to get that?’

‘No.’ I am thinking as quickly as my hangover will allow.

‘It was given to me by a friend. I promised to do a search for him while I was here in Edinburgh.’

She touches the extract. ‘And that’s your friend? Neal Maclean?’

‘No. It’s a relative of his. He just wanted me to find out as much about Neal as I could.’

‘Well, you have his birth certificate, so that’s a good start. Is he married?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Let’s have a look then.’ She leans across me to tap at the keyboard. I suppose this is something I should be doing myself, but she seems happy to help, bored perhaps from sitting for endless hours at her desk in the library silence of this room. ‘Yes, here we are, this looks like him. Married to Louise Alice Munro, February fifth, 1998. Married young. Just twenty years old.’

I squint at the screen and see that Louise Alice Munro is two years older than Neal, which is unusual. And she must have fallen pregnant very quickly after their marriage. Or perhaps a premature pregnancy was their reason for marrying at such a young age in the first place. ‘Is there any way of establishing whether they have had any children?’

‘That might take a while.’

And I think there is no point. I know they have a daughter. ‘Let’s skip that, then.’

‘Do you want to go back the way? Parents, grandparents.’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

And she frowns. ‘I don’t really understand —’ she glances at my pass — ‘Mr Smith. What exactly is it you think you can find here?’

I am at a complete loss. I really have no idea.

‘I take it he’s still alive?’

‘Who?’

‘Neal David Maclean.’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Well, if you only believe so, maybe we should check that first.’

And as she leans across me again, I smell her perfume — something floral sweet — and I feel the warmth of her body. She initiates another search and hits the return key to bring up the result. She straightens in her seat, pulling down her jacket where it has ridden up over her breasts.

‘Well,’ she says, and gives me the strangest look. ‘Your friend might have briefed you a little better, Mr Smith. Neal David Maclean has been dead for over two years.’

And I gaze at the winking cursor on the screen. A fit man, a sailor, used to the outdoor life, Neal Maclean had died in his late thirties from a heart attack. Was it any wonder his wife had looked at me as though she had seen a ghost?