by Val McDermid
Two hours dragged past interminably. It was hard for Karen to imagine Sinclair fitting into the sociable and louche world of theatre and TV that Caroline and Ellie had moved in. She knew that most people grew more conservative as they aged, but he must have shifted quite a distance. Perhaps his guilt at what he’d done for Caroline had kicked in afterwards and provoked an extreme reaction. Or maybe they’d just kept him around as a kind of curiosity, a dinosaur counterpoint to their lifestyle. And for him, their way of life would have been a sort of whetstone on which he could hone his sharp-edged morality.
Eventually, things drew to a close. The lords and ladies stood up, gathering their papers together. Karen hung back as the audience dawdled out and studied her phone as the support staff mingled with their bosses, chatting and handing over pieces of paper. There was a small huddle around the middle of the horseshoe, Frank Sinclair at the heart of it. He’d been sitting near the end of the table on the opposite side of the room and Karen ambled over to his place, deserted now. She looked around. Nobody was paying attention to her. Everyone was focused on leaving or on the conversation in the middle of the room or on making sure the tycoon had left nothing incriminating in his wake.
Casually, she took out the napkins from the coffee shop and, in a swift arc of movement, swept up Frank Sinclair’s glass and tucked it in her pocket. Then she walked confidently out of the room and headed for the nearest toilet. Safe in the cubicle, Karen dropped the glass into the paper bag and deposited it carefully at the bottom of her handbag. She didn’t want to be stopped on her way out for nicking a Portcullis House tumbler.
And breathe, she told herself. She’d done something so ridiculous she’d never be able to admit it to any of her colleagues and she’d apparently got away with it. It was madness. But it was noble cause madness.
What she hadn’t realised was that she’d been spotted. Lord Sinclair had started his career as a sharply observant journalist. He hadn’t lost that gift of noticing. While most of his interest had been on the people who’d come up to him with questions and comments, there had been a sliver of his attention on whatever else was going on around him. He’d caught sight of Karen out of the corner of his eye and followed her movements while he dealt with everyone else on automatic pilot, struggling not to show his incredulity at what he was witnessing.
There was no doubt about it. Whoever the woman was, she’d pocketed his drinking glass and made off with it. There was only one possible reason why anyone would do such a thing.
A coldness bloomed in his chest. But he wasn’t going to panic. He hadn’t risen this far by freaking out when he was under threat. He politely excused himself and drew his assistant to one side. ‘That woman who’s just leaving? Follow her and find out who she is.’
The assistant, who was paid well for his unquestioning loyalty, left the room without a fuss. Sinclair watched him go, his brain ticking over a series of options. Everything from a watching brief to the nuclear option. Nobody stood in Frank Sinclair’s light.
36
The train was pulling out of Kings Cross when Karen realised she’d forgotten to turn her phone back on after the Select Committee. She’d been so high after her larcenous adventure that everything else had slipped to the back burner. But as she let herself relax into her seat for the long haul back to Edinburgh, she thought to check for texts only to discover the phone was still off. She gave a small groan when it fired up and revealed she had five voicemails and half a dozen texts.
The first voicemail was from the Macaroon. Then two from the Mint. Then one from a number she didn’t recognise. And finally, one from Giorsal. The texts were all from the Mint. The first one asked her to call him. So did the other five, with increasing levels of urgency. The wheels had clearly come off something, but that didn’t narrow it down.
Sighing, Karen took herself down to the vestibule at the end of the carriage so she wouldn’t disturb her fellow passengers by swearing at the phone. Wrinkling her nose at the weird air freshener that smelled anything but fresh, she summoned the Macaroon’s message in the hope of enlightenment. His tinny voice was a snappy snarl. ‘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.’
Ah. Well, that was enlightenment, of a sort. What she didn’t know yet was how the Macaroon knew what she was up to, and how serious the situation was. He was pompous enough to be this put out by the simple act of Karen asking Alan Noble what investigative steps he was taking. And she suspected Noble was enough of a teacher’s pet to have dropped her in it with the Macaroon. Everybody knew how much he hated Karen and how much he’d enjoy having something on her.
On the other hand, it might be a lot more serious than that. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to deal with it on a train. Not with the twin perils of phone signals cutting out and the prospect of being overheard. This was one to deal with on her own terms, at a time and place of her own choosing. Ideally, when she had a better sense of how deep in the shit she was.
Jason’s first message was anxious. ‘Hey, boss, it’s me. The chief’s on the warpath,’ he said. ‘Thought I better let you know. I said you were having a day off, I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing? Anyway, I thought I better let you know, eh?’ His second voicemail said much the same, except with the additional news that the Macaroon’s secretary had been on, telling him to leave a message for DCI Pirie to come to the ACC’s office first thing in the morning. ‘She said she was going to email you, like, but she wanted to make sure you got the message. So, I’m passing it on. She sounded really pissed off, by the way, boss.’
Ramping up the pressure, Karen thought. If the Macaroon had any notion of how to manage his officers, he’d have worked out that Karen didn’t let herself be bullied. She’d got past that at school. She never backed down when the bitchy teenage cliques occasionally turned on her. She wasn’t verbally quick like Giorsal, but she’d stood her ground and given them that same stubborn hard-eyed stare that drove the Macaroon to distraction. She never let the bullies see the hurt inside. Not then, not now.
The number she hadn’t recognised turned out to belong to Alan Noble and it answered more of her questions. ‘This is DI Noble. What are you playing at, Karen? I’ve just had Gabriel Abbott’s brother on the phone. He’s furious because you’ve been down in London nosing into him and his family. After I’d told him that it was pretty much a certainty that his brother was a suicide. You had no business sticking your nose in my case in the first place, but you totally overstepped the mark here. You need to stay away from other people’s cases and not go about making unsupported statements that make your fellow officers look like numpties. I’m taking this up the line. I’m not putting up with this.’
Ouch. So, somebody had grassed her up to the brother. Karen suspected it had come from Jumpin’ Jack Ash. She hadn’t been inclined to invest much trust in him. There had obviously been stuff he hadn’t wanted to tell her – perhaps some of the things she’d learned from Felicity Frye – and he’d gone running to warn Will Abbott that she was stirring the pot. Interesting that Abbott’s first reaction had not been to wonder whether there were new leads in respect of his mother’s death. Instead, he’d kicked off to Noble. Who had realised marginally too late that he ought to level with Karen about going to the Macaroon. She wasn’t sure whether he was weak, careerist or plain stupid.
If somebody really was trying to pass off murder as suicide, they’d dropped lucky, getting Noble for the SIO.
The final voicemail was from Giorsal. ‘Hey, girl. I’ve had the unlovely Alan Noble on with his panties in a twist. He’s told me not to tell you anything about the Gabriel Abbott case. Like he’s my boss or something. So, whe
n did you want me to set up that meeting with Ian Lesley? I’m guessing we might need to aim outside office hours? Give me a bell when you know what’s what.’ Karen couldn’t help smiling. The system hadn’t ground Giorsal down in the slightest. And now she was making good on her offer to sit Karen down with Gabriel Abbott’s social worker. Who better to fill her in on what was going on in the dead man’s life? What was it Phil used to say? ‘When life gives you lemons, make a gin and tonic.’
Thinking of Phil reminded her that it was Monday and the way things were going, she’d better cancel her Monday evening session with Jimmy Hutton. It wasn’t the first time work had got in the way, but she still regretted having to do it. She sent him a text, promising to be in touch later in the week.
She went back to her seat, confident she could weather whatever was waiting for her back in Edinburgh. The only outstanding matter was the tumbler in the bottom of her handbag. Luckily, it was Monday. She did a quick calculation in her head. The person she needed to see would be changing trains at Haymarket around quarter past eight. That gave her plenty of time to deal with the one thing she needed to do in Edinburgh that night and still make a rendezvous on a windy platform. She sent a text, making the arrangement, then settled back with the latest Lee Child. Nothing like a bit of escapist fantasy to make the miles go faster.
Two chapters in and her phone started vibrating. Impatient, she checked the screen. No way was she going to randomly answer her phone on a day like this. But as soon as she registered the caller, she knew this was one she’d have to take. She jumped up and hurried back to the vestibule, picking up the call as she went.
‘DCI Pirie?’ Even a poor mobile signal couldn’t strip the plums from Colin Semple’s voice.
‘Mr Semple. Good to hear from you. At least, I hope it’s good?’
‘More good than bad,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on a train, heading back to Edinburgh from London.’
‘In that case, it will be tomorrow before you can move on this. Sheriff Abercrombie has clearly decided that Ross Garvie is not going to oblige us with a quick quietus and so she has delivered her judgement. She has agreed that you should have access to Garvie’s original birth certificate. None of the associated papers, I’m afraid. Only the bare bones.’
Karen felt a swell of excitement. At last, they could move forward on the Tina McDonald investigation. That terrible period of marking time was over and the real detective work could begin. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘So what do I do?’
‘You need to pick up a copy of the sheriff’s order from the court. If your lad is at a loose end this afternoon, he’s probably just got time to get up there and collect it before they shut up shop. Then once you’ve got that, you need to go to General Register House – you know, on Princes Street, opposite the Balmoral? And someone there will furnish you with a copy of Garvie’s birth certificate. And then it’s up to you, Chief Inspector.’
‘Thanks for letting me know. And thanks for doing such a great job for us.’
‘It’s what you pay me for,’ he said, his voice warm with satisfaction. ‘Good luck, Chief Inspector.’
Karen leaned against the cool train window, eyes closed momentarily. She loved nothing more than the chase, and now it was beginning in earnest. She sent a quick text to Jason: Sheriff says yes to birth certificate. Put your coat on and pick up the order from the Sheriff Court Office before close of business. See you in the morning. The game’s afoot! Perfect that he had something concrete to do that would take his mind off the Macaroon on the rampage.
She could go back to Lee Child now with a clear conscience, completely unaware of the young man halfway down the carriage who hadn’t stopped watching her since they’d boarded the train.
37
It was raining when the train arrived in Edinburgh, stinging bullets of sleet carried on whips of wind that made Karen’s face hurt. To hell with the bus, she was going to splash out on a taxi. This was one occasion where she was determined to show not a trace of vulnerability. The taxi rattled over cobbled streets, across the Canongate and up the Pleasance, the wipers barely managing to slap the windscreen clear of water. ‘Hellish night,’ the driver offered.
Not as hellish as it was about to get for somebody else, Karen thought. ‘Aye,’ she said.
The traffic was heavy, but the taxi driver was savvy enough to avoid the worst of it. Karen ran from the cab to the door of the Marchmont tenement, huddling in its lee as she pressed the buzzer for the third-floor flat. A garbled male voice answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Delivery for you,’ she said. The door buzzed. These days, with everybody doing their shopping online, nobody living in a shared flat would bother to check the recipient’s name.
Karen climbed steadily to the third floor. Not so long ago, she’d have struggled with the steps, but the combination of night walking and weight loss meant that a new level of fitness had sneaked up on her. She deplored the reason but had to admit she appreciated the result. She rounded the final turn of the stone stairs, coming face-to-face with a young man leaning negligently against the jamb of the outer pair of tall wooden doors. Bare feet, skinny jeans on skinny legs, grey shirt buttoned to the neck, straggly hipster beard and a wee frown. ‘Where’s the parcel?’ he demanded. Voice cocky, posh, English; expression haughty.
‘You Liam?’
‘Does it matter? You said you had a delivery. And you don’t.’ He pushed off, reaching behind for the knob of the inner half-glass door. ‘So goodbye.’
Karen moved quickly, hard up against the outer doors, ID in her hand then in his face. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Karen Pirie.’
‘Oh,’ he said, a long drawn-out drawl. ‘Why didn’t you say? Jason talks about you all the time. If it’s Jason you’re after, he’s not around right now.’
‘As you are well aware, son, Jason doesn’t live here any more.’ She moved forward again, making him take a clumsy step backwards, yelping as he caught his elbow on the edge of the inner door. She grabbed the front of his shirt, ostensibly steadying him. ‘Careful, son. Now, are you Liam or are you not?’
‘I’m Liam. What of it?’
Now she pushed him away from her, releasing him to stumble sideways into the hall, banging into a narrow table covered in unopened junk mail. ‘Ow. What the fuck? That was an assault.’
‘Oh please,’ she said, sarcasm extending her vowels. Again she moved forward, forcing him into a corner. ‘Listen, you little fuck. And listen hard. Right now, I could arrest you for interfering with an ongoing police investigation. Perverting the course of justice, if I had a mind to. The university won’t like that one little bit. Any thoughts you had of a career? Forget it. With a conviction like that, you’d be lucky to get a job as a barista. Even with the pitiful facial hair.’ She reached out to tweak his beard but he flinched out of her way.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he gabbled, aiming for his previous supercilious air and missing by a shaky mile.
‘Don’t come the cowboy with me, son,’ Karen snapped, making every word tight and hard. ‘I know what you did. You and your smart-arsed pals pretended Jason was your friend. You’ll have sniggered at him behind his back. Made fun of him to your patronising stuck-up mates. And then you betrayed him. You exploited a kind, decent, loyal guy. You wheedled stuff out of him. You made him feel important, but all the time, you were using him.’
His narrow face grew pinched. He half-shrugged with one shoulder. ‘Nobody made him do anything.’
‘Fair enough. And that would have been fine if you’d left it at that. Despicable, obnoxious, and treacherous, but in the great scheme of things, fine. But you pulled a real shit’s trick. You broke his confidences and sold him out to the media.’ Right in his face. She could feel the heat of his coffee breath on her cheeks.
‘They’d have found out anyway,’ he whined.
&nbs
p; ‘No. They wouldn’t. The stuff you leaked was sensitive. It could make the difference between a conviction and some vicious scumbag walking away to make some other poor sod’s life a misery. And the way you did it? That’s a criminal offence, son.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ he said, trying to edge away from her. ‘If it’s such a big deal, arrest me.’
Karen let a slow smile spread across her face. ‘Liam – what’s your second name? Oh, fuck it, I’ll find it out soon enough. Liam Wankstain, I’m arresting you. You are going to be asked questions about offences relating to perverting the course of justice. You are not bound to answer, but if you do your answers will be noted and may be used—’
‘Wait! No, you can’t do this.’ Panic shaking his voice.
‘—in evidence,’ Karen continued, unperturbed. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I’m sorry. Please. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. It was only a laugh.’
‘And a few quid. And getting your name known as a reliable source with news editors.’ She curled her lip scornfully and waited.
He hung his head. ‘Yeah, that. I want to be a journalist.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve already got the scummy morality for the job. Give me one good reason why I should let you walk away from this.’
He flashed a quick up-and-under look at her, sudden cunning in his eyes. ‘Because if I go in the witness box it’ll be the end of Jason’s career?’
Karen gave a slow handclap. ‘So it would be a win-win. You get the criminal record you deserve and I get a detective constable with half a brain.’
