by Val McDermid
‘It sounds like it.’
‘So where is Matthias?’ Grant asked.
‘I don’t know. The last time I saw him was the day I buried my father. I went back to the villa so he could give me the letter. I was upset when I realized he had known my real identity all along. I was angry and upset that he and my dad had conspired to keep me from you all those years. When I left, I said I didn’t want to hear from him again. I didn’t even know they’d left Boscolata.’ He gave a delicate little shrug. ‘They must have fallen out with each other. I know the others sometimes got restive because Matthias took a bigger cut of the take. It must have got out of hand. Somebody got killed.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s harsh.’
‘And Bel? What’s your theory there?’
Adam had had a night drive and a flight to figure out the answer to that one. He hesitated for a moment, as if thinking about the possibilities. ‘If Bel was asking questions around Boscolata, word might have got back to the killer. I know at least one of the group was having sex with someone who lived there. Maybe his girlfriend told him about Bel and they were keeping tabs on her. If they found out she was coming to see me, they might have thought she was digging too deep and needed to be got rid of. I don’t know. I’ve no idea how people like that think.’
Grant’s expression was as unreadable as it had been when Adam had first seen him. ‘You’re very plausible,’ he said. ‘Some might say you’re a chip off the old block.’ His face twisted momentarily in pain. ‘You’re right about the DNA. We should have that done as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I think you should stay with us. Let us start getting to know you.’ His smile was disturbingly ambivalent. ‘The world’s going to be very interested in you, Adam. We need to prepare for that. We don’t necessarily need to be entirely frank. I’ve always been a great believer in privacy.’
That had been a shaky moment when the old man had revealed Bel was in his pocket. His questions had been tougher than Adam had expected. But now he understood that a decision had been taken, a decision to opt for complicity. For the first time since Bel had walked through his door, the unbearable tension began to dissipate.
Friday 13th July 2007; Glenrothes
The latest summons to the Macaroon’s office wasn’t entirely unexpected. Karen had been refusing to take no for an answer from him since she’d had a terse email from Susan Charleson revealing the return of the prodigal. She badly wanted to talk to Brodie Grant and his murderous grandson, but of course she’d been warned off before she could even make her case to Lees. She’d known confronting Grant about his actions on the beach all those years ago would bring repercussions. Unsurprisingly, Grant had got his retaliation in first, accusing her of desperately looking for somebody to charge with something in a case where all the criminals were dead. Karen had had to listen to the Macaroon lecturing her on the importance of good relationships with the public. He reminded her that she had resolved three cold cases even though nobody would be tried for any of them. She had made the CCRT look good, and it would be extremely unhelpful if she pushed Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant into making it look bad.
When she’d raised the issue of Adam Maclennan Grant’s possible involvement in two murders in Italy, the Macaroon had turned green and told her to back off a case that was none of her business.
Di Stefano had been in regular contact with Karen via phone and email over the previous weeks. There was, he said, plenty of DNA on Bel’s body. One of the teenagers who lived at Boscolata had identified Gabriel aka Adam as the man he’d seen with Matthias on the presumed day of the assumed murder at the Villa Totti. They’d found the house near Greve where a man answering to that description had been living. They’d found DNA there that matched what was on Bel’s body. All they needed to bring a case before an investigating magistrate was a sample of DNA from the former Gabriel Porteous. Could Karen oblige?
Only when hell froze over.
Now, finally, the Macaroon had summoned her. Marshalling her thoughts, she walked into his office without knocking. This time, she was the one who got the shock. Sitting to one side of the desk, at an angle to the Macaroon but facing the visitor’s chair was Brodie Grant. He smiled at her discomfiture. Friday the thirteenth, right enough.
Without waiting to be asked, Karen sat down. ‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ she said, ignoring Grant.
‘Karen, Sir Broderick has very kindly brought us his grandson’s notarized statement about the recent events in Italy. He thought, and I agree with him, that this would be the most satisfactory way to proceed.’ He brandished a couple of sheets of paper at her.
Karen stared at him in disbelief. ‘Sir, a simple DNA test is the way to proceed.’
Grant leaned forward. ‘I think you’ll find that once you’ve read the statement, it’s clear that a DNA test would be a waste of time and resources. No point in testing someone who’s manifestly a witness, not a suspect. Whoever the Italian police are looking for, it’s not my grandson.’
‘But -’
‘And another thing, Inspector; my grandson and I will not be discussing with the media where he’s been for the past twenty-two years. Obviously, we will be making public the fact that we have had this extraordinary reunion after all this time. But no details. I expect you and your team to respect that. If information leaks into the public domain, you can rest assured that I will pursue the person responsible and make sure they are held accountable.’
‘There will be no leaks from this office, I can assure you,’ the Macaroon said. ‘Will there, Karen?’
‘No, sir,’ she said. No leaks. Nothing to contaminate Phil’s imminent promotion or her own team.
Lees waved the papers at Karen. ‘There you go, Inspector. You can forward this on to your opposite number in Italy and then we can draw a line under our own solved cases.’ He smiled winningly at Grant. ‘I’m glad we’ve been able to clear this up so satisfactorily.’
‘Me too,’ Grant said. ‘Such a pity we won’t be seeing each other again, Inspector.’
‘Indeed. You take care, sir,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You want to take very good care of yourself. And your son. It would be tragic if Adam had to endure any more losses.’ Seething, Karen stalked out of the room. She steamed back to her own office, ready to rant. But Phil was away from his desk and nobody else would do. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she muttered, slamming into her office just as the phone rang. For once, she ignored it. But the Mint stuck his head round the door. ‘It’s some woman called Gibson looking for you.’
‘Put her on,’ she sighed. ‘Hello, Misha. What can I do for you?’
‘I just wondered if there was any news. When your sergeant came round a couple of weeks ago to tell me you were pretty sure my father died earlier this year, he said there was a possibility he might have had children that we could test for a match. But then I didn’t hear from you…’
Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck again. ‘It’s not looking hopeful,’ Karen said. ‘The person in question is refusing to give any samples for testing.’
‘What do you mean, refusing? Doesn’t he understand a child’s life is at stake here?’
Karen could feel the emotional intensity down the phone line. ‘I think he’s more concerned about keeping his own nose clean.’
‘You mean he’s a criminal? I don’t care about that. Does he not get it? I’m not going to give his DNA to anybody else. We can do it confidentially.’
‘I’ll pass the request on,’ Karen said wearily.
‘Can you not put me in direct touch with him? I’m begging you. This is my wee boy’s life at stake. Every week that goes past, he’s got less and less chance.’
‘I do understand that. But my hands are tied. I’m sorry. I will pass the request on, I promise.’
As if she sensed Karen’s frustration, Misha changed her approach. ‘I’m sorry. I appreciate how hard you’ve tried to help. I’m just desperate.’
After the call, Karen sat staring into space. She couldn’t bear the thought t
hat Grant was protecting a murderer for his own selfish emotional ends. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, given the way he’d covered up his own culpability in his daughter’s death. But there had to be a way to get round this barrier. She and Phil had gone over their options so often during the past couple of weeks that it felt as if they’d worn a groove in her brain. They’d talked about stalking Adam, going for the publicly discarded Coke can or water bottle. They’d discussed stealing the rubbish from Rotheswell and having River go through it till she found a match for the Italian DNA. But they’d had to concede they were not so much clutching at straws as at shadows.
Karen leaned back in her chair and thought about the place where all this had started. Misha Gibson desperate for hope, prepared to do anything for her child. Just as Brodie Grant was for his grandson. The bonds between parents and children…And then, suddenly, it was there in front of her. Beautiful and cunning and deliciously ironic.
Almost tipping herself on to the floor, Karen shot up straight and grabbed the phone. She keyed in River Wilde’s number and drummed her fingers on the desk. When River answered, Karen could hardly speak in sentences. ‘Listen, I just thought of something. If you’ve got half-siblings, you’d be able to see the connection in the DNA, right?’
‘Yes. It wouldn’t be as strong as with full siblings, but you’d see a correlation.’
‘If you had some DNA, and you got a sample that showed that degree of correlation, and you knew that person had a half-sibling, do you think that would be enough to get a warrant to take samples from the half-sibling?’
River hummed for a moment. ‘I could make the case,’ she said. ‘I think it would be enough.’
Karen took a deep breath. ‘You know when we got Misha Gibson’s DNA to check against the cave skeleton?’
‘Yes,’ River said cautiously.
‘Have you still got that?’
‘Is your case still open?’
‘If I was to say yes, what would your answer be?’
‘If your case is still open, I’m legally entitled still to have possession of the DNA. If it’s closed, the DNA should be destroyed.’
‘It’s still open,’ Karen said. Which, technically, it was, since the only evidence against Mick Prentice in the death of Andy Kerr was circumstantial. Enough to close the file, certainly. But Karen hadn’t actually returned it to the registry, so it wasn’t closed as such.
‘Then I still have the DNA.’
‘I need you to email me a copy asap,’ Karen said, punching the air. She got to her feet and did a little dance round the office.
Fifteen minutes later, she was emailing a copy of Misha Gibson’s DNA to di Stefano in Siena with a covering note. Please ask your DNA expert to compare these. I believe this to be the half-sibling of the man known as Gabriel Porteous. Let me know how you get on.
The next hours were a form of torture. By the end of the working day, there was still no word from Italy. When she got home, Karen couldn’t leave the computer alone. Every ten minutes she was jumping up and checking her email. ‘How quickly it fades,’ Phil teased her from the sofa.
‘Yeah, right. If I wasn’t doing it, you would be. You’re as keen as I am to nail Brodie’s grandson.’
‘You got me bang to rights, guv.’
It was just after nine when the anticipated reply from di Stefano hit her inbox. Holding her breath, Karen opened the message. At first, she couldn’t believe it. ‘No correlation?’ she said. ‘No fucking correlation? How can that be? I was so sure…’
She threw herself down on the sofa, allowing Phil to cuddle her close. ‘I can’t believe it either,’ he said. ‘We were all so sure that Adam was the killer.’ He flicked a finger at the anodyne statement Karen had brought home to show him. ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth, bizarre though it sounds.’
‘No way,’ she said. ‘Murderous puppeteers following Bel through Italy? I’ve seen more credible episodes of Scooby Doo.’ She curled up, disconsolate, head tucked under Phil’s chin. When the new idea hit, her head jerked so suddenly he nearly bit through his tongue. While he was moaning, Karen kept repeating, ‘It’s a wise child that knows its father.’
‘What?’ Phil finally said.
‘What if Fergus is right?’
‘Karen, what are you talking about?’
‘Everybody thought Adam was Fergus’s kid. Fergus thinks so. He shagged Cat around the right time, just a one-off. Maybe she’d had a row with Mick. Or maybe she was just pissed off because it was a Saturday night and he was with his wife and kid and not her. Whatever the reason, it happened.’ Karen was bouncing on her knees on the sofa, excitement making her a child again. ‘What if Mick was wrong all these years? What if Fergus really is Adam’s dad?’
Phil grabbed her and gave her a resounding kiss on the forehead. ‘I told you right at the start I love your mind.’
‘No, you said it was sexy. Not quite the same thing.’ Karen nuzzled his cheek.
‘Whatever. You are so smart, it turns me on.’
‘Do you think it’s too late to ring him?’
Phil groaned. ‘Yes, Karen. It’s an hour later where he lives. Leave it till the morning.’
‘Only if you promise to take my mind off it.’
He flipped her over on to her back. ‘I’ll do my best, boss.’
Wednesday 18th July 2007
Karen stretched out in the bath, enjoying the dual sensations of foam and water against her skin. Phil was playing cricket, which she now understood meant a quick game followed by a long drink with his mates. He’d stay at his own house tonight, rolling home at closing time after a skinful of lager. She didn’t mind. Usually she met up with the girls for a curry and a gossip. But tonight she wanted her own company. She was expecting a phone call and she didn’t want to take it in a crowded pub or a noisy restaurant. She wanted to be sure of what she was hearing.
Fergus Sinclair had been suspicious when she’d called him out of the blue to ask for a DNA sample. Her pitch had been simple - a man had turned up claiming to be Adam and Karen was determined to make every possible check on his bona fides. Sinclair had been cynical and excited by turns. In both states, he’d been convinced that he was the best litmus test available. ‘I’ll know,’ he kept insisting. ‘It’s an instinct. You know your own kids.’
It wasn’t the right time to share River’s statistic that somewhere between ten and twenty per cent of children were not actually the offspring of their attributed fathers and, in most of those cases, the fathers had no idea they weren’t the dad. Karen kept falling back on appropriateness. Finally, he’d agreed to go to his local police station and give a DNA sample.
Karen had managed to persuade the German police duty officer to have the sample taken and couriered directly to River. The Macaroon would lose his mind when he saw the bill, but she was past caring. To speed things up, she’d persuaded di Stefano to email a copy of the Italian killer’s DNA to River.
And tonight, she would know. If the DNA said Fergus was the Italian killer’s father, she’d be able to get a warrant to take a sample from Adam. Under Scots law, she could have detained him and taken a DNA sample without arresting or charging him. But she knew her career would be over if she attempted to treat Adam Maclennan Grant like any other suspect. She wouldn’t go near him without a sheriff’s warrant. But once his DNA was in the system, even Brodie Grant’s power couldn’t keep him out of the clutches of the law. He’d have to pay for the lives he’d cut short.
Her thoughts stuttered to a halt when the phone rang. River had said nine o’clock, but it was barely half past seven. Probably her mother or one of the girls trying to persuade her to change her mind and join them. With a sigh, Karen stretched to pick up the phone from the stool by the bath.
‘I’ve got Fergus Sinclair’s DNA analysis in front of me,’ River said. ‘And I’ve also got one from Capitano di Stefano.’
‘And?’ Karen could hardly breathe.
‘A close correlation. Probably father and s
on.’
Thursday 19th July 2007; Newton of Wemyss
The voice is soft, like the sunlight that streams in at the window. ‘Say that again?’
‘John’s cousin’s ex-wife. She moved to Australia. Outside Perth. Her second husband, he’s a mining engineer or something.’ Words tumbling now, tripping over each other, a single stumble of sounds.
‘And she’s back?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you.’ Exasperated words, exasperated tone. ‘A twenty-fifth school reunion. Her daughter, Laurel, she’s sixteen, she’s come with her for a holiday. John met them at his mother’s a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to raise my hopes.’ A spurt of laughter. ‘This from Mr Optimism.’
‘And it’s right? It’s going to work?’
‘They’re a match, Mum. Luke and Laurel. It’s the best possible chance.’
And this is how it ends.
By the same author
The Grave Tattoo
Stranded
The Distant Echo
Killing the Shadows
A Place of Execution
TONY HILL NOVELS
Beneath the Bleeding
The Torment of Others
The Last Temptation
The Wire in the Blood
The Mermaids Singing
KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS
Star Struck
Blue Genes
Clean Break
Crack Down
Kick Back
Dead Beat
LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS
Hostage to Murder
Booked for Murder
Union Jack
Final Edition
Common Murder
Report for Murder
NON-FICTION
A Suitable Job for a Woman
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters