Broken Ground (Karen Pirie Book 5)

by Val McDermid

  A couple who discovered a long-buried murder victim in a Highland bog have been denied the legacy they were searching for.

  Alice and Will Somerville were on a quest to unearth two WWII vintage Indian Scout motorbikes cached by Alice’s grandfather when they came across the body of a man who’s thought to have died of gunshot wounds.

  Now the bossy chief of Police Scotland’s Historic Case Unit, DCI Karen Pirie, has told the couple they have no right to the bikes which were uncovered at the same time.

  Alice said, ‘My granddad was stationed at Clachtorr Lodge in the Highlands. He was training British agents to go behind enemy lines as spies and saboteurs. When the war ended, he was ordered to destroy the bikes.

  ‘He thought that was a waste and he asked if he could keep them. His commanding officer said he could, as long as nobody found out where they’d come from.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Karen exploded. ‘They’re making it up as they go along. She said nothing about permission from a senior officer.’

  Close to tears, Alice, 32, said, ‘His dying wish was for us to recover the bikes. He’d never managed to organise getting them back while he was still alive and he wanted us to have them.’

  Husband Will, 34, said, ‘But DCI Pirie as good as told us we were thieves. She said we had no right to the bikes, which is obviously nonsense, since Alice’s granddad was told he could have them.

  ‘It’s outrageous. If it hadn’t been for us, that poor man’s body would still be lying in the bog. But she never so much as said thank you. And our only reward for all our hard work is to be told we can’t have what’s rightfully ours.’

  DCI Pirie was not available for comment. A spokesman for Police Scotland said, ‘We cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Bastards.’ Karen stomped back to the chair and threw herself into it. ‘How dare they? They’ve got no claim to those bloody bikes. And it was Hamish Mackenzie who did all the hard work. “Hero witnesses” my arse.’ Just then her phone buzzed with a text. It was from Jason. Dog Biscuit in the building, it read.

  Karen groaned. ‘Any minute now … ‘

  ‘What?’

  Karen held her phone up, waggling it in the air. ‘Any minute now …’

  They both stared at it. Seconds ticked by. Then the phone lit up and vibrated in Karen’s hand. ‘ACC Markie’ flashed across the screen. ‘Told you,’ Karen said, swiping to take the call. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Have you seen the Mail Online?’ The ACC’s voice was crisp.

  ‘If you’re referring to Alice and Will Somerville’s excursion into fiction, ma’am, yes. I have.’

  ‘Fiction?’

  ‘The version of events they’re peddling now is not the one they gave in their formal statement. They’ve had time to think about it and they’ve come up with this steaming pile of nonsense in a bid to embarrass us into handing over the bikes. That’s the top and bottom of it.’ Karen kept it light. God forbid the Dog Biscuit would realise how much the Somervilles had enraged her.

  ‘Be that as it may, it’s out there now. This is not the kind of publicity we want for the HCU.’

  ‘I can’t help it if people tell lies to the press, ma’am.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be telling lies if you hadn’t upset and annoyed them,’ Markie snapped. ‘How hard is it to keep things running smoothly with your witnesses?’

  ‘They have no legal right to those motorbikes,’ Karen said, lips tight against her teeth in a snarl she’d have had to forego if Markie had been in the room. ‘They belong either to the MOD or the US Army.’

  ‘Maybe so. But you could have saved that blow for later. Till the case was out of the headlines and nobody cared about the Somervilles and their claims. But no, you had to wind them up at a point in time when you must have realised journalists would be all over them.’ Now venom was seeping through Markie’s urbanity.

  Karen squeezed her eyes tightly shut. ‘They wanted to take the bike with them. The one that isn’t technically evidence. What was I supposed to say?’

  ‘Whatever it took. You need to get a grip on things, DCI Pirie. So far, I’m not impressed with the workings of your unit.’ The line died.

  River grimaced. ‘She’s not happy.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Understatement. I don’t get it. We do good work in HCU. We get results. Not all the time, obviously, but we’ve got a pretty good strike rate. And yet the Dog Biscuit’s been on my case since the minute she walked through the door.’ Karen exhaled noisily.

  ‘You know why, don’t you?’

  ‘She’s one of those women who see other women as a threat?’ Karen hazarded.

  ‘Maybe. But that’s not what this is about. This is dogs and lampposts. She wants control of HCU. And that means ownership. She can’t have that while you’re running it, because you were in with the bricks, and doing good work there long before she took over. Your successes are the source of her frustration. She wants you out, Karen.’

  33

  2018 – Motherwell

  Steel grey clouds lowered over Motherwell’s matching grey town centre. Unlike the clouds, the monochrome streets were broken up by garish shop signs in primary colours or occasional splashes of colour in the clothes of those inhabitants who remained defiant against the weather and the retail experience.

  There were a handful of Lanarkshire towns that always depressed and angered Detective Sergeant Gerry McCartney, and Motherwell was right up there. There had been a sense of community back in the days when the town had been known as Steelopolis, the monumental cooling towers of the steelworks lowering over the cramped streets. But the closing of Ravenscraig twenty-five years before had shattered that. Westminster politicians had ripped the heart out of Motherwell, in McCartney’s opinion, just as they had in so many other Scottish towns. That was what fuelled his rage.

  Now the politicians trumpeted the call centres and business parks that had brought new jobs in recent years but McCartney knew the scars were too deep to be papered over by jobs that lacked much sense of fulfilment and commanded little respect. He was lucky to be a polis. He made a difference.

  Well, he had until he’d let Ann Markie persuade him off the front line into this bloody backwater at HCU. He wasn’t sure what she was after, but he knew he’d do his damnedest to come up with it. That was his ticket back to chasing proper villains, not dicking about with cases so old they should be in a museum.

  He found a space at the far end of the Aldi car park. Parking was cheap in these parts, but free was even better than cheap. He might pick up some of their excellent New Zealand pinot noir after he’d done with Barry Plummer. No point in the journey being completely wasted. He walked out of the car park, head down against the drizzle, towards the bed store Barry Plummer managed.

  At ten in the morning in the rain, the main shopping street was eerily empty. A homeless man whose grubby layers failed to hide how skinny he was failed to sell McCartney a Big Issue. The sergeant marched on, determinedly ignoring his pleas. The guy wasn’t even from round here, the sergeant thought bitterly. What had happened to all the local homeless guys? He was convinced the beggars in Glasgow were all in some racket. They looked like they were all from the same family and it wasn’t a Scottish one. He’d brought it up with the uniforms that patrolled the city centre, but they’d only laughed at him.

  He slowed as he came alongside Barry Plummer’s empire. There was no doubting what BEDzzz sold. The whole of the double-fronted plate-glass window was packed with beds. Bunk beds, brass beds, single, double and king-sized beds. There was even a circular one. How the hell did you figure out where to put the pillows? Further back in the shop, wardrobes peeped out behind the frames and mattresses. In spite of the plethora of stock there was something profoundly dispiriting about the shop. McCartney was glad he’d given in to his wife’s demands to go to John Lewis for their bedroom furniture.

  He pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. There was a chemical smell of plastic a
nd air freshener and no sign of a sales assistant. He supposed there wasn’t much likelihood of shoplifters. He ventured further into the store and heard a distant buzzer. Almost immediately, a young man in ridiculously tight black trousers and a shirt that might have fitted him comfortably three kilos ago appeared from the back of the shop. His mousy hair was a mop of incongruous dreads. ‘Good morning,’ he called cheerily, his face an animated mask of delight. ‘And how can we make your nights better?’

  ‘I’m looking for Barry Plummer.’ McCartney took out his warrant card. ‘DS McCartney. Police Scotland.’

  His eyebrows shot up his spotty forehead. ‘Jings! What’s Barry been up to?’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘I’ll go and get him. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened since I started here.’ He bounced off.

  McCartney didn’t have long to wait. Barry Plummer emerged moments later, also grinning like an idiot. He was a nondescript middle-aged man in a nondescript suit. Mid-brown hair in a nondescript style and a face it would be easy to forget apart from a nose that stuck out like the prow of a ship. ‘This is an unexpected visit,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever had the police in here before. I can’t imagine what brings you here.’

  ‘Is there somewhere a bit less public where we can have a talk?’

  Plummer looked mildly disconcerted. ‘I suppose we could go into the office. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gerald McCartney.’ Again he held up his ID.

  Plummer flashed a quick tight smile and led the way back to the door he’d appeared through. It led to a narrow hallway. The first door opened into a tiny overstuffed office. Cardboard advertising placards were stacked against the walls, promising discounts and comfort. A scabby desk with peeling veneer and a very old computer dominated the space. There was an office chair behind it and a small chair leaking yellow foam facing it. McCartney shifted it so he could actually see past the chunky grey monitor and sat down without being asked.

  Plummer unbuttoned his suit jacket and lowered himself into the boss chair. ‘So, to what do we owe this visit, Sergeant?’ He was still aiming for affable, but there was a hint of concern in the way he blinked fast and furious.

  ‘I work with the Historic Cases Unit,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that sounds intriguing. Like Waking the Dead?’

  ‘Not really. Mostly it’s reassessing old evidence in the light of new information and forensic techniques. And we don’t have some old woman off Brookside telling us how the bad guys think.’ McCartney cracked a smile, aiming to get Plummer to relax.

  ‘So, what brings you to BEDzzz? You need me to identify a bedroom suite for you?’

  A chuckle. ‘Nothing like that. I need you to cast your mind back about thirty years.’

  ‘Let me see. That would be round about when Motherwell got promoted back into the Premier Division, right?’ Plummer smiled widely, showing surprisingly good dental work for his age, nationality and class.

  ‘I’ll take your word for that. I’m for the Hoops myself. You were learning to drive back then. In your Uncle Gordy’s car. Am I right?’

  Plummer shifted in his seat, as if he was trying to get further from the sergeant than the proportions of the room allowed. ‘Aye. Poor Gordy, did you hear he just passed? What a shock for us all. Poor Sheila. But I don’t see—’

  ‘You remember the car?’ McCartney leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  ‘It was a red Rover 214. Same as hundreds of others.’

  It was a misstep and McCartney recognised it. Why bother commenting on how common the car was unless you were trying to hide a needle in a haystack? ‘Not so many others, really. Not with a registration number like Gordy’s.’ A pause. Plummer didn’t flinch. ‘And once you passed your test, you used to borrow it sometimes?’

  ‘Did I? I don’t really remember.’

  ‘According to Sheila, you did. No reason why she’d lie to me, is there?’

  There was a faint sheen of sweat on Plummer’s top lip. ‘Of course not. It’s a long time ago, I don’t really remember the details.’ He tried a laugh that came out more like a cough. ‘I was a young lad, busy enjoying myself. Out and about, pubs and clubs. You’ll have done the same yourself, right?’

  McCartney let the words hang. ‘I didn’t get up to anything like that any time in my life.’

  Plummer frowned. ‘I don’t understand. You still haven’t told me what you’re investigating. And why you’re here.’

  ‘Back in the mid-eighties, there was a series of very nasty rapes, Barry. In Edinburgh and Falkirk. A couple of possibles in Stirling too. One of the victims, Kay McAfee, was so badly beaten she ended up in a wheelchair with all sorts of medical problems. She finally died a few weeks ago. Her family think that even though it took her thirty years to die, she was murdered.’ McCartney’s tone was even and measured.

  ‘That’s terrible, so it is. But I still don’t see what—’

  ‘When somebody dies like that, it jogs people’s memories. They remember things that maybe didn’t seem important at the time. Or maybe they were too scared to tell us what they knew. But times change and people’s lives change. And now we’re interested in anyone driving a red Rover 214 with a particular registration.’ He leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms expansively. No question who was in charge here, his body language said.

  Plummer’s eyes were wide with shock. ‘I never.’

  McCartney smiled. ‘Nobody’s saying you did, Barry. Just for interest’s sake, did you ever take Gordy’s Rover across to Edinburgh?’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘No way. I’d not long passed my test. No way was I going to drive across the motorway. That M8 was as mental then as it is now.’

  ‘Fair enough. I had to ask. Something else I have to ask? We need to take DNA samples of everybody known to have driven a red Rover 214 back in the day. It’s for elimination, you understand?’

  ‘But I’ve already told you, I never went to Edinburgh in the Rover. I don’t think I ever went to Edinburgh back in those days except for the football. When we went through to play Hearts or Hibs. And even then I went on the train, I never drove.’

  McCartney nodded benevolently. ‘I understand, Barry. But I’ve got a job to do. My boss’ll kick my backside into the middle of next week if I come back without the right number of samples. It’s not like you’re being singled out. I’ve got more than a dozen of these in my car already.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to?’

  McCartney shrugged. ‘You’re within your rights to refuse. But honestly, Barry? I wouldn’t if I was you. It looks bad, you know what I’m saying? It looks like you’ve got something to hide. And I can see you’re not that kind of guy. Trust me, as soon as we see you’re not the one we’re looking for, your sample gets destroyed. There’s nothing to be feart about.’ He reached into his inside pocket and took out the DNA sampling kit. He tore open the paper sachet and removed the plastic wrapped wand with its absorbent tip. ‘It doesn’t hurt, Barry. A cheek-swab, that’s all. You’ll have seen it on the telly. It’ll be done with in seconds. And since you didn’t go to Edinburgh in the Rover, you’ll be free and clear in a matter of days.’ He stood up and rounded the end of the desk.

  Plummer’s eyes flicked from side to side. He was cornered. It didn’t mean he was guilty. Well, not guilty of these crimes, at least. Plummer nervously chewed at the skin round the nail of his index finger. ‘OK. OK. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He leaned back and opened his mouth. McCartney moved swiftly, before the salesman could change his mind.

  ‘Brilliant. Chances are you’ll never hear from us again,’ he said cheerily as he put the swab in its sterile tube and scribbled the details on the label.

  ‘I hope you get him,’ Plummer said. ‘Guys like that? They’re scum.’

  ‘We’ll get him, don’t you worry. You know what they say,’ McCartney added over his shoulder. ‘You can run, but you can’t hide.’ He didn�
�t wait for a response. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  34

  2018 – Edinburgh

  Sitting in the crawling queue to get over the Queensferry Crossing, Karen almost regretted staying overnight in Dundee. But she knew herself well enough to understand that a Thai meal and a few beers with her closest friend was exactly what she needed when she felt pressure coming at her from all sides. When the people who were supposed to have her back turned out to be the ones with the knives, spending time with someone she could trust was the best bulwark against self-doubt. No detective could do their best work if they were constantly questioning their own judgement.

  When she finally arrived in the office, she wasn’t surprised that Jason was the only other occupant of the HCU. ‘Bloody traffic on the bridge,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d left Dundee early enough to miss the rush hour.’

  Jason scoffed. ‘Only time there’s not a queue for the bridge is about three in the morning. On a Sunday.’

  ‘Aye. So much for the new bridge easing congestion. So, what’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing much. Your woman from the art gallery was on, about the dodgy painting you went to look at. She’s going to send you some slides later.’

  Karen threw her coat over the chair. ‘Be still, my beating heart. No sign of Sergeant McCartney? He’s not gone across the street for coffee or anything useful like that?’

  Jason looked awkward. ‘He said he was going to swing by Gartcosh to drop off the DNA samples at the lab personally. I said he should try and talk to Tamsin and tell her they’re for you.’

  ‘Well done.’ Karen tried not to show her surprise at Jason’s initiative. He was defying all her expectations and getting better at his job. ‘What would Phil do?’ was clearly working. It didn’t occur to her that how she operated was having just as much influence on her wingman’s development.