Still Life

by Val McDermid

  ‘I suspect Jimmy was there for his own sake too, Karen. He loved Phil like a son. And it was his operation that went south and ended up with Phil being killed. He’s got all that guilt to carry too.’

  Karen considered. ‘Aye, you’re right. I’m not being fair to Jimmy. But Hamish? That’s a different story. So, Jimmy gets in the car, like I said, and casually mentions he’s spotted Hamish parked in the row behind me. He assumes I’ve asked him there as back-up, to help me tail Shand when he leaves. I mean, really? Me? Why would anybody that knows me think I’d need back-up on a piece of piss like that? And if I did, that I’d choose a civilian whose only experience of tailing anybody comes from playing L.A. Noire?’ She paused for breath and another sip.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He did nothing. He saw me coming for him and had the sense to get out the car before I had to drag him out. I gave him a bollocking that must have stripped the wax out his ears and stood there till he got in the car and drove off.’ Karen’s sigh came from the depths of her lungs. ‘And while this was all going on, Merrick Shand walked out and got picked up.’

  ‘Oh no! Tell me Jimmy followed him?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘That’s not what he came for. He did at least get the car reg, so I can follow up on that. But Hamish? How can I trust him after this?’ Her brows drew together in a stubborn frown.

  ‘Are you not being a wee bit harsh? Sounds to me like Hamish thought he was doing the right thing, covering your back because he cares about you.’ Giorsal shrugged. ‘It’s not a hanging offence.’

  Karen fiddled with her cup, not meeting her friend’s eye. ‘It’s one more thing that makes me wonder . . . ’

  ‘Wonder what? Karen, Phil would probably have done exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Don’t compare him to Phil. He’s nothing like Phil. Phil and me, we were like two sides of the same coin. It’s not like that with Hamish.’

  ‘Maybe not. But Hamish is one of the good guys. He’s solvent, he’s single, he’s sexy and from what I’ve seen he’s quite clearly smitten. What more do you want?’

  Karen sighed. ‘He’s not . . . straightforward. You remember when I first met him on his croft, on that case up in Wester Ross? He played the handsome Highland crofter to a T, kilt and big boots and sheep on the hill and everything, and it was several days before he let on that he’s actually got the coffee shops here in Edinburgh to pay the bills.’

  ‘I thought that was funny, Karen.’

  ‘So did I. But now I’m not so sure. I think Hamish has always got one eye on the impression he’s making on his audience. Like for my birthday.’

  Giorsal laughed. ‘You’re complaining about your birthday? He whisked you off for a surprise long weekend in Venice, Karen. In a hotel even I’d heard of!’

  ‘He’d already asked me what I fancied doing and I said I’d like to spend the weekend up on the croft.’ Karen’s jaw had settled into stubbornness. ‘It’s not what I want, it’s what he thinks I should want. Nothing’s ever simple with Hamish, it’s all razzle-dazzle. Even his bloody porridge.’

  ‘His porridge?’ Giorsal looked bemused.

  ‘How do you have your porridge?’ Karen demanded.

  ‘Oats, skimmed milk, a teaspoon of honey. Why?’

  ‘Hamish has oats, buckwheat flakes, a mix of ground flax seeds, brazil nuts and CoQ10, a pinch of chai spices, a spoonful of almond butter, a handful of blueberries and a mix of lactose-free oat milk and coconut water. How in the name of God can you have porridge where oats are the minority ingredient?’

  Now Giorsal was giggling like a teenager. ‘I can’t believe you’re judging him on his porridge.’

  ‘It’s symptomatic, Gus. It’s a class thing. Our backgrounds are so different. His parents are academics, he spent his teens in California where money was never an object, he’s got a degree and he’s a successful entrepreneur. Me? I was born in a council house in Methil, I left school at sixteen to become a polis. I think we’re just too different.’

  There was a long silence. Then Giorsal put her hand over Karen’s. ‘I hear you,’ she said. ‘But how does the porridge taste?’

  7

  The proposed extension of the tram line to the heart of Leith provoked daily gridlock in the north of the city. Even the buses struggled to keep to anything like a timetable. Karen had given up on any form of transport more sophisticated than her own two feet for getting to work. As she marched up Leith Walk from Aleppo to the office, she couldn’t avoid thinking about the two hundred medieval skeletons that were being exhumed and relocated to satisfy the needs of Edinburgh commuters. How long, she wondered, before some idiot tried to hide a more recent body among the historic remains? If there was one certainty she’d earned from pol­icing, there was no limit to the stupidity of criminals.

  She was still smarting from what had happened outside the prison. She hoped Hamish would have the good sense to take her at her word when she’d told him not to make contact with her till she was good and ready to talk to him. He’d looked hurt and baffled. It worried her that he seemed to miss the crucial point that when Karen wanted help, she asked for it. That she didn’t appreciate anybody second-guessing her when she didn’t. Really, had he assimilated so little about her?

  During the last case they’d worked together, she’d confided in her closest friend and ally, forensic anthropologist River Wilde. River had met her eyes with a steady gaze and said, ‘Phil was the love of your life. You’ll never feel like that again. But that doesn’t mean you have to give up on love. It’s not second-best. It’s different.’

  Karen wanted to believe that. She hadn’t quite managed it yet. And that morning’s row had thrown everything out of kilter. But in spite of that, she knew she didn’t want to let him go. She turned into Gayfield Square and cut across the park to the police station. Time to put Hamish back in his box and concentrate on work.

  The office was still empty but Karen barely had time to log on to her email account before Jason arrived, out of breath and clutching two cups of coffee. Karen had schooled him well. Whenever he departed the office, he stuffed their ­reusable vacuum coffee cups in his backpack so he could refill them on his way into work every morning. It wasn’t taking advantage of him, Karen reasoned. She was always easier to work with when caffeinated.

  ‘Thanks, Jason.’ Karen took the proffered cup and handed Jason a post-it note. ‘Can you run this car index number for me?’

  Jason gave her a sideways look. ‘What case is it attached to?’

  A scatter of cases where cops had done favours to friends by checking the database for car details had provoked a recent memo from the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) reminding them that all database searches had to be legit­imately attached to cases. Which was why Karen had passed the task on to Jason in the first place. ‘Just tidying up a loose end on the Joey Sutherland case,’ she said with a note of finality.

  He frowned but said nothing. Even Jason knew better than to push against a brick wall. ‘OK, boss.’ He turned to his screen.

  ‘Later,’ she said hastily. ‘We’ve got somebody to go and see.’

  Stella Leitch’s home had little in common with her sister’s bungalow. It sat in splendid isolation at the end of a steep single-track road that climbed up from the busy dual carriageway between Perth and Dundee. It must originally have been a single-storey cottage for a gamekeeper or a shepherd, Karen reckoned. But only its bare bones remained, dwarfed by a two-storey glass extension built out like the prow of a ship to provide stunning views across the Tay estuary to Fife. From the outside, they could see that the lower level was laid out as a living space, with sofas and a dining area off to one side. The upper level appeared to be an artist’s studio, with three easels facing in different directions. ‘I wonder how she got planning permission for that?’ Jason muttered, gazing up at it. ‘My dad just about had a nervous breakdown tryin
g to get his conservatory past the building inspectors.’

  ‘It’ll be architecturally significant, Jason. If you’re going to dream, dream big.’ Karen walked up to the front door, past a bright red Mini Cooper S convertible that looked like it had been abandoned rather than parked. Before she could ring the bell, the door opened. ‘I’m Stella,’ the woman on the doorstep said. ‘I’m guessing you’re the police?’

  Karen identified herself and Jason. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve been expecting you. Come away through.’ She led the way into the light living room. Only from the inside was it possible to see that the ceiling – and the floor above – were also made of glass.

  Jason gawped. ‘That’s one glass ceiling you wouldnae want to smash,’ he breathed.

  Stella gave a wan smile. ‘You’d have a hard job. It’s metallic glass. Pretty much unbreakable.’ She gestured at the squashy blue velvet sofas. ‘Take a seat.’ She looked to be in her mid-thirties, but it was never easy to tell with women who could afford to cheat the eye. Mid-brown hair with clever highlights pulled back in a loose ponytail. Dark blue eyes set wide apart and a generous mouth, giving her face an open appearance. A T-shirt with a faded logo Karen vaguely recalled from a first-person shooter Phil used to play on the Xbox. Loose-fitting yoga pants with a logo she recognised from a designer shop on George Street she’d once gone into by mistake. One thing Stella Leitch didn’t appear to be was distraught.

  ‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ Karen said. ‘People drive so badly around cyclists.’

  Stella’s eyelids flickered in a set of fast blinks. ‘I’m gutted,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘We weren’t what you’d call close, me and Susan. Different paths, different choices. But we met up every few weeks for dinner, always had a good laugh. Our parents died in the Boxing Day tsunami back in 2004 when we were only teenagers, so I know what it takes to deal with loss. I’ll miss her like hell every single day, but she would have been furious if she’d thought I was going to fall apart.’ She sighed. ‘I save that for when I’m on my own.’

  ‘I understand. Are you Susan’s executor, then?’

  ‘That’s why I went to the house yesterday. I’ve been working up to it. I couldn’t face it before the funeral. I got her PA to go round and collect the clothes to dress her in. But I knew that I had to get to grips with sorting out the house. Better sooner than later. If you don’t face these things head-on, they drag out forever. It took one of my team three years to clear his mother’s house and put it on the market. I get that, I really do. But there’s part of me thinks it’s immoral to leave a house standing empty all that time. I mean, we’re in a housing crisis, right?’

  Somehow Karen didn’t think Susan Leitch’s house was going to play a significant role in alleviating homelessness. But she supposed it might end up as part of a chain whose bottom link might make a difference to someone. At least grief didn’t seem to have rendered Stella monosyllabic. Time to capitalise on that while it lasted. ‘It can’t have been easy. Can you tell me, why did you go through to the garage?’

  ‘I wanted to do a walk-through, so I could start making a plan. It’s sort of what I do professionally. Transferable skills, you know?’

  ‘What is it that you do?’

  A flash of whitened teeth. ‘I’m the creative director of a games company. We’re based in Dundee and New York.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Karen saw Jason sit up straight. No mean feat in those sofas. ‘What games have you made?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re probably best known for the Core Survival series,’ Stella said with another of her swift smiles. ‘But personally, I love the WilderNess open world games. Do you game?’

  Jason nodded. ‘I like the FIFA games best.’

  Karen interrupted the fanboy moment. ‘So when you walked into the garage, what struck you?’

  Stella drew her brows together in a tiny frown. ‘Well, obviously the presence of something big under a tarpaulin. I mean, Susan didn’t even have a regular car. She belonged to a car club that only has electric vehicles. Anywhere she could cycle, she did cycle. That’s why she had the two bikes – the road bike, the one she was riding when she—’ Stella stopped abruptly, looking shocked. Then she cleared her throat. ‘And a top-of-the-range mountain bike.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve only come to this a couple of hours ago. What was it that Susan did for a living?’

  ‘She was a tax accountant. She had a practice in Perth. All those rich toffs with their country houses and estates, she took a slice of their money to stop the taxman getting a bigger slice.’

  ‘And did she live alone?’

  Stella nodded, her mood shifting. ‘For the last three years. She had a partner, but they split up. Amanda moved out because she wanted to be a free spirit. She thought she was an artist.’ She scoffed. ‘Let me tell you, DCI Pirie, I work with artists all the time.’ She gestured towards the upper floor. ‘Though most of that stuff is Duncan’s. Duncan, my partner. He actually makes a living creating game worlds.

  ‘Me, I enjoy painting. It’s my form of relaxation. But I know I’m not an artist. And neither was Amanda. Of course, like so many wannabes, she couldn’t accept her lack of success was to do with a lack of talent. So she decided it was living with Susan that was stifling her creativity.’ She shook her head wearily. ‘She wanted Susan to give up her practice so the two of them could move to the Highlands and Amanda would support them both with her “art”.’ Emphasised with air quotes.

  ‘And Susan preferred to let her go?’

  Stella unfastened the clip on her hair and shook it free. ‘It was a false choice. Susan’s good – was good at what she did. She loved the job, she loved her clients, bizarre though that always seemed to me. She’d have gone crazy in a wee craft shop by some scenic Highland roadside. She tried everything she could think of to change Amanda’s mind, but she was dead set on following her star. So she moved out.’

  ‘Was it acrimonious?’

  Stella considered. ‘I’d say it was characterised more by sadness than acrimony. They’d been together nearly ten years, Susan thought Amanda was the love of her life and, from the outside, it looked like Amanda felt the same. But you know, relationships get into a rut, and Amanda had started hanging out with a bunch of aspiring artists who’d done their courses at Duncan of Jordanstone’s in Dundee and all thought they were going to make a living with their brushes. She drank the Kool-Aid, Chief Inspector. She said it was breaking her heart to leave Susan behind, but that didn’t stop her.’

  ‘Where did Amanda go?’

  ‘Some woman had inherited a run-down old house somewhere in Angus. The way Amanda spoke, it was a big rambling place with plenty of room for everyone. She asked Susan to visit, but my sister had made her mind up. No matter how sad it made her, she was determined to make a clean break. She didn’t want to spend the next five years picking a scab.’

  ‘That’s a tough choice.’

  ‘We’re both good at tough choices, me and Susan. After our parents died, we could have let ourselves fall apart. But we promised each other we’d do our best to be the kind of women they’d have been proud of.’

  ‘That’s quite a target to set yourselves.’

  ‘I like to think we were doing OK. Till some idiot still over the limit from the night before ploughed into my big sister on the A9.’ Stella’s voice trembled with anger. ‘And now this. What the hell is a skeleton doing in my Susan’s garage?’

  Karen let her words hang for a moment to take the immediate sting out of them, then said, ‘That’s what I’m determined to find out. Do you have any idea whose VW camper this is?’

  ‘If I had to guess, I suppose I’d say Amanda. Amanda McAndrew. I mean, most of Susan’s friends were entirely conventional. They’re more likely to go to Dubai for their holidays than to potter around the Highlands in an old-fashioned
camper van. I can’t imagine any of them owning a van like that, never mind parking it in Susan’s garage. Unless somebody saw a report of Susan’s death and thought that was a good opportunity to get rid of it?’ She sighed. ‘I’m clutching at straws, amn’t I?’

  ‘The tyres are flat,’ Jason said. ‘It’s been sitting there for quite a while. No getting away from it, I’m sorry.’

  Stella bit her lip. ‘I knew that, really.’

  ‘Do you have any photos of Amanda?’ Karen asked gently.

  ‘You’ll need to do some sort of facial reconstruction, right? Like they do on those forensic documentaries? To help you figure out who that . . . who that used to be? In the van?’ Stella was already on her feet. ‘Give me a minute, I’ll get my iPad.’

  ‘What do you think, boss,’ Jason said softly as the door closed behind her. ‘You think it’s Amanda? You think she came back and they had a fight?’

  ‘What have I told you about jumping to conclusions, Jason?’

  He looked crestfallen and flushed. ‘“Jumping to conclusions leaves you with a long way to fall,” boss.’

  Stella walked back in, studying her tablet. ‘These are from a few years ago . . . But people don’t change that much, not the basic structures.’ She paused, fingers moving on the screen. ‘They were taken here. We had a wee family party for Duncan’s fortieth, so that’ll be four years ago.’ She passed the tablet to Karen. ‘That’s Amanda and Susan. Amanda on the left.’ She hadn’t needed to make the identification. Susan Leitch was Stella with a conventional bob and a squarer jawline. Amanda had a gelled quiff that Karen thought matched the colour of the hair on the floor of the camper van. But then so did millions of people.

  It was a start. Something for River to work with in establishing biological identity. ‘Can you send those over to me?’ Karen produced a card from her wallet and passed it over. ‘Do you happen to know if Amanda has any family? Parents, siblings?’

  ‘She’s an only child. She grew up in Selkirk and moved to do a degree in painting at Glasgow College of Art. She used to say her parents had a recycling business but the truth was her dad was a third-generation scrap merchant.’