Still Life

by Val McDermid

  ‘The other key issue is that we don’t know where he was staying. He lived in Paris, so the chances are he was booked in somewhere local. Keith, hook up with one of the civilian aides and start hitting all the possible – hotels, bed and breakfast, Airbnb. Daisy, what have you got from the backgrounder?’

  It was her moment. Daisy stood up to make sure everyone could see her. ‘The dead man was legally Paul Allard. But that was a false name he used to join the French Foreign Legion. After he left the Legion two years ago, he had to revert to his real name to get French citizenship. As soon as it was granted, he changed it back officially to Paul Allard. But for a brief window, he reverted to his birth name, which was James Auld.’ There were a few impatient nods.

  ‘James Auld’s brother was a man called Iain Auld. Some of you might remember him. He was one of Scotland’s most senior civil servants and he disappeared without trace in May 2010. There was a lot of coverage at the time. The night before he went missing, a neighbour in his block of flats heard the sounds of a loud altercation coming from Iain Auld’s flat. Shouting, banging of furniture. The argument continued on to the stairs and the witness identified the person Iain Auld was arguing with as his brother, James Auld. She’d met James previously, so she was in no doubt. Police questioned James but he refused to say what they’d quarrelled about. Then a search of the communal bins in the basement of James’s flat turned up a bloodstained T-shirt. James was questioned about it before the DNA results came back confirming the blood was Iain’s. And although Mary Auld, Iain’s wife, confirmed he’d owned one like it, James was released. Then James also disappeared.’ Daisy paused for effect.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Charlie said. ‘Not the Met’s finest hour, then.’

  ‘They finally pieced it together. He took a ferry to Belfast, then made his way to Cork, where he took another ferry to Santander in northern Spain. Once he was there, he could go anywhere in the Schengen Area without any checks. His trail went cold and now we know why. A few weeks later, he’d signed up for the French Foreign Legion.’ A murmur of what passed for congratulation greeted her summary.

  ‘Nice job, Sergeant,’ Charlie said. ‘So we’ve got some answers. But we’ve got more questions. Going back ten years – what was the row about? Did James Auld kill his brother or did he run because he knew he was innocent and the odds were stacked against him? Was he set up? We’re going to have to liaise with the detectives who led the investigation down in London. But I think right now we have other priorities.

  ‘James Auld died on our patch, in our timeline. The first question we need an answer to is why did he come back? He’d buried his past life with complete success, as far as we can tell. He was safe in Paris. He had a life. He must have known he was taking a big risk coming back to the UK. He was still a person of interest in his brother’s disappearance, all the more so since Mary Auld obtained a declaration of death in respect of her husband. And yet he came back. With fatal consequences, as we have seen. So, any bright ideas? What might have brought him back?’

  A long moment of silence, broken by officers shifting in their chairs. ‘Maybe he was just homesick,’ Daisy said. ‘When he was in the Legion, there was plenty going on to keep him occupied. But then, sitting about in his Paris flat between gigs, maybe he started feeling the pull of home.’

  Pete Gordon gave a phlegmy chuckle. ‘He’d missed too many East Fife home games, you think?’

  ‘People do get homesick,’ Daisy retorted with spirit. ‘And after the end of this year, now Brexit has happened, it won’t be so easy to slip in and out of the country.’

  ‘Good point.’ Charlie stood up and pointed at the map on the wall that showed the coastline between Elie and Pittenweem. ‘What’s his connection to this part of the coast? Daisy, do we know?’

  She felt a moment’s panic. Another thing she hadn’t considered. ‘They grew up in Edinburgh,’ she said. ‘They might have holidayed in the East Neuk?’

  Charlie frowned at her. ‘We’re woefully short on background here. We need to talk to Iain Auld’s widow. Where is she now?’

  ‘The address on the file is in Edinburgh,’ Daisy said.

  Charlie looked at his watch. ‘You’ll have missed the worst of the traffic. Away you go across the bridge and talk to the Widow Auld. I want everything there is to know about the Auld brothers.’

  Driving over the Queensferry Crossing, its cables angled to look like huge sails, always lifted Daisy’s spirits. She sang along with Billie Eilish till she hit the outskirts of Edinburgh and had to pay attention. The bossy GPS led her on a route through the city centre made even more convoluted by the roadworks that seemed to have been deposited at random by a malevolent deity. When she finally arrived at Leopold Place it was past seven o’clock and there was of course nowhere to park. ‘Fuck it,’ she muttered on her second circuit of the nearby streets, and slid into a ‘residents only’ parking place. The wardens would be long gone for the day.

  Mary Auld’s flat was on the ground floor of a grand sandstone tenement building, separated from the street by iron railings and a gate with an unforgiving latch. Daisy wrestled it open and climbed the steps to the front door. It was answered by a tall blond man with a suspicious look. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he said grudgingly.

  Daisy produced her ID and introduced herself. He peered even more suspiciously at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I haven’t called the police.’

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Mary Auld,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Then you’re looking in vain,’ he said. ‘Mrs Auld hasn’t lived here for more than two years.’ The door began to close.

  Daisy tried not to let her frustration show. ‘Do you know where she moved to? Presumably she left a forwarding address?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember. She may have done, but she had a mail redirect on her post, so we never had occasion to use it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Daisy raised her voice. ‘This is a murder inquiry, sir.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘How extraordinary. But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know where Mary Auld is living. You’ve wasted your journey.’

  ‘She never mentioned where she was moving to?’

  He shrugged. ‘She may have, but frankly, I wasn’t interested. So I have not retained that information.’

  Pompous git. ‘Do you know if she was friendly with any of your neighbours?’ The last throw of the dice.

  He considered for a moment. ‘Iris Blackford, in the basement. She’s on her own too, I think they used to chum each other to the theatre and the like. Very Edinburgh.’ The words set Daisy’s hackles rising but his smile was surprisingly sweet. ‘Now, if that’s all?’

  ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’

  His suspicious look was back. Maybe he’d actually come off his high horse long enough to notice her sarcasm. He scowled and closed the door firmly in her face. With a sigh, Daisy made her way down the steep stone stairs, worn treacherously away in the middle by two hundred years of feet. The basement area was a maze of plant pots, their contents looking sad in the February cold. Daisy threaded her way to the door, almost blinded by a security light. No doorbell, just a heavy brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin.

  The woman who answered the door looked ancient to Daisy, though she conceded to herself that she was probably only in her late sixties. Untidy grey curls sprang from under a purple beret, and her figure was draped in an assortment of layers in shades of purple and pink. But her eyes were sharp and raked Daisy from head to foot. ‘I don’t buy at the door and I have no need of Jesus,’ she said, her accent revealing her West Coast origins.

  Daisy smiled and produced her ID. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘The man upstairs thought you might be able to help me.’

  A wide grin stripped twenty years from Iris Blackford. ‘Did you annoy him? I bet you did. Well done. How
can I help you, officer?’

  ‘I’m trying to make contact with Mrs Mary Auld, who used to live upstairs. But your neighbour didn’t—’

  Iris Blackford’s hands flew to her face, fingertips pressing on her soft cheeks. ‘Is there news of Iain? Finally? After all these years?’ Her distress was obvious.

  ‘I’m sorry, no,’ Daisy said hastily. ‘He’s not the subject of our inquiries. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say more, but I can reassure you on that point.’

  Her hands fell from her face and she folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself. ‘Then it must be . . . But it can’t be, his wee brother vanished in a puff of smoke.’ She took a deep breath. Then, suddenly businesslike, she said, ‘You’ll be wanting Mary’s address. She moved over to Fife, her family came from there. Just a minute, I’ll get it for you.’ She turned away, pushing the door almost closed, in contrast to her earlier friendliness. Daisy wondered what she’d said to cause such a rapid change.

  She didn’t have long to wait, however. A couple of minutes later, Iris Blackford returned with a sheet of paper torn from a hotel bedside phone pad. The address was in block capitals with a phone number beneath. ‘There you go. Lovely view over the golf links across the Forth.’

  ‘Thank you. I really appreciate your help.’ The door was already closing.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ And now it was closed. So much for Edinburgh good manners. But at least her journey hadn’t been a complete waste of time. She now knew where to find Mary Auld. And if her memory served her well, she wasn’t far from a chippie. A fish supper with extra crispy batter on fresh haddock and a mound of chips fragrant with beef dripping would set her up nicely for the drive home.

  There was almost always a bright side to be found, in Daisy’s experience.

  11

  The faint promise of spring that had brightened the morning sky had dissolved by home time. Rosebank Cemetery provided no protection against the bitter north-westerly wind cutting across Pilrig. Muttering curses against the weather, Karen turned up the collar of her baggy winter coat and shoved her hands in the pockets just in time to feel the vibration of an incoming text. No way was she going to stop here. She’d wait till she’d crossed at the lights. She might even nip into the Bonnington for a helping of their chilli beef nachos to warm up. Her mouth watered at the thought. All she’d had since breakfast had been a wrinkled apple she’d found at the bottom of her bag.

  Once she was in the lee of the buildings, she pulled out her phone to find a message from Jason.

  Sorry, boss. In all the excitement earlier, I forgot to pass on what you asked me for. Registered owner Luke Gray, 7 Bughtlin Grove.

  Karen caught her breath, all thought of food gone. Now she knew who had picked up Merrick Shand. And if he wasn’t at 7 Bughtlin Grove, there had to be somebody else there who could point the finger at his location. Almost without thinking, she took the few steps back to the busy junction, scanning the traffic for the orange glow of an available cab.

  Ten minutes later, she was opening her front door and heading straight for the desk where her laptop sat. Karen flipped it open as she shrugged out of her coat and let it fall over her chair. As her browser came alive, she typed in the address. The map revealed that Bughtlin Grove was a small crescent set back from a wider street that bred a dozen narrow thoroughfares of tightly packed houses. Street View showed her a strip of almost-detached houses, connected via their garages. They looked like standard 1970s boxes, their pale grey harling clean and well-kempt. Three small bedrooms, she thought. Open-plan lounge through to a kitchen tacked on at the back. A lot less fancy than the big house Merrick Shand used to live in before he killed Phil Parhatka.

  She fished out her wallet and added five credits to her account at a search app she used when she wanted to investigate under the radar of Police Scotland’s scrutinised systems. Sometimes it was better not to leave a trace. She headed for Edinburgh City Council’s voters’ roll. It was a document that was theoretically in the public domain, but you had to be really committed to track it down in a public library. Given how those institutions were shrinking in the name of austerity, it was a moot point how long that would be feasible. Much easier to pay a few quid and search online. If you had a few quid to spare, of course.

  When the entry for 7 Bughtlin Grove came up, Karen couldn’t repress a tight little smile. There was Luke Gray. And right below him, Jennifer Shand. At a guess, Merrick Shand’s sister. Lucky Merrick, to have somebody to take him in on release. Not many convicted killers had that to look forward to.

  Karen took the time to change out of her work suit. There was nothing unobtrusive about a woman in a suit on a street or a pub in the Edinburgh suburbs in the evening, even under a shapeless coat. She settled on a pair of jeans, thick socks under flat-soled ankle boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt under a sweatshirt, topped off with a down jacket. Warmth, but layers if she ended up somewhere with decent heating. Standing sweating at a bar was never a good look.

  Bughtlin Grove was deserted. A dozen houses curved round a half-moon of downtrodden grass and a handful of dilapidated shrubs. There were lights showing behind drawn curtains on most of them, cars parked up against garage doors. Nobody used their garages for cars these days, Karen thought. They were pressed into service for all sorts – storage, workshops, illegal spare bedrooms, studies. She wondered whether Merrick Shand had been relegated to the garage at number seven. She hoped he’d be shivering the night away on a cripplingly uncomfortable futon.

  Karen found a space on the street on the far side of the grass. She could see the house clearly. A narrow sliver of light downstairs, thinner curtains in one of the bedrooms creating a pale panel of dark red. The car in the driveway didn’t match the registration number Jason had checked; that one was parked on the street, a five-year-old silver BMW. She settled into her seat, breaking open the guilty pleasure of the cheese savoury sandwich she’d picked up at a service station on the way.

  Time trickled by, accompanied by a Marian Keyes novel she’d downloaded on audio. Karen liked the way Keyes wrote characters who had learned to survive, without ever being po-faced or making you feel like a failure if you couldn’t always crack a smile at the hand life had dealt you. There had been times in recent years when Karen had stared down the barrel of depression, wondering how she was going to put herself back together after losing Phil in what had felt like a random act of mindless violence. He’d gone out one morning to do his job, working with the Murder Prevention Squad, taking steps to close down domestic violence perps. By the end of the day, he’d been in intensive care, crushed by wife-beater Merrick Shand’s monstrous 4 × 4. Two days later, he was dead.

  She’d forced herself to carry on. Not because ‘Phil would have wanted it,’ as everyone kept telling her, but because she was determined not to let Merrick Shand claim a second victim. She’d fantasised often about vengeance. Considered ways to destroy him the way he’d almost destroyed her, then rejected them because she knew that wouldn’t make her feel any better.

  In her more rational moments, walking the streets of Edinburgh in the small hours of the morning to make the night pass, she couldn’t help acknowledging that Shand had lost too. With him behind bars, it had been safe for his wife to divorce him. She’d changed her name and moved to one of the big cities in the north of England. He’d never legally see his kids again, not with the evidence that had been presented at the family court hearing. His business had collapsed without him at the helm, and his legal bills had all but bankrupted him.

  She wondered whether he’d ever accepted his responsibility for the disastrous outcome of what in court he’d called, ‘a moment of madness’. Not, ‘my moment of madness’. He couldn’t even own that. Karen thought he probably blamed Phil for standing in front of his car when he tried to make a getaway. Or his wife for provoking him into the actions that had caused the trouble in the first place. Or his kids for being a
nnoying and not leaving him in peace. Anyone but the face he saw in the mirror.

  A car arrived home two doors down, the driver hurrying inside, head tucked into his coat collar against the wind.

  The chapter ended. A new chapter began.

  Her phone buzzed with an incoming call. ‘Hamish’, the screen told her. She rejected the call; what part of ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you’ had he not understood? But second thoughts followed swiftly. The honest part of her knew she didn’t want to cut Hamish out of her life. So she texted him:

  Working not ignoring. I will be in touch but I need time.

  The front door of the end house opened and a gangly teenager emerged, hoodie up, shoulders hunched. On the end of a leash, one of those poodle crosses with the daft names. She’d heard that poodles were supposed to be intelligent. Not so any of the cross-breeds Karen had come across. It was quite an achievement to breed stupidity into an entire strain of dogs. Watching the teenager trying to control the dog was a trade-off that was almost worth the boredom of the stake-out.

  A few minutes before ten, when she was on the point of admitting this was a ridiculous way to spend an evening, a wedge of light spilled out from number seven. Two men emerged and walked across the front lawn. She recognised Shand even in the poor glow from the streetlights. His features were burned into her memory. He’d lost weight in prison. His gym bunny muscles had wasted into something leaner but he moved awkwardly, as if he’d spent too long cramped in the same position. He folded himself into the passenger seat and Gray drove away almost before the door had closed.