Broken Ground (Karen Pirie Book 5)

by Val McDermid

  ‘That’s a bit convoluted. I mean, if that was what was going on, any hole in the Highlands would have done, as long as the killer had a plausible cover story. This hole was very specific, so if it wasn’t about the bikes, it had to be about something else. And we do know that whatever it was, it was small enough to fit unobtrusively in a bike pannier. Because if it had been bulky, Alice Somerville’s granddad would have either spotted it or known all along it was there. And if he knew there was something there, why not tell her?’

  ‘Aye.’ Jason sighed. ‘By the way, boss, why did you leave that note on the sink?’

  Karen flushed. The note in question was a sheet of lined A4 from the notepad she used to draw connective maps between witnesses and suspects and events. She’d written it at half past two in the morning after her return from her late-night walk. She’d gone into the bathroom to pee and clean her teeth before she went to sleep but she hadn’t turned the light on because it was connected to the extractor fan and she didn’t want to waken Jason. It was hard enough having a sensible conversation with him when he was wide awake, never mind startled out of sleep.

  Somehow, she’d caught her earring on her watchstrap and pinged it out of her ear. Desperately she’d tried to catch it. Then the plink of silver on porcelain, the clink as earring met plughole and the clatter as it bounced down the drainpipe. ‘Fuck,’ Karen hissed, lips pulled tight against her teeth. The only jewellery she’d ever had that she gave a damn about had just disappeared down the bathroom sink.

  A quiet moan escaped from her as she laid her forehead on the cool edge of the sink. On the anniversary of their first night together, Phil had presented her with a pair of Tiffany High Tide silver earrings. She’d been speechless. Nobody had ever given her anything so beautiful. Their smooth wavy lines recalled the ever-changing Forth Estuary they loved to sit and watch while they slowly worked their way through the Sunday treat of a nougat wafer. She’d worn them every day since.

  And now one of them had been ripped from its moorings. Thinking about it, she decided it hadn’t tumbled very far. It was, she reckoned, trapped in the U-bend. Maybe in the morning Hamish could recover it?

  If he was to have any chance, no more water could be allowed to descend into the pipe. So Karen had written the note. In very big capital letters with a Sharpie. JASON: DO NOT USE THIS SINK UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. I MEAN IT. She’d got up to find him shaving in the kitchen sink. He’d waited till now to ask so she explained. ‘I see why you were so bothered,’ Jason conceded. ‘That’s the ones that Phil gave you, right?’

  ‘Right. Thanks for doing what I asked.’

  His look said, ‘As if I’d dare to do anything else.’ Before he could say anything, Karen’s phone rang. A glance at the screen and she pulled a face. ‘Bloody hell, it’s the Dog Biscuit.’ She ignored Jason’s baffled look, pasted a smile on and answered. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  Ann Markie sounded as bright as freshly squeezed orange juice. ‘And is it a good morning where you are, Karen? I ask because I believe you’re well outside the Central Belt.’

  ‘You’re well informed, ma’am. I’m in Wester Ross, where the sun is doing its best to find a space in the clouds.’ Karen rolled her eyes at Jason and mimed being hanged.

  ‘Would you care to explain what you’re doing in Wester Ross?’ The voice was honey and silk. Karen was amazed to realise she’d have preferred the snide sniping of her old boss. At least you knew where you were with the Macaroon, even if it was usually in the shit.

  ‘I’m investigating a suspicious death. Well, to be honest, I’d stick my neck out and say, a murder. Two bullet wounds and no weapon does tend to militate against suicide.’

  ‘Is that not a job for N Division’s CID?’

  ‘Normally it would be, but it’s evident from the circumstances that this is a historic case. The body’s been in a bog for somewhere around twenty years, Dr Wilde estimates.’ As soon as River’s name left her lips, Karen knew she’d tripped up.

  ‘Ah yes, Dr Wilde. Apparently she’s now assigning my detectives to cases.’

  ‘She made a phone call that saved me anything up to six or seven hours driving, ma’am. I’d have thought getting stuck into this case was a better use of my time than driving down the A9 and back up again.’

  ‘Did you really need to visit the scene of the crime? Generally speaking, you never have that luxury.’

  Now Karen was starting to feel riled. ‘All the more reason to take advantage of the opportunity,’ she said, forcing herself to smile. You couldn’t snarl when you were smiling. ‘It doesn’t hurt to have a wee refresher on crime scene practice.’

  ‘And you don’t think that, given your lack of recent game time at crime scenes, it might have made more sense to take DS McCartney with you rather than DC Murray?’

  Nice to have those suspicions confirmed. ‘DC Murray needs more experience at the sharp end,’ Karen said firmly. ‘I left DS McCartney to carry out a series of inquiries that, frankly, require experience and sensitivity. Are those not among DS McCartney’s strong points? Have I misunderstood?’ Damned if she was going to let Markie push her around.

  Jason was openly listening now, the mention of his name permission enough in his world. He gave Karen a quick thumbs-up.

  Markie paused for a moment. ‘I rather think DS McCartney is a tad overqualified for a last-ditch investigation that’s likely to go absolutely nowhere. I take it you’ll be heading back to base soon?’ It was a retreat of sorts.

  ‘I hope so. It depends what progress we make in terms of ID.’

  A sigh from the Central Belt. ‘I hope this isn’t going to turn into a budget buster, Karen. You know how much pressure we’re under in terms of using our resources wisely. And nothing eats up resources faster than the endless battery of tests you cold case detectives love to order.’

  The sheer unfairness of Markie’s accusation nearly provoked an ill-judged response from Karen. The bureaucratic besom had been away from the front line for too long. Instead, she thought on her feet. ‘It’s a peat bog, ma’am. The body’s very well preserved. I’m confident we’ll be able to get an ID from a photo. The media will be all over it, they love this kind of story. So with a bit of luck we’ll not need all those expensive tests that we usually have to rely on for a result.’

  ‘Make it so, Karen. I don’t want this one to drag out.’

  And the call was over. ‘“Make it so, Karen.” Who the fuck does she think she is? Captain bloody Picard?’

  Jason tried a tentative grin. ‘You don’t look very like Mr Data, boss. I take it we’re not flavour of the month with the ACC?’

  Karen shrugged. ‘All she wants is the kind of cases that let her hold press conferences on Reporting Scotland. We’re only here for the greater glory of Ann Markie.’ She stood up and headed for the coffee maker. ‘I need to phone River. But first I need more coffee.’

  As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Karen nodded at Jason, who opened the door to reveal Hamish Mackenzie in kilt and a much-darned jumper, his hair rippling in the breeze. He held up a bright turquoise insulated bag. ‘Bacon and avocado rolls,’ he announced, thrusting the bag at Jason.

  ‘Are you trying to bribe us?’ Karen said.

  ‘Is that all it takes?’

  Jason grabbed the bag. ‘Sometimes not even that much, if she’s not had her coffee.’

  Hamish grinned. ‘I woke up this morning and realised I hadn’t stocked the fridge. This is my attempt to make up for being a lousy host.’

  Jason opened the bag and took out two foil-wrapped packages. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Hamish asked, his eyes on Karen.

  ‘The bed’s really comfortable.’ She paused, trying to find the right way to say what she needed. ‘There’s one slight problem.’

  Immediately he was on the alert. ‘A problem?’

  ‘Nothing to do with the yurt, everything’s really lovely. Comfortable, perfect. Really. This is my fault, entirely. I
dropped an earring down the sink last night. I think it’s probably in the U-bend. I wondered whether … ’ Karen hated to be dependent on anyone else. Especially someone who was at best a witness, at worst a suspect and also the person already doing her a favour.

  ‘Sure, I’ll take a look later.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ She took the remaining earring out of her pocket and unwrapped the toilet paper she’d protected it with. ‘It’s the partner of this one.’ She held it out on the palm of her hand.

  ‘May I?’ Hamish asked. She nodded and he picked it up, examining it. ‘I think I’ll know it when I see it.’

  ‘It’s Tiffany,’ Jason said.

  ‘More to the point, it’s got sentimental value.’ Shocked at having revealed something personal to a virtual stranger, Karen hurried on. ‘We haven’t run any water down the plug since I dropped it. I’m really sorry to be a nuisance.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not a problem. Oh, but just to let you know … ’ Hamish said, his nonchalance slightly overcooked, ‘the media have arrived. Well, I say the media, but it’s actually only a guy from the West Highland Free Press and a freelance who does stuff for the BBC and the nationals. The uniformed constable up by the tent told them there was nothing to see and nobody to talk to, but they’re still hanging about.’

  Karen unwrapped her fragrant roll and sighed. ‘I’ll come up in a wee while and give them a quote.’

  Hamish nodded. ‘I’ll tell them. See you later.’ He sketched a wave and left.

  ‘There’s a man who knows not to outstay his welcome,’ Karen said absently, surveying her unexpected breakfast with delight.

  ‘Nice guy,’ Jason said.

  ‘Maybe too nice,’ Karen muttered. ‘Take a careful look at those emails from Alice Somerville, Jason. Maybe you can take a run down to the pub later, ask around, see whether Hamish Mackenzie is as advertised. They’ll maybe be more forthcoming if I’m not around.’ Then she bit into the sandwich and moaned through a glorious mouthful. ‘How do you get perfectly ripe avocado in the Highlands, Jason? When we used to come up here for our holidays when I was wee, you’d be lucky to see a green vegetable that wasn’t cabbage. We’re definitely not in Kansas any more, Toto.’

  When she’d finished, she stepped outside to savour the fresh air and secure some privacy for her call to River. Karen got straight down to business. ‘I’ve had the Dog Biscuit on my case already,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t tell me. We’ve not to spend any money on some guy who’s been dead for twenty years without anybody noticing.’ River was resigned rather than bitter.

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Karen, I’ve never seen a better-preserved body. This guy’s got NHS dental work. Somebody in the UK’s going to recognise him from a photo. I’ve got Callum working on it right now.’

  Callum Phelan was the facial reconstruction specialist who worked in River’s department. He made convincing faces from bare skulls; the HCU had put one killer behind bars as a direct result of his work. Karen had seen enough to know he’d do a good job. ‘How long?’

  ‘Any time now. He said it was straightforward. Lighten the skin tones and give him some blue eyes and he’d be presentable.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks. I swear, that woman is only interested in how much I can boost her image.’

  ‘I’ll do the tests regardless. On my department budget. It’s great hands-on training for the students. So you’ll get the benefit anyway, if you need it.’ Karen heard the ping of a message arriving on River’s computer. ‘Even as we speak,’ she said. ‘Callum has delivered. I’ll send it straight across to you.’

  Ten minutes later, Karen was knocking on Hamish’s door. She’d sent Jason down to the crime scene on the off-chance that the cop on sentry duty might recognise the man Callum had recreated for them and now she wanted to try the same experiment on Hamish.

  She followed him into the kitchen. ‘I’d like you to have a look at something,’ she said. ‘I know you said you didn’t know the man in the bog, but this is closer to what he’d have looked like when he was still alive.’ Karen held her phone out to Hamish.

  He frowned at the image, studying it carefully. Callum had done a good job. The victim didn’t look freakish or frightening. More CGI than dead. Hamish stroked his beard, eyes thoughtful. ‘I wish I could help you. But I’m positive I’ve never seen this dude before. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I had. He’s the kind of guy you’d notice.’ He handed the phone back. ‘Cup of coffee before you go?’

  It was hard to resist. All she had waiting for her was an impromptu press conference. ‘Why not? Smells great in here.’

  He fussed with his fancy machine and Karen enjoyed the moment of emptiness. It was good to have nothing more to do than watch someone do something competently. He placed the mug in front of her with a flourish. ‘You clearly like your coffee. Where do you go in Edinburgh?’

  Karen gave a little reminiscent smile. ‘You’ll not know it. A wee place down on Duke Street. Aleppo.’

  He actually took a step back. ‘You are kidding.’

  ‘No, it’s my regular spot. How? Have you been there?’

  He tipped his head back and roared with laughter. ‘Unbelievable. Unbelievable.’

  ‘What? What is it?’ Karen was laughing too, though she couldn’t have said why.

  Hamish managed to recover himself. ‘Do you never go to Perk? Three doors down from Aleppo?’

  ‘Not since Aleppo opened. I used to grab a cortado from there sometimes. And I stop in at their hole in the wall on George IV Bridge when I’m up that way. Why?’

  He shook his head, grinning. ‘They’re mine.’

  Karen couldn’t quite make sense of what he’d said. ‘What do you mean, they’re yours? You go there?’

  ‘I own them. And the one down on the front at Portobello.’

  ‘You own a chain of coffee shops in Edinburgh?’ She was struggling to understand. ‘But you’re a crofter. In Wester Ross.’

  ‘Only part-time. I usually drive up here late Sunday night and back down on Wednesday night. Teegan and Donny do most of the work on the croft. These days I’m just a hobby farmer really.’ Embarrassment turned him into a small boy, grinding one toe into the floor tiles.

  ‘You never said.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nobody asked. You all assumed. From the Somervilles on down.’

  Karen wasn’t quite sure what to make of his revelation. Had he been dishonest with her? Or was he right, and she’d leaped to the conclusion there was no more to him than met the eye? Not a simple hospitable Highlander but a hipster barista? She was going to have to rethink all that now. Jason was definitely returning to the pub. To her surprise, she felt an indefinable twinge of regret. ‘And are you planning on going back to Edinburgh tonight?’ she asked flatly.

  ‘I suppose that depends if there’s still a crime scene tent on my land,’ he said.

  ‘I think that’ll be gone by the close of play today,’ she said, sensing a coolness between them.

  ‘Then so will I. And you?’

  ‘That depends on whether we get a result from the media on our bog body.’

  Hamish nodded. Like her, he realised his admission had somehow changed the ground between them. ‘You’re welcome to stay on at the yurt as long as you need to.’

  ‘Thanks, but since you’re convinced our victim’s not a local, one way or another we’ll be heading out.’

  She thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. ‘Maybe I’ll bump into you in Edinburgh one of these days. Up on George IV Bridge.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She drained her cup and put it down on the counter. ‘You never know. It’s a wee city, after all.’

  And she stepped out into the bright morning, completely unable to work out what had just happened.

  26

  2018 – Portpatrick

  Detective Sergeant Gerry McCartney was not a happy man. He’d been on his way home from his
bruising encounter with Ann Markie the night before when his phone had rung, an unfamiliar number on the screen. He’d considered ignoring it but realised Markie was perfectly capable of calling him from a burner to keep him on his toes.

  So he’d answered it. Then wished he hadn’t. When he’d dragged his weary arse all the way down to the bottom left-hand corner of Scotland on Karen Pirie’s wild goose chase, in an uncharacteristically dutiful moment he’d given his card to the nosy next-door neighbour of Gordon and Sheila Chalmers. According to DVLA, they had once owned a red Rover 214. According to the neighbour, they were currently inhabiting their apartment somewhere on the Costa del Sol.

  At first, he’d struggled to place the female voice on the end of the phone. Then he understood the heavy breathing was not sexual but rather the result of a lifetime of Lambert & Butler. ‘It’s me, detective. Sandra Shaw from Portpatrick. They cry me Sandie, mind? Sandie Shaw? Like a Puppet on a String?’

  The nosy neighbour with the stupid name. ‘Hello, Sandie. How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s me that can help you,’ she said, her tone arch.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Mind I told you Sheila and Gordy weren’t due back till the weekend? Well, guess who turned up in a taxi five minutes ago?’

  ‘Sheila and Gordy?’ So fucking what.

  ‘No.’ Two letters morphed into three syllables dripping with self-satisfaction. ‘Just Sheila. No Gordy. You’d have to wonder what’s going on there.’

  If you lived next door with nothing else to do, you would. Gerry McCartney wasn’t that desperate. However, if one of the couple was in residence, he could take a run down to Portpatrick in the morning and cross another name off Karen Pirie’s stupid wee list. ‘That’s very helpful, Sandie. I appreciate the call.’

  ‘So you’ll be coming down to take a statement from Sheila?’

  They all watched too many bloody awful cop shows on the telly, that was half the trouble with the public. They all wanted high drama when most of a polis’s life was an exercise in tedium. Still, there were some advantages to be screwed out of their expectations. ‘Now, Sandie, you know I can’t be discussing confidential police matters with you.’