by Val McDermid
‘Your lot have caused bloody mayhem round here this afternoon,’ the sergeant snarled at him. ‘Away and get your own boss to bring you up to speed. That is if she’s got a bloody clue about what’s going on round here.’
Startled, Jason walked quickly down the corridor towards the HCU, dodging a harassed-looking detective emerging from a doorway holding an evidence bag containing a bloodstained knife. ‘Out the road, Mint,’ he barked as Jason flattened himself against the wall.
He made it to the HCU office without any further baffling encounters and found Karen on her feet, face to face with Superintendent Craig Carson, the man in charge of Gayfield Square. Karen was pink-cheeked, leaning into the conversation, her body stiff with anger.
Carson was in mid-flow when Jason walked in. They both turned, shocked out of their confrontation. ‘Out, Constable,’ Carson shouted.
Jason didn’t hesitate. He also didn’t go far. He didn’t have to put his ear to the door to hear what was going on, since neither officer was bothering to lower their voice. ‘According to what my officers are telling me, William McAfee is unrepentantly rejoicing in the fact that he has murdered a man on the steps of my police station. And you think that’s OK?’ Holy moly, Jason thought.
‘Of course I don’t,’ Karen shouted back. ‘The man is clearly out of his mind with grief. He lost his daughter less than three weeks ago. She spent the best part of thirty years in a wheelchair because of what some bastard did to her. And Billy McAfee thought Barry Plummer was that bastard. That doesn’t make it right but it makes it understandable.’
‘And how did McAfee come to believe Barry Plummer was the man who attacked his daughter? Tell me that, DCI Pirie. Tell me how you’ve turned my station into a fucking circus.’
‘We keep families informed if there’s credible progress in a cold case, sir. That’s standard practice.’
‘What? You go round their house and say, “by the way, there’s this guy Plummer. We don’t actually have any concrete evidence but, hey, we think he’s our boy”? Is that how it goes? No wonder they call you KP Nuts.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. I don’t know how McAfee got Plummer’s name or how he knew the man was going to be here today. But I sure as hell plan to find out.’
‘You and me both. But the only source of that info is this office. Your fucking team. You’ve got blood on your hands, Pirie.’
The door slammed open, bouncing off the wall inside and again Jason flattened himself against a wall. At least now he had a rough outline of what was going on. He counted to a hundred then, cautiously, he edged round the door jamb. ‘OK to come in now, boss?’
Karen was slumped in her chair, all the fight gone. ‘You heard that, I suppose? They probably heard it on the Castle Esplanade.’
‘Barry Plummer got murdered?’
Karen clenched her fists and spoke in tight sentences. ‘We interviewed him. We did a VIPER. We didn’t get an ID. So we had to let him walk. Kay McAfee’s dad was waiting outside. He filleted him with a kitchen knife on the pavement.’
‘I wondered why there was a crime scene tent. But how did he know? I mean, I get why he lost the plot, but how did he … ?’
Karen slammed her fists on the desk. ‘Three people knew about Barry Plummer. You, me and Sergeant Gerald McCartney. And only one of us went to see the McAfees. You tell me how he found out, Jason. You tell me.’
He had never seen her so angry. They’d faced some bloody awful things in their time working together but he’d never seen this white-hot rage grip her. McCartney couldn’t have picked a worse moment to walk into the office.
Karen was out of her seat in a moment. He’d barely closed the door behind him when she was on him. She grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. McCartney stumbled, but he didn’t cave. He actually smiled. Not a nervous grin of fear, but a genuine, relaxed smile.
‘Chill, guv,’ he said. ‘Gonnae let me go?’
Karen’s response was to slam him against the wall again. This time his head connected with a thud and he yelped. ‘Ouch, that fucking hurt.’
‘You utter piece of shit,’ Karen growled, enunciating each word with cold precision. ‘A man’s dead tonight because of you.’ She shook him, and for an awful second, Jason thought she was going to nut him. Personally, he’d have been happy with that outcome. McCartney deserved to have his wee pointy nose spread over his grinning face.
‘So? He was a thug. He was a rapist who preyed on women and destroyed their lives. I’d have thought you’d have been happy to see the back of him. You being a feminist and all that.’ McCartney tried to free himself, but Karen had him fast. He’d have had to rip the lapels off his jacket to get free of her.
‘You fucking told him, didn’t you? After I said we’d let Plummer sweat before we released him, you told Billy McAfee we were letting him go.’
‘Aye. Back when I went to see the McAfees, I told him we were pretty sure who’d destroyed his family’s lives. And then, when it all fell to bits, I phoned him to say sorry, we couldn’t pin it on the bastard. And aye, I might have mentioned he might be able to see the little fucker for himself if he turned up at Gayfield Square. I didn’t think he was going to do him, though. I thought McAfee just wanted to let off steam. Give him a piece of his mind.’
‘And how did he know which one of the people coming in and out of Gayfield Square was Barry Plummer? Did you send him a fucking photo? Because if you did—’
‘I’m not stupid,’ McCartney spat through tight lips. Now she’d got to him, Jason thought. ‘I told him the cunt would be with his brief. An Asian woman in a suit. You don’t get many of them coming in and out of here, right?’
Karen slammed him into the wall one last time. ‘You disgust me.’ She let him go and stepped away from him.
McCartney straightened his shoulders and brushed down his lapels. ‘I don’t give a shit,’ he said. ’The streets are cleaner tonight. We couldn’t nail Plummer so McAfee did it himself. When they hear his story, he’ll get off with next to no time. Far as I’m concerned, it’s a result. You said it yourself – it’s our job to give people closure. That’s exactly what happened out there today.’
‘Get out of my office,’ Karen said. ‘I never want to see you in here again. You’ll be suspended before the sun goes down tonight, but even if they don’t can you, you will never work under my command again.’
He shrugged. ‘Suits me. This is a fucking Mickey Mouse operation anyway. Youse haven’t got the first idea of what it takes to be a polis out there on the streets. I might get a slap on the wrist. But the people that run the show round here, they know who gets the job done. And it’s not you. You’re a fucking laughing stock.’
Karen neither flushed nor flinched. Phil would have been so proud of her, Jason thought. Fuck, he was proud of her.
‘Clear your desk and leave,’ she said, stepping to one side so he could pass. He grabbed his laptop and snatched a couple of pens and a notebook out of a drawer. It couldn’t have been clearer that he’d never had any intention of committing to the HCU. Good riddance, Jason thought.
In silence, they watched him leave. Then Karen let out a deep breath and said, ‘Do you fancy a drink? I think we deserve one.’
55
2018 – Edinburgh
Karen had never felt less like turning in for work. She wasn’t hungover from alcohol; they’d both lost the taste for it after the third drink. She was hungover from the rage and despair that Barry Plummer’s death had provoked in her. She didn’t always play strictly by the book, she acknowledged that. But she knew the difference between what she did and what McCartney had done. Bending the rules to make due process possible was light years away from setting someone up to be killed. She didn’t think that was what McCartney had planned. But he’d made it possible. And that, in a way, was worse. To be so careless, so heedless of what might happen was completely alien to Karen.
And now she was going to have to carry the consequences. As she’
d predicted, McCartney had been suspended pending an internal inquiry. His career would be over unless Ann Markie had his back, which was a big ask. But it was Karen’s unit that was tainted by what had happened. When the finger pointed, it would be the HCU in the frame. It was already all over what Karen liked to think of as the anti-social media.
The white tent had gone from outside the police station. The forensic techs would have worked flat out to clear this particular crime scene. It didn’t look good for Police Scotland to have such an unequivocal symbol of serious violent crime on their literal doorstep.
The media had dispersed too, their short attention span captured by something else. There would be a press conference later, she was sure of that. But the Dog Biscuit would hold that somewhere far away from the scene of the crime in a bid to distract people from the locus of the murder.
Some poor sod had been set the task of scrubbing the concrete pavement slabs. But the stain had penetrated the surface, and a brown shadow persisted where Barry Plummer’s blood had leaked away. That was going to be a salutary reminder for a long time to come, Karen thought as she set a path for the door that avoided walking on the stigma.
She managed to make it all the way back to her office without encountering anyone. She tried to summon up some enthusiasm for the task she’d begun the previous afternoon, while Billy McAfee was wrapping a dish towel round the family carving knife and driving along the motorway to Edinburgh, his head fizzing with the need for vengeance.
She’d barely typed in her search terms when she heard a sound that filled her with dread. The brisk staccato tap of heels on vinyl flooring, heading her way. Karen braced herself as the door swung open, framing ACC Ann Markie. She looked as if she’d stepped straight out of a beauty salon after a makeover. From which Karen deduced that a press conference was imminent.
For a long moment, Markie said nothing. Her eyes scanned what she could see of Karen behind her desk, travelling from her waist to her head, disdain in the line of her mouth. ‘This really is your week for dragging Police Scotland through the mire, isn’t it?’ she said at last.
Karen stood up. She knew her cotton jumper and black jeans were no match for Markie’s perfectly tailored uniform and crisp shirt, but she really didn’t care any more. She was done with feeling inferior to a woman who didn’t outrank her in any of the ways that mattered to her. ‘Not me,’ she said calmly. ‘The only person out of line here is McCartney. The man you imposed on my unit.’
‘But it is your unit, DCI Pirie. You have to take responsibility for what happens here. And right now, I’d say you’ve got one foot in the grave.’
‘Not my foot, ma’am. I’d be very happy to defend myself to Professional Standards. Because the only person at fault here is your sleekit wee lapdog.’
Markie’s eyes widened. ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’
Karen kept her gaze steady and her face immobile, determined not to give Markie the satisfaction of seeing the anger and hurt that burned in her gut. She knew she should say nothing, but the time for that was past. ‘Because somebody has to. This unit does an important job and we do it well. We take pride in how we conduct ourselves. But you imposed an officer on my unit without consultation. He’s been consistently disruptive and bad for morale. And now a man’s dead because Gerry McCartney was indiscreet and reckless. Why would you impose an officer with those qualities on this unit, unless you were deliberately trying to fuck us up? And why, ma’am, would you want to fuck up an officer who actually delivers the sort of positive PR that you love to bask in?’
Markie took a step backwards. ‘You are out of order, Pirie. You don’t speak to a senior officer like that.’
Karen sat down. ‘So report me to Professional Standards. I’ll happily take the lid off this can of worms. Because you should know by this time that there are no secrets in a nick. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do. As I’m sure you do too. Your placeman has left one hell of a mess for you to gloss over.’ Beneath the desk, her legs were trembling but she was determined not to let Markie best her. The woman was in the wrong; it was as simple as that. But Karen knew she was out in the middle of the high wire without a safety net.
There was high colour in the ACC’s cheeks that even her cosmetic skill failed to camouflage. ‘This isn’t over,’ she seethed. ‘You’re not untouchable.’
Karen scoffed. ‘That makes two of us, I suspect.’ She woke her laptop from its slumber. ‘If you’ll excuse me. I’m sure our public will be waiting for you.’ She glanced back up. ‘You know, I thought having a woman boss would be a good thing. Sisters under the skin, and all that.’ She gave a short bark of laughter. ‘I should have been thinking Margaret Thatcher, not Nicola Sturgeon.’
‘You’re lucky I’m not recording this conversation. Next time, I will be.’ And Markie turned on her heel and stalked out.
It should have felt like a victory, but instead it left Karen feeling miserable. So few women made it to the top of the tree and for every one of them who understood the importance of solidarity, there was one ready with an axe to chop any other contender off at the knees. It wasn’t just lonely at the top. Sometimes it was lonely all the way from the ground up.
She held her arms out at her sides and gave her hands and wrists a good shake. The physical action made her feel as if she’d shucked off the encounter with the Dog Biscuit. She knew it wasn’t that simple and that it would return to plague her later, but for now, she’d parked those complicated emotions. She was an investigator; time she did some investigating. Jason was out in the field trying to track down camper van records from 1995. The least she could do was try to come at the case from a different angle.
Karen quickly established that in Michigan, wills that had been granted probate were kept on record at the local courthouse. She knew O’Shaughnessy’s grandfather had lived in Hamtramck, but she had no idea of his surname. She’d have to come at it by a circuitous route.
Shirley O’Shaughnessy had been born in Milwaukee, according to the magazine article. Karen soon discovered there were full records available digitally but she couldn’t access them without ID that proved she had a right to see that particular birth certificate. She’d have to call them and persuade some clerk to give her what she needed. Once she had O’Shaughnessy’s birth certificate, she could work backwards through her mother to her maternal grandfather. And from there to the will.
But it would be hours before she could set the ball rolling. Hours of sitting around waiting for the next person who felt like giving her a kicking. Karen wasn’t in the mood for that. She pulled on her coat and left Gayfield Square by the car park door. At least the sun was shining now. She cut through the back lanes, doglegging her way past the prosaic backsides of elegant Georgian terraces as far as Dundas Street. Then it was up and over to Princes Street, and another climb up the Playfair Steps to the top of the Mound, blind to the spectacular views on all sides.
While she waited for the traffic lights at the Royal Mile to change, Karen took a couple of sidesteps, bringing herself alongside the statue of David Hume. Like the great philosopher himself, she was a rationalist. But it didn’t hurt to follow the thousands of students and children who’d rubbed his bronze big toe to a bright shine in the superstition it would bring them knowledge and understanding. A quick glance around to make sure nobody she knew was in sight, and Karen indulged her childish whim. God knows I need all the help I can get right now.
And then she was across the street and on George IV Bridge. She marched on past the National Library of Scotland, where Jason was making new friends. Then she slowed. What was she doing here? This was the sort of nonsense teenagers went in for, not grown women who should know better. She drew to a halt about twenty metres shy of Perk.
But why not? She was no teenager. She was a grown-up who could assert her own inclinations. She’d come this far, she might as well get a cup of coffee out of it. After all, she’d told him she occasionally popped in. Arranging her face in wh
at she hoped was a neutral expression, Karen strolled in to the narrow coffee shop. There were half a dozen tables, most of them occupied by young people with laptops taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi. The gleaming coffee machine was behind a counter halfway along. Karen joined a short queue then ordered a flat white from a cheery barista with a tousled mop of black curls. He called her order to his colleague and as she paid him, she asked casually, ‘Is Hamish about?’
The barista looked at her more carefully. ‘Sorry, you missed him. He was in earlier.’ He shrugged apologetically. Then he stopped and stared. ‘You’re the polis,’ he said, laughing with delight.
‘Sorry?’
‘The earrings. I recognise the earrings. The big man had them sent here.’
‘What do you mean, sent here?’ Karen was confused.
‘He had them sent here because he wasn’t sure he’d be at home to sign for them. He said he was in a hurry to get them to you.’
‘He bought them?’
Now it was the barista’s turn to look confused. ‘Well, yeah. How did you think he … ?’
Karen gave a breathy laugh. ‘Sorry, of course, I didn’t realise he’d got them mail order.’
His confusion over, the barista handed her the coffee. ‘They look good. Not the kind of thing I’d expect a polis to wear, mind. I guess nobody expects you to have good taste, eh?’
‘No. They really don’t.’
The barista winked. ‘Aye, well, you could do worse than Hamish.’
But she wasn’t paying attention. She was trying to make sense of what had just been said. The barista had to have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Maybe Hamish had bought a pair of earrings online for someone else, completely separate from her request that he try to find hers, and the barista had got mixed up.
But that made no sense, because he’d recognised the earrings and known that she was a polis. For him to have put those two things together, he had to have seen them when Hamish opened the package and also to have known they belonged specifically to her. Unless there was another police officer he was buying earrings for, which was, frankly, absurd.
