Out of Bounds

by Val McDermid

  ‘I’m not really following you,’ Noble said. ‘You’re going to have to be a wee bit less opaque.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. Look, my mother lied about the identity of Gabe’s father. My father, Tom Abbott, was already dead when she became pregnant with Gabe. She lied about it because it was easier than having to answer questions about who his father actually was. There’s nothing sinister about it, I’ve known for years. Caroline left me a letter, the lawyer gave it to me when I was twenty-one. But it was private. Family business. Nothing to do with anyone else. And Felicity Frye told all this to this Pirie woman. But she didn’t stop there. Felicity’s got this weird fixation that Gabe’s biological father was Frank Sinclair.’

  That was a name to stop the traffic. Noble didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You know who I’m talking about? Lord Sinclair. The media baron.’

  ‘The one who’s always going on about family values and family life?’

  ‘The one who’s made a career out of casting the first bloody stone,’ Abbott said. ‘More upright than the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury. I can’t bring out a bloody console game without him and his minions predicting the end of the world – and he’s a family friend, for fuck’s sake. God help his enemies. Can you imagine his reaction if a stupid rumour like this starts going the rounds? He’ll go off the Richter scale.’

  Noble allowed himself a moment of Schadenfreude. ‘I can see why you’re upset,’ he said smoothly. ‘And I honestly think the best think I can do for you is to get DCI Pirie’s boss to speak to you. Assistant Chief Constable Simon Lees, that would be. What I’m going to do as soon as I’ve finished speaking to you, I’m going to speak directly to ACC Lees and explain what’s happened. Obviously, he’ll have to speak to DCI Pirie to see what she’s got to say about this. But I know he’ll be eager to talk to you as soon as he has a clear picture of how we got here. For now, all I can do is apologise for the upset you’ve experienced.’

  A sharp sigh. ‘That’ll just have to do, won’t it?’ Abbott snapped. But Noble sensed capitulation. They went back and forth a little longer, then ended on calmer water than they’d begun. Noble tucked his phone into his pocket and headed for the door. He wanted to make the most of this call, and he wanted to conduct it out of reach of the flapping ears of his colleagues.

  Karen Pirie, to his perpetual surprise, had friends in Police Scotland, particularly in her native Fife. He wanted her to have no warning of what was coming at her. He hadn’t let Will Abbott hear it, but he was furious. How dare Karen Pirie come rushing to judgement on one of his cases; a case she knew nothing about except what her arrogance told her; a case she had no right to stick her nose into. She’d never made any effort to hide her opinion of him. She thought he was lazy and that he cut corners. Just because he’d never seen the point of knocking your pan in on cases that were going nowhere. Well, now the wheel had turned and it was her feet that were about to be held to the fire. The Macaroon wasn’t the only one who would enjoy it.

  34

  Karen knew she should have headed home on the Sunday-night sleeper, but she’d kissed goodbye to her better judgement on Friday night and it wasn’t showing any sign of coming back yet. As she’d explained in her head to Phil on her way back through Covent Garden after hanging out with the Grassies, there was something about this cold-case-that-wasn’t-her-case that had its hooks in her and wouldn’t let go. She was breaking all the rules – not a single bit of her cock-eyed investigation had a shred of corroboration, for starters – but she couldn’t shake loose the conviction that this was important and, if she didn’t pursue it, nobody else would.

  Phil would have shaken his head in exasperation and told her she was her own worst enemy. He’d have pointed out that all she would achieve in the long run was to create even worse feelings between her and the Macaroon. And she’d have responded that, in her world, that was a bonus. He’d have reminded her that working outside the straitjacket of the rules was the best way to make sure the case would never stand on its own two feet, and she’d have reminded him that, as things were, there was no case to stand or fall, so how could she be making things worse?

  At that point, a child she’d passed in the street had strained at her parental hand, leaning back and staring at Karen wide-eyed as she beasted past, deep in conversation with herself. Karen had whirled round, walking backwards, met the child’s astonished stare and said, ‘Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he isn’t there.’

  As she swung round and continued on her way, she wondered if she was actually cracking up. Was this PTSD? Heaven knew she’d had enough trauma and stress in the past year to last a lifetime. But she didn’t feel she was spinning out of control. The insomnia, the talking to Phil, the obsessions with things that were outside her remit – these were all things she was taking in her stride. People who knew her weren’t acting like she’d lost it. Not her parents, not her friends, not Jason.

  She was fine. Maybe a bit more driven than usual. So instead of heading back to Euston and finding somewhere to eat before she caught the train, she checked back into the hotel – ‘Yes, still no luggage’ – and texted Jason:

  Taking day off tomorrow. Will be back in office Tuesday. Keep checking Tina McDonald statements. Think I’ve sorted your flatmate problem. Don’t worry about it.

  And then she’d sat down with her laptop to figure out how she was going to do the very thing she’d told Felicity only happened in fiction.

  Which was why Monday morning found Karen heading down Tottenham Court Road, face turned up towards the sunshine that warmed her bones. She’d picked up a new shirt and underwear in the Marks & Spencer on Long Acre the day before, she was showered and caffeinated and all set to break more rules.

  She stopped at a coffee shop and bought a flat white. She asked the barista for a paper bag and didn’t demur when he charged her 5p for it. She folded it and put it in her pocket along with a few napkins. Now she was all set.

  Back into the sunshine and on past the stores selling stylish interior fantasies; past the cheap electronic shops, their windows stuffed with things whose functions she didn’t understand; round the hoardings that hid the new station; past storefronts filled with books and guitars and the quirky crap people fill their flat surfaces with; past theatres and galleries and down into the heart of Westminster.

  At last, she came to the river. On one side of the street, the iconic Houses of Parliament. On the other, Portcullis House, the custom-built modern building containing offices for MPs, meeting rooms and committee rooms. Where, this morning in the Boothroyd Room, the Lords Select Communications Committee would be sitting.

  When she’d discovered this, Karen had felt it was a portent. Really, she was destined to do this absurd thing that was dancing on the edge of her peripheral vision. And since her better judgement was still in a state of suspension, she walked into Portcullis House with the confident air of a woman in possession of valid police identification who has no expectation of being hindered in the pursuit of a chimera.

  The Macaroon sat in the back of his official car, warring emotions surging through him. There was fury that Karen Pirie had overstepped the mark so thoroughly that she had embarrassed and undermined him in front of the lower ranks. What did it say about him that an officer in his command thought it was acceptable to ride roughshod over protocol and trample all over someone else’s case?

  But there was also a grim delight, and for the same reason. She had gone too far this time. There was no possible hiding place for her. Not only was Gabriel Abbott’s death not her case, it wasn’t even a historic case. Abbott was barely cold, never mind the inquiry into his death. For that loose cannon Pirie to treat it as an excuse to exhume a long-buried case that was only technically unsolved was egregious. (A word he’d learned from his clever daughter and seldom had the opportunity to use.) It would be bad enough in any circumstances, but when it also involved slinging muc
k at a peer of the realm – and one as vociferous and litigious as Lord Sinclair – it beggared belief.

  No, this was the end of the road for Karen Pirie at Historic Cases. First there had been the series of leaks and now this. And this was the perfect time to do it. Her shield had always been the level of media joy that her frequent successes provoked. She was never out of the tabloids, generally associated with families gushing thanks that they finally knew what had happened to their loved ones, or victims weeping with joy that assailants they’d thought were free and clear were finally paying for their crimes. But it had been a few months since Karen had chalked up a prominent success and, in media terms, that corresponded to a geological era. She was yesterday’s chip papers. Really, the only question was how far down the ranks he could bust her.

  Lees caught himself rubbing his hands together in delight and laid his palms flat on his thighs. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. He rehearsed his opening as the black BMW swung into Gayfield Square and pulled up outside the police station. He was so eager that he didn’t wait for his driver to open the door but rather sprang out of the car, straightening his uniform cap and making for the door.

  He loved the way that everyone snapped to life when he walked into a police station. It was as if his very presence was a tiny electric shock to their synapses. The big man is in the building. He’d always dreamed of this, and now, apart from those self-styled mavericks like Pirie, everyone gave him his due.

  ‘The HCU?’ he barked at the civilian at the reception counter.

  ‘Through the door, turn right at the end of the hall, all the way back,’ she stammered, pressing the door release that allowed him access to the guts of the station. He marched down the hall, shoulders back, stomach sucked in, his cheeks pink with the anger that was driving him like a hydrogen fuel cell. Two women detectives flattened themselves against the wall as he neared them, so determined was his approach. With every step, he could feel the pressure building, the pressure he was going to release so eloquently so very, very soon.

  He didn’t bother knocking on the HCU door, simply threw it open and stood framed in the doorway. The ginger idiot that Pirie remained bafflingly loyal towards was so shocked his bacon roll flew into the air, deconstructing itself into its component parts as it fell. DC Murray jerked to his feet, backing away from his desk, stumbling as the back of his knees caught his chair.

  Lees scanned the room, bestowing a look of contempt on Murray as his eyes skimmed over him. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded.

  ‘Day off,’ Murray croaked. ‘Sir,’ as an afterthought.

  ‘I didn’t ask you that,’ Lees said, low and hard. ‘I asked you where DCI Pirie is.’

  ‘London? She went down for the weekend.’

  ‘And that’s all you know? You don’t know where she is or what she’s doing in London?’

  The idiot looked close to tears. ‘She never said. Just, a weekend away.’

  ‘Did she tell you what she’s working on?’

  His eyes flicked to his screen. ‘We’re working on Tina McDonald. Waiting to hear if we’re gonnae get Ross Garvie’s birth certificate. I’m going through the statements.’ His words tumbled over each other in his eagerness to please.

  ‘The other thing. What about that?’

  ‘What other thing?’ The idiot was in a state of panic. But Lees thought it was the panic of ignorance rather than secrecy.

  ‘Never mind. When is she due back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. She said tomorrow morning.’ He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes wide.

  ‘And you’re not working on anything else?’

  Murray shook his head rapidly. ‘Well, routine stuff. Waiting for lab analysis of old evidence to see if there’s anywhere to go with it. But they’re still dormant cases. We’re not doing anything active with them, like.’ The tip of his tongue ran along his lips.

  Lees turned on his heel and strode back down the hall, not bothering to close the door behind him. Back in the car, he called Karen Pirie’s mobile. When it went to voicemail, as he had confidently expected, he said, ‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Lees. I have just been to your office, where you are not. I require that you speak to me as soon as you get this message. And until we speak face-to-face, I am ordering you to back off from your so-called investigation into the suicide of Gabriel Abbott. Do not delay in responding to this message, DCI Pirie. And that’s an order too.’ He stabbed a finger at the phone to end the call and leaned back in his leather seat. He was, in the words of their national bard, nursing his wrath to keep it warm. Whenever she deigned to get back to him, he could guarantee full volcanic heat.

  He was almost glad she hadn’t been in her office. Anticipation was such a sweet pleasure.

  35

  The Boothroyd Room, according to the cop who had walked her up there, was the flagship committee venue in Portcullis House. When the parliamentarians had voted themselves a new office block, they’d clearly chosen ‘dress to impress’ as their motto. The building itself was stunning – a vast atrium of polished stone, glass and steel, as light as the sky allowed, saved from sterility by trees planted up the middle. It spoke of wealth and power. Karen thought it would be one of the most spectacular modern buildings most of its visitors had ever been in. Unless they’d also been to the insanely expensive Scottish Parliament. Politicians clearly understood the benefits of a workplace that had aesthetic values. A pity they didn’t extend the principle to most of the spaces where public servants spent their working lives. She wondered how long their leaders would last in the cupboard she shared with Jason and the perpetual fragrance of Greggs baked goods.

  Her escort delivered her to one of the best seats in the room with a clear view of the dozen chairs set behind the horseshoe of blond wood that faced a long table where, presumably, the witnesses sat. Behind that were rows of comfortable office-style chairs with leather upholstery in an indeterminate shade lurking between grey, turquoise and aquamarine. ‘There you go, ma’am,’ he said politely. ‘We let the rest of the public in about ten minutes before the committee starts. It’s first come, first served, but with you being one of us, well, it doesn’t hurt to give you a leg up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Karen said. ‘If you’re ever in Edinburgh, I’ll return the favour.’ She hadn’t had to make up an excuse for wanting to sit in on the select committee. The security detail had been happy with her ID and her vague line about wanting to check out one of the committee members. And shortly she’d be a few metres away from Lord Sinclair, the alleged provider of the sperm Caroline Abbott had impregnated herself with. Not that she’d be asking about that.

  The PC had directed her to a seat in the middle of the front row, but Karen decided she wanted to be a little more inconspicuous. She chose a seat at the end of the second row by the window where she could watch the river traffic when things grew too dull. She was fairly confident that would happen. But compared to some of the places where she’d had to stake out what Lees always referred to as ‘persons of interest’, this had much to recommend it. The chair and the temperature were comfortable, the tapestry on the far wall – a stylised scene of trees and either fields or a river – was stitched in restful blue tones and the bust of Baroness Boothroyd was a lot less forbidding than many of the portraits they’d passed on the way to the committee room.

  Karen took out her notebook and pen in a bid to look as if she had some reason to be there. A few minutes later, the door opened again and an ill-assorted group of people filed in. A handful were obviously journalists, huddling together at one side of the room, chattering with the easy familiarity of comrades if not colleagues. Some looked like students of the political wonk persuasion. A couple of hipsters; wannabe journalists, Karen guessed. A trio of jolly young Muslim women in hijabs who kept nudging each other and grinning. A scatter of the retired, keeping their minds active and their opinions under scrutiny. As the audience set
tled around her, the committee’s administrative support trickled in, sorting out bundles of paper and chattering to each other in the easy way of people for whom this was just another day.

  Next to arrive was the Canadian media mogul and his entourage, who spread themselves along the witness table, his importance obvious by the sheer numbers necessary to bolster his presence.

  And finally, the committee members themselves. A dozen working peers – seven men, five women – who didn’t look particularly grand. Smart, well-groomed and attentive, but none of them would have been out of place in a boardroom or on the committee of a charity. The great and the good, Karen thought. They don’t look so different from us. They could almost pass.

  She recognised Frank Sinclair from the images she’d studied online. In his mid sixties, he looked fit and healthy. His hair, once sandy, was greying and coarse, his skin pale and heavily lined. But his jawline was still taut and his deep-set blue eyes were never still, always scanning the room and his fellow peers. He would look at his papers for a few moments, a frown line between his bushy eyebrows, make a note with a fat Mont Blanc pen, then check out the room again. Karen had no idea how closely he resembled Gabriel Abbott. She’d only seen a couple of photographs of the dead man and that provided no real comparison. She wished she’d been able to ask Noble for a set of post-mortem pics.

  The business was quickly under way and Karen soon lost the will to live. Things seemed to move at a snail’s pace and she could only bear to listen when Frank Sinclair spoke and then only because she felt she ought to. She gathered that he was greatly in favour of personal privacy except when those concerned were behaving in ways that he disapproved of. Anything immoral, illegal or unethical stripped out the guilty parties’ rights and rendered them fair game for the media, in his book. Given the tightness of his own moral straitjacket, Karen reckoned that meant most of the population was fair game. She was thankful to realise that his was not the prevailing view of the room.