by Val McDermid
Lees speeded up and quickly put his desk between them. Before he’d even taken off his uniform cap, she’d settled on the visitor’s chair, legs crossed, hands demurely folded in her lap. ‘Excellent news,’ she said.
Lees struggled to keep his face in order. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You haven’t heard? Sheriff Abercrombie has granted our request. DC Murray picked up the court order late yesterday afternoon. As soon as I’m done here, I’m off to General Register House to get my hands on Ross Garvie’s original birth certificate. With a bit of luck and a following wind, we should have a result on Tina McDonald’s murder very soon.’ Karen kept her voice lively and upbeat, giving him no chance to shoot her down in flames. ‘Another feather in your cap, hopefully. It’s always nice to be associated with success.’
He spluttered something that might have been an attempt at an interruption but she was refusing to be derailed. ‘And another thing. You’ll be very gratified about this because it not only solves a problem but it saves you the expense of an inquiry. You can stand down DS Robson. No need for a leak inquiry now.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lees was pink-faced, his eyes wide, his nose pinched. ‘You are completely—’
‘It’s simple.’ Karen steamrollered on. She was on the front foot and she wasn’t going to stop pushing him backwards from his self-righteous voicemail. ‘I’ve solved the leak. You probably don’t remember, because it’s way below your pay grade and nobody can expect you to have a grip on everything that goes on, but while Detective Sergeant Parhatka was in the hospital, before he died, somebody walked into the Murder Prevention Squad and helped themselves to his laptop. About as nasty a trick as you can get. But I never thought anything of it at the time, because obviously it wasn’t high on my list of priorities. And then it dawned on me the other day . . . ’
‘What?’ He was weakening now. Starting to crack at the edges. Time to be relentless and remorseless and robust.
‘I used to use Phil’s laptop from time to time. After Phil died, all his logins were cancelled. But mine are all still live and still on that laptop. I checked with Gartcosh, and right enough, whoever stole the laptop will have been able to access my emails and my case files.’ She shook her head with a rueful smile. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long for the penny to drop.’ She looked down and allowed a wee catch in her voice. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind.’ Time for a swift recovery. ‘But I’ve sorted it now. I’ve changed my passwords and moved all my files to new locations, so whoever has been sneaking a peek at our inquiries will meet a brick wall next time they try to log in. So we’re all in the clear on that one, and, like I say, it’s good for the budget as well as clearing up that wee problem of the leaky sieve.’ Karen grinned cheerfully.
Lees was struggling. She’d knocked so much wind out of his sails he was almost capsizing. But he hadn’t given up yet. ‘That’s typical. Careless, heedless. And that brings us to why I wanted to see you—’
‘Yes, there does seem to be a bit of a misunderstanding going on.’ Karen spread her hands, a bewildered smile on her lips. ‘I owe DI Noble a debt of gratitude. Without his investigation into the death of Gabriel Abbott, I might never have come across the cold case relating to Abbott’s mother. And there’s no doubt that it falls fair and square into the remit of the HCU. An unsolved quadruple murder in the skies over Scottish soil. It’s my job – no, it’s my duty to take a fresh look at such a serious case.’
‘It’s not . . . there’s nothing . . . You’ve been sticking your nose into DI Noble’s case. Which is . . . it’s been decided. A suicide. No earthly justification for you stirring up all sorts of trouble.’ He seemed to be having some difficulty constructing sentences.
Karen shook her head, pityingly. ‘Like I said, a misunderstanding. DI Noble’s very sensitive, very territorial. He thinks anybody investigating anything connected to one of his cases is trying to make him look incompetent. And nothing could be further from the truth. But it so happened that his investigation drew my attention to the original case back in 1994. And when I looked at it, I saw there had never been a review of the case.’ She shrugged. ‘I was waiting for the sheriff’s decision on the Tina McDonald case and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give it a quick once-over. I mean, come on. Four murders, never cleared? That’s a shocker to have on our record.’ Her air of injured innocence was almost becoming a parody of itself. Karen reined herself in a fraction. ‘And I happened to be going down to London for a weekend break, so I thought I might as well make some inquiries while I was there, to save the budget.’ Always a good place to hit the Macaroon. He was obsessed with his budget.
‘You’re not supposed to wander through the files at random, picking cases that take your fancy. You’re supposed to concentrate on unsolved cases where there is fresh evidence to focus on.’
‘Absolutely. But sometimes it’s important to conduct a free-standing review, to see if there are areas that could reasonably be expected to provide fruitful prospects. We need to be proactive, not just wait for moments like Ross Garvie’s familial DNA hit.’ She was on solid ground. Nowhere for him to go. She’d dragged herself back inside the legitimate borders of protocol. She got to her feet. ‘So if it’s all right with you, I’ll follow up on one or two outstanding issues that slipped through the net at the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get up to General Register House and get my hands on that birth certificate.’ She was halfway to the door before his voice stopped her.
‘Stay away from Will Abbott,’ he barked at her back. ‘He’s grieving for his brother. He was a mere boy when his mother was killed. There’s nothing useful he can tell you about that.’
Karen rolled her eyes, then looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘Can’t make any promises though.’ And this time, she made it through the door.
40
The Mint, as instructed, was already at his desk, yawning over a can of Irn Bru and a slab of greasy Lorne sausage inside a roll, brown sauce oozing out of the sides. He straightened up, wide-eyed, when Karen walked in with far more bounce than anyone who’d had a bollocking was entitled to. ‘How’d you get on?’ He sounded apprehensive.
‘Piece of piss,’ Karen said. ‘Everything is all boxed off and we’re good to go.’ Meaningless, but reassuring, she hoped.
‘What happened? What did you say?’
Karen tapped the side of her nose. ‘I can’t be giving away all the tricks of the trade, Jason. Got to keep my feminine mystiquery.’ Seeing his crestfallen look, she relented a little. ‘I got you off the hook. You remember somebody lifted Phil’s laptop when everybody was at the hospital with him?’
Jason nodded. ‘I totally couldn’t believe that. I mean, that’s like grave-robbing. Burke and Hare.’
‘Not quite.’ Karen was impressed by his surprise erudition till she remembered there had been a Simon Pegg film about the Edinburgh bodysnatchers. ‘Anyway, I used to use it sometimes. Obviously, I always signed out afterwards. But I spoke to Tamsin at Gartcosh and asked her if it would have been possible to hack my email and files if I’d left it signed in with my details. And she said yes, it was possible if you knew your way around the systems. So I blagged my way past the Macaroon by telling him this must be how it happened.’
Jason looked astounded. ‘And he believed you?’
‘Why would he not? The story makes me look a wee bit careless, but that’s not a hanging offence and it makes the explanation more credible. So the heat is off, Jason. And keep an eye on the post for your insurance policy.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And we need to get our skates on if we’re going to make our appointment at General Register House.’
Jason crammed the last of his roll and sausage into his mouth and chewed frantically. ‘Hnngks,’ he mumbled through the food, reaching for his jacket.
‘No problem. And there won’t be any blowback from your ex-flatmates. I
went and had a wee word with Liam.’ She gave a dark smile. ‘He’ll not be bothering you again.’
A look of alarm crossed Jason’s face. ‘Did you threaten him?’
‘I’ve not lost my touch, Jason. Threats were just a detail.’ Karen turned and made for the door. ‘Don’t forget the paperwork,’ she added over her shoulder.
Jason grabbed the sheriff’s order and the adoptive birth certificate the Garvies had been instructed to hand over to the investigation and hurried after Karen. On the way up Leith Walk to the records office, she quizzed him about his move. ‘Was your mum pleased to see you back?’
‘I guess. She made me a nice tea. Corned beef stovies with buttered cabbage.’
‘And you’re OK about being there? You understand why you had to walk away from the flat?’
‘Aye,’ he said, glum. ‘You were right. Pals don’t do what Liam did. But I want to move back to the city. I don’t like the commute. I’ll start looking online later in the week.’
‘Good idea. Have you ever been in the General Register House?’
Jason shook his head. ‘Never had any reason to.’
‘I went there a couple of years ago. My dad got the genealogy bug from watching Who Do You Think You Are?. He sent me up there to dig up some family records.’
‘Did you find anything interesting?’
‘Only that I come from a long line of Scottish peasants. My dad lost interest pretty quickly once he realised we were just a bunch of nobodies. But it was worth it to see inside the place. It’s stunning. It’s one of the oldest custom-built archive buildings in the world. There’s an amazing rotunda in the middle, the only light comes from one window in the roof, like the Pantheon in Rome, supposedly. You should take a look if we get the chance. And here’s the best thing about it from our point of view – it was designed by Robert Adam.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’
‘He was from Kirkcaldy, Jason. Like us.’
Jason gave a dark laugh. ‘I guess he did a bit better for himself than we have.’
‘Well, not entirely. They ran out of money when they were building it. It stood half-finished without a roof for years.’
‘There’s houses like that up the back of the town. Started building them a few years back then the cash dried up.’
Karen rolled her eyes. ‘Aye, but they’re not exactly architectural masterpieces. They called this one the most magnificent pigeon house in Europe.’
They rounded the corner into Princes Street, confronted by the mounted statue of the Duke of Wellington pointing in the vague direction of Waterloo. ‘The pigeons are still making themselves at home,’ Jason said, pointing to a cluster perched on a stone ledge.
They climbed the stone steps and the automatic doors swept open to admit them to a completely unexceptional space. One half of the foyer held the reception desk and chairs for people waiting to be seen. The other half contained the gift shop, an odd assortment of local history books and the kind of mugs that only tourists buy. Karen introduced them to the receptionist and said, ‘We’ve got an appointment with Bruce Andrews.’
They’d barely sat down when a glass-panelled oak door on the far side of the room opened and a man in his mid forties came in. At first glance, in spite of his greying hair, he looked more like a PE teacher than a civil servant – polo shirt, jeans, trainers. But he was clearly their man. He made straight for them, hand extended to shake. ‘Chief Inspector Pirie, is it? I’m Bruce, Bruce Andrews.’ He turned to Jason. ‘And Sergeant Murray, right? Come away through.’
They followed him back through the door and immediately turned into a small office with a single tall window that provided a stunning view straight up the Bridges to the silvery grey cupola of the Old College of the university. The arrow-straight road was flanked by slices of a pair of grand façades: the Balmoral Hotel on one side and Waverley Gate, the old central Post Office, on the other. Up here in the centre of town, Karen often felt you couldn’t turn round without getting an eyeful of amazing.
Jason was less interested in the view than in a gold-coloured wall safe the size of a bathroom cabinet. ‘Is that where you keep the records?’
Andrews grinned. ‘That wouldn’t hold a fraction of what we’ve got. No, this used to be the accounts room. That would have been where cash for wages and registration fees would have been held.’ He gestured towards a small blond wood table with four chairs round it. ‘This is where we show people their adoption records. They make an appointment, bring in their ID and we show them what we have. I believe you’ve got a court order?’
Jason fumbled the paperwork out of his inside pocket and handed it over. Andrews looked it over intently. ‘This all looks in order.’ He stood up. ‘I had to confirm that before I brought down the adoption record. We take our confidentiality very seriously. There are only two of us in the adoption unit and we’re the only ones with keys to the locked room where we keep the ledgers. Not even the Registrar General gets in there without our say-so. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get the relevant ledger.’
He left them, and Karen looked around at the impersonal space with its cream walls and blue heather mix carpet, its file boxes and its nondescript desk and computer. ‘You wouldn’t think so to look at it, but I bet this room’s seen a lot of emotional moments.’
‘I can’t imagine what that would be like.’ Jason’s face split in a grin. ‘Just as well I look the spit of my dad, eh?’
‘Aye. If you don’t get on with your adoptive parents, you must be hoping for something better. And if you really love the ones that brought you up, you’d have to be worried about what hand grenades your genetic history might throw into your life. Would you want to know?’
Jason shook his head. ‘No. It’s hard enough managing one lot of relationships. Know what I mean?’
Karen nodded. ‘But I don’t know if I could resist it. If I found out I was adopted, I’d have to know everything.’
‘Aye, but you’re dead nosy, boss. In a good way,’ he added hastily.
Before Karen could react, Andrews returned carrying a fat ledger with drab green boards and tan linen binding, letters and numbers stamped on its spine. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘This is the adoption register.’ He opened it at a bookmarked page. ‘And this is the record of Ross Garvie’s adoption. Here’s his adoptive parents’ – he pointed to the Garvies’ names – ‘and here, it says they have been granted permission to adopt Darren Paul MacBride. Date of birth there, and the registration district – Dundee, as you can see – and here’s the crucial piece of information we need. The number of the birth certificate. And there at the bottom, his adoptive name. Ross Stewart Garvie.’
Andrews closed the register and crossed to the desk, waking the computer. ‘Now I have to input that number, and bingo.’ The tapping of keys, the clicking of a mouse, the whirr of a printer. With a flourish, he presented Karen with a copy of Ross Garvie’s original birth certificate.
Only when she took the A4 sheet did she realise she’d been holding her breath. There it was. The information that should lead her to Tina McDonald’s killer. Darren Paul MacBride. Born in the Simpson Memorial Pavilion in Edinburgh. Mother’s name – Jeanette MacBride. Usual residence: 7/43 Cambus Court, EH14 3XY. ‘Wester Hailes, isn’t that?’
‘I think so, yes. It sounds like a block of high flats,’ Andrews said.
‘No mention of the father?’
Andrews pulled a wry face. ‘That’s often the way with adoptions. The father has to agree to being named if they’re not married to the mother, and mostly they don’t want to be. That’s always supposing they even know about the birth.’
‘It says here she was a nursery worker,’ Jason said. ‘Maybe we could trace her through her work if she’s not still at that address.’
At the bottom of the certificate, in a box on its own was handwritten the word, ‘Adopted.�
� Karen pointed to it. ‘You write that on after the adoption?’
‘That’s right. Birth certificates are public documents. Anyone can access this and buy a copy of it. The written annotation is to prevent identity theft. You can’t use this birth certificate to obtain any other ID, such as a passport or driving licence.’
‘Is there any way to backtrack to the adoption record? To find out where that baby ended up?’
Andrews shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. Trust me, Chief Inspector, it can’t be done.’
‘I didn’t think so. And it’s not relevant. I was just curious.’ Karen folded the sheet of paper and stood up. ‘Thanks, you’ve been really helpful.’ They walked out into sunshine lighting what Karen thought had to be one of the best views in the city. Apart from the backside of Wellington’s prancing horse, obviously. But not even that could dent her mood. Finally, they had the break they needed to claw their way ever closer to the man who had murdered a young woman who’d been guilty of nothing more than having fun with her friends. ‘One step closer to judgement day,’ she said to Jason. ‘One step closer.’
41
Karen loved the fizz of excitement that came hand in hand with forward movement after a case had been stalled. She’d marched down Leith Walk to the office so fast Jason had had to break into little skip steps to jink around fellow pedestrians and keep up with her. As they went, she’d issued her instructions. ‘First thing, do the obvious. Phone book. I’ll do the certificates and Google, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. You take the electoral roll. If Jeanette MacBride isn’t on the current roll, backtrack year by year till she shows up. Take a look at county court judgements, see if she shows up there at all. We’ll see where we go from there.’
If they were very lucky, Jeanette MacBride would still be living in Wester Hailes on the edge of the city. But the chances of that were slim. If they could find out when she left, they could list who her neighbours were at that time then check forward in the records to see whether any of them were still around. It was a long shot and, if it failed, there would be other records to check. Marriages and deaths were the obvious ones, but there were other, less obvious places to look if they still hadn’t found Ross Garvie’s birth mother.
