by Val McDermid
‘We do. We need to ask him some questions about what happened in his house last night.’
Gibb nodded. ‘I appreciate your need to know, but what I need is to make sure you don’t put my patient at risk. He’s still very weak. So I’d appreciate it if you’d be guided by me as to when he’s had enough.’
Jimmy gave his warmest smile. ‘I’m in your hands, Doc. If you could just bear in mind that a woman’s lying in the mortuary right now and the only voice she has is mine?’
Caught on the back foot, Gibb looked put out. But he said nothing, merely indicating with a gesture that they should follow him. Logan Henderson was in a side room at the end of the ward, distinguished by the uniformed constable sitting by the door. Inside, the blinds were drawn and the light was dim. Even so, Jimmy could see he had barely more colour than the hospital bed linen. Dark stubble stood out against his skin and an ugly bruise spread across one cheek. He was hooked up to a drip and oxygen tubes disappeared into his nostrils. When they filed in, his eyelids flickered then stayed open in narrow slits.
‘Mr Henderson, I’m DCI Hutton and this is DS Laidlaw. We’re investigating what happened in your house last night and—’
‘That mad bitch tried to kill me,’ Henderson said, his voice weak and thready. ‘That’s what happened. She fucking stabbed me. Over and over.’ He gasped for breath.
‘For the record, sir, who are we talking about here?’ Laidlaw, as ever, with the gentle question.
‘My fucking wife.’ It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
‘Can we backtrack a bit? How did the incident start?’
He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. ‘I was in the kitchen. Watching the football. Sitting at the breakfast bar.’
They waited while he gathered himself.
‘Then they just walked in. My wife and her sidekick. Dandy bloody Muir.’ Another pause. ‘Willow went straight for the knives. She grabbed two of them and came at me. Like a mad thing. I could feel the blade, going in, coming out. Again and again. Then I was on the floor and she kept at me. Kicked me in the face. Then it’s all a blank.’ There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead now.
Dr Gibb moved forward and checked the monitors. ‘I think he’s had enough.’
‘One more question,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘Logan, what happened to Dandy?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Nothing happened to Dandy. The bitch just stood there. Didn’t do a fucking thing to stop it.’
‘Really, that’s it, Officers.’ Dr Gibb physically shooed them out of the room. In the hallway, he said, ‘Call us in the morning. He might be stronger then.’ He turned to go, then looked back. ‘That wasn’t what you expected to hear, was it?’
Jimmy stared at him. Bloody everybody thought they were a detective these days. ‘No comment.’ With a jerk of his head, he indicated Laidlaw should follow him.
He said nothing until they were outside the hospital, heading for the car park. ‘So what do you make of that?’ he asked.
Laidlaw stuffed her hands in her coat pockets against the cold night air. ‘Like the doc said. It wasn’t what I expected to hear. What about you, sir?’
‘It makes me think Karen’s theory might be right. That Willow set this up. Logan Henderson wasn’t meant to survive. She thought she’d done enough to see him off, then there would be nobody to contradict her version of events. But it’s still going to be her word against his, unless Forensics tell us something different,’ he sighed.
‘It’s a mess. Are we going to keep pushing Mrs Henderson?’
‘Oh, I think we have to.’
‘It’s funny. If DCI Pirie hadn’t overheard that conversation—’
Jimmy swung round and glared at her. ‘Don’t go there, Jacqui.’
‘But it’s thanks to her that we’re not taking Willow Henderson at face value,’ she protested. ‘Where’s the downside?’
‘Think it through,’ Jimmy urged, a note of exasperation in his voice. He was surprised at Laidlaw. She was smart and emotionally intelligent. He’d expected her to work it out for herself. Instead, she seemed puzzled. ‘If Karen hadn’t warned Dandy Muir about the possibility of Willow teeing her up to be a defence witness, she might not have been in that kitchen at all. Chances are she told Willow what Karen said, so Willow decided it was more of a risk to her plan to leave Dandy alive to testify to what Karen had theorised. If Karen was the kind of cop that would have kept her mouth shut, Dandy would probably still be alive. And Willow’s smart enough to have realised that. The last thing we need is the rest of the world jumping all over it. There’s plenty people waiting for a stick to beat Karen with. Success never comes without enemies.’
Laidlaw looked pained. ‘I get all that. But what Willow Henderson did, if she did it – it’s cold, boss. Not many people have got the nerve to do something like that and not crack up afterwards.’
‘I know. Most of the stuff we get in Murder Prevention is spur-of-the-moment loss of control, driven by drink or drugs. The cold-blooded stuff – that’s much less common and it takes a particular kind of detachment to carry it through. A rare kind of detachment. I don’t know Willow Henderson well enough yet, but she might just be one of those special ones.’
‘What struck me was how little distress she showed for her friend. It’s like she wanted us to focus on the husband.’
‘Exactly. I’m not saying we dismiss the possibility that her version is the truth. We need to try to keep an open mind, in spite of what Karen overheard. But right now, I’m leaning towards the notion that the husband’s the one who’s the victim here.’
41
2018 – Edinburgh
There was nothing quite like a classic bright blue Edinburgh morning, Karen thought as she set out for work. She’d spent Sunday with her parents, helping her dad repapering the hall, stairs and landing and the sparkle of the sea that seemed to suffuse the very air with vitality was just what she needed to recover from all the bending and stretching. Even the sandstone tenements stained grey and black with generations of pollution were burnished by the sun. It was hard not to feel a lift of the spirits on a day like this, even if murder was your bread and butter.
But it wasn’t murder that was occupying her thoughts that morning as she marched briskly up Newhaven Road. She liked to vary the route she took to work, but for once she wasn’t checking out her environment to see what people were up to and what changes were in the wind. Instead she was still turning over her evening with Hamish Mackenzie.
After they’d parted company outside the restaurant with a slightly awkward hug and a peck on the cheek, she’d conducted the first post-mortem on the walk home. She had to admit she’d had a good time. They’d chatted easily. They’d made each other laugh. Even after a few drinks – a gin each, a shared bottle of wine and then a couple of brandies – there had been no sense of his bonhomie slipping into something less attractive. No indications of guard to be let down.
The elephant in the room was only visible to one of them. Lurking over her shoulder all through dinner was the memory of Phil. It was the first time she’d had anything approaching a date since he’d died and it was impossible to escape an uncomfortable mix of guilt and disloyalty. It didn’t matter that honest pragmatism told her Phil would never have expected – or wanted – her to spend the rest of her life as a lonely grieving relict. He’d loved her; he always only wanted the best for her. Knowing it and feeling it were, however, very different states.
Karen was sure she’d buried all that well below the surface. She didn’t believe Hamish had seen anything other than the uncomplicated version of herself that she’d intended to present.
The question that kept nagging her was why he was bothering with her. He was attractive, solvent, personable, unattached and apparently straight. She imagined he’d have no difficulty finding a woman to have dinner with – and more besides – who’d outclass Karen in every area. She had no illusions about herself. Men like Hamish Mackenzie didn’t chase women l
ike her.
It was hard not to believe there was another agenda in play. What better way to derail close scrutiny of a man and his life than to work his charms on the detective in charge of the investigation. She had no evidence that Hamish had anything to hide. But it was early days yet. She mustn’t let herself be distracted from what she needed to do. Now that would be something Phil would have had plenty to say about.
She’d barely been home five minutes when her phone pinged with a text message. Karen almost hoped it was work-related. Something uncomplicated like a DNA match to a senior government minister in an unsolved murder. But no. It was from Hamish.
Thanks for a great evening. Next time it’s my treat.
Hamish x
Short and to the point. No lines to read between, except that he seemed to take for granted that there would be a next time. It wasn’t an unattractive proposition.
What clarified matters to some extent for Karen was that she’d slept. Maybe it was the drink. She didn’t think so, because she regularly had at least that much alcohol on her Gin Nights with Jimmy. For some reason, an evening spent in Hamish’s company had soothed her into sleep. And that wasn’t something she could discount. Her sleep had been shattered since Phil’s death. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept soundly through the night. She’d scarcely credited it when she woke and rolled over automatically to check the time on the radio.
Now, two mornings later, she was still re-examining her decision from all sides and still the only downside she could come up with was that there might be a secret he was hiding. After all, so was she. Only her secret didn’t impact on an ongoing murder investigation.
She was at Gayfield Square before she realised, so lost was she in her circling thoughts. ‘You’re overthinking,’ she muttered. ‘Let the chips fall where they will. And get the Hoover out later.’
The empty office was testament to how fast she’d beasted up the road, driven by her churning mind. She should have been concentrating on Joey Sutherland, not the man who owned his last resting place. She’d no sooner settled in behind her screen than Gerry McCartney arrived, with, miraculously, a tray of coffees from across the road. ‘Ya beauty,’ Karen said, accepting the cup he offered her. She sipped gratefully. ‘Oh, that’s what I needed.’ She looked thoughtfully at her cup. ‘Though given the amount of coffee that gets drunk in here, it’s about time I treated us all to those nice wee beakers that you can reuse.’
Jason arrived in time to hear this. ‘I suppose the washing up’ll be my job, then?’
‘It’s certainly not going to be mine,’ McCartney said, passing a carton to Jason.
‘We can all wash our own. Surely that’s not beyond you guys?’ The discussion was cut short by Karen’s phone. It was a number she didn’t recognise. An offer for recovering mis-sold PPI, or claiming compensation for a car accident she’d never had? Sighing, she took the call. To her surprise, it was Jimmy Hutton. ‘Hi, Karen.’
‘Have you changed your phone?’
‘This is Jacqui’s. One of the kids unplugged mine from the charger. Flat as a pancake. I only noticed just now.’
‘Wee toerag. I blame the parents.’
‘Me too. Listen, we got in for a wee word with Logan Henderson last night.’
‘Really? And what did he have to say for himself?’ Karen, engrossed in what Jimmy had to say was, for once, oblivious to McCartney, who was nonchalantly drinking coffee right behind her chair.
‘Not very much. He’s still in a bad way. On a drip and oxygen, and he’s got a helluva bruise on his coupon where he says the wife kicked him when he was down. Literally.’
‘OK. So what’s his version of events?’
‘She went for him. Unprovoked. But here’s the thing. I asked him what happened to Dandy.’
‘And what does he say happened to Dandy?’
‘He says nothing happened to Dandy. At least, not when he was conscious.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Karen said. ‘You’d think if he was trying to act the innocent he’d find some way of pinning that on Willow.’
‘There’s a lot that’s interesting. What I’m increasingly anxious about is that each of them is plausibly blaming the other. Unless we get some convincing forensics, we could end up with nobody getting charged here.’
‘You’ve a long way to go before you get to that bridge, never mind across it. I think Willow’s going to stick to her story, though. There was no sign of her cracking when I spoke to her on Saturday. I think she’s the real deal – a stone-cold killer. She’ll argue that he’s lying because he thinks if she goes down he’ll get the kids and the house.’
‘It’s a persuasive line.’
‘Except that she’s already reported him to us for domestic violence. The courts won’t hand him his kids on a plate. And he has to know that, surely?’
‘Who knows? At this point, we’re dancing in the dark. Anyway, I’m hoping I can talk to him again today. Let’s see where that takes us. Talk to you later, Karen.’
‘Thanks for the update, Jimmy.’ Karen ended the call and stared frowning out of the pitiful excuse for a window. The sky was still brilliant blue. But she wasn’t feeling uplifted any longer. So much for staying out of it.
42
2018 – Edinburgh
Karen had barely ended her call with Jimmy Hutton when Jason yelped like a puppy.
‘Is that a happy noise or did you get your finger stuck in the drawer?’ Karen asked.
‘The lassie from DVLA got back to me,’ he said. ‘She said it was in the archived records but it wasn’t hard to access. The registered owner of Joey Sutherland’s van changed on December seventeenth, 1995.’
‘That’s three months after the Invercharron Games. Three months after anybody admits to having seen Joey. That’s interesting. So who was the new owner?’
‘A Shirley O’Shaughnessy. There’s an address in Edinburgh. Looks like a flat.’ He read out the address.
‘That used to be one of the accommodation blocks at Napier. What would a student in residences want with a camper van?’
‘Maybe cheaper to live in?’
‘It’s a big capital outlay, though. What did you say the name was?’ Karen’s fingers were poised over Google search.
‘Shirley O’Shaughnessy. You want me to spell that?’
‘I think I’ve got it … ’ Karen typed swiftly. The search results were almost instantaneous. She opened the first one and skimmed it. Shirley O’Shaughnessy was not at all what she expected. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Now that’s really interesting.’ She clicked on the ‘images’ tab. There were plenty to choose from. She captured the oldest one she could find that was a clear likeness and attached it to an email.
‘What’s interesting?’
‘She lives in Edinburgh but she’s originally from America.’
‘What? You think she might be the American who was with Joey in Invercharron?’
‘There’s one way to find out.’
‘You going to call her?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got a lot of ducks to get in a row before I’ll be ready to talk to Ms O’Shaughnessy.’ Karen searched Facebook and found half a dozen images of other women who looked a bit like Shirley O’Shaughnessy and added them to the email, deliberately jumbling them up so she wasn’t first or last. She typed Ruari Macaulay’s email address into the recipient’s box. In the message, she asked whether he recognised any of the women in the photographs. Before hitting send, she turned to Jason: ‘Ping me the email address of the guy who sent you the pic of the van, would you?’
Jason, as always, did as he was told. Karen added that address to the email and sent it off. ‘Now we wait and see,’ she said.
‘Do you want me to start researching into her?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Let’s hold fire for now. No point in wasting your time if she’s not the right American. I do have a wee research job for you, though. I’m beginning to think we’re coming at this case from the wrong e
nd. The roots of Joey Sutherland’s murder are not in 1995. They’re in 1944. Somebody put something in those bike panniers. Something valuable that they wanted back. Fifty years later, a different somebody comes to collect. We’ve no way of filling in the blanks at this point. But one thing we do know is that only two people knew where the bikes were buried, right?’
‘Right.’
‘One of them was Austin Hinde, Alice’s granddad. And he still had his map. But we don’t know anything about Kenny Pascoe and what happened to his map. We should have followed up on that sooner, I let myself get distracted. What I want you to do is find out what you can about Kenny Pascoe – Kenneth, presumably. We know he died in Warkworth in 1946 or ’47. Get hold of a death certificate. That should give you an address, then you can check with the voters roll and get the sister’s name. She might still be alive. If she is, find out where she’s living.’
Jason’s look of panic brought home to Karen how thin a thread this was through the past seventy years. She was about to suggest where he could start looking when the door opened. No knock. But Karen supposed if you were the Assistant Chief Constable, you could dispense with manners. Ann Markie stood framed in the doorway, elegance personified except for the thunderous expression on her face. ‘Give us the room,’ she said to Jason, who hastened to his feet and scurried past her. She closed the door and leaned against it. ‘You don’t take a telling, do you, Pirie?’ Her voice was hard and cold. No wriggle room there.
Karen couldn’t be bothered answering. What could she say, after all? ‘No’ was capitulation. But so was ‘Yes’. Instead, she closed the lid of her laptop and met Markie’s hostile stare.
‘I hadn’t realised that spending your days working cold cases meant you were entirely oblivious to the here and now. It’s clearly escaped your notice that Police Scotland is under huge pressure at the moment. From the politicians, from the public, from the media. Some of us are trying to fix that. Some of us seem intent on making it worse.’
