They obviously hadn’t done this before, she thought. Seven o’clock might be the official time for prisoner release, but that didn’t mean the ones they were waiting for would walk out of the doors on the stroke of the hour. There was paperwork to be done. Medications to be issued. Property to be checked. The welcoming committees would be lucky to see their loved ones by half past seven. By eight, there would be a ragged procession – mostly men, a few women – re-emerging into the world, clutching their black bin-liners and trying not to look as disorientated as they felt.
Karen didn’t mind the wait. She’d been preparing for this moment for years, turning over what it might demand of her. If revenge was a dish best served cold, then the timing was spot on. An extra half hour or more was neither here nor there.
So focused was she on the prison frontage that the opening of her passenger door physically startled her. She whirled round in her seat, fight or flight pumping through her reptile brain. Heart pounding, she registered who was climbing into her car and felt her muscles relax. ‘What the fuck, Jimmy? You trying to give me a heart attack?’
‘Did you not see me walking up to your car? I wasn’t hiding, Karen.’ DCI Jimmy Hutton, head of Police Scotland’s Murder Prevention Unit, settled himself into the passenger seat like a man who was readying himself for a long journey. He pulled off black leather gloves and unbuttoned his dark navy overcoat.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, scowling eyebrows drawn down, attention back on the prison.
‘Taking care of you,’ he said mildly.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I reckoned you might be here this morning. I thought I’d swing by and make sure you had somebody in your corner. In case you were tempted.’
‘Tempted to do what?’
‘Something you’d regret.’
Karen scoffed. ‘I’m not a hormonal teenager, Jimmy. I’m not going to flip my lid and run across the car park like a banshee with a machete. All I want is to see Merrick Shand for myself. To see what three and a half years in the jail has done to him.’
‘Really? That’s all?’
She shrugged. ‘And maybe check out whoever’s here for him. And where they take him. I’m not planning on doing anything, Jimmy. But I need to keep tabs on him. I need to know where he’s living, what he’s doing. I don’t care whether he sees me doing it, either. In fact, I’d quite like that.’
‘That’s a big risk to take. All he’s got to do is report you to Professional Standards for harassment.’ Jimmy shifted in his seat and gave her the hard stare.
‘I won’t give him grounds. Nothing stalkery, you understand. Just the odd unsettling glimpse out the corner of his eye. Enough to fuck with his head but not enough to put my job on the line.’ She chanced a look at Jimmy. She hadn’t seen a look that sceptical since she’d told her granny it hadn’t been her who’d eaten all the butter tablet, in spite of throwing up like a sick dog.
‘Is that why you brought your back-up? So’s you wouldn’t get spotted tailing Shand away from the jail?’
Puzzled, Karen cast a quick sideways glance at Jimmy to check whether he was at the wind-up for some unfathomable reason. But she’d never seen him look more serious. No, not serious. Pissed off. ‘What are you talking about? I wouldn’t drag the Mint into this.’ For all sorts of reasons, Detective Constable Jason Murray was the last person Karen would have brought along that morning.
‘Come on, Karen, don’t come the innocent with me. I’m not talking about Jason. I’m talking about Captain Coffee.’
‘What?’ Karen couldn’t have faked such outraged astonishment.
‘The row behind you, four cars to the left. Did you not see him parking up in his big fuck-off Range Rover?’
Wildly, she looked around, instantly spotting what should never have got past her in the first place. ‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ she raged, throwing open her car door so hard it bounced back on its hinges and caught her hip as she jumped out. But Karen on the warpath wasn’t going to be hindered by anything as mundane as pain. She stormed towards the Range Rover, determined to deal with the one person who had no right to be there.
5
Daisy glared at her computer screen, turning in a fine performance of a woman lost in concentration. At least, she hoped it was a fine performance. The reality was that, although she’d got in early the morning after the postmortem, she could make no significant progress until she heard back from the French consulate staffer she’d been sweet-talking the afternoon before. Their first conversation had been brief. Daisy was convinced she could actually hear the Gallic shrug when she passed on Paul Allard’s details.
So she’d been surprised when he phoned back inside the hour, sounding like a different person. ‘Sergeant Mortimer,’ he began with a flourish. ‘I have some very interesting information for you.’
‘Glad to hear it. Thanks for calling back.’
‘No, not at all. What I have found out is that Paul Allard is a jazzman. He plays saxophone in a quintet. Comme des Étrangers. Not my sort of thing, but I hear they’re pretty good. He lives on the Left Bank. Do you know Paris?’
‘No, sorry to say I’ve never been.’
‘No matter, it will still be there when you decide to go. Monsieur Allard lives – lived, I should say, in one of the little streets that leads to the Odéon, in the Sixth Arrondissement. It’s a nice area but, looking at his address, I think it’s probably a small apartment in the roof.’
‘Well, that’s a start. Can you get your local police to go and knock his door, see if there’s anybody else living there? Or even get a search warrant, to see if there’s anything in his apartment to give us a clue as to what he was doing in the East Neuk of Fife?’
He made an indeterminate noise in the back of his throat. ‘You would need a warrant from your courts, I think.’
A stifled sigh. ‘OK, maybe you could ping across the address and I’ll see what I can get moving at this end.’ Who knew what hoops she’d have to jump through for that these days?
‘Of course, but not so fast. There is something much more interesting. There is no record of Paul Allard before that passport and that driving licence were issued to him. It’s like he never existed.’
‘What?’
‘I know. I thought maybe he was in a witness protection programme or something like that. I talked to my colleague about this and she said, no, no. If he was in witness protection, he would have a proper paper trail. We would not be able to access it, but we would know of its existence.’
Daisy had sat up straight in her chair, a buzz of excitement in her head. ‘That’s right. A legend.’
‘Ah, we have the same word. And then my colleague, she said he could have changed his name. That would explain the dead end.’
‘And did he?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have sent an urgent request to the Ministry of the Interior, but I will be honest with you, I have no idea how long it will take to come back. But when someone changes his name officially in France, he has to place a notice in the Journal Officiel de la République Française. I will check out whether it is searchable online. Maybe that will be a shortcut.’
‘That’s brilliant. I’ll see what I can do at this end. Thanks so much. I really appreciate your help. And don’t forget to ping that address over to me!’
Which had all been very exciting. DCI Todd had been much more sanguine about it, barely acknowledging what she’d learned. ‘Let’s wait and see what Inspector Clouseau comes back with before we get overexcited,’ he’d said, turning away to shout at one of the detective constables. ‘Have you made any progress with the coastguard and where the body might have gone in the water?’
Todd had sent them home shortly after six. He wasn’t the kind of boss who believed in working all the hours in the day for the sake of looking busy. When Daisy had started working for him, he’d taken her to an improbably cosy café on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Kirkcaldy and laid
out his philosophy over home-baked cherry scones and Earl Grey tea. ‘There’s no overtime in CID. When we’ve got lines of inquiry to pursue, we work the hours we have to. But cases get stalled. You’re waiting for an address or another key piece of information before you can take the next step. So you might as well be waiting at home. Half the time, you can’t get access to records out of office hours. So you might as well be watching a box set on your own settee. That way, when you do have to work thirty-six hours out of forty-eight, you’re not already knackered. Pull your weight when it’s needed and you’ll get no complaints from me. But God help you if I catch you skiving when you’re needed.’
It couldn’t have been clearer. But still Daisy struggled to turn in late and go home early. So she was first in next morning. She unwrapped the roll and sausage she’d picked up from the roadside snack van and ate as she checked through the files again, making notes as she went. When her phone rang with the ID of the French consulate, she carved a tear in her notepad with her pencil point in shocked excitement. ‘DS Mortimer,’ she almost shouted.
‘Good morning, Sergeant. My name is Guillaume Verancourt. I believe you spoke to my colleague from the French consulate yesterday?’ He sounded more Edinburger than Parisian.
‘That’s right. And you—’
‘He passed your inquiry on to me. I’m associated with the Ministry of the Interior.’
Was that code for him being a spy? Or just a bureaucrat? Daisy was starting to feel she might be out of her depth. ‘And have you anything for me?’
‘I have some information, yes. But before I do so, I need to make clear to you that the responsibility for investigating the death of a French citizen rests on the shoulders of the French authorities. We are very willing to cooperate with Police Scotland, but we must be assured that you are equally prepared to cooperate with us. To share information. Are you in a position to give that assurance?’
Daisy thought quickly. She knew she should pass this up the line, but she was pretty sure nobody was going to refuse the French request. Not if it meant dead-ending the investigation before it had even begun. ‘The dead man may have been a French citizen, Monsieur Verancourt, but he was killed here in Scotland. It’s in everyone’s interests to work together on this.’
‘So you will send me what reports you have? And you will continue to do this?’
Daisy took a deep breath. She was determined to make her mark with this case, but she didn’t want that mark to be a blot on her record. On the other hand, she needed to make progress. ‘I’ll be honest. We don’t have much to go on, but we will share what we have. And will you pass on what you have?’
‘I will email what I have discovered to you, but I think it might be helpful to run through it verbally first. In case there is anything that isn’t clear. And of course the details from us will be in French.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Plenty of time later to reveal her competence in French if necessary. ‘So, what have you found out?’
‘So, you already know Paul Allard did not exist officially until two years ago. The reason for that is that he changed his name.’
‘Can you tell me what he was called before?’
‘Well, this is where it becomes complicated. Almost ten years ago, a man joined the French Foreign Legion calling himself Paul Allard. That was not his real name, but the Legion allows recruits to self-declare their name when they join. Conventionally, the surname should have the same initial letter as their actual name, but that’s the only link to their past.’
‘You’re kidding, right? This is like something out of an adventure comic. You’re saying they really get to join the Foreign Legion to forget?’
Verancourt cleared his throat. ‘It is a tradition. There is nothing comic about it, believe me. There will have been nothing humorous about Paul Allard’s military service. And like everyone who signs up, he will have had to provide proof of his original identity so we could check that he was not a convicted criminal or the subject of a warrant for a serious crime. If applicants are clean, they can choose the name they serve under. That is the only name on their records. Under those terms, the man called Paul Allard signed up. He was a competent musician so he was assigned to the regimental band, which is part of the 1st Foreign Regiment. He attained the rank which corresponds to corporal in your army.’
‘All that’s very interesting. But obviously he wasn’t in the Legion any more. He was living in a flat in Paris, playing jazz.’
‘Correct. He left the Legion after seven years. Because of his service he was entitled to claim French citizenship. There is a drawback to that for a man who wants to stay invisible. To claim citizenship, he must revert to his original identity. So Caporal Paul Allard had to resume his former name and status as a UK citizen.’ He paused, clearly savouring the dramatic moment.
‘And that was?’
‘James Auld.’ He spelled out the surname. ‘This is a Scottish name, I think?’
‘It is,’ Daisy said, scribbling on a fresh page. ‘Very much so. But if that’s the case, how come he had the passport and driving licence in his Foreign Legion name?’
‘He applied almost immediately for a legal name change back to Paul Allard.’
‘And he got it? Just like that?’
Verancourt chuckled. ‘No, Sergeant Mortimer. Not “just like that”. To change your name in France is not as simple as it is in the UK. There are strict conditions. But he met one of those conditions quite easily. Because he made his living as a musician and his reputation had been established as Paul Allard, he could argue that he needed to be officially known as Paul Allard to avoid confusion in terms of payment and tax liability. And so, two years ago, he became officially a French citizen called Paul Allard.’
Nothing like a bureaucracy for dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. ‘But the date of birth is the same? James Auld would have had the same date of birth as Paul Allard?’
‘Undoubtedly. We only sanction a change of name. As I said, I’ll email the details over to you, but I think this is the only really important detail for your purposes.’
‘It’s too early to say that,’ Daisy said slowly. ‘The man’s been murdered. It may be that the motive for that lies in his military service.’
Verancourt made an indeterminate noise. ‘You may struggle to uncover much information about that. The Legion is not noted for its willingness to be open about its operations.’
‘Great,’ Daisy sighed.
‘And you will send me your reports? The autopsy and whatever else you have?’
‘I will. Thanks for your help. I might have to come back to you again, though? We may want access to his apartment, for example?’
‘For that you will have to deal with the local police in Paris and the juge d’instruction. But I may be able to assist with that. Goodbye for now, Sergeant Mortimer.’
As the line went dead, Charlie Todd walked into the room. Daisy stood up and caught his eye. ‘The dead man, boss? He ran away to join the French Foreign Legion.’
6
Later that morning and Karen was still fuming as she marched along Duke Street, an implacable woman on a mission. On entering Aleppo, the Syrian café where she’d arranged to meet a friend, she was so wrapped up in her fury that she barely managed to nod hello to Amena, not too busy with her front-of-house duties to beam a welcome at Karen.
Karen made straight for the woman sitting at the furthest table from the door. She’d known Giorsal Kennedy since schooldays, but in spite of a fifteen-year gap when Giorsal had been working down south, her reunion with the senior social worker over a recent case had formed a closer bond than they’d ever had as teenagers. Karen sat down heavily and sighed.
‘I take it things didn’t go according to plan,’ Giorsal said, her keynote mildness instilled by years of social work.
‘You could say that.’ Karen half-turned to try to catch a waiter’s eye, but she was too late. Amena was already headed for the table carrying a small
cup of the intense cardamom coffee Karen had learned to love.
‘Royalty here, you,’ Giorsal said as Amena left them in peace.
‘It’s embarrassing. I still don’t get to pay for my coffee.’
‘But you always chuck money in the charity box. I’ve seen you. Besides, they owe you. If it wasn’t for you—’
‘They’d have found somebody else to help them.’ Karen shifted in her seat, awkward at being reminded of the help she’d given the Syrian refugee group to find premises and get their business off the ground. ‘But never mind that. I’m absolutely raging, Gus.’
‘What’s happened? You told me you were only going to keep an eye on Merrick Shand. Track him to where he’s staying. That’s all. You promised, Karen.’
‘And that’s all I was going to do. Until bloody Hamish stuck his oar in.’ She took a sip of coffee, feeling the need of its strength.
‘Hamish? What’s this got to do with Hamish?’
‘Absolutely bloody nothing, that’s what. Stupid me, I know you’re supposed to share things when you’re … I don’t know, getting into a relationship with somebody. I didn’t think that gave him the right to stick his nose into my business.’
Giorsal frowned. ‘You’re going to have to give me a bit more to work with here, Karen.’
Another sip. ‘I told him I couldn’t stay with him last night because Merrick Shand was getting out this morning and I’d have to be up at the crack of sparrowfart to make sure I could get on his tail.’
‘He knows who Merrick Shand is?’
Karen gave a weary sigh. ‘He knows Shand is the animal who used his car to deliberately crush the life out of Phil. Yes.’
‘So, what? Hamish tried to stop you?’
‘No, he’s not that daft. Though that would have been understandable. I think he secretly thinks I should put the past behind me and move on. But all he said was, “Do you think that’s a good idea?” and I said, probably not but it was something I had to do. And we left it at that.’
Still Life - Karen Pirie Series 06 (2020) Page 3
