by Val McDermid
Perhaps Hamish had been taken with her earrings and decided to buy them online for someone else. That almost made sense. Well, it made more sense than the notion that he’d failed to find her earring in the waste pipe so he’d tracked down another pair and bought them.
Now that really was absurd.
56
2018 – Edinburgh
Jason was learning all sorts of things about caravan sites. They didn’t seem to change hands very often, for one thing. Which theoretically should have helped his cause. Except that one of the other things he learned was that they didn’t always keep very accurate records. He suspected that failure might have something to do with not being entirely candid with the taxman. But even the ones that did keep reasonably thorough records didn’t go as far back as 1995.
‘See if you get a tax or a VAT investigation,’ one motherly woman had told him gently on her family’s site near Berwick Law, ‘they can only go back seven years. So anything past that, we shred it at the end of every tax year.’
‘Do you not remember people, though?’ he’d asked.
‘If they come back and rent a static year after year, we get to know them,’ she conceded. ‘But folk with their own van? Not really.’
‘This van would have been here for maybe as much as three months. From September to December. I expect that’s a quiet time for you?’ Jason said. This was his fifth site; he was growing comfortable with his spiel. ‘This is a picture of it.’ He showed her the blown-up printout from the photograph they’d been sent and also a manufacturer’s advertising shot of the van. Jason had painstakingly scanned in the ad and changed the colourways of the paintwork.
The woman was definite. ‘Nice van. Doesn’t ring any bells with me, though, son.’
‘The driver was a young American woman. Shirley, her name was.’
‘I wish I could help you.’ She smiled regretfully. ‘Wherever she was, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here.’ She handed back the printouts. ‘Good luck. You’ll be needing it.’
By early afternoon he was close to the end of the list he’d extracted from the library’s old guidebooks. And then, driving round the City Bypass, he saw a sign that nearly made him drive off the road. CAMPSIE’S CARAVANS AND CAMPER VANS it proclaimed. NEXT EXIT.
Jason duly turned off and followed the signs down a country lane to a site the size of a football pitch. It was a sea of camper vans, caravans and trailers. Technically, it wasn’t a caravan site. But bearing in mind Karen’s comment about hiding a needle, he wondered if this might be the answer. If O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been living in her van, she wouldn’t have needed the amenities of a site. She might have done a deal to stash it here. Like garaging a car if you were going abroad for a while.
He pulled up on the forecourt and went inside a static caravan that served as the sales office. He explained who he was and what he was looking for. He brandished the photos again. The well-upholstered man behind the metal desk didn’t even bother looking.
‘We dinnae do that,’ he said, scratching his armpit. ‘Too much hassle. I like to keep it simple. Sell a van, buy a van. Tell you what, though. There’s a couple of places near the airport. They rent vans as well as buying and selling. They might be up for garaging somebody’s rig.’ He leaned across the desk to a pile of used envelopes and scribbled a couple of names. ‘There you go, son. Don’t tell them I sent you.’ He cackled. ‘Nobody likes a visit from the polis.’
‘Unless they’ve nothing to hide,’ Jason said sanctimoniously.
‘We’ve all got something to hide, son. Even you.’ He leered at Jason then winked. ‘Shut the door on the way out.’
Jason drew a blank at the first name on the list. He could barely summon up the energy to hit the next one. He was hungry and he hadn’t had sugar for at least three hours. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of how he’d get the crap ripped out of him by every other polis in Gayfield Square if he went back to the office.
So he parked up, noticing that Bellfield Mobile Homes was several rungs further up the image ladder than Campsie’s Caravans. Their showroom was a proper building with big windows and leather sofas and a guy in monogrammed overalls behind a curved counter. Low tables were covered in brochures for the kind of monstrous vans that blocked Highland roads for six months of the year. Jason pushed the heavy door open and sketched a wave at the salesman.
He walked across to the counter and introduced himself. The man in the overalls was in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed in an anachronistic crew cut. With his tan overalls, he looked like a leftover from the US Air Force in the Second World War. The illusion vanished as soon as he said, ‘What can I do for you?’ in a dense Doric accent. It took Jason a few seconds to process the words.
Wearily, he explained his mission. ‘So I was wondering, do you ever garage vans for customers?’
To his astonishment, the man nodded. ‘Not often, like. But we do sometimes. Particularly if we sold them the van in the first place.’
Jason whipped out the pictures. ‘What about this van? In 1995?’
The man laughed. ‘I wasnae here then, son. I was still in Buckie. But wait a minute, I’ll get Donny.’ He walked briskly through a door behind the counter. When he returned a few minutes later, he was followed by a bulky man whose puffy face and bruised-looking eyes made guessing his age a challenge. His overall was faded and stained with oil and his thick sandy hair looked as if it had been slicked back with the same grease. His skin had the rosy blemishes of a man who no longer drinks because it’s a pleasure but because it’s a necessity. ‘Jos says you’re a polis,’ he said, extending a grubby hand. The nails were bitten down and stained black with oil.
Jason was used to men like Donny. They reminded him of his brother Ronan and his pals. He returned his grip and explained yet again why he was there.
Donny blew out a stream of onion-scented air. ‘That’s a long time ago, 1995. We’d not been going that long. See’s a look at the van.’ Jason handed over the photos. ‘It rings a bell, right enough,’ he said slowly, his heavy brows drawn together in a caterpillar frown.
‘We think it might have been an American lassie driving it.’
The frown cleared, replaced by a lascivious smirk. ‘How did you not say that right up front? I mind her, right enough.’ He dug his colleague in the ribs. ‘She was a looker, right enough.’ He cupped his hands in front of his chest. ‘You dinnae often see a rack like that driving a rig like yon.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Now it’s all coming back to me. She came in with the van, said she’d just bought it but she didn’t have anywhere to garage it yet. In the end, we must have had it three or four months, if I remember right.’
Jason couldn’t quite believe it. This was a pick-up as good as a Mars Bar. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a record of it? Like, in the books?’
Donny sucked his teeth. ‘That would be before we got the computer,’ he said slowly. ‘Everything was still on paper back then.’ He rubbed his chin, his thought processes obvious. ‘Shelley used to keep them all in box files. They must be in the old Portakabin. Come on, we’ll have a wee look and see what we can find.’ He gestured with his head for Jason to follow.
They navigated a maze of narrow pathways between mobile homes and finally emerged opposite a Portakabin that had clearly seen better days. The olive-green paintwork was flaky as a patch of eczema and the windows were filthy. ‘This used to be the office when we started up,’ Donny said, unlocking the door with a screech of metal on metal. ‘All we use it for nowadays is storage.’
The interior was furnished with industrial shelving and dust. It smelled faintly of ammonia and decay, and there were little pots of rodent poison at frequent intervals. It wasn’t a place Jason wanted to spend time.
Donny wandered down the shelves, checking what had been scrawled on the archive boxes in black marker pen. ‘It looks like they’re kind of in order. See?’ He pointed at one that read VAT: 2, 3, 4 – 04. ‘That’ll be all the pa
perwork for the VAT return for that quarter. You take that lot over there—’ He pointed to the opposite end. ‘You’ll be looking for one that says 8, 9, 10 – 95.’
Jason did as he was told. Everything was grey with dust, and the further back he went the dimmer it became. He actually had to rub the ends of the boxes with his sleeve to make out what was written on them. The swirls of dust made him sneeze, causing fresh clouds to rise around him. But his persistence paid off and he finally found the right box on the bottom shelf. He crouched down and eased it out. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said. He lifted the lid and looked down at a stack of box files.
Donny loomed up beside him. ‘That’s what you need,’ he said. ‘Come on, we’ll take them back to the showroom, you can look through them there. I’ll get Woody to make you a cup of tea.’
It was a weary task, even fuelled by Woody’s cups of tea and a plate of individually wrapped butterscotch shortbread biscuits. The accounts were clearly laid out, but because Jason had been taught by Karen to take nothing at face value, he felt obliged to match each entry to the corresponding invoice. To make absolutely sure. And even though he knew there was no point in looking at anything before the middle of September, he started with August anyway, in case a filing mistake had been made.
Predictably, August came up empty. There were plenty of rentals and a few sales, but nothing about storage. He ploughed on into September and finally, there it was. The third Monday in September. ‘Storage rental,’ followed by the registration number, make and model of Joey Sutherland’s van. Jason felt like jumping up and down and punching the air but he settled for a deep sigh of satisfaction.
He turned over the next page in the pile of invoices, and there it was. Shirley O’Shaughnessy, the same address on the DVLA registration, and an invoice for a month’s storage for a van she hadn’t officially owned for another three months. He stood up and grinned at Woody behind the counter. ‘I need copies of these,’ he said. It was too late to go back to the office now. But at least he’d guaranteed Karen would have a better start to the day tomorrow than she’d had today.
57
2018 – Edinburgh
While Jason was exploring the VAT returns of Bellfield Caravans, Karen was pursuing a different but equally tedious document search, though hers was at one remove. She had no recollection of the route she’d taken back to Gayfield Square, so bemused was she by the conversation with the barista in Perk. She considered calling Hamish and asking him what he thought he was playing at. But when she ran through the possible outcomes of that conversation, she found none that she was comfortable with. The trouble was, she liked him. And she didn’t want to have to stop liking him. She didn’t want to push him into a corner where nothing good could be found.
It was almost a relief to be back in the office. There, she felt the obligation to concentrate on work. It was, she reckoned, already after eight in the morning in Milwaukee. On her way down the hill, she’d decided she’d have more luck soliciting help from fellow cops than a faceless clerk in a county courthouse. She knew that Americans tended to start their working days earlier than in Scotland so she called the Milwaukee Police Department’s non-emergency number. Of course the line was busy but instead of the usual terrible holding muzak, she was treated to a series of public service announcements dressed up as mini-playlets. She learned about the dangers of leaving her keys in the car while it warmed up on a cold morning. And the importance of not leaving spare house keys where a burglar could find them. At last, a live human picked up the call. ‘Milwaukee Police Department, how may I help you?’
Karen explained who she was and that she needed to talk to someone in the detective bureau. The operator sounded uncertain. ‘Can you provide any proof that you really are a police officer, ma’am?’ he asked.
They finally settled on having a detective call the main Gayfield Square number to confirm the HCU’s direct line with them. ‘I’ll have someone get back to you as soon as possible, ma’am,’ he confirmed.
The seven minutes it took for the phone to ring felt much longer. Karen grabbed it on the first ring. ‘DCI Pirie. Historic Cases Unit,’ she gabbled.
‘I guess you really are who you said,’ an amused Midwestern woman’s voice said. ‘This is Detective Amy Shulman. I have to say I’m very curious as to why a detective from Edinburgh’ – pronounced Edinboro – ‘is calling MPD for help. You got somebody on the run?’
‘Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid, Detective Shulman. I need to find out some background information for a case I’m working on. It’s a bit of a long story. But the bottom line is that we’ve got a suspect in a twenty-three-year-old murder who is an American citizen. We think she acquired a substantial amount of money as a result of the crime. But she claims the money she used to set up her business back at the end of 1995 was an inheritance from her grandfather. I hoped you could help me find out whether that’s true or not.’
‘OK. So I guess you’re looking to see a copy of the grandfather’s will?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s his name? I’m assuming he was a Milwaukee resident, and you’re not just calling us at random.’ She chuckled.
‘It’s not quite that straightforward. Our suspect was born in Milwaukee, but her father died shortly before her third birthday. She and her mother ended up in Hamtramck in Michigan with her grandfather. He was apparently head of security at the Dodge plant there. But I don’t know his name.’
‘You don’t know much, huh?’ There was a little less humour in Shulman’s voice now.
‘I thought if you could access the suspect’s birth certificate, it should be possible to track down her mother’s documentation and come at the grandfather that way?’ Karen remained businesslike, resisting the impulse to wheedle. She knew how much that pissed her off when people tried it on her.
‘I guess. It shouldn’t be too big of a deal. All that information’s digitised these days. They might not be keen to hand it over to you, but I’m pretty sure I can get authorisation. I might have to ask a judge for some paperwork, but it’s not like it’s a state secret. If you email me all you’ve got, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’ They exchanged email addresses. ‘How soon can you get back to me, do you think?’
‘I’m guessing it’s not too urgent, with you being a cold case cop.’
Karen grimaced at the phone. ‘I’m eager to wrap this up as soon as I can. The victim’s family have only recently learned that their son is dead.’
‘I get that. You don’t want to leave them twisting in the wind. Leave it with me, I’ll get to it quick as I can.’
‘I appreciate it.’
‘That’s OK. When I come visit Scotland, I fully expect a personalised tour, Detective Pirie.’
Karen replaced the phone. She’d done all she could. Now it was in someone else’s hands. There were few situations she found more frustrating. With typical swift efficiency, she compiled the scant information she possessed on Shirley O’Shaughnessy and pinged it across to Amy Shulman.
In the moment after she’d sent the email, she found herself wondering what was happening to Billy McAfee. He’d have appeared before a sheriff that morning and been remanded in custody. She imagined he’d be shell-shocked and disorientated in the terrifying world of prison. It would be as bad, if not worse, for his wife. In her shoes, Karen thought she’d be feeling twice-bereaved. Their daughter’s death after thirty years of dependency must have felt like a release as well as a loss. But before the McAfees had had any chance to make something of their new freedom, while they’d still been out of balance and off-kilter, Gerry McCartney had thrown an irresistible temptation in Billy McAfee’s path.
That seemed to be the hallmark of all her cases right now. Temptation laid out before people who either could not or would not resist. Willow Henderson had been greedy enough for her family home and the life insurance payout on her husband to sacrifice her best friend’s life. Billy McAfee had been tempted t
o extract vengeance for the torment his daughter – and the whole family – had been forced to endure at Barry Plummer’s hands. And Shirley O’Shaughnessy was tempted by the prospect of a shortcut to realising her business ambitions. If they’d all had the inner steel to turn their back on the seductions of what seemed the easy way out, at least three people would still be alive.
It was a chilling thought.
But before she could sink into it too deeply, her phone rang. The screen said Hamish Mackenzie. She hesitated for a moment. Knowing what she did now had compromised what she’d felt for him after their evening together. But curiosity got the better of her. She took the call with a brisk, ‘Hi, Hamish.’
‘Karen, I’m sorry I missed you earlier. Anders, the barista at George IV Bridge, said you’d been in, asking for me.’
‘I was passing and I needed a coffee. I wasn’t looking for you as such. Just being polite, in case you were around.’ Her tone was cool.
‘Right,’ he said easily. ‘Next time, it’s on the house. And speaking of next time – when are you free for dinner?’
She was torn. She wanted to see him again but she was wary, both as a woman and as a cop. ‘When did you have in mind?’ she stalled.
‘No time like the present. What about tonight?’
‘I can’t do tonight. I’m at a crucial stage of an investigation. I can’t concentrate on anything else.’
‘Some time over the weekend? Not tomorrow, but I can do the night after, if you think your case might have resolved itself?’
‘They don’t resolve themselves, unfortunately. They need to be wrangled into submission. Can I get back to you? If I can make it, I’ll give you a call.’
