Still Life

by Val McDermid

  The last person she wanted to talk to, especially on a crowded bus. She accepted the call and jammed her phone tight to her ear. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Where on earth are you, Pirie?’ Markie was in her usual default state of imperiousness.

  ‘I’m on the bus.’

  ‘How quaint.’

  Karen stared out at the grey tenement buildings, dozens of flats piled above takeaways and pubs and cramped shops with eclectic wares. Somehow they survived the onslaught of retail parks and online shopping. She couldn’t imagine the Dog Biscuit willingly crossing any of Leith Walk’s thresholds. ‘Ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘I have a meeting at St Andrew’s House on Wednesday morning at eleven. I require a briefing from you beforehand. I presume you do have some progress to report?’

  ‘My office is on your way. I’ll make a point of being there.’ Just on the right side of insolence, Karen judged.

  ‘Ten a.m. Prompt, DCI Pirie. And I expect to have something positive to report to our lords and masters.’

  ‘You know me, ma’am. I let the chips fall where they may.’ Karen couldn’t help herself. Giving the Dog Biscuit something to fret over was some small satisfaction for the mountain of unpaid overtime work she’d already put in over the past week.

  She got off the bus and ran across Elm Row and into Gayfield Square nick, shaking the rain from her hair on her way to her office. ‘Should have picked up a coffee,’ she muttered, shrugging out of her coat and settling in at her desk. As her computer warmed up, she noticed the time. Almost one o’clock, and Jason hadn’t checked in. That wasn’t like him. He still didn’t trust his own initiative; if he had any key decisions to make, he’d still always call first. On the other hand, her instructions had been clear. Find the woman and ring when he had her in his sights. But maybe he was growing more confident? Maybe she should stop acting like a mother hen?

  Maybe next week. She keyed his number into her phone and listened to it ring out. Three, four, five times, then voicemail. ‘Jason Murray here. Leave your number and I’ll call you back.’

  Karen waited for the beep, then said, ‘It’s Karen here. Just wondering how you were doing. Give me a call when you can.’

  Then she put Jason from her mind and concentrated on the next task in hand. Find the last will and testament of David Greig. The government probate site was helpfully called Find A Will. It asked for a surname and a year, and up popped almost a hundred names. She scrolled down and almost at the end of the third page, she found him. She had to register with a password and then, for a modest £1.50, David Greig’s last wishes would be at her fingertips.

  Except of course it wasn’t quite that simple. The message on the screen confirmed her purchase and told her that, when the will was available, she’d get an email. And of course there was no phone number to connect her to a minor bureaucrat who might be persuaded to make the wheels turn a bit faster. What were the chances of getting an answer before Markie arrived in her pomp? ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she exploded.

  Perhaps she’d have better luck with the gallery who were selling the apparently never-ending supply of David Greig originals. This was the sort of tedious work she’d normally delegate to Jason, but he was fully occupied tracking and tailing Amanda McAndrew. And Daisy wasn’t coming over till the middle of the afternoon. She might as well crack on with it.

  The art world was bewildering to Karen. There seemed to be dozens of sites online that all claimed to track auction and gallery sales. Some listed the same works with different prices. Some were opaque in the descriptions of the work for sale; a piece that seemed a bargain turned out to be an overpriced signed print. After more than an hour, she had what seemed to be an exhaustive list of the previously unknown Greigs that had come on the market since his death. Jarvis Cocker in the Year 2000 she knew about already. The others were, unsurprisingly, new to her. Rihanna Disturbia, Barack/House Black/White, Madonna of the Celebration, Dame Judi, Time Out for Stephen Hawking, and Passing Divine were the others.

  Karen pulled up images of the collage paintings and marvelled again at the skill and imagination that had translated the colours and shapes of buildings and landscapes into such recognisable versions of iconic figures. There was no obvious link between Greig’s choice of subjects. Karen wondered whether it had been nothing more complicated than chancing on a suitable inanimate image to break down into components that could be translated into a portrait. That was as coherent an organising principle as anything else she could come up with.

  Tracing the pictures back to their original source had been less than straightforward. But the connective tissue in all of their pasts seemed to have been the same Dublin dealer that James Auld’s letter had come from. Surely it couldn’t be coincidence that Auld had discovered the photo­graph of his brother with David Greig and then contacted the gallery that sold his work? There was something going on here, just beyond her grasp.

  Francis Flaxner Geary had a gallery off Merrion Square. Karen didn’t know Dublin at all, but looking at the satellite map and the street view, it seemed to be a prosperous part of town. Gallery Geary had a small frontage but from the aerial view she could see it went back a fair way. Francis Flaxner Geary was obviously doing all right for himself. The sales of David Greig’s paintings alone had garnered almost $12 million. Given the cut that intermediaries took in the art world, the dead man must have been keeping Geary in some style.

  Karen always preferred to conduct potentially difficult interviews in person, but for once her impatience got the better of her. This was going to be one of those occasions that called for little white lies. Even if she got nothing from Geary, she would at least have a sense of the man. And she wouldn’t have screwed it up for a face-to-face approach.

  Finding a number for the gallery was the work of seconds. Before she could have second thoughts, Karen tapped it into her phone. It rang for so long she thought she’d be cut off, but just as she was about to give up, the line opened and a man said, ‘Gallery Geary. And how may I help you this damp February afternoon?’ His tone was genial, his voice tinged with an Irish accent.

  ‘Can I speak to Francis Geary?’

  ‘This is Francis Flaxner Geary at your service. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘My name is Karen Parhatka,’ she said. Stealing Phil’s name in a good cause was no sin. ‘I’m working with the exhibitions team at the Edinburgh Art Festival. I understand your gallery represents the estate of David Greig?’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, even if it’s only on the phone, Karen. You’re quite correct. We were David’s gallery when he was alive and we’ve had the very great privilege of continuing that relationship with his estate.’ His style was genial and florid, a man with apparently nothing to hide.

  ‘The team here are very intrigued by the amazing array of his work that’s emerged in recent years. You clearly have a connection with someone who has built an extensive collection. What we were wondering is whether it would be possible for us to display a previously unseen Greig at this year’s festival?’ She thought it wasn’t a bad attempt on the hoof.

  A fruity chuckle. ‘We’ve had similar requests before. All I can do is pass them on. But don’t hold your breath, Karen. These paintings are very closely held.’

  ‘It’d be a great showcase for a future sale,’ she tried.

  ‘We do a pretty decent job of that ourselves,’ Geary said. ‘Having said that, of course, being David Greig’s work, they more or less sell themselves. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘Is it the estate that holds the paintings? Or is it an individual collector?’

  ‘We deal directly with the estate,’ Geary said. ‘I couldn’t say what their relationship is with the owner of the works in question.’

  ‘Could you put me in contact with them?’ Karen tried for coquettish. ‘So I could try to persuade them myself?’

  ‘Charming as you a
re, Karen, I can’t do that. We have a duty of confidentiality to our clients. I had the exact same conversation with someone a few weeks ago, and he’d come all the way from Paris.’

  ‘From Paris?’ She couldn’t help herself.

  ‘That’s right. As I said, David Greig’s work sells itself. He’s a major figure, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Now, it’s been grand talking to you, but I can’t help. Do stop by if you’re ever in Dublin, I’d be very happy to buy you a coffee and explore ideas about forming a relationship with the Edinburgh Art Festival.’ And the line went dead. Clearly, she’d exhausted Francis Flaxner Geary’s charms.

  But she knew more now than she had before. It was beyond credibility that the man who had visited from Paris was anyone other than James Auld. Irresistibly, Geary was the next link in the chain. Was he a crooked link? Hopefully, once she’d heard back from the probate registry, she’d be a crucial step closer to understanding the mystery that surrounded the Auld brothers.

  Before she could complete her written summary, the phone rang. Praying it would be Jason, she snatched it from under the scribbled sheets of rough notes that covered it. She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed when she saw River’s number on the display. ‘Are you in Dundee today?’ she said.

  ‘I am. Ewan’s off to Brussels for a conference on post-Brexit cooperation so I thought I’d come back a day early. Besides, I’ve got a backlog you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Trust me, I know all about backlogs. I’m in over my head right now. So is this call an excuse to skive or have you got something for me?’

  ‘I’ve been taking another look at the Perth skeleton. Daniella Gilmartin, as you’re assuming.’

  ‘It’s the only credible assumption. We know she was living in the van with Amanda and we know the skeleton’s DNA isn’t Amanda’s.’

  ‘I supply the science, I leave the case-building to you.’

  ‘Aye, right. So what have you got for me now?’

  ‘I went back to the van to see whether I could identify what she might have collided with to create the fracture. There were a few possibilities – the edge of the countertop by the stove, the side of the tall cupboard, the edge of the door. But either they would have shown traces of the impact or they weren’t sturdy enough or there wasn’t enough space for an accidental fall to have built up enough momentum. The only possibility I was left with was the edge of the sink unit. Stainless steel, a right-angled edge. And unlike the rest of the interior, it’s been cleaned of any fingermarks or other residues.’

  ‘OK, so it was the edge of the sink. Where does that take us?’

  River sighed. ‘It takes us straight to homicide. The only way for Dani’s head to have built up enough momentum to generate so deep and wide a fracture in the space available was for someone to have smashed her head against it with far more force than an accidental fall could have created.’

  A long silence. ‘So Amanda did kill her.’

  ‘Someone killed her, Karen. It’s up to you to prove it was Amanda.’

  The call with River had pricked Karen’s conscience about Jason again. What the hell was he doing? It was unheard of for him not to make contact with her for this length of time on an active investigation. Even if he was getting nowhere, he’d have called her, if only in the hope that she’d have a suggestion for him to pursue. She tried his number again but this time it went straight to voicemail. Surely he hadn’t let his phone run out of juice?

  Frustrated, she crossed the office to Jason’s desk and opened his top drawer. She lifted the pen tray and took out the post-it note he had squirrelled away with all his passwords. Karen went back to her desk and got her mini iPad. She logged out of her Apple account and logged back in as Jason. From there, she made short work of connecting to Find My Phone. She zoomed in on the map and was puzzled to see that Jason appeared to be at an east-bound service area on the M62 between Manchester and Leeds. Hartshead Moor Services offered a petrol station, a motel and a nearby golf course. No houses to stake out. Unless Amanda McAndrew was playing a round of golf, the only reason to be there was to fill up with fuel and a Starbucks coffee. If he was on her tail, that made sense. But still, it wasn’t like him to go dark on her.

  When he did turn his phone on, she’d make sure he knew never to do that again. Not without a copper-bottomed excuse.

  Jason leaned against the door at the top of the stairs and wept. It had taken him the best part of four hours to drag himself up the steps, one by agonising one. He was pretty sure he’d fainted at some point, only because he’d become conscious of a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He’d talked to himself, sung tunelessly and practised marriage proposals to Eilidh to hold panic at bay. And every step had driven sharp rods of pain down his left leg and left him trembling.

  Before each one, he’d craned his neck to look upwards. About halfway up, he’d had a moment of elation when he realised he could see a faint thread of light outlining the door that stood between him and rescue. The sight had kept him going as he’d gritted his teeth and moaned his way up the stairs. His mouth was dry and periodic waves of nausea stopped him in his tracks.

  The hope that had sustained him on the climb was dashed almost as soon as he reached the door. He’d squirmed round to reach the handle, but when he depressed it, nothing happened. He put his eye to the crack and he could see two breaks in the line of faint light. One for the door catch and another for the lock whose keyhole sat beneath the handle. He shone the slender beam of the torch into the keyhole but it was almost completely obstructed. Jason realised he couldn’t even attempt the sort of nonsense that worked in comics. He couldn’t poke the key out of its hole because the bitch who’d done this to him had given it an extra half-turn to take it beyond the vertical.

  He let out a sob of frustration. He banged the back of his head against the solid door and gave a cry of rage. ‘I’m not gonna die here,’ he shouted defiantly. But it was bravado and he knew it. He was locked in the cellar of an empty church hall and nobody was going to come and let him out. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, though? It was obviously a hall that was used regularly. Surely there would be some group or class using it soon? A slimming club, or a mother and toddler group? Surely?

  He knew you could do without food for weeks. But water? That was a matter of days. Next to no time, wasn’t it? With a broken leg and no water, how long would he last? How long would it be before the boss came looking for him?

  More to the point, how long would it take her to find him?

  40

  Karen was pleased to see Daisy was a quick learner. She turned up at Karen’s office with two cartons of coffee and a couple of Belgian chocolate chip flapjacks and all the bounce of a puppy who’s just been offered a walk.

  ‘How’s the investigation on the ground going?’ Karen asked.

  ‘We’re really struggling. Still no witnesses who saw James Auld heading out to the tower. And strangers are ten a penny around there, even in the dead of winter. They come over for the snowdrop festival at Cambo then wander around all over the East Neuk. To be honest, until we get something back from James Auld’s computer, we’re dancing in the dark.’

  ‘I stopped by Gartcosh yesterday, their top digital analyst promised me she’d get to it tomorrow. Hopefully that’ll give us some new leads. I could do with a following wind right now – I’ve got ACC Markie on my back. If I don’t have a bone for her to throw to the politicians, she’ll make do with me instead.’

  Daisy raised her eyebrows. ‘She’s quite something, isn’t she?’ It was a diplomatic response.

  ‘She’s a nightmare, Daisy. You know that feminist notion that successful women give a hand up to the ones coming up the ladder behind them? Not the Dog Biscuit. She would stamp on your fingers till you let go the rungs.’

  ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ Daisy was grinning now.

 
‘Let’s just say we have a different concept of the point of policing. Now, let’s see where we’re up to.’

  Daisy took out her phone. ‘While I was on the train, I drew up a timeline, as far as I could. Shall I send it to you?’

  Karen pulled up the timeline on her screen. It was clear and concise, with the level of detail she’d probably have chosen herself. It wasn’t Daisy’s fault that she hadn’t been in possession of all the facts. ‘You’ve done a good job with the information you have,’ Karen said. ‘That’s really helpful. I’ve managed to make one or two steps forward since we got back from Paris. Let me fill you in and then,’ she gave Daisy a wry smile, ‘you can add them.’

  She walked Daisy through every step she’d taken since they’d parted. Daisy’s expression grew more incredulous then admiring as the information sank in. ‘That’s wild,’ she breathed. ‘So what Superintendent Beckett didn’t know was that David Greig was a brilliant copyist.’

  ‘Turned forger, we assume.’

  ‘When you tie that to his relationship with Iain Auld—’

  ‘Again, assumptive.’

  ‘But it makes so much sense!’ Daisy was excited now. Karen could see she was desperate to add this new information to her timeline.

  ‘And it also makes sense of Iain Auld’s disappearance and David Greig’s suicide,’ Karen said, realising how her new information fitted the bigger picture. It was true that two heads were better than the sum of their parts. ‘The 2010 General Election was in May. Auld knew that a Tory Scottish Secretary would make very different decisions about what paintings to have on the Dover House walls. The messages would all be about the Union, Edinburgh as the Athens of the North, Scottish soldiers going into war. Not a celebration of art for art’s sake.’

  ‘So Auld and Greig knew the ball was on the slates. The forgeries would go back to Scotland where some eagle-eyed curator would spot the difference and there would be trouble.’

  Karen nodded. ‘And a lot more of a stooshie than there actually was in 2015 when the forgeries were discovered. In 2015, the new Tory government had a vested interest in keeping it quiet because they didn’t want to accuse their former coalition partners of robbing the national heritage. It would have blown up in their faces. There were too many recently buried bodies that the Lib Dems knew all about.’