Still Life

by Val McDermid

‘Exactly. But David is a properly bad boy. The joke isn’t enough. He knows enough about the world he moves in to know that there are crooked dealers out there who supply private collectors, no questions asked. Now this is me going out on a limb here, but I suspect David had sold those original paintings on. Otherwise, he could have replaced the copies with the originals when the government changed. But they couldn’t do that if he’d already disposed of them. They must have known the moment of discovery wasn’t far off. They didn’t know how watertight they were once the deception was discovered. And besides, they’d reached the point where they were tired of a part-time secret relationship. They wanted to be together.’

  Karen was on a roll now as they raced down the M1 forty miles an hour above the speed limit. ‘So the first thing that happens, in the run-up to the election, is that David plants the seeds. He confides in his friends – his lover has dumped him, he can’t work, he’s falling apart, he’s never been so depressed. Then soon after the election, Iain disappears, apparently without trace. I think he sneaked out of the country. I wonder whether David’s dodgy contacts extended to supplying false passports? That would have made it a lot easier. Anyway, however they managed it, Iain goes off to wherever they’re going to start their new life.’

  Daisy scoffed. ‘You have such a devious mind.’

  ‘I’ve learned from some very devious people. Not all of them in the polis.’

  ‘So once Iain’s safely out of the way, David waits three weeks then fakes his suicide?’

  ‘Spot on. I’m interested in his choice of location as well. Those Anglesey cliffs are only a few miles from Holyhead. And from Holyhead, it’s easy as pie to jump on a ferry to Dublin.’

  ‘And that’s where Geary is. Presumably his dodgy dealer?’

  ‘It all fits, doesn’t it?’ Karen hit the siren to force a daydreaming lane-hogger to swerve into the middle lane. ‘They hook up and set up home somewhere nobody knows them and establish a new life. Paid for by the new work that David makes. Paintings that are genuinely authenticated, given the provenance of a private collector. They pass through Geary’s gallery, which has always handled David’s work, and they get the proceeds.’

  ‘And then somehow James starts to put the pieces together?’

  ‘I wonder about the row that the brothers had the night before Iain disappeared. Maybe he told his brother he was having an affair. With a man.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Daisy wondered.

  ‘They were close. If he was genuinely tired of living a lie, Iain might have thought James was the one person he could trust with the truth.’

  ‘But surely he’d have told the police when David Greig hit the headlines as a suicide?’

  ‘Not if Iain didn’t reveal the identity of his lover. And James seems to have been genuinely fond of Mary Auld. He wouldn’t want to cause her any more grief than she was already going through, would he?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Daisy sounded doubtful. ‘But if it got him off the hook?’

  ‘Who knows? He’ll never be able to tell us now. What we do know is that when he found the photograph of his brother and David Greig, he must have recognised Greig. I imagine he’d have been looking at the papers for some time after his brother’s death, to see if anything turned up. And Greig’s picture was all over the front pages when he supposedly killed himself.’

  ‘So that answered one question for him. And he started researching the market in Greig’s paintings and discovered new ones were still showing up.’

  ‘And then Verity Foggo enters, stage left. Confirming what James had maybe started to work out for himself.’

  ‘I love the way you get all the pieces to fit. So who killed James?’

  ‘Logically, either David Greig or Iain Auld.’

  ‘And we don’t know which one?’

  ‘And there’s one other problem.’ Karen scowled at the road ahead. ‘Like Jason, we don’t know where the fuck they are.’

  ‘The only sticking point for me is the gallery fire. I don’t know much about artists, but I can’t imagine somebody who was serious about their art agreeing to burning their work.’

  ‘If their bank balances were running low, they’d have to sacrifice something. The alternative would be taking the chance on their deceptions being uncovered, which would expose them to a whole raft of charges. And Greig knew he could make more art whenever the mood took him.’

  ‘I suppose. I kind of assume all artists are totally precious about everything they create.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t want to be judged by their earlier work? I remember watching some film or other where they talked about Michelangelo taking a hammer to one of his statues because he didn’t think it was good enough.’

  ‘Makes sense, I guess.’ Daisy studied the map on her phone as they approached the Hartside Moor Service Area on the M62. ‘We’re coming at it from the wrong side,’ she said. ‘And there’s no link road. We’ll have to go past to the next junction and turn around there.’

  Karen growled. ‘Typical.’

  When they finally arrived at the eastbound services, Karen cruised slowly round all the parking areas. ‘His car’s not here.’ She pulled up as close to the main building as she could and checked the location of Jason’s phone again on the iPad. The detail was remarkable. ‘It’s behind the main building,’ Karen said, getting out of the car and heading off at a jog. She held the iPad out in front of her as if that would lead them to the phone more quickly. Daisy followed her round the side of the building. There was a staff entrance, and beside it, a litter bin.

  ‘It looks like it’s in the bin,’ Karen said. She tapped the icon that would instruct the phone to make a sound. She waited, poised on the balls of her feet. And then a series of beeps issued from the bin, rising in volume.

  ‘Shouldn’t we—?’ Daisy said anxiously.

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ Karen said, thrusting the iPad into her hands and grasping the outer skin of the bin with both hands. Grunting with the effort, she lifted it up and staggered backwards with it, dropping it on the tarmac as she cleared the internal container. She fished a pair of nitrile gloves out of her jacket pocket and hauled the black bin liner on to the ground. It was only half full; clearly it had been emptied earlier that day, judging by the state of the contents. Karen ripped the bag open and rummaged through fast food containers, coffee cartons, chocolate bar wrappers and leftover food.

  In less than a minute, she had Jason’s phone in her hand. ‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’s ever been here.’

  42

  Because she needed something physical to do, Karen gathered the sides of the bin liner together and shoved the contents back where they’d come from. She glared at the bin as if it that would somehow ease the fear and frustration gnawing at her heart.

  ‘We could have a cup of coffee while we figure out what to do next?’ Daisy’s suggestion was tentative but Karen knew it made sense. Apart from anything else, it was almost eleven o’clock and she was feeling drained from the drive. She needed sustenance and even shitty motorway coffee had life-saving caffeine on board.

  ‘Should we get the local police to go round to the art studios to see whether Jason’s there?’ Daisy asked once they were hunched over their hot drinks and dispiriting motorway sandwiches.

  Karen sighed. ‘I thought about that. But they wouldn’t do it on my say-so from some random mobile. They’d want to check that I am who I say I am, which means phoning Police Scotland and finding someone to verify my ID. It would be so cumbersome at this hour. I think we’d be as quick to drive to Stockport. It can’t be much more than half an hour, forty minutes from here at this time of night.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Watch and learn, Daisy. Watch and learn.’ There was nothing patronising about Karen’s delivery. She simply couldn’t be bothered explaining. She was too tired and too anx
ious. For some reason, a line from a Bob Dylan song popped into her head. Something about having to pay to get out of doing things twice. She was certainly paying forward tonight.

  Back on the road again, the swirl of blue light their accompaniment again as they crossed the Pennines, the darkness of the moors suddenly giving way to the distant orange glow of Greater Manchester as they crested the last rise. As they turned on to the orbital motorway, Karen said, ‘Find the nearest police station to the Isherwood Studios.’

  Daisy busied herself with her phone. ‘There’s one on the main drag. It starts off as Gorton Road then turns into Reddish Road. It’s open twenty-four seven. You need to come off at the next junction, on to the A57 heading for Manchester.’

  A few minutes later, they rolled to a stop outside a single-storey brick building. ‘It looks more like a health centre than a nick,’ Karen muttered, unclipping her seat belt. She stretched her back as she got out, rolling her shoulders and groaning. ‘God, I’m starting to sound like an old woman.’

  The foyer was as spartan as she expected. Vinyl tiles, brick walls, half a dozen chairs, public information and missing person notices on the walls, and a glassed-in counter opposite the door. Karen crossed the room and pressed the white plastic bell mounted by the glass. She drummed her fingers impatiently but knew better than to ring again. She needed goodwill here tonight.

  A few minutes passed then a uniformed PC who looked too young to be shaving came in through a side door. He slid back the reinforced glass and said, without enthusiasm, ‘Can I help you?’

  Karen already had her ID to hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie from Police Scotland. I need your assistance.’

  He looked startled. ‘What kind of assistance?’

  She smiled reassuringly. ‘The easy kind,’ she said. ‘One of my officers was in the area today on routine inquiries. He’s not checked in since last night. I need to retrace his steps. You know the Isherwood Studios? Just down the road from here?’ She spoke with casual familiarity. ‘I need you to get me the phone number of the keyholder.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand?’ he stammered.

  ‘It’s straightforward. I need to find out who my officer spoke to and where they might have directed him to. And I can’t wait till tomorrow morning because, as I explained, my colleague has disappeared from the radar.’ She added conversationally, ‘Did I mention this is a murder inquiry? So there really is some urgency here.’

  ‘I need to speak to somebody.’ He backed away and disappeared through the door.

  ‘Of course he does,’ Karen sighed. She leaned against the wall, letting her head drop. As long as she’d been driving, she’d had to concentrate so hard there had been no room for her imagination to roam over the possible fates that Jason had endured. She should never have sent him off in pursuit of a woman who could well be a killer, a woman who had already demonstrated an imaginative resourcefulness when it came to wriggling out of the problems created by having a dead body in the back of her camper van. Karen silently berated herself for her impatience. This could have waited till she had time to concentrate on it properly, instead of trying to shoehorn it into the interstices of a much wider investigation. If something had happened to Jason—

  But before she could go down that road, a grizzled uniformed sergeant came through the door. Karen returned to the partition and managed a tired smile. ‘PC Armitage tells me you’re looking for a contact for the keyholder of the Isherwood Studios? Something about a colleague of yours on the missing list?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  The sergeant cocked his head, sizing her up. ‘You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you? You sure he’s not just gone for a night on the ale?’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Daisy chipped in. Karen flashed her a surprised look. ‘DCI Pirie runs a very tight ship.’

  ‘Can I ask why you didn’t let us know you were running an operation on our ground?’ His tone was mild but his eyes didn’t move from hers.

  ‘Because we weren’t. DC Murray had orders to track down the suspect and make no approach. Once we’d confirmed we had the right address and we were ready to move, we’d have informed you.’ Matter-of-fact, no big deal.

  ‘Armitage says it’s a murder?’

  ‘A cold case.’ That usually reassured them that it wasn’t going to kick off in their back yard. ‘Just following up a lead on a witness.’

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I probably shouldn’t do this, but what the hell.’ He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. ‘There you go. She lives a few streets away.’

  Karen opened it out and read, ‘Patience Cameron,’ followed by a phone number. ‘Thanks, skip,’ she said.

  ‘Step lightly, Chief Inspector.’

  They made their way back to the car. Karen glanced back into the station and saw the sergeant behind the counter, his eyes still following her. ‘Nothing to see here,’ she murmured, getting back behind the wheel. She took out her phone and keyed in the number on the paper. One, two, three, four, five, six. ‘Come on.’ Seven, eight—

  ‘Hello? Who is this?’ The voice was wary. Only to be expected this close to midnight.

  ‘Ms Cameron? I’m very sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Chief Inspector—’

  ‘Jaden! Has something happened to Jaden?’ Urgency, fear. Karen understood that.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with Jaden. There’s nothing to worry about, honestly.’

  ‘So why are you calling me up at this hour?’ There was a faint lilt of the Caribbean beneath her Manchester accent.

  ‘You’re the keyholder of the Isherwood Studios, is that right?’

  ‘Has there been a break-in? What’s happened?’

  ‘No, no break-in. There’s no reason to panic, Ms Cameron. If I can explain?’

  ‘OK. OK, explain away, Miss Chief Inspector.’

  ‘One of my colleagues was due to go round to the studios first thing this morning. But he’s not checked in since then, and that’s not like—’

  ‘What was he wanting at the studios?’

  Whoever had christened her Patience had got it badly wrong, Karen thought. ‘We’re trying to make contact with Dani Gilmartin.’

  She made a noise with her teeth that sounded like ‘Tchaw’. ‘He wouldn’t have found Dani there this morning.’ Her tone was dismissive, as if any fool would know that. ‘Only person he’d have found there first thing was Orla, working on her mural.’

  ‘And would Orla have known where to find Dani?’

  ‘Everybody knows that. Monday mornings, Dani runs Watercolours for Beginners in the church hall down by Morrisons.’

  Karen felt her breathing return to normal. ‘And that’s where Orla would have sent him?’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘What street is that? Sorry, I’m not local.’

  ‘No, you don’t sound it. It’s on Lingard Fold Lane. But there won’t be anybody there this time of night, it’ll be all locked up till the slimming class tomorrow afternoon.’

  Please, God, just one break . . . ‘Do you know who has the keys?’

  ‘Well, we have a set at the studios, but Dani will have them with her, she’ll have locked up after her class. Now, can I get back to my film?’ She was starting to sound irritated, and who could blame her?

  ‘One last thing – do you know where Dani lives?’

  ‘Do you know where everybody you work beside lives? All I know is that she lives somewhere over Gorton way. Now, goodnight, Miss Chief Inspector.’

  The church hall was set back from the pavement, a black shape against the sky. They parked at the end of the street and walked back. Karen stopped so abruptly that Daisy couldn’t help bumping into her. ‘Fuck,’ Karen said, pointing across the street. ‘That’s Jason’s car. If he left here, he didn�
�t do it under his own steam.’ Her chest hurt, fear a physical grip.

  Five minutes was all it took to demonstrate there was no easy way into the building. Doors locked, front and back. Windows all covered with grilles. ‘I should have done this earlier,’ Karen said, pacing the path and taking out her phone. She dialled her Area Control Room back in Edinburgh, and gave her authority for a ‘stop and detain’ on the car that had been registered to Barry McAndrew. ‘There’s a live arrest warrant for Amanda McAndrew, alias Daniella Gilmartin. I’ll email it over to you as soon as I come off this call. But I need you to pass this on as an urgent request to other forces in the UK,’ she insisted. ‘And I want an all-points alert on passports issued to Daniella Gilmartin and Amanda McAndrew. Ferry ports and airports. Are we clear on that?’

  The duty officer read back the details to her.

  ‘Thanks. And can you pay particular attention to the Hull ferryport? They have night crossings to Holland and Belgium. She left Manchester on the M62 heading east. If she was aiming to get out of the country, the Hull ferries would be the obvious routes.’ It was confirmed in a matter of minutes. Again, Karen wished she’d set up the alert ­earlier, but she’d been giving Jason a chance to show he could use his own initiative.

  Whatever had happened to him was her responsibility.

  She turned back towards the church hall to see Daisy leaning nonchalantly against the jamb of an open door. ‘What the fuck?’ The words were out before Karen knew it.

  Daisy waggled a bunch of lock picks as Karen drew near. She was definitely smirking. ‘You know how you said earlier, “watch and learn”? Well, I thought I’d just crack on and save a bit of time. I can always teach you another day.’

  Karen laughed in spite of herself. ‘I’m going to pretend this never happened,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s take a look inside.’

  They walked into the vestibule and pushed open the doors into the main hall. Daisy flicked on a bank of light switches and the fluorescent tubes glared into life. ‘I hope the neighbours don’t call the cops,’ she muttered.