Still Life

by Val McDermid

  Karen had warmed to Mary Auld two years before. There was something dignified about her, something humane too. But that didn’t mean she got a free pass when it came to either her husband’s disappearance or her brother-in-law’s putative murder. As soon as they walked into the living room, Karen’s eyes were drawn not to the dramatic view but to the paintings. They’d been on the walls in the Edinburgh flat, she remembered. But the light here meant they created much more impact. She knew next to nothing about art, but even she could see that Mary Auld’s walls exhibited a coherence of taste.

  ‘That’s quite a collection,’ she said, pausing to admire them.

  ‘Iain and I had similar taste in the visual arts,’ Mary said. ‘We liked a certain style of painting that was typical of the mid-twentieth century. We kept an eye on local auctions and sometimes we got lucky. They’re not very valuable, but we chose them because we liked them. I find it comforting to have them around me still. Are you interested in art, DCI Pirie?’

  Karen looked rueful. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit I’m one of those people who say, “I don’t know much about art but I know what I like.”’ She wasn’t about to explain that what scant knowledge she possessed had come via the expert curators at the National Galleries, thanks to previous investigations into cold case thefts.

  ‘I think liking is the only reason to buy art,’ Mary said, steering them to the chairs that looked out at the sea. ‘Have you taken over the investigation from DCI Todd?’

  ‘We’re working together. Because of my review into your husband’s disappearance. There’s a possibility the two cases are connected.’

  Mary Auld gave a weary smile. ‘I can see why you might think so. Two apparently inexplicable events in the same family invites a desire to link them. But I don’t see how there can be any connection, not after all this time.’ She fiddled with the wedding ring she still wore, turning it round and round. ‘But of course I’ll help you in any way I can.’

  The one thing Karen had paused to do in Edinburgh was to scan the photograph of Iain Auld and the mystery man. She’d cropped the civil servant out of the picture, leaving the other man in profile. Now she took the print from her bag and passed it to Mary. ‘Do you know who this man is?’

  She studied it carefully, frowning in concentration. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve no recollection of ever having seen him. Why? Where does he fit in to all this?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Karen said. ‘We found this photograph in a folder in James Auld’s flat in Paris. There was a printout of a news story from the internet about a fire at an art gallery in Brighton—’ She proffered the page.

  Mary glanced at it and handed it back. ‘We never had any dealings with them. Far too rich for our blood, I’m afraid. I don’t know why Jamie would have that; he had no interest in art at all.’

  ‘That’s strange. Because he also had this.’ Karen gave Mary the list of artworks and auction prices.

  Mary gave this her full attention, running her finger down the names. ‘This covers quite a wide range of styles and periods. You’ve got half a dozen YBAs – Young British Artists, I should say. Then some European artists running across the second half of the twentieth century. And other odds and sods going back to the 1920s. There’s nothing coherent about it. It looks like a report of a general auction. The sort of thing a medium-scale auction house would put together.’ She passed it back. ‘There’s nothing to indicate which auction house. Though you could probably find out quite easily.’

  ‘How would I do that?’ Karen asked.

  ‘Google the paintings. It won’t take you long to find details of when some of them last changed hands. Are you any further forward in finding out who killed Jamie?’ Mary asked. Her mouth twisted, her contained grief momentarily breaking through.

  ‘We’re putting together a picture of his life. His world. We’ve not been able to access his laptop yet, so we’re struggling a bit. We did find a name on the back of a printout of a newspaper article about a gallery fire. Does the name Hilary mean anything to you? Did Jamie ever mention a Hilary?’ Karen had picked up on how Mary referred to her brother-in-law and reflected it back at her. It was a simple tactic to build connection. ‘It might be a while back, the early nineties, possibly?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘That doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Maybe somebody he knew in connection with Iain? Did Iain have any friends, any colleagues called Hilary?’ Karen knew she was grasping at straws, but straws were all she had.

  ‘I wish I could be more help,’ Mary sighed. ‘I vaguely remember someone called Hilary who worked for the First Minister at Bute House, but she wasn’t one of the people Iain had regular dealings with.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to follow that up,’ Karen said. ‘Sergeant Mortimer spent time with the other members of Jamie’s band in Paris, and we went to see his girlfriend, Pascale. I’m very keen to follow up something she told us.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Mary leaned forward. Her curiosity was obvious but Karen had no sense that she was apprehensive.

  ‘In the week before he came to Scotland, James travelled to London. When he came back, he went to Dublin overnight. He didn’t tell Pascale what he was doing. All he said was he had some business there.’

  Mary was clearly frustrated. ‘He said nothing about either trip to me. Not a word. But it’s curious that he went to London. Even after all this time, he was wary of being in London. I told him time and again, nobody would recognise the man he was in the man he had become, but he still worried. He never lost sight of the notion that he was a wanted man. He tried to avoid travelling through London whenever he could. The idea that he’d make a specific trip to London – that seems strange to me. He must have had a pressing reason for it.’

  ‘Any idea what that reason might have been? Was anything bothering him? Was he pursuing anything? Even something apparently innocuous? Maybe something connected to his music? Or this list of artists’ auction prices?’

  ‘As I said, he never mentioned anything that connected to those trips. Those places, even.’

  ‘We know he’d been in touch with an art dealer in Dublin,’ Karen said.

  ‘That’s news to me. Honestly, I don’t remember ever having a conversation with Jamie about art or painters. I’m sorry, I’m as baffled as you are.’

  ‘Do you happen to know who the beneficiaries of Jamie’s will are?’

  The question seemed to affront Mary. ‘I have no idea. I don’t even know whether he has a will.’

  Karen smiled. ‘We have to ask these questions.’ She got to her feet. ‘I hear you’ve put this place on the market?’

  Mary shook her head, a cynical expression on her face. ‘What? You think I killed Jamie for his money? No, Chief Inspector. It’s much more prosaic than that. Much as I love the view from here, I find life in a village crushingly boring. I want to move back to Edinburgh, where there’s some life in the streets. You’re very welcome to speak to my accountant if you want to check my financial security.’ She rose from her chair and steered them towards the door. ‘You people! As if anyone would murder Jamie for his money. I suspect they’d be in for a hell of a disappointment.’

  29

  After Karen dropped Daisy back at base, she headed to Edinburgh. On the approach to the Queensferry Crossing, Jason rang. ‘Hey, boss,’ he said.

  ‘What have you got for me, Jason?’

  ‘I think we might have struck oil. According to Kayleigh at DVLA, there was a Skoda Yeti registered in November 2017 to Barry McAndrew.’

  Karen whooped with delight. ‘God bless Kayleigh at DVLA. Did you get the address?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss. Isherwood Studios, Reddish Road, Stockport.’

  She couldn’t help groaning. ‘Not more travelling. I’m beginning to feel like I’m on the end of a piece of elastic.’

  ‘I could go myself,’ Jason said
tentatively. ‘If you’re too busy, like?’

  ‘No, we both need to be there. Corroboration, remember? Even if she’s in England, this is a Scottish inquiry. We’re a bit stalled at the moment on the James Auld case. If that’s still the position in the morning, we’ll head down to Stockport and see if we can chase up Amanda. Or Dani. Or whatever she’s calling herself. But there’s no mad rush. If she’s been spooked by the media coverage of the story, she’ll have run already. If she’s sitting tight, she’ll still be there in a day or two.’

  ‘OK. What do you want me to do in the meantime?’

  ‘Take another look at the Iain Auld review files. See if you can find any reference to art or artists in there. And any mention of a connection to Dublin.’

  He knew better than to ask why. ‘I’ll get on to it right now, boss. See you in the morning.’

  Karen drove on to the bridge, for once too busy with her thoughts to appreciate the soaring design that resembled giant sails sweeping drivers across the sea. She moused her way through her music, looking for something a bit jazzy, something that might make her feel connected to James Auld. The nearest she had was a playlist of German film composers that River had forwarded to her when she’d complained of not having anything mindless to help her concentrate. It hadn’t been the right thing, but she still had it on her phone. She set it playing and promptly ignored it.

  Music had never been that important to Karen. It wasn’t that she disliked it; more that it didn’t fill a need in her the way it seemed to for other people. She didn’t need it as a mirror for her emotional state, and she didn’t measure the key stages of her life by what was playing on the radio or streaming on YouTube. She’d often heard people talk about particular songs as time machines, how simply hearing them in a bar or in the car would transport them back vividly to a particular event. She wondered what it would be like to be a musician, a life defined by what came in through your ears and went out through your fingers.

  With a jolt, the idea occurred to her that for someone like James Auld, the music was at the heart of everything. Lovers, friends, family might come and go, but the music was a constant. So what else would you choose for a password but the music that spoke most sonorously to you?

  She’d just crossed Cramond Brig at the end of the dual carriageway so she was able to pull over to the side of the road. She turned back the pages of her notebook until she found Pascale Vargas’s phone number. She tapped in the number and waited patiently for the international call tone. It rang out for so long Karen thought she was out of luck but finally she heard, ‘Oui, bonjour?’

  Deep breath. ‘Bonjour, Pascale. C’est Commandant Pirie. From Ecosse. We spoke yesterday?’

  ‘Ah, oui, of course. How can I be of help, Commandant?’

  ‘I have a question for you. Do you know the password of Paul’s laptop?’

  ‘Non, je ne le sais pas. I don’t know, I never needed to. Sorry.’

  ‘OK, that was a long shot. I have one more question. Did Paul have a favourite musician? A kind of hero?

  ‘Mais oui. He admired in particular the saxophonist John Surman. You need me to spell that?’

  ‘Please.’ Karen tapped out the name on her phone. ‘Thank you. You’ve been a great help. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘It is no trouble.’ A deep sigh. ‘I cannot believe he’s gone, you know? When the phone rings, I think it’s him. It doesn’t feel possible.’

  Believe me, I know. ‘We’re determined to find out who killed Paul,’ Karen said. ‘It won’t take the pain away, but it will give you some answers.’

  ‘There can be no answer that makes any sense, Commandant. He was a good man. A decent man. I don’t understand how anyone could hate him enough to kill him.’

  I know that feeling too. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make sure you’re kept informed of any developments.’

  ‘Thank you. Good luck with your inquiry.’

  The line went dead. Karen leaned her head on the steering wheel and let her own memories swamp her for a moment. At least she had a focus for her rage at the loss of the man she’d loved. Merrick fucking Shand. She didn’t know how she’d have coped without that knowledge. Pascale was trapped in a nightmare with no answers, and that would poison her life in a different way, unless Karen could solve this case.

  Karen straightened up and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. She needed to get a grip. Google was her friend again and she found John Surman immediately on Wikipedia. Not only was he a virtuoso sax player, he also played synthesiser and bass clarinet. Who even knew there was such a thing? She read on and discovered he composed free jazz and modal jazz. She was pretty sure there wouldn’t be many catchy tunes in his back catalogue. She was astonished to find that Surman had recorded an album with a Tunisian oud player. Was this nothing more than a weird coincidence or could it have something to do with the words on the back of the newspaper cutting? She couldn’t imagine how that might connect to Auld’s murder more than twenty years after the recording, but she filed it away for possible further consideration.

  What was probably more useful was that his date of birth was 30 August 1944. It was a starting point.

  She called a familiar number and was relieved to hear Tamsin Martinu’s brash greeting. ‘What’s up, Karen? Fucked over any bad guys today?’

  ‘I did manage to seriously piss someone off earlier, but the day is young.’

  ‘True, I know I can count on you. So what are you after, sister?’

  ‘You’ll be getting a laptop from the CSI team in Fife. It’s from the James Auld murder inquiry. It’s passworded, and I tried the usual name, date-of-birth stuff without any luck. But here’s the thing. He was a jazz musician. His hero was a saxophonist called John Surman.’ She began to spell it, but Tamsin interrupted.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know Surman. He’s got this very cool album, Coruscating, it’s on my late-night heavy rotation. You should give it a try one of those insomniac nights.’

  Karen sighed. ‘Whatever. Anyway, I think it’s probably worth trying some combinations round that. His DOB is 30 August 1944.’ Like Tamsin couldn’t have found that out for herself in seconds.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. What are we hoping for?’

  ‘I’m mostly interested in emails. Anything about Dublin, London, his brother Iain Auld. And paintings.’

  ‘I like it when you narrow it down. I’ll crack it as soon as I can. If we’re lucky, he’ll use the same password for the machine and the email account.’

  ‘Front of the queue?’

  ‘You know I never promise.’

  But you always deliver. Because my cases fascinate you, and you want answers as much as I do. ‘Just as well. Because one of these days . . . ’

  ‘Not going to happen, Karen. Now go away and ruin somebody else’s evening.’ She hung up, leaving Karen with the reminder that the chances were high that she was about to do precisely that.

  30

  Karen swung by Aleppo to collect the selection of mezes she’d ordered from the car. Miran, the manager, had never forgotten the helping hand she’d extended when they’d been trying to set up the business; he nodded in resigned approval when she shoved cash into the refugee charity box after he’d refused her money yet again. ‘It’s good to see you, Karen,’ he greeted her.

  ‘You too. How’s the family?’

  He smiled. ‘We are all well. I put some extras in the box, new dishes Amena is trying out. Let us know what you think.’

  Miran’s wife Amena was the creative brain in the kitchen. Nothing new had arrived on the menu when she’d briefly been on maternity leave, but normal service was clearly resumed. ‘Now that’s a treat,’ she said. It would give her and Hamish something to talk about, at least.

  When she reached home, she texted him before she got cold feet.

  I’ll be there in half an hour. xr />
  Karen showered in less than five minutes, taking care not to wet her hair. Loose-linen mix capris and a dark green top with black swirls she’d picked up in the Sahara sale. Trying, but not too hard, was the message she was going for. She laid the table, opened a bottle of Shiraz, then stood looking through her floor-to-ceiling windows at the restless sea beyond. Was Hamish a mess of contradictions, or just a man who’d chosen to embrace multiple possibilities?

  When they’d first met, right at the start of one of Karen’s thorniest cases, she’d taken him at face value – a modern crofter in the north-west Highlands, running sheep and holiday lets on his land. Albeit a bit of a hunk who looked like he’d stepped straight out of an episode of Outlander, with his kilt and his work boots, his luxuriant beard and flowing red-gold hair. She’d hoped he was playing it ironically, but a flicker of doubt about who he really was had burst into flames when she walked into the kitchen of his cottage. It wouldn’t have been out of place in one of the flats in Edinburgh’s West End that had been gutted and refitted with steel and marble so they could be sold for a small fortune. Pride of place in Hamish’s kitchen went to a coffee maker that probably had more computing power than the first moon landing. The cup of coffee he’d made her had suckered her in, in spite of her suspicious nature.

  Soon, she’d uncovered Hamish’s other existence. He owned Perk, a small chain of hipster coffee shops in Edinburgh. He commuted between the two worlds, swapping his crofter wardrobe for skinny jeans, tweed jacket over checked shirts and a ponytail. A ponytail, for fuck’s sake, she’d chided herself on her first encounter with his city persona.

  Then there was his open, hail-fellow-well-met presentation. Just an ordinary guy making a living. Except he’d grown up with the kind of advantages Karen could barely imagine. Both parents high-flying academics. He’d spent his teens in America, shuttling between a private school in New England and his parents’ home in California, returning to Scotland to go to university in Edinburgh. It couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Karen’s working-class background in Fife. She remembered the pride her parents had exhibited when they’d finally scraped together the deposit on the two-bedroomed modern house where she’d spent her teens. There had never been cash to spare in her childhood. Holidays were taken in caravans by the Scottish coast, not on the beach in Mexico or skiing in the Adirondacks.