Still Life

by Val McDermid

  Charlie and Daisy exchanged a look. Something else to chase up. ‘Do you have a surname? Do you know how to contact her?’

  ‘It never came up. But the other band members will know, with them being regulars at her club.’

  ‘Can you give us the names of the other band members? We will need to talk to them.’

  ‘Dom, Patrice, Jean-Claude and Hugo,’ Mary said, digging her phone out of her pocket. ‘They’ve got a website.’ She tapped the screen then turned it to show Daisy. ‘CommeDesEtrangers.cde.fr. It’s a pun on their service in the Legion. Légion Étrangère, it’s called in French.’

  Daisy scribbled down the URL. Five men stared out at her from a moody black-and-white shot. She couldn’t make much sense of it on a phone screen, but she was sure she could manage to track them down once she got in front of her laptop. ‘Brilliant, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Mary’s face crumpled, the realisation of loss returning without warning. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can help you with,’ she said, her voice cracking.

  ‘If you could assist with the formal identification, that would be a great help,’ Charlie said.

  With a piteous look in her eyes, Mary slowly nodded.

  ‘I’ll make arrangements with the mortuary and get back in touch with you. I’ll organise it as soon as possible.’ Charlie stood up. ‘In the meantime—’

  ‘If my shrivelled old brain suddenly recalls Jamie’s bitter enemies, I’ll let you know,’ she said, grief shifting towards outrage. ‘The truth is, Chief Inspector Todd, the only enemies Jamie ever had were your colleagues. But they won’t be on your list of suspects, will they?’

  13

  Tamsin had worked her magic yet again. When Karen booted up her laptop in the office that morning, there was an email from one of the DNA technicians:

  We’ve got two substantial deposits of DNA in the main cabin of the camper van. One is a match to the sample Dr River Wilde sent us from the skeleton. The other significant deposit – which is also present in the bloodstains on the carpet of the cabin – does not match the samples that were taken from Susan Leitch’s house (which are putatively her DNA). There were traces of Leitch’s DNA on the steering wheel and on the driver’s seat but nothing in the main cabin. None of the samples shows up on the database, so no serious recent criminal activity. We haven’t had time to look at the paintings to see whether we can isolate DNA. I’ll get back to you as soon as we know more. Happy hunting.

  Karen leaned back in her chair, considering. It seemed clear from the DNA evidence that Susan Leitch had nothing to do with the body in the van. It was hard to see how she could have killed someone in that confined space or even simply placed the body there without leaving any trace of her presence. Unless something extraordinary turned up in the house, the evidence exonerated Susan Leitch.

  Unfortunately, not all forensic information was created equal. A question mark still hung over the identity of the corpse. But one thing seemed incontrovertible. Susan Leitch knew what was in her garage even though she wasn’t the person responsible for the body that had been left there. Karen wondered how long it had been there, and whether Susan had had a plan for dealing with it. Or had she simply covered it with a tarpaulin and chosen to pretend it wasn’t there, like a toddler who covers their own eyes and shouts, ‘You can’t see me.’

  The opening door interrupted her thoughts. Jason shouldered his way in, clutching the cups of coffee that signalled the start of the working day. He plonked Karen’s in front of her and said, ‘I just got a text from the police garage. The licence plates and the separate Vehicle Identification Number plate had been removed from the VW but the chassis number was still intact.’

  ‘Good to know the criminals aren’t getting any smarter,’ Karen said, savouring her first sip. The few minutes it took to walk from the nearby coffee shop to the office was the perfect interval for her brew to reach drinking temperature. ‘So where does that get us?’

  ‘Well, your car registration document has your chassis number on it. And DVLA can search their records by chassis number. That gives them the name and address of the registered keeper.’ Jason grinned and raised his cup. ‘Cheers, boss.’

  ‘Did you not make friends with somebody from the DVLA last year? On the Wester Ross case?’

  ‘I did. Kayleigh, her name was. And I put her direct line in my phone contacts. I remember Phil always said never throw away a phone number.’ A momentary shadow darkened his pride.

  Karen vaguely remembered saying the same thing to Jason more than once, but that didn’t fit the battle cry he had adopted – ‘What would Phil do?’ She didn’t mind; anything that raised his game was fine by her. ‘What are you waiting for, then?’

  He shrugged out of his jacket, stuck his earbuds in and tapped his phone. ‘Hi, is that Kayleigh? . . . Don’t know if you remember me? Jason Murray. DC Jason Murray. From Edinburgh? . . . That’s right, Historic Cases. How’re you doing? . . . What’s happening down in Swansea . . . ’

  Karen mentally rolled her eyes and tuned Jason out. She opened her email account and sent a message to Tamsin at Gartcosh:

  Any joy in tracking down Susan Leitch’s phone? If it’s not come to you yet, let me know and I’ll knock some heads together. K.

  She glanced across at Jason and was gratified to see he was scribbling something on his pad.

  ‘That’s brilliant, I can’t believe you got that so fast . . . I know, but usually you guys have got a massive backlog . . . Aw, thanks. My mum always says, “It’s nice to be nice, Jason.” Cheers for your help, you’re a real pal.’ He pulled out his earbuds and gave Karen two thumbs up. ‘Top info, boss,’ he said, obviously pleased with himself.

  ‘What did Kayleigh have to say for herself?’

  ‘The registered keeper of the van is Amanda McAndrew.’ He paused, expectant.

  ‘Susan Leitch’s ex.’

  ‘She acquired it just over three years ago. And she made a SORN declaration less than a year later.’

  ‘What? She took it off the road officially?’ As soon as she spoke, Karen realised she shouldn’t have been surprised. A vintage VM camper van would have to pass its MOT test every year. But even the most lax of garages would not certify a vehicle as roadworthy if it had a human skeleton and a pile of maggot cases in the cabin. ‘Well, that narrows the time frame. Did McAndrew register the van at Susan’s address? Or did we get lucky?’

  Jason grinned again. ‘We got totally lucky. The address she gave was Tullyfolda House, Milton of Glenisla. Wherever that is.’

  ‘Let’s go and find out.’

  It had taken the best part of two hours to get to Milton of Glenisla. Motorway to Perth, then on country roads through a landscape of rolling hills, fields and woodland stripped bare of summer lushness. It was the kind of grey February morning that made Karen feel as if daylight had taken a duvet day. The normally impressive distant outline of mountains was blurred beyond recognition.

  The officious voice of the GPS system invited them to turn off the main road through the glen on to a narrow track that cut between two dense copses. There were no buildings in sight. ‘Doesn’t look very promising,’ Jason grumbled. But about half a mile in, the road took a sharp turn to the left and ahead of them stood a ramshackle house in the Scottish baronial style. One of its corner turrets appeared to have sheared off, leaving a pile of stone on the ground and a gap covered with corrugated iron cemented into place. As they drove through the dilapidated pillars that flanked a gravel drive that managed to be choked with weeds even in midwinter, Karen saw the paint on the window frames was cracked and peeling.

  Two elderly caravans squatted near a long stone outbuilding with tall double doors, one of them slightly ajar. When Jason brought the car to a standstill, a pair of mad-eyed collies came rampaging round the corner of the house, tails wagging, barking hysterically and leaping around the
ir doors. ‘Jeez,’ Jason muttered. ‘You think they’re safe?’

  Karen got out without answering. The nearest dog butted against her leg and licked her hand. The only obvious risk was being loved to death. As she looked around, wondering where to find signs of life, a woman appeared from the same direction as the dogs. She was dressed for outdoors – a waxed jacket over a heavy jumper, jeans tucked into wellies, long socks cuffed over their tops. A tweed hat with earflaps covered most of her head. She frowned at the pair of them. ‘Did you take a wrong turning?’ she asked.

  ‘Not if this is Tullyfolda House,’ Karen said, producing her ID. ‘I’m DCI Pirie from Police Scotland and we’d like to talk to the people who live here.’ No need to mention which unit of Police Scotland, not yet. As she spoke, a stocky man with a thatch of auburn hair emerged from the outbuilding. He wore a much-stained pair of bib-and brace overalls over a checked flannel shirt. A bright saw hung casually from one hand.

  ‘What’s the matter, that you need to talk to us?’ he demanded, taking a few steps closer.

  ‘We’re trying to make contact with somebody we think used to live here,’ Karen said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what the set-up is here. Is there somebody in charge, or . . . ?’

  The woman gave a soft whistle and the dogs came to her side, lying down at her feet. ‘Nobody’s in charge. We’re a creative community. People come here to live and work. Potters, artists, sculptors, musicians, writers, weavers. We’ve been host to all of them at one time or another.’

  ‘Do you own this place?’ Jason asked.

  ‘It belonged to my family,’ she said. ‘Now it’s held in a trust. The people who choose to come and work here contribute what they can to its upkeep.’

  ‘Not enough, by the looks of it,’ Karen said mildly.

  ‘It meets our needs,’ the woman said briskly.

  ‘How many live here?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Currently, there are five of us—’

  ‘Seven, if you count the bairns,’ the man butted in.

  ‘I don’t think the police are very interested in Thomas and Dinah,’ the woman said. ‘Five adults. Declan here—’ She waved a hand towards the man with the saw. ‘Declan makes beautiful furniture. I’m a tapestry weaver. Charis and Donald are both potters. Thomas and Dinah are their children. Thomas is seven and Dinah is nine. And finally Jessie, who is a painter and collagist.’

  ‘Is there somewhere a bit less Baltic we can talk?’ Karen hunched into her coat to emphasise the cold.

  The woman glanced at Declan, who shrugged. ‘Come in here, I’ve got the stove on.’ She smiled her approval and they all trooped into the outhouse. Rough-hewn stone walls were neatly whitewashed. A rack filled with planks of assorted woods occupied most of the back wall. To one side was a pair of workbenches and on the other, a table saw and some other machines Karen couldn’t identify. In the middle of the room were three works in progress: a desk, a free-standing bookcase and a long slender dining table. Each had an easy elegance that Karen envied.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said.

  Declan nodded, as if that were his due. ‘So what’s this all about? You kind of started and then you stopped.’

  ‘Before we go any further, can I take your names? Just for the record.’ Karen gave her practised look of rueful ­reassurance. ‘Paperwork’s the bane of our lives.’

  ‘I’m Declan Burns.’ His scowl was sulky, as if something had been dragged out of him.

  ‘And I’m Camilla Gordon-Bruce.’ Her smile was open and generous, in contrast.

  Jason had his notebook out and scribbled the answers.

  Karen wandered across to the workbenches and studied two pieces of wood clamped together. ‘We’re trying to make contact with Amanda McAndrew. We believe she was living here about three years ago.’ She turned in time to catch the rise of Camilla’s eyebrows.

  ‘She was, yes. A reasonable watercolour artist, I thought. Talented enough to produce work that would sell. We have a good relationship with a lot of the local craft and gift shops, they’re always on the lookout for what the tourists will go for.’

  ‘Thank God I don’t have to worry about that,’ Declan muttered.

  ‘Declan works to commission via his website. Why are you looking for Amanda? Has she gone missing?’

  No need to tell this pair more than necessary, Karen decided. ‘Her former partner died in a road accident recently. We need to make contact with Amanda as a result.’

  ‘Why?’ Camilla looked puzzled. As well she might, Karen thought. Usually she could get away with non sequiturs, but this woman wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ Jason said firmly. ‘We just need some information from you and then we’ll be out your road.’

  Karen was impressed. ‘As I said, we have reason to believe Amanda was living here three years ago. We wanted to check whether she was still here, and if not, whether you have any idea where she might be living.’

  ‘I remember Amanda,’ Declan said. ‘She was only here for a few months, though.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’ Karen asked.

  Declan looked at Camilla. ‘You’d know better than me,’ he said, turning away and busying himself with some technical drawings on his workbench.

  Camilla sighed. ‘Not everyone is suited to living collectively. Amanda seemed to fit in at first—’

  ‘Tell them the truth, Milla. After she seduced Dani, everything went to shit,’ Declan said angrily. He swept the drawings to the floor and stamped out, nailed boots clattering on the stone flags.

  ‘Sounds like quite the story,’ Karen said. ‘Who’s Dani?’

  ‘Dani Gilmartin’s a very talented silversmith,’ Camilla said. She pulled a stool from under a bench and perched on it, like a born storyteller. ‘She had a difficult childhood – her parents split up very acrimoniously when she was a child and she spent most of her teens being shuttled from one branch of the family to another. She told me she always felt in the way. But she turned it to her advantage. She persuaded her father to pay for a silversmithing course then convinced her mother to bankroll her setting up in business.’

  ‘Making the best of a bad job, I suppose?’ Karen said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Camilla scoffed. ‘Then she told both of them to fuck off.’

  A long moment. ‘I bet they weren’t expecting that,’ Karen said.

  ‘She meant it, though. Dani arrived here . . . let me think. Just over four years ago. The end of the summer. She wasn’t always easy. She was quite volatile – prone to argue over trivial things. But she could be very endearing too. Declan was a bit sweet on her, but she wasn’t interested and, in fairness to him, he didn’t push it. Then Amanda turned up and the chemistry was obvious, right from the start.’

  ‘And then Amanda seduced Dani?’

  Camilla looked pained. ‘Look, what Declan said? He’s a bit biased. As I said, he was keen on Dani himself. If anything, it was the other way round. Dani made a beeline for Amanda, but it was evident that her interest was reciprocated.’

  ‘So Amanda and Dani became lovers?’

  Camilla nodded. ‘Dani was pretty much obsessed with Amanda. She couldn’t leave her alone. When Amanda went off to paint, Dani would go too. She’d say she was looking for inspiration for her work in natural forms. But she never followed through. The only time she made any new work was when Amanda sat in the workshop with her. She was, I think, quite needy. And Amanda rather liked being needed.’

  ‘You said Dani was volatile. Was their relationship volatile too?’

  Camille frowned, considering. ‘It’s hard to say. I’d sometimes catch a look on Amanda’s face – hunted, panicked, something like that. But they were clearly in thrall to each other. It was a very exclusive, excluding relationship.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They’d been talking about finding a p
lace of their own. Dani wanted Amanda to herself, I thought. Amanda was quite keen on renting a croft or a cottage where they could grow their own food.’

  ‘Bollocks, if you ask me,’ Declan said from the doorway, where he’d reappeared. ‘Hippy-dippy bollocks. The kind of nonsense people spout that have never worked anything bigger than a flower bed.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Declan, and I did gently try to steer them away from the idea. But in the end, they just left. Amanda came into the kitchen one morning. She looked dreadful, as if she hadn’t slept. She said Dani had decided she couldn’t live like this any longer and was determined that the two of them should find a place of their own. They’d packed up the van and they were on their way. Amanda was very apologetic. She said she loved it here, but she couldn’t say no to Dani.’

  ‘Did you try to persuade them to stay?’

  Camilla chuckled. ‘Oh no. To be honest, it was something of a relief by that stage. Amanda’s easy to get along with, but Dani was always a disruptive energy. This place only works if everyone is pulling in the same direction, and Dani could not help going against the grain. I told Amanda if she ever wanted to come back, she’d be welcome. She realised I meant without Dani. And she just shook her head and said that wasn’t going to happen. And it hasn’t. She walked out of the kitchen and they drove off in her VW. Not a trace left behind.’

  ‘You didn’t stay in touch with Amanda?’

  ‘What would have been the point? I don’t live in the past, Chief Inspector. Draw a line and move forward, that’s my policy. I’ve no idea where they ended up.’

  ‘What about the others? Would they have stayed in touch?’ Karen asked.

  ‘None of them were here then. Jessie only joined us a few months ago. Charis and Donald arrived several months after Amanda and Dani left. So you see, we can’t help you, I’m afraid. Amanda and Dani are a closed book to us.’

  Declan spoke decisively. ‘Not to me, they’re not. Dani’s got a website and a blog now.’