Still Life

by Val McDermid

  ‘I suppose because they’d been so secretive about their affair. Even someone as close as Geary had never encountered Auld. I assumed he was in on it, that because he’d brokered the stolen painting sales, he’d have the dodgy contacts to sort out Irish passports. They must have come at it another way.’

  They wove through the crowded rush-hour streets towards the car. ‘So are we going to book into a hotel for the night?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘We are, but not here.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Daisy said, dodging a burly man who was not willing to cede the centre of the pavement.

  ‘Think about it, Daisy. There’s no point in us confronting Iain Auld in Geary’s office. We’ve got no jurisdiction here. I’ve already jumped through the hoops of a European Arrest Warrant once this week and I’ve no intention of doing it again. I have very different plans for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Are you not going to tell me?’ Daisy pleaded as they turned into the car park.

  ‘I want to see whether you can work it out for yourself. Now, give me a minute, I need to send that DNA scan to Charlie, so he can get the wheels turning on comparing it with the DNA on the crowbar as a matter of urgency. It shouldn’t take long, it’s nothing more technical than setting the two profiles side by side. I want an answer by the morning.’ Karen worked her phone, then started the engine. ‘Right, now we’re going to head for Omagh.’

  ‘That’s in Northern Ireland, right? Didn’t they have some horrible bombing there?’

  ‘Right on both counts. It was an atrocity. No other word for it. An IRA splinter group who didn’t like the Good Friday agreement set off a car bomb. I can’t remember the exact number of casualties but it was somewhere in the region of thirty. I do remember that one of the dead was a woman pregnant with twins. That stayed with me, because my cousin Kim was pregnant then. Not with twins, but still. It freaked me out.’

  ‘Did they get the people who did it?’

  Karen unlocked the car and got in. ‘Historically, justice in Northern Ireland was a complicated beast. You should read Irish crime fiction if you want to get a handle on what was going on during the Troubles and afterwards. Nobody was found guilty of the Omagh bombing in the criminal courts but there was a civil verdict that named the guilty men and made a massive damages award against them.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Those poor families. I mean, I know it doesn’t make the pain of losing someone go away, but there has to be some sort of consolation in seeing the killer lose their liberty.’

  Karen thought of Phil’s death and the price the law had demanded from Merrick Shand. She’d spent years thinking it didn’t even touch the sides. But their encounter on the News Steps had shifted something inside her. His losses were different from hers. Some might say they were trivial compared with what had been wrenched from her. But he’d live with damage and it would change him, just as it had changed her. ‘It does make a difference,’ she said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t call it consolation, though. Nothing consoles you for the loss of someone you love. You absorb it into you. You move forward but you move in a different way.’ She caught herself. What was she doing, saying these things to Daisy? She hardly knew the woman.

  ‘Sorry,’ Daisy said, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t thinking. God, I’m so crass, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s OK. Anyway,’ Karen added brightly, ‘that’s got nothing to do with why we’re going to Omagh. Get your phone out and start looking for a hotel. Ideally, close to the main police station.’

  50

  Friday, 28 February 2020

  Chief Inspector Callum Nugent frowned at his computer screen, considering the two images Charlie Todd had sent Karen late the evening before. ‘I can see right enough that these two DNA profiles match each other. But you’re telling me that this David Greig, or whatever he’s calling himself now, lives in Ramelton. Now, that’s in the Republic, so we’ve got a big problem there from the off.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Karen said. ‘But I do have a plan to lure him over the border.’

  Nugent raised one bushy black eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re not talking entrapment? We’ve a strong tradition of not liking that around here.’

  Karen gave him her best smile. ‘More like persuasion,’ she said. ‘I happen to know his partner, Daniel Connolly, will be driving from Ramelton to Dublin to keep an appointment this morning. By my reckoning, that means he’ll be coming through this way. We have the details of his car – make, model, registration. All I’m asking is that you pull Connolly over and let me interview him with a view to arresting him for conspiracy to commit a whole range of offences ranging from theft, fraud and arson to murder. And I’m hopeful that in the course of that interview, we can see our way to making a wee deal with Mr Connolly. Who is better known to us as Iain Auld, as I explained.’

  ‘And how did you come by this information, DCI Pirie?’

  ‘We had a meeting yesterday with the gallery that represents David Greig’s estate—’

  ‘How can you have an estate if you’re not dead?’

  Karen held fast to the knowledge that honey catches more wasps than vinegar. ‘He faked his death, remember? So his will went through probate and as far as the art dealer is concerned, the person he has been dealing with for the last ten years is the executor, Daniel Connolly. Except that, as we know now, Daniel Connolly is in fact Iain Auld and Greig’s lover of many years.’

  Nugent shook his head as if the wasps were bothering him. ‘This isn’t straightforward at all.’

  ‘Trust me, we’ve been struggling to get our heads round it for the past wee while. It’s a very clever scam the pair of them have pulled and it only started to unravel because an actress in London thought she’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Nugent exclaimed. ‘You’re making my brain bleed. Let’s go back to the simple stuff. So this dealer told you Connolly is coming for a visit.’

  Karen nodded. ‘He’s due in Dublin between eleven and half past. Which suggests to me he’ll be here around nine.’

  Nugent looked startled. ‘That barely gives us an hour to get set up.’

  ‘You look like a man who relishes a challenge,’ Karen said.

  ‘You’re sure about this?’ Nugent pushed back in his chair. ‘I’m all for inter-jurisdiction cooperation, but this feels like it’s hanging by a very slender thread.’

  ‘As soon as we get both of them into custody, that thread will turn into a rope that’ll hang the pair of them,’ Karen said, letting the grim creep into her voice.

  ‘I hope I’m not going to live to regret this, DCI Pirie.’

  ‘Trust me, if the wheels come off, it won’t be your arse in the fire,’ she said, spirits sinking at the thought of the joy on the Dog Biscuit’s face if it all went wrong.

  ‘Well, let’s give ourselves a wee bit more leeway,’ he said. ‘We’ll pick him up on the ANPR cameras and put someone on his tail. But we’ll set up a roadblock a few miles down the road at Garvaghy and pull him in then.’

  ‘I might be able to give you a better idea of where he is right now,’ Karen said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  Karen spread her hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘Modern technology, Chief Inspector. We all leave an electronic trace wherever we go. Me, I’m a bit of a digital bloodhound.’

  Nugent guffawed. ‘When you came in here, I thought you were going to be one of those big-city coppers who thinks we’re all bumpkins out here. But you’re a woman after my own heart. Let’s be having it, then. Where the actual fuck is he?’

  Karen took out her phone and checked the app. The BMW had moved some distance while she’d been charming Nugent. ‘He’s on the A5 between Sion Mills and Victoria Bridge.’

  He stood up. ‘We’d better get our skates on, then. Wait here, would you? I need to set some wheels in motion at the double. I’ll send your bagman i
n to keep you company.’ He strode across the room, a man with a purpose. ‘Tiernan,’ she heard him shout as the door closed behind him. ‘Get me Traffic Control, right now.’

  A few minutes later, Daisy stuck her head round the door. ‘Wow, your pal is stirring up a whirlwind out there. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. I think he’s thrilled to have something a bit different to get his teeth into.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We wait. Like the surfer in the Guinness advert.’

  There wasn’t much to divert her in the chief inspector’s office. He manifestly didn’t like clutter. On his desk, he had a set of stacking trays, none of which held more than a few sheets of paper. The box files stacked on top of his filing cabinet were all neatly, if obscurely, labelled. There were three framed photographs on the wall. Nugent in an eye-wateringly bright outfit standing by the flag on a golfing green shaking hands with a young man who looked unmistakably Irish. Karen vaguely recognised him but couldn’t put a name to him. One of Nugent in dress uniform being handed some kind of award by Arlene Foster, Martin McGuinness behind her. The third, Nugent bursting out of black tie with his arm round a woman in an evening dress who looked like she brooked no nonsense. Presumably Mrs Nugent, Karen thought.

  And that was the extent of it. The office looked on to the car park at the side of the building. There had been a swift flurry of activity, three liveried vehicles having left in short order, followed by two unmarked cars. But now it was quiet.

  Karen checked her emails while Daisy talked to her world on Snapchat. A message popped up from Ruth Wardlaw and Karen opened it immediately.

  Dutch unimpressed by McAndrew’s complaints about due process. She’ll be back in Scotland by the end of the week. We owe ourselves a large drink.

  ‘No argument from me on that,’ Karen said under her breath.

  She messaged back: Nice one. Stand by your bed, I may have need of you later today. Speak to Charlie Todd about the James Auld case, tell him you need to get the DNA ducks in a row.

  Ruth came straight back to her. Any more cryptic and you could get a job on The Times crossword. Good luck with whatever you’re up to.

  Buried further down among the routine Trash fodder was an email from Jason:

  Hi boss. I’m back at my mum’s. I have a massive stookie that Ronan’s already drawn a willy on. My leg’s still pretty sore but I’ve got painkillers so its not to bad. Did you get her?

  Karen was annoyed with herself for not letting Jason know what had happened. She’d meant to email him so it would be waiting for him when he was well enough, but in the general whirl of events, it had slipped past her. At least now she had time to put that right. She started writing a message, but soon realised it was too complicated, so she called him instead. He sounded not only pleased but also relieved to hear from her. She guessed his mother was doing his head in. It had been a while now since he’d lived at home; he’d lost his acquired immunity to her fussing over him. ‘I’m sorry you got hurt,’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, I got railroaded by a pensioner,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ A pensioner? Surely even the Mint could outwit a pensioner? Karen listened to the whole sorry story. It had clearly cascaded like a row of stacked dominoes when he’d asked for directions looking more like a polis than an art lover. She couldn’t entirely blame him for that. She’d probably sent him into battle unprepared in the wardrobe department.

  ‘Anyway,’ he wound up. ‘Thanks for coming to get me. So where are you now? In the office?’

  ‘I’m in an office. But not mine. I’m in Northern Ireland with Daisy, hot on the trail of Auld and Greig.’

  ‘Daisy? You’re with Daisy?’

  ‘Aye, she’s been seconded to the unit while you’re on the sick.’

  A pause. She hadn’t expected him to see Daisy as any kind of threat. ‘I could come into the office and do all the stuff I do on the computer,’ he said. ‘Next week. Eilidh wants me to come back to Edinburgh anyway. It would be no bother.’

  Her heart went out to him. He tried so hard, even though he kept butting up against his limitations. ‘Only when you’re ready, Jason. It’s not the same without you. Now away you go and annoy your mother, I’ve got to show Daisy how we catch killers in this team.’

  ‘OK, boss. Thanks.’

  Before she could replay the conversation, Nugent was back, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. ‘We spotted him on the ANPR and there’s an unmarked car picked him up at Newtownstewart. The lads are setting up the roadblock at Garvaghy and they’ll bring him straight back here so you can interview him. You’ll have him in your hands within the hour, I promise.’

  Karen hated tempting fate. To her ears, Nugent’s speech had the ring of famous last words. She really hoped she was wrong.

  51

  For once, Karen was delighted to be wrong. Nugent had been as good as his word. In under an hour, he barged back into his office and announced, ‘Your man is waiting for you in Interview Room Two. Now, I don’t know how youse do things in the Historic Cases Unit, but I’m going to want to sit in on this, DCI Pirie. So’s I know exactly how it played out if there are questions down the line.’

  Karen was reluctant but she knew there was a price to pay for Nugent’s cooperation. ‘I can live with that. DS Mortimer and I will conduct the interview because we know the ins and outs of the case, but I’m happy for you to be in the room. And of course you can chip in if there’s anything you’re not clear about.’

  Nugent’s face radiated self-satisfaction. ‘Grand.’

  ‘But before we go in, I’d appreciate a word with the officers who brought him in.’ Firm but frank, that was the way to play Nugent.

  ‘If you think that’s necessary, I’ll get the sergeant in question.’ He opened the office door and roared, ‘Tiernan? Get yourself in here.’

  The sound of hurrying feet then a man who could have been Jason’s older brother barged in, pink-cheeked and ginger hair in disarray, his cap rammed under one arm. He was long-limbed and his uniform seemed to have been made for someone wider in the shoulders and the chest. ‘Sir,’ he barked, far louder than the small room demanded. He caught sight of Karen and straightened to attention. ‘Ma’am.’

  Nugent introduced everyone then said genially, ‘DCI Pirie would like a report on your roadblock stop.’

  ‘Sir. As per instructions, myself and four constables proceeded—’

  ‘Hold on, Sergeant,’ Karen interrupted. ‘Relax. You’re not in court, nobody’s taking notes—’ A stern look at Daisy, whose hand froze over her notebook. ‘Give us the pub version.’

  Tiernan smiled shyly and blushed, turning the pink cheeks puce. ‘We knew your man was on his way from the unmarked car on his tail so we were ready to pull him over. I asked him for his documents and he produced his ROI driving licence and passport. He seemed quite relaxed.’ He shrugged. ‘People round here, they’re used to routine checks from time to time. I asked him to step out the car and he was, “For why?” and I was, “Because I say, so, sir.” So he grumbles a bit but he gets out and then I ask him to accompany me back here to assist with an inquiry. He wasn’t keen, he was all, “What’s this to do with? I’m off to an important meeting in Dublin,” and I just acted the eejit, said it was my boss’s orders. He says, is he under arrest, I says no, he says, “So I’m free to go?” And I go, “Well, no, because if you don’t come willingly I will arrest you.”’ He took a deep breath. ‘So he decided he’d maybe make the best of it by coming along peacefully. All the way back, he was going on about being an Irish citizen and this being totally out of order. Me, I ignored him and delivered him to the interview room.’ His face twitched in the kind of involuntary frown that Karen recognised from years of working with Jason. ‘Did I do right, ma’am? Not arresting him?’

  ‘You did, Sergeant Tiernan. Thank you.’


  Nugent patted him on his shoulder. ‘Off you go, Sergeant. Good lad.’ He gestured towards the open door in Tiernan’s wake. ‘Shall we, DCI Pirie?’

  Interview Room 2 resembled its equivalents in every other modern police station Karen had been in. It was anonymous, bland and smelled of bodies and anxiety. Iain Auld sat on one side of the table, dressed in a tobacco-brown needlecord suit, a mushroom-coloured flannel shirt and a knitted heather-mixture tie. With the curling hair, the facial hair and the glasses, he could have escaped from a conference of curators. He looked relaxed. Palms resting on his thighs, feet flat on the floor. He barely turned his head when they walked in. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?’

  Karen sat down opposite him, Daisy next to her. Nugent moved the third chair behind her other shoulder then moved round the table to press record. He recited the formal opening of the interview and the officers present. ‘Also present is—’ He frowned and looked at Karen. ‘What do we call him?’

  ‘My name is Daniel Connolly.’ The voice strong and steady.

  ‘Also present is Iain Auld, alias Daniel Connolly,’ Karen said. There was a momentary flash of something behind his eyes as he clocked her accent. ‘Iain Auld, you are attending a police station voluntarily and this an interview under caution.’ She recited the familiar mantra about the right to remain silent and the possible damage to a future defence by doing so.

  He looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘My name is Daniel Connolly and I am a citizen of the Republic of Ireland and you have no right to hold me here.’ He pulled a passport from his inside jacket pocket and slapped it down on the table, the unmistakable clarsach symbol of the Irish Republic on the front cover.

  ‘Three lies already. That’s pretty good going for an opener,’ Karen replied, picking up the passport and thumbing through it as she spoke. ‘Let me correct you. Your name is Iain Auld, you are a UK citizen and I have every right to hold you here to answer questions about crimes you have committed or been an accessory to in various UK jurisdictions.’