The Distant Echo

by Val McDermid

  He grinned. "I do like that in a woman."

  39

  Jackie Donaldson had written on occasion about the knock on the door in the early hours, the hustle to the waiting police car, the fast drive through empty streets and the utterly unnerving wait in a cramped room that tasted of other people. It had never crossed her mind that one day she'd be experiencing it rather than chronicling it.

  She'd been woken from sleep by the intercom's buzzing. She'd registered the time— 03:47— then stumbled to the door, dragging her dressing gown on. When Detective Sergeant Darren Heggie had announced himself, her first thought was that something terrible had happened to Hélène. She couldn't understand why he was demanding to be let in at this hour. But she didn't argue. She knew that would be a waste of time.

  Heggie had clattered into her flat with a woman in plainclothes and two uniformed officers, who shuffled in at the rear looking faintly uncomfortable. Heggie wasted no time on small talk. "Jacqueline Donaldson, I am detaining you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. You can be detained for up to six hours without arrest, and you have the right to communicate with a solicitor. You do not have to say anything other than your name and address. Do you understand the reason for your detention?"

  She gave a small, scornful snort. "I understand you've got the right. But I don't understand whyyou're doing this."

  Jackie had disliked Heggie on sight. His pointed chin, his small eyes, his bad haircut, his cheap suit and his swagger. But he had been polite, even somewhat apologetic at their previous encounters. Now, he was all brusque efficiency. "Please get dressed. The female officer will remain with you. We will wait outside." Heggie turned away and shooed the uniformed men on to the landing.

  Discomfited but determined not to show it, Jackie returned to the sleeping area of the apartment. She grabbed the first T-shirt and jumper in the drawer and snatched up a pair of jeans from the chair. Then she dropped them. If this all went wrong, she could be appearing in front of a sheriff before she got the chance to change. She rummaged in the back of her wardrobe for her one decent suit. Jackie turned her back to the woman officer, who refused to take her eyes off her, and dressed. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

  "You'll have to leave the door open," the woman said stolidly.

  "You think I'm going to shoot up or something?"

  "It's for your own protection," she replied, sounding bored.

  Jackie did what she had to, then slicked her hair back with a handful of cold water. She looked into the mirror, wondering when she'd be able to do that again. Now she knew what those she'd written about had felt. And it was horrible. Her stomach jittered as if she hadn't slept for days and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. "When do I get to call my lawyer?" she asked.

  "When we get to the police station," came the reply.

  Half an hour later, she was shut in a small room with Tony Donatello, a thirdgeneration criminal solicitor she'd known since her first months as a reporter in Glasgow. They were more accustomed to meeting in bars than in cells, but Tony had the grace not to say so. He was also sensitive enough not to remind her that the last time he'd represented her at a police station, she'd ended up with a record. "They want to question you about David's death," he said. "But I suppose you'd worked that out for yourself?"

  "It's the only murder I've been remotely connected to. Did you call Hélène?"

  Tony gave a small, dry cough. "Turns out they've lifted her too."

  "I should have figured that out for myself. So, what's our strategy?"

  "Is there anything that you've done in the recent past that could be misconstrued as connecting to David's death?" Tony asked.

  Jackie shook her head. "Nothing. This is not some sleazy conspiracy, Tony. Hélène and I had nothing to do with David's murder."

  "Jackie, you don't speak for Hélène here. You're my client and it's your actions I'm concerned with. If there's anything at all— a chance remark, a flippant e-mail, whatever— that might make you look bad, then we won't answer any questions. Just stonewall. But if you're certain there's nothing you have to worry about, we'll answer. What's it to be?"

  Jackie fiddled with her eyebrow ring. "Look, there's something you should know. I wasn't with Hélène the whole time. I nipped out for an hour or so. I had to go out and see somebody. I can't say who it was, but take it from me, he's not alibi material."

  Tony looked worried. "That's not good," he said. "Maybe you should go 'no comment.' "

  "I don't want to. You know how bad it'll make me look."

  "It's your decision. But, in the circumstances, I think silence would be the better option."

  Jackie thought long and hard. She didn't see how the police could know about her absence. "I'll talk to them," she said finally.

  The interview room held no surprises for anyone versed in the grammar of TV cop drama. Jackie and Tony sat opposite Heggie and the female detective who had accompanied him to the flat. At this proximity, Heggie's aftershave smelled rancid. Two cassettes spooled in tandem in the machine at the end of the table. After the formalities were over, Heggie dived straight in. "How long have you known Hélène Kerr?"

  "About four years. I met her and her husband at a party given by a mutual friend."

  "What is the nature of your relationship?"

  "First and foremost, we are friends. We are also occasional lovers."

  "How long have you been lovers?" Heggie's eyes looked hungry, as if the thought of Jackie and Hélène together was potentially as satisfying as any criminal confession.

  "For about two years."

  "And how often did this take place?"

  "We spent an evening together most weeks. We had sex on most of those occasions. Though not always. As I said, friendship is the most important component of our relationship." Jackie found it harder than she'd expected to stay cool and clinical under the assessing gaze of her interrogators. But she knew she had to stay calm; any outburst would be interpreted as evidence of something more than nerves.

  "Did David Kerr know you were sleeping with his wife?"

  "I don't believe so."

  "It must have been galling for you that she stayed with him," Heggie offered.

  A shrewd observation, she thought. And one that was uncomfortably close to the truth. Scratch the surface, and Jackie knew she wasn't sorry David Kerr was dead. She loved Hélène and she was bitterly tired of the scraps her lover granted her. She'd wanted a lot more for a long time. "I knew from the word go she wasn't going to leave her husband. That was fine by me."

  "I find that hard to believe," he said. "You were being rejected in favor of her husband and it didn't bother you?"

  "It wasn't a rejection. The arrangement suited both of us." Jackie leaned forward, aiming for open body language to fake candor. "Just a bit of fun. I like my freedom. I don't want to be tied down."

  "Really?" He looked at his notes. "So the neighbor that heard the pair of you screaming and fighting because she wouldn't leave her husband is lying?"

  Jackie remembered the row. There had been few enough in their time together for it to be memorable. A couple of months before, she'd asked Hélène to come to a friend's fortieth birthday party. Hélène had looked at her in disbelief. It was outside the ground rules, not a subject they should even be discussing. All Jackie's frustrations had overflowed and a blazing argument had erupted. It had changed tack abruptly when Hélène had threatened to walk out and never come back. That was a prospect Jackie couldn't endure, and she'd surrendered. But she wasn't about to share any of that with Heggie and his sidekick. "They must be," she said. "You can't hear a bloody thing through the walls of those lofts."

  "Apparently you can if the windows are open," Heggie said.

  "When is this alleged conversation supposed to have taken place?" Tony interrupted.

  Another glance at the notes. "Toward the end of November."

  "Are you seriously suggesting that my client had her windows open at the end of November in G
lasgow?" he said scornfully. "Is that all you've got? Gossip and tittletattle from nosy and overimaginative neighbors?"

  Heggie stared at him for a long moment before he spoke. "Your client has a history of violence."

  "No, she doesn't. She has one conviction for assaulting a police officer while she was reporting an anti–poll tax demonstration where one of your colleagues enthusiastically mistook her for one of the demonstrators. That's hardly a history of violence."

  "She punched a policeman in the face."

  "After he'd dragged her along the ground by the hair. If it had been that violent an assault on a police officer, do you not think the sheriff would have given her more than six months probation? If you've nothing more than this, I don't see you have any reason to hold my client."

  Heggie glared at them both. "You were with Mrs. Kerr on the night her husband died?"

  "That's right," Jackie said cautiously. This was where the thin ice started. "It was our usual night for seeing each other. She arrived about half-past six. We ate a fish supper I went out for, we drank some wine and we went to bed. She left around eleven. Exactly as usual."

  "Can anyone verify that?"

  Jackie raised her eyebrows. "I don't know about you, Inspector, but when I make love with someone, I don't invite the neighbors round. The phone rang a couple of times, but I didn't answer it."

  "We have a witness who claims to have seen you walking to your car at approximately nine P.M. that evening," Heggie said triumphantly.

  "They must have got the wrong night," Jackie said. "I was with Hélène all evening. Is this another one of my homophobic neighbors you've been coaching in incriminating testimony?"

  Tony shifted in his chair. "You've heard my client's answer. If you've got nothing new to bring to the table, I really do suggest we end this now."

  Heggie breathed heavily. "If you'll bear with me, Mr. Donatello, I'd like to introduce a witness statement we took yesterday."

  "Can I see that?" Tony asked.

  "All in good time. Denise?"

  The other detective opened a folder she'd held on her lap and placed a sheet of paper in front of him. Heggie licked his lips and spoke. "We arrested a small-time drug dealer yesterday. He was eager to offer up anything that might lead us to view his case in a more favorable light. Ms. Donaldson, do you know Gary Hardie?"

  Jackie's heart jolted in her chest. What did this have to do with anything? It hadn't been Gary Hardie she'd met that night, nor any of his buddies. "I know who he is," she stalled. Hardly an admission; anyone who read a newspaper or watched TV in Scotland would have recognized the name. A few weeks previously, Gary Hardie had sensationally walked free from the High Court in Glasgow after one of the highestprofile murder cases the city had seen for some years. In the course of the trial, he'd been variously called a drug lord, a man with no regard for human life, and an utterly ruthless criminal mastermind. Among the allegations the jury had heard was the claim that he had paid a hitman to have a business rival eliminated. "Have you ever met Gary Hardie?"

  Jackie felt sweat in the small of her back. "In a purely professional context, yes."

  "Would that be your profession or his?" Heggie demanded, shifting his chair closer to the table.

  Jackie rolled her eyes in derision. "Oh, please, Inspector. I am a journalist. It's my job to talk to people in the news."

  "How many times have you met Gary Hardie?" Heggie pressed her.

  Jackie breathed out through her nose. "Three times. I interviewed him a year ago for a feature I wrote for a magazine about contemporary Glasgow gangland. I interviewed him while he was awaiting trial for an article I planned to write after the trial was over. And I had a drink with him a couple of weeks ago. It's important to me to maintain contacts. That's how I get stories that nobody else gets."

  Heggie looked skeptical. He glanced down at the statement. "Where did that meeting take place?"

  "In Ramblas. It's a café bar in…"

  "I know where Ramblas is," Heggie interrupted. He glanced again at the paper in front of him. "At that meeting, an envelope changed hands. From you to Hardie. A bulky envelope, Ms. Donaldson. Would you care to tell us what was in that envelope?"

  Jackie tried not to show her shock. Tony stirred at her side. "I'd like to speak to my client in private," he said hastily.

  "No, it's OK, Tony," Jackie said. "I have nothing to hide. When I spoke to Gary to arrange the meeting, he told me someone had shown him the magazine article, and he'd liked the photograph they'd used. He wanted some copies for himself. So I had prints made and I took them to Ramblas with me. If you don't believe me, you can check with the photo lab. They don't process much black and white. They might remember. I also have the receipt in my accounts file."

  Tony leaned in. "You see, Inspector? Nothing sinister. Just a journalist trying to keep a good contact happy. If that's the extent of your new material, then there is no reason for my client to be held here a moment longer."

  Heggie looked mildly put out. "Did you ask Gary Hardie to have David Kerr killed?" he asked.

  Jackie shook her head. "No."

  "Did you ask Gary Hardie if he could put you in touch with someone who would murder David Kerr?"

  "No. It never crossed my mind." Jackie's head was up now, chin out, fear battened down.

  "You never once thought how much more pleasant life would be without David Kerr? And how easily you could arrange that?"

  "This is bullshit." She slammed her hands palm down on the table. "Why are you wasting your time with me when you should be doing your job?"

  "I am doing my job," Heggie said calmly. "That's why you're here."

  Tony glanced at his watch. "Not for much longer, Inspector. Either arrest my client or let her go. This interview is over." He placed a hand over Jackie's.

  A minute feels like a very long time in a police interview room. Heggie held the pause, his eyes never leaving Jackie. Then he pushed his chair back. "Interview terminated at six twenty-five. You're free to go," he said, his voice grudging. He hit the button that switched off the tape recorders. "I don't believe you, Ms. Donaldson," he said as he got to his feet. "I think you and Hélène Kerr conspired to have David Kerr killed. I think you wanted her for yourself. I think you went out that night to pay off your hitman. And that's what I intend to prove." At the door, he turned back. "This is just the beginning."

  As the door closed behind the detectives, Jackie covered her face with her hands. "Jesus Christ," she said.

  Tony gathered his things together, then put an arm round her shoulders. "You handled that well. They've got nothing."

  "I've seen people tried on thinner evidence. They've got their teeth into this. They're not going to stop till they've got somebody who can put me outside my flat that night. Jesus. I can't believe Gary Hardie came out of the woodwork just now."

  "I wish you'd mentioned that to me before," Tony said, loosening his tie and stretching.

  "I'm sorry. I'd no idea it was going to come up. It's not like I think about Gary Hardie every day. And it's not like he had anything to do with this. You do believe me, don't you, Tony?" She looked anxious. If she couldn't convince her lawyer, she stood no chance against the police.

  "What I believe doesn't matter. It's what they can prove. And right now, they've got nothing that a good advocate wouldn't demolish in minutes." He yawned. "Great way to spend the night, eh?"

  Jackie stood up. "Let's get out of this shithole. Even the air feels contaminated."

  Tony grinned. "Somebody should give Heggie a decent bottle of aftershave for his next birthday. Whatever he was wearing smelled like a polecat in heat."

  "It would take more than Paco Rabane to grant him membership to the human race," Jackie snarled. "Are they holding Hélène here too?"

  "No." Tony took a deep breath. "It's probably a good idea if you two don't see much of each other just now."

  Jackie gave him a look that mingled hurt and disappointment. "Why not?"

  "Because
if you stay away from each other, it's harder to demonstrate that you're in cahoots. Being together might look as if you're discussing strategies to keep your stories straight."

  "That's stupid," she said firmly. "We're friends, for fuck's sake. Lovers. Where else do you go for support and comfort? If we avoid each other, it looks as if we've got something to be uncomfortable about. If Hélène wants me, she's got me. No question."

  He shrugged. "Your choice. You pay for the advice whether you take it or not." He opened the door and ushered her out into the corridor. Jackie signed for the return of her belongings, and they made for the exit together.

  Tony pushed open the doors that led to the street then stopped short. In spite of the earliness of the hour, three cameramen and a handful of journalists were huddled on the pavement. As soon as they saw Jackie, the cries went up. "Hey, Jackie, have they arrested you?" "Did you and your girlfriend hire a hitman, Jackie?" "What's it feel like to be a murder suspect, Jackie?"

  It was the kind of scene she'd participated in countless times, though never from this perspective. Jackie had thought nothing could feel worse than being rousted from her bed in the middle of the night and treated like a criminal by the police. Now she knew she was wrong. Betrayal, she had just discovered, tasted infinitely more bitter.

  40

  The darkness of Graham Macfadyen's study was kept at bay by the ghostly light of monitors. On the two screens he wasn't using at that moment, screensavers showed a slideshow of images he'd scanned into his computer. Grainy newspaper photographs of his mother; moody shots of Hallow Hill; the gravestone in Western Cemetery; and the photographs he'd snatched of Alex and Weird in recent days.